Ikiru

*This review contains moderate spoilers starting in the third paragraph onward. Read at your own discretion. * A mix of Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries in some ways and fragments of 12 Angry Men, Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru is one of the greatest movies of all time. It is a film that feels impossible to fully capture with words, a work that's both deeply philosophical and profoundly human. At its core, Ikiru is about life, about living, about relationships, and about existence itself. It asks questions that seem unanswerable and still finds a way to provide an answer. Yet it also shows how easily human beings misinterpret that truth, and in this there is a sharp and sobering vision of human nature. Kurosawa’s style narratively is deliberately slow, almost like a gradual unveiling of protagonist Watanabe’s consciousness and life. His use of silence is as powerful as his use of words. The camera often lingers on faces and empty spaces, as if waiting for the soul itself to speak. The transitions from present to past feel daring and emotionally revealing. In the second half of the film, Kurosawa shows Watanabe’s story through the voices of others, and this choice especially pierces the heart. To see a life reflected through the eyes of others is in some ways painful, especially when those others misunderstand or diminish what he has done. The film also takes aim at bureaucracy with a sharp eye. Kurosawa shows a political world that suffocates initiative, where success comes from doing nothing while pretending to do something. He presents a bureaucracy that ignores ordinary people, that drags its feet and corrupts the hope of anyone who enters public life with good intentions. The critique seemed to resonate as a broader reflection on modern systems of power, whether in government, workplaces, or education. Still, what makes Ikiru a masterpiece is the emotional force of Watanabe’s story. Watching him, I saw parts of myself. There are times when I feel like I am wandering without direction, exhausted and uncertain of purpose. I often see only the negative in people and in the world. Even my education has sometimes left me unmotivated, with professors more interested in research than in teaching, draining away my passion for subjects I once loved. Watanabe begins the film in this same state, moving through life without purpose, burdened by decades of silence and emotional repression. He is timid, awkward, and hesitant to show his feelings, and yet beneath that he is fragile, deeply wounded, and longing for connection. The film asks: what is life? What is living? What is the meaning of existence? Watanabe spent decades consumed by work, believing he was doing right by his son through financial security, yet neglecting to truly spend time with him. Ironically, his cancer diagnosis begins his life, with the awareness of mortality awakening him to the need to live. At first he tries to fill this void with parties, bars, and expensive pleasures. He discovers that these are not enough. Freedom without companionship is emptiness. His connection with Toyo is awkward, even sometimes unsettling to her, but it reveals his desperate hunger for companionship and his profound loneliness. For decades he forgot how to connect, forgot what it meant to be alive. When he treats her with kindness, when he sees her energy and youth, he begins to realize that the meaning of life lies in helping others. His life is ending, but theirs is beginning, and he finds purpose in genuine service rather than in legacy or recognition. The playground he builds matters deeply because it is a reflection of his discovery that joy and life are found in giving. He does not pursue this project for praise but pursues it because he has seen an undeniable truth that that life’s meaning is to bring happiness to others. The funeral sequence confronts the fragility of that truth. Kurosawa wrestled with the idea of human nature as self-interested or perhaps good but twisted by circumstance. Watanabe’s colleagues quickly dismiss his accomplishment. His life changed, yet his legacy in their eyes seemed to last only a few minutes. The system did not change. Bureaucrats did not change. Still, the playground exists. That is the paradox at the heart of the film. It is not about reforming society at large but devoting oneself to the lives around them, showing that meaning can be found in the small and the local. The fact that the system endured unchanged does not erase the laughter of children in the park. There is a moment in the film when Watanabe pauses at a sunset, regretting that he had not stopped to see one in thirty years. That regret lingers long after the film ends. The final image of the playground, framed by a sunset, is a reminder to the audience. We still have the time that Watanabe lost. We can still see the sunset. We can still live. Perhaps that is what Ikiru leaves most of all: not just sorrow for a man who found his purpose too late, but an urgent call for us to begin living now, while we still can. 99 Story & Pacing: 19/20 Characters & Acting: 19/20 Themes: 50/50 Cinematography & Editing: 5/5 Soundtrack & Sound: 5/5 Memorability: 1/1