When looking through Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s filmography – from “Cure,” to “Serpent’s Path,” to “Chime” – there’s a prevailing interest in humanity’s capacity for violence. These films operate in a space of almost clinical remove from the warmer aspects of humanity, the detached nature of their violence making them all the more frightening. Stabbing someone, killing someone, torturing someone – in a Kurosawa film, it’s all, terrifyingly, quite a bit easier than you might think.
The Japanese filmmaker’s newest work, “The Samurai and the Prisoner” operates in a similar vein – sort of. Based on the novel of the same name, “The Samurai and the Prisoner” takes place in a world of unspeakable violence, but follows one man determined to buck against that trend. It’s not necessarily about the ease with which people commit horrific acts, but instead how hard it can be (and sometimes, how damning) to choose peace.
“The Samurai and the Prisoner” narrativizes a real event in Japanese history, the siege of Arioka Castle in 1579. We meet Araki Murashige (Masahiro Motoki), lord of Settsu and a retainer of the warlord Oda Nobunaga – until, that is, he rebelled against the warlord and holed himself up in the castle. Text at the beginning of the film tells us that nobody really knows why he rebelled, and we quickly learn that Murashige is not the hardened general we might expect from a samurai story – quite the opposite.
Kurosawa’s signature style, particularly when it comes to the treatment of violence on screen – that eerie, almost matter-of-fact distance – can still be found all over “The Samurai and the Prisoner.” But, despite the harshness of the world, there’s something a bit softer about this film’s exploration of human suffering and about just how far morals can get you in a world that demands pain.
From the moment Murashige enters the frame, Motoki is intent on communicating his disdain for protocol through his unwound physicality. In the first scene, Oda’s forces surrounding his castle, Murashige meets with the opposing army’s envoy, a military strategist named Kuroda Kanbei (Masaki Suda) who has come to convince him to end his rebellion . When he sees Kanbei, Murashige visibly relaxes. He urges Kanbei to dispense with all formality, sighing and asking him drolly if he’s come to talk him out of his decision to leave. He acts like Kanbei is a friend come to talk him out of a hasty break-up rather than an enemy soldier come to ask for his surrender.
When the two men come to an impasse, Murashige continues to defy custom. He’s supposed to let Kanbei return to Oda’s camp unharmed, but he takes him prisoner instead, giving the film its name. And when strange, unexplainable crimes start to occur around the castle, he turns to Kanbei – the smartest man he knows – for help solving the mysteries.
So, part of “The Samurai and the Prisoner’s” softer demeanor comes from the fact that so much of it is essentially “Colombo” with samurais. And Motoki is a fine stand in for Peter Falk – a bit of a curmudgeon, but with sweeter undertones. And, unlike almost all of the men surrounding him, Murashige has no taste for killing, even in the face of success. In one scene as he monologues about the impending possibility of his victory, he comes across a spider. Instead of smashing it, he gently moves it out of the way.
We eventually see the terrible act that the movie version of events posits turned him off of killing and, presumably, away from Oda’s war campaign. But Murashige’s soft underbelly and his mercy, as admirable as they might be, are often the things that get him into trouble – and Kurosawa loves playing with that dichotomy, drawing a fraught line between what duty calls for and what a man can stand.
The first mystery that Murashige eventually brings to Kanbei to help solve is the murder of a boy named Jinen, the young son of a fellow lord who defected to Oda. Traditionally, the boy, kept as a hostage in Arioka Castle, should be crucified for his father’s sins. Jinen, a follower of Shin Buddhism – like Murashige’s wife, Chiyoho (Yuriko Yoshitaka) – begs to be killed by the sword, believing that to be his only way into Paradise, the afterlife. Murashige refuses to kill the boy.
But someone kills Jinen anyway. This is not the first time that Murashige’s decision to buck tradition will end in death despite his best intentions. It’s telling that he confides so much in Kandei, who seems to be the only person around him willing to tell him the truth without falling back on folklore and superstition. The film is called “The Samurai and the Prisoner,” and both Kanbei and Murashige play those roles equally. “Men, listen closely,” Murashige says to his men at one of their numerous strategy meetings. They all immediately rise from a sitting position to their knees, surrounding him in a circle, looking up at him reverently. The camera holds on Murashige as he hesitates, unsure how to proceed in the face of their unwavering confidence – particularly when everything seems to be going so wrong.
Murashige spends most of the film’s runtime unsure of himself. His attempts at mercy seem to go punished, but violence always begets more violence, and he simply hasn’t the stomach for it. After a successful battle, Murashige’s men present him with the head of a man he killed, but he refuses to look upon his face, no desire to see his handiwork. The real Murashige apparently went on to become a tea master post his war career, a career much more befitting of his temperament, it seems. And the man loves tea – the loss of a beloved tea kettle is presented as far more tragic than any human death. Compare the tender, delicate touch of his hands on that tea kettle to the death of a loyal soldier, Ichirōza (Kochi Yamato), in battle – Ichirōza, guarding Murashige, is attacked by a crazed, half-naked soldier, unceremoniously and quickly dispatched before you realize what’s happening.
But not all of us can shirk our responsibilities and go make tea for the rest of our lives.
A last act reveal about who is behind the numerous murders that have plagued the castle for a year brings up the question of regular, everyday people – people like Ichirōza, like Jinen – and who has their best interests at heart. The machinations of the powerful few so often lose sight of the people at the bottom. Even someone like Murashige – intent on subverting violent tradition – can be blind to the effect his supposed moral position can have. And at the end of the film, he finds himself at a crossroads that only someone in his position of power could find themselves approaching – do I live in this world as it is, or do I leave it and its evils behind? Not everyone has that choice.
“The Samurai and the Prisoner” opens at the Tara Theatre this weekend.
