In the 1950s, the entire world was living in fear, and for good reason – the Second World War was still recent enough in the collective memory to have scarred many who lived through it, and the rise of various political ideologies was only creating more tensions between nations, with the world seeming to be on the verge of nuclear war, less than a decade since the final guns were set down in the most recent major conflict. Japan had more reason to be fearful than most, since not many countries were as irreparably changed by the vicious attacks than they were, both literally and in terms of the collective psyche, which was still very apprehensive to accepting that these new conflicts springing up around the world weren’t going to lead to another major war. This historical context serves as the basis for I Live in Fear (Japanese: 生きものの記録), the incredibly ambitious, but oddly undervalued, social drama written and directed by Akira Kurosawa, a filmmaker who has often been considered the gold-standard for meaningful cinema that accomplishes something of value. His story of an elderly man becoming so paranoid about the prospect of nuclear annihilation, to the point of madness, is one that speaks very much to the dominant mentalities at the time, perhaps better than most films that looked at the aftermath of a major war. Raw and unfiltered, this is one of Kurosawa’s most bleak films, a dark and unsettling psychological odyssey that places us in the position of someone who sees the world falling apart around him, but struggles to find anyone who can understand his perspective, rather being surrounded by family members who see his erratic behaviour as less a case of cautionary fear, but rather an unhinged descent into insanity. A challenging work that has never been more resonant, especially since we continue to live in a world where threats of complete annihilation still persist, I Live in Fear is a tremendous achievement by one of cinema’s great masters, who could do so much with even the most simple of premises.

Kurosawa’s films could essentially be divided into one of two classifications. The first were his sprawling epics, most of them taking their cue from ancient Japanese folklore and the historical figures that were interwoven into the rich and evocative national culture. The second were his more socially-charged films, the various dramas and psychological thrillers that were usually set in the contemporary period, and looked at the machinations of Japan at a particular point in then-modern history. I Live in Fear logically fits in with the latter, being an intricately constructed drama about a man losing his mind over the fears that his entire family will be destroyed by nuclear warfare. The postwar experience was obviously difficult for any country that had even a marginal association with the conflict, so it stands to reason that Japan would have some strong stories to tell in this regard. Many films were made that investigated the two decades immediately following the war – some of them were deeply unsettling dark comedies that took place in a vaguely absurd version of Japan, implying how the country had fallen into a state of permanent disrepair, while others were more focused on examining the changes mentalities that came about as a result of the changes that occurred, usually filtering it through the lens of familial dramas that substitute direct conversations about the war with more allegorical analyses of gender roles in a society previously known for its stringent traditions. I Live in Fear occupies neither category – this is a film that was focused on going for the jugular, presenting the reality many people in postwar Japan experienced, looking deep into their psychological state, which were just as fragmented as the country itself. A film constructed out of both broad strokes and intimate details, Kurosawa is intent on exploring the inner-state of the main character, and how he represents an entire group of citizens that were enveloped by their fears, and how such paranoia can lead to a kind of madness if not remedied early enough.

Inarguably, one of the greatest director-actor collaborations in the history of cinema is between Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune. They were both incredible artists on their own, but their continued partnership between the 1940s and 1960s was one of the finest to ever be committed to the medium of film. As the central protagonist, Mifune anchors the film and turns in one of his most striking performances as the elderly factory owner who is fearful that the world is on the brink of extinction. I’d argue that what drew Kurosawa to frequently make use of Mifune was the actor’s peculiar gift for an almost chameleonic control of his characters, each one of their collaborations seeing the actor venture further from the previous role, rather than maintaining the same kind of character and having the rest of the film built around his formidable presence. He is so remarkable, we don’t even notice that, despite playing a man well into old age, Mifune was only 35 when making I Live in Fear, which only makes his performance all the more impressive, since his ability to disappear into his roles and make us truly believe what we’re seeing. He can command the screen in a way that very few actors have ever been able to, and his ability to take the character of Kiichi Nakajima to unexpectedly depths, while never resorting to playing him as a stereotype, is exceptional. He’s simply unrecognizable in the part, and somehow manages to convince us that this man is only a few inches away from a complete mental breakdown. It’s a fascinating performance that contributes significantly to the sense of despair contained within this intricate character study, gradually unveiling itself to be a thoroughly captivating but terrifying glimpse into the effects a war can have not only on a country’s infrastructure, but also on the minds of the people who reside within it.

I Live in Fear, as the title suggests, is centred all around the terrifying prospect of the world ending, taken from the perspective of someone who feels isolated in fearing what he considers to be an enormous possibility – and looking back, knowing what we have come to learn in the last half-century, his fears are far from unfounded, since we still continue to live in a world where such anxieties are quite widespread. The film focuses on the main character’s mental decline as he finds his fears worsening – but rather than being a thinly-veiled mockery of his descent into madness, the film is far more compassionate, asking the legitimate question around whether the fears felt by the protagonist (who represents a much wider group of people who had the same concerns), are irrational by-products formed by the aftermath of the Second World War, or if they are actually logical in realizing the clear and present danger that stands before them. Around this time, we saw an endless array of films composed of a blend of paranoia and unmitigated terror, derived from the major mentalities surrounding the Cold War and the threat of it escalating to the point of another major world war. This film takes many of those elements, but carefully avoids making this a film solely about a man fearing for his life, being oddly compassionate about how it approaches his mental state, while still provoking some deeply unsettling conversations about the existential angst that many endure in times of uncertainty. There is obviously not a clear resolution to these anxious feelings that have begun to envelop the character, and as the film progresses, his condition only worsens, to the point where it leads to an absolutely terrifying final scene, where we realize the inescapable dread that people like the main character experience when they start to surrender to what they consider to be their inevitable fate.

Kurosawa’s filmmaking reflects all of these complex ideas, showing that these ambitious concepts didn’t only reside at the conceptual level, but were capable of being seamlessly assimilated into something profoundly cinematic. There’s an abstract sensibility to this film, with I Live in Fear being a psychological thriller in the purest sense of the term. It focuses on deconstructing the main character’s perception of the world, and placing it in stark contrast with the more level-headed opinions of his family, who are quietly trying to phase him out of his position as a patriarch, since his fears are seen as simply the erratic ramblings of someone who has officially begun the process of bidding farewell to his sanity. Kurosawa represents all of these intricate conversations in a way that is intimate and honest, never exploiting the circumstances surrounding the main character’s descent into socially mediated madness, while still relying on it as the hinge for the entire film. There are some abstract components embedded in this film that keep it from being entirely straightforward – it’s difficult to decode exactly where this film is heading most of the time, especially since it takes the form of a speculative thriller, but where we know what is being feared isn’t something otherworldly or implausible, but a very real concept, which places the central premise in a starkly different position once we fully understand what has driven Kiichi to the brink of sanity. All these wildly disparate threads are woven together masterfully by the director, who sets a clear and solid tone, while never indicating exactly where he is taking this story – logically, he keeps everything quite realistic (which only adds to the unsettling terror of the story), and somehow manages to draw us into this narrative so well, we begin to feel the same looming dread as the protagonist, whose perspective we eventually come to understand, since Kurosawa does so well in setting a particular tone that is as inescapable as the deep existential depression experienced by these characters once they realize how truly trapped they have become.

There’s certainly a strong message to this film, but Kurosawa was never a director who aimed to focus on only one particular aspect of the storytelling process, instead creating a wide-ranging social odyssey that is as disturbing as it is deeply profound. I Live in Fear functions as one of the finest character studies relating to the aftermath of war ever committed to film, a masterful achievement that thrusts us into a world that teeters dangerously close on annihilation, but with the majority of people not realizing the true realities of the situation. It’s a strange and unsettling portrait of post-war mentalities, carefully constructed by a director who was able to bring out the despair without needing to become too excessive, finding the perfect balance between terror and character-driven drama. It is understandably not one of Kurosawa’s most well-beloved efforts, especially since there’s a darkness that lingers over this film that makes it more horrifying than it is enjoyable (it is only a few short steps away from being a fully-fledged horror at some points), but it’s earnest approach to looking into the mentalities that were prominent at the time, addressing them directly rather than through inference or allegory, only strengthens the message and makes it more endearing, since there’s a genuine sense of complexity embedded deep within this film, from which there is very little possibility of actually escaping. There is a lack of resolution, and the final scenes are far from comforting – but yet, even at its most disturbing, I Live in Fear is a valiant effort, and yet another reason to celebrate the incredible career of Akira Kurosawa, who could do more with the most simple material than the vast majority of his peers.