Review: The Samurai and the Prisoner

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

The Samurai and the Prisoner is being marketed as a sort of Sengoku era whodunnit, with many of the cited pull quotes comparing it (favorably) to Knives Out, Columbo, and Agatha Christie. While these descriptions aren’t entirely inaccurate, they are also somewhat reductive and misleading. Although the movie certainly occupies the basic shape of the genre, the familiar tropes and conventions are merely skeletal, providing support for a contemplation on far more profound themes.

Adopting an anthology structure, writer-director Kiyoshi Kurosawa divides the story into four loosely interconnected chapters—each unfolding over the course of a different season and revolving around a self-contained “locked room” mystery. The true conflict, however, lurks (like an invading army) on the periphery of the immediate plot. The setting is a besieged castle during a period of bloody civil war and political unrest; as the titular lord of the domain races against time to discover how and why seemingly unrelated acts of violence repeatedly circumvent his “impenetrable” fortifications, his allies and resources gradually dwindle, increasingly threatening his already precarious position of authority. He is, after all, an outsider in his own land (having won his territory by conquest), surrounded by natives that pledge their fealty but nevertheless remain skeptical of his unorthodox methods and attitudes. Disillusioned by the blatant hypocrisy and arbitrary cruelty of the ruling class (he considers the “traditional” values associated with bushido—blind faith, unexamined loyalty, deference to rank within a rigid hierarchy—to be little more than blunt weapons wielded by unworthy tyrants), but equally fearful that his subordinates are conspiring against him, our protagonist is a thoroughly compelling study of a man desperately clinging to his personal ideals as the old social order—the very system that elevated him, which he ironically now opposes—rapidly deteriorates.

As expected of Kurosawa, the style is absolutely sublime. Suffocatingly claustrophobic compositions externalize the psychological turmoil of the characters inhabiting the frame, visually depicting abstract subtext in deliciously concrete detail. Long, lingering, uninterrupted shots punctuated by eerily fluid camerawork give the performances ample room to breathe, allowing suspense, rhythm, and tone to develop organically rather than relying on excessive editing. The sound design is likewise exceptional, sculpting a palpably foreboding atmosphere from the pervasive clatter of arms and armor, the rattle of dungeon chains, and the percussive thud of bare feet on wooden floorboards. Some critics have argued that The Samurai and the Prisoner represents a departure from the auteur’s previous efforts due to its atypical subject matter, but I disagree with this assessment; his confident command of craft and cinematic language distinguishes it as an evolution of his usual approach—the first step in a new stage of his career. Regardless of where you stand on that particular debate, it is undeniable that the film is a towering triumph—and a definite contender for the year’s best picture.