There's a scene at the end of Akira Kurosawa's High and Low in which we follow that film's villain, a poor medical intern-turned-kidnapper due to his obsessive rage over the unfairness of life, through the grimiest precincts of early 60s Yokohama, a wasteland inhabited by zombie-like drug addicts, fittingly named Dope Alley. I have no idea if Kurosawa's story line was familiar enough to his peers among Japanese directors like Seijun Suzuki at that time to have an influence on Youth of the Beast. It seems doubtful, since the films were released a mere seven weeks apart. But the overlap between the two movies, including their depictions of desperate, practically subhuman junkies staggering helplessly under the influence of their insatiable cravings, is such that it's not at all difficult to see Youth of the Beast as a kind of demented follow-up to Kurosawa's foray into contemporary crime-noir genre filmmaking - a hard left turn, as it were, executed so severely that it was all Suzuki could do to stop the production from spinning quite madly out of control.
The hollow promise that Western, and specifically American, culture extended to then-modern Japan by the quick gratification of material desires, and a casual indifference to traditions of the past, was critiqued by Kurosawa as he patiently, masterfully drew us into the tangible but flimsy prosperity of Gondo's world: his fancy house, with all its modern technological conveniences and the commanding view of the city from its hilltop perch, and his carefully constructed but swiftly dismantled strategy for achieving supremacy in the business world. What Kurosawa achieved, quite memorably, in that portrayal was essentially captured in just one quick transitional scene at the beginning of Youth of the Beast, as we see the face of a deceased police officer, shot in black and white, his equally dead lover draped semi-clothed across his chest, in a grim double-suicide scenario complete with explanatory note from the woman who discloses her fatal plan, for the sake of her mother's conscience and the bewildered confusion sure to be felt by the cop's widow. That stark moment, in which the officer's profession and downfall are simultaneously revealed to the detectives investigating his death, is immediately followed up by a burst of color, laughter and brash rock 'n roll music - a scathing mockery of what older viewers would most likely consider a sad and somber fate deserving a more solemn reaction.
And if that flippant rejection of propriety wasn't enough, within a few seconds, we're thrust into the first of several brawls that occur throughout Youth of the Beast, usually filmed from a detached distance, without much in the way of close-ups or visceral action shots - more like a jaded observation of the brute savagery that men with little or nothing to lose will descend to when they feel their honor or advantage has been insulted.
And thus it is that we have a clear marker that distinguishes directors of Kurosawa's generation and that of his successors, of which Seijun Suzuki was, for a time, one of the most prominent. Though High and Low was adapted from popular, pulpy source material, markedly less sophisticated and highbrow than Kurosawa's usual literary adaptations, his tough but sensitive aesthetic and inherent humanism are simply too elevated and refined to stay in the gutter for very long. Not so with Suzuki, who seems rather comfortable wallowing in the sleaze, but doing so with a vivid artistic sensibility. I suspect that this quality of his played a big part in earning him such a generous representation within the Criterion Collection - going back to the earliest phases of that library's development with a pair of films (Tokyo Drifter and Branded to Kill) that he released within the next several years. Seven films of his, altogether, have warranted release, and there's no doubt in my mind that his fan base is ready to support more. One of them, Take Aim at the Police Van, came out in 1960, back when Suzuki was still cranking out genre potboilers at a furious pace - five films that year, six in 1961.
Youth of the Beast, with a title attached to it simply because it sounds wild, rambunctious and awesome (there is no particular "youthful beast" to be found in the story), is regarded as Suzuki's big breakout film after directing around thirty prior to that, though I'm not sure what exactly made it so different from its predecessors. The widescreen color cinematography certainly made a vivid impression, and Suzuki's increasingly confident and creative compositions indicate a growing fluidity, maturity and daring by that point in his career. His fortuitous partnership with lead actor Joe Shishido also helped, a director/star pairing that proved almost as fruitful (but never as poetically sublime) as Kurosawa's collaborations with Takeshi Shimura, Toshiro Mifune and Tatsuya Nakadai. But without any deliberate intention of slighting the increased proficiency of Suzuki's effort, it may have well been the case that Japanese pop culture was just reaching the point where Suzuki's wild recklessness spoke more immediately and accessibly to the audience. Despite High and Low's commercial and critical success, Kurosawa's influence and fortunes were teetering on the verge of a rapid decline, whereas Suzuki and his brawny, testosterone-fueled action thrillers were ascending to new levels of popularity.
So enough with that background - what is Youth of the Beast actually about? As a story, it's fairly simple - Joji Mizuno, a ruthless assassin-for-hire, recently released from prison, takes an interest in the dead officer we learn about at the film's beginning. His personal, unsolicited investigation into the facts of the matter that led to his death uncovers the role that rival gangs played in setting up the morbid scenario that led to his demise. Driven by his internal demand for justice, and personal loyalties that are gradually revealed over the course of the film, Joji proceeds, Yojimbo-like, to exact his revenge in an elaborate scheme that pits the two yakuza factions against each other, both of them easy prey as he manipulates their jealousies and greed to put them in attack mode.
There's probably more depth and nuance to be explored in Youth of the Beast's story, if I were to take the time to ponder it at length and subject the film to multiple viewings, but I'd then run the risk of over-thinking what is better appreciated as a feisty adrenaline rush of bright colors, brash impulsive action and weird sado-masochistic brutality all rendered with a glossy sheen that seeks to grab viewers by the throat and leave them gasping for air. Even a second or third watch is better spent sorting out the convoluted plot twists and reversals, or simply reveling in the stylistic splendor of Suzuki's frames and violent choreography, rather than searching for philosophical profundity and an application to one's own life circumstances. At least, that was my experience. Not exactly mindless entertainment, not at all - there's clearly a sharp intelligence at work here - but certainly more visceral, more stylized and surface-oriented than the heady offerings like 8 1/2, High and Low and The Leopard that I've taken in most recently on this blog. And that makes Youth of the Beast a rather refreshing and enjoyable change of pace.
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Next: Lord of the Flies