World Film and Television Progress (1937-1938)

THE JAPANESE BENCHI The Japanese "benchi" or commentator of the silent films developed a new art when talkies came in. He interweaves with the American )gue sound effects and BY OSWALD M. WYND IT is pleasant to upset Occidental complacency by stating emphatically that the Japanese had "talkies" long before the idea was even embryonic in the West. It must be admitted that the "sound" which accompanied the Japanese presentation of the earlier Hollywood films was not mechanical and only very slightly synchronised but for all that it was unquestionably efficient and effective. When the silent picture with its English sub-titles began to gain popularity in Japan it became obvious that some effort would have to be made to aid Oriental comprehension of the thread of the film narrative. The experiment of adding Japanese characters beneath the printed English explanations was one of the first attempts to solve the problem but it was found that the brevity and "snappy" phrases largely relied on by the American producers of that time made adequate translation difficult. After numerous other methods had been tried one was evolved which made an instantaneous appeal to the cinema-going public and resulted in the appearance of a personage entirely unique in film history. He was the "benchi" or translator; an individual possessed of histrionic ability in the Japanese manner who very often proved to be a real artist in his own field. I can recall all those silent Hollywood epics of the Cecil B. de Mille school made glorious by the wailings and palpitating enthusiasm of the "benchi." This gentleman by no means confined himself to merely reproducing dialogue but enlarged his function until he was practically the Japanese version of the cinema organ, holding in reserve a repertoire of noises which would unquestionably have embarrassed a Wurlitzer. Silk-robed genius Certain of the "benchi" were justly more famed than others and the most important Tokyo picture palace boasted an artist who had laboriously worked his way upwards from Suburbia; eventually, by dint of his virtuosity, finding himself able to demand a financial remuneration in keeping with his talent. Although as an Occidental I was supposed to prefer the English sub-titles to the Japanese vocalisation, the mere dullness of the printed word had no chance of competing with the dramatic roarings of a silk-robed genius. I listened, as did most Europeans, to the "benchi" and discussed his respective merits with my friends much in the same way as now I might — if I were so inclined — argue about the acting ability of Sir Cedric Hardwicke. A film, I think it was called The Eleventh Hour, remains fixed in my mind, not due to its excellence, but simply because on that occasion the "benchi" surpassed himself. There was a shot in the film of a submarine sinking and we were presented with photography of a tin model subsiding slowly to the bottom of a porcelain bath. The "benchi," appreciating the weakness of the film, realized that it was his duty to bolster up that limp production and so, bringing all the manifold aspects of his talent into play, he treated us to an absolute onslaught of sheer artistry. Each bubble which emerged from the synthetic wreck was accompanied by a most incredible assortment of desperate and horrible gurglings. The tin model sank, and we were harrowed by a symphony of aquatic noises interspersed with fiendish screams which suggested all too realistically the agony of dying men. That miserable fake shot became a stark reality and an obvious fraud was converted, for those of us in that Tokyo cinema, into a drama of vital intensity. Threat of the talkies The advent of talkies to the Orient thus brought more than a revolution in film technique, it threatened the security of a popular profession. It was impossible at first to imagine the translator competing with those brazen mechanical voices which were nearly always pitched at a volume certain to drown out even his most inspired efforts. Most of us, then — back in 1929 when the talkies really came to stay as far as Japan was concerned— sorrowfully relegated the"benchi" to a premature oblivion. It was the sudden extinction of a newly evolved mode of artistic expression ; the driving forth of a talented individual whose shrill enthusiasm had enlivened many a dull film. I can remember hearing and seeing the Singing Fool in Tokyo, and it awakened in me no feeling of excitement. I was not inspired by the tremendous force the talking picture might become, nor did I contemplate its possibilities in artistic and educative spheres. I was conscious of nothing save irritation towards that howling "mammy" expert who had drowned out our favourite with his enormous voice and was thus the murderer of art. At first it seemed as if preserved sound had won a sweeping victory and it was not until talkies were apparently well established that the magnates of the film industry, in its Oriental branches, began to sense a popular rumble of protest. It was not difficult to find where the trouble lay. The novelty of hearing voices which jumped at one from the screen A Modern Japanese Cinema had worn off and the average Japanese, understanding little or none of the dialogue, was beginning to say very rude things about the tone of the Occidental voice — especially the Hollywood voice. Then, too, with the advent of the talking film action tended to slow down and it was no longer possible, as it had been during the days of the silent film, to follow the theme without printed aid. Japanese audiences were forced to endure long bouts of conversation which meant nothing to them and eventually they revolted. The cry went abroad, "We want our 'benchi'." A tentative trial of the "benchi" and the talking film in collaboration was one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had. The silk clad figure, conscious of the weight of popularity behind him, entered his little box near the screen and prepared to compete with Miss Chatterton. The chaos which was generally anticipated did not result. The sound of the film was toned down to a reasonable point and the "benchi," while in opposition to the dialogue, never completely overpowered it or was in his turn overpowered. True artist that he was, in the supreme trial for his very professional existence, he triumphed. It was possible, if one were so inclined to listen entirely to the film dialogue, excluding completely from the conscious field of the sound of the translator but it was far more interesting to listen to the English, keeping all the while a certain awareness of the "benchi," so that when the picture became dull as it often did, one was able to switch over attention and listen to delightfully Oriental explanations of Occidental promiscuity. Bleak Thursday For the benefit of those who are particularly sensitive to the subtle competition between translator and talking picture, one day a week has since been set aside to be translatorless. This uninspiring time is largely patronized by Americans and Europeans who, due to the short time of their residence in Japan, or more often sheer lethargy, have failed to acquire sufficient Japanese to enable them to comprehend the "benchi," but those who appreciate the fine points of film-going in Japan avoid that bleak Thursday. A return to Japan for me would unquestionably include the rare delight of hearing my old friend the "benchi" repelling successfully— by complex vocalisation — waves of those hackneyed inanities which pour forth from the sound track of so many screen epics. 17