Ikiru: (Akira Kurosawa, 1952)

Upon hearing news of death approaching, he sits and sings under the pulse of falling snow. He doesn’t think of papers stacked on his desk at his government job, the window behind the chair at his desk; the presence of no one listening to pleas from citizens; the eight-hour-work-day eyes through which the citizens glare to fill out forms; snowflakes building on the sill of the window with the patience of government workers; the workers without the patience of snow, refusing to help the citizens they serve. Today, he takes apart the story of his life, which is to say, he accepts any mistakes he’s made; they were on impulse at the moment. But his God made excuses for him, said, Well,you know, he was young. But, No, God, he replied, I woke just yesterday eager to attack my To Do List of mistakes. It’s the news he read on the doctor’s face, this news brought him to act so beautifully today. It’s just now that all the words the world tried to say, make so much sense to him, now when the face on the clock looks at him with such pity. He forces a smile, tries to make the seconds hand jump a bit. For years he said, I’m too old to learn something new, which meant, too old to master a hand of cards, or to capture a queen on a chess board, or even the heart of a young woman from his office. A man must be willing to look like a child, who has yet to believe in death, to accomplish any of these tasks. Yet he believed if he kept repeating what he would never master— making love, making money, making happiness—if, through the failures, he kept nodding his head, he thought this would make him appear mature. Once when he was a child, drowning in a pond, he had a chance to decipher the mystery of living. As he drowned, he kept grasping at life, but there was nothing to hold; suddenly, he gave up fighting, giving himself over to water, and he popped to the top, floating, believing he had pulled himself to the surface. But surviving is not the same as living, is it? Why not buy a hat, cock the brim to the side? Why not buy a young woman silk stockings, which she’ll only wear to his funeral? Why not clear off his desk, push a form through the system to build a playground with a swing that he’s too old to enjoy fully? His dilemma is either an opportunity or a final prayer, and he realizes there’s no choice there at all. Why not sit on the swing under falling snow and sing a song about the brevity of life for the children making footprints behind him, though the footprints will melt with the morning sun?