Kokuho First Draft

Complete first draft for Variety.

The depiction of the personal cost of making art is by no means a new topic in film, but it can often rely on an overly simplified version of the chosen artform's rigors and qualities, in turn diluting any undergirding sense of what drives the characters to put themselves through the ringer. That trap is often avoided by “Kokuho,” a vivid depiction of a legendary kabuki actor over the course of his career. As helmed by Japanese director Lee Sang-il, best known for his 2013 remake of “Unforgiven,” the film spends a great deal of its extended runtime capturing the beautiful physicality and anguished storylines around which the performances revolve, mirroring the many struggles and complicated triumphs of its central protagonist's existence. The title “Kokuho” translates to "national treasure," a title bestowed by the Japanese government upon high masters of an art or craft. After Kikuo (played by Ryo Yoshizawa as an adult and Ryusei Yokohama as a child)—the 14-year-old son of a yakuza leader in 1964 Nagasaki—witnesses the death of his father, he moves to Osaka to begin studying as an apprentice to Hanjiro (Ken Watanabe), widely considered the best kabuki actor in the city. There, he forms a bond with the performer's son Shunsuke (Ryusei Yokohama), who only possesses a modicum of passion compared to the intense drive and natural ability to inhabit the role of an onnagata (a man playing a woman's role in traditional kabuki), beginning a friendship and rivalry that will last for many years. Though “Kokuho” is undeniably a very long film, running just shy of three hours and ultimately covering the events of fifty years—ending, after its longest of many time jumps, in 2014—it remains engaging throughout, in no small part because of the ambivalent perspective it adopts upon its protagonist. As viewed by Lee and screenwriter Satoko Okudera—based on the novel by Shuichi Yoshida, whose work was previously adapted by Lee in “Villain” (2010)—Kikuo is deliberately something of a cipher, clearly a performer who takes great pride in his work but whose sense of self and his ability to relate to others is often murky. As becomes clear through the course of the film, kabuki is an artform that holds family lineage in great esteem, and as such Shunsuke is the heir to the House of Tanban-ya that Hanjiro belongs to. Despite his gift, Kikuo must resort to questionable tactics to maintain his standing in the insular community. When Ryo Yoshizawa begins playing Kikuo about forty minutes in, this aspect of his character becomes even more paramount to the essential mystery at the heart of “Kokuho.” When not in the heavy stage makeup that blurs the lines between Kikuo and Shunsuke, there is a slight coldness to his affect, especially compared to Yokohama's more extroverted performance, which constantly calls into question the sincerity of his sentiments. Though other characters bear the extreme strain of kabuki training and performance much more harshly, the 31-year-old actor appears oddly alien as he ages, a man who never fit into the preestablished traditions of his artform who nevertheless achieves success. In many ways, Kikuo acts as an embodiment of his art's place in post-war Japan. Though the film makes little mention of the world outside kabuki—save for Kikuo's mention that the “A Bomb disease” killed most of his family—it subtly forms a portrait of the changing times, signaled primarily by costume and production design. Kabuki never loses its popularity in the film, similar to its continued place of honor in real life, but there's a great tension between its 17th-century roots and the machinations of the 20th century, reflected most prominently in the Mitsutomo Corporation's heavy sponsorship of the House of Tanban-ya; it is above all an elaborate production, which must be bankrolled through distinctly modern means. In order to bring all this to life, Lee Sang-il relies on heavily on both tight close-ups and widescreen long shots that work in tandem to capture the physicality of the many performances. Cinematographer Sofian El Fani (“Blue Is the Warmest Color”)'s bright colors render Yohei Taneda's art direction and Kumiko Ogawa's costumes with the appropriate vibrancy. But perhaps the most fascinating touch of all comes courtesy of chyrons that appear when a new kabuki play is introduced. In the American release of “Kokuho,” the Japanese name of the play appears, along with the English translation and a brief description of the play's narrative. Though performances are not presented in full, it allows for a fuller understanding of the often tragic nature of these tales of unrequited love and death. In so doing, “Kokuho” and its portrait of an actor's ambiguities find their mirror in an artistic lineage; Lee's film is an admirable contribution to that legacy.