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Siegfried Kracauers „Straßen in Berlin und anderswo“ wurde 2009 neu herausgegeben, 1964 ziemlich unbeachtet erschienen, lässt uns die Sammlung von Feuilletons (entstanden zwischen 1926 und 1933) Kracauer als wachen und auch wahr-träumenden Beobachter des Vorkriegsalltags kennen lernen. Es ist faszinierend, wie wir in diesem Buch auch kommendes Unheil, hinein oder herauslesen können, alles verdichtet im Text über die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, betitelt „Ansichtspostkarte“. Die noch unzerstörte neoromanische Kirche war eines der beliebtesten Berlin-Motive auf Karten, so beliebt wie heute das Foto von der Ruine und dem Kirchenneubau. Es ist ein geradezu prophetischer Text, der doch mit Vorurteilen beginnt, mit Architekturkritik und religiöser Überheblichkeit. Kracauer meint zu wissen, dass in diesem Haus Gott nicht wohnen und nicht angebetet werden kann. Wie in einer Vision ihrer Zerstörung wird aber die verachtete Kirche am Abend durch das Licht der benachbarten Kinos fast aufgelöst. Dieses Licht und seine profane Herkunft wird – quasi soziologisch – genauso kritisiert und verachtet wie der Kirchenbau. Doch spricht Kracauer diesem Lichtspiel eine Kraft der Verwandlung zu: den Ort zu einem „Hort des Vergossenen und Vergessenen“ gleichsam umzuschaffen. Es ist die Vision der Umwandlung in eine andere Art der Gedenkkirche, nicht zur Erinnerung an einen Kaiser, – obwohl sie seinen Namen weiterhin trägt – sondern in ein Mahnmal, die Vision einer da noch unbekannten Zukunft von Schuld, Zerstörung und Bewältigung. Ein Ort, an den Menschen heute wirklich auch kommen, um Tränen zu vergießen. Die Kerzenleuchter in der Gedenkhalle, dem ursprünglichen Eingangsbereich der alten Kirche, sind umlagert und füllen sich nach der Öffnung morgens im Nu mit angezündeten Lichtern.
„Die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche am Abend: wer sie, vom Bahnhof Zoo herkommend, erblickt – und der Großstädter erblickt sie überhaupt nur abends, da sie ihm tagsüber nichts weiter ist als ein riesenhaftes Verkehrshindernis ist -, dem wird ein merkwürdiges , ein beinahe überirdisches Schauspiel zuteil. Von der religiösen Baumasse strahlt ein sanftes Leuchten aus, das so beruhigend wie unerklärlich ist, eine Helle, die mit dem profanen rötlichen Schimmer der Bogenlampen nichts gemein hat, sondern sich fremd von der Umwelt abhebt und ihren Ursprung in den Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniswänden selber zu haben scheint.
Dringt der fahle Glanz aus dem Kircheninnern hervor? Aber dieser Kuppelbau, der Schwert und Altar miteinander verkuppelt, hat offensichtlich nur den einen Ehrgeiz: nach außen hin zu repräsentieren. Das trägt eine romanische Uniform und ist inwendig gar nicht zu benutzen. Das könnte mit Steinen ausgefüllt sein. Das beschwört die Erinnerung an Bezirkskommandos, Hofprediger und Kaiserparaden herauf.
Der geheimnisvolle Glanz ist in Wirklichkeit ein Reflex. Reflex der Lichtfassaden , die vom Ufapalast an bis über das Capitol hinaus die Nacht zum Tage machen, um aus dem Arbeitstag ihrer Besucher das Grauen der Nacht zu verscheuchen. Die haushohen gläsernen Lichtsäulen, die bunten überhellen Flächen der Kinoplakate und hinter den Spiegelscheiben der Wirrwarr gleißender Röhren unternehmen gemeinsam einen Angriff gegen die Müdigkeit, die zusammenbrechen will, gegen die Leere, die sich um jeden Preis entrinnen möchte. Sie brüllen, sie trommeln, sie hämmern mit der Brutalität von Irrsinnigen auf die Menge los. Ein hemmungsloses Funkeln, das keineswegs nur der Reklame dient, sondern darüber hinaus sich Selbstzweck ist. Aber es schwingt und kreist nicht selig wie die Lichtreklame in Paris, die ihr Genüge darin findet, aus Rot, Gelb und Lila ihre verschlungenen Muster zu bilden. Es ist viel eher ein flammender Protest gegen die Dunkelheit unseres Daseins, ein Protest der Lebensgier, der wie von selber in das verzweifelte Bekenntnis zum Vergnügungsbetrieb einmündet.
Der milde Glanz, der die Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche umfließt, ist der unbeabsichtigte Widerschein dieser finsteren Glut. Was vom Lichtspektakel abfällt und vom Betrieb ausgestoßen wird – öde Mauern bewahren es auf. Das Äußere der Kirche, die keine Kirche ist, wird zum Hort des Vergossenen und Vergessenen und strahlt so schön, als sei es das Allerheiligste selber. Heimliche Tränen finden so ihren Gedächtnisort. Nicht im verborgenen Innern – mitten auf der Straße wird das Unbeachtete, Unscheinbare gesammelt und verwandelt, bis es zu scheinen beginnt, für jeden ein Trost.“
Tatsächlich ertappe ich mich dabei, dass ich mich in diese Perspektive der Zwischenkriegszeit vor der großen Zerstörung gut versetzen kann. Als Zeitgenossin hätte ich wohl den neoromanischen Bau, der den Geist dieser Epoche nicht einzufangen vermag, – anders als die Turmruine! – auch geringschätzig betrachtet, Und einfach deshalb, weil die Kirche noch da war! Aber der Anblick einer alten Postkarte von 1925 „Berlin: Kurfürstendamm und Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche“ löst in mir tiefes Bedauern, Erinnerung an die Kriegszerstörung und den Wunsch nach Wiederherstellung aus. Es freut mich immer wieder, dass die Berliner sich den Plänen eines kompletten Abrisses widersetzten. So wurde das Fragment der Turmruine die überzeugende äußere Gestalt der Mahnung. Und in der Gedenkhalle „mitten unter uns“ steht der kriegsbeschädigte Christus, der früher auf dem Altar im Kirchenraum seinen Platz hatte, und heute in seiner versehrten einarmigen Gestalt gütig auch diejenigen begrüßt, die nur zufällig hereinstolpern. Manche Touristen , so erzählte mir eine Ehrenamtliche, fragen sie irritiert, ob sie sich in einer ehemals katholischen oder evangelischen Kirche befinden, da die Halle innen mit byzantinisch anmutenden Deckenmosaiken ausgestattet ist, auf denen man nicht sogleich die weltlichen Herrscher erkennt, die Hohenzollern. Vielleicht erst wenn eine Führung darauf hinweist, geht der Blick nach oben zum zentralen Christus Pantokrator, / Weltenherrscher an der Decke, auch beschädigt, oder – noch übersehbarer – zum Boden, wo ein den Drachen besiegender Erzengel Michael streitet.
Freitagmittag aber beim Coventrygebet, das 1959 formuliert wurde, und jede Bitte mit „Vater vergib“ beschließt, wird die Mahnung greifbar, denn die Gedächtniskirche hat das unglaubliche Privileg, eines der Nagelkreuze aus dieser von Nazideutschland 1940 bombardierten englischen Stadt erhalten zu haben, was mit der Verpflichtung zum Versöhnungsgebet verbunden ist.
So hat sich erfüllt, was in Kracauers Text in einer prophetischen Doppelbelichtung vorweggenommen wurde. Reimar Klein schreibt im Nachwort zu „Straßen in Berlin und anderswo“, die Kirche erinnere nicht mehr an die „Allianz von Thron und Altar“, sondern mahne „auf einmal zur Trauer über vergangenes Leiden.“

Bettina Klix

The Pass-Image-01

by Andrea Grunert

Koizumi Takashi’s (1) jidai geki (period film) The Pass: Last Days of the Samurai (Tōge: Saigō no samurai) is the adaptation of the novel Tōge written by Shiba Ryōtarō and published in 1968. Koizumi, a longtime assistant of Kurosawa Akira, directed After the Rain (Ame ageru, 1999), based on a screenplay written by Kurosawa who died in 1998. Recently, Koizumi has directed two other jidai geki: A Samurai Chronicle (Higurashi no ki, 2014) and Samurai Promise (Chiri tsubaki, 2018). Yakusho Kōji, who plays the leading role of Kawai Tsugunosuke in The Pass, also starred in A Samurai Chronicle. Several actors who have worked with Kurosawa appear in supporting roles: Nakadai Tatsuya (2), Kagawa Kyōko and Igawa Hisashi.
The action starts in November 1867 with the declaration of shogun Tokugawa Yoshinobu (Higashide Masahiro) to return governmental power to the Emperor (3). However, imperial loyalists from Satsuma, Chōchū and other domains opposed the idea of Yoshinobu’s leading role in a government council of the territorial lords. On 27 January 1868, Yoshinobu and his allies from various domains clashed with pro-imperialist forces at the Battle of Toba-Fushimi marking the beginning of the Boshin War (4). The protagonist of The Pass, Kawai Tsugunosuke (1827-1868) serves as the chamberlain of Makino Tadayuki (Nakadai), the lord of the Nagaoka domain (5). As a Tokugawa loyalist, Tadayuki continues to support Yoshinobu while he also expresses his respect to the emperor. His chamberlain follows a policy of “armed neutrality” and dreams of independence for his domain.
Numerous films and television series depict the final years of the Tokugawa shogunate, known as Bakumatsu, and the early Meiji period (1868-1912). The leading pro-imperialists of Chōshū, Satsuma and Tosa or the shinsengumi, an elite group of swordmen created by the shogunate, continue to inspire Japanese cinema (6). The Bakumatsu period and the first years of the Meiji era were times of great turmoil, making them particularly suitable for literary and cinematic productions seeking action, emotions, and reflections on political and cultural change.
In 1853, the arrival of American ships put an end to Japan’s isolationist policy (7). The Pass does not deal with the arrival of foreigners from America and Europe on the Japanese coast from 1853 onwards, but with internal struggles, specifically the threat posed by the army of Chōshū and Satsuma and their allies to Nagaoka. Kawai’s attempt to prevent war is unsuccessful due to his failure to consider the arrogance of the samurai from Chōshū and Satsuma, who refuse all negotiations (8).
The Pass contains numerous dialogue scenes, including political negotiations, idea exchange, strategy planning and private conversations. The placid rhythm is only interrupted by battle scenes in the final part. The film’s focus is on Kawai’s efforts to maintain peace while preparing his clan for an eventual war. In his first appearance, Kawai observes a shooting training. Later, he expresses his satisfaction with the Gatling gun (9) that he obtained for his clan and is interested in purchasing two or three more of these machine guns to compensate Nagaoka’s shortage of manpower.
Kawai is portrayed as a mild-mannered but strong-minded man who seeks to avoid conflict. In one scene, he confronts a group of young samurai from his clan who ambush him in a dark street. Although there is a brief fight in which Kawai demonstrates his physical strength, the conflict is primarily resolved through dialogue. However, the contradiction within the policy of “armed neutrality” is exposed in a conversation between Kawai and a maid who questions him: “You claim that conflict is wrong, yet you are constantly preparing for it.” The young woman’s remark brings to mind the dilemma often portrayed in jidai geki, where samurai live and die by the sword, yet many of them try – often in vain – not to kill.
The Pass briefly depicts the horror of war, exemplified by a scene in which Kawai encounters an elderly peasant holding his whimpering grandchild, still an infant, in front of his burning home. Yakusho’s exceptional acting conveys Kawai’s helplessness in the face of this atrocity. Kawai seamlessly fits into the lineage of samurai and ronin (masterless samurai) of Koizumi’s jidai geki which inherit Kurosawa Akira’s humanism. Kawai’s primary concern is for the people of his clan and their future. He acknowledges that the future entails change which in turn signifies the end of his own social class. In Samurai Promisse, the protagonist states that a samurai’s duty is to think of the people. Similarly, Kawai expresses a political idea: “The people are the nation. Dignitaries serve the people.”
Kawai is portrayed as a skilled strategist and honourable samurai, devoted to his lord and clan, and kind to the people. Despite this idealisation, he is depicted as a human being with many dimensions. The focus on his personal life, which reveals Kawai as a loving husband and highlights the strong bond between him and his wife Osuga (Matsu Takako), makes the character more relatable for modern audiences. The scenes showing the protagonist at home with his wife or enjoying life in a geisha house, to which he invites Osuga to accompany him, contribute to this rich human portrayal that avoids mere stereotyping.
The film showcases moments of great beauty through carefully composed and lit shots. The attention to detail is evident, particularly in the long shots where human presence is reduced to figurines. The colour palette predominantly features blues, greys, browns, pale greens and gold. The careful composition of each shot aligns with the slow rhythm of the narration and Japanese aesthetics, which also inspires the architecture.
The Pass, as well as Koizumi’s previous jidai geki including After the Rain, emphasises a classic narration and style. This is in contrast to more daring approaches to the genre, as demonstrated in Miike Takashi’s 13 Assassins (Jūsannin no shikaku, 2010) or Shimamura Yūji’s Crazy Samurai Musashi (Kyō samurai Musashi, 2020). The Pass does not criticise samurai ethics. Its protagonist is an example of an honourable loser who fought against an army of 50,000 with only 690 men. However, the film’s portrayal of the ideal samurai based on humanity challenges interpretations which value obedience and masculine strength. Moreover, Kawai’s vision is not restricted by the values of his own social class. He encourages a young man to pursue his desire to become a painter and emphasizes the importance of education in planning the future of his clan.
The Pass teaches us lessons about war and peace and about the importance of dialogue. It also highlights the conflict between the ideal of peace and the reality that war is always a possibility. It is precisely this dilemma that not only the Japanese have to face again today.

Notes

(1) The names are written in accordance with Japanese conventions, with the family name preceding the given name.
(2) Yakusho attended Mumei juku, an actor’s school founded by Nakadai and his late wife Miyazaki Yasuko (1931-1996).
(3) Following two and a half centuries of rule by the shoguns of the Tokugawa family, which gave the period from 1603 to 1868 its name – Tokugawa period (Tokugawa jidai) –, imperial rule was reinstated.
(4) The Boshin War took place from 1868 to 1869 and concluded with the defeat of the pro-Tokugawa forces.
(5) Nagaoka was a small domain located in Echigo province.
(6) See, for example, Ōtomo Keishi’s five Rurouni Kenshin-films (2012, 2014, 2021) and Harada Masato’s Baragaki: Unbroken Samurai (Moeyo Ken, 2021).
(7) During the first half of the 17th century, the Tokugawa regime implemented a policy of isolation, with strongly restricted relations and trade between Japan and foreign countries.
(8) The Nagaoka territory was one of the main battlefields in the Boshin War.
(9) The Gatling gun, an early machine gun with multiple barrels that fired rapidly, was invented in 1861 by the American Richard Jordan Gatling.

Grunert-Image-Musashi-01

by Andrea Grunert

Miyamoto Musashi (1), played by Sakaguchi Tak, is the main character in Shimomura Yūji’s Crazy Samurai Musashi (Kyō samurai Muasahi, Japan, 2020). Based on an idea by filmmaker Sono Sion, the film centres on the famous duel at Ichijōji Temple (2) between Musashi and samurai from the Yoshioka School of swordsmanship. Musashi (c. 1584-1645), a celebrated swordsman in Japanese history, is a blend of fact and fiction, much like d’Artagnan. Yoshikawa Eiji’s novel Musashi (Miyamoto Musashi), serialised between 1935 and 1939 in the newspaper Asahi Shinbun (3), has played a significant role in Musashi’s enduring popularity. Musashi is the protagonist of numerous films, some of which were inspired by Yoshikawa’s novel, such as Inagaki Hiroshi’s Samurai Trilogy (1954-1956; 4) and Tomu Uchida’s five films about Musashi produced between 1961 and 1965 (5). Mizoguchi Kenji also made a film about the famous swordfighter in 1944: Miyamoto Musashi. Mikami Yazuo’s Musashi (2019) is a more recent film. Musashi was also the main protagonist of a taiga drama in 2003 (6).
The duel at the Ichijōji Temple is a crucial episode in Yoshikawa’s novel as well as in the novel’s adaptations by Inagaki and Uchida and in Mikami’s Musashi. In Uchida’s and Mikami’s films, the number of Musashi’s opponents is given as about 70 (7). In Crazy Samurai Musashi, the number is given as 400! As a result, the film focuses heavily on swordfighting. There is almost no plot and only a few dialogues, but a series of fights between Musashi and a seemingly never-ending appearance of opponents he kills one after the other (8).
Before becoming a director, Shimomura worked primarily as an action director, stunt coordinator and stuntman. It is improbable, however, that his interest in fighting scenes and his expertise in the field are the sole reason for his choice. On the contrary, focusing on the fights is an effective means to reveal the very essence of the jidai geki and chanbara (9), as well as Musashi’s personality (10). This essence lies in the act of killing men. Inagaki and Uchida show the transformation of Musashi from a wild, uncontrolled youth to a disciplined swordsman. Musashi, the young peasant samurai (he is sixteen years old at the beginning of Yoshikawa’s novel) must learn how to harness his powers. He is presented with the chance to study and become a more accomplished swordsman, adhering to the samurai ideal of bu (martial valour) and bun (cultural achievement). After spending two and a half years in seclusion, reading and reflecting on his violent past, the protagonist embarks on a long journey to perfect his skills and master the sword and his mind. During his travels in Japan, he encounters several renowned warriors of his time, including Seijurō, the leader of the Yoshioka School whom he defeats, as well as Seijurō’s brother Denshichirō. At Ichijōji Temple, the Yoshiokas, led by thirteen-year-old son Matashichirō (11), attempt to regain their honour.
In Miyamoto Musashi, Mizoguchi already questions the motives of the protagonist. This Musashi (Kawarasaki Chōjūrō) denies fighting for personal reasons such as revenge, but Mizoguchi casts doubts on the purity of his acts. However, he depicts him as a master of the sword who is in full control of his body and mind. In Inagaki’s Sasaki Kojirō trilogy (1950/1951; 12), Musashi, played by Mifune Toshirō, is a wild, ruthless fighter who kills without hesitation. Mifune also plays Musashi in Inagaki’s Samurai Trilogy, where the famous swordsman exhibits more romantic traits (13). However, the three films do not completely obscure the ambiguity behind his violent actions. This ambiguity is further explored in Uchida’s Miyamoto Musashi: Ichijōji no kettō (1964), the fourth film in his series of five in which Musashi (Nakamura Kinnosuke) kills his opponents being in a frenzied state. At the end of the fight at Ichijōji Temple, Musashi, on the brink of madness, runs away as if escaping from his murderous self.
It is the contrast between the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment and the use of deadly force which is often depicted in films about Musashi as well as in other jidai geki. Many jidai geki of the 1960s feature samurai or rōnin who do not wish to kill, yet end up doing it anyway. This is the case in Okamoto Kihachi’s satirical Kill (Kiru, 1968) and in Gosha Hideo’s Goyōkin (1969). Also in Mikami’s Musashi, one of the characters states: “The only purpose of the sword is to kill people.” In this film, Musashi (Hosoda Yoshikiro) is a killing machine, driven by the idea of winning, despite his remorse after having killed a child at Ichijōji Temple.
In Crazy Samurai Musashi no guilt feeling is expressed. Violence is presented as a simple, unavoidable fact without being idealised or masked by notions of duty or honour. Musashi must kill to survive against the superior number of opponents. The film focuses on Musashi’s fighting without providing any explanation about his character or psychological approach. The lack of dialogue emphasises the importance of the action (14).
The film features three distinct locations in close proximity to the temple where the battle one against 400 occurs. The first is a small clearing in a forest, with Musashi facing a large number of opponents. The other two locations are the narrow streets of an abandoned village and the open space at the village entrance. These locations require varying camera positions and framing. Throughout the sword fighting sequences, Musashi is often filmed from behind, which conceals his emotions from the viewer. The fights filmed in the narrow streets of the abandoned village are shorter and more fragmented due to the visual closures created by the space.
Most shots are long shots, with close-ups and medium close-ups being infrequent. However, the fight sequences are presented with a variety of framing, camera movements, and the use of the handheld camera. For instance, in one duel sequence, the combatants are illuminated by lightning while the rolling thunder accompanies the sound of the fighting. The pouring rain blurs the contours of the setting, emphasising its desolation and adding to the sense of tragedy surrounding the violent action. The final moments of the fierce battle at Ichijōji Temple are shot from a bird’s-eye view, revealing Musashi surrounded by a multitude of adversaries.
The fight sequences depict Musashi taking brief breaks to drink water and recover, with his exhaustion palpable at times. Despite heavy panting, he quickly resumes his deadly business and ultimately fights with two swords, a technique attributed to the historical Musashi. The short pauses and infrequent dialogue, along with the soundtrack, contribute to the production’s originality. There are moments in which the only sound are the cries and the panting of the men and the clashing of the swords. The wind can also be heard and, in the aforementioned sequence, rain and thunder. The haunting sound of drums accompanies several moments of the fighting, while melodious tunes played on the piano and violins appear in others. The colour palette is dominated by shades of brown and grey and of blue, the colour of many of the kimonos worn by the combatants. The red of blood is the only vivid colour used in the long fighting scene. Musashi’s face and kimono are stained with blood; blood spurts from ruptured arteries. The limited colour palette and long takes emphasise the repetitive nature of the killings. Despite the abundance of action sequences, the film manages to avoid becoming tedious due to the sufficient visual and acoustic variations. However, repetition is also used to create tension. The numerous killing sequences can have an unsettling effect on the viewer. This feeling of anticipation and discomfort could lead to insight and deeper reflection on the sense or nonsense of violence and the code of honour of the samurai.
The series of fights takes place between two scenes containing comparatively more dialogue. In the film’s second scene, young Matashichirō (Kimura Kōsei) appears. He is a small child of approximately nine or ten years, an innocent boy who apparently does not fully understand the dangerous situation in which he is been placed by the elders of his clan. Matashichirō, smiling happily, is more interested in a white butterfly than the impending fighting, but Musashi’s sudden attack ends both the child’s and the butterfly’s life with a single stroke of his sword. The youthfulness and immature behaviour of the boy accentuate the horror of Musashi’s murderous action.
In Buddhism, white is a symbol of both purity and death. Combined with the delicate butterfly (15), it suggests the transience of life. In the final scene, which takes place seven years after the events at Ichijōji Temple, Musashi, now bearded and with his face covered in scars, is meditating beside a small stream when a white butterfly lands on the pommel of his sword. The butterfly is now associated with the warrior whose life is often short (16). Additionally, the butterfly remembers past events that continue to linger and seem to materialise in this very scene. Suddenly, Chūsuke (Yamazaki Kentō), a former student of the Yoshioka School, appears at the stream with a group of samurai. The short opening scene, which precedes the dialogue scene before the beginning of the battle, focuses on Chūsuke, practising with a wooden sword. Close-ups and medium close-ups of the young man in an interior are alternated with shots of a one-on-one duel taking place in a landscape. The fight is filmed in close-ups and extreme close ups, fragmenting bodies and objects. The combatant’s faces remain indistinct. It can be presumed that these shots are memory images showing Musashi who fights against one of the Yoshioka brothers. The dreamlike quality of these flashbacks is underlined by black-and-white photography. In the following scene, Chūsuke expresses his ardent desire to take revenge for the deaths of Seijurō and Denshichirō, providing an explanation to the previous shots. Seven years after the battle at Ichijōji Temple, Chūsuke challenges Musashi, driven by his desire for revenge fueled by the mass killing. Chūsuke appeals to his opponent’s sense of duty and honour as a samurai. Musashi dismisses these concepts as meaningless and declares that his only goal is to win. He then proceeds to kill Chūsuke’s men one by one, this time using a sickle instead of a sword. Throughout the short fight, Chūsuke is mesmerised by Musashi’s incredible swordsmanship.
Yoshikawa’s novel and the films made about Musashi present his life as a series of fights. However, none of them consist solely on fighting scenes. Crazy Samurai Musashi portrays violence in a concentrated and unadorned form, illustrating Musashi’s bitter realization at the end of Uchida’s Shinken shōbu (1971), the sixth film added to his series of five films on Musashi: “The sword is finally nothing else then violence.” (17)
Crazy Samurai Musashi reveals the ultimate consequences of violence as an inherent element of jidai geki. Shimomura’s film, which goes far beyond the works of his predecessors, presents a radical vision of the violence at the heart of the samurai ethos. The film does not include reflections on ethics, the search for the meaning of life, or honour and nobility. The only question is whether to kill or be killed. Musashi is portrayed as a killing machine who attacks with a frenzy. However, Shimomura also depicts the protagonist as an individual trapped in a cycle of violence that he strives to overcome and survive (18). The film ends with Chūsuke asking: “What are you?” Musahsi’s response is : “I am…”, followed by the words “crazy samurai Musashi” written in red kanji over a black background. Although Musashi’s actions may seem to be driven by obsession and insanity, it is important to note that they are rooted in an ethical system strongly asscoiated with violence. This system has inspired an entire cinematic genre. In a broader sense, Shimomura’s film reveals humanity’s persistent atavism.

Notes
(1) The names are written according to Japanese conventions in the order of family name followed by given name.
(2) The Ichijōji Temple is a Buddhist temple situated in northeastern Kyoto. The duel marked the culmination of a long-standing feud between Musashi’s family and the Yoshioka family.
(3) The novel was serialised in 1013 episodes from 23 August 1935 to 11 July 1939.
(4) Samurai I : Musashi Miyamoto (Miyamoto Musashi, 1954), Samurai II : Duel at Ichijōji Temple (Zoku Miyamoto Musashi : Ichijōji no kettō, 1955) and Samurai III: Duel at Ganryū-jima (Miyamoto Musashi kanketsuhen: Kettō Ganryū-jima, 1956).
(5) Miyamoto Musashi (1961), Miyamoto Musashi : Han’nyazaka no kettō (1962), Miyamoto Musashi : Nitōryu kaigen (1963), Miyamoto Musashi : Ichijōji no kettō (1964) and Miyamoto Musashi : Ganryū-jima no kettō (1965).

(6) Ichikawa Ebizō XI played Musashi in the taiga drama Musashi, broadcast in 2003. Taiga dramas are year-long historical television dramas, produced by NHK (Japan Broadcast Corporation).

(7) According to the novel and films, a great number of students of the Yoshioka School as well as mercenaries hired by the Yoshioka clan were hidden near the temple to kill Musashi in order to save the reputation of the once famous swordsman school, whose existence was in jeopardy after Musashi’s subsequent victories.

(8) The fight scene at Ichijōji Temple lasts for around 118 minutes in the 131-minute film.

(9) The term jidai geki refers to historical films (and other historical narratives), particularly those set in the Tokugawa period (1603-1868), while chanbara is a term for sword fighting films.

(10) However, viewers are free to enjoy the sword fighting.

(11) In Shimomura’s film, the boy involved in the scene is only referred to by name. However, in Yoshikawa’s novel, he is called Genjirō and is identified as the eldest son of Yoshioka Genzaemon, who is an uncle of Seijirō and Denshichirō. Other authors refer to the boy as Seijurō’s son and use the name Matashichirō. See Alexander Bennett, The Complete Musashi: The Book of Five Fings and Other Works, Rutland, Vermont, Tuttle Publishing, 2018, p. 31.

(12) The trilogy comprises of the following films: Sasaki Kojirō (1950), Zoku Sasaki Kojirō (1951) and Kanketsu Sasaki Kojirō: Ganryū-jima no kettō (1951). Sasaki Kojirō (ca. 1575-1612) was a renowned swordsman and Musashi’s rival. He was killed by Musashi in a duel on a small island, which was later named Ganryū-jima after Kojirō’s nickname Ganryū.

(13) In Samurai II: Duel at Ichijōji Temple (1955), Inagaki does not mention the killing of the boy from the Yoshioka clan. The omission aligns with the portrayal of Musashi as a man who does not hesitate to kill but who also exhibits great dignity. For such a character, taking the life of a child seems inconceivable.

(14) There are a few occasions where language is used. The second scene, lasting approximately six minutes, comprises extended dialogue between members of the Yoshioka School. During the long fight scene, two of the Yoshioka students engage in a heated argument. Three or four of Musashi’s opponents introduce themselves by name before facing him in a one-on-one fight. Musashi occasionally speaks to himself, questioning the number of men the Yoshiokas have and making statements such as “It’s getting tough” or “I’ll kill them all.”

(15) Butterflies are mentioned several times in Yoshikawa’s novel. For example, he writes: “To the universe, the death of a man could have any more signification than that of a butterfly, but in the realm of mankind, a single death could affect everything, for the better or worse.” (Yoshikawa Eiji, Musashi, New York, Kodansha USA, 2012, p. 522).

(16) The cherry blossom is traditionally associated with the samurai, symbolising the transience of life.

(17) In Shinken shōbu, Uchida focuses on a famous episode from Yoshikawa’s novel: Musashi’s duel with Baiken, a master with a sickle and notorious robber. Uchida’s film concludes with a lengthy duel scene between Musashi and Baiken, played by Mikuni Rentarō. However, unlike Shimomura, Uchida’s primary focus is on the relationship between the two main characters. He highlights their conversations and emotions, with the duel being just one of many scenes, albeit a very long one. In Crazy Samurai Musashi, Baiken is one of the fighters who has joined the Yoshioka samurai and who faces Musashi in a one-on-one duel.

(18) Despite his pursuit of higher awareness, Musashi cannot be considered a clear-cut hero, as his ardent desire to win conflicts with the values of honour and duty associated with samurai. As Alexander Bennett put it: “As much as Musashi is revered as a supreme warrior by the majority of Japanese, he is also reviled by some as representing the antithesis of the Way of the samurai. A common criticism is his alleged use of cowardly delaying tactics to irritate his opponents and to win by any means possible, however, dishonourable.” (Bennett, op. cit., p. 20). This ambiguity makes Musashi an especially intriguing case for questioning the idealised Way of the samurai.