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9.3/10
FilmFascination Rating
Where do I even begin?
Kurosawa’s Ran isn’t just a film. It’s an experience — one that left me speechless, emotionally gutted, and completely in awe of the sheer scale of cinematic storytelling. This was not just another war epic; this was a visual poem soaked in grief, betrayal, and the collapse of pride. If there ever was a film where every frame could be hung in a museum, Ran would be it.
The film is a loose adaptation of Shakespeare’s King Lear and was inspired by the real-life story of daimyo Mōri Motonari — except, in Ran, the sons aren’t loyal, and everything falls apart. What starts as a tale of a powerful warlord Hidetora Ichimonji stepping down and dividing his kingdom among his three sons soon descends into a harrowing spiral of power games, ego, and devastating consequences. And while that summary might sound familiar, what Ran does with it is something else entirely.
Let’s talk about scale first. Ran is massive. The wide-angle shots, the sweeping landscapes, the colossal war sequences — there are hundreds of extras, full-scale castles burning, and waves of color-coded armies crashing into each other. It’s Kurosawa at his most operatic. The colour palette alone deserves an essay. The blue, red, and yellow banners for each son’s army, the fiery reds of betrayal, the pale deterioration of Hidetora’s makeup as he spirals into madness — every detail is carefully composed to evoke an emotion rather than just show a scene.
One frame in particular has been etched into my mind — Hidetora standing alone, his kingdom quite literally burning behind him, armies clashing in the background, the once-mighty lord now reduced to a shell. It’s possibly the greatest movie frame I’ve ever seen.
But Ran doesn’t just win with visuals. Its emotional depth is startling. The film opens with a seemingly simple hunting scene — Hidetora laughing with his sons, the fool entertaining them, light banter flowing — and yet, it’s that very scene I kept returning to in my head as the narrative progressed. Because that moment was the last where happiness existed for these characters. That’s what Ran does — it plants seeds and then rips them out, making you ache for the peace that once was.
The tragedy is Shakespearean, yes, but the weight of it feels deeply human. Hidetora isn’t portrayed as a noble victim. He is a flawed, ruthless man, haunted by the sins of his past — sins we only hear about but still feel the gravity of. Kurosawa doesn’t ask us to sympathize with him, but somehow, we do. Maybe it’s the sight of him lost in the wilderness, mentally unraveling, or maybe it’s that deep down we see ourselves — our regrets, our stubbornness, our inability to undo what’s been done.
And then there are the supporting characters, each a vessel for different aspects of human nature:
- Saburo, the only son brave enough to speak the truth.
- Lady Kaede, cunning and vengeful, perhaps the most terrifying character in the film.
- Lady Sue, dignified in her forgiveness, the quiet heart of the film.
- Jiro’s generals, whose flattery and deceit echo the manipulative courtiers of Shakespeare.
Each character in Ran has a reason, a flaw, a history — no one is black or white, and that’s what makes it so real. The conflict is not about kingdoms but about emotions — pride, fear, betrayal, and the tragic inability to change.
Now, I have to mention what I felt was missing: the score. Yes, Ran has a musical backdrop — the “Hell’s Picture Scroll” theme is intense — but it never quite stayed with me the way I hoped. In a film so haunting, I craved a recurring melody that could wrap around the pain, something like “Gondola no Uta” from Ikiru, which still echoes in my mind whenever I think of Kanji Watanabe. Ran needed that — a musical motif that could mirror Hidetora’s emotional collapse. It’s a minor gripe, but a memorable soundtrack would’ve elevated the emotional resonance even further.
That said, it doesn’t take away from the masterwork this film is.
Ran is not about kings or castles. It’s about us — the choices we make, the people we hurt, and how sometimes, it’s too late to fix what we’ve broken. Like every great Akira Kurosawa film, it holds a mirror to our own nature. Watching it, I felt the inevitability of the tragedy — how one mistake fuels another, how ego snowballs into catastrophe, and how those who suffer the most are often the ones least deserving of it.
If you ever doubted whether cinema can be art, Ran will silence you. It’s not just one of the greatest Japanese films ever made — it’s one of the most powerful visual tragedies in the history of world cinema. Watch it. Feel it. And let it wreck you.
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