The long-overdue 4K restoration of Serpent’s Path was a little delirium-inducing. Once a fan favorite almost exclusively accessed on low-res rips, now a Janus Films release that—especially with their recent acquisition of its perhaps-even-greater companion Eyes of the Spider—will eventually receive a Criterion edition, at which point it becomes one of two Kiyoshi Kurosawa films with such canonization. (The other happens to be Cure, his cinema’s near-universal reference point.) That overnight elevation is just as quickly enriched and complicated by… Serpent’s Path. His predominantly French-language remake (titled onscreen as The Serpent’s Path) starts so faithfully that one might ask what, other than some nice Parisian locations, the big idea was. But as it progresses, this iteration’s key shifts grow louder and more resonant until it becomes an altogether different project: either someone trying to remake the first film and losing the plot the deeper they go, or the third installment in a secret trilogy.
This has been an incredibly verdant time for Kurosawa fans, but of the many films released in the last couple years—Cloud, Chime, The Samurai and the Prisoner—I think Serpent’s Path serves as the richest and most rewarding: a skeleton key, Rosetta Stone, palimpsest, and complication in one fell swoop. I was only too glad to speak with Kurosawa on what, exactly, this project is trying to do while ascertaining where it’ll point him next.
This interview was conducted via email and translated by Kadokawa.
The Film Stage: In transplanting Serpent’s Path across continents, were there certain cultural concepts of revenge that didn’t translate? Did you find yourself needing to remove, entirely invent, or retain (but still rework) emotions and motivations?
I believe the revenge narrative is a universal form that transcends time and nationality. However, the motivations and emotions of those seeking revenge can vary enormously and differ completely from one work to another. To use familiar classics as examples: the revenge in Hamlet is tragic, while the revenge in Chūshingura is even exhilarating.
In Serpent’s Path, following the original film, I decided that Sayoko’s motivations and emotions would remain hidden throughout, while Albert’s would fluctuate violently. On the surface, there are fundamental differences between them—Japanese and French, woman and man—and this is one of the remake’s defining characteristics. But in a scene during the film’s second half, Albert suddenly takes Sayoko’s hand, and she quickly pulls hers away. I hope the audience senses something of the complexity of this revenge story in that moment.
Distorted love, marriage, and the neglect of a child—none of these elements existed in the original film. They emerged naturally from changing the two protagonists into a woman and a man.
Either way, there is a certain contour in this new film I found quite intriguing, and a greater clarity to its conception of evil. It’s more disturbing for reflecting a certain conspiracy-minded view of the modern world—21st-century concepts like QAnon, Pizzagate, and the Epstein network echo throughout. Were you hoping to reflect a contemporary, contagious fear, and were any of these aforementioned in mind?
Whenever I develop a contemporary crime story, one of the things I find most difficult is determining how to conceive of evil. If there is only one villain, you can create a timeless figure such as a demon or a madman. But when evil takes the form of a group, there must be some unifying ideology or shared interest holding its members together.
What could that be, and how much reality can it possess? I think this is a fundamental challenge in making contemporary crime, horror, and suspense films. An easy solution is to introduce gangsters, a religious cult, or terrorists. But if you seriously examine the beliefs and interests of such groups, doubts begin to arise about whether they can truly be called evil. They may break the law, but they are not necessarily evil in essence. If you force them into the role of an evil organization, the story immediately loses its sense of reality.
This was the aspect of Serpent’s Path that caused me the most difficulty, both in the original and in the remake. In the end, I devised an evil organization possessing a subtle kind of wickedness and a subtle sense of reality—something that might secretly exist in present-day Tokyo, Paris, or New York. It may resemble something real, or it may look like a complete fabrication.
I also asked the actors to create ambiguous characters who might be villains, madmen, or perfectly ordinary people. To be honest, I am not certain whether we got it right. It was extremely difficult.
On the set of Serpent’s Path
The original Serpent’s Path was shot on 16mm film; that graininess and roughness contributes to its atmosphere. The new film is shot digitally. While I was initially uncertain about the decision, I found its cleanness and sterility beneficial—it’s almost a false comfort that falls away as the film’s horrors unveil. How did the switchover affect your perspective on story and tone?
The original Serpent’s Path was shot on Super 16mm film. One drawback was that the darkest portions of the image would descend into complete blackness, making their details indistinct. But that also created a brooding, oppressive visual effect.
The remake was shot digitally, so details in the dark areas are rendered very clearly. This weakens the gloomy atmosphere somewhat, but it also allowed us to pursue a harder, more inhuman visual quality.
The original was a low-budget production, so at the time we had no choice but to use 16mm film. With the remake, budgetary and other considerations meant that we had no choice but to shoot digitally—in the present day, film is considerably more expensive.
Whether one is making a crime film or a horror film, I believe that finding ways to portray shadows digitally is one of the great challenges facing contemporary filmmakers. Through a long history of trial and error, cinema shot on film developed a rich and lustrous way of rendering darkness. For me, every film is a rewarding experiment in discovering how closely digital filmmaking can approach that quality—and whether it can ultimately surpass it.
You’ve said you didn’t rewatch the original during preparation, but certain images (running through the woods, looking at the wall of screens) or very specific compositions (the welding/eating/gun-firing trifecta in the warehouse) recur between films. Are these intended or mere coincidence?
The original story and screenplay for Serpent’s Path were written by my friend Hiroshi Takahashi, who also wrote the screenplay for Ring. His distinctive personality permeates every part of the film. It was enjoyable to make the original while preserving as much of Takahashi’s sensibility as possible. However, all of the specific elements you mentioned were actually ideas that came from me.
When remaking the film myself, I probably wanted to reduce Takahashi’s influence as much as possible and give priority to the ideas that had originated with me. It is also true that I did not rewatch the original. Perhaps I thought that if I did, I would once again be seduced by Hiroshi Takahashi’s distinctive personality.
None of this was consciously intended. Faced with the unfamiliar task of remaking my own film, these were choices I made unconsciously.
The original Serpent’s Path was made in a duology with Eyes of the Spider. While this new film is typically considered a remake, it offers enough diversions that, on both viewings, it felt as though I were watching the third film in a secret trilogy. I understand if this is a bit of a reach, but I’d love any reaction to the notion.
That is a very interesting observation. Perhaps a single filmmaker could produce any number of films structured around revenge. The protagonist’s reason for acting may be simple, but there are many different emotional patterns one can apply to it.
What interests me most about revenge stories is how they end. After the revenge is complete, the protagonist of the original Serpent’s Path disappears into an imaginary world. In Eyes of the Spider, the protagonist falls into nihilism after realizing that it had all been meaningless. In the remake of Serpent’s Path, the conclusion is that revenge will continue forever.
A happy ending is, of course, impossible. Nor can a peaceful, ordinary life ever return. But because the protagonist has consciously chosen this path, it cannot simply be called a tragedy, either.
It made me realize once again what a remarkably profound genre this is. Now I want to make another one.
From the first shot to the last, there’s unique control granted to Ko Shibasaki’s Sayoko—more, I think, than Sho Aikawa’s Nijima in the original. There’s also an anxiety about being Japanese in France during conversations with Hidetoshi Nishijima, in dialogue like “staying in an environment where you don’t speak the language can provoke actions in anyone.” And it’s hard not to read into lines such as “you have a very nice culture, but please: respect the rules.” Are you reflecting anxiety of working in foreign land? Or is this simply a dramatic avenue, and not to be read into?
The fact that Ko Shibasaki appeared so strong and commanding from the very beginning was actually a complete miscalculation. In the screenplay, she was conceived as weak and subordinate during the first half. The intention was that, over the course of the film’s second half, she would gradually transform into someone who guides and manipulates her male partner, Albert.
This was my first time working with Ko Shibasaki. In Japan, she has often played characters with a feminine, delicate, and not particularly active image. In reality, however, she is an extremely active performer with excellent physical abilities. From the first scene, when she came striding down the street in slim-fitting trousers, it was immediately apparent to everyone that she completely dominated Albert.
Damien Bonnard became utterly captivated by this dashing side of Shibasaki and naturally began playing Albert as an innocent, confused, and subordinate character. At first, I was perplexed by the strength Shibasaki displayed. But I was also excited to see an entirely unfamiliar character—completely different from Sho Aikawa’s in the original—taking shape before my eyes.
To be honest, I am not entirely sure how the idea of a Japanese person living in a country whose language she cannot speak affects the film. Perhaps I simply felt that, as a matter of realism, I wanted to introduce a character like the one played by Hidetoshi Nishijima. Or perhaps I considered it the fundamental cause of Sayoko’s revenge—after all, Sayoko’s husband, played by Munetaka Aoki, has fled back to Japan.
I do not fully understand it myself. But there is no doubt that my desire to leave some trace of the differences between this film and the original led me to devise episodes like these.
Because you cannot speak French, what is the unique attraction to these actors? Is it more for appearances than voice or line delivery? I’ll note that both Tahar Rahim and Damien Bonnard have a similar resting expression and hardness in their face. But Mathieu Amalric is simply one of the world’s greatest actors and there’s no need to explain casting him twice.
I had not noticed it until you pointed it out, but Tahar and Damien may indeed share a certain hardness. Perhaps that makes them seem more familiar or approachable to Japanese audiences.
However, that was not the basis on which they were cast. Damien made an enormous impression on me as the lead in Ladj Ly’s Les Misérables. He played a strange police officer whose expression made it impossible to tell whether he was thoughtful or simply desperate. I felt he was an actor capable of playing an ambiguous character without resolving that ambiguity, and that is why I offered him the role.
I have actually known Mathieu personally for many years. This time, I met him when he came to Tokyo and asked him directly to appear in the film. When I handed him the screenplay, he quickly flipped through it, saw that his character’s name was Laval, and immediately replied, “He must be a villain. I would absolutely love to do it.”
Apparently, in France, the name Laval is associated with the notorious real-life figure who collaborated with the Nazis under the Vichy government during World War II. I had not chosen the name with that intention—it was purely a coincidence.
Although you have a crew who can interpret, do you find yourself directing in more non-verbal cues, like hand gestures?
In Japan, France, and probably America as well, film crews and actors are all extraordinarily dedicated students of cinema. Before production begins, they watch several of my previous films and arrive on set having formed an idea of what this director probably likes.
If I then say something different on set, they ask me, “This is something we haven’t seen in your previous work. Are you certain this is what you want?” When I tell them that it is, they immediately make every effort to follow that new direction.
I have the utmost respect for them. Everyone takes the director’s intentions incredibly seriously. This places a great responsibility on me, of course. But I trust that no matter how clumsily I explain something, they will understand what I truly mean. For that reason, I have never experienced any real difficulty while filming in another country.
When we spoke earlier this year, you said you were still planning to see Robert Zemeckis’ Here. Have you done so yet?
I have seen it. It has a simple premise, but it is an extremely intricate film, and I found it very interesting. I was impressed that anyone could conceive of such a structure and story.
Above all, I was astonished once again by the extraordinary level of technique that allows Tom Hanks to play the character from youth to old age without anything ever feeling unnatural.
Are you free to speak on any plans for a forthcoming film? We’ve been so lucky to have this much work from you recently, but I always want more.
At present, nothing specific has been decided regarding my next film. I may make a modest drama, I may make a horror film, or I may shoot something in France again.
You’ve said that making a film in America is something of a goal. I have to ask, somewhat as a self-interested American, how you’ve imagined depicting the country—does a particular region or lifestyle speak to you as fertile ground?
I still have a strong desire to make a film in America someday. What always confuses me, however, is whether that would mean making an “American film,” in the same classificatory sense as a Japanese film or a French film, or making a Hollywood film that exists independently of nationality.
If it were an American film, I would like to make something set in the back alleys of New York, the city with which I am most familiar. But do such back alleys truly still exist in New York today?
If they no longer exist, perhaps I would end up making a Hollywood film using real locations in Toronto combined with a fake New York back alley reconstructed on an outdoor set.
An American film would naturally need to engage with the problems confronting American society. A Hollywood film, on the other hand, would need a sufficiently powerful entertainment value to recoup its budget.
Which of those do I want to make? I do not know the answer. That question always leaves me confused.
Serpent’s Path opens on Friday, September 11.
