It is always difficult to find an appropriate entry point into the work of such an iconic cinematic figure as Hiroshi Inagaki (1905 - 1980). Consider this: he started out as a child actor during the 1920's, the very inception of Japanese cinema, was promoted to director at the young age of 22, helped revive the jidaigeki films during the 1930's as a member of the Narutaki group alongside Sadao Yamanaka for whom he wrote several scripts, helped re-revive the jidaigeki genre after the war by directing historical films of epic proportions, found international claim an won an Academy Award, but, like his peer Akira Kurosawa, had an increasingly difficult time securing financing beginning in the 1970's despite his pedigree as master director, became bitter, took on alcohol and died a lonely death.
The Samurai Trilogy, much like Kurosawa's Rashomon, is certainly his most well-known work in the West (Inagaki won the Academy Award for best foreign film for Samurai I) and presents a good way to start to inspect his oeuvre. The trilogy was also produced at an interesting historical time when discourse in jidaigeki films shifted from the nationalistic overtones of the 1930's to the nihilistic violence of the 1960's films. Certainly, The Samurai Trilogy exhibits a rather conservative ideology but also stands as a definite manifesto of a certain breed of ronin genre fare that would become increasingly rare in the following decades.
The Samurai Trilogy, much like Kurosawa's Rashomon, is certainly his most well-known work in the West (Inagaki won the Academy Award for best foreign film for Samurai I) and presents a good way to start to inspect his oeuvre. The trilogy was also produced at an interesting historical time when discourse in jidaigeki films shifted from the nationalistic overtones of the 1930's to the nihilistic violence of the 1960's films. Certainly, The Samurai Trilogy exhibits a rather conservative ideology but also stands as a definite manifesto of a certain breed of ronin genre fare that would become increasingly rare in the following decades.
Samurai tells the sweeping story of Musashi Miyamoto (Toshiro Mifune) who traverses a 17th century torn apart by civil war, as he tries to attain the wisdom of a true samurai. We first meet him as a hot-headed whippersnapper and see him change until he finally finds the enlightenment and the mental tools of a true swordsman. In between, we witness several obstacles and tests he has to endure in order to learn life lessons, as well as his various romantic liaisons that define his masculinity. Oftentimes referred to as Japan's Gone With The Wind, the film is based on Eiji Yoshikawa's epic novel Musashi Miyamoto and was already adapted once before by Inagaki during the war as a three-part film. Unfortunately, that version is now lost. When the director tackled the material again in 1954 for Toho, a rival production was on the way, called Musashi Miyamoto and directed by Yasuo Kohata, not based on the identically titled book but covering the same events, for Tohei studios. A few years later, in 1960, Tomu Uchida adapted the same material again, as a six-part film called Zen and Sword. All of these productions were immense popular successes in Japan, but only Inagaki's 1954 version was similarly applauded by Western audiences. Like with Kurosawa's Rashomon, the Academy Award for Samurai I paved the way for the anglophone West's discovery of Japan's cinematic treasures.
Since the film’s reason of existence is to trace our main character’s journey from rogue to sage, the plot concentrates almost exclusively on Musashi and his development as a character. The focus is on process. We ruffly know at all times where Musashi’s journey is leading him mentally and emotionally, the question is how we get there. The three different parts, then, correspond to three very specific stages in his development. Ruffly speaking, the first part follows Musashi’s growth from thug to warrior, the second part traces his evolution from samurai student to real swordsman and part three finds him accepting the duties of a samurai. At the beginning of every of the three installments, a clear objective is formulated for Musashi. His objective for the first film is to obtain fame on the battlefield. In the second film he seeks wisdom and a way to refine his skills. In the last film he has to do the last steps to finally become a real samurai.
Having announced these objectives, Musashi is immediately faced with failure. In Samurai I, Musashi, at first, is kept from participating in the Sekigahara battle, and when he finally does, realizes that the Ashikaga forces he is part of, were already defeated. In Samurai II, he wins a fight against a samurai armed with a chain and sickle and kills him, but, as a priest tells him, “lost as a samurai”. Samurai III nicely inverses this dynamic as Musashi is challenged to a duel even though he doesn't want to fight out of spiritual reasons. His attempt to withdraw himself from the battle fails and he is attacked and has to defend himself. Every film then traces Musashi’s trajectory from failure to finally achieving his goal. This structure unifies the trilogy while maintaining a certain independence for each part. Even though each one of the parts is one piece to the larger puzzle, the Samurai trilogy is more than a sum of its parts. Every film can be enjoyed as a single story and cinematic achievement.
There is a lot of emphasis on building Musashi’s character in very definable traits. In Part I he is a loner without parents, who’s distant relatives call him “lawless”, obsessed with fame and glory, courageous but hot-headed and immature, loyal, demonized by others and, at times of solitude or intimacy, torn by guilt. The first installment of the trilogy is about him overcoming his worst first impulses and learning a lot of hard lessons. “You ignored wisdom and reason, you thought you could defeat the world”, tells him the priest who takes him under his wing. Musashi has to learn that he can’t defeat the world by himself and certainly can’t ignore wisdom and reason.
The scene where the priest hangs Musashi from a tree and leaves him for several days, even through a snow storm, is pivotal. That’s when he turns a mental page. Kicking and screaming and cursing at first, he decides against running off with his lover Otsuo when she secretly frees him after seeing him hanging there for days. There is, of course, an almost insane amount of pathos in this scenes but from the standpoint of plot these are all very important stepping stones for Musashi and for the audience’s understanding of the character.
Having announced these objectives, Musashi is immediately faced with failure. In Samurai I, Musashi, at first, is kept from participating in the Sekigahara battle, and when he finally does, realizes that the Ashikaga forces he is part of, were already defeated. In Samurai II, he wins a fight against a samurai armed with a chain and sickle and kills him, but, as a priest tells him, “lost as a samurai”. Samurai III nicely inverses this dynamic as Musashi is challenged to a duel even though he doesn't want to fight out of spiritual reasons. His attempt to withdraw himself from the battle fails and he is attacked and has to defend himself. Every film then traces Musashi’s trajectory from failure to finally achieving his goal. This structure unifies the trilogy while maintaining a certain independence for each part. Even though each one of the parts is one piece to the larger puzzle, the Samurai trilogy is more than a sum of its parts. Every film can be enjoyed as a single story and cinematic achievement.
There is a lot of emphasis on building Musashi’s character in very definable traits. In Part I he is a loner without parents, who’s distant relatives call him “lawless”, obsessed with fame and glory, courageous but hot-headed and immature, loyal, demonized by others and, at times of solitude or intimacy, torn by guilt. The first installment of the trilogy is about him overcoming his worst first impulses and learning a lot of hard lessons. “You ignored wisdom and reason, you thought you could defeat the world”, tells him the priest who takes him under his wing. Musashi has to learn that he can’t defeat the world by himself and certainly can’t ignore wisdom and reason.
The scene where the priest hangs Musashi from a tree and leaves him for several days, even through a snow storm, is pivotal. That’s when he turns a mental page. Kicking and screaming and cursing at first, he decides against running off with his lover Otsuo when she secretly frees him after seeing him hanging there for days. There is, of course, an almost insane amount of pathos in this scenes but from the standpoint of plot these are all very important stepping stones for Musashi and for the audience’s understanding of the character.
Samurai II shows us Musashi as a much more accomplished man but also much more humble. When he goes to a sword maker and asks him to repolish his sword, the artisan tells him “I polish the souls of samurai. Not murderous weapons.” Musashi’s reply: “would you kindly repolish my crude soul?” This is in tune with the first scene of the movie where Musashi wins the battle against the chain and sickle warrior and a priest tells him “You’re not yet a real samurai!” This informs the entire film. Where fame and glory were his main combustibles in the first part, here he tries to acquire a higher mental state, a wisdom that will enable him to live the real life of a samurai. But that comes at the price of female suffering. Otsuo and Akemi are not only rivals in their courtship of Musashi but they can’t compete with his calling: “I love my sword more than I love you”, he tells Otsuo at one point.
The second film of the series, with a main character more interested in his intellect than in battling competitors, is, consequently, much less erratic than the first one, although it ultimately boasts a much higher body count. There is always a lot of tension in the air because Musashi literally has to face life and death stakes constantly, but Samurai II is much quieter and introspective where Samurai I was a wild rollercoaster ride filled with action and battle sequences. Musashi moved around a lot, traveled, had to flee, he led the life of a vagabond and thus had no real points of orientation in his life. In Part II, he travels to one location and stays there for most of the time, sharpening his intellectual tools and anticipating the final climax that forces him again to leave.
Said final climax, epic in its scope as he affronts 80 men out to kill him, also underlines just how much Toshiro Mifune represented the masculine ideal of the time. Brave, fearless, passionate, thoughtful and aware of his physicality, not only the samurai Mifune but the man Mifune was made into a symbol of what Japanese manliness was all about. And certainly, portraying such a torn and heroic character contributed to that image. In the end, when he is dueling with Kojiro, Masushi is about to strike the last blow but his conscience prevents him from doing so. He is not a rogue anymore, a mental page was turned again. Which also adds to the archetype of the manly man with a twisted past that taught him important life lessons.
The second film of the series, with a main character more interested in his intellect than in battling competitors, is, consequently, much less erratic than the first one, although it ultimately boasts a much higher body count. There is always a lot of tension in the air because Musashi literally has to face life and death stakes constantly, but Samurai II is much quieter and introspective where Samurai I was a wild rollercoaster ride filled with action and battle sequences. Musashi moved around a lot, traveled, had to flee, he led the life of a vagabond and thus had no real points of orientation in his life. In Part II, he travels to one location and stays there for most of the time, sharpening his intellectual tools and anticipating the final climax that forces him again to leave.
Said final climax, epic in its scope as he affronts 80 men out to kill him, also underlines just how much Toshiro Mifune represented the masculine ideal of the time. Brave, fearless, passionate, thoughtful and aware of his physicality, not only the samurai Mifune but the man Mifune was made into a symbol of what Japanese manliness was all about. And certainly, portraying such a torn and heroic character contributed to that image. In the end, when he is dueling with Kojiro, Masushi is about to strike the last blow but his conscience prevents him from doing so. He is not a rogue anymore, a mental page was turned again. Which also adds to the archetype of the manly man with a twisted past that taught him important life lessons.
In the third and final Samurai, Masushi announces: “I want to fight without regrets”. And it is the film that sees him struggling the most with his chosen profession of samurai. For a while, he even abandons the idea altogether and lives as a farmer. An antagonist is introduced very early on in his eternal rival Kojiro and we anticipate a confrontation for nearly one hour and a half. There is no doubt that Masushi, no matter how competent and powerful Kojiro is made out to be during the film, is going to defeat him. The film becomes about what lessons he will learn that help him complete his skill set to do so.
We open the film with yet another duel that simultaneously showcases his extraordinary faculties as a swordsman and charts his mental state. In Samurai III the situation is exceptional. He is the best warrior in Japan, or approaching that, yet he doesn’t want to fight. There are several confrontations during the film in which Masushi doesn’t draw his sword to defeat his opponent but hints at his capabilities otherwise. In one memorable instance he uses his chopsticks to pick flies out of the air. A man that precise, focused and quick? Better not get testy with him.
Masushi’s character arc in Samurai III is, I think, the most interesting of the trilogy because his refusal to use his skills is nicely pitted against Kojiro’s desire to showcase that he is the best swordsman of the country by defeating Masushi. Though Kojiro is clearly driven by fame it is not a vane ego-driven undertaking as Masushi attempted himself in the first film. Nonetheless, making a name for himself is important to him. Meanwhile, Masushi is on the quest for the exact opposite: self-realization and bliss. He doesn’t need Kojiro to attain glory, battling “without regrets” is what Masushi is after. But he needs time on his own, far away from any swordsmanship, before he can do that. Kojiro is anxious to finally confront him. It is a simple and compelling way to chart just how far Masushi has come as a character. Where he would have charged Kojiro in Samurai I without any second thought, he actually goes to live with peasants and works the fields for a while in Samurai III and lets Kojiro stew in his own grease.
We open the film with yet another duel that simultaneously showcases his extraordinary faculties as a swordsman and charts his mental state. In Samurai III the situation is exceptional. He is the best warrior in Japan, or approaching that, yet he doesn’t want to fight. There are several confrontations during the film in which Masushi doesn’t draw his sword to defeat his opponent but hints at his capabilities otherwise. In one memorable instance he uses his chopsticks to pick flies out of the air. A man that precise, focused and quick? Better not get testy with him.
Masushi’s character arc in Samurai III is, I think, the most interesting of the trilogy because his refusal to use his skills is nicely pitted against Kojiro’s desire to showcase that he is the best swordsman of the country by defeating Masushi. Though Kojiro is clearly driven by fame it is not a vane ego-driven undertaking as Masushi attempted himself in the first film. Nonetheless, making a name for himself is important to him. Meanwhile, Masushi is on the quest for the exact opposite: self-realization and bliss. He doesn’t need Kojiro to attain glory, battling “without regrets” is what Masushi is after. But he needs time on his own, far away from any swordsmanship, before he can do that. Kojiro is anxious to finally confront him. It is a simple and compelling way to chart just how far Masushi has come as a character. Where he would have charged Kojiro in Samurai I without any second thought, he actually goes to live with peasants and works the fields for a while in Samurai III and lets Kojiro stew in his own grease.
As Isolde Standish remarks in her excellent book A New History of Japanese Cinema, the Samurai Trilogy is rather conservative in its depiction of samurai values and masculinity. Jidaigeki movies were revived during the 1950's after the occupation authorities had banned them immediately following the war. In later decades, the genre would become increasingly violent and cruel. While Miyamoto Musashi can be seen as a positive role model and valiant warrior, a figure like Tsukue Ryunosuke in The Great Bhodisatta Pass is a much more ambiguous and morally corrupt character, although both Pass and Samurai treat similar themes. Standish: "While Miyamoto Musashi travels the land seeking knowledge and enlightenment, Tsukue Ryunosuke traverses the land indiscriminately killing. Located within violent periods of civil strife, both characters are symbolic of the clash of the postmodern and modern civil order. Ryunosuke is a relic from an age (…) that will soon cease to exist while Miyamoto Musashi (…) undergoes a lengthy period of training that allows him to maintain a legitimate position in the new order." (280)
Musashi is an outsider and social misfit who seeks knowledge in order to attain a certain social standing of his own choosing. Again Standish: "Within the more conservative discourse of [Samurai], Buddhism tempers the violence of judo/bushido through compassion and self-abnegation through transience (mujo)." (281). But such a discourse was rejected by later generations of filmmakers who also took Akira Kurosawa, among others, to task for having an outdated and ultimately romantic view of humanity. Both Kurosawa and Inagaki, who both won an Academy Award during the 1950's and were hyped by Western critics, had increasingly difficulties securing financing for their films in the later years of their careers, prompting Kurosawa to attempt suicide and Inagaki to revert to alcohol. Certainly, the fact that their filmic discourse seemed out of date had to account for a lot of their troubles. Movie giants they were both. But they didn't seem fit to say something substantial about contemporary issues. And while the Samurai trilogy is sweeping filmmaking at its best, one can see how a younger, wilder and overambitious generation could have perceived it as stale, square and, for lack of a better word, Biedermeier.
Musashi is an outsider and social misfit who seeks knowledge in order to attain a certain social standing of his own choosing. Again Standish: "Within the more conservative discourse of [Samurai], Buddhism tempers the violence of judo/bushido through compassion and self-abnegation through transience (mujo)." (281). But such a discourse was rejected by later generations of filmmakers who also took Akira Kurosawa, among others, to task for having an outdated and ultimately romantic view of humanity. Both Kurosawa and Inagaki, who both won an Academy Award during the 1950's and were hyped by Western critics, had increasingly difficulties securing financing for their films in the later years of their careers, prompting Kurosawa to attempt suicide and Inagaki to revert to alcohol. Certainly, the fact that their filmic discourse seemed out of date had to account for a lot of their troubles. Movie giants they were both. But they didn't seem fit to say something substantial about contemporary issues. And while the Samurai trilogy is sweeping filmmaking at its best, one can see how a younger, wilder and overambitious generation could have perceived it as stale, square and, for lack of a better word, Biedermeier.
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