Two riveting storylines connected by Tatsuya Nakadai’s powerhouse performance turn Harakiri into a deeply affecting examination of human morality and dignity in the face of injustice and deception.
Japan
4.5*
Director:
Masaki Kobayashi
Screenwriter:
Shinobu Hashimoto
Director of Photography:
Yoshio Miyajima
Running time: 130 minutes
Original title: 切腹
Transliterated title: Seppuku
Harakiri is not only one of the best samurai films but one of the best films in Japanese cinema. Dealing with issues ranging from loyalty, honour and family to peer pressure and hypocrisy, it advances on two tracks. The first is the present (late afternoon on 13 May 1630), in which a samurai from a former clan has been reduced to living in poverty and asks to commit suicide in the Iyi clan’s forecourt. His name is Hanshiro Tsugumo, and Tatsuya Nakadai’s assured portrayal of the character is mesmerising. The second is the story-within-a-story in which a young man named Motome Chijiwa arrived a few months earlier with the same request but met a harrowing end.
The connective tissue between these two tracks is Hanshiro. He had been best friends with Motome’s father, Jinnai, during their time serving the Fukushima clan in Hiroshima. When the clan collapsed in 1619, Jinnai committed suicide. But to prevent Hanshiro from following his example, he entrusted Motome to his care. Eventually, Motome would become his son-in-law.
Hanshiro subsequently moved to Edo and barely supported himself by making umbrellas with his daughter. Although this was not the life of a samurai, Hanshiro continued to adhere to the values he accrued during his service. That is, until he lost his entire family and realised that the samurai of the Iyi clan were laughing at the misery of the poorer classes.
Harakiri is both mentally and emotionally affecting because it questions the often undisputed moral authority of the samurai. It is no coincidence that the director’s name in the opening credits sequence quite literally impales the revered suit of armour symbolising the glory of the Iyi clan. At many turns – sometimes tongue in cheek, sometimes with grave seriousness – Hanshiro speaks some truth about the disparity between the perception of the samurai and how they really behave. They are made of flesh and blood and are not gods; they are fallible, not invincible; they are men and have the same faults as all other men; and they are not monolithic: They are good and bad and can be virtuous or vile.
The fullness of this complexity is gradually laid bare as Hanshiro presents his reasoning for committing suicide. The title refers to the act of disembowelment that the Japanese sword-wielding retainers, in particular, performed for reasons associated with honour. Samurai were expected to plunge their own blades into their stomachs as their weapon is as much a part of the warrior as his soul. Notwithstanding the reason for executing it, seppuku, as the Japanese call it, is a gruesome act. In the case of Motome, however, there is a (grim and sadistic) twist to the self-execution, albeit under the pretence of tradition.
Hanshiro says that samurai honour (bushido) is nothing more than a façade. Initially, we suspect he may be taunting the Iyi clan and all the samurai assembled around him in the courtyard. But when he recounts the circumstances that led to Motome coming to them, as well as their mocking tone upon returning his corpse, we see he has very good reasons for doing so. These reasons appear all the more justified during the climax when the house’s samurai culture is decisively stripped of its veneer. Among the samurai, violence is all too often prioritised over dialogue and understanding, and group pressure can end a life.
The screenplay is the work of Shinobu Hashimoto, who wrote many an Akira Kurosawa masterpiece, including Seven Samurai and Ikiru, during his storied career. But in terms of rhythm, subversiveness and clarity, Harakiri arguably surpasses all of them. Besides the clever links between the two tracks of the narrative, we also get numerous surprises as Hanshiro makes a major revelation almost every time he opens his mouth.
This quick-paced disclosure of context and no shortage of secrets, as well as Nakadai’s perfectly modulated acting – quite the opposite of Toshiro Mifune’s exaggerated kabuki performances in Kurosawa’s films – keep us enthralled throughout the two-hour running time, half of which takes place at a single location. And yet, we have no idea where all of this is leading. The information we receive tells us everything about the present, but the developments remain unwritten. Sustained by an eerie but entrancing biwa on the soundtrack, this tension of possibility continues right to the end, when a surprising string of deaths (in flashback) culminates in an unforgettable climax.
Kageyu Saito, the senior counsellor who oversees the two harakiri ritual ceremonies, exemplifies how strength is often just weakness reinforced by the strict enforcement of rules. Saito is hesitant and uncertain, but he implements the rules he knows. When these prove to be ineffective, he panics. But with no moral foundation of his own and unwilling to get his hands dirty (he never draws his sword), he resorts to underhanded tactics. This includes besmirching a genuine samurai and rewriting history to maintain his clan’s reputation. But we, the audience, know the truth. And as our knowledge increases, our empathy grows for both Hanshiro and Motome.
Kurosawa may be the artist in samurai cinema, but Harakiri leaves no doubt that Kobayashi is the master storyteller. Every line of dialogue in the film is essential and either clearly sets the scene or drives the story forward. We can discern the gravity of the circumstances from the words alone and have no need for histrionic performances. Nakadai is serene but stands strong thanks to his character’s unassailable moral rectitude.
This is the kind of masterpiece that exposes its competitors as vacuous pretenders, regardless of their directors’ pedigree.