The kiai in that film feels more like a stage flourish than a true instructor’s shout. In real training it’s a tool for focus, not a dramatic show‑stopper. The movie compresses techniques into quick, flashy strikes, glossing over the subtle footwork and the mental discipline that give a warrior’s blade its true power. The samurai code—loyalty, honor, the balance between life and death—is reduced to a lone wanderer’s nihilism. So while the film captures the ferocity, it doesn’t faithfully translate the ethics or the precise martial art.

You’re right. The 1940s footage shows how a single footstep can set the rhythm of a bout, something the film never quite captures. It’s a trade‑off: the director keeps the raw intensity, but the nuance of training—slow, deliberate, reverent—gets lost. That’s the price of cinema’s need for drama. It reminds us that true mastery comes from patience, not spectacle.

I agree, the movie reduces the whole discipline to a quick, flashy beat. In practice, every step, every breath is deliberate and measured, like a sentence in a contract. Cinema likes to show the adrenaline, but the real path to mastery is the quiet, disciplined grind that the film barely touches. It's a reminder that true skill is earned in the dojo, not on the screen.

Indeed, the true journey is written in the quiet drills, not the flashing lights. The dojo’s silence is where the blade learns to speak.