The film and its author’s relationship to Kurosawa’s classic
He allowed his own work to be adapted for cinema, with projects like The Remains of the Day (1993). That work earned the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2017 and is widely regarded as a crown jewel of contemporary British writing. Never Leave Me (2010) marked a limited film debut grounded in the original screenplays of The Saddest Music in the World (2010) and The Russian Countess (2011). Now he presents Living, a fresh reading of a Kurosawa masterpiece. This is not merely a retelling but a new interpretation that speaks to a modern moment and its anxieties.
What motivated the choice to reimagine a film widely considered a landmark?
The aim was not to fix or heal a wound. The storyteller felt the narrative could resonate with elements of British values that some felt faded after the Second World War. Growing up in England during the early 1960s, he recalls a world where many friends and family members mirrored the film’s hero in tone and routine. Daily train commutes, suits and bowler hats, umbrellas even when rain was light, and the habit of reading The Times or The Telegraph were common signs of a shared culture. It is acknowledged that England has transformed, yet the longing for that era remains a potent source of inspiration.
Why does that sense of nostalgia persist?
Because even amid scarcity, hardship, and fragile infrastructure, a generation of British men and women managed to sustain a welfare state that felt imperfect but worth defending. This memory embodies a paradox: rough edges, yet a stubborn hope that a collective effort could yield something humane and functional in a time of strain.
How does the author relate his own ties to Kurosawa’s film?
As a teenager, the film spoke across distance. In the English suburbs, it connected with peers who were drawn to its existential message, even if the protagonist was an elderly Japanese man. Kurosawa’s mood suggested a quiet creed: one does not need grand triumphs to find meaning. It advised knowing one’s limits, accepting a modest path, and doing the best with the cards one holds. The idea of being remembered mattered little; what mattered was the pursuit and the honesty of that pursuit. The author never imagined that one day he would converse with the press, or win the Nobel Prize in Literature, yet that early resonance remained a guiding light, informing how he approached storytelling and life alike.
Is the message of the work inherently timeless?
Indeed, it is a message that travels beyond a single moment. Both Vivir and Living tap into a universal feeling: many people work long hours in roles that feel distant from any larger purpose. The fragmenting pressure of modern capitalism makes it harder to see one’s contribution to the common good. The question of what makes a life meaningful becomes a shared concern, echoing through generations and across cultures.
In conversations about the author’s stature as a master of dramatic constraint, Living is often cited as a striking example. Does that description fit?
There is one crucial addition to Kurosawa’s original vision. The film moves with a pace and texture that feel more like an action picture at times, driven by camera choices and dynamic movement. It seems to fit well within a postwar English sensibility, where the idea of the English gentleman carries a quiet authority and restraint. The belief that a person carries hidden depth, fears, and unspoken feelings remains a powerful throughline, one that resonates with audiences who sense that inner life under the surface of everyday composure.
Today, society often celebrates the need to broadcast one’s life in real time. How does the author view this trend?
There is genuine fascination with new technologies and social networks, but there is also concern over control and privacy. Access to every new development comes at a cost: autonomy is eroding as connectivity expands. The price is the loss of personal privacy, and the dependence on constant presence online can feel inescapable. The author believes robust laws are essential to reclaim freedom lost to data collection and surveillance. A deeper fear centers on the culture of hate that can be amplified and normalized by digital platforms.
When Salman Rushdie faced a violent attack while preparing for a talk, how did this event shape the author’s view?
That moment left a lasting impression of fear, anger, and reflection. The author recalls a time when solidarity around defending freedom of expression felt stronger. The question now is whether such collective action would be as likely in today’s climate. The concern is that freedom of expression could be challenged more easily, and artists might hesitate to voice controversial opinions. That realization underscores the fragile balance between openness and protection in contemporary culture.