“Death is in our air and sea and earth. It can come for us at any moment.”
-Mariko
These are the words Mariko speaks to John Blackthorne in Shogun‘s fourth episode, “The Eightfold Fence,” after the pair feel a small earthquake rumbling beneath their feet. For Blackthorne, it is presumably his first time experiencing such a phenomenon since landing on the shores of Ajiro. For Mariko, it is a common occurrence, a frequent reminder of the powerlessness we humans have in the face of natural forces.
The concept of death versus life is one of the more prominent themes present throughout the series. What is each character’s motivation to survive (or, in Mariko’s case, the opposite)? What do they seek in living or dying? What comes after one’s death?
As for that last question, nobody really knows. But they certainly try to find answers.
Seppuku Stunts
Seppuku, otherwise known as hara kiri, is “a form of Japanese ritualistic suicide by disembowelment.” Growing up in the United States, seppuku was really more of a buzzword than a symbol of dying honorably. Kids in grade school would make jokes about committing seppuku after receiving a bad grade on a test, often making strict Asian parents the punchline. The idea of it became muddled, seeming more and more like a silly and unnecessary sacrifice than an honorable way to go out.
Watching seppuku happen in “real time” throughout Shōgun has helped change that perception for me, personally. Or rather, restore it to what it was meant to be. The first glimpse we get of this idea of honorable death is in the series premiere, “Anjin,” when Yabushige is being battered by waves and nearly drowns. He pulls out his sword, defiantly staring out into the distant ocean, determination glinting in his eyes. He ends up being rescued at the last minute, but it becomes a defining moment, particularly for Blackthorne, who watches this unfold from the cliff above.
Vulture’s series premiere recap illustrates Yabushige’s actions as a fascinating introduction to the Japanese mindset for Blackthorne:
“Blackthorne views the [Erasmus] captain’s decision to end his life as cowardly, the last resort for a man who has given up… Yabushige choosing seppuku while he still has the strength to fight against the waves strikes Blackthorne as an act of bravery he couldn’t conceive of with the captain.”
-Jesse Raub for Vulture
More Than a Meme
Several aspects of samurai culture have served as the butt of a joke in the 20th~21st century, particularly in the West, but Shōgun paints seppuku as it was: an honorable decision to choose your own fate. Early on in the series, Fuji’s husband Tadayoshi, after intervening on his lord Toranaga’s behalf during a meeting of the Regents, is sentenced to commit seppuku, taking his infant son into death with him so as to end his bloodline.
To any reasonable human being, the killing of an infant who is not yet old enough to talk or walk is an outrageous injustice. As Blackthorne says in “The Eightfold Fence”, “a child has no fight.” Yet nobody blinks twice when it is time for Fuji’s husband and son to die. I imagine many Western viewers were shocked when witnessing such a scene, but the point that Shōgun tries to make here is that this death is not a waste, nor a “dying just for the sake of being dead” situation. Tadayoshi dug his grave when he drew his sword at that meeting. Toranaga knows it. Mariko knows it. And, deep down, Fuji knows it too. Dying by seppuku is not giving up, but rather, making your final stand.
Death as a Form of Protest
Seppuku as an act of defiance or rebellion is present in Toda Hiromatsu and Mariko’s actions as well. Hiromatsu, the only ally to really see through his lord’s facade, calls Toranaga out for giving up, then slices himself open in front of Toranaga and all his generals. As his insides spill out of him, Buntaro cuts his own father’s head off without a moment of hesitation. Hiromatsu does this because he knows how great the need is to motivate everyone to finally go for Crimson Sky, and Mariko takes advantage in a similar way when she promises to commit seppuku at Osaka Castle after being denied permission to leave.
In the world of Shōgun, the act of killing yourself is not one of cowardice, nor does it represent running away from your destiny or taking the easy way out. It may seem pointless or futile to the outsider’s eye, much like Blackthorne’s, but it is painted as a death one should be proud to accept and enact. Although he was not given such an end, as Toranaga’s son Nagakado once said, “it will be a beautiful death.”
Yabushige’s Final Days
A majority of the characters in Shōgun, save for Mariko, wish to keep on living in order to achieve their personal goals, whether it be power, land, money, armies, or a lasting legacy. Nobody wants to live quite as badly as Yabushige does, though, nor are they as obvious about their desperation to survive as he is. Throughout the series, Yabushige cheats, lies, schemes, and tricks himself out of several close-call situations, narrowly avoiding orders to commit seppuku and dodging swords left and right. If I had a nickel for every time Yabushige had a new will written…
And yet, ironically, Yabushige makes it to the end only to be sentenced to commit seppuku by Toranaga (an end correctly predicted by Editor Benjamin Rose), a punishment for his treachery that directly led to the death of Mariko. Does Yabushige deserve this death? Absolutely. By the finale, Toranaga has gained everything. He knows Lord Ishido will lose at the Battle of Sekigahara. He has the support of Lady Ochiba and the Heir. He knows, somewhere deep in his secret heart, that he will fulfill his destiny as shōgun of Japan. Yabushige could have been at his lord’s side to witness this glorious future, but his past actions do not warrant it. “Why tell a dead man the future?” Toranaga says, as Yabushige pleads to know his lord’s true intentions. And with that, Yabushige plunges his sword deep into his abdomen, followed by a swift beheading by Toranaga himself. In a way, this might have been the most unfair death of all. But am I mad about it? Nope!
Melancholy Mariko
Mariko, on the other hand, desperately wishes to leave the mortal world behind, to follow her beloved father and family members into death. Yet time after time she is denied this wish by Buntaro, and then by Toranaga, although their reasons for denying her differ. Buntaro doesn’t quite understand why being alive with him, with their family, isn’t enough for Mariko. Meanwhile, Toranaga keeps her around until he gauges the perfect timing for her death, one that will turn the tides of his war against the Regents in his favor. Mariko knows her mission, and she accepts it with the readiness of someone who has been preparing to die for most of their life.
But why doesn’t she just kill herself? Wouldn’t it be easier if she ran away, or just didn’t ask permission? But Mariko knows that this would be dishonorable, staining her family and her father’s legacy even further, as well as clashing with her Catholic religion. And she is loyal to her lord, so loyal that even as her hand trembles as she prepares to stab herself at Osaka Castle, she does not back down until a last minute save by Ishido.
This is precisely why her actual death feels so unfair, and yet also like fulfilling an expectation that we had all along. Mariko was always destined to die, for her lord, for her father, for her own legacy. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps we were given some false hope when she was briefly spared, sleeping with Blackthorne one final time and seemingly at peace with herself, until the assassins break in (with an assist from our good pal Yabu). But her tragic sacrifice is what ultimately wins the war for Toranaga.
“I sent a woman to do what no army could.”
-Toranaga
Death in the Air
As for modern-day Japan, death is still very much present in the air, sea, and earth. Earthquakes and tsunamis happen more frequently, a direct result of climate change and warming sea temperatures. Houses are still designed to crumble and be rebuilt in a matter of years. But I’ve found that life goes on, surprisingly normally, in the face of these ongoing crises. Although the general Japanese population takes natural disasters much more seriously since the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, many “symbols of death” go unnoticed.
Take North Korean missile warnings, for example. I live in an area where missiles launched from North Korea fly overhead, at least once a year, before falling into the ocean. The sirens scream across the city, reminiscent of a scene from a WWII film, but the steady stream of cars on their morning commute and the children biking and walking to school do not screech to a halt. They carry on as normal. “We’re used to it,” a local friend once told me, “they used to happen a lot more.” Mariko’s words have never rung truer.
“We live and we die. We control nothing beyond that.”
-Mariko
Photos are property of FX.
Olivia Snyder is a Japanese-American trilingual interpreter and translator from Ohio. She currently lives in Japan working as a Coordinator of International Relations.
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