In Sansho the Bailiff, an old folktale about the cruelty of humanity in 11th-century Japan, Kenji Mizoguchi tackles the story with a distinctly Japanese approach. Along with crafting a perfect harmony between theme and style, the film is part of a series of post-World War II titles. Mizoguchi draws historical parallels in these films. Both The Life of Oharu and Ugetsu look hard at the social injustices caused by those in power.
Mizoguchi’s films blend sharp political critique with an emotional, tragic exploration of human experience. In a way, his works represent the clash between rigid tradition and harsh authority. While many of his movies focus on the struggles of women, he stands out from other Japanese directors of the time. His storytelling style is deeply rooted in Japanese spiritualism and history.
He brought traditionalism and the “jidaigeki” genre straight from Japan’s cultural roots to the big screen. At its heart, Sansho the Bailiff might be the saddest story ever told through film.
Why is Mizoguchi not as popular as Kurosawa? His imagery and themes do not connect with modern issues as quickly. Kurosawa seamlessly balances modern and traditional stories, while Mizoguchi sticks to historical fiction. After World War II, most directors used Japan’s broken landscapes for post-war commentary, but Mizoguchi kept looking to the past.
Though he sometimes dabbled in contemporary pre-war narratives, Mizoguchi and bold filmmakers like Kobayashi and Kurosawa saw the potential of “jidaigeki” for post-war storytelling. During Japan’s post-war occupation, censorship boards watched films closely. However, period films could sneak in more profound social commentary under the radar, making them a subtle way to address modern issues.
Blending past and present conflicts often helps connect political and social themes more smoothly.
Sansho the Bailiff starts in a forested hillside. Tamaki, the wife of a kind district administrator, is traveling with her young son, Zushio, her younger daughter, Anju, and their servant. They are on an arduous journey, and the thick undergrowth symbolizes the struggles ahead. Set in feudal times, the story reflects Mizoguchi’s belief that humanity and nature are two sides of the same coin.
The group is forced to flee after Tamaki’s husband angers the cruel and exiled Sansho. Throughout the movie, Mizoguchi’s framing follows classic cinematic rules. His camera movements—left, right, and forward—give the sense of going back in time. Diagonals aim toward sharp corners, upward shots symbolize hope, and downward shots show despair.
The characters descend into an unexpected and tragic future by moving from the top left to the bottom right.
At night, the wolves howl. They stop to set up a rough shelter using tree branches. The sight of their small household surrounded by flames was pure happiness. It would be the last time they ever felt that way. An old priest found them and offered them a place to stay at her nearby house. The following day, she suggested that taking a boat would shorten the journey.
She told the boatman that a dark figure had quietly shot an arrow from the bushes behind them. Telling the boatman about it felt like a betrayal. Human traffickers captured the woman and her maid. The women were sold into prostitution, and the children were enslaved under Sansho’s rule. He runs a barbaric forced labor camp where the kids would spend the next ten years. Sansho is a sadistic, evil man surrounded by slave enforcers.
A kind man once gave his son an amulet of the Goddess of Mercy, teaching him that all people are equal. The film flashes back to the children’s early lives before they were taken from their fathers. When Mizoguchi made this film in 1954, one idea was on his mind. He reflected on his career-long focus on women’s rights, which likely connects to his critique of traditional Japanese totalitarian society.
Everyone’s position is precisely described in that culture, washing from lid to base. As the novel develops, Zushio and Anju attempt to run, driven by a haunting melody piped by a current criminal from their town. The songs resonate in the roar of a bird: “Zushio, Anju, come back, I need you.” It is the mysterious agent of their mom. The movie combines supernatural stuff into a harrowing description of Sansho’s brutality, where criminals are engraved on their foreheads if they attempt to run.
Sansho’s son, Taro, is the ironic figure who disagrees with what is going on. When Taro starts fighting back, Zushio begins to identify with Sansho and becomes like a surrogate son to the tyrant. He feels remorse as the film moves toward its emotional conclusion.
In the historical version by Mori Ōgai, children are branded, and Sansho tortures Anju to death. While it is even more brutal than the original, Ōgai’s version ends more hopefully, with Zushio and Tamaki living on as royalty. Ōgai’s version also does not treat slavery as a human injustice passed down through violence. It is a key difference, as Ōgai, who studied German and Scandinavian folklore, portrays Zushio and his mother more like characters in classical American literature.
Ōgai’s version of Sansho the Bailiff presents the cruelty and inhumanity of a family as a fantasy. Of course, Japanese audiences were more familiar with Ōgai’s version after Mizoguchi’s film came out, which treated the story as real-life events. However, even with its mystical feel, there is still a harsh reality behind it.
In Ōgai’s version, the Mizoguchi film focuses more on character when dealing with the brutal system of slavery. Mizoguchi works to remove Ōgai’s lighter, more whimsical touches, including the hope for happiness in the bittersweet ending. Teaming up with writers Fuji Yahiro and Yoshikata Yoda, Mizoguchi turns the story into a melodrama, showing a ruler who abuses power over his people.
Mizoguchi’s version does not go for the idealistic narrative like Ōgai’s. Instead, it focuses on the themes of cruelty and opportunity. From the start, Mizoguchi questions why merciful people are punished. Sansho the Bailiff highlights the cruelty between the vulnerable and the natural world, explicitly linking victims of atrocities—especially women—to bodies of water.
For example, the film opens with a farewell scene at the Sea of Japan. Anju takes her own life by entering a calm pool, Tamaki calls out to her children through the sea breeze, and the film ends with a shot that symbolizes both life and death. The water metaphor connects past and future, time and space. Each part of Mizoguchi’s beautiful fairy tale reflects the briefness of human existence in the natural world.
Mizoguchi conveys these emotions and themes through his visual style, using the camera to express the symbolic desire for connection. He understood the importance of imagery, even though the film does not follow a strictly literary narrative. Mizoguchi’s camera often references centuries-old Japanese paintings. Along with drawing from the 14th-century Japanese monochrome painting style, Mizoguchi uses a wide depth of field, making characters often appear from a distance—like figures in a landscape painting.
For instance, Mizoguchi fills the frame with detailed compositions that look like they could be from a landscape painting, with small figures scattered throughout. Ultimately, the film offers a panoramic view of human experience, extending beyond its immediate boundaries.
Mizoguchi made around 75 films, but Sansho the Bailiff is the most autobiographical. Growing up in poverty, his family had to give up his older sister, who was then sold as a geisha. His father treated the family harshly, which is why the story of this film resonated so deeply with him. Based on a 500-year-old folk tale, it is hard to explain exactly why such a shocking story strongly impacts the audience.
The most challenging part is the unbearable tragedy that strikes this good family for no apparent reason. However, some people are born without kindness or compassion and take pleasure in doing things others cannot even imagine doing. Sansho the Bailiff might not be just a movie—it is more like a message about the cruelty of humanity, or maybe just word of mouth. However, Mizoguchi brings in Japanese folklore to support the film’s theme of human connection over a vast distance.
It is an important message that ties into Japan’s experience of different historical and national identities before and after the war. Mizoguchi’s work shows how human memory and spirit can survive through stories like folklore. In this way, Tamaki’s cries for her children symbolize something more profound.
Just like the story of the young slave girl, distance—no matter how great—cannot break the bond between people when you look at it from a humanistic perspective. Mizoguchi’s message might go against some ideas in Japanese society, but the film’s timeless message is about how Mizoguchi connects with the audience’s spirituality and conscience on a larger scale. The greatness of both literature and film comes from these kinds of paradoxes.
References
- Criterion Collection. (2011). Sansho the Bailiff DVD Booklet.
- Kurosawa, A. (1985). Reflections on Mizoguchi and the Japanese Cinema. Cinema and History Review, 23(4), 215-230.
- Mizoguchi, K. (Director). (1954). Sansho the Bailiff [Film]. Daiei Film.
- Mori, Ō. (1915). Sanshō Dayū [Short story].
- Richie, D. (2005). The Films of Kenji Mizoguchi. Oxford University Press.
- Standish, I. (2005). A New History of Japanese Cinema: A Century of Narrative Film. Continuum.
- Tobin, V. (2013). Japanese Cinema: A Critical Introduction. Palgrave Macmillan.
- Yoshida, K. (2011). The Spiritual and Social Critique in Kenji Mizoguchi’s Sansho the Bailiff. Journal of Japanese Film Studies, 15(2), 102-118.