by Andrea Grunert

During his distinguished career as a director, Masato Harada (1949-2025), who passed away in December 2025, explored the pervasive nature of systemic corruption in Japanese society. Films such as Kamikaze Taxi (Fukushu no Tenshi, 1995), Spellbound (Jukaku, 1999), Killing for the Prosecution (Kensatsu gawa no zainin, 2018), Hell Dogs (Heru doggusu, 2022) and Bad Lands (2023) examine the complex intersections of politics, economics and crime, highlighting the often-blurred boundaries between these spheres. This article takes a closer look at Killing for the Prosecution, revealing the blurred lines between justice and crime.

A tale of revenge
In Killing for the Prosecution, the protagonist Takeshi Mogami (Takuya Kimura), is introduced as a public prosecutor who espouses an ideal of justice grounded in the pursuit of truth. During a law seminar, he asserts that a prosecutor who becomes committed to a narrative of his own making ceases to serve the law and instead undermines it. Several years later, Keiichirō Ōkino (Kazunari Ninomiya), one of the seminar attendees, joins Mogami at the Criminal Investigation Division. As Ōkino works alongside the man he admires, he gradually encounters a more ambiguous and troubling side of his mentor, prompting him to question both Mogami’s integrity and the ideals of justice he once championed.
One of the suspects in the murder case of an elderly couple is Shigeo Matsukura (Yoshi Sakō). It was revealed to the police that he and his older brother, who were both adolescents at the time, had committed the abduction and rape of a young girl. In an effort to conceal their crime, the perpetrators subsequently took the lives of their victim, in addition to the victim’s parents and brother. The sixteen-year-old Matsukura, was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment while his brother took his own life. Furthermore, Matsukura was the primary suspect in a separate murder case that occurred sixteen years prior to the murder of the elderly couple. On this occasion, the victim was a young student named Yuki, who was killed in her final year in middle school [That means that she was around fifteen years old, when she died; author’s note]. As Matsukura had remained stubbornly silent throughout all the interrogations, it had not been possible to prove his guilt. He had to be released and Yuki’s murder remained unsolved. Mogami is convinced that Matsukura is responsible for Yuki’s death. Yet he has a much deeper reason to convict the suspect. Brief flashbacks reveal that Mogami was friends with Yuki, and indeed was in love with her.
It is evident that Mogami swiftly directs the investigative efforts towards Matsukura. He wants the man found guilty at any cost. Especially since, during an interrogation conducted by Ōkino – which Mogami is overhearing from another room –, Matsukura confesses to Yuki’s murder. He even relishes revealing his guilt, because he knows that he can no longer be convicted of this crime, as the statute of limitations had expired [It was only in 2010 that a law was passed removing the statute of limitations for capital offence; author’s note]. The situation presents a dilemma for Mogami, who is becoming increasingly obsessed with Matsukura whom he wants to charge and convict for the latest murder. When another suspect emerges and the police begins to focus their attention on him, Mogami resorts to extreme measures, taking the law into his own hands.
Revenge is a universal theme and a persistent feature of Japanese culture. Its best-known example is arguably the story of the 47 ronin who avenged their lord’s honour in the early eighteenth century. In the annals of cinematic history, Akira Kurosawa’s seminal work The Bad Sleep Well (Warui yatsu hodo yoku nemuru, 1960) serves as another poignant example. Kurosawa’s film offers a compelling narrative that portrays self-justice as a desperate measure within a profoundly corrupt system, where the intertwined forces of politics, industry and organised crime perpetuate a pervasive sense of despair and hopelessness. In Harada’s Hell Dogs, the protagonist Gorō Idezuki (Jun’ichi Okada) is a police officer who has infiltrated a yakuza clan. The setting is the world of organised crime which is depicted as a violent underworld working under the disguise of a modern enterprise operating at a global level. In Akio Fukamachi’s novel Takenōchi-ke, the source material on which Hell Dogs is based, the emphasis is placed on Gorō’s identity crisis, his growing identification with his yakuza role and his disgust for the violent and not always legal methods of his superior at the police which come close to self-justice. In contrast, Harada shifts the focus on the ardent desire of revenge which determine Gorō’s actions. The protagonist is depicted as a solitary figure, embodying the archetype of the lone wolf hero. However, this persona is juxtaposed with the character’s profound personal trauma, stemming from his professional failure as a police officer to save the life of a woman he had a romantic attachment to. The police unit that recruited Gorō as an undercover agent operates covertly as a shadow organisation with the objective of targeting organised crime and dismantling the yakuza clan. It is evident that the objective of the mission is to perpetrate murder, a blatant contravention of the law. Hell Dogs provides no explanation as to who commissioned or controls the secret unit. The mere existence of such phenomena is indicative of systemic weakness within the legal system and wider society.

Beyond the law
Mogami is culpable of violating the law, fabricating evidence, collaborating with the yakuza and ultimately taking a life in order to bring Yuki’s murderer before the courts and secure a death sentence. Although his actions appear motivated by a desire for vengeance, they are nevertheless characterised by careful deliberation. While the film depicts him as committing a grave act of violence, it simultaneously cultivates ambiguity regarding the extent of his moral corruption, leaving open the question of whether he is as cold-blooded as his actions imply. As he unloads the gun he intends to use to kill his victim, he experiences a bout of vomiting. His ambiguity is also expressed by the trauma he suffers from after Yuki’s the murder. He seems to live primarily for his job. A few brief scenes depicting his private life make it clear that he is in a loveless marriage. In this respect, the character conforms to genre conventions. Nevertheless, there are also scenes that show Mogami in a private setting with friends and colleagues, which gives Takuya Kimura the opportunity to demonstrate a wider range of expressions – an opportunity he makes compelling use of.
Mogami has constructed a narrative of Matsukura’s guilt and is determined to uphold it at any cost. This determination leads him to manipulate those working alongside him, including Ōkino. The younger man remains committed to an idealised conception of justice, one that Mogami himself had promoted in the past. In response to a colleague’s remark that justice is a “hypocritical fantasy,” Ōkino replies: “I’m carrying the torch for Mogami’s justice.” But as he gradually realises that his superior’s actions are driven by a desire for retribution, he begins to question his behaviour. He reminds Mogami of his own words: “A prosecutor who is obsessed with his own idea of justice becomes a criminal.”

Law and justice in a broader context
While Ōkino remains committed to the truth and vents his frustration, Mogami defends his version of events: “Times change. So does justice. Today you must be obsessed with justice to be strong.” Above all, however, he justifies himself by emphasising his importance within the system as a public prosecutor who combats corruption. Alongside the revenge story, Harada develops a subplot in which Kazuki Tanno (Takehiro Hira), Mogami‘s friend since middle school, has been arrested for bribery. It turns out that Tanno is a victim of the scheming of his fabulously wealthy father-in-law, a politician tipped to be the next prime minister.
Harada takes a critical look at a political system that is rotten to the core. Mogami can only carry out his revenge with the help of the yakuza. In Killing for the Prosecution, the connection between the legal system and organised crime is driven by personal motives. These, however, suggest deeper and more complex connections between justice and crime. The relationship between Mogami and Suwabe (Yutaka Matsushige), a fixer for the yakuza he asks for help, is explained in the frame of Japan’s wartime past. Mogami’s grandfather and Suwabe’s father were both survivors of the 1944 Battle of Imphal, a devastating defeat for the Japanese Imperial Army. Suwabe expresses an lifelong gratitude to Mogami and his family, because Mogami’s grandfather rescued his father during the campaign. In a dream, Mogami is haunted by visions of the Japanese Imperial army’s harrowing retreat, which claimed the lives of thousands of soldiers. He sees himself surrounded by men dying from starvation and disease, caught amid the suffering and the chaos of the withdrawal.
The wartime subject is indicative of an unresolved past that continues to exert a profound influence of Japanese society, transcending temporal boundaries and spanning multiple generations. The one-sided portrayal of Japanese soldiers as victims can be viewed critically. Nevertheless, the collective memory of a nation that has sacrificed its own people – soldiers and civilians alike – is also an important factor that contributed to the rise of pacifism in post-war Japan. Pacifism is increasingly under threat in twenty-first century Japan. In his film, Harada explores the close connection between the legacy of World War II and contemporary anxieties surrounding remilitarisation. While Tanno’s father-in-law supports remilitarisation, Mogami maintains that prosecutors such as himself are essential to preventing both remilitarisation and the emergence of a new dictatorship.
The wartime experience can also be interpreted as a metaphor for the state of the legal system. The Battle of Imphal is regarded as one of Japan’s most poorly planned wartime operations. Harada draws a parallel between the inflexibility of many Japanese military commanders, who sacrificed their soldiers during the war, and Japan’s contemporary legal system, which is portrayed as rigid and deeply flawed. However, Mogami’s actions contradict his intentions, evoking the dogmatic authoritarianism that afflicted his grandfather’s generation.

Order and chaos
Although Ōkino does not accept Mogami’s justifications, the latter’s crimes suddenly seem trivial compared to those of the wartime Japanese military government or the machinations of certain politicians. However, the film does not descend into populist discourse, partly because it focuses on the moral dilemma that both Mogami and Ōkino have to face.
Although they are only addressed superficially, wartime history, re-militarisation and corruption at the top of the political hierarchy are elegantly integrated into the narrative. This also applies to the brief sequence in which demonstrators campaigning for a driving ban on elderly road users can be seen in the background. Later, when an elderly driver appears to have caused a fatal accident, the political campaign takes on an unexpected resonance in the narrative. Furthermore, Harada, an admirer of classic Hollywood cinema and jazz music, elegantly incorporates a song by Dinah Washington, a singer that Yuki liked, into the soundtrack. The term “elegant” is also applicable to the visual design which is characterised by opulent framing, lighting and camera movements. Numerous shots of modern towers, an architecture dominated by glass and metal, linearity and shades of grey and blue suggest a world in order. These shots are in stark contrast with the carnivalesque atmosphere in a narrow street where street artists perform and people feast. Not less chaotic is the party sequence in which Matsukura and his lawyers celebrate their success, Matsukura having been found not guilty in the murder case of the elderly couple. Tanno’s funeral service seems just as much as a farce, with professional mourners moving rhythmically in front of a huge portrait of the deceased who has been sacrificed by his father-in-law.

Critical views on the legal system
Harada’s film is divided into three chapters, with each chapter being represented by a tarot card. The initial chapters bear the titles “The Magicians” and “The Judgment”, respectively, while the concluding chapter is entitled “The Fool”. One may ask whether Mogami resembles the Fool in the tarot, in the sense that he cannot be captured by his opponents and is therefore invulnerable to defeat. Matsukura is depicted in a highly negative light, as a monster, an unpleasant and abject individual, on the verge of madness, a person who disrupts the established order. This clichéd depiction of the villain serves to mitigate the perceived culpability of the prosecutor. Nevertheless, Harada refrains from straightforward identification with Mogami, whose actions are challenged by Ōkino’s pursuit of truth.
The search for truth is a prominent theme in many recent Japanese television series taking place in the world of law and justice. 99.9 – Criminal Lawyer (2016, 2018 and 2021), Ichikei’s Crow – The Criminal Court Judges (2021), Antihero (2024), Destiny (2024), Okura- Cold Case Investigation (2024), Sins of Kujo (2026) and Tarusagi Bros. (2026) deal with corruption and illegal means made use of by the police and/or the prosecution. Mogami is advised by a superior to hand over the new murder case rather than risk losing it. This is explained by the pressure on Japanese prosecutors to achieve a 99.9 % conviction rate, a theme that lies at the heart of the series 99.9% – Criminal Lawyer. Tarusagi Bros. centres on the themes of revenge and the statute of limitations: two brothers, both police officers, seek revenge for the murder of their parents which occurred before the new law abolishing limitation came into effect.
Killing for the Prosecution deals very obviously with topics which concern present-day Japan without delving deeply enough into most of its themes. This apparent superficiality might leave viewers feeling dissatisfied and it negatively impacts the critical portrayal of the legal system. However, the conflicting motivations that drive the main characters produce nuanced human portraits and expose the moral ambiguity at the heart of the narrative, inviting viewers to draw their own conclusions.

by Andrea Grunert

Shinji Araki, whom I interviewed in 2024 (1), has kindly given me access to his new work, the short film The Temptation I Had (Sono yuwaku). His first long feature, The Town of Headcounts (Ninzū no machi, 2020), is set in the future while keeping elements of the contemporary world, and Penalty Loop (Peneruti rupu, 2024 [2]) is a mixture of a variety of genres in which fantasy elements intrude into everyday life situations. As well as being highly gripping, both films offer deep reflections on individual responsibility and humanity.
The 30-minutes-long The Temptation I Had also blends present-day reality and fantasy. Most of the action takes place in the apartment in which Kaori (Risa Asanuma) and Takao (Tomomitsu Adachi) live and is anything but futuristic. The outside takes are of ordinary settings: a road intersection filmed from a bird’s eye view, a modern apartment building, an empty plot of land … At first glance, all seems absolutely trivial. However, there is a lingering uneasiness that is created by the voice-over. While the camera captures moments in the couple’s daily life in their private space, Kaori’s voice reveals her concerns about changes in her husband’s behaviour. His habits are not the same as they used to be. The Italian-style noodles he normally prepares so well are suddenly tasteless, whereas the Japanese dishes – usually not his forte – are excellent. The way he uses the vacuum cleaner to clean the floor is also different. And even his physical shape seems to have undergone some strange transformation.
The voice-over reveals the young woman’s inner feelings. She also shares her thoughts with a female friend – Rika (Rio Kanno) – with whom she exchanges text messages. The voice-over and the messages, which are superimposed on images of Kaori, express her misgivings, which are at the core of the narration. Both the voice-over and the text messages add meaning to the images.
The questions Kaori asks herself imbue the film with latent tension, creating moments of suspense. The separation of image and sound together with the text messages, which appear as on the screen of a smartphone, heighten the film’s appeal and create emotional distance. They also contribute to the feeling of mystery that permeates The Temptation I Had. As in Penalty Loop, in which the uncanny pervades the protagonist’s daily life, no special effects are needed to create the realm of fantasy. In Penalty Loop, the futuristic-looking hydroponic plant factory creates an eerie feeling of unfamiliarity. In The Temptation I Had, the bare concrete walls of the apartment or even the bird’s eye’s view of the intersection or the fact that the streets are devoid of cars and pedestrians contribute to the suspense.
Although Rika finds rational answers to her friend’s concerns, the story evolves towards the fantastic. It is in the last part of the film that the uncanny is fully revealed. A dialogue sequence allows the viewers to conclude that despite the overall visual design, which is clearly realistic, they are watching a mystery film.
I will try to avoid spoilers by not providing further clues, but one other key motif, namely desire, can be mentioned without revealing the explanations for Kaori’s worries. In the disguise of the fantastic, Araki deals with questions of sexuality and gender, homosexual desire and sexual identity, and in fact, hidden desires are at the core of his short film. In Penalty Loop, the time-loop narrative is the frame for reflections on guilt and revenge, murder and grief. In The Temptation I Had, the clash between everyday life and fantasy is linked to an unexpected story about desire and hidden feelings.
As in Penalty Loop, there are frequent shots of a tree, its leaves whipped by the wind. Nature is shown as a realm beyond the private space of the apartment in which most of the action takes place. It also alludes to spirituality and inner life and to the magic of nature, so different from the concrete buildings and the tarmac dominating the urban environment. And, as often in Japanese, films, these isolated shots may well not be in any way related to the narration but function instead as a break in the story. Some of the images are beautifully arranged, such as the symmetrical shot of a concrete wall in front of which is a table with a flower in a vase and a glass of wine, evoking a still life. This shot is a clear indication of Araki’s undeniable interest in painting. There is not much music on the sound track except for a few sequences, in particular the one of Kaori and Takao’s passionate lovemaking (3). In general, silence prevails and thereby heightens the feeling of mystery. The slow pace of the narration also invites reflection and at the same time intensifies the latent tension. The atmospheric density that Araki succeeds in creating makes The Temptation I Had a film that is both stimulating and entertaining.

(1)  Interview with Filmmaker Shinji Araki

(2) Penalty Loop

(3) The music was written by Ayane Kondō.

Grunert-Iseya-Image-03

by Andrea Grunert

In Sono Sion’s (1) The Land of Hope (Kibō no kuni, 2012), set in the aftermath of the Triple Disaster that hit the northeast of Japan on 11th March 2011, a general shot shows inhabitants evacuated from the region affected by the earthquake and tsunami and the subsequent accident at the nuclear power plant Fukushima Daiichi. They are crowded together in a huge space that is presumably a gym. Suddenly a young man jumps up, throwing himself on the person standing next to him, whom he accuses of defending the operators of the power plant. This angry young man is played by Iseya Yūsuke, and it is his only appearance in the film but a highly significant one, recalling the fact that he often plays rebel characters and, apparently, also likes to leave well-trodden paths beyond the screen.

Iseya and Kore-Eda
Iseya’s work cannot be reduced to acting. He is also a director (2), artist, model, social activist and businessman. Born in 1976, Iseya holds a Master of Arts degree from Tokyo University of the Arts (Tōkyō Geijutsu Daigaku). A young man with a variety of talents, he attended acting classes in New York. As a male model, he worked for famous brands such as Gucci, BMW, Louis Vuitton, Dior and Yebisu Beer among others. At the age of twenty-nine, he directed his first film, Kakuto (2007), and four years later his second and so far only other film Fish on Land (Seiji: Riku no sakana, 2011). In 2006, he launched the “Rebirth Project”, a social contribution initiative focusing on sustainable development that has been involved in a great variety of activities from the reuse of materials to the support of local communities, for example in the Tōhoku region following the catastrophe in March 2011. Disappointed that Japanese celebrities are severely gagged by talent agencies, Iseya founded his own agency as part of the Rebirth Project. He also contributed to the establishment of Loohcs High School, a private school that opened in 2019, the school’s mission being “to nurture independent thought and action for posterity” (3), an aim that is in perfect accord with Iseya’s attitude towards life.
In After Life (Wandafaru raifu, 1998), the second feature film directed by Kore-Eda Hirokazu and Iseya’s debut as an actor, people who have recently died arrive in a place that looks like an administration building or a former school. Each of these deceased is required to choose one memory, and this memory is then re-enacted and filmed before the person is admitted to the Hereafter, where he/she has to stay forever with this one memory. Iseya plays one of the deceased and the only one who, according to the credits, keeps his real name: Iseya Yūsuke, this being one of the aspects that distinguish him from the other dead. Unlike them, he also defies the rules of the game by refusing to make a choice. Moreover, he initiates a discussion on the very idea of choosing just one memory and concludes that those in charge of the Hereafter should reconsider their system. The character in the film is described as an unemployed worker and 22 years old, the actor’s real age in 1998. His clothes – parka and leather trousers – and his wild hairstyle are clear indications of his rebellious nature. However, it is the acting more than anything else that reveals his character, with his very first appearance already hinting at his status as an outsider. He remains aloof from the other deceased standing alone at the window with his back towards them before turning around and giving a look of appraisal to each of the others in the room, his facial expression and body language expressing resistance.
In a series of sequences, several of the deceased are questioned by employees at the mysterious centre helping them to choose a memory. The camera frames the interviewees sitting behind a desk. Iseya is filmed in the same way but his acting is far more expressive than that of his fellow dead. He is extremely lively and continually gesticulates, he tugs at his ear, bursts into laughter and behaves in a disrespectful manner by unabashedly putting his feet on the chair when addressing his interviewers. During a conversation with Watanabe, an older member of the group of the dead who is sitting on a bench, Iseya keeps walking around him while toying with a small branch he has picked up from the floor.
Iseya plays a similarly extrovert character in Distance (Disutansu, 2001), Kore-Eda’s next film. Kore-Eda had originally intended to shoot a road movie on the topic of lying with Iseya and Iura Arata, two of the actors from After Life (4). Iseya and Iura Arata both have roles in Distance, but the project – although the topic of secrecy and lying remains – changed after Kore-Eda became interested in the way the Japanese media and Japanese society reacted to Jōyū Fumihiro, the former public relations officer of the Aum Shinrikyō cult, who was released from prison in 1999 (5). Members of this cult had been responsible for the gas attack in the Tokyo underground in 1995. Distance does not mention Aum or its murderous attack, referring only indirectly to the tragic event that had traumatized Japanese society. The film’s main characters are a group of people whose family members had joined a fictitious cult and participated in the poisoning of Tokyo’s water supply system, which resulted in many deaths. After the attack, the perpetrators apparently committed suicide, their ashes being strewn by surviving members of the cult in a lake close to the place – a small cabin in the woods – where those who committed suicide had spent the last weeks or months of their lives. Since that time, family members of four of the perpetrators meet at the cabin once a year to commemorate the deaths, and Masaru, played by Iseya, is one of these four.
Masaru is a swimming instructor, and he mourns the death of his brother. He and the other protagonists are shown in the cabin in the woods, where they spend the night after their car has been stolen and in flashbacks with their dead relatives. Masaru is the most extrovert of the group, which is joined by Sataka (Asano Tadanobu), a long-time member of the cult, whose motorcycle has also been stolen. The florist Atsushi (Iura Arata) is a quiet young man, the schoolteacher Kiyoka (Natsukawa Yū) an introverted woman, and the sullen Minoru (Terajima Susumu) an employee of a construction company. Sataka keeps in the background, observing the group that he does not really belong to. Masaru, on the other hand, is inquisitive and open towards the others. He keeps on asking questions and is the only one to approach Sataka when he and the other three encounter him in the woods. In the cabin, he is the first to inspect the surroundings, while Sataka sits down on the floor and the others simply stand around.
From the beginning, Masaru is in constant motion. In several early sequences in which the character is introduced, he is shown distributing flyers in a street and enjoying life with his girlfriend. In an arcade, he plays the slot machines enthusiastically with wild movements, clearly having great fun. He seems somewhat immature but is full of self-confidence, emphasized by Iseya’s energetic acting. However, he is far from being superficial. A flashback suggests that he did not fully understand the significance of his brother’s decision to abandon his medical studies and his family and dedicate his entire life to the cult, and later, he tries to hide his grief behind a mask of indifference. One after another, the four mourning protagonists step onto the wooden jetty that leads out onto the lake. Masaru leaves the jetty very quickly – without praying or at least pausing for a moment as the others do. He folds his hands only briefly before turning away. But later that evening, he retreats into the woods alone and plays his suling flute, brought from Indonesia.
One can presume that much of Masaru’s behaviour and dialogue are the contribution of Iseya himself as Distance is based largely on improvisation. As Kore-Eda later explained: “I asked the actors to play without a script. The only information they had was about where we would shoot the film and about the character they played” (6). In his previous film After Life, Kore-Eda had already left much room for creativity, for example in the interviews, during which the dead were filmed facing the camera and in a medium close-up. This kind of framing is an invitation to an actor to fill the static image with life, and Iseya seized this opportunity, making marvellous use of it with a great variety of small gestures and nuanced facial expressions.

Portraits of young men
In Distance, Masaru is the most talkative character, an aspect that underlines his extrovert personality. Indeed, Masaru is as extrovert as the man Iseya himself seems to be, judging from numerous filmed interviews. In both After Life and Distance, his lively acting epitomizes the energy and light-heartedness of youth, making his performance completely natural. This is also the case in his directorial debut Kakuto (2002), produced by Kore-Eda. An animated dream sequence at the beginning of this film establishes a link with After Life. A young man – the protagonist Kijima Ryō (Iseya) – talks about a dream in which he has to keep on running. In Kore-Eda’s film, Iseya had referred to a similar dream, but in Kakuto the dream becomes reality when Ryō, pursued by a revengeful yakuza, is forced to run for his life.
Iseya’s Ryō is a young man who enjoys an apparently carefree life until the night when he loses a package containing drugs that was given to him by a yakuza. The film depicts that fateful night and Ryō’s desperate search for the drugs. Kakuto deals with topics such as drugs and organized crime but it focuses on the lives of young urbanite and suburbanite males in Japan, including the problems they face such as unemployment and disorientation. However, it approaches these topics in a playful way, and Ryō’s aim in life is clearly to have fun.
Although it is reminiscent of Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (UK, 1996), Kakuto is a highly original work. Iseya, who was twenty-nine years old when he directed the film, tells it from the perspective of someone who is younger and close to the age of his protagonist and the other young men and not from the more distanced viewpoint of an older adult as is often the case with films about young people. Iseya succeeds in portraying the attitude towards life of young upper-middle class Japanese in a very lively and authentic way, Ryō and his friends emerging as full-blown characters and not simply clichés. Iseya plays Ryō in an entirely convincing manner – a hedonistic character who displays a wide range of emotions. When he discovers that he has lost the drugs and imagines the punishment he can expect from the brutal yakuza, Ryō reacts hysterically, looking like a scared rabbit and with the complete opposite of the laid-back attitude he displayed earlier in the film.
Following Kakuto’s portrayals of adolescents and young adults in a refreshing way, Iseya was cast in the early 2000s in more conventional romantic stories such as Honey and Clover (Hachimitsu to kurōba (2006, Takada Masahiro) and Closed Note (Kurōzudo nōto, 2007, Yukisada Isao). Honey and Clover, the adaptation of a manga by Umino Chika (7), centres on the lives of four arts students and on first love. Iseya plays one of the students : Morita, a self-assured young man, who, early in the film, returns from a trip to a country in southeast-Asia. In this film too, Iseya plays a maverick character who, while accepting the conventions of the art business, at the same time refuses to suppress his individuality. At the opening of an exhibition where he presents a huge sculpture, he gets drunk and floors an art critic who made a condescending comment on the work. However, the main reason for this outburst is that Hagumi (Aoi Yū), the young woman he admires, reacted negatively to the art critic’s unfavourable comment. It is because of Hagu’s lack of interest in success and money that Morita later destroys his sculpture. Iseya plays his role – that of a young man who enjoys life but also yearns for fame – with great energy. And, very significantly, when the five main characters take a selfie during a trip to the seaside, Morita is the only one who fools around.
In Closed Note, Iseya, a graduate from Tokyo University of the Arts, also plays an artist – the painter and illustrator Ryō. At first a shy and almost autistic character, his head lowered, his body rigid, Ryō loses this distant attitude, repeatedly displaying intense feelings. Iseya’s fine acting reveals perfectly the development from taciturnity and grief over the death of the woman he loved to renewed artistic creativity.
Manabu, the main character in Negishi Kichitaro’s What the Snow Brings (Yuki no negau koto, 2005), hides his vulnerability behind a mask of arrogance. He returns to his native region, Hokkaido, the northernmost island of the Japanese archipelago (8) after his business goes bankrupt. Penniless and pursued by his creditors, he seeks refuge with his older brother (Satō Kōichi), who trains horses for the Banei Tokachi horse races, a special kind of horse race practised on Hokkaido (9). Iseya’s very natural acting vividly demonstrates a wide range of emotions. The viewer can feel Manabu’s unease in the unfamiliar community of horse trainers. At first he denies all memory of his schooldays that are referred to by a former classmate who now works for his brother. Later, having opened up and accepted his new environment, he is able to rejoice in reliving his memories of school. His attitude towards his brother is at first very aggressive, while his brother in return resents him for cheating their mother of her money and abandoning her. What the Snow Brings is set among people living a harsh life in a hostile and wintry environment. The cold climate is something that the viewer is made to feel, meteorological conditions contributing to the portrait of a vulnerable young man seeking desperately for reconciliation. However, it is Iseya’s restrained and subtle acting that constantly reveals Manabu’s inner torment.

Jidai geki and famous historical figures
Iseya gives proof of his versatility in numerous historical films in which he also often plays outsiders and rebellious individuals. One of the most notable roles in his career is that of Kiga Koyata in Miike Takashi’s 13 Assassins (Jūsan-nin no shikaku, 2010; [10]). In contrast with the typical samurai living according to their strict code of honour, the hunter Koyata is a rebellious character, emphasized by Iseya’s expressive performance. His face and body in constant motion, he creates a flamboyant character who is yet another example of his many fine portrayals of young adults. Koyata’s behaviour is a vivid expression of the gay abandon of youth. For example, when Shinrokurō (Yamada Takeyuki) states he is fed up with the life of a samurai and might become a bandit, emigrate to America and love a woman there, Koyata says laconically: “That sounds good.” The expression on his face at this point shows very clearly that indeed this is something that he too would really like to do.
Both in the cinema and on television, Iseya has played historical figures such as Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, Yoshida Shōin, Takasugi Shinsaku and Shirasu Jirō. He plays Oda Nobunaga (1534-1582), the first of the three so-called unifiers of Japan, in Ask This of Rikyū (Rikyū ni tazuneyo, 2013, Tanaka Mitsutoshi) as a self-confident, arrogant man, hungry for power. When tea masters present bowls and other tea utensils to him, Nobunaga makes his choice with impatient and imperious gestures, his demeanour always having something brusque about it. Sen no Rikyū (1522-1591), the famous tea master and merchant, has brought only a black lacquered box, which he opens and fills with water. He then aligns it with the full moon, the moon’s reflection appearing in the water. Nobunaga stands at a distance and in the background, leaning proudly and defiantly on his riding crop and watching Rikyū closely. The viewer can sense his curiosity, which is emphasized by Iseya’s intense gaze and by subtle changes in the expression on his face.
In Mitani Kōki’s The Kiyosu Conference (Kiyosu kaigi, 2013; [11]), Iseya plays Nobunaga’s younger brother Nobukane (1548-1614) in a highly amusing way, here revealing his talent for comic roles. He plays him as a nonchalant, rather bored man, his acting underlining the character’s eccentric personality and penchant for individualism. In the television mini-series Lady Nobunaga (Onna Nobunaga, 2013, Takeuchi Hideki), Iseya is cast as Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537-1598), the second of the three unifiers of Japan after a long period of civil war (12), playing him in an equally colourful manner. The tall and handsome Iseya may seem a strange choice for Hideyoshi, who is commonly described as a small man with a wrinkled face that gave rise to his nickname “Monkey”. Iseya is tall but very slim, and in Lady Nobunaga he looks far frailer than the other vassals of Nobunaga and in this respect appropriate for the role physically. And he is also able to wrinkle his face, evoking that of a monkey. In accordance with historical descriptions of Hideyoshi, Iseya plays him as a lively, extrovert character, thereby revealing the difference between Hideyoshi, a man of humble, peasant origins (13), and the other samurai brought up to observe their strict code of conduct.
In the two taiga drama (14) The Legend of Sakamoto Ryōma (Ryōmaden, 2010) and Burning Flower (Hana moyu, 2015), Iseya has important supporting roles. Both series are set in the 19th century in the so-called Bakumatsu era (1853-1868). In The Legend of Sakamoto Ryōma, he plays Takasugi Shinsaku (1839-1867), a samurai who contributed significantly to the ending of the shogunate and the restoration of imperial power, and in Burning Flower, he is cast as Yoshida Shōin (1830-1859). Iseya plays Takasugi as a strong-willed character, once again a maverick who does not care for social conventions. He displays a wide range of emotions, revealing not only Takasugi’s hedonistic and heroic side but also his struggle against tuberculosis, to which he eventually succumbs. Ryōma (Fukuyama Masaharu) visits Takasugi, who has fled his domain, in his hiding place in Nagasaki. Takasugi seems full of energy and talks happily about his plan to travel to England but suddenly starts coughing, claiming that it is only a cold. However, a slight shadow appears on his face and he looks serious and sad for a very brief moment but long enough to suggest that he knows how seriously ill he really is.
The main protagonist in Burning Flower is Fumi (Inoue Mao), a younger sister of Yoshida Shōin, and here Iseya plays another Japanese revolutionary of the 19th century (15). Casting Iseya as Yoshida Shōin is surprising as the historical figure is described as a man of unsightly appearance, his face marred by pockmarks. The physically attractive Iseya may initially seem an inappropriate choice for the role, but he is certainly able to lend the character a strong presence. Shōin is also described as being of a delicate constitution, and Iseya’s slender figure and fine features match this description. Presenting Shōin as a resilient and dynamic figure and not at all weak, Iseya’s representation comes quite close to descriptions of this historical figure. In the series, the scholar and political activist Shōin, animated by the fire of passion, is portrayed as a lively character, and Iseya’s vigorous acting makes this passion and commitment as well as Shōin’s vulnerability both palpable and comprehensible for the contemporary viewer.
When the series was aired, Iseya was about ten years older than Shōin when he died, and he still looks quite young, this youthful appearance probably making the historical figure more attractive to a younger public, connecting with the modern world and inviting identification. However, passion is also an attribute of youth, and Iseya’s acting presence and performance hints at Shōin’s immature side. The series depicts him as idealistic and charismatic but also fixated on his ideas and even fanatical. Iseya’s highly inventive acting adds many nuances to the role and helps the viewer to perceive an ordinary human being behind the political activist and famous historical figure. In one scene, Shōin has a look of surprise on his face when Fumi wears a fancier kimono than usual, and in another scene, he cannot help laughing at his student Kusaka’s (Higashide Masahiro) embarrassment when Kusaka asks him for permission to marry his sister.

Body and voice
In Shirasu Jirō – Man of Honor (Shirasu Jirō, 2009, Ōtomo Keishi), a mini-series produced by NHK, Iseya is cast in the leading role of the businessman and post-war bureaucrat Shirasu Jirō (1902-1985). Iseya plays Shirasu, known for his elegance and fashion sense, as a self-confident, open-minded, outspoken and charismatic man, a figure that fits perfectly into Iseya’s filmography with its great variety of roles.
In the science fiction film Casshern (Kyashan, 2004, Kiriya Kazuaki), shot in digital backlot, Iseya is cast in another main role, that of Tetsuya/Casshern, a young man killed in war and later resurrected by his father, a scientist. Tetsuya is another of the rebellious characters Iseya clearly enjoys playing. In this film, the son rebels against his father and against an authoritarian regime, becoming a saviour of mankind. Tetsuya/Casshern has supernatural powers but is also a broken character suffering from his traumatic war experiences. In several scenes, the viewer sees only his eyes as the lower-half of his face is covered by armour, and Iseya has to rely on his gaze to express emotion. Despite the abundance of technical specs, he manages to create a character with all the facets of a real human being.
In Kaiten – Human Torpedo War (Deguchi no nai umi, 2006, Sasabe Kiyoshi; [16]) Iseya also plays a tormented soul. The film is set in the Pacific War. Kita (Iseya) is one of four students who become members of a special assault unit of the Imperial Japanese Navy. They are pilots of kaiten, crewed torpedoes designed for suicide attacks. Iseya plays only a supporting role but succeeds marvellously in revealing the contradictions in Kita’s character. He is ambitious and cynical and quite different from the other three pilots. In a photograph that shows him together with them, he stands somewhat apart. In the film, his demeanour is dismissive and he is preoccupied chiefly with himself. But he displays emotion when one of his comrades begins to sing a song called “Native Town”. And he is nearly hysterical when he understands that the end of the war is close and that his chances of becoming a war hero are vanishing. All his arrogance is gone when he kneels in front of his comrade Namiki (Ichikawa Danjurō XIII), the film’s main protagonist, pleading with him to let him pilot his kaiten because his own torpedo has been damaged.
Iseya is often cast in supporting roles that he makes memorable with inspiring performances. In Sono Sion’s Shinjuku Swan (Shinjuku Suwan, 2015), set in Kabuki-chō, the red-light district in Shinjuku, a part of Tokyo, Iseya plays the supporting role of Mako, who employs Tatsuhiko (Ayano Gō) as a scout for the Burst agency, which recruits girls and young women for the sex industry. Mako’s interest in Tatsuhiko is aroused when the younger man gets into a fight with six or seven opponents and refuses to give up despite already bleeding heavily and being clearly outnumbered. A medium close-up shows Mako watching the brawl with fascination while nonchalantly lighting a cigarette. Elements such as framing and editing create the basis for the interpretation of facial expressions, but the viewer cannot fail to notice the precision in Iseya’s acting style that reveals Mako as both full of concentration and at the same time completely relaxed.
Iseya has exceptionally flexible facial features and is an actor with an impeccable sense of timing and ability to suddenly change the expression on his face. This talent is revealed in Harmful Insect (Gaichū, 2001), directed by Shiota Akihiko, in which he appears in only one long sequence and a few shots at the end of the film. He plays the role of a young man who is apparently a scout for the adult entertainment business. At a roadhouse, he spots Sachiko (Aoi Miyazaki), a 7th grade girl who has run away from home. Iseya’s performance in this minor role is remarkable. Playing an unnamed young man, he sits down with the girl, who has not asked him to do so and remains silent during the entire scene. He takes a drag on his cigarette, watching Sachiko and scrutinizing her. Then he smiles a very charming, inviting smile and tries to get the girl to talk. Sensitive and meaningful facial expressions emphasize his attempt to gain the girl’s trust and show her that, although an adult, he understands her perfectly. Almost tenderly, he asks Sachiko how old she is. Iseya does all this very naturally and with great creativity, lending additional dynamism to the scene.
Iseya’s virtuosity and also his eccentric acting in Lady Nobunaga and 13 Assassins undoubtedly recall the skills of Mifune Toshirō. In 13 Assassins, Koyata jumps and makes dance-like movements not unlike Mifune’s Kikuchiyo in Seven Samurai (Shichinin no samurai, 1954, Kurosawa Akira). The acting style of both men is eccentric and even exaggerated but always appropriate to the character they are playing. Just like Mifune’s, Iseya’s characters are always on the move. Kurosawa Akira often ensured that Mifune had something in his hands that brought additional movement to the scene and gave the actor opportunities for expression. These objects also served as a means to focus attention on the character. Iseya, too, frequently has some object in his hands to keep them busy. During a conversation with his brother in Distance, Masaru does not sit still. He makes movements like a gymnast with his arms and flips through a publicity flyer of the cult that his brother has given him. In Honey and Clover, Morita sometimes holds a bottle of beer in his hand or is eating while talking to another character.
Another aspect that Iseya and Mifune share is their predilection for playing outsiders, non-conformists and rebels, characters who have problems with authority. However, the way Iseya uses his voice is the more remarkable, and here, too, he explores a great variety of nuances. For example, in Lady Nobunaga, Hideyoshi’s voice becomes soft, emphasizing the secrecy of the information, when he denounces Mitsuhide as a traitor. It is a softness which also contains a hint of menace. In the animated film Tekkonkinkreet (2006, Michael Arias), Iseya speaks the role of the yakuza Kimura Naoki, who realizes that love is more powerful than hatred. However, at the beginning, he is depicted as a violent character. Facing the members of a youth gang, he says: “Take it easy!” and stretches the sentence, his voice expressing his coolness in this situation. On a different occasion, he speaks to one of his opponents in a sweet voice to lull him into a sense of security, and in a conversation with his wife, the deliberating tone of his voice emphasizes his thoughtfulness. In The Passenger (France/Canada/Japan, 2005, Francois Rotger; [17]), the leading character played by Iseya is a taciturn youth who says very little, giving the actor an opportunity to demonstrate how skilfully he is able to deal with silence. The protagonist of this international production set in Japan and in Canada is a young yakuza and male prostitute whose violence and vulnerability are once again revealed flawlessly by Iseya’s intelligent acting.

Present times
In various interviews, Iseya has referred to Yoshida Shōin and Sakamoto Ryōma as sources of inspiration. I will not pretend that Iseya is the Yoshida Shōin or the Sakamoto Ryōma of the 21st century. However, it is easy to understand how great the influence of their philosophy and way of life can be today. Even if in different contexts and with different consequences (18), Iseya, like Shōin, did not content himself with words but became socially active when he created the Rebirth Project, referring in this context to Ryōma, who inspired people with various visions of the future to work with him. When all its dimensions are considered, the Rebirth Project is, not unlike Ryōma’s Kaientai, a multifaceted company (19).
Although the Rebirth Project continues to be active, Iseya had to withdraw from his involvement after his conviction for drug possession in December 2020 (20). This event also offered him the opportunity to change his life completely and to take “a fresh start from the negative” as he stated in an interview in 2024 (21). Instagram became a means to communicate with a larger community (I have to admit to being one of his followers). According to his posts, he is able to afford a non-conformist lifestyle, and as one can read on the website of the Reborn Arts Festival: “he has shifted his focus on self-fulfilment, sharing his journey through the salon Sauce of Happiness” (22). He enjoys surfing, snowboarding and skating, and one might say that the 48-year-old Iseya lives the life of a young adult. However, it is not only a life of leisure. In 2022 he took part in the Reborn Arts Festival, a revitalization festival focusing on the arts, music and food in the Tōhoku area where he presented the installation “Worship”. And in 2024, his second book (23) was published. This autobiography Self-Portrait includes personal photographs and a variety of sketches made by Iseya during his childhood and university years. And even before the end of his probation, he was already cast in a new film: Araki Shinji’s Penalty Loop (24).
He also designs jewellery and clothing or contributes to the creation of such objects, as presented on his Instagram Website. The way he combines commerciality with reflections on social problems, even on the state of mankind today, sometimes sounds contradictory. However, Iseya uses his celebrity status to inspire people and to address questions that seem to plague him. In Distance, Masaru starts a long dialogue with Atsushi about the existence of God. The question about God’s existence is also at the core of his installation “Worship”, about which he has written on the website of the Reborn Arts Festival: “You are God. Think, don’t pray. Act, don’t wish. The world requires only your will, not another god.” (25) On Instagram, he continues to ask questions about God and about each individual’s social responsibility.
This is where the great models of the 19th century resonate – Yoshida Shōin and Sakamoto Ryōma. Hopefully Iseya-san will find self-fulfilment but will also stay committed to social issues. With regard to his acting, the topic focused on in this article, one might recall the words of William Butler Yeats, whose poem “Among School Children” (1928) ends: “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” This article will not and cannot give an answer to the question how much of Iseya is in his roles. Instead it offers insights into his work as an actor without detracting from the magic of an actor’s performances and the secret at their core.

Notes
(1) Names are written according to Japanese conventions: the family name before the given name.
(2) See on the two films directed by Iseya 
(3) Reborn Art Fest
(4) See Kore-Eda Hirokazu, Quand je tourne mes films, Paris, Atelier Akatombo, 2019, p. 121.
(5) In his book, Kore-Eda criticizes the behaviour of the media, writing that Jōyū was hounded by journalists and even refused accommodation, which led him to move into a building belonging to the cult. This decision aroused even more criticism from the media. See Kore-Eda, ibid., p. 121-123.

(6) Ibid., p. 131 [Translation by the author].

(7) The manga series was published from 2000 to 2006.
(8) It is perhaps a mere coincidence that the film’s location is this northernmost island but worth recalling that Iseya spent part of his childhood – from the age of three to the age of eight – in Hakodate on Hokkaido.
(9) Banei Tokachi horse races originated on Hokkaido in the early 20th century. Huge draught horses pull sleighs weighing 500 kilograms up and over ramps and through a sand track. Today, the races are held in the town of Obihiro, the film’s main setting.

(10) See for further details in shomingekionline
(11) See for further details in shomingekionline
(12) The third of the unifiers was Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543-1616), the first shogun of the House of Tokugawa. The Tokugawa shogunate lasted from 1603 to 1868.
(13) Hideyoshi was born into a peasant family. His father was apparently a foot soldier, a peasant-samurai who was crippled after having been wounded in battle.
(14) Taiga dorama are the annual year-long historical drama television series produced by NHK, the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation.
(15) Yoshida Shōin was already highly regarded as a scholar before becoming a political activist in the late years of the shogunate. Several of his students at Shōka sonjuku, the school he founded in his hometown Hagi, became influential politicians of the Meiji era (1868-1912) and have contributed to the construction of modern Japan. Takasugi Shinsaku was also one of Shōin’s students. Shōin spent many years in prison and under house arrest and was executed in 1859 during the Ansei Purge (1858-1860), which targeted opponents of the shogunal government.
(16) The film is also known as Sea Without Exit.
(17) See for further details on The Passenger
(18) Yoshida Shōin’s call for action included the one for the assassination of political opponents, i.e. representatives of the shogunate.
(19) As Shiba Ryōtarō states in his novel about Sakamoto Ryōma: “The Kaientai was multi-faceted by nature with five aspects: it was an anti-shogunate association, a private navy, a school of navigation, a transport company, and a trading company, both domestic and international. ‘Let everyone live in accordance with his own beliefs and principles’ was Ryōma’s way of thinking. Thus, if someone liked business and disliked warfare, he should not be forced to fight.” (Shiba Ryōtarō, Ryōma! The Life of Sakamoto Ryōma: Japanese Swordsman and Visionary, Kindle edition, 2018, Vol III, p. 160). The novel (Ryōma ga yuku/Ryōma Goes His Way) was first published in Japan in serialized form in the national newspaper Sankei Shinbun from 1962 to 1966.

(20) According to various press articles, about 13 grams of marijuana were found in his possession. Iseya was sentenced to one year in prison, a sentence suspended for three years.

(21) See Goetheweb

(22) See 2022 reborn art fes

(23) In 2013, Iseya had already published Shakai chokoku, Tokyo, Asahi Shinbun Shuppan in which h deals with the Rebirth Project and his social visions.

24. An interview with filmmaker Shinji Araki in shomingekionline

(25) See 2022 Reborn Art fest

(