Toshiro Mifune stars as a vagabond samurai on a path to recapture his pride.
In his memoir, Something Like An Autobiography, Akira Kurosawa describes himself as an aimless young man wandering into the southwestern suburb of Tokyo: “It was chance that led me to walk along the road to P.C.L. [film studio] and, in so doing, the road to becoming a film director, yet somehow everything that I had done prior to that seemed to point to it as an inevitability.” That recollection resonates keenly in the opening scene of Kurosawa’s Yojimbo: a solitary man arrives at a fork in the road. He tosses a stick for guidance, and then frivolously struts toward the unknown. He is a rōnin, a wandering samurai without a master. A journey initiated by pure chance will lead him to a rediscovery of his purpose.
Yojimbo premiered in Japan on April 25, 1961. By then, Kurosawa was at the height of his powers. Hollywood had just turned his opus magnum, Seven Samurai, into a gunfighter adventure, The Magnificent Seven. Paul Newman was shortly to star in The Outrage, a western remake of Rashomon – the film that had made Kurosawa an international sensation a decade earlier. But his recent picture, The Bad Sleep Well (1960), an informal take on Hamlet, failed commercially. Kurosawa needed a hit. He set out to make a film for pure entertainment, much in the vein of his energetic The Hidden Fortress (1958) – the future godfather of Star Wars. The resulting Yojimbo is unadulterated, muscular fun – and it was an instant success globally. But the Japanese master was incapable of delivering thrilling action without a cutting commentary on human foibles. The film’s Borgesian fork-in-the-road beginning is one of many strokes that elevate Yojimbo above genre limitations.
The samurai film, or chanbara (“sword fighting”), has a long history in Japan. Its visual style was influenced by the American western genre, which predates chanbara just by a few years. By the end of the silent era, samurai pictures effectively utilised sprawling landscapes as backdrops for action. In urban settings, the inevitable climactic sword duels mirrored those of the western gunslingers. Early in his career, Kurosawa himself benefitted from John Ford’s cinematic technique – he was especially fond of Stagecoach (1939) and My Darling Clementine (1946).
If the western provided Kurosawa with visual references, pulp crime literature and film noir furnished thematic points of departure (Stray Dog, High and Low). Set around 1860, Yojimbo (The Bodyguard) resounds with faint echoes of Dashiell Hammett’s crime stories, most notably the 1942 film adaptation of The Glass Key. As a rōnin trapped between two worrying gangs of gamblers in a remote town, the protagonist offers his bodyguard services to the highest bidder. It quickly becomes apparent that his intention is to incite an all-out war, which would rid the town of criminal element. The lean 110-minute Yojimbo sets a furious pace to the proceedings, refining the story to action-driven essentials.
Following Hammett’s the man-with-no-name trope (the Op in Red Harvest), the samurai in Yojimbo starts out as an anonymous hero. However, for practical purposes, the rōnin quickly invents an identity: Sanjuro Kuwabatake (Thirty-year-old Mulberry Field). As played by the remarkable Toshiro Mifune, Sanjuro is an eccentric antihero: gruffly perceptive and itching for action. Kurosawa had admired Mifune’s naturalness and quick emotional reactions since their first collaboration in Drunken Angel (1948). They made sixteen films together, and the director facilitated the actor’s growth into one of the most versatile screen performers of all time. In Yojimbo, Mifune restrains himself admirably – Sanjuro withholds his emotions to the last act, captivating us instead with quirky character traits, lackadaisical responses, and, when it’s required, swift and brutal swordsmanship.
Coming from a samurai background, Kurosawa was no stranger to kendo – a “way of the sword” martial art. Veteran sword masters Ryû Kuze and Yoshio Sugino, who had worked with Kurosawa on prior chanbara films, were invited to develop a specific style of katana sword technique for Yojimbo. The result was a more realistic, dynamic fight choreography that set a new standard for future samurai pictures. Still, something was amiss. While editing the film, Kurosawa had a flash of inspiration: "If you kill a person, it will make a sound." The desired effect was achieved by slamming chopsticks into raw chicken meat.
The director had his set designers widen the traditionally narrow Edo-era streets and cover them with fine sand. Airplane engine propellers were employed to stir up dust, creating some of the most iconic (and western-like) imagery associated now with the samurai genre. The recurring motif of swirling wind announces Sanjuro’s function as a purifying force of nature. Kurosawa and his trusted cinematographer, Kazuo Miyagawa, also favour other elements such as fire and rain, but it is the scene at the sake brewery that remains the most visually impressive. After one gang burns down a silk warehouse, the other retaliates by smashing a distillery. The unleashed gallons of sake flow like a river through the Augean stables, anticipating the final cleansing of perfidious filth.
In spite of the famous wide shots pitching the solitary figure of Sanjuro against the yakuza henchmen, Kurosawa was not interested in promoting the lone avenger mythos. His probing camera acquaints us with the town’s denizens – characters eavesdrop on one another through holes, nooks, and from behind bars. It is a small world where knowing your neighbour’s secrets could save your life. Early on, Sanjuro is seen safely perched on a bell tower like a detached spectator. Much later, when his emotions kick in, he announces, “I won't do it alone.”
The most touching aspect of Yojimbo is that of the hero’s spiritual and quite literal resurrection. As a rōnin, Sanjuro is drifting without ethical or practical purpose. Japan is nearing the end of its feudal epoch, of which noble samurai were the backbone. Now they are rendered obsolete – remnants of the past in a period of Japan’s incipient transition to modernity – the Meiji Era. Carrying a sword will soon be outlawed by imperial decree (katanagari). Thus, Sanjuro’s engagement with the forlorn town may be his last hurrah. After a series of stoically absorbed events, the samurai’s empathy finally awakens.
When a mother is forcibly taken away from her husband and child, the hero sheds his aloofness – his sword will now be guided by heart. But soon, Sanjuro is faced with his first tangible threat: a young yakuza family member returns home after a long absence. Unosuke (a devilish Tetsuya Nakadai) brandishes a dangerous modern weapon – an American revolver. He is also wearing a tartan muffler – apparently a bushido code faux pas. The assassin triggers our hero’s near-death experience and the ensuing re-birth of his resolve. The climactic showdown could not be made more politically explicit: can the samurai sword best an imported gun?
Kurosawa and his co-writer, Ryūzō Kikushima, beautifully leverage the heavier subtexts of Yojimbo against ribald humour. The villagers are delineated in broad, frequently comic strokes, with Kabuki-style exaggeration. The gangster families are depicted as power-hungry nincompoops. “You can't build a fortune unless you're known as a killer and a thief,” proclaims one of the yakuza bosses, inadvertently defining venture capitalism. While rich in satire, the film never stoops to sheer mockery. Put-downs, one-liners, and slapstick are so judiciously offset by moments of solemnity and outbursts of violence, the film’s disparate moods never feel out of balance. Masaru Sato’s jaunty score highlights the tragicomic aspects of the story, with the Sanjuro Theme providing cocky punctuation. There is an undeniable levity to Yojimbo, which accounts for the film’s gigantic international success and endless imitations. Its stupendous sequel, Sanjuro (1962), also directed by Kurosawa, remains just as influential.
Aside from serving as an unauthorised foundation for Sergio Leone’s Dollars Trilogy (1964-66), Yojimbo also begat Django (1966) and its multiple mutations, reaching all the way to Tarantino. The film left an indelible imprint on such filmmakers as Scorsese, Lucas, Spielberg, Lynch, and the comedian John Belushi (Samurai Futaba), among other artists. Hollywood officially remade it in 1996 as Last Man Standing.
Kurosawa appreciated all cultural spheres equally. Yojimbo’s themes and aesthetic straddle East and West so effortlessly that you can safely term it a chanbara-western-noir. But for all of its magnificent action, Kurosawa’s film remains a candid hymn to finding your path anew – not with a random throw of a stick, but through sacrifice and dedication to humanity. Delivered offhand by the still thrilling Yojimbo, that message never gets lost in translation.
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