Le maître du kabuki

A three-hour runtime ought to be a form of torture, especially for a modern audience conditioned to fragmented storytelling. Yet, National Treasure achieves the near-impossible: it holds you breathless in the dark, eyes fixed on the screen, tracing the life of Tachibana Kikuo from the snowy landscapes of a Nagasaki ryotei to the final curtain call of The Heron Maiden. You find yourself unwilling to even blink. This isn't a film that relies on bloodshed or plot twists to stimulate the nerves; rather, it uses the purest artistic language to show you how a person pays the price of their entire soul just to reach the summit.

Director Lee Sang-il, adapting a Yoshida Shuichi novel for the third time, chose the toughest bone to chew. The world of Kabuki is hermetically sealed to outsiders; the complex repertoire, the grueling training, the rigid hierarchy of bloodlines-simply presenting this on screen is difficult enough, let alone making the audience feel the shock of its beauty interwoven with pain. But National Treasure succeeds. It doesn't simplify the complexity of Kabuki; instead, through six carefully chosen plays, it reveals how Kikuo uses his feet as blades in The Love Suicides at Sonezaki, how he dances with Shunsuke in Renjishi, and how he transforms into that solitary heron in The Heron Maiden. Every performance is more than just a show; it is a metaphor for a critical moment in his life, an externalization of his soul. What's most surprising is the film's pacing. It doesn't manufacture a climax every second; it unfolds chronologically, layer by layer, yet magically makes it impossible to stop watching. You constantly yearn to know what happens next, to see Kikuo's next step, to see how Shunsuke responds. This magnetism doesn't come from contrived suspense, but from a genuine concern for the characters' fates-from the vitality of the story itself. Japanese cinema is often known for being slow, with deliberate negative space and silence that can test audiences used to Hollywood narratives, but National Treasure shatters that stereotype. It advances as a chronicle, with every time jump landing precisely on an emotional tipping point, sweeping you into the next phase before you can catch your breath. In three hours, not a single second is wasted. Every shot feels like a move in a precisely calculated chess game; seemingly mundane daily conversations bury impending conflicts, while the gorgeous stage performances flow with unspeakable sorrow.

The performances of Yoshizawa Ryo and Yokohama Ryusei are nothing short of miraculous. Neither is a classically trained Kabuki actor, yet they present a standard on screen that could convince a professional audience-a gamble in itself. But they pulled it off. It wasn't just about mimicking stylized movements and vocalizations; more importantly, they captured that subtle temperament unique to Kabuki actors that exists between male and female. Kikuo's onnagata (female role) isn't simple cross-dressing; it is an aesthetic that transcends gender, a pure art refined by smelting masculine power with feminine grace. Shunsuke, meanwhile, represents a different tragedy: possessing the bloodline but lacking the gift, craving his father's validation while living perpetually in Kikuo's shadow. That repressed agony is laid bare in Yokohama Ryusei's eyes. Watanabe Ken, playing Hanai Hanjiro, perfectly combines the majesty and benevolence of a traditional master; his appreciation for Kikuo and his guilt toward Shunsuke are felt heavily without the need for dialogue. These actors convey every emotion-friendship, love, hostility, jealousy, hatred-through their bodies and expressions, letting it all flow in silence. This is true acting.

Many will compare National Treasure to Farewell My Concubine, which isn't surprising-both involve traditional opera, master-disciple bonds, and the entanglement of art and fate. But National Treasure walks a completely different path. It lacks the grand historical backdrop and complex love triangles of Farewell; instead, it focuses intensely on the purity of the art itself. Kikuo's suffering doesn't stem from political movements or social upheaval, but from his pursuit of perfection, from the wish he made at the shrine. He was willing to trade everything to become Japan's greatest Kabuki actor, and fate accepted this transaction, granting him fame and status while stripping away all his human connections. To me, National Treasure is actually more reminiscent of A Complete Unknown, the Bob Dylan film I watched around this time last year. Both films utilize a chronological approach, documenting how an artist's extreme pursuit of their craft leads them to abandon and hurt those closest to them. I found Dylan's story shocking at the time, but National Treasure goes even further. The construction of the character's inner world and emotions is more complete here; you find it easier to understand Kikuo's mindset, to understand why he makes those choices, and why he is willing to endure that solitude.

The contradiction between bloodline and talent is the film's core theme. In the world of Kabuki, bloodline decides almost everything; scions of famous families gain status through name succession even with mediocre talent, while gifted outsiders remain second-class citizens. Kikuo's tragedy is that he possesses a brilliance Shunsuke can never reach, yet can never possess the bloodline Shunsuke was born with. Even when he succeeds the name to become the third-generation Hanai Hanjiro, even when he stands on the highest stage, he knows he is merely a substitute. Shunsuke's tragedy lies in knowing he is lesser than Kikuo, yet being unable to relinquish the position that was supposed to be his. The competition between them isn't simple jealousy or hate; it's a far more complex emotional tangle-a coexistence of friendship and hostility, an interweaving of admiration and unwillingness.

The visual presentation is equally breathtaking. Lee Sang-il avoids overly flashy cinematography, opting instead for minimalist composition and restrained camera movement, allowing the beauty of Kabuki to flow naturally. Close-ups capture the minutest changes in expression, showing the emotions hidden beneath the heavy makeup, the truth leaking from behind the mask. The stage scenes use long takes and fixed angles, allowing you to appreciate the performances fully, as if sitting in a theater. The score is also pitch-perfect; traditional shamisen and taiko drums create a thick atmosphere without ever upstaging the scene, always serving the narrative and emotional expression. Every frame feels meticulously designed yet retains a sense of nature-a balance that is incredibly difficult to achieve.

The most moving part of this film is its depiction of the artist's loneliness. Kikuo finally becomes a National Treasure, standing at a height no one else can touch, but he has lost everything. He lost Shunsuke, who was both rival and soulmate; he lost the intimacy of his daughter; he lost the joys and sorrows of a normal person. He became a symbol, a living legend, but he was no longer himself. This is the eternal dilemma of the artist: one must choose between loneliness or vulgarity. To reach the peak of art, one must sever ties with the mundane world, sacrificing the relationships and emotions that keep you ordinary. Kikuo chose loneliness; he chose to dedicate himself entirely to art, and the cost of that choice was that he could never turn back. The solitary heron in The Heron Maiden is his portrait-beautiful but lonely, noble but desolate. And when the snow falls, you realize that "National Treasure" is merely a title; the only thing truly eternal is the art itself. Those magnificent performances will be praised by future generations, but the people who performed them will eventually be forgotten, leaving only a vast expanse of white, with snow falling in silence.

Adapting literature into film is always an adventure, especially with a novel as massive and technically dense as National Treasure. Often, the power of text and the reader's imagination far exceed what can be shown on screen, but this film proves that some stories need to be filmed. Because Kabuki isn't something words can fully describe-it is a visual, auditory, and physical art. Only through imagery can you truly understand the shock of that beauty, and truly comprehend why Kikuo was willing to give everything. It isn't a flawless film-it relies occasionally too much on close-ups, and the female characters are slightly thin-but its virtues far outweigh its flaws. It dares to challenge the impossible, dares to bring a nearly unfilmable story to the screen, and succeeds in making it impossible to look away. Walking out of the theater, you realize your face is wet with tears, not because the plot was melodramatic, but because you truly witnessed the life of an artist, and saw how he lost himself on the road to perfection. This emotion is profound and lasting; it echoes in your heart long after. National Treasure isn't just the best Japanese film of 2025; it is one of the most shocking works in recent years-a profound tribute to art, to obsession, and to loneliness.

Kokuho is three hours and I didn't feel it. Fifty years of a kabuki actor's life, and every scene earns its place. The performances are stunning, the cinematography pulls you onto the stage, and the character work is extraordinary. You think you understand who you're watching, then the film reveals the cost of his "greatness." I've never seen anything like it.

If you want a film that is excellent, complete, and truly beautiful in every way - this is the one. I don't want to give away too much, but this film will leave you breathless - there's not a single moment to rest. You'll feel the tension and rhythm rise and fall with every scene. Japan's traditional artistry, already renowned around the world, is brought here to absolute perfection. As someone who watches many films every week, I can honestly say that very few movies can surpass this one.

I don't rate movie as a recognition of my ignorance. I saw this movie last night in Sydney. I was so relieved when it was over.

I have enjoyed Japanese movie before and also seen and enjoyed a Chinese opera in Beijing. However, this was too overwhelming, too long and too much away from what I know about this topic.

I have to admit the visual was exceptional and when the sound track got away from the 'meowing and I started to grasp what it was about, I felt better about it.

I read a few reviews including the full plot about. And it, and this helped me to appreciate this what seem a master piece given the few reviews I found here.

So I would recommend for others to research a little about it before watching it.

For a person who doesn't know one iota of the art of Kabuki nor any Japanese for that matter, I was mesmerized and engrossed for three hours by KOKUHO, which is a life story about a boy who was taken into the renown Kabuki house of Kamigata, and trained there along with the son of the house owner and master of the craft in the art of Kabuki. Through trial and tribulation of life, he rode the highs and lows of success and misfortune, with tradition and bloodline legacy as obstacles that broke the bond of brotherhood, but which also helped to rejoin that kinship of his later. This boy Kikuo, who is now a man, and because of his talents and devotion to the art, has finally become a "Kokuho", a National Treasure. This is a human story on an epic scale based on a novel by Shuichi Yoshida. The beauty of the film is in the elegance of its storytelling. The distillation of something down to its essence and extract the purity of its beauty is a unique form of Japanese aesthetics. This film has done that masterfully. And you can find that in the unadorned, yet beautifully framed tight camera works. Or in the explosive magic that comes from the formality of the theatrics of Kabuki. However, there is one thing I must mention, and which might have passed unnoticed because it works under the epidermis of consciousness of most and that is the music scoring. The music scoring is sublime. As an example of its power, the music for the scene where Kikuo took to the stage by anointment circumventing the protocol of legitimacy and thus replaced the son and heir to the role he took. The music for that scene underscored the disappointment and the heartbreak of the characters and its subtle power had moved me so very, very deeply. In closing, as I was leaving the theatre, I took one more look at the poster: "KOKUHO" (National Treasure). Yes, the story is about a boy maturing into an artist and becoming a National Treasure, but what is the true National Treasure? The man because of his artistry is only an embodiment of that. In thinking more deeply, I think the true "National Treasure" is the art form itself. It is the tradition, the culture and the essence of the art of Kabuki.