When it comes to the subject of global cinema, it’s not uncommon for those with a penchant for exploring the wider world of filmmaking to be asked why they enjoy looking beyond what’s directly around them. My reason, and one I believe is relatively common, is that seeing films made in different countries gives invaluable insights into cultures other than our own, and can often even serve an educational function, as we’re likely to find nuances in these stories that we’d have not have been aware of prior to seeing them. A truly great film isn’t only that merely entertains, but also gives the viewer something to take away from the experience, whether it be a memory, a sensation or, in the case of some films, an interesting perspective on another culture entirely. One of the greatest experiences I’ve had in this regard comes on behalf of Keisuke Kinoshita’s incredible The Ballad of Narayama (Japanese: 楢山節考), an absolutely stunning historical drama that abandons all the preconceived notions of what a period film is supposed to be, and presents us with something so utterly captivating and extraordinary in both its story and the form it takes, it’s difficult to not consider this one of the finest works of fiction to be produced in its era. Kinoshita was a profoundly gifted filmmaker that often worked adjacent to the most significant masters of the medium (rather than being officially seen as one of them), but despite his storied career, it’s this film in particular that demonstrates his exceptional gifts – and through some fascinating stylistic choices, and a story that will pluck at the heartstrings of even the most cynical viewers, The Ballad of Narayama is one of the finest glimpses into Japanese culture ever captured on film, and one that resounds with a fervent honesty that touches the viewer on a much deeper level than many films, and gives us something meaningful to hold onto, long after the film has ended.

The film focuses on the concept of ubasute, the ancient ritual practise of abandoning the elderly in a mountainous region once they have reached a certain age, as a way of ensuring that the younger generations can benefit from the depleting resources, as the belief was that, once someone has reached this stage of their life, they are no longer useful to the community, and should be given the opportunity to depart in the tranquillity of nature, surrounded by the spirits that protected them through their life, and now will guide them towards their demise. From the outset, it’s clear that The Ballad of Narayama is not going to be a particularly easy film, nor is it one that lends itself to casual viewing. Kinoshita was well-aware of the challenges that would be associated with getting this film seen, since it doesn’t appear to be something that less-intrepid audiences may be interested in. It’s harsh, difficult to endure and thoroughly heartbreaking, especially considering the depths to which the director is willing to go in order to show the reality of the situation for the impoverished majority who had to resort to such practices as both a ritual and as a means towards self-preservation, which is essentially what the film is about. Loosely adapting the novel by Shichirō Fukazawa, Kinoshita is taking on Japanese history from a very intimate perspective, focusing on the individual obstacles faced by those suffering in a difficult time in the country’s history, and looking deep into the psychological machinations that go along with it. Far more than just a traditional period piece, but rather one with a deeply melancholy approach to exploring difficult ideas such as the harsh realities of resolving our own personal emotions with the conventions of our culture, and the strain such decisions can have on one’s domestic life, with the relationship between family members being perhaps the most compelling element, and by far the aspect that the film is most intent on exploring. 

From the first moment, it’s quite evident that The Ballad of Narayama is not a conventional film, albeit in a way that feels very much intentional. Filmed almost entirely on soundstages, the film is clearly borrowing from the ancient tradition of kabuki theatre, intentionally taking the form of an elaborate production. The amount of detail that went into this film is remarkable – and while there have been arguments that Kinoshita’s insistence on deviating from both sides of mainstream Japanese arthouse cinema at the time (epic historical productions on one side, more intimate, authentic social realist dramas on the other) was part of his exclusion from many conversations surrounding canonical masters at the time, it’s clear that he was a visionary. There aren’t many films quite like The Ballad of Narayama on a purely visual level – it’s not the first to be filmed entirely on soundstages (one can think back on Michael Powell’s Black Narcissus, which used sets so effectively, we are constantly led to believe its filmed on location), but it is one of the better examples of it being used practically. Kinoshita never tries to hide the fact that this is all constructed, and seems to even have a playful demeanour about it, with his creativity in evoking an area spanning miles, onto a few sets, being absolutely remarkable. If the audience is going to leave The Ballad of Narayama with one sensation, it’s likely to be amazement at the extent to which the director was willing to go to create an entire world in a limited space. Visually, this film is just staggering, and the more we peer into this world that he has constructed, ruminating on the intimate details that all add up to pure splendour, the more we realize that Kinoshita was an absolute master, and his directorial flourishes are simply extraordinary.

We can easily wax rhapsodic about how original and inventive the style of The Ballad of Narayama is, but ultimately the aspect that makes it so special isn’t found until we’re at least midway through the film, and the narrative gradually shifts from being a fascinating overview of archaic Japanese traditions, to being a touching story of family, particularly the relationship between a woman who decides that she needs to die for the sake of giving her family and community the chance to survive, and the son who unfortunately has to help her through the process, and essentially be the person who delivers her to the fate that awaits her atop a mysterious mountain. The Ballad of Narayama is an incredible film, but everything that makes it a masterpiece comes in how Kinoshita quietly shifts the general narrative and focuses less on the social aspect, and more on the intimate psychological states of two people who find themselves in this difficult position. The director may have been a masterful stylist, but his greatest achievement with this film is how he managed to extract all the humanity from a plot that could have become needlessly convoluted and unnecessarily complex, instead focusing on the fundamentally human side of the story, plumbing for the authentic emotions and deriving only the most meaningful, which are woven together to form this heartbreaking mother-son story that will leave the audience very close to tears, since there is something so profoundly moving about how Kinoshita develops this from just being a period drama, into one of the most unconventionally effective human dramas produced at the time – and I’d argue that we have rarely seen something be more successful in being simultaneously rhapsodic and genuine, in both form and content, which is yet another reason towards The Ballad of Narayama being an absolute triumph in every conceivable way.

The artificial nature of the production, combined with the heartwrenching authenticity of the narrative, converge into an utterly stunning film that uses these two wildly different methods in a way that actually becomes remarkably symbiotic. The elaborate set design complements the storyline, and Kinoshita makes exceptional use of the resources afforded to him to create something memorable. There’s a self-referential quality to The Ballad of Narayama that we only start to uncover once we realize where the decision to film this story as if it was a stage production came from. A base knowledge of Japanese theatrical traditions isn’t necessary (in much the same way that knowing about the customs that form the basis of the story isn’t integral to understanding this film), since we realize very soon that there is something more to the style here – and shifting from a historical account, to a more psychological drama, was a fascinating decision that served the film incredibly well, since it pierces the membrane of the historical drama genre as a whole, and deconstructs the components that make them so popular, while still having a reputation for being stuffy, which Kinoshita single-handedly challenges in every frame of this film, which is just brimming with a vibrancy that is difficult to compare to anything made before or since, in both the visual aspect and the intention that underpins it. There is an abundance of heart that pulsates throughout the film, emerging as the story progresses and we start to understand the extent to which this film is leading us in a particular direction – and by the time we get to that point, our hearts have already been stolen by this stunning portrayal of the human condition, by someone who demonstrated nothing less than the most earnest understanding of what makes us who we are, regardless of our background.

The Ballad of Narayama is quite simply one of the finest films of its era, which is not hyperbolic when we consider all the varying aspects that went into constructing what is essentially a stunning existential odyssey that attempts to condense the entire human condition into a single narrative, and comes very close to achieving just that. Kinoshita was an absolute master of the genre, and someone who could weave a story through the most scattered fragments, and emerge with an absolute masterpiece. Through the dreamlike filmmaking, where the director is evoking a kind of visual palette that have often been derided for being overly artificial (but is here repurposed in such a way that its thoroughly complementary to the story that surrounds it), and the storyline, which touches on a number of intimidating issues, but in a way that reduces them to the fundamental aspects of existence, he handcrafts a staggering drama that goes far beyond what we’d expect based on its premise. It’s not an easy film to talk about, both since a majority of what makes it special relies on the element of surprise, and because there is a certain quality that lingers over the film that we can’t quite put into words – a kind of empathetic honesty towards both the social structures it is critiquing (without challenging – Kinoshita doesn’t portray the act of ubasute as barbaric, nor does he condone it, instead strictly showing it objectively, and allowing the discourse around it to comment on other concepts), and the individual challenges faced by its protagonists. It’s a very simple film, but one that is so beautifully spellbinding in how it manages to tell this story, immersing the audience in this world that we may not have been aware of, and giving us invaluable insights into a particular cultural concept that will linger with us in one way or another for quite a while. The Ballad of Narayama is a truly unforgettable film, and one that quietly becomes one of the most extraordinary historical dramas ever committed to the medium, which is not an easy feat to accomplish, but which Kinoshita does beautifully.