Japan left World War II with a shattered pride. Its march toward imperial dominion in east Asia, virtually unchecked since the Meiji Restoration, had been halted. Its emperor was compelled to reject his claims to divinity and resign himself to an honorary governmental position. Japan was forced to reckon with total defeat.

For some, this outcome represented a hollowing of Japan’s martial tradition. Japan had been defined for centuries by its militarism, particularly in the idea of the samurai, both as a historical phenomenon and as an ideal of masculine virtue. One may consult the works of Yukio Mishima, for instance, to see this fervent nationalism and some felt the need to define themselves around martial ideas of strength and discipline in the wake of their newly-opened cultural void. For others, however, the defeat simply forced Japan to reconcile its jingoism with the brutish reality of war and the shallowness of “bushido,” the traditional samurai code of honor. It is to this latter group which director Masaki Kobayashi belonged, and which his film “Harakiri”, shown at the Weitz Theater this past Sunday, represented.

The film follows Hanshiro Tsugumo, a ronin (masterless samurai) who travels to the manor of the Iyi clan to request an opportunity to perform “harakiri,” ritual disembowelment, to preserve his honor rather than die in squalor. Over the course of the film, however, the viewer learns that Tsugumo’s adopted son had died in the same way, but had been treated without compassion or honor by the Iyi clan. The Iyi Clan employs retainers of such little character that when Tsugumo secretly dueled and removed the top-knots (a symbolic samurai hair feature) of three Iyi retainers, they excused themselves with claims of illness rather than face humiliation at their defeat. Informing the senior councilor of the clan of this embarrassment, Tsugumo tells his audience, in the film and beyond the screen, that the notion of “samurai virtue” is a mere facade, one which the rulers are happy to apply when advantageous and ignore when inconvenient.

This idea is repeated throughout the film, particularly with the symbol of the Iyi clan’s armor. The film begins with the ornately decorated suit complete with an intimidating horned helmet emerging from the mist, as if to suggest its primordial, timeless representation of the samurai, before fading into its seat on a shrine at the Iyi manor. By the end of the film, however, Tsugumo has shown the suit of armor not just to be literally empty, but also a hollow symbol of honor; in a climactic fight with the many retainers of the house, Tsugumo holds up the armor as a shield, causing those around him to cower behind its image, before shattering it on the ground. More so than by its physical destruction, the cowardice of the samurai are what destroy the image of the armor as a symbol of samurai virtue.

Kobayashi’s message, of course, is far greater than that the Iyi clan was specifically lacking in virtue. Rather, he believes the samurai, as an ideal of virtue and honor, was wrongly upheld; the nature of combat and conquest is not one of great moral standing, but that of barbarism and cynical self-interest.

This idea is more pronounced in the context of Kobayashi’s full filmography. Kobayashi’s other works include, among various portrayals of contemporary and historical Japan, an almost 10-hour trilogy titled “The Human Condition”. In line with the themes of “Harakiri”, these films focus on the experiences during, and impacts of, a Japanese soldier’s time in World War II. He also instills the character with his personal ideals, particularly a pacifist mentality which, having been forced into fighting for the army, flies in the face of the actions he must undertake. To Kobayashi, there is nothing virtuous or noble about warfare in and of itself. Perhaps some are noble for their sense of duty, loyalty or bravery, but those who perpetuate conflict against each other do so for selfish reasons, and, when it comes down to it, will always serve themselves over their ideals.

Kobayashi also seeks to dispel the myths surrounding samurai as a part of Japanese history. Part of how he accomplishes this, in “Harakiri”, is by centering the film around an extended series of flashbacks which explore increasing depth to the truth of Tsugumo and the Iyi clan’s actions. Both in the text of the film and in the broader context of Kobayashi’s themes, this serves as an exhortation to the viewer to see the past as a thing to be examined and interpreted with thorough assessment. Just as Tsugumo and his son were misunderstood, the legacy of the samurai has been looked at with just a cursory glance. Unfortunately for those who believe in a virtuous martial heritage, the complexities of the Tokugawa period and those who lived during it often deviated from typical ideals of samurai honor.

The modern viewer too is left with a message perhaps more wide-reaching than Kobayashi intended. Although the film’s central thesis certainly fits most neatly into the tumultuous post-war Japanese experience, it is applicable to just about any country that values military honor and upholds its national heritage with naive idealism. No matter how virtuous the aspirations of those attempting to live up to their image today may purport to be, those who defined the past were infinitely complex, and can never be reduced to simple notions of honor and cultural heritage.