When Passion Became Protest
Few films in cinema history have been as misunderstood — or as haunting — as In the Realm of the Senses. Directed by Nagisa Ōshima, the 1976 Japanese-French production pushed eroticism into the realm of obsession, but beneath its shock value was something deeper — a cry of rebellion against repression, a mirror of human extremes.
At its core, it’s the story of Sada Abe and Kichizo Ishida — lovers who surrender completely to their desires until love becomes both their freedom and their destruction. Based on a true story from 1930s Japan, the film follows Sada (played by Eiko Matsuda), a former prostitute working as a servant in a hotel, and Kichizo (Tatsuya Fuji), her employer. Their affair begins with stolen glances and soft touches, but quickly spirals into all-consuming passion, isolating them from the world and, ultimately, from life itself.
Ōshima didn’t just make a movie; he made a statement. In a post-war society where sexual expression was heavily censored and conformity glorified, this film was a defiance — an act of cinematic protest disguised as a love story.
The Woman Who Burned for Freedom
Sada Abe is not just the film’s protagonist; she is its soul — a woman whose desire transcends shame, morality, and even survival. Her character was inspired by the real Sada Abe, whose story became infamous in Japan after she strangled her lover during intercourse and severed his genitals as a symbol of eternal possession.
In the film, Ōshima reimagines Sada not as a criminal, but as a symbol of female agency. Eiko Matsuda’s portrayal turns Sada into something rare — a woman who refuses to be defined by patriarchal norms, who claims ownership over her body and her love with unflinching certainty.
For Matsuda, the role was both a liberation and a torment. She wasn’t a major star when she was cast — and taking on such an explicit, emotionally raw part meant risking her career and reputation. Japanese cinema in the 1970s, though flirtatious with eroticism, still punished women who appeared “too bold.”
Reports from the set reveal that Matsuda struggled deeply with the intensity of certain scenes, not because of discomfort with nudity, but because Ōshima demanded emotional truth beyond acting. He wanted her to live Sada’s madness — to dissolve the line between performer and person.
Her preparation involved reading Sada Abe’s real-life court testimony and visiting sites connected to the historical incident. In interviews, Matsuda later admitted she found herself “terrified” by how easily she could empathize with Sada’s mind — “I understood the hunger,” she once said. That hunger — not for food, but for total emotional consumption — defines every frame she inhabits.
The Man Who Lost Himself in Love
Opposite her, Tatsuya Fuji’s portrayal of Kichizo Ishida is equally mesmerizing. Fuji, already an established actor, took on the role knowing it might endanger his mainstream career. He was warned by peers, even producers, that this film could make him “unemployable” in Japan.
But Fuji, like Ōshima, saw it as a challenge — a confrontation of the self. Kichizo begins as a charming innkeeper, indulging in lust, but soon his desires evolve into something deeper, almost spiritual. He abandons his family, his business, and his dignity for Sada’s touch. As their world shrinks to the walls of their room, Fuji’s performance transforms from playful seduction to tragic surrender.
The actor reportedly worked closely with Ōshima to understand Kichizo’s transformation. He studied the diaries of men in pre-war Japan to absorb their social conditioning — men taught to control, not to feel. What makes his performance haunting is that Kichizo does the opposite: he chooses to feel until feeling kills him.
Fuji once said, “In that room, there were no actors — only two people drowning together.” His chemistry with Matsuda wasn’t mere performance; it was built through trust, physical endurance, and hours of rehearsing gestures that had to appear both instinctive and sacred.
The Chaos Behind Closed Doors
Shooting In the Realm of the Senses was a war against censorship. Japanese law prohibited the display of genitalia and explicit sexual acts, forcing Ōshima to smuggle the film’s uncut negatives out of Japan to be developed in France. He openly challenged the nation’s obscenity laws, famously declaring, “Nothing that is expressed is obscene. What is obscene is what is hidden.”
That defiance nearly destroyed him. The Japanese government prosecuted him for obscenity in 1977. His defense — that art should not be judged by moral law — became a landmark case for artistic freedom. Ōshima won, but the battle scarred his reputation and finances for years.
Eiko Matsuda, too, faced backlash. Many in Japan saw her as a symbol of “Western corruption.” She moved to Europe for a while, working in theatre and smaller art projects. The film that should have made her a star instead made her an outcast — yet decades later, she’s remembered as one of the bravest performers in world cinema.
On set, the atmosphere was intense but respectful. Contrary to its erotic content, cast and crew members described filming as emotionally exhausting rather than titillating. Every movement was choreographed like a dance, every act treated as an expression of power, not pleasure.
Ōshima reportedly used minimal direction during the most intimate sequences, believing spontaneity would create truth. He told his actors, “Forget the camera exists.” And they did. The result is a film that feels like a documentary of desire — painfully real, dangerously close.
The Audience That Couldn’t Look Away
When the film premiered at Cannes, it shocked and divided audiences. Some walked out; others stood and applauded. In France, critics hailed it as art. In Japan, it was banned for decades. But even its harshest critics couldn’t deny its impact.
For younger filmmakers, In the Realm of the Senses opened a forbidden door. It proved that cinema could depict sexuality not as spectacle, but as existential truth. For feminists, Sada became an icon of female control — a woman who refused to be consumed without consuming back.
The film’s imagery — the red kimono, the cords, the endless tatami rooms — became symbolic of both confinement and liberation. Its color palette echoes Japanese art traditions, while its emotional tone mirrors the country’s silent post-war disillusionment. Love, in Ōshima’s hands, becomes rebellion against a nation built on restraint.
When Art Outlived Scandal
Nearly fifty years later, In the Realm of the Senses still burns — not just as erotic cinema, but as a mirror of human extremes. Every generation rediscovers it with new interpretations: was it love, madness, or political metaphor? Maybe all three.
For Eiko Matsuda and Tatsuya Fuji, their roles became larger than their careers. They embodied the timeless tragedy of people who mistake possession for connection, passion for salvation. Their real-life courage — risking shame and exile for authenticity — parallels their characters’ fatal devotion.