Masaki Kobayashi's Samurai Rebellion (1967) is a spiritual sequel to Harakiri (1964): Kobayashi's critique of authority in a heavily dramatized form. After Isaburo (Toshiro Mifune) is forced to have his son marry a former mistress of a powerful lord the entire family discovers that the girl isn't as bad as her reputation suggests. Due to a grim turn of events Isaburo and his son decide to disobey the lord's newer orders even though it puts their family in danger.
Even though I would call Samurai Rebellion Kobayashi's bloody revenge story it doesn't involve a lot of action until the final third of the film (which has a lot of it). Most of the focus is on the fascinating central family that is used heavily for the director's strong message that is approached in a possibly better way than in Harakiri. The downside of the screenplay has to be the ending. While the final scenes are perfect it stumbles for 10 minutes before that. The tension generated in the film is released way too early and some of the scenes lose the dramatic impact they were supposed to have. There's also the mystery of Tatsuya Nakadai's character whose relevance is questionable and it almost feels like his role was severely cut in the editing room.
Kobayashi's form is full of menacing energy that stems from the absolutely brilliant photography and the intense yet "slow" editing that hits the viewer like a ton of bricks when it is needed. The approach to the climactic action scenes is surprisingly tame, but they are still powerful enough. Toru Takemitsu's soundtrack is great again. The entire cast delivers magnificent performances and especially Toshiro Mifune is in top form this time.
Samurai Rebellion could have become another masterpiece for Kobayashi in the vein of Harakiri, but the slight (but drastical) mistake near the end hinders the film a bit too much.
Score: 9 out of 10
The second story, Woman of the Snow, also focuses on love, but it takes a totally different approach to the subject. What really sets this story apart is its haunting and bittersweet atmosphere, it is not as directly scary or creepy as the other stories. The way snow is portrayed (even though it was shot on interior sets) is unforgettable. I would even dare to say that this is the most iconic depiction of snow and coldness.
The third story, Hoichi the Earless, is the longest and most intriguing portion of the film. Essentially it is about a blind monk who is cheated by the spirits of the dead. The story takes its precious time to build up tension until it explodes into all directions in the end - before all of it is brought together in the end in an awesome way. This story is something that will never leave your mind at peace.
The final story, In a Cup of Tea, is the most mysterious and surprising segment. I won't go into too much detail because it is something you need to see yourself. The ending is even more ambiguos than the rest of the film put together. It is something you will not see coming, but it is the only logical way to end a film like this. All I can say is that it includes a story about a bodyguard who is haunted by a ghost.
The film's form is consistently brilliant and varies a bit in each story. The use of sound and music is crucial in each one: while the first one is most notable and obvious achievement in sound, the entire film is controlled by sound. The film was completely shot on interior sets and you won't even realise that until you read about it somewhere. All of the sets were hand painted and some of them are really expressionistic and atmospheric. The cinematography is beautiful as well - there is never a moment when Kobayashi's flawless camerawork fails. For example, his use of Dutch angles is perfected here.
Masaki Kobayashi's Kwaidan is a stunning cinematic achievement. I can not recall a film that would have such a brilliant combination of creative sets, stunning cinematography and innovative use of sound. The stories might be a bit simple, but they hold great wisdom that should not be forgotten.
The film is almost like a deconstruction of the entire Samurai code. Kobayashi observes the (implied) emptiness of the code in cruel detail. The problems are pointed out in an unflinching way. While the film mostly runs at a relatively calm pace, there are outbursts of arrhythmic violence which work perfectly in order to deliver the message even to the most dim-witted viewers - yet surprisingly the film never seems to be heavy-handed. The narrative is quite straightforward: a linear story with a few flashbacks that are smoothly handled.
Kobayashi's form in Harakiri reminds me of Yasujiro Ozu and Hsiao-hsien Hou. His camera is set almost on the ground most of the time like in Ozu's films. Kobayashi also likes to revisit a few compositions in order to establish a connection between two scenes - either for an emotional response or for juxtaposition. This is extremely notable during the first 30 minutes when the two ex-warriors enter the estate at different times. A few key compositions are used for both of these entrances. It's also interesting how a few compositions and patterns of camera movement are used again and again during the rest of the film.
The second view confirmed my assumption: Masaki Kobayashi's Harakiri is one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces without a doubt. Sadly, it has remained quite unknown to this day.