I Can Hear The Colour Yellow.
One day, I will stop watching Akira Kurosawa movies. This will be the day that I die, swallowing my tongue after a seizure caused by seeing moonlight flit through yet another wisp of fog on a barren, black and white Japanese plain, because Kurosawa apparently never stopped making movies, even when he was dead or asleep. Every time I think I’m done, another movie rears its squat, Japanese head, replete with patchy beard and male pattern tonsure, and I have to spend another three hours watching a Criterion collection DVD. Then, lights flash, I taste the sun, and all is beautiful, at least until I’m found in a puddle of froth, black blood, and sick.
I suppose, however, that if I were to die, I could think of worse ways to go than watching Throne Of Blood. Like eating sugar laced with ground glass, or seeing Rent again and catching AIDS from a sharp edged DVD case. This way, at least I get to see one last legendary over-performance by Toshiro Mifune, or the “yellow Charlton Heston”, as he’s known in cinema’s academia. And I experience yet another dense Shakespeare adaptation from a culture that generally puts more effort into the scriptwriting of Nintendo RPGs than motion pictures. I complain, and I complain, but still I watch as the iconography of Elizabethan pulp fiction is replaced by the rich visual cues of feudal Japan. I see Macbeth's Highland moors become the fogged hills of the Orient, and the pride and greed of the Scottish aristocracy changed to the soulless nobility and bottomless treachery of the samurai bushido code. And then the lights flash, I taste the sun, and my mouth fills up with blood. And worst of all, it stains my favorite Samhain T-shirt, and the spot just won’t come out.