Robert Mitchum in The Yakuza (1974): The Strange Stranger

"When an American cracks up, he opens a window and shoots up a bunch of strangers. When a Japanese cracks up, he closes the window and kills himself."
Richard Jordan in The Yakuza


The Yakuza (1974) has a pretty high pedigree for the 1970s: it was the first screenplay from Paul Schrader, co-written with his brother Leonard, a rewrite by Robert Towne, and directed by Sydney Pollack. Robert Mitchum, who was having a nice career resurgence at the time, had the lead role. Between them, this is a pretty impressive bunch of credits, encompassing Chinatown, The Way We Were, The Friends of Eddie Coyle, The Last Detail, and They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, among others.

At the time, the Schraders were paid an inordinately high fee ($325,000) for the screenplay, which heralded their arrival in Hollywood. Paul would go on to write two of the most acclaimed movies of the era, Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, and make his startling directorial debut with Blue Collar (1978). Pollack, apparently uncomfortable with making solely a "gangster picture," hired Towne to add backstory and romantic elements to the script, and the Schraders distanced themselves. I hope Paul feels differently today (his brother Leonard died several years ago; watch this amazing video of his book-stuffed home here) because The Yakuza is a satisfying thriller that showcases many of Schrader's thematic concerns, and Mitchum at his middle-aged best.

Harry Kilmer, played by a wonderfully disheveled, schlumpy Robert Mitchum, is tapped by his old WWII buddy George Tanner (Brian Keith), a business magnate, for a big favor: rescue his college-age daughter from Japanese gangsters, known as the yakuza. For Kilmer, this is a bittersweet request, as he had remained in Japan after the war to be with his mistress Eiko (Kishi Keiko) and her infant daughter, victims of the bombing raid on Tokyo. After Eiko's brother Tanaka Ken returned from a POW in the Philippines, Kilmer returned to America, but without Eiko - who said she could never marry him.

Kilmer arrives in Japan with young Dusty (Richard Jordan), a confidant of Tanner's, to make sure Mitchum "doesn't get run over by a Honda." They meet up with Ollie Wheat (Herb Edelman), another old war pal who still lives in Tokyo, whose doctor has told him he can't play his beloved chess because of the stress it causes him. "Don't let it fool you," Wheat warns when Kilmer notices an American-style high rise, "Japan is Japan, and the Japanese are still Japanese." As veterans of World War II, even ones who stayed in the country, these men are wary of this place. Immediately following this exchange comes a cry from the other room; Dusty has sliced himself on a specimen from Wheat's sword collection. "I barely touched it," he says. Foreshadowing, anyone? Then Kilmer, "the strange stranger," as he was referred to as an American in Japan after the war, wanders the city streets alone, seeking Eiko after many years.

Soon, Eiko's brother Tanaka Ken (Takakura Ken), once a mighty yakuza but now a master teacher in traditional Japanese swordsmanship, shows up. "Ken is a relic, a leftover of another age, of another country," Kilmer is told, and Ken therefore feels a begrudging obligation to help Kilmer since Kilmer had cared for Eiko after the war. Tanner's daughter is rescued in a terrific shootout in the middle of a yakuza hideout. Although he says he hasn't picked up a sword in 10 years, he saves Dusty and Kilmer with his skill by killing several yakuza. But now the yakuza boss wants Tanaka dead, while Tanner, who reveals his true motivations, makes a deal with them to take out Kilmer...

One can feel the writerly passages that probably entwine both Schrader's and Towne's version of the screenplay in the voice-over narrations that work terrifically, in the discussion of "giri" and its various meanings, in the elaborations on the value of family, duty, and honor. As for the direction, in some scenes I felt as though I could see the screenwriters (particularly Schrader) over Pollack's shoulder, coaching him through scenes, particularly the sword-and-gun fight sequences, which are well-staged, awesomely violent and very nearly poetic. When Kilmer bundles up in a large coat to hide his weaponry and the camera follows him down a long hallway as he looks for Tanner, we can see a dry-run for the climax of Taxi Driver. The pre-credit sequence in Japan reminded me of the cabbie boss's interview of Travis Bickle as well, right down to the edits. Schrader's screenplays are just that visual.

Dave Grusin's score is highly effective, mysterious, and evocative throughout, during the opening credits, and especially during Kilmer and Eiko's reunion, which are some of my favorite moments in the film. With old friend Wheat narrating, Grusin's music, and subtle editing, we get a real sense of the Kilmer and Eiko's happy past. But there is also loss here, loss that is predicated upon Kilmer's return.

The themes that will preoccupy much of Schrader's best work are all here: the loner on a mission, the man who carefully chooses - like a script - his path of action, men obsessed with guns and violence and redemption, the "spirituality" found in physical confrontation and duty. Violence is theater, something carefully prepared for and performed. "I just thought you might want to hear your reviews," says Wheat to Mitchum after he sees the newspaper account of their rescue of Tanner's daughter. This philosophy of Schrader's would see its apotheosis in his elegant, ambitious Mishima (1985).

Ultimately this is not a film about vengeance or violence, but one that uses those elements to explore the past and other people and our duty to them; the characters are honor-bound to one another, across decades, across continents. The movie ends with a true understanding of respect and friendship; after we have seen the turnabouts and double-crossings previously, it is a satisfying, hard-won, and even touching moment. I recommend The Yakuza easily to people who are fans of any of the aforementioned artists. Like many '70s movies it is at once a genre flick and a character study. This is no anonymous karate or gangster flick; this is a serious, patient meditation on adult concerns punctuated by bursts of bitter, necessary, regretful violence... and the amends men make for it.

Boxing the Compass: Crime Classics of the Early '70s

There's just nothing else like 'em. These really aren't up there with Chinatown, The Long Goodbye, Mean Streets, or Night Moves, but they all have that realistic, mundane, day-in-the-life-of-crime vibe that reached its apotheosis in Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction, and The Sopranos. Respect.

The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973, dir. Peter Yates)

Robert Mitchum's performance here as the titular criminal is masterful as he tries to escape his fate; his wheeling and dealing isn't the work of a master con artist—even though it may seem that way at first—but the frantic scramblings of a man who knows he's doomed but can't admit it to himself. Who could? Caught between the Irish mob and the Feds and one seriously low-level gunrunner, he does everything he can to avoid another trip to the big house. The way this one plays out is pure '70s grit. Terrific Boston locales too. I suppose the only odd thing here is how a man of Mitchum's age could have kids barely in grade school. This was recently released on a Criterion Collection DVD.


French Connection II (1975, dir. John Frankenheimer)

Since the original French Connection swept up the major Oscars in '71 a sequel was practically a foregone conclusion. Missing the estimable Roy Scheider (lost at sea with Spielberg and co. for Jaws) FCII might not boast his and Hackman's buddy routine and the New York mean streets, but it has a harrowing forced addiction/detox sequence and parts of Paris the tourists never see. Hackman pushes Popeye even further in his single-mindedness, although he still takes the time to get drunk (in a hilarious scene with a French bartender) and try to pick up hot French chicks. The climactic shootout with Charnier (Fernando Rey), the bad guy from the original, is terrific, and the final shot reduces the action movie to its barest essential. The poster doesn't lie.


Charley Varrick (1973, dir. Don Siegel)

This character-driven heist-gone-wrong piece is best known today as the origin of a line from Pulp Fiction ("a blow torch and a pair of pliers"), Joe Don Baker's hired killer Molly who seems to be an inspiration for Chigurh in No Country for Old Men, and this unexpected exchange between Varrick (the estimable Walter Matthau) and a willing lady:

Charley Varrick: I like your bed. You may find this hard to believe but I've never slept on a round bed.
Sybil Fort: Is that so?
CV: What's the best way? North, south, east, or west?
SF: That depends on what you had in mind.
CV: What I had in mind was boxing the compass.

Walter Matthau makes a dirty double-entendre?! Probably his best one since "It took me three hours to figure out that 'F.U.' was Felix Unger!"


Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974, dir. Sam Peckinpah)

Reviled by many, considered by some to be Peckinpah's masterpiece, this existential modern-day western Mexican manhunt features the always-welcome Warren Oates. It revels in cruelty, grunginess, misogyny—indeed, misanthropy—slow-motion death, and some terrific lines. Shoving off goons hanging around a cemetery: "Don't look at me with your goddamn fuckin' eyes!" To an already-dead body as he shoots it: "Why? Because it feels so damn good!" And to his prostitute girlfriend who objects to gathering up the head of a man dead and buried: "The church cuts off the feet, fingers, any other goddamn thing from the saints, don't they? Well, what the hell? Alfredo's our saint. He's the saint of our money, and I'm gonna borrow a piece of him." Apparently when Oates saw Tom Waits on TV in the mid-'70s, he exclaimed, "That guy stole my act." He was probably speaking of this scene:



Also contains the classic bit, perhaps a cinematic anomaly, of trying to kill crabs with tequila. Yes, those kinds of crabs. There is nothing Warren Oates cannot do. Respect.