In Masaki Kobayashi's Samurai Rebellion, Toshiro plays a skilled swordsman named Isaburo, a silent type who places honour and family above everything else. In many ways, Isaburo is like the humble American cowboy of old, and the Japanese samurai movies themselves share many of the same qualities of the Western - an almost mythical historical setting where good battles bad, albeit often on a larger scale. Yet the samurai movies seem infinitely more complex beneath the surface, satirising a time where feudal lords reigned over vast areas of land and the common-folk and nobles were kept in line by social rigidity.
Isaburo has lived most of his life by this code. Having suffered in silence following years being henpecked by his wife who he married on the order of his daimyo, he has nonetheless proven himself to be the greatest swordsman in the land, winning the respect of his superiors in the process. It is because of this reputation that his son Yogoro (Go Kato) is chosen as the husband for their lords ex-concubine Lady Ichi (Yoko Tsukasa), who had previously given birth to a potential heir but now banished from her lords castle after disgracing herself. Isaburo reluctantly accepts the proposal and the marriage surprisingly turns out to be a loving one. But when his heir dies unexpectedly and Ichi's child moves next in line, the lord demands that Ichi be returned to the castle. Yogoro refuses and, moved by their true love, Isaburo takes a stand next to his son.
Even when they aren't inspired by the Bard, these types of movies always have a Shakespearian quality. As all the pieces are carefully moved into place for the final showdown, Samurai Rebellion builds towards inevitable Greek tragedy. There are no huge Kurosawa-esque battles here, but plenty of inner turmoil as Isaburo wrestles with obeying his liberty-taking ruler and standing for what he knows is right. After years of tending to his clans armoury (this is set during the peaceful Edo period), Isaburo gleefully cries out that he has never felt so alive. The finale is a bloody set-piece that demonstrates Mifune's natural skill with a blade as Isaburo lets loose, and is the perfect ending to a film built on hushed glances and political manoeuvring. One of the finest examples of its genre.
Based on the writings of Lafcadio Hearn, who studied Japanese folklore and supernatural tales to form his novel Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things, Kwaidan tells four stories, all varying in length, tone, and quality. The first, The Black Hair, depicts a samurai who abandons his loving wife in search of a rise in the social hierarchy, marrying into wealth after displaying his fine gift for archery on horseback. Spending years in deep regret, he returns back to his first wife only to find her physically the same, yet entirely different. The second, The Woman of the Snow, is a very simplistic tale of a man's encounter with the Yuki-onna, a pale woman with blue lips who lives in the snow, who warns the man that she would kill him if he told anyone about her.
The stand-out segment is undoubtedly the third, Hoichi the Earless, a sweeping epic (in a portmanteau context) tale of a blind musician, Hoichi (Katsuo Nakamura), who's rendition of The Tale of the Heike (a multi-layered account of the long-standing conflict between the Taira and Minamoto clans in 12th century Japan), has gained him renown. The ghost of a warrior that perished during the decisive Battle of Dan-no-ura approaches Hoichi, informing him that his lord has demanded his presence in order to hear his legendary performance. After frequently disappearing during the night, Hoichi is followed and is seen to be playing to a graveyard full of ghosts. The fourth, which is the shortest, is the unfinished story In a Cup of Tea.
Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes and nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 1965 Academy Awards, Kwaidan is a masterwork of visual splendour, using bold explosions of colour, Expressionist sets, and dream-like, almost fairytale lighting. Hoichi the Earless begins with a beautiful re-telling of the Battle of Dan-no-ura, with lavish red and orange back-drops juxtaposed with the microscopically detailed artwork from the period, making it seem almost like a painting come to life, all with the sound of Hoichi's beautiful rendition of The Tale of the Heike. This comes straight after the rather gloomy Woman of the Snow, which uses blue lighting amidst a snowy terrain to create the most haunting of the tales on show.
Yet Kwaidan is much more than visual elegance. It is deeply rooted in Japanese folk-lore, bringing to mind the Western tales of the Brothers Grimm, back when fairy-tales had a darker tone and social context. It is almost like lying in bed on a thunderous night reading ghost stories by candle-light. Director Makasi Kobayashi (director of The Human Condition trilogy (1959-1961) and Harakiri (1962)) seems especially fascinated and enchanted by these tales, giving each story its own visual style and colour scheme, and even dedicating the final segment to the many unfinished Japanese stories that end abruptly, shrouded in mystery, and ponders the fate of its author.
Running at three hours, Kwaidan never feels strained or tired, and doesn't waste a second of its running time to create something you could easily freeze-frame and hang on your wall. Hoichi the Earless could have been a masterpiece on its own, and is the most fondly remembered of the quartet (the image of Hoichi screaming, clutching his butchered head has become iconic amongst fans of more obscure, art-house 'horror'). The final story does end the film on a sadly quite anti-climactic note however, being by far the poorest of the stories, telling a slightly silly, un-involving twenty-minute story about the reflection of a mysterious man in a cup of tea that appears later to a confused samurai. It jars with what came before, slightly ruining what is a nigh-on perfect trilogy of beautifully rendered films.
Isaburo has lived most of his life by this code. Having suffered in silence following years being henpecked by his wife who he married on the order of his daimyo, he has nonetheless proven himself to be the greatest swordsman in the land, winning the respect of his superiors in the process. It is because of this reputation that his son Yogoro (Go Kato) is chosen as the husband for their lords ex-concubine Lady Ichi (Yoko Tsukasa), who had previously given birth to a potential heir but now banished from her lords castle after disgracing herself. Isaburo reluctantly accepts the proposal and the marriage surprisingly turns out to be a loving one. But when his heir dies unexpectedly and Ichi's child moves next in line, the lord demands that Ichi be returned to the castle. Yogoro refuses and, moved by their true love, Isaburo takes a stand next to his son.
