[Movie] RASHOMON (1950) | The Effect of Truth | (EN-ES) | REVIEW 🎬 + ANALYSIS
Published on HivePostify by @neotopher · Sat Aug 29 2026
You’ve probably heard a story with different versions—perhaps in the local or international news, or maybe a friend told you an anecdote—but the question here is: how can you be sure that what you’re being told is true?
That is the question Akira Kurosawa asked himself when making this film. Many people do not realize that truth is subjective and interpretive. That means what one person tells you is their version of the truth, not the objective truth of what happened.
With that in mind, before delving into the territory of the film, I should say that I watched it on the recommendation of some friends. I used to belong to a film club where we discussed old and modern movies, and one of those films was Rashomon from 1950.
I’m very grateful to the friends who recommended this film to me, since I doubt I would have discovered it on my own. Social pressure can work wonders, haha.
Speaking seriously now... Black-and-white films were a revolutionary phenomenon in their time. Nowadays, many people prefer color films and do not even give classics a chance. I admit I was one of those people, but now I know the truth. I recommend giving these classics a chance, because even today they remain works of art with intrinsic value. They laid the foundations for everything that has been built in the modern film industry.
I’ll begin by saying that Akira Kurosawa’s mastery as a director redefined the language of cinema worldwide, establishing a standard of visual storytelling that continues to amaze us to this day. He is one of those directors I studied in my degree program alongside geniuses such as Stanley Kubrick and Alfred Hitchcock.
Akira Kurosawa revolutionized cinematography by daring to point the camera directly at the sun. He filtered the light through the foliage of the trees to create a dazzling atmosphere, despite the fact that films were still shot in black and white at the time. His use of weather elements, such as the torrential rain at the ruins of a burned temple, was achieved by mixing black ink into the water so that it would stand out on film. It was an ingenious practical effect for its time.
Every filmmaker develops a style in framing and camera movement. In Rashomon, from the psychologically tense close-ups to the wide shots of the dense forest, these techniques provide the viewer with an objective perspective on the events—as if we were omniscient witnesses, and yet somehow not.
The settings we see and hear about are an exact reflection of the characters’ disorientation as they recall the events in search of a clear truth.
The narrative premise may sound deceptively simple, but its execution is worthy of the mystery genre. It is a puzzle: In twelfth-century Japan, a samurai is murdered and his wife is assaulted deep in a forest. The story leading up to that incident is not told through flashbacks, but through testimonies given during a trial, which are later recounted by a woodcutter and a priest to a commoner while they take shelter from a storm in a ruined temple.
It may sound a little confusing: it is a story within a story. It is as if a friend told you about a film they had recently seen, and you imagined everything they had watched on the big screen.
Akira Kurosawa’s film revolves around the staging of the events as narrated through each character’s interpretation.
The main plot centers on four completely different and contradictory versions of the same crime: that of the accused bandit, the grieving wife, the samurai’s spirit—manifested through a medium—and, finally, the woodcutter, who claims to have been a witness.
Each account is designed to exonerate or victimize its narrator, leaving the truth of what happened in question.
The doubts create uncertainty and confusion, leaving the viewer without an apparent objective resolution. (Or so they say.)
Don’t worry, I have a no-spoiler policy in my reviews. However, you should know that everyone is free to use their own mind and construct whichever speculation they find most satisfying for solving this mystery.
At the same time, I should say that this is not a film meant to overload your mind with theories and suspicions, since it was created as a story with no definitive resolution. So enjoy its message and don’t overthink it.
The cast bringing these characters to life is small, but the Japanese style is theatrical in its body language and intense acting. It is not something I am very accustomed to, but I appreciate it as something different and highly characteristic of Kurosawa’s style.
The one who truly impressed me was Toshirō Mifune as the bandit Tajōmaru. He has the charisma of his era, I suppose. He reminds me of a drifter who does whatever he wants. He is the story’s antagonist, and he attracts attention because no one has any reason to trust a thief. Yet despite his arrogance, he possesses a thief’s code of honor that makes him endearing.
Machiko Kyō, playing the nameless widow, is first presented as the classic vulnerable and terrified woman—the typical victim of a crime—but that is only one version of the story. In the version told by the bandit, she is portrayed as a manipulative and treacherous woman. She plays a role that casts doubt on the truthfulness of the account, adapting to whoever is telling the story.
Masayuki Mori played the weakest character and, at the same time, the most important one: the tragic samurai who collapses under the weight of wounded pride and existential shame. His mysterious death drives the story, although his performance does not become particularly deep across the different perspectives—not even when the medium gives him a voice during the trial.
Takashi Shimura played the woodcutter, portraying the most humble man in the film. But one thing the movie teaches you is to distrust all of its characters. Although he displays an underlying sense of guilt, he also symbolizes humanity’s heavy moral burden when confronted with its own hypocrisy.
Rashomon transcends the conventional mystery genre that many viewers are accustomed to and becomes an analysis of human psychology. It seriously questions the truthfulness of a particular event through two simple questions: Can we be one hundred percent honest? And can we trust our interpretation of events?
The central message of this film may be the only consistent truth in this world: Objective truth is unattainable because human beings are inherently incapable of escaping their own nature. The survival instinct, fear, and pride act as filters for our self-image, inevitably distorting our perception of reality.
Given these socially imposed barriers, what we see in Rashomon is not so far-fetched. As a director, Akira Kurosawa suggests that people lie—even to themselves—to avoid facing reality, their deepest fears, and their own weaknesses and failures, which expose the true fragility of the ego.
In a world like ours, there will always be more reasons to lie than to tell the truth. Unfortunately, that is simply how things are in a world where the truthfulness of events depends largely on physical evidence, influential witnesses, and the seriousness of the matter at hand.
In modern society, you no longer need to be guilty to be considered a criminal. It is enough to be labeled as one and to have your credibility destroyed for people to treat you as if you were guilty.
No one can distinguish lies from truth without having witnessed what actually happened. It is like when a friend tells you an incredible story—so incredible that you have trouble accepting it as something based on real events.
Uncertainty lingers in the air. Truth becomes so abstract and personal that trying to make it objective loses all meaning. As a result, we settle for whatever seems most coherent and plausible to us according to our logical understanding.
But not everything can be explained through logic. It is no longer a matter of who is right, but which explanation is most convincing and convenient for the majority of people. Yet despite our lies, selfless compassion remains possible in a world where people no longer believe what they are told.
The philosophical premise of Rashomon is now the harsh reality of the present day. The “truth” is rarely accepted as such when it is difficult to believe without evidence or witnesses to validate it. Something constructed from multiple perspectives tends to become the most conventional version of the truth.
The film is disturbingly accurate in demonstrating that memory is unreliable and that swearing to tell the truth does not necessarily constitute genuine honesty.
We experience events and interpret them according to our knowledge. We live through our own interpretations of those events and turn them into the truth.
This is known as the “Rashomon effect”: we cling to the version of the story that benefits us most or best justifies our biases.
We must accept that our perception is always tainted by our own unfounded ideas. However, this should not be viewed as an entirely nihilistic reality, but merely as one aspect of being human.
We must understand that we will never come close to knowing the whole truth. Rather, I believe another absolute truth is that we will never know the absolute truth about many things, such as the origin of life or the meaning of life.
Reality is filled with mysteries that exceed our understanding. The other person’s truth will always be very different from your version of the truth.
In the face of doubt, we must first have the courage to question our own interpretation and then try to understand others. Perhaps only then can we arrive at the most accurate idea of the truth.
I recommend watching this classic film and telling me about your experience in the comments. Thank you very much for reading.
Original version in Spanish
Seguramente has escuchado una historia con diferentes versiones, tal vez en las noticias locales o internacionales, tal vez un amigo te contó una anécdota, pero la pregunta aquà es: ¿cómo estás seguro de que lo que se te dice es la verdad?
Esa es la pregunta que se hizo Akira Kurosawa para hacer esta pelĂcula. Pues muchos no saben que la verdad es subjetiva e interpretativa, eso significa que lo que te puede decir una persona es su versiĂłn de la verdad, más no la verdad objetiva de los hechos.
Con eso en mente, antes de adentrarnos en el territorio de la pelĂcula, he de decir que me la vi por recomendaciĂłn de unos amigos, yo antes pertenecĂa a un club de cine en el que discutiremos sobre algunas pelĂculas antiguas y modernas, una de esas pelĂculas fue "Rashomon" de 1950.
Le agradezco mucho a los amigos que me recomendaron esta pelĂcula, ya que dudo mucho haberla conocido por mis propios medios. La presiĂłn social puede hacer maravillas jaja.
Ya hablando en serio... Las pelĂculas en blanco y negro fueron un fenĂłmeno revolucionario en su tiempo, hoy en dĂa muchas personas prefieren las pelĂculas a color y ni siquiera les dan una oportunidad a los clásicos, lo admito, yo fui una de esas personas, pero ahora sĂ© la verdad. Les recomiendo darle una oportunidad a esos clásicos ya que hasta el dĂa de hoy son piezas de arte con valor intrĂnseco, fueron las bases de todo lo que se ha construido en la industria del cine moderno.
ComenzarĂ© diciendo que la maestrĂa de Akira Kurosawa como director redefiniĂł el lenguaje cinematográfico a nivel mundial, estableciendo un estándar de narrativa visual que sigue asombrando hasta el dĂa de hoy. Es uno de esos directores que estudiĂł en mi carrera junto a genios como Stanley Kubrick y Alfred Hitchcock.
Akira Kurosawa revolucionĂł la fotografĂa cinematográfica al atreverse a apuntar la cámara directamente hacia el sol, Ă©l filtro la luz a travĂ©s del follaje de los árboles para crear una atmĂłsfera deslumbrante a pesar de que en ese entonces se grababa en blanco y negro. Su uso de los elementos climáticos como la lluvia torrencial en las ruinas de un templo quemado, se logrĂł mezclando tinta negra en el agua para que resaltara en la pelĂcula. Fue un efecto práctico ingenioso de la Ă©poca.
Cada director de cine perfecciona un estilo en los encuadres y los movimientos de cámara, en "Rashomon", desde los primeros planos psicológicamente tensos hasta planos generales del espeso bosque, le proporcionan al espectador una perspectiva objetiva de los hechos como si fuéramos un testigo omnisciente y a la vez no.
Los escenarios vistos y narrados son un reflejo exacto de la desorientaciĂłn de los personajes al rememorar los hechos en busca de una verdad clara.
La premisa narrativa puede sonar engañosamente simple, pero su ejecución es digno del género de misterio, es un rompecabezas: En el Japón del siglo 12, un samurái es asesinado y su esposa es agredida en la profundidad de un bosque. La historia previa a ese incidente no se cuenta a través de flashbacks, sino a través de los testimonios ofrecidos durante un juicio, los cuales son posteriormente relatados por un leñador y un sacerdote a un plebeyo mientras se refugian de la tormenta en un templo en ruinas.
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