“Samurai like their water hot. Very brave.” – Oingo Boingo, “Reptiles and Samurai"
Sanjūrō (1961, Akira Kurosawa)
Akira Kurosawa pretty much wrote the book on samurai films, called “chanbara” (sword-fighting movies) and “jidaigeki” (period dramas) in Japan. Most of his signature films were made in the 50s, but the 60s was another fruitful decade for Kurosawa in the samurai realm, specifically the connected films, Yojimbo and Sanjūrō. I’ll eventually get to writing about Yojimbo, but I decided to be a little unconventional and start with the “sequel.” For Sanjūrō, once again Kurosawa is reunited with his actor of choice, Toshirō Mifune, who plays the unnamed ronin / samurai. "Sanjūrō" is the only name he offers, but that literally translates into “thirty-ish,” further giving a longer name, Tsubaki Sanjūrō, which means “thirty year-old Camellia tree.” As is usual for these samurai films, it is set at the end of the Tokugawa shogunate, a time when samurai protection and employment was coming to an end, finding samurai as ronin, clanless warriors wandering around Japan either looking for the odd “free agent” gig or a new master to serve. Generally, Kurosawa and Mifune’s vision of the ronin is one who doesn’t brag, only shows his skills when necessary, and is, for the most part, reserved and quiet, much like their Western counterparts, the Clint Eastwood type cowboys.
The film begins with “Sanjūrō” overhearing nine desperate samurai who are fighting corruption in their village. He ends up advising them, proving his wisdom in predicting the actions of their adversaries. He, of course, is able drive them off singlehandedly. He continues to help them in their mission to rid the village of corruption, including a rescue mission to liberate the lord chamberlain’s wife and daughter. These two women end up to be curious characters indeed, acting somewhat as the conscience of the film, giving Sanjūrō pause, making him think somewhat existentially, pondering his own nature and place in the world. “Killing people is a bad habit,” says the wife (with a mouth full of black teeth, which was considered a standard of beauty at the time). The palace manners displayed by the two women make it frustrating for the ten samurai to enact any kind of covert rescue. They seem detached from reality, as if this is a world of play to match the charade of shogunate etiquette, and not one of brutal violence and real imminent danger. She also tells Sanjūrō that he is a “glittering sword,” but that “the best sword stays in its scabbard,” which becomes a foreshadowing event.
Sanjūrō has ended up to be one of my favorite films from the 60s, story-wise, visually, and through its great use of music. Kurosawa’s choice of shots continued to impress more and more as he matured as a director, leading all the way to his glorious films, Ran and Dreams. Shooting from underneath the cart that Mifune lies on, composing tableaus of the ten samurai, all different, yet all incredibly and meticulously arranged (such as the one above), and the final gusher of blood that comes with the final battle are all prominent examples of Kurosawa’s indelible imagery. The music that plays during the rescue mission is terribly exciting, contrasting with the crazy jazz-pop music that plays during a celebratory scene. The writing is both realistic and superb. One perfect example is Sanjūrō asking the nine samurai, after a foolhardy and premature jump into the fray, “Aren’t you tired of being stupid?” But, other than the gusher of blood scene, this film will probably most be known for the Camellia signal scene, in which the ronin comes up with a clever plan involving sending Camellia flowers down the stream as a provocation to attack. In the end, Sanjūrō is once again on his own, having instilled valuable lessons in the minds of the nine samurai, but with the realization, after a brutal duel, that he is indeed as the woman said, a sword without a scabbard, a naked sword, a man with a violent nature who cannot change.
Harakiri (1962, Masaki Kobayashi)
Harakiri is set at the beginning of the Tokugawa shogunate, specifically in 1630, telling another story of a ronin, a masterless samurai. This tale, however, is perhaps more historically based as the rule of the day was that samurai who lost their masters were supposed to take their own lives. The samurai, named Hanshiro Tsugumo, arrives at the house of a feudal lord in Edo to ask permission to commit the deed at the lord’s house. The lord and his court are dubious of Tsugumo’s intentions as there has been a rash of samurais becoming employed or receiving alms as a result of other feudal lords showing mercy in the face of such requests. As such, the lord decides to tell Tsugumo the story of what happened to Motome Chijiwa, a samurai who had made the same request some three months’ prior. The lord, rather than giving up alms, decides to take the samurai at his word, even cruelly mocking him for having a cheap bamboo sword, then maliciously forcing him to commit the deed with that sword, making it a terribly long, painful, agonizing affair.
It turns out that Tsugumo has a story of his own, revealing that Chijiwa was his friend’s son, who eventually became his own son-in-law when he urged Chijiwa to marry his daughter, Miho. But, the couple was poor, left looking for odd jobs after the fall of the lord’s house. Chijiwa was forced to attempt the gambit of “alms for seppuku,” meeting his end at the hands of this lord and his cadre of samurai. What follows is a masterfully told tale of revenge, with Tsugumo requesting the aid of the samurai who were complicit in Chijiwa’s death to act as his “second,” someone who would put him out of his misery once the act had been carried out. Each samurai he requests ends up being absent, due to “illness,” but in reality, Tsugumo has already humiliated each of them by severing their top-knots. The resulting battle, initiated by the now furious lord, is magnificently choreographed, shot, and acted.
That battle is just one aspect of Harakiri with wonderful cinematography. It is shot mostly with low camera angles mirroring the Japanese tradition of sitting on the floor. Director Masaki Kobayashi also has a way with presenting space, whether in the lord’s courtyard or the inner rooms and hallways of the lord’s house. As such, the story unfolds like a play, limited to certain areas, with most of the action taking place in the same location, but in different times. It is ultimately a story of the hypocrisy of honor, with the lord continually invoking the idea of honor, despite the inanity and uselessness of it, with his greed and violent tendencies the real reason for his acceptance of the samurais’ requests. The lord also spreads the story that his own samurai, who had been humiliated, had died due to illness, therefore showing even more hypocrisy in his concept of honor. I think there is something else here at play in this film, with the brutal imagery of Chijiwa’s slow death and the use of guns by the lord’s men, I think it becomes significant that the revenging Tsugumo is from Hiroshima. In a way, he is also rebelling against changing military technologies, which would eventually result in the horrific bombings, and violence itself, seeking redress for the incredible overreaction to the request from the poor samurai, which would be echoed in the same future bombings. Or, maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I doubt it. As a side note, Harakiri has one of the best opening credit sequences I've ever seen.
The Sword of Doom (1966, Kihachi Okamoto)
While both Sanjūrō and Tsugumo are noble samurai characters, quiet, honorable, and brave, The Sword of Doom presented another type of samurai in Ryunosuke Tsukue, as played by the great Tatsuya Nakadai. Ryu, just to shorten his name for this capsule review, is amoral, emotionless, and cold. We first meet him when he comes across a Buddhist pilgrim and his granddaughter. When she goes off to fetch water, the old man prays for death in order so that she will not have to continue life as a pilgrim. Overhearing his prayer, Ryu kills him without compassion. We later learn that Ryu has an unorthodox and unbeatable sword style, one that is considered abnormally cruel, making his opponents believe he is off guard, and then killing them as they lunge forward. While that may be ingenious, it was certainly not considered an honorable way to fight.
Ryu is challenged to a duel, and before doing so, beds his opponent’s wife in exchange for mercy. The husband learns of this deception, divorces his wife, and decides to cheat in the duel, lunging at Ryu after the judge called a draw. Ryu takes him out with ease, then tells the judge that his killing move was justified, but the townspeople rebel and go after him, again being dispatched with ease. Ryu is run out of town along with the ex-wife. Ryu ends up taking a job as a sort of secret policeman / assassin, is nearly the victim of the widow, who lives with him, and is sought after by the duel victim’s brother, Hyoma. Of course, he has all of this coming to him, but he manages to avoid death, at least for a while. The only time that Ryu starts to doubt himself is when he sees another samurai, played by Toshirō Mifune, who shows skill that surpasses his own.
Everything comes full circle when Hyoma comes to seek his revenge and is aided by a young courtesan who ends up to be the granddaughter from the beginning of the film. Rather than a straightforward duel, however, Ryu becomes haunted by the images of all the people he has mercilessly slain over the years, shot masterfully with the employment of clever shadows and ghostly voices, which causes him to go mad, slashing wildly at the walls of the room. Ryu hears the voice of the samurai played by Mifune, who tells him, “An evil sword marks an evil soul.” Real opponents begin to join the apparitions and we then see one of the famous and most captivating samurai battles in cinematic history. This seven-minute scene is breathtaking, with the samurai fighting from room to room, while the geisha house burns around them. The film ends in mid-action, and thus we are not sure what happens to Ryu, but we know it can’t come to any good end. After all, he is an evil sword, thus an evil soul, and the title is Sword of Doom, so it’s not going to end with lollipops and sunshine. Although, originally, this was supposed to be the first film in a trilogy, following the historical novel by Kaizan Nakazato, so I could be wrong. Either way, this is one great film.
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