Witness the Unseen Turn Visible: Kiyoshi Kurosawa Discusses The Samurai and the Prisoner

      In his 1958 essay “Is It a Breakthrough? (The Modernists of Japanese Film),” Nagisa Ōshima described the jidaigeki, or period drama, as being “deeply connected to the consciousness of the Japanese people.” While the genre has not diminished in subsequent decades, its ongoing struggle to remain relevant highlights the need for modernity—films made in 2026 inherently differ in look and feel from those produced in 1958, despite mirroring similar settings and eras.

      This context makes Kiyoshi Kurosawa's film The Samurai and the Prisoner (released in Japan as Kokurōjō, reflecting the title of Honobu Yonezawa’s novel) particularly remarkable, as it adeptly merges the significant gravitas of a traditional jidaigeki with the director’s distinctly modern style. After over 40 films in his career spanning more than four decades, Kurosawa has never created anything exactly like this: a perfect blend of fidelity to the genre and a subversive twist.

      The enthusiastic reception at Cannes and the strong box-office performance in the U.S. will attest to the impact of this creative approach. As Kurosawa begins his American promotional tour, I had the opportunity to converse with him at the Criterion office about the intricate and thought-provoking aspects of this project.

      I am especially grateful to Monika Uchiyama for providing on-site interpretation.

      The Film Stage: I’d like to begin with a broad question, which we can narrow down later. I've always been intrigued by the representation of wind as a spiritual element in your films: the closing scene of Tokyo Sonata, where the breeze moves through the curtains as the boy plays the piano, stopping when he does; the final shot of Suit Yourself or Shoot Yourself indicating the characters’ transformation; and the moments in Samurai where wind stirs during significant events, especially at the conclusion. I might have already answered my inquiry through these examples, but I would love for you to share your thoughts on the role of wind in your work.

      Kiyoshi Kurosawa: First, I must express my surprise and happiness that you’ve seen such a lesser-known work of mine, like Suit Yourself or Shoot Yourself. It's quite unexpected that it has reached any international viewers since not many Japanese people have seen it. Explaining the significance of wind in my films is challenging, much like asking what wind represents in film in general. Wind enables us to visualize the air's movement; it reveals the unseen by causing objects to move. We perceive both the wind and the items it influences.

      This idea of making the invisible visible through movement resonates with cinematic expression itself. Therefore, I don’t view wind as inherently spiritual, but instead see cinema as a means to capture that essence—wind serves almost as a metaphor for cinematic expression.

      I've never encountered a film like yours. You've mentioned that contemporary jidaigeki have evolved, and this was intended to be an “extremely orthodox” rendition. While I believe you achieved that, your formal sensibility aligns closely with your previous works, which are quite modern. As such, Samurai represents an unusual fusion of distinct cinematic styles. I hope this isn't disappointing; it actually makes the film more captivating. Did you find your instincts conflicting with the “extremely orthodox” approach?

      I agree with your observation regarding the blend of traditional and modern elements. As you pointed out, it was my strong intent to recreate a very traditional jidaigeki style reminiscent of the 1950s and 60s. However, since I am directing and collaborating with contemporary actors, I can’t create a film identical to those made by Akira Kurosawa or Kenji Mizoguchi. Many of my “habits,” so to speak, seeped unintentionally into the film.

      While it would be lovely to refer to them as “unique characteristics,” I tend to see them more as personal quirks that manifest in my films. Of course, a contemporary vibe emerges from the performances of our cast, and no matter their efforts, they cannot replicate someone like Mifune Toshiro. Hence, elements of modernity are bound to infiltrate even the jidaigeki I’ve crafted, but I wouldn’t claim that this was a deliberate choice; rather, I hope viewers will uncover it for themselves.

      Your regular production designer is Norifumi Ataka, with whom you typically scout locations rather than construct sets. In Samurai, you collaborated with Tetsuo Harada, who possesses an extensive background in jidaigeki. I understand you aimed to establish a sense of cohesion through this recreation of a bygone era. How did the involvement of a new production designer and this objective influence your image-making process?

      Since Kokurōjō is a jidaigeki, we filmed many scenes at Shochiku Studios in Kyoto, known for other jidaigeki productions, as well as at real locations throughout Kyoto, including temples