I had a brief wobble about counting this for Japanuary — Paul Schrader on the credits, with Lucas and Coppola on the packaging — but it quickly feels daft to worry about passports. It’s shot in Japan, spoken in Japanese, and it’s knee-deep in Japanese literature and self-mythology.
The killer move is the structure: it’s divided into four chapters, and threaded through them are three vividly staged sections drawn from Mishima’s novels. Eiko Ishioka’s production design is gloriously artificial — bold colours, hard edges, zero touristy “authenticity”. Philip Glass’s score keeps everything ticking, looping and tightening like you’re caught in the same thought over and over. Ken Ogata plays Mishima with a poised, unsettling intensity, like a man already halfway to becoming his own monument.
What it keeps coming back to is the tug-of-war between art and action, words and the body, performance and belief. Mishima isn’t presented as a puzzle to “solve”; he’s a contradiction you’re made to sit with, even when it’s uncomfortable.
And you can see why it was such a hot potato. The film is so raw about its subject — the politics, the self-mythologising, the sexuality, the theatre of it all — that it effectively wasn’t screened in Japan for roughly forty years. Yet internationally it went to Cannes in ’85, won Best Artistic Contribution, and snagged a Palme d’Or nomination. By the end I felt dazzled and unsettled — a biopic that refuses to explain its subject away.