Ken Takakura: A Modern "Shi"
Written by ZHANG Yimou (张艺谋)
【Editor’s Note： In his tribute to Ken Takakura, Zhang Yimou highlights the actor's embodiment of the "shi" (士) spirit—a classical virtue marked by humility, honor, and selflessness. Takakura's deep respect for others was evident when he refused to leave the set early, standing silently for hours while the crew worked despite being offered rest. His discreet gestures of respect, such as bowing from afar without seeking attention, extended to both colleagues like Zhang and disciples like Nakai Kiichi (中井贵一). Takakura's generosity shone when he gifted a valuable watch to a laborer who held an umbrella for him, reflecting his profound gratitude. He also demonstrated unwavering filial piety by placing his mother's photograph adorned with fresh flowers in every room he stayed in, a ritual he maintained even in Antarctica. Despite facing criticism in Japan for his support of Chinese cinema, Takakura's actions consistently reflected his genuine love for China and the timeless values of the "shi" spirit.】
01
In the hearts of the Japanese, Ken Takakura（高仓健）is revered as a god, lofty and distant, residing high in the clouds. Yet, what I saw in him was the spirit of a “shi” (士)—a kind of classic virtue that gives you goosebumps and makes you take a sharp breath. It’s a sensation that is truly authentic, not a façade.
I’ve been directing films for over twenty years—neither a short nor a long time. With other actors, when you tell them they can finish up early and go rest, they usually leave happily. Once, while filming in Yunnan, I told Ken Takakura he could leave around 6 p.m.. Still, by the time we wrapped up around 9 p.m., in complete darkness, the assistant director came rushing to me, saying: “Director, Ken Takakura hasn’t left!”
Why didn’t he go? Was there a problem?
He explained, "The director and the whole crew are still working; he couldn’t bring himself to leave." I invited him over to sit and rest with us, where there was water and chairs, but he declined, saying he didn’t want to disturb anyone. He stood silently at a bend in the mountains, quietly watching us work.
When the team boarded the car to leave, the elderly man bowed to us from afar. He didn’t come over; after bowing, he left. He was over seventy years old and had stood for three hours.
After a full day's work, offering an actor the chance to leave early is no big deal. Most actors around the world would consider it entirely natural. But Ken Takakura felt otherwise—because the director was still working, the crew was still working, and thus, he couldn’t leave.
02
Incidents like this were numerous and never staged. His heart is naturally that of a “shi” (士).
There was also Nakai Kiichi (中井贵一), a disciple of Ken Takakura. Whenever Ken was in Tokyo or about to travel, regardless of the time or flight, Nakai would always bow deeply from a distance at the airport without approaching so as not to disturb him.
Ken Takakura treated me the same way. Whenever I visited Japan and was about to catch a flight, he would stand in the underground parking lot, watching my car leave and bowing from afar. It startled me. When had the old man arrived? He had been waiting for over an hour, trying to avoid being recognized, standing behind a group of cars to quietly send me off.
During the filming of Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles (《千里走单骑》), I asked a migrant worker named Xiao Xu to hold an umbrella for Ken Takakura. Ken refused, but I insisted, explaining it wasn’t for his comfort but to protect him from the sun’s UV rays, which wouldn’t match the scene's tone. After Xiao Xu held the umbrella for three days, Ken took off his watch and gave it to him. The watch was worth tens of thousands of yuan, but the value was secondary. Ken didn’t know how else to express his gratitude to a laborer who had held an umbrella for him. He said, “You’ve worked hard.” Xiao Xu still treasures the watch to this day, reluctant to wear it.
The concepts of “a drop of water given shall be returned with a spring” and “a warrior dies for the one who knows him,” sentiments often described in the literature about the ethos of the "shi" (士), were all embodied in Ken Takakura.
03
Before the opening of the Olympics, he sent me a knife. I was told the knife was as expensive as a house in Beijing, a treasure forged over a year by one of Japan's national treasure craftsmen. Ken Takakura quietly bought a plane ticket without telling me, arrived in Beijing, and brought the knife to our Olympic preparation center.
After he returned to Tokyo, during a heavy snowfall, he drove for several hours to a temple in the suburbs to pray for me. His translator later told me that the temple was closed off that day and was reserved only for a ceremony for me. The head monk, along with other monks, chanted sutras in a grand hall adorned with thousands of bells. As the wind blew, the bells jingled, and the entire atmosphere was solemn. The prayer lasted an hour and a half, and Ken Takakura drove seven or eight hours back and forth for it.
Ken didn’t want me to know about this; it was the translator who secretly told me. There were many things he didn’t want me to be aware of, because he wasn’t doing it for show. The monk was an old friend of his, and he said the temple was the most spiritually powerful. After the prayer, Ken gave me a small plaque, which I still keep. The Japanese inscription reads: “Wishing Director Zhang Yimou (张艺谋) success in the Olympic opening ceremony.”
There are so many details about him. I had never met him before, and I only admired him as a fan, but after we met, we grew fond of each other, and this was how we treated one another. Through this, I also realized film can serve as a bridge, connecting hearts.
04
Once, the two of us were sitting in a bar in a large hotel lobby. The lobby was a hundred meters away, but the bar was almost empty. I could see outside, but Ken couldn’t. For over an hour, people came and went through the lobby. Some Japanese people recognized him from afar, and as they approached the bar, they bowed deeply from forty or fifty meters away before quietly leaving, not disturbing us.
There was a director who made a documentary about Ken Takakura. One Sunday, while holding his child, he answered the phone and heard, "This is Ken Takakura." He was so shocked he nearly dropped his baby. After hanging up, he was in tears, telling me the following day that Ken Takakura had personally called him.
From such details, one can see that Ken Takakura is a representative of the Japanese national spirit, a national treasure of Japan. Because of his close relationship with me, or perhaps because of his support for China, he often faced criticism from the Japanese media.
Some in Japan said he was overly supportive of Chinese cinema. When I attended the Tokyo Film Festival, he, who hadn’t walked a red carpet in sixty years—who never did so—accompanied me on the red carpet. The Japanese media criticized him for it, saying he refused to walk on his own country’s red carpets but walked on China’s. He didn’t care. Deep down, Ken Takakura genuinely loved China.
When discussing scripts with others, especially for period films, we often talk about the values of characters. I frequently bring up small examples of Ken Takakura, saying this is the spirit of the "shi" (士). Quietly sacrificing for you, quietly enduring without letting you know—that’s what it means to be a “shi.”
We often use examples of Ken’s actions to explain character movements: wherever he went, the first thing he did was place a photograph of his mother in the most prominent spot in the room, with a bouquet of fresh flowers.
Whenever we hosted him, his only request was always the same: “Can you bring me a bouquet of fresh flowers every day?” Initially, we didn’t know what for, but later, we realized it was to place in front of his mother’s photo. Once, I entered his room and saw the picture—a family snapshot, not a formal portrait. It was of him, his mother, his brother, his sister, and his little sister, by the river, with him as a child, naked. The scene was warm and endearing.
Wherever he went, he first made an offering to this photograph. It wasn’t for show. Even when filming in Antarctica, he did this. Such filial piety is legendary. Who among us today could accomplish such a thing for decades? It’s profoundly moving.
This is a spirit. It is also a habit, one that becomes second nature. This is a spirit, a virtue that arises naturally. It doesn’t need embellishment; it doesn’t trouble others. It is quiet, serious, and shared. This is a spirit and a form of civilization, permeated with a certain brightness and attitude toward life. We are drawn to it from afar, even in unfamiliar places. It is an endless value system that deserves deep contemplation and emulation.
