A Review of Akira Kurosawa’s Kagemusha

A Review of Akira Kurosawa’s Kagemusha

This was the first Akira Kurosawa film I ever watched. In fact, it was also the very first film that introduced me to Japanese cinema. I can confidently say now that this movie is where my interest in Japanese cinema began. A few weeks after watching it, I felt a strong urge to watch it again — and this time, I decided to write about it.

The cinematography was something I wasn’t used to at all. The camera didn’t follow the characters like in modern films. It felt as though a wall had been removed from a stage play and I was watching from that fixed angle, listening to whoever was speaking. The emotions were delivered not just through words, but through iconic, sharp, and deliberate body language that demanded attention. At times, I felt like I was watching a play, not a movie. Initially, I even found these gestures a bit funny — but I enjoyed it. It reminded me of how, in a real-life conversation, we don’t have a camera zooming in on every speaker — we just observe. And in that sense, this style felt even more realistic than today’s films. These weren’t just “characters” — they were truly individual personas. There was no “normal” template for behavior; everyone was authentically different.

The detailed costumes and vivid set designs made it clear how much effort had been poured into the film. It didn’t try to attract the viewer’s attention in the flashy way modern films do — instead, it allowed us to quietly take in every crafted detail, like appreciating a painting made by a single artist.

The setting (if historically accurate) also revealed the superstitious and delicate beliefs of the time. Slaves acted in service as expected, while the masters showed a proud firmness, freely expressing their opinions. Though we didn’t see the common folk often, one of the main characters — presumably from the people — displayed a kind of accusatory, fear-laced rebellion that hinted at the spirit of the era. The film gave occasional glimpses into how art influenced society. A fairground performance, a soldier playing a flute — small moments that demonstrated art’s social impact, even if briefly. But by not lingering on them, the film subtly reminded us: this is not the main story. A clever move. Similarly, religious beliefs were presented as something seemingly important, but ultimately not deeply explored — a deliberate artistic decision, I believe. In short, I’d say the film was a masterful reflection of its period.

The heart of the story, of course, was about the burden placed on one character — scene by scene. The entire film, in essence, was about how insane it is to impersonate someone else. If that was the director’s intention, then it brilliantly showed how mentally exhausting the art of acting can be. From the beginning, we’re shown how critical the role this man is about to play will be — he must become someone so admired and feared that even his enemies can’t believe he’s dead.

What struck me most was the internal struggle of the impersonator — constantly questioning himself, gauging others’ reactions, wanting to escape the role but having no other choice. The scene where his dreams change during the night left a heavy impression on me. Even in sleep, he couldn’t find peace — and that filled me with anxiety.

Despite all this, the way he adapted and reacted during war meetings revealed how sharp-minded he was — and how deeply he’d immersed himself in the role, to the point of losing his own identity and becoming the Shogun. Deceiving the family and the women was actually the easy part. The real marvel was fooling the leader’s grandson. The child didn’t care about the "truth." If someone acted like his grandfather, then as far as he was concerned, that was his grandfather. It made me long for the simplicity of childhood — where identity wasn’t so rigid or analytical. It made me ask: does it really matter?

Even though the impersonator embraced the role wholeheartedly, the constant suspicion from those around him eventually led to the truth being revealed.

In summary, it felt more like I had watched a theatrical performance than a typical movie. I can’t say it shook me to my core, but it felt like a story I would never hear again — or a flavor I’d never quite taste again. As always, art is immeasurable and cannot be compared. And this one-of-a-kind meal… I can say it truly satisfied me.

Perhaps it’s also because it was my first Japanese film. But I honestly didn’t find any unnecessary or meaningless detail in it. On the contrary, I felt that every element had been carefully placed, with discipline and intention. I would call it a true work of art.