Nagasaki, 1964 — After the death of his father, a yakuza gang leader, 14-year-old Kikuo is taken under the wing of a renowned Kabuki actor. Alongside Shunsuke, the actor’s only son, he dedicates himself to this traditional art form. Over the decades, the two grow from students to master performers — their journey marked by scandal, glory, brotherhood, betrayal… and the truth that only one can become the greatest kabuki master of his generation.
Let me start by saying Kokuho is one of the most nuanced and layered films I’ve seen in quite some time. The story moves with remarkable fluidity, weaving through an array of themes — personal conflict, brotherhood, family, legacy, loyalty, dedication, and sacrifice — without ever feeling overstuffed. Each element feels purposeful, feeding directly into the life journey of Kikuo.
What’s most impressive structurally is that these themes don’t just serve the lead character. Yes, this is ultimately Kikuo’s story — it begins with his struggles and ends with his personal destination — but the film gradually expands into something larger. It becomes a portrait of cultural legacy, where every major character carries emotional and narrative weight. The world of Kabuki never overshadows Kikuo, yet it always feels vital to his identity. That balance is not easy to achieve, and the film handles it beautifully.
For those unfamiliar, kabuki is a Japanese theatrical tradition over 400 years old, blending music, dance, mime, elaborate costuming, stylized makeup, and heightened vocal performance to tell historical and moral stories. Early in its history, women were banned from performing, leading to the long-standing tradition of men playing all roles — a practice that continues today. Understanding this history adds depth to the film, especially as it explores the physical and emotional demands placed on performers.
For Western audiences, Kokuho offers a fascinating window into an ancient Eastern performance discipline. The training depicted rivals ballet in its intensity. The physical precision required is gruelling, demanding extreme control and repetition. But kabuki adds another layer — vocal performance that is highly stylized and often jarring to modern ears. Even my wife, who was born and raised in Japan, has told me she struggles with kabuki dialogue. She described it as similar to Western audiences listening to Shakespeare: linguistically rich, historically rooted, but distant from modern speech.
The cast is stacked with Japanese A-list talent, and it shows. Ryo Yoshizawa delivers a standout performance as Kikuo, convincingly spanning the character’s adolescence through adulthood. At no point did I question where he was in life, emotionally or physically. His kabuki performance scenes are mesmerizing, even to someone without deep knowledge of the art form.
Ryusei Yokohama matches him beat for beat as Shunsuke, portraying parallel growth and emotional complexity with equal strength. Their shared scenes carry the emotional backbone of the film, and both actors handle their characters’ most vulnerable moments with striking authenticity.
Ken Watanabe, as mentor figure Hanjiro Hanai, brings immense gravitas. His internal conflict — legacy versus artistic integrity, fatherhood versus leadership — gives the film much of its moral weight. As always, Watanabe is magnetic on screen. If language barriers didn’t relegate performances like these to the “international film” category, I’d expect serious awards consideration across the board.
At just under three hours, the runtime may intimidate some viewers, but it never dragged for me. The production quality, evolving themes, and powerful performances kept me fully invested. That said, I do have a personal interest in Japanese culture, so mileage may vary for others.
One final note: the ending presents what I’d call a cultural enigma. My Western instincts initially interpreted the final visual in a very specific way — one commonly used in Western storytelling. But something told me not to jump to conclusions. After looking into it, including discussing it with my Japanese wife, I learned there’s no equivalent cultural symbolism attached to that imagery in Japan. In other words, the ending may not mean what Western audiences instinctively assume. That ambiguity adds another layer to an already rich film.
Kokuho is thoughtful, emotionally layered, culturally immersive filmmaking — the kind that stays with you long after the credits roll.
