Sanctuary: The Fight for Power, Perfection, and the Pain Behind the Ring
When Sanctuary first dropped on Netflix in 2023, it didn’t look like a show that would break boundaries. A Japanese sports drama about sumo wrestling — shot with grit, anger, and emotional chaos — sounded niche. But by the end of its eight intense episodes, audiences across the world were left stunned. This wasn’t just about sumo. It was about masculinity, class, shame, and survival — a brutal coming-of-age set inside the sacred walls of a sumo stable.
Yet what most people didn’t see was how much of the pain on screen was born out of real suffering. The actors, crew, and even director had to go through a physically and emotionally exhausting process to bring Sanctuary to life. It was a show made through struggle — and that struggle became its truth.
A Story of a Fighter Who Refused to Bow
Sanctuary centers on the character of Kiyoshi Oze (Wataru Ichinose), a young man fighting for a cause and willing to do anything to prove himself. Kiyoshi doesn’t have the greatest respect for the sport of sumo wrestling. He enters the sport for the money and for the importance it may lend to him. Kiyoshi is a rebellious, tattooed and disrespectful character. He breaks all the codes of conduct in sumo wrestling. As Kiyoshi’s arrogance violates the discipline of the sport, the sum of all arrogance and discipline of the sport, the series develops into a far deeper story: one of a man fighting for the respect and dignity in a society that off all the arrogance and discipline of the sport, the series develops into a far deeper story: one of a man fighting for the respect and dignity in a society that disregards him.
The narrative arcs map onto the social reality of Japan, class, family and inherited guilt. In this Kiyoshi’s anger stands as testament to youthful rebellion and the filmmakers capturing a generation for all it is worth.
The pain behind the story is what truly amplifies the emotional impact of Sanctuary.
Wataru Ichinose’s Body Became His Battlefield
For Wataru Ichinose, the lead actor, Sanctuary wasn’t just a role — it was a transformation. The young actor, primarily known as a supporting character before this project, was pushed to the limit, both mentally and physically. He spent a few months preparing to embrace the role of a sumo wrestler, which involved considerable body weight changes, as he was to gain more than 20 kilograms.
For Sanctuary, unlike Western sports dramas which use body doubles and CGI, real contact was a necessity. Ichinose trained for nearly six months with former professional rikishi (sumo wrestlers) before filming commenced. His training involved exceedingly rigorous and exhaustive sessions, extending to four hours a day, consisting of not just shiko stomps and leg grappling, but also the more dangerous elements of collision practice, where wrestlers charge into one another and clash with brutal force.
The injuries Ichinose sustained during the first few weeks of filming – to his shoulders and knees – served as a testament to the toll the role placed on him. However, he could not entertain the idea of resignation. In his interview with The Japan Times, he stated that he cried on some days in between takes, “not because of the pain, but because the weight of expectation felt heavier than my body.
That exhaustion also translates into the character of Kiyoshi – a man perpetually on the edge of falling apart, yet too proud to show his weakness.
Behind the Sacred Walls, a Clash of Cultures
Director Kan Eguchi intended to create Sanctuary as more than a sports series. He wanted it to serve as a mirror to Japan and the identity crisis it is currently facing. However, that vision did not come without complications. Sumo, one of the most conservative Japanese institutions, is not known to be open to criticism of any sort. The series critiques on the sport’s cultural issues, including corruption, hazing, and moral hypocrisy, sparked backlash even before the show was released.
Reportedly, some of the more established sumo stables were initially unwilling to assist with the production. Some even termed the script “disrespectful” for laying bare some of the more unpleasant aspects of life within the sumo world — the exploitation of young recruits, punishing training routines, and the mental collapses. As a result, the production team had to build their own sumo ring, complete with an authentic clay floor and hand-crafted ritualistic banners.
That set, which became the emotional center of the show, was at once a wonder and a nightmare. Each shooting sequence had to be remade every few days as the wrestlers advanced cracked the clay floor, rendering it unsafe for shooting. The overwhelming humidity and the dust were a problem for both the actors and the cameras. One of the cinematographers put it this way: “Every shot felt like a battle between man and environment — which, ironically, fit the story.”
Enduring the Pain
What gives Sanctuary its raw edge is that the emotional tone was not generated from artificial intensity, but rather from lived exhaustion. The actors were not just performing pain; they were also suffering it.
The ensemble cast, including Shioli Kutsuna (as sports reporter Asuka Kunishima) and Pierre Taki (as the stoic stable master), found themselves navigating emotional territory rarely seen in Japanese dramas. Kutsuna, who had returned to Japan after a stint in Hollywood, reportedly struggled with the pressure of portraying a character torn between compassion and professionalism. In interviews, she spoke about her anxiety before intense scenes, especially those that challenged patriarchal power dynamics in sports.
Pierre Taki’s own journey was even more layered. Known for his troubled past — including a temporary ban from acting due to a legal controversy — Sanctuary became his comeback. His portrayal of the stable master, who hides his vulnerability behind years of discipline, mirrored his own redemption arc. Taki later said the role “gave me something to atone for, on and off camera.”
It’s this blending of reel and real — Ichinose’s physical pain, Kutsuna’s moral uncertainty, Taki’s personal ghosts — that gave Sanctuary its haunting truth.
The Crew That Kept the Faith
If the cast carried the emotional weight, the crew bore the logistical nightmare. The production was filmed under tight budget constraints, compounded by pandemic restrictions that delayed shooting multiple times.
Cinematographer Yutaka Yamazaki had to rethink how to capture sumo sequences without breaking social distancing protocols during rehearsal periods. The solution was to choreograph fights in smaller, safer groups, then stitch sequences together in post-production. The editing process took many months, doing this work proved to be time consuming.
Even costume design became an act of endurance. The traditional mawashi belts and robes, made from heavy silk, became difficult to bear in the heat of studio lights. Actors would frequently faint during takes, and crew members stood by with ice packs and fans. Nonetheless, the decision to keep everything authentic — from the stables’ sweat-stained walls to the ceremonial salt rituals — truly paid off with an astonishingly immersive result.
When Sanctuary finally streamed, viewers were struck not just by the intensity, but also its emotional honesty. Audiences in Japan praised it as a “wake-up call” for how society treats those who don’t fit within the traditional standards. In India and South Korea, fans saw reflections of their own cultural battles.
Sanctuary was acclaimed globally, yet its reception was emotionally anticipated by its makers long before it was emotionally embraced by viewers. This was the emotional reception anticipated by its makers long before they were embraced by viewers.
Post-release Q&As, Wataru Ichinose stated, “I wasn’t acting rebellion — I was living it. I fought against my limits the same way Kiyoshi fought against the ring.”
That is perhaps the most poetic aspect of Sanctuary: it blurred the lines between story and struggle, art and endurance. The bruises on screen were real. The exhaustion wasn’t faked. Every scream, every fall, every tear was born from the same tortured question the show asks — how much of yourself are you willing to break to be free?
Sanctuary didn’t just tell a story about redemption. It became one — for its actors, its creators, and for all those who beheld a piece of their own fight in that sacred, brutal ring.