Whether Akira Kurosawa, through his brilliantly conceived anti-hero Sanjuro, is quoting some wise old Japanese proverb or simply stating one of the fundamental precepts of both team sports and cinema doesn't really matter. The thought applies equally well to both the situation that our wandering samurai friend was describing to his new acquaintances at the beginning of this 1962 classic, and to those of us sitting happily in the audience watching and re-watching Kurosawa's casually tossed together action-adventure masterpiece. The actors who helped create the images we enjoy on screen certainly had access to views that we'll never be privileged to behold, but it wasn't until the spectacle was captured so indelibly in riveting widescreen compositions that it become clear just how perfectly the production was executed. Hastily revamped from an old script that Kurosawa has begun working on some years earlier, Sanjuro serves as demonstrable proof that a brazen studio cash-in on an unexpected hit doesn't necessarily entail a compromise of aesthetic values, nor does it justify the practice of resorting to pale imitations and blandly predictable formulas that we've sadly come to expect in our sequel-saturated cinematic era. Sanjuro, the follow-up to Yojimbo released a mere eight months earlier - think of that! - is a monument to Kurosawa's greatness for how adroitly he and his team brought the project together, almost as if on a whim, justly earning its lasting reputation for the exciting story it tells and the vivid impression it leaves in our memory.
Breaking Kurosawa's longstanding pattern of alternating films based in Japan's feudal past with stories set in the contemporary era, Sanjuro derives its title from the name of its lead character rather than his occupation (yojimbo is the Japanese word for bodyguard.) Toshiro Mifune had collaborated for well over a decade with Kurosawa, creating some of the most powerful on-screen personas of that era, even though it was his "costume" roles - like Rashomon, Seven Samurai, Throne of Blood, The Hidden Fortress - that earned the most universal acclaim. By the time Mifune took on the role of a shrewd, self-serving ronin who gruffly disregards the finer points of samurai etiquette, he was himself starting to show signs of aging: creases in his face, a huskier physique, a jaded wariness in his expression as he stroked his stubbly chin in contemplation of his next strategem. He uses these by-products of worldly experience and the movie star life he enjoyed to great effect, making such a powerful impact as Sanjuro in the two films that they've now become the role he's most likely to be identified with above all the others, if a choice has to be made.
The ingenuity and lasting charm of the character, especially in this film, is established in a simple concept that is replicated and steadily explored throughout. Sanjuro is the skeptical realist who grudgingly intervenes to help a band of naive, well-intentioned young men he's taken a liking to. His crusty mannerisms and wizened cynicism stand in stark contrast to the rigid conformity and foolish presumptions that the samurai have been seemingly been born and bred for. Through the audience's identification with the charismatic rogue, who's constantly letting all his exasperation hang out through a litany of yawns, stretches, grunts, scratches and sighs, we're perpetually entertained by a vicarious adoption of Sanjuro's seemingly reckless but ruthlessly intelligent rebellion, first against the petty customs of the samurai court, and later his rejection of the easy exploitation and graft that fuel the bad guys' criminal enterprise. A good example of Sanjuro's disdain of the former is when he slams the door in the face on Iori, the young samurai leader about to barge out of the house on a heroic quest for vengeance, abruptly and hilariously deflating the grandeur of the moment by muttering, "Aren't you tired of being stupid yet?" And to refute the criminal class that Kurosawa himself despised so much, Sanjuro reaches a pinnacle of ecstatic brutality in the scene where he effortlessly manipulates a few of his rivals into abandoning their stronghold in pursuit of phantom adversaries, only to slash those who remain behind with merciless efficiency.
These and other plot contrivances, too detailed and ultimately trivial to bother recapping here, merge together almost seamlessly to set up a mounting series of tense dilemmas where the plans of Sanjuro and his accomplices teeter on the brink of premature discovery and swift retaliation from the corrupt lord Kikui and his henchman Hanbei, who despite his self-proclaimed rottenness is every bit Sanjuro's worthy foe when it comes to swordsmanship and commanding presence. Hanbei is played by Tatsuya Nakadai, whose star was nearing its apex at this time. Between his breakout performance in the three parts of The Human Condition and subsequent work with Kobayashi in Harakiri later in 1962, Nakadai completed his first pair of films with Kurosawa in a collaboration that would continue for another two decades. In Sanjuro, he reprised his casting as lead villain from Yojimbo (delivering memorable final scene death spasms inflicted by Sanjuro's sword both times) and provided the crucial counterweight to Mifune. Even though Nakadai's magnetism isn't nearly as celebrated as Mifune's by most reviewers, I think he's superb here, injecting subdued malevolence and smug self-satisfaction into Hanbei's thuggish ambition.
For some viewers and critics, Sanjuro's reputation may suffer a bit as a result of it being a sequel, shorter, less serious in tone and more breezily paced. But it's not lacking for enthusiastic advocates willing to bring attention to its distinctive strengths, even among the full Kurosawa canon. In my review of Yojimbo, I declared it to be the ideal introduction to AK, and while my view hasn't changed (it doesn't make sense to watch Sanjuro first if given the option), I think the follow-up might be the one I'm likely to rewatch more often, just because it's so much easier to digest and packs in the laughs more readily.
Pushed into popular culture right around the same time that the James Bond franchise was establishing itself for a lucrative run that lasted in its original incarnation throughout the 1960s and still continues five decades later, Sanjuro was a character ripe for the exploitation, if his creator had been of a mind to do so. I admire Kurosawa's restless creativity that always pushed him into new territory, though the effort to avoid coasting cost him dearly in the years to come. One sad anecdote that stuck with me from the commentary track notes how Kurosawa was frustrated at being ostracized by most of the younger directors of the Japanese New Wave, who saw him as part of the older generation they were eager to distinguish themselves from. Kurosawa wanted to be more of a mentor figure within that scene, but apparently his patronage wasn't welcome. Still, he refused to lapse into a paycheck driven formula, despite the obvious opportunity and his demonstrable ability to craft a film on short order that entertained the masses and stood the test of time.
Even though the series stopped here, eight years later Mifune turned in one more performance as "a" yojimbo, even if he's not exactly the same character as we see in these two films. It was part of another long-running series, Zatoichi the Blind Swordsman, that probably owes its origins and financing at least in part to the popularity of Yojimbo and Sanjuro. I've just started watching the Zatoichi films on Criterion's Hulu Plus channel, and my plan is to weave them in for diversion as I proceed through my Criterion Chronology on this blog. I won't review them here, but I was pretty impressed by the quality of what I saw in that first film, released later in 1962. I was actually expecting something more comedic and lightweight, along the lines of Sanjuro's more frivolous moments, with some kick-ass swordplay thrown in to ramp up the excitement. What I saw was more solemn and thoughtful, and also more visually polished than anticipated. The Tale of Zatoichi's mood picks up right where Sanjuro left off, after the chuckles subside in the aftermath of a famously bloody and nearly despairing coda.
Despite the awe-inspiring power and discipline that these two sword-wielding samurai hit men display, and setting aside the exhilarating rush that viewers feel at the sight of their deadly techniques, both films take measures to remind us (if we're paying attention) that killing is a nasty business, not to be taken lightly and rarely if ever justifiable as the best way to take care of life's problems. Sanjuro's lesson, which Kurosawa and Mifune draw us into by way of the flashy theatrics and visceral prowess that takes place both on screen and behind the camera, is that peace and patience are the wiser and nobler path that we often dislodge ourselves from through hastily acting upon foolish impulses. Or as it's so eloquently stated a few times in the film, "the best sword remains in its sheath."
Next: Jules and Jim