Shōgun

This isn’t the first time James Clavell’s magnum opus has been adapted into another format. Originally released in 1975, the adventure epic has seen a miniseries, three video games, a tabletop game, and a stage musical spring from its imaginative source material. The first TV adaptation, starring Richard Chamberlain and Toshirō Mifune, was an admirably dense effort that, for the longest time, felt like the only version we’d ever get.

Thankfully, that fear proved fruitless. Reaching the end of its ten-episode run this week, Shōgun is not just the best adaptation of Clavell’s complex masterpiece, but one of the finest miniseries of all time.

Set during the tumultuous years of the founding of the first Shogunate of Japan, Shōgun tells the story of John Blackthorne (Cosmo Jarvis), an English navigator thrust upon the shores of the island nation by chance. There, he encounters Lord Yoshii Toranaga (Hiroyuki Sanada), one of the five regents ruling Japan trapped in a bitter civil war, who sees the potential in the chaos that an outside force like Blackthorne can instill. As the two men test their mettle, they form an unlikely, undefinable bond that could, at another time, be mistaken for friendship.

Between them is Toda Mariko (Anna Sawai), a Catholic convert and Toranaga’s fierce supporter, who initially serves as Blackthorne’s translator. But Mariko is no mere tool, and as Blackthorne quickly discovers, her destiny is far grander than anyone would expect.

The longer Blackthorne stays with Mariko and Toranaga, the more he begins to find himself. In a lesser series, this could easily turn into deeply unpleasant orientalist fare: the kind of Eat, Pray, Love nonsense where white people head East to discover their inner selves. Instead, Shōgun never falls for easy tropes or simplistic portrayals of culture. Blackthorne's love for Japan develops gradually, and even then it's tempered with confusion, bewilderment, and Western arrogance. No matter how long he stays in the country, he'll always remain an outsider to an extent. Even as he and Mariko grow close, though knowing they can never be together.

In one of the series' finest moments, Toranaga and Blackthorne converse in their broken way about their true nature. Who they are, and who they wish to be. Both know their relationship is transactional, yet they can't help but wish it wasn't. The unspoken current beneath their discussion is rich with tragedy, and Sanada and Jarvis deliver a heartbreaking elegy to men who can't put aside their pride long enough to realize how much better they could become as friends.

This is a great, classic story full of love, betrayal, heroism, and intrigue. Where other similar series stumble in their telling, Shōgun effortlessly weaves fact and fiction in a way that's enriching. We know where history takes us, yet that doesn't stop the show from being wildly captivating. The uniformly excellent cast shows how far television has come in a few short years. Everyone speaks their own language, cultural traditions are respected, and there's very little white savior nonsense on display.

There's already talk of a second season for Shōgun, and I hope it doesn't come to pass. Not because I don't want more of it. I'm just as greedy as any other viewer. But because Shōgun is perfect just the way it is. The story is over. It is a richer experience to have a definitive end.

But that's the power of great television. We fall in love with these characters. Even the ones that don't survive until the end. Given the chance, we'd spend endless hours hearing about their adventures. Even if it's not necessary. I think that's the greatest triumph of Shōgun. In a time where streaming has made television series disposable, Shōgun feels timeless.

It is a singularly captivating epic that will stand the test of time for another fifty years until it will be retold for future generations.