"Ronin (1998) – The Art of Tactical Chaos" - Directed by John Frankenheimer Reviewed by Bear J. Sleeman
"Ronin (1998) – The Art of Tactical Chaos" - Directed by John Frankenheimer Reviewed by Bear J. Sleeman
Let
me take you back to a time when a man’s honor was carried in his fists,
his wits, and—if necessary—a cold, hard piece of steel. The year was
1998 when Ronin first graced the big screen, and I was there, front and
center, drinking it in like a cowboy gulping whiskey after a long cattle
drive. Fast forward 26 years later—because we live in a world where
classic films age like a good bottle of Suntory whiskey—and here I find
myself back in that same thrilling chase, watching Ronin again at the
art house cinema near Bear Mountain.
Now, Ronin hits differently
when you’ve been marinating in the wilderness of Japan for 17 years.
Megumi, whose love for Ronin is about as fierce as my love for a Bear
Mountain Premium Malts Draft Beer. Why? Well, here’s the kicker—My wife,
Megumi, is as Japanese as they come, and this film lights a fire in her
spirit that she has watched more than 50 times. Her ancestors—famous
veterinarians—used to tend to the horses of the real ronin, the
masterless samurai of legend. These fierce warriors even camped on her
parents’ ranch, and let me tell you, having that history in your blood
gives you a certain understanding of why the film hits like a katana to
the gut.
Sitting in that theater, with Megumi at my side—who can
recite the film line for line—we were hit with a wave of nostalgia that
could knock out a sumo wrestler.
For the uninitiated, a "Ronin"
is a samurai without a master, a soldier of fortune, drifting through
life with the same kind of disillusioned energy you’d find in a 70s
action movie hero—because let's face it, the 70s were the Wild West of
filmmaking. It’s no wonder Frankenheimer tapped into the spirit of the
wandering warriors with this masterpiece. When you live where the 47
Ronin once walked and slept, you start to see how that historical
reverence bled into the modern-day cinematic adaptation.
In
Ronin, Frankenheimer drops us into a post-Cold War espionage thriller
with the same measured tension you'd expect from a slow-burn samurai
duel. Think Book of Five Rings meets high-octane car chases that make
Fast and Furious look like bumper cars at a kid’s birthday party. And
what do you know? The film’s structure mimics the Ronin lifestyle—men
bound by a code, yet masterless, hired to retrieve a McGuffin briefcase.
The plot’s simplicity belies the razor-sharp complexity underneath,
just like the finest Japanese steel.
Now, we’re talking Robert De
Niro, Jean Reno, and a crew of gritty professionals, each with the kind
of nerves you’d expect from real-life warriors. It’s a film where the
characters speak with their eyes as much as their words. You see it
right from the opening scenes—De Niro spilling his coffee just to test a
man’s reflexes. It’s the kind of tension that harks back to the films
of 1940s noir, only this time it's wrapped in a package so brutal, it
makes you want to light a cigarette in the rain and wait for your next
assignment.
Megumi, my resident expert on all things Japanese,
loves how Ronin translates the concept of honor into the modern world.
Her ancestors, those same doctors who treated the legendary samurai's
horses, would have recognized the same values in these cinematic
mercenaries: loyalty, skill, and a quiet understanding of death's
inevitability. It’s not just an action film; it’s a modern
interpretation of bushido, the way of the warrior.
And let's not
ignore the obvious. The car chases—dear God, the car chases—are what
happens when you take samurai speed and precision and apply it to four
wheels. Frankenheimer didn’t play around with CGI nonsense; this was
raw, visceral, and real. These weren't men zipping around in toy
cars—they were warriors behind the wheel, pushing the limits of control,
like a Ronin wielding his katana in battle.
The beauty of Ronin
is that, much like the legendary samurai themselves, it stands outside
of time. It hasn’t aged because it was never beholden to the cheap
tricks of its era. The dialogue is rich but never bloated, the action
sequences lean but lethal. It’s a movie made for men who understand that
a great story is like a perfectly crafted sword—sharp, elegant, and
deadly in the right hands.
“Ronin” is a film that doesn’t just
slap you in the face with testosterone—it drags you down into the grimy
underbelly of espionage, throws you into a battered BMW going 120 mph
through the heart of Paris, and then dares you to blink. This isn’t your
Fast & Furious, nitrous-powered CGI circus of cars flying between
skyscrapers—this is the real deal. John Frankenheimer, the man behind
The Manchurian Candidate and Grand Prix, crafts a symphony of controlled
chaos that feels like a masterclass in the art of war disguised as a
‘90s action flick. This is what happens when you blend the raw brutality
of a samurai epic, the intellectual punch of Sun Tzu, and a Book of
Five Rings approach to street warfare—all wrapped in one explosive
package.
There are no punches pulled in Ronin, no softened edges
for the weak-hearted, no apologetic nods to the modern sensibilities of
today’s fragile audiences. The men in this film operate on a constant
edge, their nerves drawn tighter than a katana ready to strike. From the
first tense moments in that smoky French bar, De Niro, Reno, Skarsgård,
Bean—hell, the whole cast—ooze unease, their tension more palpable than
the espresso sitting untouched on the café table. It’s like watching
samurai masters before the final duel, sizing each other up, testing
their reflexes, and waiting for the slightest misstep to strike.
Frankenheimer’s
direction is both meticulous and chaotic, and it’s all deliberate.
Every car chase, every shootout, every moment of introspective calm—it’s
a careful build-up to that final crescendo of betrayal, gunfire, and
adrenaline. He doesn’t insult your intelligence with cheap tricks or
flimsy effects—these stunts are real, the cars are real, and the danger
feels real. When De Niro's character spills his coffee to test the
reflexes of his "colleague," you’re watching a seasoned warrior assess
his enemy before the duel. It’s a moment that sums up the entire
film—nothing is by accident, and everyone is waiting to make the kill.
This
movie doesn’t spoon-feed you exposition. It gives you the tools—a
battered briefcase, a team of mercenaries, Russian mobsters, and a few
nameless benefactors pulling strings behind the scenes—and it tells you
to figure it out. The "what’s in the box?" question hanging over the
film is less about the object itself and more about the chase—about the
discipline, betrayal, and trust. It’s the same damn thing you’d expect
from a Kurosawa film, but transplanted into the rain-soaked streets of
Nice. This is a ronin story through and through—mercenaries with no
masters, wandering a world where loyalty is bought and sold, and the
only truth that remains is in the cold steel of a weapon.
And
speaking of weapons, this film is a tactical dream. Guns roar with the
power of a battlefield cannon, explosions shake the screen with the
guttural realism of actual destruction, and the car chases—oh, those car
chases. Two of the most intense vehicular ballet sequences ever put to
film, shot with zero CGI, just raw, mechanical mayhem and over 300 stunt
drivers weaving through traffic like they’ve got a death wish. You feel
every skid, every swerve, every crash, like you're sitting shotgun next
to De Niro as he pulls off a high-speed maneuver that would make Mad
Max look like a Sunday drive.
Ronin operates in the shadows of
classic espionage thrillers, but with a brutal, unsentimental edge.
There’s no clear-cut good guys and bad guys—there’s just men trying to
survive in a world that’s out to screw them over. The dialogue, written
by the inimitable David Mamet (under a pseudonym—because even here,
nothing is what it seems), crackles with sharp wit and deadly precision.
Every word, every exchange is like a move in a chess game being played
at five dimensions, and you’re just trying to keep up with the
genius-level tactical plays unraveling before your eyes.
De Niro
and Reno are the rock-solid core of the film—two veterans of violence,
who’ve seen too much but know they’ve still got one last job left in
them. The camaraderie and the tension between them is like watching two
seasoned gunfighters squaring off at high noon—mutual respect, and the
knowledge that when the shit hits the fan, you better be damn sure you
can trust the guy next to you. And Skarsgård? The ice-cold, mercenary
brains of the operation, calculating every move like a predator waiting
for its prey to slip. These characters don’t need backstories—they are
their actions, their reflexes, their tactical decisions.
What
Ronin does so brilliantly is that it pulls off the nearly impossible
balancing act of being both smart and explosive. There’s a deep
meditative quality to the pacing—a slow burn as the tension mounts and
the players reveal themselves. But when the hammer drops, and it will
drop, the action explodes with a ferocity that’s unmatched.
Frankenheimer knows exactly how to pace his tension, dialing it back
just enough to give you time to breathe before ramping it up to
breakneck levels again.
At its core, Ronin is about the art of
war. It’s about strategy, about knowing your enemy, about the code of
honor that still exists even in a world of mercenaries and hired guns.
It’s a film that bleeds intelligence, wrapped up in the black leather
jacket of a hard-boiled action thriller. And in an age where mindless
CGI spectacle reigns supreme, Ronin stands as a reminder of what cinema
can be when you combine raw masculine energy with the art of tactical
storytelling.
Watching it again after all these years, with the
history of the Ronin coursing through my family’s veins, I can’t help
but think of the parallels between that time and now. Masterless
warriors roam the cinematic world, searching for purpose, while we sit
in our art house theaters, looking for a story that matters. Ronin
delivers that story—honor, duty, betrayal—all wrapped in a relentless,
high-octane package that you don’t forget, even after two and a half
decades.
So, as I sit here on Bear Mountain, with the ghost of
samurai warriors whispering on the wind, I can tell you this: Ronin is
more than a movie—it’s a damn masterclass in survival, strategy, and
style. And if you’ve got a shred of testosterone left in your body, you
owe it to yourself to watch it again. This film doesn’t just hold up—it
fucking stands tall. Just like the Ronin of old, it will leave its mark
on you.
If you’re looking for something sleek, cerebral, and
brutal, this is your film. If you’re looking for a reminder that action
movies don’t have to insult your intelligence, Ronin is your film. Hell,
if you’re just looking for the best damn car chases ever filmed, Ronin
is your film. It’s not just an action movie; it’s a fucking art form, a
cinematic meditation on violence, loyalty, and the honor among thieves.
To
the leftist limp-dicks, soyboys, and those who can’t handle a film
dripping in pure testosterone: Ronin isn’t for you. But for the rest of
us who still appreciate a good hard slap of reality, a solid kick in the
teeth, and a film that respects its audience, Ronin stands tall.
And by the way—what’s in the box? Hell, doesn’t matter. The real treasure is the journey.
by Bear J. Sleeman
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