The finale of SHŌGUN – the book versus the series. Clavell doesn’t have to be rolling in his grave

It seems I finally found my footing in the series around the 6th episode, because as I wrote back in March, after the first two episodes, I felt completely disoriented about where the series was heading and, above all, how it was getting there. In adaptations, however, the ending is important, not just the preceding chapters. A successful adaptation preserves the spirit of the original material. Episodes 9 and 10 of Shōgun skillfully wrapped up James Clavell’s book, compensating somewhat for the visual, narrative, and acting shortcomings I felt earlier.

I remember that around the 3rd episode of Shōgun, I found myself bewildered when, in the scene on Toranagi’s gallery where Blackthorne jumps into the water, the green screen quality resembled the cheapest B-movies. Fortunately, such mishaps did not repeat later, and the plot progressed towards the finale, more effectively realizing Clavell’s novelistic intentions. One thing I am sure of is that sometimes, in adaptations of more complex texts, reaching a finale that accurately captures the essence of the entire story requires numerous changes in the sequence of events, and even the omission of some elements. This is exactly what happened in Shōgun.

In adaptations, this is a normal thing, although it sometimes disappoints me in visual adaptations, and Shōgun is a series based on a novel, which makes it even more flexible. Therefore, the argument that “it’s not like in the book” completely falls away. It isn’t meant to be, by design, and yet, even when it isn’t, it is sometimes remarkably faithful, and other times quite the opposite. Moreover, in my initial critical text about the series, I never lifted this issue. Creators always have the right to reinterpretation, and viewers have the right to assess whether it was better or worse than the original, but it is unwise to question the general right to make changes. There are indeed numerous changes. Regardless of their particular evaluation, it can be said that they were made to maintain or increase the drama of the events depicted in the series.

For example, after Jabu’s betrayal in Osaka, the ninja attack on the fortress of the “Brown Men” (Toranaga’s loyalists), and Mariko’s death, Blackthorne learns about the destruction of Erasmus from Ferriery, the captain of the Black Ship, which is also confirmed by Rodrigues. In the series, this is presented with much greater suspense. Upon returning to Ajiro, Blackthorne sees the wreck of his ship in the bay. This is a surprise for him, and for the viewer as well. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been if he had returned already thinking that the ship was gone. Similarly, the viewer would have been aware if, for example, they didn’t know the book or the previous version of the series. Furthermore, the book clearly states that the wreck of Erasmus was dragged ashore by “Japanese shitheads,” as Johann Vick, who accompanied Blackthorne in Osaka, referred to them—this sailor is also absent from the series. The finale belongs to the Japanese. In the series, Erasmus’ burning wreck is dragged ashore by Blackthorne with the villagers, and even Buntaro himself, who changes his attitude towards Blackthorne after Mariko’s death. Or so it seems. The exposure of Yabu’s betrayal was also played out differently. In the series, he is immediately arrested and sentenced to death by seppuku by Toranaga. In the book, he is first welcomed with honors and even invited to a war council by Toranaga, who thanks him for his sacrifice. Only then does the accusation come, supported by solid evidence because Toranaga’s servants saw how Jabu introduced himself when he let the ninja in. Apparently, there was not enough time in the series for such a slow resolution of the problem. Jabu dies on the edge of a cliff, assisted by Toranaga himself. In the book, there were two seconds, a nephew and the heir to Omi, who cut Jabu’s head off in one stroke. And Hiro-matsu. Yes, he did not commit suicide at all, as he did in the 8th episode, in protest against Toranaga’s decision to surrender to Ishido in Osaka. However, I wouldn’t exchange this joyful scene from the book for anything in the world when Toranaga reveals his cunning plan to Hiro-matsu, for this serial scene where Toranaga actually sacrifices Hiro-matsu for victory and the realization of his only plan—to become Shōgun. This seppuku scene with Hiro-Matsu, assisted by his son Buntaro, has another important meaning. When Buntaro wants to follow in his father’s footsteps, Hiro-Matsu objects, saying, “You must live. You will learn what it’s like to be forced to live.” This subtle detail is a true Easter egg for attentive viewers and readers of Clavell, as Hiro-Matsu speaks about Mariko’s entire life in her unhappy marriage to Buntaro. Buntaro should finally understand the perspective of seeking the death of dishonor as perceived by Mariko because of her father’s actions.

Discover for yourselves the changes that occurred in Blackthorne’s seppuku protest against Toranaga’s decision to punish the village of Ajiro for burning Erasmus. This is somewhat related to the story’s finale and interestingly depicts what Yoshii T. was capable of doing to test his “friends,” or perhaps better described as the slaves of an honorable agreement?

According to one of the important principles of good adaptations, these examples demonstrate a thoughtful approach to the original text. Someone clearly read it, perhaps sometimes too superficially, especially at the beginning, but by the finale, the series gained depth, a Japanese, not European, depth. Blackthorne’s character, however, remained in the background until the end. The Barbarian did not shed his barbarism. He only slightly smoothed it, evident even in his consistently paralytic manner of moving. His knowledge of Japanese and sword fighting also remained stagnant, not to mention culture. The focus shifted to Toranaga and the Japanese-centric way of perceiving reality. This is not as pronounced in the book. Certainly, the Japanese perspective is presented extensively, but both Blackthorne and the Jesuits play a much larger role in the text than the latest version of the series portrayed, even compared to the 1980 version. This clearly slowed down the action, shifting it towards politics rather than adventure, which can be tiresome and actually bored me, especially between episodes 3 and 6. Cosmo Jarvis as Blackthorne has no chance of becoming a cult figure, and Toranaga is too hermetic for us, although in this adaptation, Hiroyuki Sanada excellently played his character, giving him a much more multidimensional personality than the great Toshiro Mifune did in the past. However, the series’ goals were different, developed by Clavell himself, so Mifune’s talent could not clearly present it to viewers. Let’s not forget the truly great performance by Tadanobu Asano (Kashigi Yabushige), who is perhaps the biggest winner of Shōgun. Yabu compensated for Blackthorne’s shortcomings, or rather the complete failure of the screen portrayal of this character, so I could only rate the series 6/10

, and I am surprised that the overall rating is so high, even with such a well-played finale that would not be ashamed of Game of Thrones. Perhaps it results from the lack of knowledge of the literary original and the previous version of the series, so viewers lack a broader field for interpretation and evaluation. As for the critics, I hope they did not attempt to judge the work without this necessary background knowledge because then it would be more like mocking film criticism. If so, I don’t understand these almost uncritical praises. Shōgun has its merits, but it also skillfully slips through many topics. Somehow, it would be possible to shoot two more episodes, or even a feature-length pilot of about 140 minutes, to introduce viewers to this Japanese world without such haste and omission of significant facts I wrote about in the Shōgun 2024 text. From a distance, porcelain; up close, just faience. An engaging finale cannot compensate for everything. It won’t fix the lack of ideas for the musical illustration of the production and the clichéd opening credits.

In the finale, we find, indeed, the slow building of Blackthorne’s new ship, similar to the 1980 series, but the story’s finale begins with Toranaga’s memorable release of the falcon and the words, “Thank you, Tetsu-ko. May you have many daughters.” I really wanted this tribute to Mariko, so emphasized on one of the last pages of the novel, to appear in the series as well. I feared that since the creators treated Blackthorne this way, they probably wouldn’t notice such a metaphorical detail as the falcon flying towards freedom from the hands of its brilliant yet cruel master. Yet, I was wrong. The motif appeared, linked as in Clavell, with a kind of final narration by Toranaga, reminiscing about Mariko, the woman who finally found the death she had sought for years. After all, Mariko actually became the Scarlet Sky and gave Toranaga the victory in the fight for the title of Shōgun. Therefore, her commemoration, together with Jabu’s seppuku, contributed to the series finale. And I can say that it’s better than Jerry London’s version. Perhaps more theatrical, calm, and although some details were changed (Jabu’s death, Toranaga’s son’s fate—Nagakado), they positively affected conveying the book’s powerful message. Blackthorne’s significance had to give way to Toranaga, but this is a consequence of the initial character portrayal, which I must somehow accept. It’s good, however, that Rachel Kondo and Justin Marks did not try to invent a new ending, and even better that they maintained restraint in depicting the visually described tragic fate of Ishido in the novel. It might have been spectacular, but also tacky in its obviousness. Kazunari’s face when he read Mrs. Ochiba’s letter, already standing on the battlefield and confident of victory, was enough.

Even a seemingly leafless branch can produce young and healthy leaves, sometimes at the cost of removing others that block the light from trees. Following this Japanese metaphor, I appreciate Shōgun for its mastery of narration and bringing this difficult-to-receive story to an exciting finale, which requires the reader to have considerable knowledge and linguistic skills to understand. Turning it into a film is an art, and although this Shōgun porcelain is not always genuine, it would be unjust to sell it off for a pittance as a craft exhibit.