The Ceremony (1971)

The Ceremony feels like a whole nation’s history compressed into the charged space between family members, and that’s what makes it so special: Oshima turns ritual into cinema, using weddings, funerals, and formal gatherings as pressure points where love, duty, and denial collide. It’s an ambitious, brilliantly controlled drama that moves with the sweep of an epic but lands its blows in intimate, unforgettable moments, carried by compelling performances that make the Sakurada clan feel disturbingly real. The vibe is elegant and ominous—melodrama edged with a metaphysical chill—so even quiet scenes hum with dread and meaning. It won’t be for viewers who want easy catharsis or straightforward storytelling, but if you’re open to a haunting masterpiece that interrogates family and militarism with surgical precision, it’s hard to shake.

The Ceremony is clearly aiming for something big: a sweeping, ritual-soaked portrait of Japan’s militaristic rise and collapse, told through one clan’s ceremonies and the heir who can’t quite belong to it. But Oshima makes you work for it—relationships are dense, the structure can feel deliberately disorienting, and the pacing is long, talky, and more cerebral than emotionally inviting. There are moments that flirt with shock and exploitation, which can come off as provocative rather than illuminating if you’re not already on the film’s wavelength. If you want a clear narrative, likable characters, or quick momentum, this will likely feel cold and confusing; if you’re patient with challenging, symbolic cinema, the ambition and atmosphere may still reward you.