It's difficult to explain to non-film geeks what an exhilarating convergence the new Zatôichi film represents. But I'll give it a shot.

On one hand, you have the series itself—26 films and over 100 TV episodes starring Shintaro Katsu as the titular wandering masseur, whose blindness belies his legendary skill with the sword hidden in his cane. An affable bumbler just trying to stay out of trouble, Zatôichi invariably ran up against gangsters and corrupt bureaucrats preying on the impoverished inhabitants of Edo-era Japan. The results were always the same: an impressive and bloody showdown, after which the man would shuffle off, weary and dejected, into the sunset. The films are regarded as some of the finest of the samurai genre, often spoken of in the same breath as Kurosawa's early works.

On the other hand, you have Japan's most renowned living filmmaker, "Beat" Takeshi Kitano, whose lyrical and violent films did for the yakuza what John Woo's did for hitmen. If you've seen any of his finer works, you've witnessed a director with a breathtaking sense of conviction. His uniquely Japanese take on rhythm, understatement and framing create bold filmic canvasses of punishing starkness. (Hana-bi and Sonatine are considered his best, if anyone's interested.)

So when it was announced that Kitano would be directing and starring in a new Zatôichi movie, it was a Japanophile filmmaker's dream come true. Except that no one would have ever dreamt of such an unlikely pairing.

Sadly, you North Americans are going to have to wait until summer 2004 to see this sucker, assuming you live near an arthouse. I, on the other hand, get to see it now. And what's the use of having a blog if I can't play amateur movie-reviewer every now and again?

So, to kick off: yes, it's great, and it's remarkably true to both the spirit of the original films and the uncompromising technique of its director. Zatôichi, minding his own business as always, stumbles into an escalating gang war after he befriends a down-on-his-luck gambler and two mysterious geishas hellbent on tracking down the bandits who killed their family. Kitano weaves their stories together in an ambitious tapestry of flashbacks, culminating with a beautiful sequence in which one of the geishas mournfully watches her brother perform the same fan-dance she learned as a child.

One of the things that sets Japanese action films apart from the rest of the world's is their emphasis on what I can only describe as "decisiveness." In a face-off between two samurai, the fight is essentially over before it begins. The victor is decided in a single flash of the blade—often less than a second of screen time. The lion's share of the duel consists of the wordless preamble, in which the opponents size each other up, determining their crucial opening (and only) move. There's an incredible sequence in Zatôichi in which the ronin Gennosuke rehearses, in his mind, the single stroke he'll need to defeat the blind swordsman. The Japanese appreciation of the role of contemplation in even the most violent of confrontations represents, to me, a welcome relief from the increasingly music-video-like action movies Hollywood's been churning out.

Far from being an endless montage of pregnant pauses, however, the film is positively musical in rhythm. A recurring image of farm laborers clattering their tools in 4/4 time underscores the proceedings with a driving beat that meshes seamlessly with Keiichi Suzuki's subtle electronic score. And the infamous tap-dance number that closes the film, comically anachronistic though it may be, imbues Kitano's Zatôichi with an exuberant finale no samurai film has yet been able to enjoy.

Also, ninjas.

There's a non-subtitled preview available (check out the shot in which Zatôichi slices through a stone lantern!). Hopefully that'll tide you over until June, though if you get really desperate, there's always that silly Tom Cruise movie.