Remakes As Vehicles Of Discovery: An Analysis Of Rashômon And The Outrage

In this paper, I will examine Martin Ritt’s Western recontextualization of Akira Kurosawa’s Rashômon (1950). I will argue that, while the humanist themes and philosophical concepts of Kurosawa’s Rashômon may felicitously transmit across cultures, and though the mythic setting of the American Western may seem appropriate for a recontextualization of the original story, Martin Ritt’s The Outrage (1964), though a faithful rendering in terms of plot (despite one major difference), does not share the intrigue, mystery, or abstract philosophical thoughtfulness of its antecedent. Moreover, through it’s utilization of dialogue driven exposition rather than imagistic ambiguity, The Outrage, a film that provides a definitive truth for previously unclear events, simultaneously translates Rashômon as well as analyses and interprets it; in other words, it is at once an homage to, as well as a reading of, the original.

Regardless, the trans-cultural exchange of a foreign document to a disparate audience allows a means for exposing an impressive work of art to an otherwise unaware community; in this way, Martin Ritt, along with other artists influenced by Rashômon (and it’s preceding short stories by Akutagawa Ryu-nosuke), help in realizing the original themes on a global scale, and provide a vehicle for onlookers to travel back to the original.

Thematically and diegetically, each rendering of Rashômon’s rape and murder story are markedly similar; the appreciative differences reside in the lasting impression of the conveyed image. Thematically, it is both a profound examination of the human condition, and a phenomenological meditation about the nature of reality, perception, and truth; exploring the depths of the human condition and the inextricable affects of the ego on human consciousness, universal concepts about human existence (that have formed the foundations of philosophical thought in any and all societies – despite cultural differences) are considered. Because of this, there is no cultural context of which it is especially difficult to imagine the story befitting.

Diegetically, Rashômon regales of a rape, alleged murder, and the ensuing trial. Each rendering involves a woodcutter (who discovered the body) a priest (who is existentially struggling to keep faith in humanity), and three contradicting stories (told by each of the implicated persons: the bandit, samurai’s wife, and the dead samurai himself [who testifies through a medium]). The three stories differ significantly, sharing little in common – only that the bandit tricked the samurai, tied him up, and raped his wife. Later, the woodcutter reveals that he witnessed the entire scenario; his story is then told, and, though it firstly appears genuine, even it lacks consistency and clarity – this lack of clarity is only reconciled in Ritt’s The Outrage.

Before focusing on Kurosawa’s Rashômon and Ritt’s The Outrage, I will elaborate on how the short stories of Akutagawa Ryu-nosuke developed through time, commenting on each of the following renderings: Ryu-nosuke’s original short stories In A Grove [Yabu no naka] and Rashômon, Akira Kurosawa’s Rashômon, Michael and Fay Kanin’s likewise entitled play, and Martin Ritt’s The Outrage.

The short story In A Grove depicts the trial and subjective stories which largely make up Kurosawa’s Rashômon; what is missing is the setting of Rashômon gate, which is illustrated (though with unrelated content) in Ryu-nosuke’s Rashômon. Told in report style, In a Grove separates each witness – respectively: the woodcutter, Buddhist priest, policeman, bandit, old woman (mother of the samurai’s wife), samurai’s wife, and samurai (through a medium) – as they testify. The woodcutter, priest, policeman, and old woman’s stories are essentially taken to be genuine, as their involvement is quite minimal; however, the three main stories of the bandit (Tajomaru), the samurai’s wife (Masago), and the samurai (Kanazawa no Takehiko) are remarkably contrary, with each of them admitting responsibility for Kanazawa’s demise. As Donald Ritchie remarks, “Akutagawa’s point was the simple one that all truth is relative, with the corollary that there is thus no truth at all” (73). Each of the stories are essentially true, insofar as the narrator believes it to be true; however, the ego, with it’s accompanying characteristics (particularly the Japanese appreciation of shame), have distorted their emotional and perceptual experiences, and, therefore, distorted the truth. Essentially, the truth is that there is no truth, and, simultaneously, there are as many truths as there are perceivers.

Tajomaru’s claims that, after tricking the samurai (with a promise of great swords and daggers hidden in a grove), tying him to a tree, and raping his wife, he fought a valiant battle with him, “crossing swords twenty times”, and boldly and fearlessly killed him. In later stories, it appears that Tajomaru’s shame of his own cowardliness and disillusionment of grandeur has distorted his perception of the events; he claims to have killed the samurai because he unconsciously considers himself a great and merciless bandit. Masago claims that, after being raped, her husband’s “look of contempt” caused her to feel such shame that, while “neither conscious nor unconscious”, she killed him. In the other stories, it appears that she isn’t as pure or virtuous as she believes herself to be; her shame of her own whorishness has distorted her perception, causing her to blame herself for her husband’s death. Kanazawa claims that, after his wife lewdly accepts Tajomaru and asks him to kill him, then runs away in spite of Tajomaru’s rejection, he takes the dagger and commits suicide. The other stories suggest that the samurai, shamefully unwilling to accept the insulting defeat by Tajomaru and hurt from his whorish wife, unconsciously chooses to admit to a more honorable demise: the noble act of seppuku or suicide.

It’s unclear which story is most accurate, since each character’s perception, both of themselves and of the others involved, is distorted by their ego; however, it seems that each narrator gives a startlingly more adept account of the characteristics of the others than of themselves. Nonetheless, the truth is not revealed; each of them could have done it, and their belief that they did influences their life – their truth – while an objective truth does not exist.

Kurosawa’s Rashômon, though faithfully retelling Ryu-nosuke’s (12th century set) short stories, adds several elements to it. First of all, it utilizes Ryu-nosuke’s setting of Rashômon Gate – an aspect of a different story (with unrelated content). Kurosawa separates the narrative into three distinct settings – contrary to Ryu-nosuke’s (only) setting of the trial – the gatehouse of Rashômon, the trial, and the grove in the forest where the events took place. Moreover, he omit’s the story of the old woman, likely considering her details insignificant, but adds a character: the commoner. In fact, the commoner, who meets the woodcutter and priest under Rashômon Gate while avoiding a storm, provides much of the narrative advancement through his incessant questions; Donald Ritchie aptly comments that, “it is through his questions that the film evolves” (73). Furthermore, Kurosawa augments the involvement of the woodcutter, illustrating a fourth account of the events – what the woodcutter claims to have observed, as witness of the entire events. At first, the woodcutter’s story appears to reconcile the lack of clarity that Ryu-Nosuke’s In A Grove commits to; however, this vagueness is quickly reinstated when we discover that even the woodcutter has been lying (to hide the shame he feels about stealing the jewel-adorned dagger from the dead samurai’s corpse). This feature of the woodcutter, however, is likely inspired by Ryu-Nosuke’s story, choosing to answer the question of who withdrew the dagger from the samurai’s chest. Finally, and most importantly, Kurosawa’s Rashômon concludes with the three men discovering an abandoned baby. This provides the defining moment of the film: the woodcutter states that he will care for the baby; the disillusioned priest resists; the woodcutter expresses earnestness, stating that “[he] should be the one who’s ashamed; [he] doesn’t’ understand [his] own soul”; and the priest articulates that “[he] thinks he can keep [his] faith in man”. In Kurosawa’s adaptation, the priest’s existential struggle to keep faith in humanity is of great concern.  This ending leaves the audience with a trace of hope amidst the cynicism; though the ego is the source of man’s suffering and evil, it is also the source of good will.

Moreover, Kurosawa’s Rashômon expands on the abstract philosophical themes that Ryu-nosuke elucidates. In the same way, the murder story is utilized as a means for examining the human condition; the contradictions in the four stories reveal a horrifying truth – that the human ego is responsible for their inconsistencies. At the most basic level, each of the four storytellers could be lying, and, to some extent, they likely all are. However, even if they are not lying, even if they genuinely believe they are telling the truth, their stories will still not corroborate. This is because, as Kurosawa reveals with the utilization of flashbacks, each character’s story relies on their subjective experience of the events. However, this reliance is not dependable, given that phenomena, such as reality, perception, and truth, are distorted by the human condition – the ego. Along with all its attributes, such as, emotions, thoughts, and memories, the ego distorts one’s perception, which in turn distorts one’s reality, which distorts truth. The truth is that there cannot possibly be a subjective account of truth – the fallibility of the human condition does not permit this. The two versions of the swordfight between the bandit and the samurai illustrate this notion that the ego distorts perception, reality, and truth; the bandit reveals a story fitted to his liking, while the woodcutter does the same for himself. To some extent it’s because of deceitfulness, but, to some extent, it is because of how they unconsciously choose to perceive things; the bandit unconsciously believes that he is a powerful and merciless warrior. As the commoner states, “it’s human to lie…most of the time we can’t even be honest with ourselves”.

Furthermore, Donald Ritchie makes a valid point that “we are never quite certain who [it] is telling these apparently varying stories” (73) – whether it’s the priest or the woodcutter. He claims that, because the woodcutter lies, and because “Kurosawa gives no reason to disbelieve the priest” (77), the stories being recounted by the woodcutter (the stories of Tajomaru and himself) are inaccurate, while the stories recounted by the priest (the wife and samurai) are accurate. He goes on to claim that “the story told by the husband is accepted as true”, suggesting that, analytically, it is likely the least distorted, since it is retold by the priest, and since the wife’s state of delirium renders her story quite implausible. However, I disagree with Ritchie. I believe that the notion of the relativity of truth is disregarded on the level of the Rashômon gate setting. Since each story begins with a brief flashback of whosoever is narrating at the trial, it appears quite clear that we are witnessing each character’s subjective view, unaffected by the fact that the priest or woodcutter is retelling it. Moreover, the notion that the husband’s story is analytically the most accurate because we cannot believe the woodcutter’s retellings is not convincing for several reasons; for one, why then would the woodcutter claim it’s all lies? Would he not support the husband’s admission in order to maintain his original lie?

In 1959, Michael Kanin and his soon-to-be wife Fay Mitchell remade Rashômon as a play. Though utilizing Kurosawa’s title and augmentations of the original, they vainly claimed that it was based on Ryu-nosuke’s short stories. Because the story of Rashômon is essentially only located in three distinct settings, it was easy to transmit through a play; however, much of the story needed to be told through dialogue – character exposition – rather than gesture (which may have been too subtle for the audience). The Broadway production was quite successful and attracted the attention of film producer A. Ronald Lubin. He was convinced that the play, with Michael Kanin screenwriting, would transpose well into an American film, either set in the Middle East or the American West. He soon realized that “the West transposed itself perfectly in every respect. It was a time of legends, of great heroes, that are vibrant to this day. The Mexican Bandit comes right out of our own history… it was easy to transpose the samurai and his wife into fallen, Southern aristocrats. In fact Rashômon might have been written originally as a Western”. Moreover, he claimed that “a Western is more lucrative and would be more readily acceptable” (quoted in Field 14-15, Miller, 69). During this time, the play would become adapted to a television play by Sidney Lumet (1960).

Martin Ritt was Lubin’s first choice as director of the American retelling of Rashômon, stating that “[he] felt that Ritt could infuse the film with strength and vitality while still retaining the intellectual concepts” (quoted in Field 19, Miller 69). Ritt agreed on the Western setting and they pitched the concept to Columbia and Fox. Though rejected at first (because it didn’t appeal to the studios commercial agenda), “this situation rapidly changed when Paul Newman, who had originally turned down the lead role as the Mexican bandit Carrasco, suddenly decided to do it” (Miller, 70). Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) executed the feature, releasing it in 1964.

There are several differences in Kanin’s Western rendering of Rashômon; most significantly, of course, is the change of location (American Southwest) and time (1870s). While it is claimed to be based on the play, which is claimed to be based on the short stories of Ryu-nosuke, The Outrage is, actually, most faithful to Kurosawa’s film. Much of it is translated exactly; in addition, the subtle gestures by the characters are exegetically transposed into spoken exposition, and dialogue from Ryu-nosuke’s short stories is tacked on as well. Because of this, while Kurosawa primarily conveys the story through poetic, indefinable aesthetics – character gestures, camera movements, mise-en-scène, etc. – Ritt conveys the story, with more clarification, through definitive dialogue. Most significantly, Ritt and Kanin provide a definitive account of the previously unclear story: the colonel falls on the dagger, stating that “[he] tripped”; this occurs in the prospector’s final account, which is taken to be the objective truth of the events (bar the omission of himself stealing the dagger). Furthermore, while Kurosawa’s Rashômon is concerned primarily with the existential struggle of the priest, the preacher in The Outrage is rather subdued, while the con man receives much of the attention. This results in a stronger portrayal of the cruelty and savagery – the evil – of man.

In D.P. Martinez’ book on Remaking Kurosawa, she states that “films are good to think (with)”, and that “narrative resemblance (remaking) is what [she] calls a permutation: it contains changes that lead to a great difference, but the relationship with the original remains obvious” (xiii). Moreover, she aptly remarks that “[remakes] raise issues of cultural context, trans-cultural translation, and the knotty problem of narrative creativity…when directors decide to remake film to ‘the seamlessness of a coherent, intact, and consumable image (and sound) (Wills 1998:150), they do this assuming that something about the film, generally its story, will appeal to a new audience” (xiv). This notion seems to be the primary reason for Lubin, Ritt, and Kanin’s American Recontextualization of Kurosawa’s Rashômon; they believed that the story could be felicitously transposed to the West, and would appeal to a Western audience.

Furthermore, Martinez articulates that “the global always appear to fracture along lines of politics, economics, and more ephemerally, because of what [she] would call ‘perceived cultural similarity’” (3). As an anthropologist, she appears to comment on ‘perceived cultural similarity’ that exists between the cultures of Rashômon and The Outrage as a result of their inherent humanism – something similar in all cultures, since the only prerequisite for philosophical thought of this nature is being human.

In addition, she quotes Kurosawa as saying, “in order to write scripts, you must first study the great novels and dramas of the world” (25). This brings up the notion that there is no such thing as true originality; making films necessarily incorporate the sources of which the artist has been influenced by. She continues on this path to suggest that a remakes faithfulness depends on how it is translated: it could either be translated exactly (like a book), or translated into a comprehensible form of another language (since words and concepts sometimes don’t translation, and negotiations over meaning occur).

Later, she claims that the problems of The Outrage arise from the writers decision to translate (exactly) the Japanese story into an American Western setting, one which it doesn’t quite befit. She admits that a singular point of cultural creativity is the fact that The Outrage reconciles the (previously) irreconcilable stories; she claims that “perhaps [it is] a Japanese aspect of the film that no one explains their psychological motivations to any great extent” (62). Of course, conclusions of Western’s are not (typically) ambiguous; Ritt and Kanin’s decision to solve the problem of Rashômon thereby translates among cultures as well as provides an interpretation of the original story. However, in doing this, they renounce the mystery, intrigue, and abstract philosophical thought of Kurosawa’s poetic masterpiece.

As mentioned, the plot as well as the narrative structure of The Outrage virtually exacts that of Rashômon; practically every scene is matched both in terms of content and form, and the dialogue – though formally distinct – (colloquially) expresses the same concepts. As with Kurosawa, the motivations and perceptual understanding of each character’s story reflects the original formula of Akutagawa Ryu-Nosuke’s original short stories; “the priest has lost his faith; the humble woodcutter is probably a thief; the commoner definitely is; the bold bandit is cowardly; the samurai, bristling with weapons, is easily subdued; and the beautiful wife is not silent (a great virtue for Japanese women) and she is possibly not virtuous either” (Martinez, 56).

Various (minor) differences are made to make the film fit the Western genre; the characters, location and time are modified to Western stereotypes. Moreover, there are minor differences in the narrative – instead of swords, there are guns; instead of a grove, there is a desert and oasis; and, instead of the priest being thematically central, the con man is. Furthermore, the film depicts more characters than Rashômon, choosing to depict the police commissioner as well as the community jury at the trial.

Cinematographically, Ritt’s The Outrage, though aesthetically quite impressive, does not share Kurosawa’s theme and narrative supporting imagery. In Rashômon, cinematographer Kazuo Miyagawa, along with Kurosawa, utilize several cinematographical techniques to help illustrate the story. Particularly, each flashbacks adequately conveys the psychological implications of each narrator’s ‘truth’. They are shot slightly differently in order to show that reality is different for each person; noticeable differences in camera movement, angle, length of shot, length of take, and image location express that each of the stories are distorted by the characters subjective experience of the world. For the bandit, quick cuts, close ups and lots of action is shown; for the samurai and his wife, longer takes are used, and the length of the shot changes formulaically – a good example of this is the long shot of the tied-up samurai that slowly cuts to a medium-shot, which slowly cuts to a close-up; and, for the woodcutter, camera techniques are the least exaggerated. In addition, Donald Ritchie points out that the length of cuts when the bandit is barbaric and the wife is hysterical are the same. Moreover, Kurosawa consistently presents the characters at Rashômon in a triangular formation#, and, in each of the four flashbacks, there is a recurring shot of the sun through the trees – these shots are not merely used for aesthetic value; the sun through the trees is the only consistent image, implying that only nature – all that is non-ego – is witness to truth.

In The Outrage, Martin Ritt copies many of Kurosawa’s shots, but does not construct them in such a way to poetically express the themes of the film. He utilizes shots through the trees, but doesn’t suggest the sense of haziness (of events) that Kurosawa implies, and he utilizes shots of the sun, but also utilizes shots of the ground (from above); the lack of consistency renders purposeless to Ritt’s cinematography (in terms of narrative). In an essay on Rashômon, André Bazin states that “the artfulness of the staging and directing in Rashômon implies not only technological means of the same caliber as those of Hollywood, for example, but total possession of the expressive resources of film. Editing, depth of field, framing, and camera movement serve the story with equal freedom and mastery” (Goodwin, 99). This expressive meticulousness, attention to detail, and mastery of crafting content into form, is (ostensibly) missing from Ritt’s film. As a result, “the air of mystery (ambiguity even at hopeful ending) is entirely missing from the Outrage” (Miller, 76).

Miller continues in this vain, stating that “the power of Rashômon lies in its flamboyant pictorial style. Kurosawa’s manipulation of light and shadow, fluid camera movement, and artistic visual compositions were repeatedly applauded by critics (70)… there is an apparent mystery, an elliptical intent, which has fascinated audiences all over the world” (72). This seems to occur because Kurosawa utilizes characters to express the story through gesture; on the other hand, The Outrage – which follows Kanin’s theatrical roots – is driven by dialogue, and this “excessive dependence on telling rather than showing severely hamper’s Ritt’s exposition” (Ritchie quoted, Miller, 71).

Overall, The Outrage is rather convoluted; in some ways it fits the expectations of the typical Western, and, in some ways, it unfittingly mimics the original feudal Japanese stories. While it virtually exacts the narrative and dialogue of its predecessors, it provides a Western style reconciliation – Western audiences of the time were not typically exposed to abstract films without definitive answers. Without a hero it doesn’t boast the triumph of good over evil, which is typical of the Western; moreover, by ineptly conveying the original Japanese themes of shame and honour – and the philosophical abstractions of the relativity of truth – it departs from Western concepts and enters unclear, seemingly confused, territory. Miller aptly describes the consequence of this confusion:

“shifting the film to the 19th century American West may have seemed a good idea in the abstract, but it turned out to be a major mistake. The western landscape raises certain generic expectations, chiefly the problematic relationship between the hero and the landscape, which The Outrage does not even address. Here the setting contributes little to the narrative development; this theme oriented story could be set almost anywhere, except in a landscape that projects its own mythic dimension (73)… while The Outrage pays   homage to a great film, Ritt and Kanin stumbled badly in failing to understand that transferring Kurosawa’s material to the American West would require more than merely
exploiting a mythic setting. Neglecting to shape their screenplay to the dictates of the screen, to let image and gesture substitute for verbal exposition, these filmmakers only managed to demonstrate that piling the generic baggage of the Western onto a drama of philosophic inquiry could only lead to the collapse of the Rashômon Gate” (78)

Though not a successful work, The Outrage does “boast some of Ritt’s most powerful pictorial compositions” (Miller, 77). Aesthetically, it is quite appealing; for example, the impressive final shot of the dying man’s story – a disorienting effect of blowing mist, a spinning clear sky (through the trees), and increasing haziness of image – is wonderful in it’s simplicity and conveyance of a deep silence. In this way, though not as poetically enchanting as Rashômon, Ritt’s The Outrage is not entirely void of (it’s own) charm.

In several interviews of Kurosawa, he makes it abundantly clear that the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky greatly influenced his work; in an interview with Fred Marshall in 1993, he stated the following:

“[what I admire most about Dostoyevsky] is his humanism…he has this power of
compassion but he refuses to turn his eyes away (from things that are really dreadful,
really tragic). He looks straight into suffering and suffers with the victim” “I have tried to
force the audience – which is often unwilling – to ‘look carefully now’” (Cardullo, 184)

Further influences cited by the (later) nicknamed ‘Emperor’ (of cinema) include Kajiro Yamamoto (the director to which, for several years, he worked as an assistant), Kenji Mizoguchi (the principal Japanese director he admired), John Ford, and Jean Renoir. Regarding Yamamoto, he once stated that “the director is like a grand lord, and the assistant director is like a retainer” (Cardullo, x), thus admitting that much of his stylistic development is credited to his observation of Yamamoto during their time working together. In an interview with Donald Ritchie in 1960, he explains that “[he] likes silent pictures, and wanted to restore some of this beauty [in Rashômon]” (11). Moreover, he states that “one of the techniques of modern painting is simplification” (11); considering he was first trained as a painter, and that painting (in it’s simplicity) is closer to silent (as well as black-and-white) films than those of sound and colour, it is quite acceptable that Kurosawa’s formal pictorial training impacted the visual design he realizes in his films.

Several interviews with Ritt expound his reasons for remaking Kurosawa’s Rashômon. Gabriel Miller explains that “Ritt, like most viewers considered that film a masterpiece, and was dubious about remaking it” (Miller, 67). He quotes Ritt stating  the following:

“The more I thought about doing the film, the more interested and excited I became.
I had to make sure my reaction was valid, and not cluttered up with the emotional residue of Rashômon. The first thing I look for in any film property is emotion; or any genuine intellectual stimulation. And this I like to coordinate with strength and simplicity and visual style. The Outrage stimulated me more than any property I received” (quoted in Field 34) ” (P. 67).

Moreover, he claims that “Ritt was obviously intrigued by Rashômon’s theme, and no doubt felt inspired by the challenge of finding his own way of expressing its complexity” (71). These remarks satisfy the public’s concern regarding his motivations; rather than stealing a foreign story and benefiting commercially from it, Ritt appears to have genuinely (and humbly) crafted his film in homage.

Nevertheless, Martin Ritt’s The Outrage is not the only example of a Rashômon influenced story, narrative structure, or theme. Two other direct (film) adaptations exist: The Iron Maze (Hiroaki Yoshida, 1991) and Misty (Saegusa Misuti, 1997). Moreover, countless films, such as Kubrick’s The Killing, Resnais’ Last Year In Marienbad and Hiroshima Mon Amour, and Singer’s Usual Suspects – to name a few – appear to have been influenced by Rashômon. Frankly, an exhaustive list of the films influenced by Rashômon would likely be impossible to disclose, as Kurosawa’s impact on world cinema extends greatly in every direction. Furthermore, several television shows have exhibited an influence by Rashômon: for example, the series Boomtown, an episode of CSI (Rashomana), and an episode of The Simpsons (30 Minutes Over Tokyo) – wherein Marge says to Homer “c’mon, Japan will be fun, you liked Rashômon”, to which Homer retorts, “that’s not how I remember it” – each reflect some aspect of the film.

In addition, several of Kurosawa’s other films have been remade, frequently as Westerns. Sergio Leone A Fistful Of Dollars and Martin Hill’s Last Man Standing remake Kurosawa’s Yojimbo; John Sturges Magnificent Seven and John Lasseter’s A Bug’s Life remake Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai; and George Lucas’ Star Wars: Episode IV remakes Kurosawa’s Hidden Fortress.

In light of this, it’s quite apparent that, through these remakes, Akira Kurosawa’s artistic vision and creative stories have extended to a wider audience than would have otherwise been possible. Because of this, though some may be unaware, many people who may be intimidated by foreign documents, black-and-white films, or abstract philosophical contemplation, have been exposed to Kurosawa’s ideas and thoughts. In conclusion, the remakes (along with otherwise influenced features) provide a vehicle for onlookers to travel back to the original, and to discover Kurosawa (and even Akutagawa Ryu-nosuke) for themselves.

Works Cited

Cardullo, Bert, Akira Kurosawa: Interviews. USA: University Press Of Mississippi, Jackson, 2008.

Goodwin, James, Perspectives On Akira Kurosawa. New York, USA: Maxwell Macmillan Publishing Company, 1994.

Martinez, D.P., Remaking Kurosawa: Translations And Permutations In Global Cinema. United Kingdom: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

Miller, Gabriel, Martin Ritt: Interviews. USA: University Press Of Mississippi, Jackson, 2002.

Miller, Gabriel, The Films Of Martin Ritt: Fanfare For The Common Man. USA: University Press Of Mississippi, Jackson, 2000.

Ritchie, Donald, Focus On Rashômon. USA: Spectrum Books, Prentice Hall Inc., 1972.

Ryu-nosuke, Akutagawa, Rashômon And Other Stories. Translated by Takashi Kojima. New York, USA: Liveright Publishing Corporation, 1952.

A Bug’s Life (John Lasseter, 1998)

Fistful Of Dollars (Sergio Leone, 1964)

The Hidden Fortress (Akira Kurosawa, 1954)

Hiroshima Mon Amour (Alan Resnais, 1959)

The Iron Maze
(Hiroaki Yoshida, 1991)

The Killing (Stanley Kubrick, 1956)

Last Man Standing (Walter Hill, 1996)

Last Year In Marienbad (Alan Resnais, 1962)

Magnificent Seven (John Sturges, 1960)

Misty (James B. Clark, 1961)

The Outrage (Martin Ritt, 1964)

Paths Of Glory (Stanley Kubrick, 1967)

Rashômon (Akira Kurosawa, 1950)

Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954)

Spartacus (Stanley Kubrick, 1960)

Star Wars: Episode IV (George Lucas, 1977)

The Usual Suspects (Brian Singer, 1995)

Yojimbo (Akira Kurosawa, 1961)

Boomtown (Graham Yost, 2002-2003)

CSI: Rashomana (Anthony E. Zuiker, 2006)

The Simpsons: Thirty Minutes Over Tokyo (Matt Groening, 1999)


About Kamran Ahmed

I have a Masters in Cinema Studies from the University of Toronto. I work as a freelance writer and film critic in Vancouver. My writing is primarily distributed through Next Projection, an online film journal based in Toronto.
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