Akira Kurosawa’s Something Like an Autobiography is one of those rare works where the subject’s life and art are inseparable, and the more you read, the more you feel that you’re moving through a Kurosawa film itself—measured, precise, and deeply human, with moments of wry humor and sudden bursts of emotional intensity.
I first read it in 2021, during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when the world felt like it had been put on pause. In that stillness, Kurosawa’s voice—calm, exacting, unpretentious—cut through with the same clarity his camera brings to a rain-swept alley or a windswept battlefield.
Kurosawa has fascinated me since my teenage years, when I first encountered his cinema—films like Rashomon, Ikiru, Seven Samurai, and Throne of Blood. They didn’t feel like “old” movies; they felt timeless, almost mythic. But this autobiography offers something different: a journey into the making of the man behind those images. The title itself, Something Like an Autobiography, signals his hesitancy.
This isn’t a complete life story—it stops before Rashomon wins at Venice and changes his life forever—but it’s a deeply considered act of self-portraiture. It is Kurosawa at work with words instead of a camera, framing scenes from his life with the same editorial precision he applied in the editing room.
The book begins in 1910 with Kurosawa’s birth in Tokyo, into a family with samurai ancestry. From the outset, his sense of self is shaped by contrasts—tradition and modernity, discipline and creativity, and the rigid codes of his father’s military background and the freer, more artistic sensibilities of his elder siblings.
His older brother Heigo, in particular, looms large: a benshi, or narrator for silent films, whose influence on Kurosawa’s appreciation of cinema was profound. Heigo’s eventual suicide—after the decline of silent films—marks one of the most searing personal tragedies in Kurosawa’s life, and he writes about it with a mix of restraint and quiet devastation.
You can feel in his telling the sense of impermanence that pervades so much of his later work.
Kurosawa’s early life in Tokyo is not simply nostalgic recollection; it’s a map of formative experiences.
He recalls the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake, which levelled Tokyo and killed over 100,000 people, as an almost apocalyptic vision. His brother insisted that he look closely at the devastation, to face it instead of turning away.
That episode feels emblematic of Kurosawa’s approach to art—never flinch from reality, no matter how unbearable. You see the seeds here of Ikiru’s confrontation with mortality and Ran’s merciless vision of human folly.
One of the strengths of Something Like an Autobiography is its refusal to over-mythologise. Kurosawa is neither falsely humble nor self-aggrandising. He narrates his journey into filmmaking almost matter-of-factly: the failed attempts at painting (a pursuit he adored), the detour into assistant directing at PCL (later Toho), the years of apprenticeship under Kajirō Yamamoto. In an era when auteur myths often imagine directors springing forth fully formed, Kurosawa shows us the grind—the long hours, the humiliations, and the absurdities of studio politics. He treats filmmaking as a craft learnt through apprenticeship, observation, and relentless trial and error.
There’s a striking discipline in his recollections. He writes about the strict rules Yamamoto enforced, the precision required on set, and the humility of carrying out menial tasks just to learn how everything worked.
But he also captures moments of wit and absurdity, like learning how to drink sake with the crew or managing the quirks of difficult actors. He writes about these things not as gossip, but as part of a larger tapestry: how the smallest human details shape the work that ends up on screen.
The narrative voice is lean but rich in implication. Kurosawa rarely spells out his philosophical conclusions, yet they are there in the way he frames an anecdote.
His stories about childhood games, about his siblings, about cycling through the city as a young man—they are all told with the pacing of a filmmaker who knows exactly what to cut and what to leave in. And like his films, the book is full of silence between the lines. You have to listen to what he’s not saying.
One of the most moving through-lines is his relationship to painting. Before cinema, painting was his passion, and he writes about it with almost more tenderness than he gives filmmaking. This makes sense: Kurosawa’s films are visually composed with a painter’s eye. He talks about how the discipline of drawing—observing light, line, and shadow—sharpened his storytelling instincts.
In some ways, Something Like an Autobiography reads as much like the memoir of a visual artist as it does a filmmaker’s autobiography.
The later sections, as he begins directing, capture the shift from apprenticeship to authorship. His first film, Sanshiro Sugata (1943), came at a time when Japan was deep in wartime censorship, and Kurosawa navigates these constraints with a mix of strategic compliance and quiet resistance.
He recalls the pushback he faced, the cuts demanded, and the compromises he made—not with bitterness, but with a pragmatic awareness of the historical moment. This is perhaps one of the book’s understated lessons: art is never made in a vacuum, and a director’s job is as much about negotiating with reality as it is about pure creative expression.
There’s an implicit political undertone throughout the memoir, even though Kurosawa never positions himself as a political writer. His war-era experiences, his observations of post-quake Tokyo, and his encounters with the studio system—these are all filtered through a mind that distrusts both blind tradition and uncritical modernity.
This balance, or tension, is what makes Kurosawa’s work so enduring: he is steeped in Japanese culture yet unafraid to integrate Western forms, Shakespearean tragedy, or Dostoevskian psychology.
What’s striking, too, is his generosity toward collaborators. The book overflows with respect for his crew—cinematographers, set designers, actors, and editors. He names them, remembers them, and honours their work.
You realise how much of the “Kurosawa style” was built in collaboration with others, something his later reputation as a towering auteur can obscure. His humility in these passages feels genuine, and it gives a different kind of weight to his authority.
Reading this during the COVID-19 pandemic gave the book a resonance I didn’t expect. In 2021, the sense of confinement, uncertainty, and slow time felt oddly similar to Kurosawa’s depictions of long apprenticeships, wartime disruptions, and personal losses.
There’s also his constant attention to discipline—not in a joyless way, but as a lifeline. In a period when days blurred together, Kurosawa’s commitment to craft, to daily work, to careful observation of the world, felt like a kind of survival manual.
Another dimension that struck me was how his personal tragedies—most notably Heigo’s death—did not crush him into cynicism but sharpened his understanding of human fragility. He doesn’t sentimentalise these events, yet you feel their aftershocks in the way he frames life’s impermanence.
In a pandemic year, when loss and uncertainty were daily realities, that emotional clarity hit hard.
By the time the autobiography ends—just before his international breakthrough—you feel an almost cinematic cliffhanger. The book closes with the sense that Kurosawa is on the cusp of something, yet he chooses not to tell the triumphant part. It’s a narrative choice that mirrors his philosophy: life is not a neat arc toward victory, but an ongoing process of work, failure, discipline, and sudden flashes of beauty.
In terms of style, the book is deceptively simple. Kurosawa doesn’t write in dense theoretical prose or indulge in long-winded self-analysis. Instead, he uses the same clarity and economy you find in his film editing. He knows the weight of a pause, the power of an image. The prose is clean, unadorned, and all the more moving for it.
The significance of Something Like an Autobiography lies not just in the insight it gives into Kurosawa’s life, but in how it reflects his artistic worldview. His emphasis on craft over genius, his respect for collaborative work, and his willingness to face harsh realities without flinching—all of these are lessons that go beyond filmmaking. And they’re delivered not as sermons, but as lived experience.
For a lifelong admirer of Kurosawa, reading this memoir was like stepping into the quiet spaces between his films.
You begin to see where his recurring themes come from—the moral courage of the individual, the corrupting pull of power, the fragility of beauty, and the relentlessness of time. You see how the boy who was told to look at the ruins of the earthquake becomes the director who refuses to look away from suffering, yet always finds a way to frame it with dignity.
Even now, years after reading it, I return to passages in Something Like an Autobiography in the same way I rewatch his films: to be reminded that precision and humanity are not opposites, that discipline can coexist with empathy, and that an artist’s life is built less on moments of inspiration than on years of steady, unglamorous work.
Kurosawa’s memoir is, like his cinema, a masterclass in how to see—how to look closely, unflinchingly, and without haste.
It may be “something like” an autobiography, but it is entirely like Kurosawa: rigorous, deeply humane, and unforgettable.