the samurai and the prisoner
The Samurai and the Prisoner (2026)
Directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s last film, Cloud, was one of my favorites from 2025; a tautly composed thriller about men who do and have done sleazy things to get by in late-stage capitalism. It mirrored a mentality of mindlessness that I think grabs hold of most men who thirst for autonomy but have no means of obtaining it. Squint hard enough and you may see some similarities between Cloud and Kurosawa’s new film, The Samurai and the Prisoner, an epic that on initial viewing seemingly veers far from anything I’ve come to expect from the filmmaker. A densely verbose, rich adaptation set in the 16th Century, Kurosawa is, if nothing else, flexing his formal muscles in an exercise that impresses, if not in the moment, than certainly upon reflection.
The specifics of the narrative are gleaned from an opening title sequence that outlines the historical context, wherein Lord Murashige (Masahiro Motoki) is set to defend his castle and compound against an ensuing siege from a violent warlord in Oda, his prior mentor. Kanbei (Masaki Suda, the smarmy lead from Cloud), a diplomatic messenger and war strategist, attempts to persuade Murashige into surrendering. Refusing, Murashige instead opts to imprison Kanbei, going against the cultural standard; if Kanbei does not return or notice of his death not relayed, the presumption is that he has switched sides, jeopardizing his son and family as a result. Murashige, instead, locks the man up alone in his dungeon, arms cuffed by a chain between a large supporting beam. It’s a brutally violent purgatory sentence for a messenger, but in Murashige’s mind, he refuses to give in to cultural obligations, and instead sees the value in keeping a strategist of Kanbei’s caliber at arm’s length.
The film is then divided into four chapters, each occurring during the seasons where a particular narrative lesson is understood by Murashige. This episodic structure is welcoming after this initial crash course into feudal Japanese history, even if each part ultimately devolves into a mystery being hashed out by Murashige and Kanbei. The narrative beats reminded me, of all things, Rian Johnson’s Poker Face, though the lineage can be traced back much further back, from Agatha Christie to hell, Columbo. Regardless, these episodic lessons are pleasantly rewarding though each subsequent beat does lose some luster as the film reaches its final act, particularly when so much of this seems to be gearing up for a bloodthirsty conclusion.
Allusions to Macbeth will draw comparisons to Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood. The Samurai and the Prisoner is, most certainly, not that. And admittedly, the violent crescendo that marks the film, along with say Masaki Kobayashi’s Harakiri (a film deeply in mind after watching Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey), is notably absent in Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s work. Which is a notable distinction for a filmmaker not just capable of sequences of violence, but also quite adamant about how inescapable those cycles of violence can become. Here, we see the rejection of that violence, with Murashige refusing to partake in the violent customs that were expected of him. Instead, he retreats, refusing to embolden the Buddhist mantra that informs all of the text of The Samurai and the Prisoner: to advance to paradise, retreat into hell. It’s the mantra of Oda and his ensuing army, and it’s the philosophy adopted by Murashige’s people. It’s the philosophy of Kunihiko Mamiya in Cure, Ryosuke Yoshii in Cloud, and of the brutal, moronic, and self-involved ruling class of our present, of Pete Hegseth, Kash Patel, and Donald Trump. But it’s not mine, and finally, it’s not Murashige. Which I suppose is the thorough line of Kurosawa’s men: there are those who mindlessly accept the status quo, attempting to manipulate and maneuver their way within it by consuming like parasites. And then there are those who reject it, seek asylum from the shackles of oppression, and simply make tea.