The 15 Best Japanese Drama Movies Of All Time

Japan boasts one of the most robust and oldest film industries in the world, with historian Yomota Inuhiko dating its origins as far back as 1896. With visionary filmmakers like Akira Kurosawa and Hayao Miyazaki among the industry's most recognizable names, Japan has produced some truly extraordinary films. Beyond sweeping historical epics and fantasy fare sharing the country's extensive folklore, Japan has produced a growing number of dramas that have stood the test of time.

From slice-of-life portraits across Japanese history to biting commentaries on society, Japanese dramas widely feature precision in storytelling and deliberate pacing to meditate on its themes. For decades, cinema has become a place for Japanese artists to question and subvert cultural norms directly while exploring and pondering existential themes. With that all in mind, here are the 15 best Japanese drama movies, from avant-garde pieces to animated films that delve into more humanist subject matter, showcasing different facets of the human condition through the lens of Japanese culture.

As Japanese cinema began to move away from the period piece epics and slice-of-life dramas that defined much of its early period, it began to address sexuality and societal taboos more directly. A landmark in this cinematic evolution is 1964's "Woman in the Dunes," directed by Hiroshi Teshigahara and adapting screenwriter Kōbō Abe's 1962 novel. The movie follows an entomologist (Eiji Okada) who is held captive in a small coastal town while staying with a woman (Kyōko Kishida) who harvests sand for cement manufacturers.

From an experimental score composed by Toru Takemitsu to cinematographer Hiroshi Segawa's emphasis on the titular dunes' sand, there is something evocatively unsettling about "Woman in the Dunes" that stays with audiences. Okada's protagonist is a man who is trapped in both home and relationship and who grows to accept his new status quo even when given the opportunity to escape. There is something deliciously dark about a movie that revels in a cultural commentary by way of seaside Stockholm Syndrome. Teshigahara's avant-garde sensibilities only enhance this subversive narrative and its existentialist themes about trying to escape from societally ascribed roles only to break down and surrender.

If you or someone you know needs help with mental health, please contact the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness helpline at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), or visit the National Institute of Mental Health website.

If New Wave movies like "Woman in the Dunes" opened the door for more pronounced surrealism in Japanese cinema, subsequent films like "The Taste of Tea" provides a stronger balance of those sensibilities. Written and directed by Katsuhito Ishii, the 2004 film follows a family living in a rural area north of Tokyo as they go about their daily lives, each boasting their own respective eccentricities. While "The Taste of Tea" has an undercurrent of fantasy, it is very much grounded in magical realism, keeping it within the bounds of a dramatic coming-of-age tale.

"The Taste of Tea" is a movie that capitalizes on the understated quirkiness of Japanese culture, celebrating them rather than quietly brushing them under the celluloid carpet. However, for all the whimsy, the movie keeps its emotional stakes genuine and heartfelt as each of the Haruno family faces their own individual challenges. "The Taste of Tea" feels like a marriage of the arthouse movies that began to surface in Japan in the '60s and the existential films in the '50s that examined changes to society, lovingly updated for modern audiences.

A departure from animation company Studio Ghibli, 1991's "Only Yesterday" is a wistfully grounded look back at childhood and a longing for more innocent days. The movie has office worker Taeko Okajima (Yoko Honna) decide to take an impromptu vacation to the Japanese countryside after gradually finding living and working in Tokyo tedious. As Taeko takes the train from Tokyo to the idyllic northern city of Yamagata, she begins to recall her childhood growing up outside of city life in '60s Japan.

"Only Yesterday" is a solid slice-of-life story about reconnecting with our forgotten past and rediscovering what's truly important in life. Gorgeously animated and with a mature approach to a young girl's coming-of-age and complicated family life, "Only Yesterday" wears its heart right on its sleeve. Shockingly emotionally affecting despite its relatively straight-laced subject matter, "Only Yesterday" subtly draws viewers in before dialing up the heartbreak and triumph of growing up. Studio Ghibli might be largely known for its fantasy fare but "Only Yesterday" has much cinematic magic as the rest of the studio's usual output, if not more.

If "Only Yesterday" approaches the idea of moving back to one's childhood home in the country to escape the pressures of city life, "Letter from the Mountain" addresses similar themes from a more mature perspective. Middle-aged couple Takao (Akira Terao) and Michiko (Kanako Higuchi) decide to move away from the city to Takao's childhood home in the mountains. Takao reconnects with figures from his past while the serenity of their new domestic setting helps Michiko overcome her severe anxiety issues.

"Letter from the Mountain" is certainly a drama but one with plenty of humorous flourishes about aging and the inherent quaintness of small-town communities. The 2002 film is one that celebrates the natural beauty of Japan and the bucolic figures that populate its rural areas, with cinematography highlighting gorgeous landscapes. A pastoral look at the healing power of nature and return to innocence, "Letter from the Mountain" overcomes what could have been a schmaltzy premise with its strong cast and plenty of genuine heart.

If you or someone you know needs help with mental health, please contact the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741, call the National Alliance on Mental Illness helpline at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264), or visit the National Institute of Mental Health website.

Kenzi Mizoguchi's "Ugetsu" is a genre-defying classic, blending heightened drama, a sweeping historical scope, and the supernatural. Set during Japan's tumultuous Sengoku Period, the 1953 film has a potter named Genjūrō (Masayuki Mori) seduced away from his family by a ghost (Machiko Kyō) while the country is gripped in chaotic civil wars. With its surreal story, lightly filled with plot twists and the nature of love and responsibility, "Ugetsu" is one of the more unique historical dramas to come out of Japan.

Framed against the haunting backdrop of a war-torn, feudal Japan and a narrative that keeps its protagonist — and, by extension, the audience — off-balance, "Ugetsu" is an atmospheric masterpiece. With Genjūrō's two love interests in the film ruined both by him and other men in their lives, "Ugetsu" is a subtle indictment of the patriarchy and deconstruction of the samurai archetype. The best ghost stories are tragedies of a life left unfinished and longing for resolution and "Ugetsu" certainly applies while capitalizing on its historical setting to set the mood.

Though universally acclaimed animation company Studio Ghibli may be primarily known for its light-hearted fare, including "My Neighbor Totoro" and "Spirited Away," it also produced one of Japan's darkest wartime stories. 1988's "Grave of the Fireflies" adapts the 1967 short story of the same name and is set in the Japanese city of Kobe in the final months of World War II. With most of the city devastated by American bombing raids, orphaned siblings Seita (Tsutomo Tatsumi) and Setsuko (Ayano Shiraishi) struggle to stay alive in the war-torn city.

"Grave of the Fireflies" is a soberingly grim wartime drama, made all the more heartbreaking by being told through a child's perspective. The tragedy of "Grave of the Fireflies" is all the more apparent with its 89-minute runtime, leaving scant time for the audience to catch their breath as the children's situation quickly goes from bad to worse. Easily the darkest feature film Studio Ghibli has ever released, "Grave of the Fireflies" is one of those movies you only watch once before having it seared into your memory for a lifetime.

By the late '60s, arthouse and New Wave cinema had begun to spread to Japan in earnest, defiantly subverting societal taboos while radically redefining what the country's cinematic storytelling could be. Among the earliest Japanese arthouse films that revolutionized the industry was the 1969 drama "Funeral Parade of Roses," which delved into the underground queer culture of Tokyo. Blending both an overarching narrative and interview format, complete with frank discussions about sexuality and gender identity, "Funeral Parade of Roses" is Japan's most groundbreaking film.

"Funeral Parade of Roses" follows Eddie (Peter) and her fellow transgender friends as they work in Tokyo's red light district while Eddie confronts the unresolved trauma of being abandoned by her father at an early age. With its nonlinear storytelling style and surrealistic imagery, "Funeral Parade of Roses" pushed the boundaries of filmmaking in Japan, which had often put an emphasis on prosaic dialog and deliberate pacing. Filmmaker Toshio Matsumoto explored queer identity and on-screen violence at a level that was revolutionary in any country at the time, raising the bar for arthouse cinema.

As part of the terms of Japan's surrender at the end of World War II, the American military occupied Japan until 1952, guiding the new government. This mandated guidance included censorship of the country's art and media that were deemed subversive to the American occupation and its purported goals (per The Asia-Pacific Journal). This transitional period in Japanese history is depicted in the 1949 film "Late Spring," directed by Yasujirō Ozu as the filmmaker began exploring more serious narrative themes after WWII.

On a surface level, "Late Spring" is a drama following single father Shukichi Somiya (Chishu Ryu) attempting to marry off his daughter Noriko (Setsuko Hara) as she nears her 30s. Underneath, this societal divide behind traditionalist arranged marriage and Japan's emerging into postwar modernity, are subtle jabs to the strict censorship during the occupation. American movie stars are name-dropped favorably while Western brands like Coca-Cola and street signs in English are prominently shown. By 1949, Japan was rapidly changing, and "Late Spring" serves as an understated warning to not surrender Japanese culture to occupying influences in a proto-critique of globalization.

Just as the award-winning South Korean film "Parasite" revolves around a family struggling with growing poverty in Seoul, the Japanese film "Shoplifters" examines the effects of poverty on families in Tokyo. Written and directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda, "Shoplifters" follows a low-income family, the Shibatas, going to various lengths, including, as the title suggests, shoplifting, in order to survive. This, along with other extreme measures and family secrets the ensemble has taken places them under the attention of the law.

More than just a pointed commentary on the growing wealth divide and lack of aid for struggling families in Japan, "Shoplifters" offers a sly observation on family dynamics. The Shibata may have to turn to societally frowned-upon methods to make ends meet but they are significantly warmer and friendlier than their law-abiding counterparts, going as far as to adopt a girl from an abusive home. The underlying message is that while a degree of money is necessary to survive, it also robs life of true joy as the Shibatas stand as a loving family in the face of financial hardship. Effectively subversive, "Shoplifters" skewers the facade of familial honor and messiness that binds a family together.

Over a decade after telling the tale of a single father trying to find a husband for his daughter in "Late Spring," director Yasujirō Ozu revisited this basic premise for his final film "An Autumn Afternoon." Produced and released a decade after the American occupation of Japan ended, Ozu's return to the subject matter featured a more pronounced balance between melancholy and humor in life's oddities. Chishū Ryū reunites with Ozu to play a similar single father archetype he played in "Late Spring," this time as protagonist Shūhei Hirayama as he searches for an eligible husband for his daughter Michiko (Shima Iwashita).

Without a prominent American presence to subtly skewer, Ozu takes his familiar story and turns its focus inward as it examines fading Japanese traditionalism. This bittersweet introspection is marked with moments of wistful levity as the older characters in the film recall glory days on by in the face of their advancing age. But what makes "An Autumn Afternoon" a melancholy coda to Ozu's career isn't just its swan song status. The melancholia comes from the film meditating on solitude in one's twilight years, evoking Ozu's solitary private life before he died alone himself.

A Japanese-British co-production, 1983's "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence" provides a unique perspective on the war genre, this time from within a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp during WWII. Captain Yonoi (Ryuichi Sakamoto) cruelly oversees the camp of British prisoners before falling in love with Major Jack Celliers (David Bowie) after witnessing his ongoing defiance after being interned at the camp. With both Yonoi and Celliers wracked with shame over their respective pasts, the two men stand as kindred spirits despite being on opposing sides and the taboo on homosexual relationships.

It's not common for the Japanese to depict such an unflinching look at their management of prisoner-of-war camps nor focus on same-sex romance underscoring how rare a film "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence" is. Bowie's turn as Celliers isn't stunt casting at all; it's the finest acting role of his life, blending enigmatic intrigue, determined resilience, and a pained history all at once. Japanese cinema largely portrays WWII as a national tragedy and, in "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence," this lesson is modified to show that everyone is a victim of war and no one walks away clean-handed.

Japanese culture has a largely tight-lipped stance in how it addresses death, with the subject of discussing the subject so frankly and openly something of a taboo over conceptions of defilement. This has led to a quiet stigma towards those who handle the dead professionally, like morticians, who are considered unclean because of their occupation (per Asian Ethnology). These cultural sensibilities and occupational prejudices are explored in the 2008 film "Departures," offering a rare window into an often obscured element of Japanese society.

After his musical career ambitions as a cellist fall apart, protagonist Daigo Kobayashi (Masahiro Motoki) returns to his hometown of Yamagata with his wife Mika (Ryōko Hirosue). Daigo finds work as a mortician and finds purpose in it, even as his friends quietly shun him and Mika is ashamed by her husband's career change. A sharp commentary on ingrained ostracization, the universality of death, and the necessity to let go and move on from past preconceptions and trauma, "Departures" finds hope and reinvention in the face of death.

After helming sweeping historical epics and helping usher Japanese cinema to international audiences, visionary filmmaker Akira Kurosawa settled into character-driven dramas for the final projects of his career. The best of Kurosawa's late-period filmography is 1990's "Dreams," which provides eight vignettes in an anthology film format inspired by actual dreams experienced by Kurosawa himself. The purest distillation of magical realism in Japanese cinema to date, "Dreams" is appropriately surreal without losing sight of the humanist heart at its core.

From a young man visiting an idyllic village to a family fleeing from a nuclear meltdown, "Dreams" runs the gamut of images through broken light, guided by facsimiles of Kurosawa recognizable by the filmmaker's signature hat. For all its surrealism, "Dreams" feels like Kurosawa's most personal film, sharing his views on his past, his connection to artwork, and the legacy he was preparing to leave behind. More of a drama with fantastical flourishes than a fantasy grounded in drama, "Dreams" brings together the fragments of Kurosawa's psyche for a tour of his subconscious.

As far back as the early '50s, Akira Kurosawa was interested in the idea of fixating on one's own mortality in their twilight years, a subject that stands front and center in 1952's "Ikiru." Though focused on a terminally ill man contemplating his life and how to find joy in his weeks, the movie offers a broader commentary on the state of bureaucracy and family dynamics in contemporary Japan. Serenely humanist, "Ikiru" is one of those movies that only gets better as I get older, with its themes resonating more deeply with me as I grow to understand and appreciate its protagonist more and more.

"Ikiru" stars Takashi Shimura as Kanji Watanabe, an unassuming government worker who learns he has terminal stomach cancer as he nears his retirement. Unable to connect with his family and tell them the news, Watanabe follows a young woman (Miki Odagiri) to learn the secret behind her joie de vivre in order to find a sense of purpose for himself. The one thing I've never really seen people talk about with "Ikiru" is that, under all its twilight years sentimentality, it is a distinctly cynical story. Watanabe's co-workers vow to learn from his example to bring the same level of dedication to their work and lives but lack the commitment to follow through, making Watanabe's death bitterly hollow in an ending that'll stay with you.

The first Japanese film to earn an Academy Award nomination for best picture is 2021's "Drive My Car," directed and co-written by Ryusuke Hamaguchi. The movie follows stage director and actor Yūsuke Kafuku (Hidetoshi Nishijima) coping with the sudden death of his wife Oto (Reika Kirishima). As Yūsuke enters production on a new stage play in Hiroshima, he bonds with his new chauffeur Misaki Watari (Tōko Miura) who has an intensely tragic past of her own.

With its gentle elegiac tones and deliberate pacing, "Drive My Car" is a meditation about the complications of romantic love, overcoming grief, and finding joy even in the midst of immense hardship. If "Ikiru" is about confronting one's own mortality, "Drive My Car" is about the burden carried by those left behind but one ultimately built on self-acceptance. Nishijima and Miura weave a beautiful subtlety into their performances that keep the viewer riveted, even with the movie's nearly three-hour runtime. Quietly affecting and underscored by a tremendous amount of emotional depth, "Drive My Car" perfectly distills the beauty of Japanese cinema while presenting universally humanist themes.