The story of Macbeth is, of course, well known in the West, and it fits quite well with Kurosawa’s thematic interests. Greed and egoism were important elements of his breakthrough film, Rashomon (1950), but here they take on an even darker tone, verging on the brink of nihilism. A blanket of fate hangs heavy over everything that happens in Throne of Blood, and the characters appear in the end like so many puppets, their strings plucked and pulled exactly as prophesized, their feeble attempts to guide their lives as illusive and fleeting as the perpetual fog that haunts the bleak, volcanic landscape.

The story is set sometime in the 15th century, an era in which feudal Japan was divided by rival clans that were constantly crumbling beneath power struggles and treason. When the film opens, two warriors, Washizu (Toshirô Mifune, Kurosawa’s favorite actor, playing the Macbeth character) and Miki (Akira Kubo, playing the Banquo character), have just shown great bravery in battle. While riding through the knotted labyrinth of the Spider’s Web Forest on their way back to their lord’s castle, they come upon an old witch (Chieko Naniwa) who tells them they will both rise to prominence.

The witch’s prophecy indeed comes true that very night, as both Washizu and Miki are promoted and made lords of two important castles. Washizu’s wife (Isuzu Yamada), whose physical appearance and mannerisms are frighteningly similar to those of the witch, convinces him that he needs to continue to consolidate power, which eventually entails him murdering the lord of his clan and assuming full power. With each step Washizu takes, he becomes less and less human, eventually convincing himself (with the help of another prophecy that he fatally misunderstands) that he is, in fact, invincible.

In adapting Macbeth, Kurosawa kept the broad parameters of Shakespeare’s story and most of the major characters, but what he was primarily interested in were the themes about the persistence of human nature. The fact that the same human foibles can characterize a Scottish king and a feudal Japanese warrior from different eras says much about the universality of humanity and its weaknesses. Washizu is, like Macbeth, a good, but weak-minded and easily manipulated man who allows his greed to consume him, and he pays the ultimate price at the end. It is, of course, a tragedy, one that resonates through the ages because of the basic truths it evokes about human desire and its consequences.

However, what makes Throne of Blood such a great film is the way in which Kurosawa invokes these themes visually. It has often been hailed as one of the greatest filmic adaptations of Shakespeare because Kurosawa finds such a thoroughly cinematic voice to express Shakespeare’s narrative. He eschews the attention-grabbing Shakespearean dialogue, instead using a slightly poetic version of Japanese that never detracts from the film’s grandiose visuals. He works on scales that are both large (the ghostly forest that seems to run in circles) and small (the spare interior of Washizu’s room), but it is always with deep-felt purpose.

Kurosawa’s actors work in a grandiose style that has the tendency to strike some as unintentionally humorous (Mifune’s facial contortions are reminiscent of bizarre masks), but given the film’s lavish visual design, the performances couldn’t be better suited. Mifune, in particular, channels all of Washizu’s lust and aggression, his behavior becoming more and more outlandish as the film wears on, so that by the time he comes to his grueling death scene, it is not surprising that he refuses to go down, even when pierced by dozens of arrows. It’s a fitting end to a character who is both great and pathetic.

Copyright ©2013 James Kendrick

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