分类： entertainment

Acclaimed Japanese filmmaker Kiyoshi Kurosawa, long celebrated by audiences and critics as “the master of horror,” entered an untested creative space for his latest project: his very first samurai period drama. Once nervous about how viewers would respond to his genre departure, the award-winning director has found his risk paying off in spades.

Set to hit theaters in New York and Los Angeles on July 31 before expanding to major U.S. cities throughout August, *The Samurai and the Prisoner* earned a standing ovation and glowing critical reception when it made its world premiere at the Cannes Film Festival this past May. Early box office and audience data from Japan, where the film opened earlier this year, confirms it has already become Kurosawa’s most commercially and critically successful work in his decades-long career. That milestone carries extra weight for a director who has built one of the most respected filmographies in global cinema, including the 2020 Venice Film Festival Silver Lion winner *Wife of a Spy* and 2008’s Un Certain Regard Jury Prize-winning family drama *Tokyo Sonata*.

In a recent online interview with The Associated Press from New York, Kurosawa reflected on his enduring approach to filmmaking, admitting that the craft still holds mysteries for him after decades of work. “Filmmaking remains a mystery for me,” he said. He explained the art form requires a delicate, often unpredictable balance between grounding fictional stories in tangible, real-world details, and letting the imaginative narrative take shape. “I don’t understand it. And that’s why I keep making films,” he added. The director says he constantly challenges himself by measuring his work against legends of cinema, asking: Why can’t I do what Yasujiro Ozu did? Why can’t I do what Alfred Hitchcock did?

For most of his career, Kurosawa built his reputation on slow-burn horror stories that unfold in ordinary, everyday settings. His 1997 psychological thriller *Cure*, starring acclaimed Japanese actor Koji Yakusho as a detective hunting a serial killer, remains a defining example of this style: a quiet, creeping sense of dread that builds gradually against the backdrop of mundane modern life. Moving to the samurai genre, however, meant leaving that everyday normalcy behind, as the genre is rooted in a fictional, distant feudal world unlike contemporary life.

The plot of *The Samurai and the Prisoner* follows a classic samurai narrative framework, centered on a warlord rivalry that includes the Shakespearean plot twists long associated with the genre. Kurosawa broke down the core themes that drew him to the story: “There is, first of all, power. A feudalistic society is built on a hierarchical relationship of those at the top and those at the bottom. Then there’s betrayal. People try to grab power, and in so doing get thrown into confusion. That exists in any society, historically and perhaps even today. And so this is also about what’s eternal.”

Tackling his first samurai film came with unexpected challenges from the start. Kurosawa says he had no clear frame of reference for basic creative choices, from blocking scenes to guiding actors on line delivery, which differ drastically from his modern dramas. He also faced a common industry risk: fans who love a director for one specific style often resent when they step outside their comfort zone. Compounding that challenge, the traditional samurai genre feels alien to many modern viewers, even within Japan, making a positive reception far from guaranteed.

To Kurosawa’s relief, the production came together seamlessly once filming got underway. The combination of detailed sets, authentic costumes, period props, and traditional hair and makeup helped transport both cast and crew to the feudal world of the story, and Kurosawa counted himself lucky to secure permission to shoot on location at historic old temples and castles in Kyoto, Japan’s ancient capital. The director also brought his signature stylistic flourishes to the project: lingering long takes and tight, almost claustrophobic dialogue scenes that build subtle tension, leaving audiences on edge waiting for an unexpected shift.

Visually, *The Samurai and the Prisoner* adheres to the conventions of traditional Japanese samurai period drama, called jidaigeki, leaning into the genre’s long history of depicting the brutality and tragic pathos of feudal war. Wide panoramic shots of armored warriors lined up on hilltops even echo the iconic samurai epics of Akira Kurosawa — the legendary filmmaker to whom Kiyoshi Kurosawa is not related.

After the positive experience of making his first samurai film, Kurosawa says he is eager to return to the genre, with plans for a future project that includes more dynamic, spectacular sword fights in the style of the 1960s and 1970s *Zatoichi* film series, which follows the adventures of a blind, wandering swordsman. The director also says he is eager to explore other new genres, including a possible musical, even as he promises to keep making horror films for fans who appreciate his signature slow-burn style — though he worries his deliberate pacing may feel outdated to modern audiences used to nonstop action.

Today’s popular cinema, both in Japan and across the globe, prioritizes constant, back-to-back set pieces to keep audiences gripped, Kurosawa noted. “A scary thing generally doesn’t happen every five minutes in my films,” he said. “But if that’s OK, then I’d like to make my film.”

Global K-pop supergroup BTS has sent shockwaves through the international music industry with a coordinated announcement that the band will not submit any of its work for consideration at the 2027 Grammy Awards. All seven members—RM, Jimin, V, Suga, Jungkook, Jin and J-Hope—shared the identical statement to their individual Instagram accounts, marking a unified stand against the awards body’s evolving approach to non-Western music.

The translated statement reads: “We have decided not to enter the Grammys this year. I hope that music can be heard and loved for what it is, rather than being divided by region or language.”

The decision comes amid widespread industry and fan scrutiny of the Recording Academy’s newly introduced Best Asian Pop Music Performance prize, announced last month. Under the award’s eligibility rules, entries must include what the Academy describes as a “meaningful use” of an Asian language. More than 80% of the lyrics on BTS’s latest comeback album *Arirang*—one of the highest-selling records of 2026, widely tipped to earn a nomination for Album of the Year—are performed in English. The album’s lead single *Swim*, which claimed the top spot on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100, was also widely predicted to compete for Song of the Year, but it would have been ineligible for the new category due to its fully English lyrics.

The creation of the Best Asian Pop Music Performance award has divided the K-pop community online since it was announced. While some celebrated the move as a long-overdue recognition of Asian pop’s global cultural impact, many fans and industry observers have criticized it as a ghettoizing tactic that segregates Asian artists rather than integrating them into the awards’ mainstream major categories. BTS’s explicit reference to regional and linguistic division in its statement directly echoes this widespread criticism.

BTS’s relationship with the Grammys stretches back nearly a decade, but the group has never taken home a golden gramophone despite five nominations since 2020. In 2021, the band made history as the first K-pop act ever to earn a Grammy nomination, for their fully English track *Dynamite*. All seven members have held voting memberships in the Recording Academy since 2019, and the group has performed on the Grammy stage multiple times, picking up additional nominations in categories including Best Pop Duo/Group Performance and Best Music Video. BTS is not the first high-profile act to distance itself from the Grammys; it joins a growing list of major artists that have boycotted the ceremony, including The Weeknd, Frank Ocean, Morgan Wallen and Will Smith. In 2020, Drake went a step further, calling for the awards to be scrapped entirely, arguing that the institution consistently overlooks impactful Black artistry, particularly hip-hop. “I think we should stop allowing ourselves to be shocked every year by the disconnect between impactful music and these awards and just accept that what once was the highest form of recognition may no longer matter to the artists that exist now and the ones who come after,” Drake wrote at the time.

Today, BTS closes its statement with a note of gratitude to its global fanbase, dubbed the BTS Army: “Thank you to Army and everyone who is always with us.”

Formed in 2013, BTS has grown from a South Korean underground act to one of the best-selling pop groups in history. Their ongoing world tour is currently projected to match or even exceed the record-breaking box office revenue of Taylor Swift’s iconic Eras Tour. The Recording Academy, which organizes the annual Grammy ceremony, has not yet issued a public response to BTS’s announcement, and BBC News has confirmed it has reached out to the organization for comment.

For years, the Recording Academy has faced mounting pressure to adapt its structures to reflect K-pop’s explosive global growth. In 2025, the Academy expanded its voting body to include a number of prominent Korean artists and producers, including Enhypen’s Jungwon, Seventeen’s Woozi and Vernon, Le Sserafim’s Huh Yunjin and all six members of Katseye. This year, the Academy added more K-pop representation, granting voting privileges to all members of Twice and Stray Kids.

The 2026 Grammy ceremony already marked a milestone for K-pop: *Golden* from the animated film *KPop Demon Hunters* became the first K-pop track ever to win a Grammy, taking home the award for Best Song Written for Visual Media. Ironically, *Golden* would also have been ineligible for the new Best Asian Pop Music Performance prize, as its lyrics are almost entirely in English—mirroring the situation BTS faced with *Arirang* and *Swim*.

Nominated for the 2026 International Booker Prize, Shida Bazyar’s *The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran* uses the 1979 Islamic Revolution not as a backdrop for grand historical drama, but as the quiet, unrelenting force that reshapes the fates of five ordinary family members across generations. Translated by Ruth Martin and published by Scribe, the multi-voiced, polyphonic narrative skips across decades between its four chapters, opening with a prologue that holds out hope for a free Iran in a not-too-distant future. Unlike many historical works centered on major political upheavals, this novel prioritizes the stories that official records often erase — stories that would disappear entirely without the framework of fiction.

The story opens in the early aftermath of the revolution, following young communist teacher Behzad and his two political allies, Sohrab and Peyman, who all dream of building what they call the “real revolution” — a people-driven transformation of Iran’s core institutions that would deliver a prosperous, sovereign nation. But the divide between Peyman’s worldview and that of his comrades lays bare the roots of Iran’s repeated failed attempts at democratic reform.

Peyman, an artist by instinct who always carries a camera, only turned to politics after the 1979 upheaval. Before that, he cared little for the ideological texts and flyers his friends championed. A pragmatic realist, he argues that the only foundations for a meaningful people’s revolution are basic needs: food, clean water, and accessible education. When the shah’s portraits are removed from classroom walls, he rejects the idea of hanging any individual’s image in their place. Behzad and Sohrab, by contrast, envision new portraits of Marx, Engels, Mao, and Lenin — ideological figures far removed from the daily lives and beliefs of most Iranians.

Behzad, an atheist who approaches ideology with the fervor of a true believer, devotes himself to studying past revolutions and advocating for armed struggle. He dismisses the general Iranian population as uneducated and superstitious, claiming he and his comrades already understand the people — and that they themselves are the authentic voice of the people. He argues that violence is a necessary tool for political change, failing to recognize that violence committed in the name of “the people” is no different from violence committed in the name of God: both ultimately serve to prop up illegitimate power. It is only a decade later, living in exile in Germany, when Behzad learns that Peyman has been executed that he finally confronts the true human cost of the violence he once championed. Peyman’s death — of a man who understood rational truth but could not persuade others to follow him — becomes a haunting metaphor for the death of reason itself in a nation where ideological believers of all stripes treat violence as the only solution.

As the story shifts to life in German exile, the narrative moves to Behzad’s wife Nahid, whom he married before the couple fled persecution. Plagued by a suffocating, constant loneliness as she struggles to adapt to what she calls the “cold language” of her new home, Nahid’s experience echoes the words of Polish poet Czesław Miłosz: “Language is the only homeland.” Her deep melancholy stems from the untranslatable nature of culture and identity — a rift that even her own daughter, Laleh, recognizes, once saying “I really don’t want to know what it feels like to be Mama.” Just as a poem can never retain all its nuance when moved to another language, migrants can never fully integrate into a new culture without losing a core part of themselves. Nahid reflects that a translated poem of the 14th-century Persian poet Hafez, exiled to a foreign tongue, mirrors her own exile: even if the words are there, the essence is lost. A once-educated and confident woman, she feels like a child again in Germany, unable to navigate the unspoken rules of her new society and even afraid she will pass on mistakes to her daughter while helping with homework.

This intergenerational rift of identity and belonging deepens with Laleh’s perspective. In 1999, when a reformist Iranian president opened the country to limited travel, Laleh returns to Iran with Nahid. Though she is welcomed and cherished by her extended family, she feels like an outsider. Even in Germany, the only country she has ever truly known, she faces constant small reminders that she does not fully belong: a magazine seller questions whether she can read German; she worries others dismiss her father because of his grammatical mistakes; she fears strangers will recognize the family as foreigners and set fire to their car on a road trip. While she does not experience the crippling loneliness her mother endures, her identity is fractured between two worlds, with no single place that feels fully like home.

As with any work of historical fiction, the novel carries small inconsistencies that readers familiar with Iranian culture and history will notice. For example, a passing claim that premarital sex carries the death penalty in Iran is inaccurate, as capital punishment for sexual offenses is only applied to adultery and rape. Another anecdote about a schoolgirl having her fingernails pulled out for wearing nail polish feels exaggerated outside the context of political imprisonment, and a small scene of a young man courting Laleh in a cafe lacks logical consistency. But these minor flaws do little to undermine the novel’s core power.

Novelist Toni Morrison once wrote that official historical accounts erase the interior lives of ordinary people, and that fiction acts as a form of “literary archaeology” — a practice that can reconstruct lost pasts and revive the voices of those silenced by larger political forces. That is exactly what Bazyar achieves with her sharp, incisive prose in *The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran*. This book does not just tell a story of revolution and exile: it gives voice to the people history forgets.