Seppuku (Harakiri, 1962)

Kobayashi Masaki

Japan

135 min, B&W, Japanese (English subtitles)

"Date, 13th of May, 1630. Weather fair... No incident of note." Thus, with a lie, begins one of the strongest indictments of the hypocrisy of bushido (the code of the samurai) in film history. Kobayashi's first film is a masterful exploration of the social mask that the code was and, given the director's predilection for philosophy, is an inquiry into the nature of status and honor.

Following the battle of Sekigahara (1600) which broke the power of the warlords, and then the 1615 fall of Osaka which ended Hideyoshi's legacy, Tokugawa Ieyasu established the shogunate that would last until the end of the nineteenth century. Consolidating all feudal power in Edo, he reduced his various daimyo to mere vassals and laid strict rules for the dominant samurai class. For the victors, the new order was peaceful and prosperous. For the losers, it was dire and hopeless. When ancient clans were destroyed, the thousands of retainers became ronin (masterless samurai, annoyingly translated in the film as 'ex-warriors') who would roam the country in search of employment.

In the peacefully turbulent years following the establishment of the Tokugawa bakufu, many of these ronin would show up at the property of a daimyo and request to be given a spot on the premises where they could perform seppuku. This presented the lords with many inconveniences for they could not easily refuse a request that formed the basis of the samurai ethic, but they were also loath to accommodate it because of the messiness associated with the proceedings, the unwelcome attention, and the need to explain. As a result, many prefered to pay off these ronin to go away. Soon this sort of thing became a way of earning an income for some. The more honorable fell into debt, more went off the straight path to become hired swords.

The swords were the symbol of the highest class in the social hierarchy (peasants and merchants being the next two, with a third class of 'untouchables' reserved for artists, butchers, and the similar social outcasts). Samurai were required to always carry their two swords with them, the longer one for battle and the shorter one for committing seppuku (the formal name of harakiri, or the ritual disembowelment that a samurai would perform to avoid shame or disgrace). By the 1630, both swords have become little more than symbols of status. There was no use for the longer sword since there were no wars, and the seppuku had become so formalized that the second would lop off the samurai's head even before his blade touched the stomach. (In the original version, the samurai was expected to slice open his abdomen horizontally and then continue slicing vertically down the center. Only at the very end did the second behead him.) In fact, in many cases the samurai performing the seppuku was not even given the short sword but instead was presented with a fan, which he used to imitate the disembowelment.

It really is necessary to know a bit about the historical background, the social norms, the rituals, and the samurai code in order to properly enjoy Kobayashi's masterpiece. Without these, the film can easily turn into an excruciating 2-hour bore since there is almost no action to speak of and most of the time is spent talking about the ritual, the circumstances around it, and the nature of samurai honor.

Plotwise, the film is easy to summarize. Tsugumo Hanshiro (Nakadai Tatsuya) is a ronin who shows up on the 13th of May at the gates of the Iyi family and requests to be allowed to perform harakiri on the premises. The clan is uneasy about the request as it has only been several weeks since a similar incident had ocurred. A young ronin by the name of Chijiiwa Motome (Ishihama Akira) had showed up asking to be allowed to commit seppuku. After a brief consultation, the clan had decided that to avoid setting a bad precedent, Motome had to die one way or another: he was to be permitted to perform the ritual and, should he turn out the be a fraud and begged to leave, he was to be slain.

As it turned out, Motome did not even have real swords with him (having apparently pawned them) and had only bamboo replicas in his sheaths. Having concluded that he must be a fraud, the clan forced him to kill himself in a painful and gruesome way with his short bamboo sword. Although Motome begged to be allowed two days of grace, his request was denied without even asking for the reason.

Hanshiro listens to this story with a straight face and then calmly assures the clan's chamberlain that there's nothing to worry about: he is not a fraud and his swords are quite real. Resolving on letting him die, the chamberlain lets Hanshiro perform the ritual. When all is set, Hanshiro asks to name a second. One by one he chooses the three samurai responsible for the death of Motome but he is told that all of them have requested a day off for medical reasons. Meanwhile, Hanshiro tells his life story to the attending samurai.

As it turns out, Hanshiro's daughter Miho (Iwashita Shima) had been married to Motome, whom Hanshiro had promised to look after following his own clan's demise. Impoverished and unable to find employment, the family struggles on until Miho and then her (and Motome's) little baby are stricken with illness. When the baby develops an especially fearsome fever, Motome mutters something about borrowing money and leaves, promising to return that evening. His family never sees him alive again. Soon, Miho and the baby pass away, leaving Hanshiro all alone. His seppuku at Iyi's mansion is really only a pretext to call the clan's values to public account.

He fails. The chamberlain derides his old-fashioned standards and then orders him killed. In a last furious display of power, Hanshiro battles the countless samurai at the mansion and manages to enter the ancestral shrine of the family, where he grabs the samurai armor before impaling himself on his sword.

What the film lacks in action, it makes up for with dense visuals and impressive narrative. The grainy black and white photography and slow panning perfectly set the mood and the careful framing of shots presages what we later see in Kobayashi's masterful Kwaidan. The treatment of abstract honor and its opposition to human values such as compassion and love will receive another scathing filming in the director's Samurai Rebellion. While this later outing is in many ways better than Harakiri, the conclusion is the same. Not only does the artificial code of honor rob human beings of their most essential feelings with its unreasanoble demands upon one's conduct, but all its pretenses are revealed to be sham.

The strongest condemnation of the code that was supposed to have sustained the country through its unprecendented three centuries of peace is the unequivocal exhibition of the 'behind-the-scenes' conduct of supposedly noble samurai that were expected to uphold it. For once Hanshiro is dead, the Iyi clan covers up the incident: there was an honorable seppuku performed by a ronin, and several retainers died the same day of sudden illness. It is not shown what effect this decision had on the surviving retainers but one suspects it would not be life-altering. After all, whatever might be said for comfortable existence, it surely beats having to disembowel oneself.

Kobayashi's film could not have been made prior to World War II for the military authorities would have detected the penetrating critique of the bygone era reaching uncomfortably close to the virtues they sought to extol themselves. In an era where patriotism, love for the emperor, and devotion to the country (all abstract notions) were supposed to take precedence over personal feelings and such 'egotistical' ideas like love and caring for family, Harakiri would have been as subversive as any US propaganda newsreel. On the other hand, the post-war culture, encouraged in no small part by the American Occupational Forces, could and did accept such previously unthinkable films.

Still, one cannot say that the film's message is less subversive even today. Whenever one puts personal attachment to fellow human beings before any abstract notions of loyalty or honor, the rule of any authorities, be it democratic or totalitarian, is threatened to its very core. Without the abstract symbols of the trappings of power, there can be no dedication, and no subservience. Bonds between individuals are a threat to the state insofar as they manage to supplant the value system demanded by it. A film like Harakiri is a perennial threat to any organization that demands from its members to sacrifice their humanity.

August 25, 2002, BLS