#chanbara

[hagakure-films]

Lone wolf and cub covers by Mike Ploog

[mechanicalsamsara]

Samurai Wolf (1966) - Movie Review

Hideo Gosha might be one of Japan's most underrated filmmakers. Once discussed as part of the chanbara trifecta—alongside Akira Kurosawa and Masaki Kobayashi—his name now looks out of place next to two of the most famous and well regarded directors in history. Though he has had two Criterion releases (one never received a Blu-Ray release and has been out of print for over a decade now), most of his films are impossible to find in the West and his work remains largely obscure—one of my personal favourite films, Gosha's Fireflies in the North (1984), has only 193 logs on Letterboxd, and no official release outside of Japan.

Something about Gosha's sensibilities just never appealed to Westerners the way Kurosawa's euro-inspired epics or Kobayashi's Marxist fables did. He never caught the attention of the Cahiers tastemakers the way his contemporaries managed to.

Watching Samurai Wolf (1966), I have to wonder if Gosha's films may have simply been too Japanese to catch on with mainstream European audiences in the mid-1960s. Pulpy, cathartic, almost proto-exploitation thrills combine with complex characters and and a philosophical framework that's something like what Nishitani coined as 'the self-overcoming of nihilism' or 'transcendance through negation', to create an atmosphere that's at once both cathartic and profoundly desolate.

Starting off the way any Spaghetti Western might, Samurai Wolf follows its drifter protagonist—the titular Samurai Wolf—as he wanders aimlessly around Japan. Eventually he happens upon a corrupt little outpost in the middle of the mountains, and though he only intends to stay overnight, that plan changes when he discovers that the town is under the thumb of an abusive gang of ne'er-do-wells. It is, of course, his duty as a wandering swordsman to free the little people of their oppressors, even if it puts him in the deadly crosshairs of Japan's ruling elite.

It's a standard genre film setup, but Samurai Wolf isn't standard genre fair. While it features all the gold shipments, outlaw gangs, and boss-fights you'd expect from a a 60s samurai movie, the proceedings are filtered through that strange melodramatic realism that's emblematic of the best of Japanese film and literature. It's aesthetically lethargic, but a barely restrained subsurface intensity makes everyone feel edgy and dangerous and a little bit unhinged—a style of perpetual tension that the Japanese modernists like Yukio Mishima and Junichiro Tanizaki exploited to full effect.

Samurai Wolf is cold and cruel. The hero doesn't get the girl—in fact, he doesn't even want the girl—and men, good and bad, die bloody, pointless deaths. At the end of it all our protagonist is left standing amidst a wasteland of his own creation, the only other survivor surrounded by the ruins of what was once her life. In the end, all they did was survive, and a lot of people died in the process.

It's not really a surprise that Hideo Gosha's films were a huge influence on Takashi Miike and Takashi Kitano—Samurai Wolf, in particular, feels, in many ways, like a precursor to Kitano's Outrage and Miike's Dead or Alive.

It really is a shame that Gosha's work has been all but ignored in the West—even if his disciples have become household names (in households that discuss Japanese film). His films are beautiful and complex, and still feel radical, even today. As is also the case with Masahiro Shinoda—another extremely influential director whose best work remains obscure—the West's understanding of Japanese film is weaker for Hideo Gosha's obscurity.

At their best, Hideo Gosha's samurai films absolutely stand shoulder to shoulder with Akira Kurosawa's efforts in the genre—and, for my money, stand head and shoulders above Masaki Kobayashi's.

[roskirambles]

Animated movie of the day: Ninja Scroll (Jūbē Ninpūchō, 1993)

During the Edo period, the Yamashiro clan is plotting a coup with the aid of Spanish technology. When sent to investage the massacre of the (which harvested gold for the Yamashiro), the team of shinobi is nearly wiped out on its entirety. Only the kunoichi called Kagero survived, and with her rescuer Kibagami Jubei(an ex Yamashiro ninja mercenary), they have to stop the supernatural ninja known as the Eight Devils of Kimon from overthrowing the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Directed by Yoshiaki Kawajiri, this jidaigeki chanbara (aka, period drama sword fighting action) film oozes style. It doesn't spend too much time in exposition to build the characters, instead letting their stoicisim dominate and have the stylish action set pieces drive the show, which then proceeds to execute with elegance and unabashed intensity. In short, it's everything badass about anime from the 90's, which makes little wonder the Wachowzki's had it as an influence for the Matrix trilogy.

It's also, however, everything that hasn't aged too well from anime from the 90's. While there's arguably some level of nuance about Kagero's character to be discussed, the film does ultimately subject her to objectification. And with a rather thin narrative all things considered, it doesn't feel like it justifies some of it's more gruesome narrative choices, being a late but concise example of the hyperviolent anime films produced around the time.

Ultimately, it is a fascinating and influential if at points problematic piece of the 90's anime boom. It can be very entertaining to watch, while also fairly educational on how the medium has changed for the better.

[skeletonfumes]

Lone Wolf and Cub: Baby Cart in the Land of Demons (1973) Kenji Misumi

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Orochi

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Orochi is one of those miracles of film preservation: a century-old silent melodrama from a period in the history of cinema that precious few motion pictures survived (and certainly from which none escaped totally unscathed), cobbled together from elements recovered from various disparate sources—including, according to the opening credits, archival footage salvaged from a documentary produced in the 1970s—and resurrected for future generations, like an echo from the distant past. In that context, the quality of the movie itself is almost irrelevant; its mere existence is impressive enough.

The story is a tragedy in the tradition of Sophocles and Euripides: a series of miseries, woes, and indignities endured in rapid succession—a torrential deluge of suffering utterly devoid of even the pretense of hope to alleviate the central character’s anguish (indeed, the pervasive atmosphere of despair occasionally borders on absurdist comedy). Shakespeare’s Romeo may have been “fortune’s fool,” but the protagonist of this bleak cautionary tale is somehow less favored by the Fates. Despite his unwavering chivalry and virtue, low-ranking samurai Heisaburo Kuritomi’s stubborn pride, tactless honesty, and inflexible moral code (classic examples of what the Greeks called “hamartia”) are frequently mistaken for disrespect and insolence—feudal Japan, after all, had a rather distorted definition of “honor”: hypocrisy and corruption were easily disguised by the superficial façade of courtesy, propriety, and decorum; likewise, rank, wealth, and reputation were often wielded as weapons against the courageous few that dared to challenge the status quo. Thus is our disgraced, wretched hero a victim of his culture’s prejudices, unjustly persecuted by those that take advantage of their privilege and power to exploit the weak—and his gradual descent down the social ladder (tumbling first from devoted scholar to vagabond ronin, then plummeting to the level of reluctant outlaw, before finally ending up as a feral barbarian) is as spectacular to behold as it is excruciating to witness.

Buntaro Futagawa’s confident, workmanlike direction perfectly complements the relentless urgency of the narrative. Montages replete with dissolves, cross-fades, and match cuts expand and condense time and space, elegantly conveying Kuritomi’s deteriorating sanity. Sweeping, fluid camera movements gracefully track the action, capturing the frantic chase scenes and frenetic sword fights in long, seamless, unbroken takes. The exaggerated performances and stylized makeup and costuming evoke the artifice of kabuki theater, lending a welcome touch of surrealism to the otherwise oppressively naturalistic plot (a compelling juxtaposition). The 4K restoration recently screened at Metrograph was further enriched by a propulsive musical score (courtesy of composer Yasuaki Shimizu, who was in attendance) and energetic—albeit excessively expository—benshi narration (prerecorded, sadly; after experiencing Ichiro Kataoka’s magnificent presentation of A Diary of Chuji’s Travels at Japan Society last December, I would have preferred another live accompaniment—alas, c’est la vie).

Fiercely political, defiantly critical of authority, and unapologetically humanist in its sympathies (it was, in fact, censored upon its initial release due to its perceived subversive themes), Orochi feels as relevant today—i.e., in the “post-truth” era embodied by America’s current presidential administration—as it was a hundred years ago. What a delightful discovery!

[caycecayce]

Just released a new album! Nine tracks of electronic jazz-funk inspired by samurai movies and other of my special interests. Check it out and let me know what you think!

[kinasin]

Zatoichi TV Series

[alphachromeyayo]

Demon samurai going down in a blaze of glory type beat 👺🔥