“Why do you think samurai exist? (…) giving and taking life at war. Time has passed and war is over but the samurai remain. I’d say that’s the root of their troubles.”

Director Hirokazu Kore-eda needs no introduction: he is one of the celebrated masters of contemporary humanistic drama. For many, the presence of a period drama within his oeuvre will seem odd, yet Kore-eda turns the period-context, like so many directors before him, into a thematical space to critique the present, to put certain societal currents into questions.

As Kore-eda has mentioned in various interviews, the idea for a period-drama materialized in the aftermath of 9/11, as discourses around retaliatory violence and revenge gained political and societal prominence around the world. With his film, he stages, in a light-hearted way, his answer to the question whether different responses to the events than revenge were possible. With this thematical stance, Kore-eda inscribes himself, consciously or unconsciously, into the humanistic and deconstructive tradition of pre-war director Sadao Yamanaka.

Kore-eda’s narrative begins in 1702, one year after Lord Akou, having assaulted nobleman Kira with his sword, committed hara-kiri and his vassals scattered as ronin, disguising themselves as merchants and doctors, throughout the lands.

In a poor neighbourhood (nagaya) in Edo, Jirozaemon Hirano (Teruyuki Kagawa) awaits his neighbour Sozaemon “Soza” Aoki (Junichi Okada). As Soza exits his dwelling, Jirozaemon tells him that if his revenge plan works, he’ll be a rich and respected man. He, on the other hand, has to turn to more mundane ways, like petitioning a relative, whom he did a favour in the past, in the hope of getting an official post at Edo castle. As Jirozeamon sets off to the castle, Soza is greeted by Sadashiro (Arata Furuta), who is something of a freeloader, who informs him that he has finally found his enemy. Soza strangely does not welcome the news, rather he responds with a sense of detachment and a sliver of annoyance.

Hana – the Tale of a Reluctant Samurai opens by sketching out, in a rather elegant manner, a difference between Osae (Rie Miyazawa), a young widow who lives across Soza with her son Shinnosuke (Shohei Tanaka), and the others in the area. While Osae breathes out a kind of contentment – the ability to find some pleasure in her existence, others within this dilapidated dump feel haunted by their wish to escape their state of lack – e.g. lack of status, lack of family, lack of money, have fallen victim to depressive inhibition, or present themselves as verbally critical of their position of exploitation.

The spectator is immediately faced with a question: is Osae’s contentment a meek acceptance of poverty as her fate or a sign that she, despite her situation, refuses the reality of lack infest her subjectivity and determine her emotional state? It is evident given the way the narrative unfolds that, for Kore-eda, the latter is true (General-note 1).

The sense of detachment and the sliver of annoyance by which Soza responds to Sadashiro’s news of having found his target demands our attention. While we, as spectator, easily assume that his disinterested response – “Mata desu ka [Not again?]” – is due to him not believing his target has been found – Sadashiro’s candidate is, indeed, not the right man, Soza’s reluctant coldness can also be seen as alluding to a conflict between himself, as subject, and the weight of the duty – enact revenge and fulfill his father’s dying wish – that he must perform to (fleetingly) accede to the ideal ego of the samurai. He is, in other words, caught between the imposed need to enact his societal symbolic position as samurai (giri) and his wish to leave its idealistic moral commands behind (ninjo).

Soza actually exposes his inner conflict within those moments that he tries to dress himself with his samurai-ego on the societal stage. Early on in the narrative, Sodekichio (Ryo Kase) puts Soza’s phallic position, as organized by the societal field, into question – “I bet, you’ve never killed a soul. Just like you’ve never used that sword against anyone. How the hell are you ever going to avenge your father?” While Soza answers with a beautiful idealization worthy of a sword-wielding samurai – “I’ll strike him with all my might and if that’s not sufficient, I’ll take my life gracefully just like cherry blossoms. That’s the warrior’s way of death. This, my father taught me”, his final enunciation concerning his father installs a subtle distance between himself and said ideal. What Soza actually tells his into interlocutor and the spectator is merely that he knows how an ideal samurai must act; he does not express any kind of subjective commitment to the act of revenge or to hara-kiri.

There are many moments within the narrative where Soza puts on a phallic exhibition – of performing the phallic samurai. Some are subtle, like when Soza tells Shinnosuke, who asked him what he prayed for, that he prayed for finding his enemy soon or the idealized signifiers concerning a samurai’s death he turns to tell Kichiemon Terasaka (Susumu Terajima), a ronin, about his father’s death – a derailed discussion during a game of go. Some are anything but subtle, like when he lets Sodekichi get under his skin – show me your castration – and tries to materializes himself as phallic samurai in a bout of fighting, only to be trashed by him who is unbound by moralistic fighting etiquette – he is a hopeless swordsman, a castrated samurai, a phallic imposture.

The spectator can easily surmise that Soza’s choice to become a teacher – teaching writing and the abacus to those ‘stuck’ within this impoverished area in Edo, ‘stuck’ within this socio-economical status, subtly intensifies his unconscious conflict. His choice to constructively inscribe himself, as a learned man, an educated samurai, within the fabric of this impoverished area and form fruitful bonds with those around him installs a kind of unconscious defence against the duty that hangs over his head and rests heavily on his shoulders – a momentary flight for what, according to the ideals of the samurai, must be done (Narra-note 1). He realizes, in his own way, a similar position within his societal context as Osae: a position of contentment.

The way his plight unconsciously troubles him and pushes him into a position of not being able to enact his moral duty towards his deceased father is re-emphasized by the contrast between him and Onodera (Yoshio Harada), a ronin who, disguised a doctor, lies in wait with his fellow ronin to enact revenge on the retired Kira by targeting chief retainer Oishi. Their whole existence, their ability to feel they are symbolically samurai, is encapsulated by their singular focus on enacting vengeance – They intoxicate themselves with vengeance as it is the only way to give sense to their symbolic nomination, to being samurai. It is this singular focus, the rock upon which they stabilize their ‘disguised’ ego, that compels Onodera to react with disgust upon witnessing the rehearsals for the spring play – featuring Soza – in front of his clinic: “Mocking the warrior’s sacred vengeance. They won’t get away with this” (Narra-note 2). The same contrasts manifest itself when Soza returns, together with his uncle, to his clan’s home: the poetry surrounding the way of the samurai – life and death through clashing swords – reveals itself as a brutal violation of a sense of humanity, of the appreciation of life in its various dimensions. The poetry of the samurai is a cultural and idealistic facade that allows the samurai-subject to evade the confrontation with the brutal reality of the societal system, of the human tragedies and traumatic consequences produced by its very on moralistic idealisations.

However, as Soza feels obliged to carry out what within the poetic ideals of way of the sword could be called his moral plight, his filial duty and piety – a plight given to him by his father on his deathbed, he slowly forces himself into a position where he must resolve the conflict that unconsciously plagues him. He inaugurates this path of confrontation by locating his enemy Jubei Kanazawa (Tadanobu Asano) and discovering his premature familial happiness (Thema-note 1).

The composition of Hana – the Tale of a Reluctant Samurai is quite minimalistic – a restraint concatenation of static shots with here and there a dynamic shot thrown in. Kore-eda’s reliance on static shots does not only enable him to deliver some truly nice shot-compositions and play with the geometry of the Edo-architecture, but emphasize what, in Kore-eda’s vision, counts the most: the subjectivity of his characters and the fabric of their interactions. He invites us to breathe in, what we could call, the humanity of those within this dire socio-economical situation.

Yet, the spectator will also notice that Kore-eda, despite delivering realistic frame with naturalistic lighting and naturalistic sound-scapes, shows off his more playful side. This is not only evident in the light-hearted musical accompaniment but also the presence of visual decorative moments within his composition – a but of slow-motion, some playful shot-transitions.

Hana – the Tale of a Reluctant Samurai sees Hirokazu Kore-eda bringing the pre-war humanistic period-drama into the present, utilizing the Genroku period and the tale of the Chūshingura as a frame to put the societal discourse concerning a moralistic call of violence radically into question. While Kore-eda’s humanistic satirical drama cannot be counted among his best, he still delivers an experience that, by exploring the value of taking revenge, leaves the spectator with a warm feeling and the possibility to ethically revalue the little joys of life and of human connection.

Notes

General-note 1: The spectator will easily perceive that Kore-eda explores the same dynamic of contentment within his celebrated narrative Shoplifters (2018) without – and this is important – avoiding to put the societal system critically into question.

Narra-note 1: What compels him to establish himself as teacher within this area is the blossoming of a romantic interest in Osae. Or, to put it more poetically, Osae makes him cling to the dimension of life.

Narra-note 2: Soza’s performance in the spring play is comical in a certain sense as it echoes the performative dimension of his ego, as defined by his symbolic position within the societal hierarchy.

This is even more apparent in the finale, which turns around a phallic performance that aims to deceive and generate constructive consequences, a performance that, despite the best intentions, does culminate in a vengeful death and causes an unexpected transformation in Soza’s symbolic standing.

Narra-note 3: Onobu, despite being able to find moments of contentment, is staged as burdened by the unrecruited love for Sodekichi as well as the familial struggles, her father’s refusal to go to the fish market to earn some money.

Thema-note 1: Within his narrative, Kore-eda also touches upon the role of latrine cleaners and the lucratively of such business within Edo society, the widespread nature of homosexual interactions among the samurai class, cases of (attempted) prolicide, the revengeful exploits of samurai as business opportunities for the lower classes, and the power (and powerlessness) of the landlord over his tenants.