My name is Salik Waquas, and as a film colorist and filmmaker, I’ve had the opportunity to work on a range of visual projects. Throughout my journey, I’ve come to deeply appreciate the art of cinematography and its power to tell stories beyond words. One film that has always resonated with me on a profound level is Rashomon directed by Akira Kurosawa in 1950. Its visual storytelling is nothing short of extraordinary, thanks to the genius of Kazuo Miyagawa, the film’s cinematographer. In this article, I’ll share my personal reflections and insights on the cinematography of Rashomon, analyzing it from the perspective of someone who works with light, shadow, and composition on a daily basis.
Rashomon Cinematography Analysis In Depth
About the Cinematographer
Kazuo Miyagawa is a name that has always fascinated me. His work on Rashomon not only changed the way I think about visual storytelling but also set the gold standard for how cinematography can elevate a narrative. Miyagawa had this incredible ability to use light and shadow as tools to deepen the emotional core of a scene. I’ve always admired how his work with Kurosawa on Rashomon created an iconic visual language that communicates as much as the dialogue itself.
When I first studied Miyagawa’s cinematography in Rashomon, I was struck by how he used the camera not just to capture the action, but to tell the story itself. His understanding of light and shadow is something I aspire to in my own work, especially when it comes to creating mood and atmosphere. Miyagawa’s visual storytelling is simple on the surface, yet profoundly complex in its execution—something I’ve learned to appreciate more and more as I delve deeper into my own color grading work.
Inspiration for the Cinematography of Rashomon
The visual language of Rashomon is rooted in its exploration of human subjectivity, and that’s what I find most fascinating. The film is centered around conflicting accounts of the same event—a murder —and this ambiguity required a cinematographic approach that could visually represent the notion of multiple truths. That’s something I think about a lot in my own projects: how to reflect subjective perspectives through the use of light, composition, and movement.
Miyagawa and Kurosawa took inspiration from traditional Japanese art forms, like ukiyo-e prints, where strong compositions and dramatic contrasts between light and shadow are key elements. This influence is obvious in Rashomon, particularly in how the forest scenes are framed with stark, bold lines. To me, the visual design of the film is a reflection of post-war Japan, a nation grappling with disillusionment and moral ambiguity. The way the film visually embodies these themes—through the dense, impenetrable forest—is something I admire deeply and often draw inspiration from.
One of the boldest choices Miyagawa made was filming directly into the sun, which wasn’t commonly done at the time. I love how this choice was symbolic of the characters’ search for clarity in a world of confusion. In my color grading work, I often think about how to use light in ways that can represent something deeper, and this particular decision in Rashomon is a great example of how light can be a character in itself.
Camera Movements Used in Rashomon
The camera in Rashomon isn’t just a passive observer—it feels like an active participant in the story. I remember being amazed by how Kurosawa and Miyagawa used camera movements to reflect the different versions of the truth told by the characters. When I first watched the film, the dynamic use of handheld cameras in certain scenes struck me because it created this unsettling feeling, as if the audience was being pulled into the chaos of the characters’ memories.
For example, when the bandit tells his version of events, the camera moves with an erratic energy that mirrors his impulsive and wild nature. I remember thinking how genius this was, making the audience feel like they were seeing the world through his eyes. In contrast, during the woodcutter’s account, the camera is much more controlled, almost as if it’s as careful and measured as the character’s demeanor. This is something I try to apply in my own projects—how to let the camera’s movement reflect the character’s inner world.
Kurosawa’s decision to give each perspective a distinct camera style blew me away the first time I noticed it. It was a revelation to see how the camera could be used to shift the audience’s perception of reality.
Compositions in Rashomon
The compositions in Rashomon are some of the most striking I’ve ever seen. Kurosawa and Miyagawa broke the conventional rules of composition, often ignoring the rule of thirds to create a sense of imbalance that mirrors the fractured narratives in the film. When I first studied these compositions, I was struck by how they make the audience feel off-kilter, as if we’re constantly searching for something just out of reach—just like the characters are.
One thing I always return to is how they used empty space in the frame. There are so many moments where the characters are positioned on the edges, leaving vast empty spaces in the middle of the frame. This visual void perfectly reflects the emotional and moral emptiness of the characters’ conflicting stories.
The use of vertical lines, especially in the forest scenes, is another brilliant visual choice. The trees create a kind of maze, blocking the characters’ paths and, metaphorically, the audience’s ability to see the truth. It’s this kind of visual storytelling that inspires me to think beyond the basics of composition and to consider how every element in a frame can contribute to the story’s deeper meaning.
Lighting Style of Rashomon
As a colorist, I’m constantly thinking about light—how it interacts with objects, how it can transform a scene, and how it reflects the emotional undertone of a narrative. In Rashomon, Miyagawa’s use of light is nothing short of masterful. The way he contrasts light and shadow throughout the film creates a visual representation of the moral ambiguity that lies at the heart of the story.
One of my favorite aspects of the film is the dappled light in the forest scenes. The way sunlight filters through the trees creates a fragmented, uneven light that feels symbolic of the partial truths the characters are telling. The light never fully illuminates the scene, just as the truth is never fully revealed. In my color grading work, I’m always thinking about how to use light in ways that enhance the themes of the project, and Rashomon serves as a constant reminder of the power of light to tell a story.
The lighting at the Kyoto gate, where the characters reflect on the events, is equally impactful. The overcast, rain-soaked atmosphere adds a layer of despair that is hard to shake off. For me, the low-light, almost oppressive feeling of these scenes reflects the hopelessness of the characters as they try, and fail, to uncover the truth. It’s a mood that I often try to recreate when working on projects that deal with similar themes of moral complexity.
Lensing and Blocking of Rashomon
I’m always intrigued by how lens choices can affect the way a story is perceived, and in Rashomon, the lensing plays a crucial role in differentiating between the various perspectives of the characters. The wider lenses used in the bandit’s version give him this exaggerated, almost heroic presence, while tighter lenses in the nobleman’s version make him appear more reserved and composed. It’s such a clever way to visually distinguish the characters’ perspectives, and it’s something I try to emulate in my own work.
The blocking in Rashomon is equally thoughtful. Kurosawa’s precise blocking of actors adds layers of meaning to each scene. The chaotic, frantic movements during the bandit and nobleman’s duel are a perfect reflection of their inner turmoil, while the more controlled blocking in the woodcutter’s version reveals his desire to control the narrative.
“Rashomon” was shot using the Mitchell NC camera, known for its ability to achieve sharp and detailed images. Miyagawa employed a range of lenses, including wide-angle lenses and telephoto lenses, to create different perspectives and enhance the visual storytelling. The use of deep focus was achieved through careful control of aperture settings and lighting conditions, allowing multiple planes to remain in sharp focus. The film’s technical setup was innovative for its time, pushing the boundaries of what was possible in cinematic storytelling.
Color of Rashomon
As a colorist, I can’t help but imagine how I would approach the color grading of Rashomon. Although the film is in black and white, the tonal range is extraordinary, and there’s so much that could be enhanced with modern grading techniques. The deep blacks of the forest scenes would be a focal point for me, emphasizing the mystery and deception that permeate these moments. The highlights, especially when sunlight breaks through the trees, could be pushed to a harsher level to reflect the painful, elusive nature of truth.
In the scenes at the Kyoto gate, I would work with a more desaturated look, emphasizing the muted tones to deepen the sense of despair. The rain-soaked setting could be made even more oppressive with subtle adjustments to contrast and brightness, reinforcing the idea that the characters are trapped in their own lies. Rashomon may be a black-and-white film, but its use of light and shadow creates a visual richness that, in my opinion, rivals that of any color film.
Conclusion
For me, Rashomon is more than just a film—it’s a masterclass in how cinematography can transform a simple story into a profound exploration of human nature and truth. Every aspect of the visual storytelling, from the camera movements to the compositions to the lighting, is crafted with such care and intention. As a filmmaker and colorist, Rashomon continues to inspire me, reminding me of the incredible power of visual storytelling to challenge perceptions and reveal deeper truths.