The massive popular and commercial success of Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo and Sanjuro kicked off a new burst of interest in samurai films in the early 1960s. The venerable chanbara genre that had elevated Kurosawa to international fame a decade earlier, after Rashomon and Seven Samurai caught the attention of critics and audiences around the world, was now revitalized and attracting some of Japan's most ambitious young directors. Among them was Masaki Kobayashi, fresh off a four-year project of adapting The Human Condition, a best-selling novel of one man's experience in the Pacific War, into a trilogy. The nine-hour magnum opus launched both Kobayashi and lead actor Tatsuya Nakadai into the stratosphere of their respective professions within Japanese cinema, nearly a decade after they first worked together in 1953's The Thick-Walled Room. Nakadai's freshly emerging star power helped him land a crucial role as the villain playing opposite the definitive samurai protagonist of his generation, Toshiro Mifune, in both Yojimbo and Sanjuro (though he played different characters in each film.) The significance of that Mifune/Nakadai tandem is underscored in retrospect by the fact that Mifune's collaborative partnership with Kurosawa was nearing its end, with Nakadai on course to becoming Kurosawa's new leading man many years later in Kagemusha (1980) and Ran (1985).
Between The Human Condition and the release of Harakiri in 1962, Kobayashi and Nakadai worked together on a film called The Inheritance. Apparently it's a minor detective drama in which Nakadai plays a small supporting role; I couldn't find much of anything written about it, so I'll just assume that it was done to pay the bills or fulfill some other obligation. Setting it aside then, it's proper to consider Harakiri as both Kobayashi's rightful artistic successor to The Human Condition and Nakadai's rightful challenge, if not undisputed claim, to Mifune's status as the premier samurai cinema superstar of that era. The subversive path each of them follow in making their respective statements is what fascinates me today as I reflect on Harakiri, beyond the sheer sense of awe that this brilliantly constructed and dramatically gripping film continues to inspire even after watching it several times through over the years and again this past week.
Nakadai's back-to-the-camera entrance, as the displaced ronin Hanshiro Tsugumo, mimics Mifune's similar arrival at the beginning of Yojimbo as they each approach their respective destinations. But whereas Mifune's nameless character wanders into a shabby derelict settlement out on the fringes of nowhere, Tsugumo finds himself standing before the very embodiment of power in Tokugawa-era Japan - a magnificent, well-guarded gate that serves as his and our point of entry to a fastidiously appointed labyrinth inside the massive fortress occupied by the Iyi clan, warlords in good standing, agents and enforcers of imperial discipline. Jangling dissonant music accompanies us on our journey through imposing corridors, stark and solemn in their inviolable stillness. The brief trek into the heart of this complex leads to an ominous encounter with a ferocious, demonic suit of armor, propped up in martial pose, erect and overbearing in asserting its silent decree that the rigid codes of honor and punishment it represents be maintained, regardless of the costs imposed on individuals or communities who run afoul of its strict edicts.
Tsugumo has taken it upon himself to make this unsolicited visit simply to ask permission to kill himself. Of course, suicide is an act that can be carried out anywhere, at any time, but for a warrior trained up in the samurai tradition, this profound act of culmination must be performed with the same attention to detail and dignified sense of purpose that pervades most every other deed in the life that preceded it. The ritual of harakiri, or more formally, seppuku, involves the ceremonial - but dreadfully real - procedure of slicing open one's abdomen with the samurai's short blade, while attendants look on and a chosen swordsman stands by ready to behead the man at the center of everyone's attention, to put him out of his misery after demonstrating his ultimate fidelity to the bushido ethos. So it's important that the setting, the participants and the ceremonial build-up must all be just right.
We quickly learn, however, that things are not at all just right, though it takes nearly the full length of the film for us to understand just how wrong this state of affairs has actually become. To viewers well-informed in regard to Japanese history, the dysfunctional status quo comes as quite a surprise. Harakiri takes place in 1630, a few decades into the Edo period (1600 - 1848) in which most of the great samurai epics take place. The date is important, because it signifies a time when the shogunate was in full power and functioning at its peak - a "golden age" of sorts, before cynicism and decrepitude had settled in to dilute the purest realization of samurai values. Or so it seems. Kobayashi's decision to set this story in that particular year would be like a contemporary American director situating a tale of government corruption and exploitation in the USA's post-Revolutionary "Founding Fathers" era: a pointedly provocative act aimed at challenging the revered conventional wisdom by asserting that all was not as wonderful as we've been taught back in the good old days.
Just as important as the time and setting of the story is the masterful, indirect manner in which Kobayashi and screenwriter Shinobu Hashimoto gradually reveal its key twists and plot threads. A quick glance at Hashimoto's credits fills me with a measure of regret and humiliation that I have yet to give him anything close to adequate praise for his accomplishments. Rashomon, another masterpiece of non-linear narrative (indeed, a milestone and universal point of reference for that style) was his first screenplay! And a few other highlights follow, collaborations with Kurosawa, mainly: Ikiru. Seven Samurai. I Live in Fear. Throne of Blood. The Hidden Fortress. The Bad Sleep Well. Several joint efforts with Mikio Naruse and others as well. Samurai Rebellion and Sword of Doom were yet to come in a career that last well into the early 1980s. Who knows what other brilliant scripts flowed from his pen in these years? I'm just going by what's available via Criterion...
First time viewers of Harakiri are led into a claustrophobic, stomach-churning trap as we learn, along with Tsugumo, the miserable fate of Motome Chijiiwa, a previous ronin visitor who asked the Iyi clan for similar permission to hold his harakiri ceremony in their forecourt. Chijiiwa's motives become exposed as more mercenary than honorable - his quest for proper decorum is not sincere. Instead, he's acting on a tip, after hearing stories of ronin who share their sad stories with the heads of more prosperous households and gladly accept some money or a wretched assignment of drudge work in the lowest ranks of the clan's retainers as a way of sending the pesky would-be suicide on his way. Senior counselor Saito, with whom both Tsugumo and Chijiiwa negotiate for the opportunity to perform sepukku under his auspices, had decided to hold the earlier visitor to his stated intention of disemboweling himself when the time came to do so. Judging by Chijiiwa's reaction to Saito's insistence, it becomes horribly clear that the young man had some different outcome in mind.
But it's not just Chijiiwa's appalling predicament that leaves such a devastating impact. The stern, inescapable, relentless pressure with which bushido logic pushes him into that no-way-out circumstance falls methodically into place with each question asked, each reply given. Chijiiwa, at first relieved and honored to be granted not only an audience with the counselor but also a gift of fine new robes, comes to grips with the reality that he will never set foot outside of that house, and that his death will be of the most agonizing sort as he's forced to use a dull bamboo blade that "wouldn't cut tofu" as his instrument, since he committed the unpardonable sin of selling his swords and replacing them with cheap imitations some time in the past. Saito relates all these sad events dispassionately, with the mildest inflection of regret in his telling, not at his decisions, but at the folly of a young samurai who clearly should have known better than to trifle with the severe consequences of dishonoring his sacred instruction. Saito's purpose is to dissuade Tsugumo of pressing his request any further - basically telling him, this is no place to come looking for a handout under the ruse of threatening harakiri, for we are ready to hold you to your word.
Tsugumo is hardly discouraged by this veiled warning. Indeed, the account only seems to harden his resolve, though again Kobayashi takes his time in fleshing out the reasons why. The ronin assures Saito that there is no wavering in his commitment, and no cowardly hesitation will slow his hand when the fateful moment arrives. Tsugumo simply wants to return the favor that Saito granted him, of telling a story of recent events that will give the counselor some food for thought, even to the point of questioning his own proposed course of action.
The circumstances that caused Tsugumo to embark on his journey to the Soto Sakurada fortress are truly heart-breaking and pathetic, but for the sake of those who haven't seen Harakiri yet, I'll say no more about them, since those who have seen the film almost certainly remember the tragedies that befell him anyway. So there's nothing to be gained by me spelling them out here. Instead, I'll shift my attention to extol Kobayashi's peerless efficiency in drawing viewers into the snare and riveting our attention even as we feel the iron bars of an irresolvable dilemma snap into place around us. The visual compositions are immaculately arranged, a steady succession of precisely stationed elements - faces, weapons, architectural lines and human bodies all positioned in stark, weighty, meaningful equipoise. Beyond the visuals, his moral-ethical constructions are especially disturbing to those who hold samurai discipline and valor in high esteem, because Kobayashi clearly intends to reveal without flinching the cruel dehumanization that occurs when bushido values are pressed to their logical conclusions. Harakiri presents its case almost like a courtroom procedure, in this case allowing the defense (samurai tradition) to make its argument, seemingly unaware that it's that tradition itself that's on trial, having become so accustomed to having the upper hand of authority in all circumstances. Tsugumo, the all-but-powerless voice of dissent, gets to have the last word in rebutting the evidence that Saito puts forth as to why the House of Iyi was right to act as they did. In this career-defining performance, Nakadai is utterly perfect for the role, delivering his lines with deep conviction and a sonic gravity that conveys deep truth, even for non-Japanese speakers who nevertheless recognize the authority of his vocal inflections. Even as a rebel and a mocker of cherished samurai discipline, he demonstrates inspirational courage and skill, exercising his superiority in wit and intelligence as well as in the technical discipline of sword-fighting (even if it's just movie sword play) when it gets down to the business of man-to-man, hand-to-hand combat.
And don't worry too much about spoilers, if you haven't seen Harakiri yet... these clips mostly show off some incredible sword fights, that are even more awesome once you see them in the context of the film (preferably on the new blu-ray transfer that Criterion released last year.) But they don't give away key plot points - especially with the (Hungarian?) subtitles!
Next: La commare secca