Sanshiro Sugata (1943)
Kurosawa’s debut follows the titular martial artist as he becomes embroiled in an 1883 stylistic fight between the traditional jujutsu style and the newer Judo school, each intent on proving itself to secure a contract to train city police. The film is not so much about the plot as it is Sugata’s growth, both in terms of his Judo skills and his respect for human life. Structurally, it’s more or less a simple sports fighting tournament film, but Kurosawa’s touches – particularly his kinetic camera – make it better than the sum of its parts. I don’t know if this film is truly interested in having an overt villain, but perhaps thanks to Japanese government involvement, it got one, and he’s all decked out in Western attire. It’s heavy-handed propaganda, but at least Kurosawa drops the final showdown into a beautiful field with deafening wind – it’s a killer finale that hints at much of his future work. Is Sanshiro Sugata essential? No, but thanks to Japanese censors deciding it was too “British-American”, 18 minutes were cut, leaving a 79 minute film that doesn’t come close to overstaying its welcome. Watchlist-worthy!
– Brent
Recommended reading:
David Bordwell on the film and Kurosawa’s use of axial cuts
2021 review from Grant Watson, Fiction Machine
2022 essay by Andrea Grunert, The Big Picture Magazine
The Most Beautiful (1944)
For a propaganda film that begins with a title card declaring “Attack and Destroy the Enemy!”, this is surprisingly gentle. Focusing on Japanese women working in a wartime precision optics factory, Kurosawa’s docudrama was shot on location, with the cast living and working together in order to establish a believable camaraderie. The film delivers its propaganda message effectively (and more gracefully than his next film) because, despite the title card, it’s a call for citizens to do their wartime duty rather than any kind of xenophobic entry in a culture war. Equally impressive is, despite the clear national message, the way Kurosawa manages to capture the futility and pervasive sadness that accompanies obsessive work. As a character misses her own mother’s funeral in order to search all night to find a single missing optic piece, you can’t really believe that this sort of devotion is making any sort of impact in a war the Japanese were already losing. Being able to see both the fruit and the consequence of the girls’ patriotism makes this thematically interesting where the plot itself winds up a bit dull. Skippable, but probably on the high end when it comes to propaganda films.
Sanshiro Sugata Part Two (1945)
Uninspired, phoned-in sequels aren’t just a modern Hollywood problem! This isn’t a further exploration of the titular Judo master as much as it is a work of unmasked propaganda, a government-induced commercial for Japanese values, or more pointedly, against Western values. Kurosawa has admitted he had no interest in this film, an unnecessary confession upon viewing, as that fact is obvious throughout. From using contemporary US Naval uniforms in a story set in 1887, to cartoonish depictions of the brutality of boxing matches, this is a nakedly political statement in a culture war, and don’t mistake it as one by the director. Essentially forced to make the film, Kurosawa seemingly intentionally holds up a funhouse mirror to his solid debut, distorting all the plot elements just enough to be an obvious, artless rehash. Still, he can’t fully help himself when a camera rolls, as there’s at least one visually arresting moment: two silhouettes, displaying opposing martial art styles, facing off on a snowy hillside. There’s no real drama tied to the image, but it is the rare moment that makes you sit up and realize Kurosawa’s refuse still looks better than anyone else’s. Despite that, skip it.
Those Who Make Tomorrow (1946)
No Regrets for Our Youth (1946)
Perhaps Kurosawa’s most unfairly overlooked film, No Regrets for Our Youth is a fascinating character study that spends its first act masquerading as a film of political statement. The politics are certainly there – it follows 12 years in the lives of a university professor fired for being too left-wing during the rise of Japanese fascism, two of his students – one ideologically militant and the other more moderate, and his daughter – but the film doesn’t focus on the political tension in and around the three men. Instead, it focuses on the way the daughter is shaped by these political fires, her growth as she evolves from flighty, mercurial schoolgirl to something more hardened. She sees and experiences life, and the experience turns out to be more difficult than she dreamed. Using this character as a metaphor for post-war Japan adds depth, and despite its rather bleak plot, the powerful performance from the legendary Setsuko Hara, along with Kurosawa’s editing, keeps this digestible despite its content. The momentum drags a bit in the middle act, but this remains a major step forward for the director, significantly improving his character exploration from Sanshiro Sugata and making it about something much bigger. Donald Richie called this film perfect, and while I won’t go that far, it’s very good and deserves a higher place in AK’s pantheon than it typically receives.
One Wonderful Sunday (1947)
Probably the Kurosawa film where mileage is most likely to vary, mostly due to the ending. I adore the optimism of the first act, get a little beaten down by the overbearing misery of the second, and… don’t quite know what to make of the third. On the one hand, it’s earnest as it can be, but it’s also excessively corny. Ultimately One Wonderful Sunday is a mixed bag for me. The performances are solid, the film’s conceit (two romantic partners try to enjoy a day on just 35 yen) is a strong one, and Kurosawa’s camera takes a big step forward here. I still just don’t quite fully connect to the melodrama and the trick of the finale. Only for those who enjoy a little schmaltz.
Drunken Angel (1948)
By this point, Kurosawa had already proven adept at getting compelling performances from his actors. This was always the case, but No Regrets for Our Youth and One Wonderful Sunday stood out (as well does 1945’s The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail, but that was not yet released) as steps forward for his performers. He had already learned to routinely rely on the great Takashi Shimura, who appeared memorably as jujutsu master (Sanshiro Sugata), benevolent boss (The Most Beautiful), and torturous policeman (No Regrets for Our Youth), but Kurosawa was missing something to pair with Shimura’s steady, relaxed presence. Enter Toshiro Mifune, playing self-destructive gangster Matsunaga. It’s a thunderstorming performance -as many Mifune performances would be – and his raging pathos makes Drunken Angel tick. Matsunaga, seeing Dr. Sanada (Shimura) for a hand injury, gets a surprise tuberculosis diagnosis. From there, the film really is just the two playing off each other, relying almost solely on the tension between a disapproving doctor driven by duty but exhausted by his disgust over local crime and his patient, an angry young man who struts and shuns treatment, yet fears his diagnosis not so much because it threatens his life, but that it threatens his chances of ever doing anything more. Both are trapped by the stagnation of their lives, represented by a literally stagnating sump, around which their town (or section of town) is situated. It’s there in the background, just reeking, lurking, like an ominous cloud that refuses to rain or move along. It just absorbs all the town’s rotting vegetables, loose garbage, and hope. While Drunken Angel is a pretty simple film about clashing symbols, it’s an effective one with two brilliantly played title characters.
The Quiet Duel (1949)
A wartime doctor (Toshiro Mifune), due to a mishap in the OR, contracts syphilis. When he returns home he decides to cut things off with his fiancee rather than ask her to wait any more for him, but he refuses to tell her why. The former act is one of decency and compassion, the latter of cowardice and shame. The shame would hit a bit harder if he had contracted the disease through the traditional manner, but apparently the censorship office wouldn’t have it. So we’re left with a straightforward drama. Why does it exist? Perhaps to say something about post-war Japan and the way the war’s scars make the nation slow to let itself move forward. But, mostly, this exists as an acting showcase for Mifune, churned out quickly after his arrival in Drunken Angel. It stands as a reminder that an acting showcase doesn’t really do much if it isn’t in service of something meaningful, and aside from the opening shots, which have some visual charisma to them, there’s nothing meaningful or interesting Kurosawa is doing here. Unless you’re a Kurosawa, Mifune, or Shimura completionist, skip it.
Stray Dog (1949)
Structurally, Stray Dog is a police procedural, and a damn fine one, as detective Murakami (Mifune) searches for the gun pickpocketed from him on a bus, at a time when guns were not ubiquitous. However, Stray Dog has much more it wants us to look at while we watch Murakami’s search for his sidearm. Murakami heaps an enormous amount of guilt on himself as he discovers the gun has been used for an escalating series of crimes – and the seven bullets in the gun at the time of its theft act as a ticking clock to pace and heighten the tension. Sato (Shimura), the more seasoned detective he is paired with, wisely points out that there’s more nuance to this equation; while Murakami sees this as a specific trail to prevent future crimes, Sato knows that this pursuit is a small, albeit still necessary, part of a much larger effort, a pebble in the dam. Kurosawa makes the thief interesting as well, a veteran disgraced upon his return home from the war, resorting to a criminal life to get by. Kurosawa ultimately lets us see the fine line between criminal and cop, and we can see the societal impact upon both. However, while showing us society’s impact, he doesn’t let the criminal off the hook, and Stray Dog drives home the point that, similar as we may be, we are ultimately separated by the decisions we make, and the decisions we make are the decisions that make us. Thematically complex, the film explores guilt and morality in the wake of WWII, is not coincidentally set in the most sweat-soaked heat wave ever put to film, and manages to entertain with a labyrinthine police search all the while. This is essential Kurosawa.
Scandal (1950)
An uneven film that serves as something of a test run for Ikiru, with some similar scenes and a similarly strong performance from Takashi Shimura. Despite his good work here, and an at-times compelling courtroom drama taking place in the latter half, it’s a bit too disjointed for me. The opening act feels like the beginning of a romance – an artist meets a paparazzi-swamped singer and innocuously gives her a ride to her hotel. From there, a cartoonishly vicious magazine creates a story about a whirlwind romance where there isn’t one, and so the pair decide to sue. Again, it feels as if, through this court case, the evil paparazzi may ultimately create a romance where there was actually none. But instead, Scandal pivots and begins to focus almost entirely on their lawyer. It’s just bizarre enough of a turn to be interesting, and Shimura’s presence as the lawyer helps. But it’s just so out of left field, and as interesting a choice as it is, it leaves you feeling like the first half of this film was quite a waste of time. Then Scandal becomes a fairly simple moral dilemma film, and if you’ve seen a Kurosawa film, where heroes must become willing to lose everything in order to realize their heroism, you know how it ends. If you’re a Shimura fan, this could be worth your time, but otherwise it’s too all over the place to recommend.
Rashomon (1950)
What new can be said about one of the most written about and discussed films of all time? In one sense one of Kurosawa’s simplest films, where a story of a woman’s rape and her husband’s death is recounted by several witnesses; in another, his most complex, as the stories refuse to fully reconcile, and some accounts are second-hand. Rashomon‘s plot is a Rorschach test. See in it what you will, and the viewer can certainly try on their own to piece together what they think really happened. Rashomon is a jigsaw puzzle where we’re never shown the picture on the box and we’re given just a fraction of the pieces. So, perhaps, the point isn’t to put it together at all, but to understand the impossibility and futility of trying at all. Instead of viewers being able to discover the truth, Rashomon is more about understanding that the truth of this story – or any truth, perhaps – is relative, and relatively unknowable. Are characters lying to each other, or lying to us, or might they even be lying to themselves? Everything’s on the table, and Rashomon‘s willingness to leave it there and let viewers investigate and analyze on their own is what makes it a masterpiece. Highly recommended.
The Idiot (1951)
Kurosawa’s adaptation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1869 novel is faithful, but perhaps so much so it doesn’t really have the charm of feeling Kurosawa’s imprint. Oh, he has his frequent collaborators on screen, and there are hallmarks of his cinema there as well, from his framing to his wipes (although the wipes come close to being comically overused during the party scene), but these just don’t feel at all like Kurosawa’s characters, because they never truly are. As such, we’re left with the solitary power of the novel, and as such it’s a decently entertaining story. However, I struggled to connect with the characters, particularly the almost always dazzling Setsuko Hara as Taeko. I’m probably more favorable if this clocks in with a more efficient running time, but at 166 minutes, it’s a bit of a slog. Probably worth checking out if you’re familiar with or a fan of Dostoevsky’s novel, but otherwise not essential Kurosawa.
Note: I’m lower on The Idiot than the crowd. Letterboxd users score it a healthy 3.56, and the retroactive Rotten Tomatoes scores are pretty solid. Perhaps mileage varies, and you might get more out of this than I did. With that in mind, this Letterboxd review from Jake Cole (Slant Magazine) makes a more compelling case to check it out.
The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail (1952)
Kurosawa’s 4th feature was filmed in 1945, but sat unreleased because American censors believed the picture was too loving of Japanese feudal history. I don’t know about all that, but I could see this being one of Kurosawa’s more polarizing films. Designed to accommodate Toho Studios’ budgetary issues at the conclusion of the war, Tiger’s Tail is a simple dramatization of a real 12th century event, adapted from perhaps the most famous Noh and kabuki plays in Japanese tradition.
After a major military victory, Yoritomo has become Japan’s first Shogun. In a paranoic effort to consolidate power and protect his own reign, he instructs his armies to arrest his brother Yoshitsune, the chief hero of the military campaign. Trying to flee to a safe region, Yoshitsune tasks the legendary warrior Benkei, five trusted samurai, and one stray porter they pick up on the forest path, to help him across the border. Disguised as monks, they must convince Togashi, a barrier post captain, to let them pass. This creates a naturally thrilling game of verbal cat and mouse, as they are politely interrogated by a force that vastly outnumbers them. They are the men in the titular metaphor, just one wrong step away from what would likely be imminent death. Where mileage may vary comes down to how you feel about the porter, the only character created for this film. Played by the wildly popular Japanese comedian Enoken, the porter is an over the top comic relief, a character who demonstrably frets over every near-discovery the opposing force makes as to their identity. Some may find him endearing, a character that sells the tension by so visibly feeling it, perhaps necessary because the samurai are too cool to ever let any anguish show. It’s also easy to see Enoken as simply too annoying for the film’s own good, a proto-Jar-Jar Binks whose constant social goofiness is out of place among characters and situation so serious. Regardless of how I feel about the porter, I enjoy the back and forth between Benkei and Togashi, the way Kurosawa shows us subtle moments of realization, intrigue, and respect. Both have their rigid ideas of responsibility and honor tested, and their reactions to that test are surprising and interesting. Between that character work, the easy plot, and the digestible 59 minute runtime, it’s watchlist-worthy, if only slightly.
Ikiru (1952)
Takashi Shimura, in perhaps his greatest performance, plays Watanabe, a man who discovers he is dying from stomach cancer and has around six months to live. This news serves as a lightning bolt of psychological disruption in Watanabe’s life; he has spent nearly 30 years at a desk in the Public Works department, but in a bureaucratic system that suffers from every department transferring requests to the next down the line until it circles back again, he understands his work never truly served the public. Ikiru is less interested in what this means for the public – though there is a fantastic montage illustrating this governmental gridlock – and more interested in what this realization means for Watanabe. His adult life has been wasted, and with little time to go, he desperately grasps for some kind of final understanding of what life means. It’s a beautiful journey, and one that’s open to existential interpretation. Regardless of that interpretation, Ikiru is an unmistakably powerful meditation on what it means to live (Ikiru translates as “to live”). It’s good-natured, anchored by an all-time great performance from Shimura, and told in a structurally inventive manner, almost in two distinct halves. One of Kurosawa’s greatest masterpieces, it cannot be missed.
Seven Samurai (1954)
Selling Seven Samurai to film fans is a bit like selling water to the thirsty – they should already know they need to watch one of the best films ever made, and there’s not much I can do to further the point. I could extol its virtues, many of which might surprise on the first watch. I could discuss how it’s funnier than you’d expect, or the thematic depth to the mission, or how it’s immaculately paced for a nearly 3 1/2 hour film. I could focus on Toshiro Mifune’s alchemic performance, which manages to somehow be both wildly over the top (which is good) but also layered and nuanced, with quiet sadness bubbling underneath (which is even better). Or how it’s one of the best edited films in history, the single greatest example of Kurosawa’s mastery of direction and storytelling. But really, the best reason to watch Seven Samurai is that it’s one of the most entertaining films ever made. All Kurosawa set out to make was an entertaining picture, and though it artistically becomes so much more along the way, it never betrays that original purpose. A direct ancestor to the modern blockbuster, there’s an argument that this is the original popcorn movie. It also may very well be the best.
Record of a Living Being (1955) (aka: I Live in Fear)
Operation Castle detonated the first dry-fuel thermonuclear bomb, with a blast yield 1,000 times more powerful than Fat Man or Little Boy, at Bikini Atoll on March 1, 1954. With the world ramping up nuclear proliferation, Japan was understandably set on edge. Record of a Living Being is a direct response to that quickly growing fear. An elderly patriarch (Toshiro Mifune at his most chameleonic yet) becomes obsessed with escaping what he believes to be an inevitable atomic death, so he tries to convince his extensive family to move to Brazil, spending recklessly along the way. Certain that his actions will bring about financial ruin, the family in turn asks the local court to declare him incompetent. The story meanders a bit, never quite capturing me, but it’s hard to deny that it drives home its thematic aim. As one character explicitly asks at one point, who is truly the incompetent or insane one, the man who obsesses over escaping a world arming itself to the gills with nuclear warheads, or the one who doesn’t? It’s on the nose, and the film doesn’t really come together as perfectly as most of Kurosawa’s others of the era – it also suffers a bit for coming out so close to Godzilla, a film which confronts these fears in a more interesting manner. As such, it’s not one to strongly recommend. However, Mifune is never bad, and unlike Kurosawa himself, I rather like the ending.
Throne of Blood (1957)
Jidaigeki Macbeth. Predictably, it rules.
I could go into the stunning production, or the incredible ghostly effects, or Mifune’s virtuosic performance, but really, if Kurosawa adapting Macbeth into a Noh-style period film doesn’t sell you, nothing will. Maybe a hair behind his Rushmore films in terms of how essential it is to his filmography, but only because so much of its power is shared with Shakespeare. If it isn’t absolutely essential Kurosawa (though it’s awfully close), it is absolutely essential Mifune, making it a must-see.
The Lower Depths (1957)
Another foray into adapting Russian literature, this time a very straightforward adaptation of the Maxim Gorky play of the same name. The performances are all very fine; Mifune’s has been called his greatest, though that’s a tough sell for me. The menagerie of characters are interesting, and it seems like a nice introduction to the source material. It’s certainly not a bad picture. However, Kurosawa remains so deferent to his material, he winds up injecting so little of himself into it, and it ultimately doesn’t fully feel like a Kurosawa film. This only seems to happen with Russian literature, whereas with something like The Throne of Blood, he truly makes MacBeth his own. Recommended for completionists and Gorky-stans.
The Hidden Fortress (1958)
Among Kurosawa’s films, The Hidden Fortress stands as an outlier in that it probably isn’t served properly by its reputation. It’s no secret that the film was a heavy inspiration for George Lucas’ Star Wars, and resultingly this is a modern entry point into not just Kurosawa but jidaigeki films at large. And yet, the film is better than mere entry point, more than a footnote on influence.
That’s not to say The Hidden Fortress is a terribly deep film. It certainly has things to say – namely using the mercurial partnership of the farmers as a metaphor for Civil War, as well as the princess’s recitation of the song about making the most out of your life – but it doesn’t let the themes get in the way of the adventure. Where this film shines is in that adventure; this is probably Kurosawa’s most accessible and entertainment-focused picture, and it’s excellent in that regard. We mostly follow two bumbling and comically greedy farmers in their journey through the aftermath of a civil war. They find gold that belonged to the defeated clan, and then unknowingly team up with the chief general of that same defeated clan, who is smuggling his princess into safe territory. There are thrills along the way, highlighted by a horse chase that culminates in a tense spear duel, an epic fire festival, and a riveting climax. On top of that, it’s a very funny film. It’s understandable that this doesn’t stand on the same footing as the etched-in-stone classics, Kurosawa’s absolute best, but if you’ve skipped this because you heard it’s just a template for Artoo and Threepio, check it out. This is a good time at the movies.
Side note on the Star Wars: I would argue that, for as much as you hear about the lines drawn from the farmers to the droids – and the parallel is obvious, no doubt – the influence is just as notable in both the cinematography, where Lucas borrows angles of rocky slopes for Tatooine, and more notably, the music, which John Williams evokes with his desert scores. Anyway, enough on that; this movie is good enough on its own.
The Bad Sleep Well (1960)
Another Kurosawa take on The Bard, this time with a story more “inspired by” than a direct adaptation, as the revenge tale of Hamlet is brought to the modern and highly corrupt business world (a social issue that Kurosawa touches on but doesn’t fully commit to). It starts off spectacularly, with an instantly captivating wedding reception. As our main character works through his intricate plan of revenge, there’s another brilliant scene where he lets a character attend his own funeral, juxtaposing the image of those responsible for his would-be demise giving condolences to his family with secretly obtained audio of them nonchalantly writing his life off like a business expense before moving on to another topic. It’s all very effective, Dumas-like in how our hero coolly exacts his plot… Right up until the point where the evil bosses figure out who’s responsible for the string-pulling. The Bad Sleep Well loses a bit of steam after that, and it ends with a touch of extra melodrama that doesn’t quite match its noir-ish start. Still, it’s a plenty worthwhile watch and widely beloved for good reason.
Yojimbo (1961)
A consistently entertaining action comedy, Yojimbo tells the story of a nameless samurai who wanders into a town plagued by warring, powerful gangs. Knowing he’ll be asked to join one or the other, Sanjuro (our hero’s quickly chosen alias) decides that neither side deserves victory and thus sets in motion a plan to lead both directly down a path to mutual self-destruction. Sanjuro (Toshiro Mifune, naturally) is as entertained by his string-pulling as we are, and in one memorable scene literally takes a seat as spectator to watch a street fight. It’s a very serious story, but Yojimbo conducts itself as a comedy, rarely letting the tone of amusement lift from either the screen or the whimsical score. Kurosawa has some excellent shots, particularly when Sanjuro, watching from his tower, literally divides the street fight, a perfect metaphor for what the role he has chosen to play in the fate of the town. Other Kurosawa films give us more to think about, but few deliver entertainment as clearly and directly as Yojimbo. Highly recommended.
Sanjuro (1962)
After the massive success of Yojimbo, the film that would be come Sanjuro was reworked to become a sequel. I’m sure any version would be entertaining – I’m not sure Kurosawa was capable of a true flop at this point in his career – it works out particularly well as a follow-up to his previous film. Once again, Sanjuro is in a diseased town, and he takes it upon himself to become the double agent who takes down the corruption from within. Again, he acts not so much out of love for those he’s saving but out of sheer contempt for those he’s fighting. This (anti-)hero hardly believes in fighting for a side to win; instead, he merely identifies who he most wants to lose, and makes it so. And in Sanjuro, it’s far easier to identify with his attitude, as he’s surrounded by a troupe of fairly idiotic samurai who act as damsels within the story, constantly screwing up his best laid plans and routinely requiring saving. Luckily, Sanjuro is up to the task; Kurosawa’s and Mifune’s creation is a true action hero here, slaying dozens of men in seconds when necessary, almost proto-Schwarzenegger in his ability to cut through an army like hot butter, himself unscathed. We do see him troubled at what he is and what he’s good at, as the phrase “the best sword is one that remains sheathed” haunts him throughout. He is trying to outsmart his opponent, but ultimately he wins through his precise brutality, his bloody rampages. There’s something really interesting there, and I’d love to have seen it explored more, or even in a third film. Alas, we’re stuck with what we have – another gleefully entertaining action-comedy which, if not quite the equal of its predecessor, is still a worthy sequel. Recommended.
High and Low (1963)
Toshiro Mifune plays Kingo Gondo, an executive at a major shoe manufacturer, about to engage with his fellow execs in a corporate battle over control of the company. He has carefully set up his counter move to their transparent plotting, with much of his personal fortune at stake; and just when the battle is set to commence, he receives a phone call that his son has been kidnapped, with a large ransom demanded. He doesn’t flinch, agreeing to pay, but then we realize a mistake was made by the kidnapper: rather than taking Gondo’s son, he instead took his friend and playmate, the son of Gondo’s chauffeur. At this point, with this twist, High and Low becomes far more interesting, as Gondo has to grapple with potentially throwing away his professional future not for his own son but for the son of an employee. His morality, in all its shades, is put on center stage, and Gondo isn’t presented to us as greedy or noble but instead as complicated. This is what makes him human. Much of the first half of the film takes place inside Gondo’s house, while short of an opulent setting, one that signals his relative wealth, particularly when shown from the exterior, where you can see it rest on a hilltop overlooking the rest of the city. This is the High section of the film. Eventually, the choice is made, and the kidnapping is seemingly resolved.
However, there’s still half a film to go, which brings out attention to the titular Low. Now we focus on the police hunt for the kidnapper, and it’s perhaps the best police procedural ever put to film. One scene is merely a department meeting where different detectives share the evidence they’ve been able to corral from different sources, and never has sharing a collection of information been more thrilling. Kurosawa has used the first half of the picture to invest us in this hunt, and Gondo’s decision invests us further. Finally, when the hunt begins in earnest, the viewer is excited by every new bread crumb uncovered. As each detective stands up to share his findings, Kurosawa cuts away to their legwork, keeping the very long scene from growing visually stale. When the suspect is identified, the film doesn’t stop there, as the police discover he’s responsible for worse crimes they don’t yet have the evidence to prove, and the kidnapping charge is too light for their consciences. So, finally, they must set a trap and lure him in, and it’s just as thrilling and compelling as everything that comes before. When we find the kidnapper’s motives for targeting Gondo, it gives new meaning to the title and widens the scope of what this movie is really about. It caps off a second half as good as the first, making High and Low one of Kurosawa’s absolute best films. Highest recommendation.
Red Beard (1965)
Arrogant young Dr. Yasumoto (Yuzo Kayama), rather than being posted to work in the court of the Shogun as he hoped, is instead sent to a poor country clinic to learn under gruff old doctor “Red Beard” (Mifune). Red Beard passionately cares about doing good where he can, and this goodness slowly infects Yasumoto over the course of his and their interactions with numerous memorable patients. Yasumoto learns humility, but more than that he learns to find personal peace through helping others. This search for existential self-confirmation makes Red Beard a fitting companion film for Ikiru. Both are radical in their yearning for good, both outright attacks on cynicism. It’s a long film, allowing Yasumoto’s evolution to come about believably and naturally, but its episodic nature – with each focusing on a new patient – helps keep it paced nicely; frankly, knowing this is our last time watching Mifune and Kurosawa work together makes any extra time welcome. Recommended.
Dodes’ka-den (1970)
For his first color film, Kurosawa returns to the destitute class he visited in The Lower Depths. Dodes’ka-den consists of intertwined, concurrently told vignettes about a group of people resorting to fantasy to cope with living in the trash-filled slums of Tokyo. Visually, it pops in a way I wouldn’t expect given the subject matter, and that works nicely with the way the characters seek escape, and some of their stories are touching. Ultimately, however, interest between the stories fluctuated, and the picture didn’t quite come together as hoped, which is particularly disappointing when knowing the devastating effect bad reviews of this film had on AK. Not bad – Kurosawa doesn’t seem capable of making a bad film without state interference – but not one we consider essential to his catalogue.
Song of the Horse (1971)
Dersu Uzala (1975)
Kurosawa’s finest adaptation of Russian literature is Dersu Uzala, a story of friendship between a Russian captain surveying in the Siberian taiga and the titular Nanai guide who helps him and his men survive the expedition. It’s a delight, but a thematically heavy one that contemplates a man’s mastery of his environment and the painful truth that, over time, environment always masters man. But the central relationship makes this a pleasure, as the captain and Dersu both have a staggeringly unabashed respect for one another, and their multiple trips together in the wilderness lend a sort of platonic Brokeback vibe to the picture. You root for these friends the way you root for a love story – because in a way, that’s what this film is, complete with meet-cute, separation, and re-connection. There’s also Kurosawa’s visual palette; taking his second color feature to the taiga creates some breathtaking colors and shots (although the streaming print on Criterion isn’t in great shape – this could use a remastering). Of Kurosawa’s better films, this is, sadly, probably the least known (perhaps No Regrets for Our Youth is truly that title-bearer, but it’s from his early period, so its relative obscurity is more understandable), likely due to it being completely unrelated to Japan. While it doesn’t feel essential to his ouvre for that reason, the sheer humanity and visual nature of the film make this easy to recommend.
Kagemusha (1980)
Ran (1985)
Kurosawa’s third and best Shakespeare adaptation, Ran is the director’s masterful Jidaigeki take on King Lear. With some jaw-dropping visuals and sequences backed by a booming score, Kurosawa enigmatically crafts a hellscape that is somehow sensuous, a brutal tragedy that is at the same time inviting and lush. Ran is all about how past sins catch up with you one way or another, and the way every piece falls so perfectly, and so tragically, into place is impressive. Much of that credit goes to The Bard, but putting it on the screen so thrillingly and majestically is a remarkable accomplishment all its own. Essential, highly recommended.
Dreams (1990)
Kurosawa’s most conceptually experimental film, Dreams is precisely what the title suggests: a series of vignettes based on Akira Kurosawa’s dreams. It’s frankly a concept more directors should attempt; while every film can be considered a personal statement, an open door into a director’s mind or soul, Kurosawa putting his personal dream journal on film is starkly intimate. Almost by definition it becomes his most personal film, but that doesn’t mean it works universally. While there are a couple of oddball entries that don’t quite fit with the rest, one theme does resonate throughout the film: man facing unintended consequences of his own foibles, be it curiosity (the superbly unsettling opener “Sunshine Through the Rain”, featuring a fox wedding that’s one of the best sequences in his career), war (“The Tunnel”), or the nuclear age (“Mount Fuji in Red”, “The Weeping Demon”). Even the more whimsical “The Peach Orchard” has undertones of destruction, and the regret that seeps through so many of these vignettes is palpable. As Ran is about an old man reckoning with his deeds that now haunt him, Dreams is a continuation of sorts, with Kurosawa reckoning not just with his deeds but mankind’s. The oddball selections are entertaining if not exactly in lockstep with the rest. “The Blizzard” is a beautiful, if slight, story about a hiker’s encounter with a death demon, while “Crows” might be the most dreamlike of all, considering the central conceit is “I met Vincent Van Gogh but he was Martin Scorsese.” There are a couple of mild misses, particularly nuclear fallout-focused stories, and it’s true that it’s not really one of Kurosawa’s most entertaining and coherent films. But the sheer act of making it is an act of therapy, and the audacity of such a purely artful and expressionistic choice is impressive and fascinating, making Dreams a wholly unique entry into Kurosawa’s filmography, and thus a welcome one. Recommended, though mileage may vary.
