When considering filmmakers that have risen to the level of folkloric reputations, there are few that embody the towering brilliance better than Akira Kurosawa. His iconic career, which stretched over half a century and saw the director venture into so many different genres, sampling from innumerable styles and telling a wide array of stories, it was difficult to not see him as one of the most established filmmakers of all time. Moreover, just like anyone who has risen to the level of effortlessly ethereal acclaim, Kurosawa has a small canon of films that stand above the rest as his masterworks – his is certainly far more extensive, as the vast majority of his films were masterpieces, and exploring them is always such a joy. However, something that is even more fascinating is looking into the films that aren’t included in introductory texts to the director, those that may not be particularly obscure but don’t always receive the attention they deserve. This is perfectly exemplified by Red Beard (Japanese: 赤ひげ), the director’s intricate 19th-century social drama that sees him employing the same attention to detail that is found in his enormous epics, which intertwine with a very simple story that sees the director working at a much more intimate scope than some of his better-known works. A beautifully poetic film that sees the acclaimed director taking careful aim at issues of social injustice and the various trials and tribulations that afflict the everyday people that the director was so intent on representing, it is the rare historical drama that feels both authentic to the time it is depicting, and timely to present issues that Kurosawa touches on with such immense sincerity, making this a truly compelling film that finds a quiet niche within the human condition, and burrows itself into the mind of every viewer with its powerful story and the exquisite execution of its multitude of ideas.

Towards the end of the feudal era of Japanese culture in the 19th century, Noboru Yasumoto (Yūzō Kayama) is an idealistic young doctor who has recently graduated with his medical degree and aspires to become the personal physician to the shogun. However, he is instead sent to a small countryside clinic, where he is to be mentored by Kyojō Niide (Toshiro Mifune), an intimidating older doctor who is commonly referred to as “Red Beard”. Their working relationship is not easy from the outset – tensions arise when Yasumoto makes it clear that he has no intention of following the rules, which his superior calmly refutes, claiming that he will find a way to inspire the subservience in him that he needs in order to become a good doctor. Over the course of a few weeks, Yasumoto is immersed in a very challenging environment, encountering patients who are often on the verge of death, their lives depending on his knowledge and ability to either save them or make their demise as painless and peaceful as possible. Red Beard ensures that Yasumoto develops the necessary empathy, as well as the compassion needed to treat these people, seeing them not only as case studies, but as individuals with their own unique stories, all of which have led them to this very clinic, where the arrogant younger doctor is forced to stop and reconsider his own position in life, as well as the motivations that drove him to seek this line of work, which contrast quite sharply with his initial belief that this line of work is one of wealth and glamour, with the truth only being clear once he has seen the real side of a world that he did not expect to be as emotionally and psychologically taxing as it was, and the omnipotent presence of his mentor both intimidates him into working harder and guides him in realizing his true potential.

Red Beard was something of a transitionary piece for Kurosawa – it was his final film produced in black-and-white (he would subsequently redefine what was possible with his immensely gorgeous forays into colour filmmaking), and the film that brought his decades-long partnership with Toshiro Mifune to a sudden end. However, a great deal of what makes this film so special is Mifune’s performance as the title character, a sibylline doctor whose compassion is masked underneath a gruff, intimidating persona that he carefully conveys as a way of keeping those around him in line, and ensuring that he maintains control, as his experience makes him the ultimate authority on the daily issues he and his staff continuously come into contact with. One of the greatest actors to ever work in the medium, Mifune shows that he is capable of running the gamut when it comes to playing a complex character – whether it be in the broader strokes that require him to be a daunting presence or the more intimate moments that see him soften within the confines of showing the empathy he gradually extracts from his student, Mifune is doing some of his best work. It may be relatively subdued in comparison to the enormous body of work he amassed over his long career, but he still brings a dedication to the role that makes it impossible to envision anyone else occupying the role with the same vigour and elegance as he consistently did throughout this film.  Yūzō Kayama has the challenge of stand head-to-head with Mifune for most of the film, and he certainly holds his own consistently – both actors are attempting to command the screen, based on their characters being men fundamentally driven by their egos. Yet, they find a symbiosis that allows them the chance to both dominate in some way, bringing together their very different performances in an incredibly memorable way. The film touches on many themes that required the actors to venture below the boundaries set up by the archetypes that they’re challenging, which creates an unusually compelling set of combative performances that are borne not from each actor’s desire to take control of the film, but rather to evoke the contentious relationship that exists between these two characters. As a character-driven drama, it was intrinsically important for both performances to be of a standard that can not only be a vessel for the story but also stand as unique interpretations of common characters that are rendered as entirely unique under the careful, dedicated control they bring to these contrasting characters.

Despite the scope and length (running at over three hours), Red Beard is a wonderfully simple film, both in its premise and how Kurosawa’s fascinating ideas manifest. It manages to be a historical drama that pays careful attention to every detail, crafting each frame with the impeccable, meticulous precision that makes it such an authentic text, and truly riveting viewing. Kurosawa was a director who perpetually made use of the medium in extraordinarily unique ways and never took for granted what film could be used for, both narratively and stylistically. Intentionally sparse and straightforward, Red Beard understands that it doesn’t need to be excessive to convey the deeper message, nor does it need to be inundated with lush production design and extravagant sets in order to have historical veracity. Instead, its made with a stark sincerity derived from a director whose intentions here were always to make something beautifully poetic, which intersects with the broader socio-cultural context that he bases the film on. Like with the majority of his more intimate period films, Kurosawa’s work in Red Beard is defined by a very elegant approach that prioritizes the undeniable power of simplicity as a tool of making the most profound impact. Had this film been more focused on the visual aspect in the traditional sense, where priority was to be given to the spectacle, attention would have certainly been drawn away from a story that benefits from such a direct approach. It isn’t quite realism under the most common definition (being far too plot-driven and experimental in its structure to fully qualify under the slice-of-life narrative that had formed a major part of the Golden Age of Japanese Cinema), but it sets out to tell a beautifully simple story about human existence, which it manages to fully realize through an unfurnished, but achingly beautiful, approach to the filmmaking process.

Looking beyond the beautifully stark imagery we’re enveloped in for the duration of Red Beard, Kurosawa presents us with a gorgeous story of the human condition, carefully curated to represent a deeper meaning to a set of existential quandaries that the director explores without ever resorting to the kind of self-indulgence filmmakers with less restraint would have undoubtedly used as a pivot for the plot. The film touches on many themes, most particularly that of compassion. Setting this film almost entirely within a small clinic gives Kurosawa the chance to comment on historical concepts by keeping everything on the fundamentally human level, never deviating away from the authentic core of the film. He does this through creating a tapestry of stories, with a variety of characters weaving their way through the film as patients to the young doctor, and relay the events of their lives and how they found themselves in this very position – whether yearning for lost love or pining of the days of yore, each one of these characters contributes something to the film, which creates a beautiful poignant set of narratives that dovetail into a truly devastating work. Kurosawa infuses so much earnest emotion into this film, which manifests in the final act, focusing on the story of a young man being caught stealing by one of the clinic’s workers, and is subsequently poisoned along with the rest of his family who are attempting to escape the ravages of poverty and the dishonour their son has thrust on them. Kurosawa single-handedly evokes one of the most hauntingly beautiful scenes I’ve seen in a very long time, when the folkloric belief that one can be called back from near-death by shouting their name into a well, immediately followed by the staff of the clinic feverishly shouting for the young boy who is struggling for his life. This is just one of the innumerable poignant, unforgettable scenes of true human compassion that Red Beard conveys, each moment being indicative of some deeper meaning, yet never once appearing dense or overwrought in any way, a testament to Kurosawa’s immense talents not only as a filmmaker but as a purveyor of the human condition.

Ultimately, Red Beard is a truly powerful film that finds Kurosawa exploring some issues that are not foreign to his films, such as those of social hierarchy, human compassion and the roots of individual growth within a period of cultural unease or volatility. Broader themes such as surrogate fatherhood and psychological despair as a result of difficult circumstances all come into play, particularly in the dynamic between the two leads. Toshiro Mifune and Yūzō Kayama are equally incredible in a film that manages to give them both enough to do to establish themselves as fascinating protagonists on their own, as well as looking at their relationship, which is evoked beautifully between the work done by the two actors. As a whole, the film flourishes on its extraordinary humanity. Kurosawa was always in search of something much deeper than what we see on the surface, and whether in the boldest epic or the most intimate social drama (both of which he mastered with a control rarely seen before), he consistently delivered compelling stories that are honest and beautifully poetic in both form and intention, carrying potent stories that aren’t restricted to the time or place they represent, but carry over to modern contexts, not only because the filmmaking is truly astounding, but because the message transcends any boundaries that may be asserted onto the story. Red Beard is evocative, empathetic poetry woven into the form of a harrowing drama that gives insight into the roots of the human condition, put together by a filmmaker whose work reflected a keen understanding of existence that very few artists have ever been able to capture in such a robust, spirituous manner. A thunderous triumph of the human soul, Red Beard is simply an astonishing achievement in every possible way.