A Samurai in Time Beautifully Defies Our Expectations of a Sci-Fi Comedy - Reactor

There are some hero’s journeys that end not in victory, conquest, or justice, but in a changed hero, a new person who has learned to adapt, endure, grow, and reflect. Such a story is inherently introspective, challenging the audience to explore an inner struggle rather than reveling in the just resolution of a righteous, external conflict.

The indie Japanese hit A Samurai in Time (2024) proves that this kind of inward journey can work even in a zany, high-concept premise, propped up by an endless stream of fish-out-of-water jokes. If you haven’t heard of the film, I promise you’ll be smiling by the end of this synopsis: On a stormy night in 19^th-century Japan, near the end of the Tokugawa shogunate, the devoted samurai Shinzaemon Kosaka (Makiya Yamaguchi) prepares for combat with a rival. As their battle of swords commences, a bolt of lightning strikes Shinzaemon. In a flash, he finds himself in an unfamiliar village, where some trouble is brewing: a gang of brigands has challenged a lone samurai in a fight to the death. When Shinzaemon draws his sword to join the melee, a movie director—wearing modern clothes—charges at him and angrily slaps the weapon away.

Our hero will soon come to understand that the freak lightning storm has transported him to the 21^st century. (Props to director Jun’ichi Yasuda for not wasting time with a ham-fisted explanation of how the time travel works.) And as if that weren’t confusing enough, Shinzaemon has landed on the set of a jidaigeki show—the beloved, ubiquitous style of Japanese period drama that typically features a noble warrior fighting for justice and slicing lots of bad guys with his sword. In many ways, jidaigeki is a samurai equivalent of a Western, with the dramatic beats of a soap opera.

After a shaky start, and with the help of some incredibly kind people, Shinzaemon finds a place in this world as a kirareyaku—that is, a nameless swordsman whose fate is to melodramatically die at the hands of the show’s protagonist. One of the tropes of jidaigeki is that the bad guys rarely fight the hero all at once, choosing instead to get their asses kicked one at a time. The fighting can be beautifully choreographed, or it can be clunky and slow, adding to the charm of a low-budget crowd pleaser.

Shinzaemon, under the tutelage of a patient stunt coordinator, throws himself into his new role with the same passion, commitment, and loyalty that drove his life as a real samurai. But just as he begins to make a name for himself, the past that he left behind catches up with him, forcing him to choose between his peaceful modern life or a return to his more violent line of work.

The film’s setup fits with the Kishōtenketsu structure that East Asian storytelling traditions have utilized since ancient times. Western storytelling typically focuses on a protagonist faced with conflict, whose decisions and agency drive the plot forward to a resolution over three acts. That framework could involve a knight on a quest, for example, or perhaps a heartbroken person trying to reconnect with a lost love. Kishōtenketsu, on the other hand, does not rely on conflict, focusing instead on a protagonist facing the arbitrary difficulties of the world and trying to adapt, or simply endure. Each syllable of Kishōtenketsu refers to a separate act, which fit A Samurai in Time. Act one (Ki) introduces Shinzaemon. Act two (shō) develops the story, in this case by transporting Shinzaemon to the present and following him as he tries to get by in his new surroundings. Act three (ten) is often described as a twist the story, but it can simply be an unexpected change that provides a new context for the characters. In the case of A Samurai in Time, the twist presents Shinzaemon with a chance to fulfill his destiny as a samurai. Finally, act four (ketsu) concludes the story, with Shinzaemon living with the consequences of his decisions, reflecting on the past, and adjusting to a new normal.

The action that follows the twist makes A Samurai in Time something truly special. Here, the fish-out-of-water jokes slow down, making room for a genuine drama, filled with heartbreak and regret. Shinzaemon blames himself for the collapse of the old ways. When the opportunity to enact justice comes along, he finds it impossible to resist. The payoff works because of the humor from earlier in the film. In one scene, Shinzaemon bursts into tears while tasting a dessert that, to his palate, is so sweet that he assumes it must be a delicacy for a nobleman. He cries even harder while watching a schmaltzy jidaigeki show, to the bewilderment of the people nearby. And so, when we witness his terrible loneliness and seething anger later in the film, culminating in a showdown with far more serious consequences, his grief carries real weight, which allows the film to transcend its sci-fi comedy premise in a refreshing and truly compelling way, becoming so much more in the process.

A Samurai in Time is inspiring for a number of other reasons, notably its shockingly low budget ($170,000!) that director Yasuda stretched into a lovely film. Not surprisingly, this movie has drawn comparisons to indie darling One Cut of the Dead (2017), which is also a love letter to the history of Japanese cinema. Both movies were nominated for Best Film by the Japan Academy, which A Samurai in Time won in 2025.

Thanks to new streaming options, A Samurai in Time is now finding the wider audience it deserves, and introducing more people to the versatile storytelling structure that has given us masterpieces like Parasite (2019) and Spirited Away (2001). Shinzaemon may not be on a familiar hero’s journey, but he rises to the occasion with resilience and creativity in the face of the unknown, the unknowable, the mundane, and the meaningless.