There comes a point in an artist’s career when all elements of his or her experience, knowledge and ability merge to create an unforgettable and synthesized work that defines them. In Paul Schrader’s case, that work is Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters. Released in 1985, Mishima is a unique biographical tale of Japan’s most famous and illusive postwar-era writer. Yukio Mishima, whose work emerged in the West in the 1950s and 60s, was an uncommon combination of Western literacy and Japanese nationalism. As a boy, he was educated in German language and literature, most notably Nietzsche, and Westernized notions of individual will and power emerged at the forefront of much of his work, though with a particularly Japanese twist. That twist was the strict nationalism and traditionalism that caused him to reject much of how postwar Japan had evolved, to the point where his stated goal was to reinstate the emperor and, subsequently, the Empire itself. When this goal proved impossible, Mishima publically committed seppuku, ritual suicide by disembowelment. Typically, Eastern and Western philosophies do not easily blend together, but Mishima was atypical in many areas of his life. Schrader makes it his clear intention not only to celebrate Mishima’s individuality, but also dig deep into what led Mishima to think the way he did. The resulting film is a character study that explores the impact his ideas had on both himself and his country, and their impact on the West’s understanding of Japan to the present day.

Mishima’s artistic and personal lives were so intertwined that this became a significant theme in his death and legacy. Because of this, Schrader knew from the inception that the typical “biopic” arc of frustrated artist struggling through various traps and travails to achieve his most significant life work was not the best form of depiction. Instead, like Mishima himself, Schrader took a synthesized approach, incorporating anecdotes from Mishima’s childhood, novels and the recorded events leading up to his death. By fusing together these three strands and giving each a distinct visual style, Schrader accomplishes the rare feat of giving the viewer a profound, more complete understanding of the man and the artist. The film is more meaningful and delves deeper than conventional biopic narratives allow, and connects the episodes in such a way as to allow the audience to interpret Mishima’s stated objectives and link them to his implied emotions. Mishima’s physical, psychological and ideological thinking are closely tied and, in real life, the artist clearly conveyed his intentions to not only his readers but also to himself. This led him down a stringent path of total acquiescence to his fears, carnal urges and political designs.

The first of these strands of Mishima’s life Schrader explores is a brief account of his childhood. Shot in pure black and white, reminiscent of many of the films from Japan’s golden era of cinema immediately following the war. All of the narration is taken from Mishima’s own words, and what unfolds is a delicate composite of a boy unrooted from his home by his paternal grandmother. Mishima’s grandmother treats him in a servile manner, while also calling the boy a “fragile plant,” establishing his life-long preoccupation with fitness and worship of the body. A fascination with kabuki theater, homoeroticism and an honorable war death for the emperor emerges from this time period, but despite some of the sensationalism that follows these anecdotes, Schrader’s reserved visual style makes it clear that what is most important is the evolution of thought regarding Mishima’s views on Japanese society and culture at-large.

These beliefs are established through the visualized accounts of three of Mishima’s most famous novels, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, Kyoko’s House and Runaway Horses. All are shot on rudimentary soundstages, but the artifice of the set design helps construct the universal truths of the stories in the viewer’s mind. In each of the novels, the main character is an obvious component of Mishima himself, furthering the theory that his artistic and personal endeavors continuously blended to form the character-historical figure of “Yukio Mishima.” As a visual exercise, Schrader and his production designer, Eiko Ishioka, settled on two dominant colors for each story, in order to accentuate the fantastical elements while also differentiating from the naturally-lit realistic scenes depicting his final hours. Temple is dominated by green and gold and tells the abridged tale of a shy, stuttering acolyte who is so overwhelmed by the beauty of the famous Buddhist temple that he must set it on fire. Kyoko’s House, laden with pink and gray tones, is about a bodybuilding-obsessed young man having a sadomasochistic affair with the middle-aged woman to whom he is indebted. Runaway Horses tells the story of a young army cadet establishing his own cadre of fighters to defend the honor of the emperor and return his glory to the throne of Japan against the backdrop of oranges and blacks. All three narrative threads went on to have great significance in the final days of Mishima’s life and Schrader is careful not to be too obvious, but instead illustrate how in many ways Mishima prepared for his suicide years before it was actually enacted.

As expected, all of the narrative elements converge in the final sequence, where Mishima gathers his personal army and attempts to take over a Japanese military garrison. He gathers the cadets and from the balcony of the headquarters implores the garrison to join him in his quest to restore the emperor to power. Perhaps unsurprisingly, his speech is met with derision, ignorance and rejection of his appeals to nationalism, honor and restoration of the traditional legacies of Japan’s historical greatness. Schrader has alluded in interviews to the fact that Mishima may very well have known in advance his message would go unheeded, thus his plan for suicide was never in serious doubt. Mishima was, in many ways, a lonely and isolated figure, perhaps the most lonely of all Schrader’s protagonists. Not only does this make him ideal for Schrader’s work but, similar to Mishima’s own life, one can see this film as the culmination of all of Schrader’s previous antiheroes whose uncomfortability with themselves builds to such a degree that they cannot function without a public display of violence. Violence, it seems, is the only catharsis they can attain. Mishima’s role as the ultimate lonely man displays to what degree this theme has dominated all of Schrader’s work to this point, beginning with Taxi Driver. It also illustrates how such a notion may very well be universal, if not more natural in a culture like Japan which emphasizes so strongly individual honor, familial respect and a strict duty to the elements of life bigger than oneself. Clearly, Mishima lived what he believed. He had such strong convictions that he viewed death as the apotheosis of all that his life had come to represent. Despite many Americans’ ignorance or dislike of Japanese culture, Schrader clarifies through this amazing work the lengths to which some are willing to go in order to realize their beliefs. The fact that this particular story ends in the protagonist’s death merely shows he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.