The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail is not only a short film, at less than an hour in length, it is also more reminiscent of a short story or a short play in its structure: it eschews any ambition to provide a complete story, instead focusing on one particular element of that story. It teases the viewer with a wider context, with repercussions, and consequences, but it never shows them. Much like what might happen if one were to watch an individual segment from Dreams, or, especially, Rashomon divorced from the rest, the viewer gets an impression of something happening, but the bigger picture remains distant.

This is not to say that it is lacking or bad, just that expectations should not be set mistakenly. Yes, this is the first Kurosawa film with samurai, but those seeking a more action-oriented or moral story akin to his later jidaigeki would be better off going to the staples—or, if looking specifically for an earlier example, to Sanshiro Shugato and its sequel which, despite a very rough fighting style and more modern Meiji environment, share greater similarities to the later films in terms of content than this. The only action provided herein takes place in the faces and voices of its characters, and the only battle is one of wits, even though the stakes and tensions are just as high, just as life and death as in the later films.

Where this is especially worthwhile, however, is in its similarity to, and demonstration of where Kurosawa would move, especially in the way it deals with individual characters. While we are not presented with a set of distinct personalities—despite the small cast—that would be present in, e.g., Seven Samurai , we do get to see a couple of notable characters whose personalities are demonstrated with Kurosawan theatricality through their actions and mien.

Predating the choice of Peter as the fool in Ran, which made use of that actor’s effeminate features and elfin movement to emphasize an outsider status, a bending of the fourth wall without actually breaking it, Kurosawa casts ENOMOTO Kenichi—a short, comic actor with a slightly disproportionate head—as the porter, another “fool”. Here, too, Kurosawa makes use of the actor’s physical presence and his acting style, with Enomoto emoting mime-like his ignorant amusement and confusion. But whereas the Shakespearean-inspired character played by Peter possessed a cynical understanding of the world, Enomoto’s porter is nearly pure rube, redeemed by his good nature and an implications that he may know (slightly) more than he lets on (this implied, in part, by his Rumpelstiltskin cackles during what is (to my mind) the funniest sequence of the film, a period through which Enomoto tenaciously tracks the disguised lord and retainers, laughing each time he encounters them further along their road, despite being rebuffed each time. The repetition takes on the form of a joke becoming amusing because it manufactures a certain tension to which one must either laugh or be annoyed. [Edit: and in rewatching Seven Samurai, I realize this sequence was reused in that later release as Kikuchiyo follows the samurai back to the farmers’ village])

Similarly, the character of Benkai, the only other who really gets any attention, predicts Shimura’s turn as Kambei in Seven Samurai, with his devotion to his role as a samurai being so strong as to incorporate the understanding that to truly know and follow a path/way is to know that and when one must abandon it, and to know how to return after doing so (a sentiment also expressed in Sanshiro Shugato Part 2 ). Given the limited scope of the story, Benkai’s intensity is necessary for the audience to accept it, and OKOCHI Denjiro delivers completely. Even when the scenario verges on the ridiculous, he retains his sincerity and forces believability from his performance.

Although noticeably shot on a sound stage, Kurosawa’s eye remains as strong as ever, and one can imagine the same events transpiring in the woods of countless later Kurosawa films. The reality of an enclosed setting also serves to, in a way, heighten the drama, accentuating the sense of claustrophobia felt by the titular men who are on the run, trapped in enemy territory. The fact that these men are playing roles within the film is also emphasized, perhaps deliberately, by the artificial environment which brings to mind the theater and actors on a stage.

If there is one final weakness, it might be the ending which shows a new (and, it feels to me, slightly incongruous, though undeniably Japanese: devotion to situation) side of Benkai as he becomes comically drunk, drinking from larger and larger containers, almost like a cartoon character who, after each cut away and cut back, finds itself with a larger version of the same prop. It is the ambiguity of this scene and what follows which creates some further disappointment—with such a narrow focus, it is somewhat unpleasant to have the resolution put into question—not to mention to spend so little time with these people—though, like Enomoto’s porter at the end, as we look around with our post cinematic gaze, we can be glad that we witnessed a display so great and survived to tell the tale.