Kiyoshi Kurosawa is more than a horror director

Despite the difference in genre, and the esteem that’s inherently associated with jidaigeki movies in accordance with its place in Japanese cinema’s history, The Samurai and the Prisoner remains of a piece with Kurosawa’s filmmaking writ large: it’s patient, confident, and replete with visuals that range from chilling to dreadful. Horror film or not, there’s plenty about it that’s nonetheless horrifying, not to mention politically meaningful in a contemporary context—which Kurosawa talked about with me on the cusp of the film’s July 30 theatrical release. 

This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

Andy Crump: Among my peers, you’re known broadly for your work in horror. Speaking as a horror critic, I see a strong relationship between those movies, like Cure and Pulse and The Samurai and The Prisoner. For you, I wonder if genre labels can feel constraining, and whether your reputation in horror feels like an obstacle that you have to get around when you make other types of movies.
Kiyoshi Kurosawa: I love horror films, and I love the genre, and I don't have any hesitations around making horror films, but I think that I have trouble coming up with terrifying ideas—so it's a little hard to only make horror films. That's kind of the simple reasoning for why I make other types of films, too. I'm also a fan of all different kinds of genres of film. I would hate it if my career were one where I could only make horror films. 

I find that abroad, yes, people know me for a lot of my horror movies, but in Japan, whether it's a good or a bad thing, I don't think that a lot of people know me as a horror director. I think that most people think of me as making all kinds of movies, and that's why I even get offers for projects like a samurai film. I'm kind of working freely across various genres.

AC: So: There are beheadings in this film. The notion of divine punishment is brought up a bunch, and the idea that characters in the film hold dearly to the idea of honorable death begetting salvation in the afterlife. These ideas are horrifying on their own without making a horror film. I wonder if you see a relationship between those elements and the “stuff” of horror cinema. Obviously you're not working in horror space right here, but those ideas and images are pretty horrifying.
KK: Yeah, I can see how my horror films and a film like the one that I've made this time are connected. I wouldn't say this is how I would describe just the films that are within the horror genre, but I think that in my fiction films and the drama that happens in my narratives, I'm always chasing after this idea of what happens next. I want the viewers and the protagonists to be suspended in a place of uncertainty where they're wondering where the story is going to head. 

It would be very easy to understand a narrative where there's some source of evil that needs to be beaten before the protagonist can arrive at a peaceful ending. However, in my films, there's never a simple enemy, or maybe there is an enemy, but after the enemy is beaten, we don't know that there's going to be peace after that. Something else even more sinister might be waiting on the other side. I'm attracted to these dramatic beats, and I think that The Samurai and the Prisoner is no different. In my horror films, you'll notice that it's rarely a story about a scary ghost. It's really about this uncertainty that the protagonist is plunged into, and that's where the true terror is.

AC: Creepy (2015), which is more of a psychological thriller than horror, is where that dynamic crystallized for me. There's clearly an antagonist, but the drama comes from the protagonist fighting with their self-doubt. That seems to be the soul of your cinema; it's certainly the soul of The Samurai and the Prisoner. It's a murder mystery! The lead constantly questions himself, and others around him. That plays into your work, and the idea is relevant in a political sense today. We're in a state of self-interrogation and interrogation of others. I wonder if that is meaningful to you in terms of how you approached the story?
KK: Yeah, I think that there's a certain contemporariness that's reflected in the film, although I didn't make the film as a means to convey a political message. Of course, the film takes place in 16th Century Japan—very much not a contemporary time or setting. But because it's a film made by myself and the actors who are living in a contemporary moment, I think that there are various unconscious contradictions and concerns that are reflected throughout the film that do communicate something that's contemporary.

I will add that in most of my films, I depict present day Japan, and the protagonists are often people that work in various professions—but they're always ordinary people. This is actually the first time I've depicted a protagonist who is a person in power. Of course, this is a historical figure, and the film is based on a novel, so the narrative follows what is written in the novel. However, because I'm, for the first time, depicting a person that wields power, whether intentional or not, I think that the contradictions and issues that emerge from a person wielding or trying to grasp power, are the things that are perhaps highlighted in this film more so than my prior films.

AC: I noticed that. This is a person who has authority, a title, a position. That felt new to me. It's funny, though, to say the word “new” when we're talking about jidaigeki; we Americans hold samurai cinema very dear. What value do you see in turning to the past—both as an actual time period and a storytelling mode that isn't as popular now as it was 60, 70 years ago—to understand what’s happening with us as a people in the present?
KK: This is my first time making a period film, so it's hard for me to say what the value of a jidaigeki is in the present day. But certainly I find that, when done well, jidaigeki allows for drama to be abstracted in a way where it reaches the universal. I think in contemporary stories, there is a sense of being tied down to a certain reality. There are certain details about a protagonist that become very important, you know? What are they like? What is their home life like? Where do they live? The more that the character is tied to a kind of realism or a reality, it strays further from the universal.

What is interesting about contemporary dramas is that there's a blurring of reality and fiction in a way that is attractive. But jidaigeki has the ability to transcend not only its era, but also even its nationality, that it becomes something that might reflect the experiences of people regardless of what era they live in, or what country they're from. So I think there is a possibility that it unlocks something more universal.