Decline of the Samurai

Harakiri. Kneeling in starched white death robes on a mat in the sacred garden, the desperate young warrior strips himself bare to the waist. He seizes a short sword, plunges it into his abdomen once. Twice. Three times. Four. He falls over the gory weapon. "Behead me!" he pleads, but before the last merciful blow is delivered he has bitten off his tongue.

In that grisly, excruciatingly detailed study of a samurai's ritual suicide, Japanese Director Masaki Kobayashi sets the theme of a 17th century tragedy on honor in death--and the death of honor. The victims are two ronin, or unemployed samurai left to starve when their lordly masters are disfranchised following a civil war.

The samurai code of honor breaks down when they present themselves in turn at the household of one Lord lyi, begging for "a corner of the porch" on which to commit harakiri--a sham heroism often used by ronin to draw out an offer of a job. After the first young warrior's ignoble death is forced upon him, largely as a diversion for the courtly company, a seasoned old fighter Tsugumo (Tatsuya Nakadai) arrives seeking vegeance. The Tragedy unfolds austerely in flashbacks framed by Tsugumo's rather wordy debate with Lord Iyi's chief retainer, whose ridgid adherence to a feudal military system is summed up by the phrase: "In time of peace, ther is no hope."

Though Harakiri may sometimes try the patience of an Occidental moviegoer, the film's best scenes lift it to the stature of an astringent minor classic. Director Kobayashi softens violence with impeccable artistry. In his hands, the grim ancient ritual of self-immolation seems as rigidly formalized and strangely beatiful as any of the lethal arts, bullfighting for example. And Tsugumo's climactic battle with the palace elite guard, as intricately choreographed as a kabuki dance, provides in one swift scene an unforgettable splash of blood, boldness and cinematic bravura.

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