Kokuho (2025)
Writing about the film Kokuho (2025) is like trying to write about a beautiful memory. The one that the film brings to mind is from when I was probably around twelve, maybe fourteen. The woods behind my apartment complex had been reduced to make way for new condominiums, and part of the construction, whether planned or just unfinished, had left a sizable pond that I could stare out over from my window. In this memory, I am staring out over the modest parking lot, over the pond, and out into the woods as everything is being covered in a steady, beautiful snow fall.
Even if I could perfectly recreate that moment through language, describe its beauty and importance with the skill of a once in a generation writer, I don’t know that it would be enough to really invite you into that moment. I don’t know that any line I could write would make it stick with you the way it has stuck with me over the years. Such a simple image to describe, but almost impossible to capture. More than any specifics of the pond, or the trees cradling the open landscape, or the snow slowly burying it all, I remember the feeling of seeing something beautiful in the world, something fleeting that I was lucky to see for just a few moments. I imagine, and hope, that we all have moments like that. Experiences that no words can really convey to another person, but that we can all understand on a shared deeper level of our human experience.
The desire to express those moments is what is at the heart of Kokuho. The plot of the film revolves around Kikuo Tachibana (Ryo Yoshizawa), and his tumultuous rise to prominence in the world of kabuki theater. His talent, ambition, and background as the orphaned son of a yakuza with no ties to the theater leave no shortage of drama for the screen. Kikuo is obsessed with becoming the greatest kabuki actor in all of Japan, and is willing to sacrifice everything in his life to achieve this goal. But what makes Kikuo so compelling and relatable is why he is so determined to obtain greatness. It’s not money, sex, adoration, or anything even remotely rock n’ roll. It’s beauty. More specifically, its about trying to embody the beauty he saw on the night his father died.
The most prominent motif that recurs throughout the film is of falling snow and specs of light, the images that Kikuo saw over the body of his dead father. He sees glimpses of that moment on the kabuki stage in the years following his father’s death. He sees it first in the performances of his mentor Hanai Hanjiro II (Ken Watanabe) and his son, and Kikuo’s best friend and rival, Shunsuke Ogaki (Ryusei Yokohama). And he sees it in the performance of legendary kabuki actor Onogawa Mangiku (Min Tanaka). It’s that performance that seals Kikuo’s fate, as he sets out to become a kokuho, a living national treasure, like Onogawa. Only then, can he truly embody the beauty he seeks and share it with others.
Kikuo’s motivation and journey are not only representative of the artists’ obsessive need to create, but also of the aspiration of art itself. Art is always approximation. The characters Kikuo embodies are makeup and costumes and painstakingly memorized routines. It’s all fake snow and electrical lights. Yet, when it all comes together, there is a chance that it will convey something that feels even more potent that life itself.
As someone who has spent his life writing music and dabbling in creative projects, I feel a kinship with Kikuo. We both have vivid, powerful memories of falling snow, and a deep desire to recapture the beauty of those moments through art. I am chasing that image of the pond outside my window, as Kikuo chases the snow falling down on the night he lost his father. Though, I don’t know if I am willing to go as far as Kikuo in my pursuit.
As the credits rolled on Kokuho during my first viewing, I found myself in a sort of trance. The film’s beautiful final scene had cut to black and the ending theme, the remarkable Luminance, began to play. As the credits came and went, I just sat there, allowing myself to linger in the space, unable to leave the auditorium and re-enter real life. I wasn’t alone. My fellow patrons sat in their seats seemingly as dumbstruck as I was by the film. When I finally willed myself out of the theater and into the cold winter night, I was surprised to find that it was snowing.
Hotel for Ghosts 