The Betrayal, originally released in 1966, is an evocative and stylish Samurai film that defies expectations. Director Tokuzo Tanaka, a former assistant to legendary helmer of Samurai classics, Akira Kurosawa, stepped out from the shadows with this jidaigeki (period drama). While it may not have afforded him the same fame as Kurosawa, certainly outside Japan, The Betrayal is a must-watch for fans of the swordplay genre.

When a prominent samurai of the Iwashiro clan is dishonourably killed, it spells disaster for the smaller Minazuki clan. The honourable samurai Kobuse Takuma (Ichikawa Raizô) takes the blame when the murderer doesn’t step forward, with the promise made by his elder that he will be able to return safely after one year’s exile. But after the elder’s sudden death and the treachery of a fellow clansman, Takuma becomes a fugitive separated from the love of his life, Lady Namie.

Hunted by his own clan, their allies and the authorities, Takuma is confronted by the lack of integrity among his fellow samurai again and again. With the bushido code of honour broken at every step, the disillusioned samurai faces a life of either vengeance or death as a Ronin, as fate carries him to an epic showdown.

The Betrayal is noteworthy for its study of a samurai in a spiral of despair as much as the deliberately awkward approach it takes to convey it. Although colour was well-established in mid-1960s Japanese cinema, Tanaka chose black and white to capture some fantastic and challenging shots. Flourishes like minor breaks of the 180 rule and jump cuts keep the viewing experience slightly shattered—just like the samurai code of Takuma’s opponents. These techniques, and the numerous parallels drawn between a relatively large cast of characters, mean The Betrayal is not the easiest film to follow. But the critical part is the sheer weight of disappointment that makes up poor Takuma’s compelling central journey of despair.

In the lead, Raizô walks the balance of impeachable samurai and broken, inebriated Ronin. He’s helped by the evocative production design, especially the landscape that Tanaka makes excellent use of as the seasons roll around. There’s a real sense of time going by, despite the jumps and disjointed structure.

Viewers shouldn’t expect a single, simple act of betrayal to give the film its title—this isn’t a swift strike but a series of cuts as the samurai is repeatedly let down, making it a fairly bleak and nihilistic experience. But each miserable step is an important one on the way to the spectacular finale set-piece that delivers a milestone moment in the genre and has influenced many films since. While previous set-pieces often defy expectations—boiling down to a discreet flash of Takuma’s ability or an anticlimactically brief bout against his former master—the end is an assault on the senses.

Having discovered his beloved Namie trapped in the employ of sleazy exploiter Gorozo, Takuma steels himself for the final fight of his life. Confronted by the combined forces of the governor’s constables and the Iwashiro and Minazuki clans, he takes them all on in a feast of choreography and action photography that have echoed in later Asian epics, Hong Kong action cinema and Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill Vol.1—but all without spouts or even a splatter of blood.

The epic final fight is jaw-dropping, not least for the brilliant, tiny details Tanaka takes time to include. Increasingly broken during the bout, Takuma isn’t a typical samurai. At one point, having slain dozens of opponents, he has to peel his fingers from the hilt of his broken sword; his blade is both an extension of him and at the heart of his painful disillusionment.

Special features in this Radiance Blu-ray release include the visual essay The Path to Betrayal, where film critic Philip Kemp compares The Betrayal with The Serpent (also known as Orochi—a 1925 silent film about an honourable samurai beset by misunderstandings). An audio commentary by Japanese film historian Tom Mes helps set the scene for completists, while an additional visual essay by Mes casts light on the too-little-known director Tanaka. With the addition of a limited-edition booklet featuring Alain Silver’s writing on the film included with physical copies, this is a great package from Radiance, worthy of a landmark film.

In all, The Betrayal is admirably cynical and well deserves its reputation, not least for featuring one of the greatest showdowns in the samurai genre.