Generally speaking, I don’t like reviewing issued DVD sets as sets.
What I mean is that when it comes to viewing and reviewing films for SciFiHistory.Net, I exercise a modicum of caution by evaluating the pictures in separate reviews. To me, that’s always been the best way to do it as such a practice allows for observations on each’s individual merits – their strengths and weaknesses – as well as what might not have so successfully been delivered in the process. Multiple reviews might also leave room for the occasional ‘cross-traffic’ reflection – i.e. comparing or contrasting what makes separate productions more alike (or vice versa) than was intended – and I’ve received little negative feedback in adhering to such a policy.
However, I’ll be breaking this long-established rule today as Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy – 13 Assassins (1963), The Great Killing (1964), and 11 Samurai (1967) – is probably best considered as a completed whole. This isn’t because they’re tied-up consecutively in any away or sequels to one another; rather, it’s because thematically there just isn’t all that much which distinguishes them substantially enough to warrant any fuller extrapolation. In fact, it’s downright befuddling (just a bit) how one studio actually greenlit three flicks so structurally similar to become part of a growing roster of content. Perhaps the popularity of samurai films in Japan throughout the 1960’s made this an easy decision for Toei Company, or perhaps management felt director Eiichi Kudô was a bankable enough commodity to look the other way. Whatever that truth may be, I can only speculate, but I suspect it’s likely a combination of influences as life (and business) prove that true in almost every circumstance.
Now, don’t take this conglomeration review as suggesting that these films have no differences because that’s entirely false. While they have the same narrative structure and much of the same social undercurrent, one or two of the titles simply work better than the third does; and I’ll try to explain why I think that is below. The overall craftsmanship is solid – even though I’ve read some suggestion that these were likely considered lesser and/or B-Movie efforts by many – but results vary (as they always do), and I firmly believe one feels a bit more weighed down with its politics than was absolutely necessary.
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters. If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment. If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
When speaking with others, I’ve often found it difficult to define what makes for a good samurai picture.
Because the traditional samurai story is most often compared to the great American Western, I’ve settled more often than not with pointing out that while there can be a great variety of premises and plotlines the typical adventure usually winds down to a battle of varying influences. Whereas the Western can be categorized as the struggle of good versus evil, the samurai flick dabbles just outside of such simplicity by, instead, giving its characters their own “codes of conduct” instead of adopting the polarity of white hats versus the black ones. There’s usually a bit more substance in managing how these moral strictures intersect both with daily life and living within such codes; and yet I think I’ve seen more ‘loners’ on their own personal ‘missions of mercy’ in samurai pictures than I’ve ever seen in Westerns.
The point here is that – from my own observations – I’ve always found chanbara (sword-fighting films) somewhat more flexible than Westerns. Of course, there are many exceptions to this rule – all one need do is thrown in any Clint Eastwood title – but I’d still insist that the overwhelming majority of oaters concentrate more on universally agreed upon laws in pursuit of their action and drama. But samurais – because they’re usually outcasts and/or fallen heroes and/or antiheroes still pursuing justice based on what could be outdated moralities – bob and weave a bit more through dilemmas that aren’t so easily defined. In fact, even something like murder can be sanctioned by these warriors if such a consequence has been deemed proper by a society or government in transition.
See what I mean? This isn’t always easy stuff … which is precisely why reviewing such art can grow infinitely more fascinating to knuckleheads like me.
There’s even another layer that gets entered into the equation with regards to Eiichi Kudo’s pictures here – each regarded as a classic for its era (italics mine) – because these installments were conceived and shot at a time of great social unrest in Japan. Though I’m no expert on such matters, I’ve read that following the nation’s collapse after World War II the artistic community eventually turned its sights on critiquing the management of their nation. Those in power through war times were never quite punished for what hardships they foisted on their nation; and – when perhaps the people believed it was time to put their collective suffering behind them – the political powers that be wanted little more than to continue the status quo. This created a friction between the emerging generation and the one that came before (i.e. the one still in power), and stories explored in this era began cynically questioning not only why things were they way they were but criticizing those structures that promoted cultural conformity.
So … like Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek used the battleground of the future to actually talk about the present, Eiichi Kudo employed the distant past and these tales of samurai warriors – long thought heroic but now recast as pawns of the State – to address Japan’s modern problems. The allegories targeted such topics as government corruption and violence, and Kudo brought them to life visually in more of a chaotic frenzy than the somewhat stylized and elegant swordfights that had become the genre norm. In these three films, the director explored the depravations of the powerful by having it questioned by “heroes” willing to engage in less-than-honorable deeds at the behest of their broken culture; and never does the dirty organization acknowledge the truth. If absolute power corrupts absolutely, then no one working within the system maintains his (or her) nobility regardless of what he (or she) does. It’s just not possible.
What I mean is that when it comes to viewing and reviewing films for SciFiHistory.Net, I exercise a modicum of caution by evaluating the pictures in separate reviews. To me, that’s always been the best way to do it as such a practice allows for observations on each’s individual merits – their strengths and weaknesses – as well as what might not have so successfully been delivered in the process. Multiple reviews might also leave room for the occasional ‘cross-traffic’ reflection – i.e. comparing or contrasting what makes separate productions more alike (or vice versa) than was intended – and I’ve received little negative feedback in adhering to such a policy.
However, I’ll be breaking this long-established rule today as Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy – 13 Assassins (1963), The Great Killing (1964), and 11 Samurai (1967) – is probably best considered as a completed whole. This isn’t because they’re tied-up consecutively in any away or sequels to one another; rather, it’s because thematically there just isn’t all that much which distinguishes them substantially enough to warrant any fuller extrapolation. In fact, it’s downright befuddling (just a bit) how one studio actually greenlit three flicks so structurally similar to become part of a growing roster of content. Perhaps the popularity of samurai films in Japan throughout the 1960’s made this an easy decision for Toei Company, or perhaps management felt director Eiichi Kudô was a bankable enough commodity to look the other way. Whatever that truth may be, I can only speculate, but I suspect it’s likely a combination of influences as life (and business) prove that true in almost every circumstance.
Now, don’t take this conglomeration review as suggesting that these films have no differences because that’s entirely false. While they have the same narrative structure and much of the same social undercurrent, one or two of the titles simply work better than the third does; and I’ll try to explain why I think that is below. The overall craftsmanship is solid – even though I’ve read some suggestion that these were likely considered lesser and/or B-Movie efforts by many – but results vary (as they always do), and I firmly believe one feels a bit more weighed down with its politics than was absolutely necessary.
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters. If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment. If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
When speaking with others, I’ve often found it difficult to define what makes for a good samurai picture.
Because the traditional samurai story is most often compared to the great American Western, I’ve settled more often than not with pointing out that while there can be a great variety of premises and plotlines the typical adventure usually winds down to a battle of varying influences. Whereas the Western can be categorized as the struggle of good versus evil, the samurai flick dabbles just outside of such simplicity by, instead, giving its characters their own “codes of conduct” instead of adopting the polarity of white hats versus the black ones. There’s usually a bit more substance in managing how these moral strictures intersect both with daily life and living within such codes; and yet I think I’ve seen more ‘loners’ on their own personal ‘missions of mercy’ in samurai pictures than I’ve ever seen in Westerns.
The point here is that – from my own observations – I’ve always found chanbara (sword-fighting films) somewhat more flexible than Westerns. Of course, there are many exceptions to this rule – all one need do is thrown in any Clint Eastwood title – but I’d still insist that the overwhelming majority of oaters concentrate more on universally agreed upon laws in pursuit of their action and drama. But samurais – because they’re usually outcasts and/or fallen heroes and/or antiheroes still pursuing justice based on what could be outdated moralities – bob and weave a bit more through dilemmas that aren’t so easily defined. In fact, even something like murder can be sanctioned by these warriors if such a consequence has been deemed proper by a society or government in transition.
See what I mean? This isn’t always easy stuff … which is precisely why reviewing such art can grow infinitely more fascinating to knuckleheads like me.
There’s even another layer that gets entered into the equation with regards to Eiichi Kudo’s pictures here – each regarded as a classic for its era (italics mine) – because these installments were conceived and shot at a time of great social unrest in Japan. Though I’m no expert on such matters, I’ve read that following the nation’s collapse after World War II the artistic community eventually turned its sights on critiquing the management of their nation. Those in power through war times were never quite punished for what hardships they foisted on their nation; and – when perhaps the people believed it was time to put their collective suffering behind them – the political powers that be wanted little more than to continue the status quo. This created a friction between the emerging generation and the one that came before (i.e. the one still in power), and stories explored in this era began cynically questioning not only why things were they way they were but criticizing those structures that promoted cultural conformity.
So … like Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek used the battleground of the future to actually talk about the present, Eiichi Kudo employed the distant past and these tales of samurai warriors – long thought heroic but now recast as pawns of the State – to address Japan’s modern problems. The allegories targeted such topics as government corruption and violence, and Kudo brought them to life visually in more of a chaotic frenzy than the somewhat stylized and elegant swordfights that had become the genre norm. In these three films, the director explored the depravations of the powerful by having it questioned by “heroes” willing to engage in less-than-honorable deeds at the behest of their broken culture; and never does the dirty organization acknowledge the truth. If absolute power corrupts absolutely, then no one working within the system maintains his (or her) nobility regardless of what he (or she) does. It’s just not possible.
13 Assassins (1963)
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A group of samurai plan to assassinate a sadistic feudal lord.”
As art forms evolve, some of the old continues to cling to some of the new, until such a time when ‘the new’ can fully stand on its own two feet; and – though some in film intelligentsia might disagree with this statement – 13 Assassins still looks and feels a great deal like the samurai films of old. Yes, the story from Kaneo Ikegami clearly hints at the cultural impasse highlighted above; and yet the overall tone of the film suggests that there’s a small chance at retaining one’s nobility even in the most trying of circumstances. Granted, that may mean that a warrior has to inevitably ‘take one for the team’ in order to retain some sense of duty and honor; but is there any really privilege in one’s death preserving a broken system?
Ikegami’s script posits that a high ranking and deeply-entrenched official – Lord Matsudaira – has grown so corrupt in his governing ways that the only acceptable and honorable solution is to have the man murdered. In order for this to happen, those serving the state must be exiled from state control, giving them the freedom to take Matsudaira’s fate into their own hands. So – if you’re following this predicament closely – there’s a systemic breakdown that can only be righted by breaking down the system even further, stripping these once revered knights of the government (or clan) of their “honor” so that they may finally achieve an “honorable” solution.
Actor Chiezô Kataoka had built a career in notable roles throughout period dramas across an incredible six decades in Japan. I can’t say that I know his body of work and reputation well enough to fully evaluate what the reaction might’ve been for taking on the role of such a somewhat disgraced samurai in 13 Assassins, but I can’t help but wonder if an apt comparison might be a how American audiences struggled with John Wayne’s work in The Shootist (1976)? In The Duke’s last picture, he played an aging gunslinger who wants nothing more out of life than to go out with guns a’blazin’ (to a degree). Though morally his character of J.B. Books still abides by the tried-and-true ‘an eye for an eye,’ his dwindling health makes it easy to see how such a character might cut a few corners in order to go out onscreen like the man he was. Similarly, I wonder if Japanese audiences might’ve been taken aback in seeing Kataoka inhabiting a character whose motivations are a bit less than just.
Still, if one were to watch 13 Assassins alongside, say, 1954’s Seven Samurai and be completely unaware of the political influences of the time, then one might emerge not fully seeing how Assassins kinda/sorta embraced a new depiction of the classic screen swordsman. They have similar narrative structures – both lead to a massive showdown between the opposing forces in their respective stories against insurmountable odds – but with one feeling decidedly dark and downbeat as opposed to the other. There’s a great deal more chaos to Assassins, but that fact could be handily dismissed as aesthetics chosen by a different hand at the wheel.
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A group of samurai plan to assassinate a sadistic feudal lord.”
As art forms evolve, some of the old continues to cling to some of the new, until such a time when ‘the new’ can fully stand on its own two feet; and – though some in film intelligentsia might disagree with this statement – 13 Assassins still looks and feels a great deal like the samurai films of old. Yes, the story from Kaneo Ikegami clearly hints at the cultural impasse highlighted above; and yet the overall tone of the film suggests that there’s a small chance at retaining one’s nobility even in the most trying of circumstances. Granted, that may mean that a warrior has to inevitably ‘take one for the team’ in order to retain some sense of duty and honor; but is there any really privilege in one’s death preserving a broken system?
Ikegami’s script posits that a high ranking and deeply-entrenched official – Lord Matsudaira – has grown so corrupt in his governing ways that the only acceptable and honorable solution is to have the man murdered. In order for this to happen, those serving the state must be exiled from state control, giving them the freedom to take Matsudaira’s fate into their own hands. So – if you’re following this predicament closely – there’s a systemic breakdown that can only be righted by breaking down the system even further, stripping these once revered knights of the government (or clan) of their “honor” so that they may finally achieve an “honorable” solution.
Actor Chiezô Kataoka had built a career in notable roles throughout period dramas across an incredible six decades in Japan. I can’t say that I know his body of work and reputation well enough to fully evaluate what the reaction might’ve been for taking on the role of such a somewhat disgraced samurai in 13 Assassins, but I can’t help but wonder if an apt comparison might be a how American audiences struggled with John Wayne’s work in The Shootist (1976)? In The Duke’s last picture, he played an aging gunslinger who wants nothing more out of life than to go out with guns a’blazin’ (to a degree). Though morally his character of J.B. Books still abides by the tried-and-true ‘an eye for an eye,’ his dwindling health makes it easy to see how such a character might cut a few corners in order to go out onscreen like the man he was. Similarly, I wonder if Japanese audiences might’ve been taken aback in seeing Kataoka inhabiting a character whose motivations are a bit less than just.
Still, if one were to watch 13 Assassins alongside, say, 1954’s Seven Samurai and be completely unaware of the political influences of the time, then one might emerge not fully seeing how Assassins kinda/sorta embraced a new depiction of the classic screen swordsman. They have similar narrative structures – both lead to a massive showdown between the opposing forces in their respective stories against insurmountable odds – but with one feeling decidedly dark and downbeat as opposed to the other. There’s a great deal more chaos to Assassins, but that fact could be handily dismissed as aesthetics chosen by a different hand at the wheel.
The Great Killing (1964)
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A Shogunate Elder connives to rule Japan by making his puppet, the Shogun's brother Tsunashige, the next Shogun. The best strategist in Japan, Yamaga, leads a plot to stop the Elder, but his cabal is betrayed and most of the conspirators are captured and tortured.”
Now, I’ve read that Kudo himself considered The Great Killing his masterpiece in this trilogy; and – while I’ll respectfully disagree – I think I can better understand why or, at least, can put his assessment in terms worth considering. Chiefly, Killing represents what I suspect is a more obvious attempt to break away from the norms established in early chanbara storytelling. There’s little to no laudability in any of its characters even though, yes, audiences are presented with one samurai – Jinbo (Kôtarô Satomi) – whose motivation links chiefly to atoning for the unnecessary death of his wife. Yet, he gets depicted as somewhat dragging his feet morally in the second half, having to be convinced to join the rebels in their campaign; and this somewhat muddies the waters as to what the man truly stands for in any evaluation.
But the Japanese status quo is clearly front-and-center throughout Killing. Kudo’s cinematography is even more frenzied at times with the film highlighting some amazing fascination with handheld-style photography. It’s arguably rawer than Assassins, and some might suggest stylistically that it moves more like a documentary than it does a narrative film. The story might also remind today’s audiences of HBO’s serialized adaptation of George R.R. Martin’s Game Of Thrones in that there’s a great deal of behind-the-scenes politicking that leads the action through various developments. Inevitably, Killing suggests that one need not be ruler in order to rule; and Kaneo Ikegami’s script explores how such a political construct cannot serve society in any conceivable way.
Because the story truly embraces the lawlessness resulting from organization disorder, Killing isn’t an easy two-hour viewing. In fact, I found it somewhat oppressive at times, the kind of tale that perhaps went too far in its indictments to leave me with any relatable characters in the finale. That and the fact that, structurally, it operated much too similarly to Assassins – both plots revolve around rebels controlling the inevitable battlefield by coopting landscapes to their design – that I didn’t see it with the freshness it perhaps is owed. Why (oh why) would a director attempt something so patently similar to what he’d just achieved in a previous outing with the possible exception of doubling down on the dastardly doings on politicians? It just felt like a do-over; and, thus, I struggled in finding all that much to say about it.
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A Shogunate Elder connives to rule Japan by making his puppet, the Shogun's brother Tsunashige, the next Shogun. The best strategist in Japan, Yamaga, leads a plot to stop the Elder, but his cabal is betrayed and most of the conspirators are captured and tortured.”
Now, I’ve read that Kudo himself considered The Great Killing his masterpiece in this trilogy; and – while I’ll respectfully disagree – I think I can better understand why or, at least, can put his assessment in terms worth considering. Chiefly, Killing represents what I suspect is a more obvious attempt to break away from the norms established in early chanbara storytelling. There’s little to no laudability in any of its characters even though, yes, audiences are presented with one samurai – Jinbo (Kôtarô Satomi) – whose motivation links chiefly to atoning for the unnecessary death of his wife. Yet, he gets depicted as somewhat dragging his feet morally in the second half, having to be convinced to join the rebels in their campaign; and this somewhat muddies the waters as to what the man truly stands for in any evaluation.
But the Japanese status quo is clearly front-and-center throughout Killing. Kudo’s cinematography is even more frenzied at times with the film highlighting some amazing fascination with handheld-style photography. It’s arguably rawer than Assassins, and some might suggest stylistically that it moves more like a documentary than it does a narrative film. The story might also remind today’s audiences of HBO’s serialized adaptation of George R.R. Martin’s Game Of Thrones in that there’s a great deal of behind-the-scenes politicking that leads the action through various developments. Inevitably, Killing suggests that one need not be ruler in order to rule; and Kaneo Ikegami’s script explores how such a political construct cannot serve society in any conceivable way.
Because the story truly embraces the lawlessness resulting from organization disorder, Killing isn’t an easy two-hour viewing. In fact, I found it somewhat oppressive at times, the kind of tale that perhaps went too far in its indictments to leave me with any relatable characters in the finale. That and the fact that, structurally, it operated much too similarly to Assassins – both plots revolve around rebels controlling the inevitable battlefield by coopting landscapes to their design – that I didn’t see it with the freshness it perhaps is owed. Why (oh why) would a director attempt something so patently similar to what he’d just achieved in a previous outing with the possible exception of doubling down on the dastardly doings on politicians? It just felt like a do-over; and, thus, I struggled in finding all that much to say about it.
Eleven Samurai (1967)
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“The lord of the Oshi fief is killed by his trespassing neighbor, Nariatsu. But when the Oshi clan is blamed for the incident, eleven of their best warriors decide to trade their lives for justice.”
As artistic expression evolves, the storyteller eventually finds a comfortable middle-ground, one which allows enough space for newer, bolder ideas to find comfort standing aside the ideals that have been long-established in a particular genre. The past – or what came before – never quite completely disappearances from the landscape so much as it finds a kind of peaceful co-existence: it softens its requirements so that a kinda/sorta tranquility can emerge on the horizon … and this is where Eleven Samurai fits not exactly perfectly but elegantly as the third and final picture in Kudo’s trilogy.
It’s been said that “change is the only constant in the universe,” and – so far as storytelling matters – this implied that even samurai would have to grow if they were to continue drawing the interest of audiences. But Hayato (Isao Natsuyagi) is a long way from the sword-toting warriors of yesterday, so much so that even on close inspection one might notice only vague similarities. These and those who stand with him retain a fractured commitment to the honorable system that produced them as soldiers to the state (clan); but the reality that they’re either constantly misinformed or constantly let down by management gives them no other choice but to take matters into their own hands in the big finish.
Unlike the two pictures that came before, Samurai – as written by Takeo Kunihiro, Norifumi Suzuki, and Kei Tasaka – invests a bit more in plot progression, giving Hayato and his band of rebels that chance to grow increasingly disenfranchised with the hierarchy they cling to please. As such, I think there’s a much more relatable story here, and the picture that comes to close is perhaps the easiest to understand by even those who don’t normally partake of such entertainment. If anything, audiences might even grow increasingly frustrated with Hayato’s unwillingness to act swiftly early on – when goals could’ve been achieved with less bloodshed – but that would’ve detracted from Kudo’s insistence that these institutions by design were failures and would only produce failures if left to their own devices and machinations.
While I’m not one to usually pick favorites, I’ll concede and give an enthusiastic thumbs up to Eleven Samurai with a very close follow-up to 13 Assassins. As I tried to be clear, I didn’t dislike The Great Killing in any measure: it just felt a bit too overly focused on beating a political drum – something I’m always on the watch for – so I struggled with getting into its anti-Establishment vibe. It’s good, but it feels a bit too sensationalized and not as nuanced as the other entries into what remains a still great and theatrical experience.
Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy (2026) is a product from Arrow Films. As for the technical specifications? While I’m no trained video expert, I can still assure readers that the provided sights and sounds are exceptional. Kudo had a knack for balancing some vivid wide-screen images alongside the frenetic herky-jerky nature of guerilla-like combat; and this is a solid presentation worth discovery. As for the special features? Each film gets its own commentary track – along with a deep-dive exploration on the director’s career as it relates to these pictures – so there’s plenty to explore. I’ve only listened to two of the commentaries so far; and – while they’re good – they’re a bit dry at times with the narrators choosing to focus a bit more on history than on the flicks themselves. Sometimes, even a nerd like me can find that a bit dry.
Highly Recommended.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Arrow Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray set of Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“The lord of the Oshi fief is killed by his trespassing neighbor, Nariatsu. But when the Oshi clan is blamed for the incident, eleven of their best warriors decide to trade their lives for justice.”
As artistic expression evolves, the storyteller eventually finds a comfortable middle-ground, one which allows enough space for newer, bolder ideas to find comfort standing aside the ideals that have been long-established in a particular genre. The past – or what came before – never quite completely disappearances from the landscape so much as it finds a kind of peaceful co-existence: it softens its requirements so that a kinda/sorta tranquility can emerge on the horizon … and this is where Eleven Samurai fits not exactly perfectly but elegantly as the third and final picture in Kudo’s trilogy.
It’s been said that “change is the only constant in the universe,” and – so far as storytelling matters – this implied that even samurai would have to grow if they were to continue drawing the interest of audiences. But Hayato (Isao Natsuyagi) is a long way from the sword-toting warriors of yesterday, so much so that even on close inspection one might notice only vague similarities. These and those who stand with him retain a fractured commitment to the honorable system that produced them as soldiers to the state (clan); but the reality that they’re either constantly misinformed or constantly let down by management gives them no other choice but to take matters into their own hands in the big finish.
Unlike the two pictures that came before, Samurai – as written by Takeo Kunihiro, Norifumi Suzuki, and Kei Tasaka – invests a bit more in plot progression, giving Hayato and his band of rebels that chance to grow increasingly disenfranchised with the hierarchy they cling to please. As such, I think there’s a much more relatable story here, and the picture that comes to close is perhaps the easiest to understand by even those who don’t normally partake of such entertainment. If anything, audiences might even grow increasingly frustrated with Hayato’s unwillingness to act swiftly early on – when goals could’ve been achieved with less bloodshed – but that would’ve detracted from Kudo’s insistence that these institutions by design were failures and would only produce failures if left to their own devices and machinations.
While I’m not one to usually pick favorites, I’ll concede and give an enthusiastic thumbs up to Eleven Samurai with a very close follow-up to 13 Assassins. As I tried to be clear, I didn’t dislike The Great Killing in any measure: it just felt a bit too overly focused on beating a political drum – something I’m always on the watch for – so I struggled with getting into its anti-Establishment vibe. It’s good, but it feels a bit too sensationalized and not as nuanced as the other entries into what remains a still great and theatrical experience.
Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy (2026) is a product from Arrow Films. As for the technical specifications? While I’m no trained video expert, I can still assure readers that the provided sights and sounds are exceptional. Kudo had a knack for balancing some vivid wide-screen images alongside the frenetic herky-jerky nature of guerilla-like combat; and this is a solid presentation worth discovery. As for the special features? Each film gets its own commentary track – along with a deep-dive exploration on the director’s career as it relates to these pictures – so there’s plenty to explore. I’ve only listened to two of the commentaries so far; and – while they’re good – they’re a bit dry at times with the narrators choosing to focus a bit more on history than on the flicks themselves. Sometimes, even a nerd like me can find that a bit dry.
Highly Recommended.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Arrow Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray set of Eiichi Kudo’s Samurai Revolution Trilogy by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
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