Kitano, an artist of a thousand facets (showman and TV comedian, painter, actor, director, novelist, screenwriter are just some of his aptitudes) imbues this peculiar versatility into Hana-Bi, creating a prismatic and captivating object, as few others are capable of being. His career, balancing between the irreverence of comedy and the gravitas of yakuza drama, condenses in this work into a purest distillate of aesthetic sensibility and existential brutality. Kitano's ability to shape horror and tenderness with the same hand is not just a distinctive trait, but the keystone of a poetic vision that, in "Hana-Bi," reaches its apotheosis. He does not merely narrate a story, but paints an emotional fresco, often resorting to the vibrant color and minimalist composition that characterize his pictorial works, here integrated as a direct expression of the protagonist's tormented soul.

Indeed, at first the film is a police procedural with thriller undertones, then it takes on a noir character, to finally conclude as an existential psychological drama. But this genre shift is never forced; rather, it is an organic expansion of the pain and inevitability that permeate Nishi's life. Kitano deconstructs and reconstructs the clichés of the Japanese crime movie, typical of the V-Cinema where he began his career, transforming them into vehicles for a profound investigation into guilt, redemption, and sacrificial love. It is not a simple stylistic exercise, but an exploration of the inner collapse of a man who, facing total loss, finds a new, desperate form of devotion. In this fusion of genres, one perceives the echo of masters like Jean-Pierre Melville, in the stylistic rigor and the solitude of his characters, but with a melancholic note and a propensity for lyricism that are intrinsically Japanese, a reference to mono no aware, the sensibility for the transience of things.

The aesthetic register manages to shift from violence to poetic languor with perfect narrative transition: a homogeneity that is truly the film's strong point, and all occurs with enviable stylistic coherence. Kitano employs the concept of "ma," the negative space or pause, typical of traditional Japanese art and music, to build tension and amplify emotional silence. The scenes of violence explode suddenly, almost surreal in their coldness and brevity, giving way to moments of prolonged contemplation, sometimes silent, where the unspoken weighs more than a thousand dialogues. This abrupt, almost Zen-like alternation between quietude and chaos, between the horror of blood and the beauty of a landscape, is Kitano's unmistakable signature, a cinematic language that communicates directly with the viewer's soul, bypassing rationality. The static shots and saturated cinematography, particularly the deep blues and vivid reds, contribute to creating a suspended, almost dreamlike atmosphere, where reality merges with the distressed interiority of the characters.

Nishi is an ex-policeman tormented by remorse for having lost a colleague and caused the injury of a second, who was left paralyzed. He is a man of few words, whose suffering is etched more in his gestures than in his dialogue, an archetype of the modern samurai who carries the weight of his own failure with stoic dignity.

Having left his professional life, he dedicates himself to his wife, who is terminally ill with leukemia. His devotion is not romantic in the conventional sense, but an almost brutal form of unconditional love, the last bastion against the nothingness that surrounds him.

To be able to grant her one last lavish vacation, he plans a robbery. This is not a simple fraud, but an act of desperate rebellion against fate, an attempt to regain control of a life that is slipping away from him, an extreme gesture to confer dignity on the last chapter of their existence. The money is not just a means for the vacation, but a symbol of the possibility of a last, fleeting happiness, an ephemeral flash like the fireworks that give the film its title ("Hana-Bi" literally means "fireworks," or "fire flowers").

Soft as silk and rough as sandpaper, it contains some memorable scenes, such as the splendid and ingenious robbery sequences, orchestrated with a glacial precision that verges on abstraction, or the final ones, dense with unsurpassable lyricism, in which the protagonist cradles his dying wife before a beach roaring with waves and sun. This beach sequence is the film's emotional and philosophical culmination, a moment of calm before the final storm, where the primordial force of nature merges with the acceptance of death. Nishi and his wife, two tiny figures against the immensity of the sea, no longer seek to fight their fate, but embrace it in a fusion of love and resignation. The waves crashing on the shore, in a sort of universal heartbeat, suggest a cyclical return to nature, a peaceful dissolution of existence. And the image of Nishi's paintings, those naive and brightly colored artworks that represent a refuge from violence and despair, and in which Kitano's own artistic vein is manifested after an accident that almost deprived him of the use of an arm, adds an additional layer of meaning, an oasis of innocence in a desert of brutality. They are the visual manifestation of his search for beauty and meaning in a chaotic world, a way to process trauma and suffering.

A culmination of the poetics of Japanese cinema and, expanding its message, of the entire history of the "Crime Story" genre tout court. "Hana-Bi" transcends its narrative framework to elevate itself to a universal meditation on life, death, and the power of human connection. It is a testament to Kitano's ability to transform violence into poetry, pain into acceptance, and despair into a sublime form of love. The film not only defines his style, but elevates it to a level of emotional and philosophical resonance that makes it a timeless classic, a work that, like fireworks, shines brightly for a brief instant, but leaves an indelible mark on the soul of those fortunate enough to witness it.