Harakiri

by Ari

The samurai film is one of the oldest, most important genres in Japanese cinema. Several prominent filmmakers have explored the dynamic of the genre, some preferring the more historical, artistic side, while others have settled for the more visceral, exploitative angle. The samurai film has taken many forms because of filmmakers like Akira Kurosawa, Hideo Gosha, Kihachi Okamoto, Kinji Fukasaku and many others. The fact so many samurai films are tonally and thematically different is what makes the genre so rewarding and thrilling. Kagemusha is nothing like Lone Wolf and Cub, which shares very little with The Samurai Trilogy, which has hardly any similarities with something like Kill!. It’s extremely impressive how much freedom many Japanese filmmakers displayed with their samurai pictures, especially the filmmakers who distinguished themselves with films in other genres. For most western audiences, Kurosawa’s masterpiece Seven Samurai is the absolute samurai epic, and there’s doubt its become the defining achievement of the genre. There are few films as influential and historic as Seven Samurai, especially in Asian film. And while Kurosawa rightly remains the most important figure in Japanese film, several other filmmakers made films as worthy or even superior in the same genre.

While no one could match the sheer volume and consistency of Kurosawa, directors like Hiroshi Inagaki and Masaki Kobayashi certainly made their mark with masterful, significant accomplishments. Inagaki’s Samurai Trilogy (Musashi Miyamoto, Duel at Ichijoji Temple, and Duel on Ganryu Island) is still one of the great trilogies in film history, while Kobayashi’s Samurai Rebellion and Harakiri are considered among his finest achievements. Kobayashi is probably best known for his own exhausting trilogy, The Human Condition, or his haunting, poetic collection of ghost stories in Kwaidan.

For me, however, one film defines the allure and importance of Kobayashi, and that film is the exceptional drama Harakiri. This is not only my favorite film by Kobayashi, but my favorite samurai film I’ve seen. While many samurai pictures explore the complexities of samurai codes and principles, Harakiri downright rejects them, while still honoring the culture they belong to. Which is not to say the film isn’t critical of their culture as well. Harakiri challenges the abuse of authority and principle by those that falsely value samurai and Japanese custom. "Harakiri" is, of course, a ritual suicide, however the more honorable version of it is actually “seppuku”, while “harakiri” is a less formal, less respected version. The suicide is done by slicing the belly across and open, which is honorably followed by a “second”, who cleanly severs the head of the person committing seppuku as an act of respect and acknowledgment.

The film begins with a poor, desperate man visiting the house of a feudal lord to commit seppuku and die in honor. This man is one of the victims of the Shogunate’s choice to dismantle many warrior clans during the 17th Century, leaving many samurai in dire poverty and helpless situations. He visits a particular house with the intention of dying like a true samurai instead of some worthless peasant. It’s a noble act recognized by the house. The man identifies himself as Hanshiro Tsugumo (the great Tatsuya Nakadai). He’s dirty and poor, with a dry sense of humor and an absolute determination to die with dignity. Before the house allows Tsugumo entrance, they warn him that beggars have been using the ritual to gain access to the house, only to back down from honorable suicide in exchange for a small amount of money. Tsugumo insists that his purpose is for certain death. This leads the feudal lord Kageyu Saito (Rentaro Mikunito) to tell Tsugumo a story about a young man who came to them with similar wishes not too long ago.

Saito tells of Motome Chijiiwa (Akira Ishihama), who came to their house in desperation to commit seppuku in the presence of an elder clansman. When Motome was informed that his audience would not be as prestigious as expected, he asked for two days to reconsider. Tired of poor beggars looking for money, the house forced him to commit seppuku, even though his sword was made of bamboo instead of steel. His death was cruel and disgusting, but the house wanted to send a message about their principles. Once Saito finishes his story, he again asks Tsugumo if he’s sure about his wishes. Tsugumo calmly reassures him that his intention is death. Saito is pleased that a real samurai has requested such a noble thing from his house, and immediately sets up the stage for seppuku. He even has his entire house come to witness the event. When Tsugumo is ready to begin the ritual, he requests a specific man to be his “second”. Unfortunately, that man has taken ill and is absent. Tsugomo insists, so Saito sends someone to fetch him.

While they wait, Tsugumo asks for one thing: to tell his story. Saito sees no harm in it, so he allows Tsugomo to tell everyone about his past, expecting this noble man to give lessons his men should hear. This, of course, is not the case at all. And that’s when the unexpected hits - the depth of the story only beginning to reveals itself. Tsugumo mentions that he had some acquaintance with the man from Saito’s story - that Motome Chijiiwa was, in fact, his son-in-law. The news obviously shocks everyone of the house, and this when you as the viewer begin to realize that Harakiri in indeed a revenge film. Tsugomo tells his story about Motome - how he helped raise him, and how Motome eventually married Tsugumo’s daughter Miho, and cared for her dearly as she suffered from tuberculosis. Tsugumo’s story naturally strikes a nerve with Saito, who begins to wonder about his real intentions. Where the story goes from there is something that deserves to be seen fresh. The less you know, the more rewarding the experience.

Kobayashi’s direction is exquisite. He layers the story with emotion, revealing each detail for the utmost dramatic impact. Tsugumo challenges the very nature of the samurai code, and Kobayashi makes sure the point is heard loud and clear. He deliberately paces the film, taking time with the flashbacks while increasing the intensity of the present. The outbursts of violence are brutal and shocking, filmed with realism and immediacy. For a film made in 1962, Kobayashi’s technique was highly skilled. The cinematography, atmosphere, and score greatly add to the gritty story - exuding malice and violence. Harakiri is very much fueled by anger, and Tatsuya Nakadai’s unforgettable performance makes you feel the complexity and fury of the character. The final sequence is frighteningly intense - one of the great pieces of cinema I’ve seen. Harakiri is tragic and haunting, powerful and brilliant. This is Masaki Kobayashi’s masterpiece.