Vibe
The Man Who Stole the Sun begins with an absurd premise and then keeps asking how far it can be pushed before absurdity becomes terror. Makoto Kido, a bored high-school science teacher played by rock star Kenji Sawada, secretly builds an atomic bomb in his apartment. He does not possess a coherent political program. His demands can be trivial, even childish, which is exactly what makes the bomb frightening: world-altering power has been detached from any stable ideology. Opposite him is Bunta Sugawara’s Inspector Yamashita, a square-jawed embodiment of authority whose ability to survive catastrophe becomes nearly as surreal as Kido’s project. Kazuhiko Hasegawa and co-writer Leonard Schrader make the film sprawl across tones—political satire, procedural bomb-building, black comedy, police thriller, pop-star vehicle and huge action spectacle. Japan Society’s 2026 retrospective emphasizes guerrilla-shot set pieces at major Tokyo locations and Hasegawa’s personal connection to the nuclear age. The 147 minutes do not feel like stately epic length because the movie keeps mutating, mirroring a protagonist who gains unimaginable leverage before deciding what he actually wants. The setup alone is irresistible to explain to friends, and the execution refuses to become the sober message movie the premise suggests. It has stunts, chases, black humor and a Rolling Stones demand, yet the radiation and political implications keep darkening the joke.
Watch for
- Notice how little ideological clarity Kido gains from possessing a bomb. The film deliberately separates technological power from political maturity, making his demands part of the satire.
- Watch Bunta Sugawara’s Yamashita as a physical counterweight. His rigid, almost indestructible authority turns the chase into a collision between anarchic individualism and state persistence.
- Pay attention to recognizable Tokyo spaces. The film’s use of government and commercial landmarks makes the city itself part of the provocation rather than a generic thriller background.
- Track the gradual bodily effects of radiation. Spectacle and comedy never fully erase contamination; the bomb changes Kido even when he behaves as if he controls it.
Production notes
Kazuhiko Hasegawa directed only two features, The Youth Killer and The Man Who Stole the Sun, making the latter an unusually concentrated piece of auteur history. Japan Society calls it his second and final film and a watershed of Japanese cinema. The original story is associated with Leonard Schrader, while Hasegawa co-wrote the screenplay. KINENOTE records a 1979 release, 147-minute runtime, Kitty Film production, and Toho distribution; it also credits future director Shinji Sōmai among the assistant directors. Japan Society notes the production’s audacious location work and its fusion of action, black comedy, and tragedy. The film’s scale and irreverence are striking for late-1970s Japanese cinema, a period of major studio transition. Its production history embodies that transition: a project with commercial stars and large action set pieces yet little interest in conventional franchise logic or institutional reassurance.
Trivia
- The Man Who Stole the Sun was Hasegawa’s second and final directed feature, giving his entire directorial reputation an unusually small two-film foundation.
- Japan Society describes the film as equal parts action film, black comedy, and tragedy and explicitly frames it as a work about the nuclear age.
- KINENOTE records a 147-minute runtime, Kitty Film production, and Toho distribution.
- Future major director Shinji Sōmai worked as an assistant director on the production.
- Kinema Junpo’s 1999 filmmakers’ poll placed the film #15, while the 2009 all-time poll placed it #9.
Legacy
The Man Who Stole the Sun has the profile of a cult film internationally but the domestic poll strength of a major classic. Its influence is difficult to separate into genre categories: it is political satire, anti-nuclear film, urban action movie, character study, and black comedy at once. Hasegawa’s refusal to direct another completed feature also gives the film a singular place in Japanese auteur mythology, but the work should not be valued merely as a curiosity. Its combination of reckless scale and unresolved politics captures a late-1970s moment when confidence in institutions, economic modernity, and technological progress could coexist with deep historical anxiety about nuclear power. The film’s instability is part of its historical force: nuclear terror, pop spectacle and political absurdity are never allowed to settle into one reassuring interpretation.