NYFF Review: The Hidden Blade

The mid-19th century was an unimaginably chaotic time in Japan. The Tokugawa era had come to a close and the Meiji period was taking its place as the country experienced economic trouble, class upheaval, and an ever-increasing influx of Western ideas. The rigid Tokugawa class system had been ruled by the samurai, but now that proud class was faltering, many of them now answering to the once-lowly merchants. Additionally, as the merchant class rose and the influence of the West increased, the neo-Confucian values of the Tokugawa period were brought into question. Since the class system had been shown to be unstable, how important was the education that had previously been so valued? And what was the use of a strict moral code, if it didn’t raise one of our poverty?

Trade with the west was not only making merchants rich. It was also opening their eyes to European technological advances, particularly when it came to science and the military. This knowledge only increased Japan’s internal conflicts. Some felt the only way to take full advantage of what the West had learned was complete openness, while others clung tightly to the old ways, believing that openness would lead to corruption.

Beneath all of this lurked thousands upon thousands of small stories about individuals who dealt with personal questions just as profound as those the nation was facing. Yoji Yamada’s The Hidden Blade, which opens the New York Film Festival’s Shochiku Company sidebar, tells one of those stories. Though the great majority of Yamada’s 80+ films have taken place in the present-day middle class, he nevertheless is at home in early Meiji Japan, having set 2002’s Oscar-nominated Twilight Samurai in that era.

The Hidden Blade is a small, quiet film about a man’s solitary struggle to survive in a changing world. Munezo Katagiri (Masatoshi Nagase, from Jim Jarmusch’s Stranger than Paradise) is a samurai who retains none of the prestige his class once possessed. When we first meet Munezo, he lives in a simple home with his mother and his sister, and the family is attended to by a single maid, Kie (Takako Matsu). Munezo’s father is dead, a samurai who committed hari-kari on clan orders, despite the fact that he was in no way responsible for the offending event. Needless to say, his father’s death made a powerful impression on the young Munezo, leaving him with a passionate devotion to both the samurai code and what is morally right, no matter who it offends.

After his sister’s marriage as well as that of Kie, the film jumps ahead three years. Following the death of his mother, Munezo seems to have dedicated himself entirely to his clan’s training in Western military techniques and the study of the arts (he is familiar with poetry, and we see him practicing calligraphy). When he encounters a sickly-looking Kie in a local shop, however, Munezo’s interest is piqued. Ultimately, he disobeys samurai law and takes her bodily from the home of her husband, threatening the man in the process. Though the samurai obviously takes great joy from the arrival of Kie in his home and her subsequent assumption of her old role as maid, his morals are in conflict. On one hand, he feels that Kie was in danger with her husband’s family; they didn’t care for her when she was ill, and his actions probably saved her life. On the other hand, though, his solution to the problem was a clear violation of the laws of his clan. What is a moral man to do in such a situation? This question is only the beginning, though, as external forces - and the past - will ultimately render Munezo unable to live a simple, moral life.

Despite his personal conflict, Munezo faces no official punishment for his rescue of Kie, and his life seems to settle into a quietly happy routine. Though the remains of the class system make the thought of a marriage laughable, both he and Kie seem happy with their situation, sharing great affection and a home without any physical entanglements. Just as the samurai’s life begins to stabilize, however, trouble strikes again. A former companion and fellow sword-fighting trainee has been arrested in the capital for plotting against the government, and Munezo is suspected because of his closeness to the rebel. Brought before the local clan leader, he is told that he must provide the names of other associates (and, presumably, possible coconspirators). From a position of submission on the floor, Munezo refuses. The fury of his superiors notwithstanding, he remains committed to the samurai code:  he will protect his associates.

In the wake of the explosive anger of the clan leader, though, comes false calm. Munezo goes unpunished for his impertinence, and he returns to his normal routine of military training and quiet nights at home with Kei. When talk starts about their relationship, though, Munezo does the moral thing and commands her to leave his home. Bound as he is to his duty, Munezo knows that what he wants is of little consequence.

Duty calls him again when his rebellious former companion escape prison and takes a family hostage. As the only person ever to defeat the man in a sword fight, as well as a on-time friend who can perhaps get close to him, Munezo is pressed into service by his clan. If, he is told, he will not attempted to defuse the situation, his friend will be killed. Munezo has no choice. As the situation escalates in intensity, he’s bombarded from all sides by moral challenges, and the confrontation moves inexorably towards a tragic end.

There are some wonderful things about The Hidden Blade, and first among them is the performance of Takako Matsu as Kie. She has an incredible, lively face that conceals nothing. The moment she feels a hind of pleasure, her eyes spring to life and an irrepressible smile touches her lips. When she suffers, everything is equally on display. Matsu’s performance is particularly striking when put in the context of the stoic performances and characters around her, and it makes her the film’s true center. In some ways, though, her luminosity actually hurts the film, because it dims considerably in her absence. Actors and story aside, Yamada's film looks gorgeous. Each shot is crammed with rich colors and vivid, sharp contrasts, whether we’re freezing in a village in winter, admiring springtime cherry blossoms, or sweltering in the humidity of a dense, fog-filled forest.

Ultimately, though, The Hidden Blade falls short. The themes of personal and national conflict are ripe for the picking, but Yamada’s handling of them lacks any emotional impact. We watch Munezo suffer with a sort of detached sympathy, never identifying with or fully understanding his pain, and as a result we’re never truly, deeply involved in the film. Furthermore, the issues of large scale conflict are seriously weakened by a strange lack of subtlety, and an inconsistency of tone. For example, the early scenes of Western military training have a very slapstick feel to them - they’re funny, yes, but because the film returns so quickly to its dominant serious tone after each one, they end up simply jarring the viewer. Additionally, several important issues - including that of caste - are handled with a disappointing heavy-handedness that only derails the film’s progress. Repeatedly, Yamada has his characters discuss in detail issues that are already clear, and that would be much more powerful were they left unsaid. At best, the viewer is left feeling that Yamada simply has little regard for his audience’s powers of perception; at worst the director appears careless. The result of this is that moments of East-West convergence that might be profound become only further evidence that nuance is missing and, finally, that a film that should be imbued with great poignancy feels strangely flat.