Koji Yakusho: The Life Story Behind Japan's Master Actor

Koji Yakusho is an actor who became famous late, and that lateness is part of what makes him interesting. He did not start as a child star, and he did not become a leading man in his twenties. He worked as a clerk in a city office, he studied acting in his spare time, and he took small roles for years before anyone outside Japan knew his name. When fame finally came, in his forties, with Shall We Dance? and The Eel, he was ready for it, because he had spent years learning his craft in the quiet, and he had learned to play ordinary men with an honesty that younger actors often cannot manage.

He was born in 1956 in Isahaya, in Nagasaki prefecture, and his birth name was Koji Hashimoto. He grew up far from Tokyo, and his early life was ordinary in the way that many Japanese lives are ordinary. He went to school, he worked, and he dreamed of acting without quite knowing how to make that dream real. That slow, uncertain beginning gave him a patience that has stayed with him, and it gave him a deep understanding of the ordinary people he would later play on screen.

His career since then has been one of the most respected in Japanese cinema. He has played salarymen, killers, fathers, and lonely men who clean toilets in Tokyo, and he has played them all with a quiet truth that has won him awards around the world, including Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival in 2023 for Perfect Days. He is now regarded as one of the great actors of his generation, and his story is a reminder that it is never too late to become who you were meant to be.

A Clerk in Nagasaki Who Dreamed of the Stage

Koji Yakusho was born on 1 January 1956 in Isahaya, in Nagasaki prefecture, on the island of Kyushu. His birth name was Koji Hashimoto, and he grew up in a family that was not connected to the film world. His childhood was ordinary, with school, friends, and the quiet life of a small Japanese city. There was nothing in his early years that pointed directly to a life on screen. He was not a child actor, and he did not grow up on a stage. What he had was a quiet interest in acting, and a willingness to work hard, even when the path was not clear.

As a young man, he moved to Tokyo and took a job as a clerk in the Chiyoda ward office, a local government office in the centre of the city. It was a steady, respectable job, and it gave him a life, but it did not give him the thing he wanted most, which was to act. He spent his days working with papers and with people who needed help from the city, and his evenings thinking about the theatre. That double life, clerk by day and dreamer by night, lasted for some time, and it taught him a great deal about ordinary people, about their worries, their hopes, and their small daily struggles.

He began to study acting in his spare time, taking lessons and joining a theatre group. Acting lessons are hard work, especially for a man who is also working a full-time job. He had to learn to use his voice, to move his body, and to understand a character, all while keeping up with his office work. He did it because he loved it, and because he could not imagine a life without it. That love, that stubborn refusal to give up a dream, is a central part of his story.

In time, he left the office job and began to act full-time, taking small roles in theatre and in television. It was not an easy decision, because a steady job is a safe thing, and acting is not safe at all. He made that decision because he believed in his talent, and because he knew that he would regret it if he did not try. That courage, to leave a safe life for an uncertain one, is a quality that many people admire, and it is a quality that Yakusho has carried with him ever since.

Theatre, Television, and the Long Road to Film

Yakusho’s early acting career was built in the theatre, where he learned the discipline of live performance. Theatre is a demanding school for an actor. There are no second takes, no close-ups to hide behind, and no editing to save a weak moment. An actor on stage must hold an audience for hours, with only his voice, his body, and his understanding of the character. Yakusho learned those skills, and he learned them well. He worked with theatre groups in Tokyo, and he began to be noticed for the quiet intensity of his performances.

He also began to work in television, taking roles in dramas that were watched by millions of people in Japan. Television work is fast, and it teaches an actor to be ready, to learn lines quickly, and to give a good performance without a long rehearsal. Yakusho did that work, and he did it well, building a reputation as a reliable, thoughtful actor who could be trusted with a difficult role. He was not a star yet, but he was a working actor, and that work was the foundation of everything that followed.

His move into film came slowly, with small roles that gave him a chance to learn how a camera sees an actor. A film actor must be stiller than a stage actor, because the camera is close, and it sees everything. Yakusho learned that stillness, and he learned to let his face do the work, rather than his whole body. That learning took time, but it was worth it, because it gave him a style that would later make him famous, a style based on quiet, on listening, and on the small changes that show what a character is feeling.

By the late 1980s and early 1990s, he was beginning to be noticed in Japanese cinema. He took roles in films that dealt with ordinary life, with crime, and with the lives of men who were struggling to find their place in the world. Those roles suited him, because he understood ordinary men, having been one himself as a clerk. He played them with a truth that audiences recognised, and directors began to seek him out for roles that needed that truth.

Shall We Dance? and the Salaryman Who Learned to Dance

In 1996, Yakusho took the role that would make him famous in Japan and around the world. In Shall We Dance?, he played Shohei Sugiyama, a salaryman who has a good job, a good home, and a good family, and who is deeply unhappy. One evening, on a train home, he sees a beautiful woman in a dance studio, and he decides, almost without knowing why, to take dance lessons in secret. The film was a gentle, funny, and sad story about a man who has lost his joy, and who finds it again through dance, through a secret, and through the kindness of strangers.

Yakusho played Sugiyama with a quiet, understated style that made the character feel real. He did not play him as a hero, or as a fool, but as an ordinary man who is trying to find something that is missing from his life. His face, with its tired eyes and its small, hopeful smile, told the story better than any speech could. Audiences in Japan loved the film, because they recognised Sugiyama. Many of them were salarymen themselves, or they were married to salarymen, and they understood the feeling of a life that is good on the outside and empty on the inside.

The film was also a success abroad, and it was later remade in Hollywood, which is a sign of how universal its story was. For Yakusho, it was a breakthrough. He was forty years old, and he was suddenly a leading man, known around the world. It was a late breakthrough, but it was a real one, and it came at the right time, because he was old enough to handle it, and experienced enough to use it well. He did not become a star overnight in the way a young actor might. He became a star after years of work, and that made the fame feel earned.

Shall We Dance? also showed something important about Yakusho’s style. He was not a glamorous leading man. He was an ordinary man, with an ordinary face, and an ordinary life, and that ordinariness was his strength. Audiences believed him because he looked like them, and because he played his character as if he were a real person, not a film star. That belief is hard to earn, and Yakusho earned it through years of quiet, careful work.

The Eel, Cannes, and a Darker Kind of Story

A year after Shall We Dance?, in 1997, Yakusho took on a very different role in The Eel, a film directed by Shohei Imamura. He played Takuro Yamashita, a man who murders his wife after discovering her affair, serves time in prison, and then tries to rebuild his life in a small town, with only an eel as his companion. It was a dark, strange, and powerful story, and it asked Yakusho to play a man who has done a terrible thing, and who is trying to live with it.

He played Yamashita with a stillness that made the character feel both frightening and sympathetic. He did not try to make the audience forgive Yamashita, and he did not try to make them hate him. He simply showed them a man who is quiet, who is careful, and who is trying to be good, even though he has done something bad. That performance won praise, and the film won the Palme d’Or, the top prize, at the Cannes Film Festival in 1997. It was a great honour, and it confirmed Yakusho’s place as one of the most important actors in Japan.

The Eel was a very different film from Shall We Dance?, and that difference showed Yakusho’s range. He could play a gentle salaryman who learns to dance, and he could play a murderer who talks to an eel, and he could make both of them feel real. That range is rare, and it is a sign of a great actor, one who is not limited to one kind of role, and who is willing to take on a challenge, even when the challenge is dark and difficult.

The success of The Eel also brought him to the attention of directors around the world. He began to receive offers from other countries, and he took some of them, working in films that were made outside Japan. He did not rush to Hollywood, but he was willing to work abroad when the role was right, and that willingness showed a confidence that came from his years of experience. He knew what he could do, and he knew what he wanted to do, and he was not afraid to say no to work that did not suit him.

13 Assassins, International Work, and a Steady Hand

In the years that followed, Yakusho continued to work in Japanese film, and he took on a wide range of roles. He appeared in 13 Assassins in 2010, a film by Takashi Miike about a group of samurai who are hired to kill a cruel lord. He played Shinzaemon Shimada, the leader of the assassins, a man who is honourable, brave, and willing to die for what he believes is right. It was a large, action-heavy film, and it showed a different side of Yakusho, a man who could lead, who could fight, and who could carry a big, epic story.

He also worked in other countries, taking roles in films that were made in Europe and in America. Those roles were not always large, but they were important, because they showed that his talent was recognised outside Japan, and that he could work in a different language and a different film culture. He approached that work with the same care he brought to his Japanese films, and he earned the respect of the directors and actors he worked with.

In Japan, he continued to take roles in television dramas and in films that dealt with ordinary life. He played fathers, husbands, and men who were struggling with age, with loss, and with the changes in Japanese society. Those roles suited him, because he was now an older man himself, and he understood the feelings of a man who is looking back on his life and wondering what it has meant. His performances in those roles were quiet, thoughtful, and deeply moving, and they showed a depth that only comes with age and experience.

His work during this period was steady, and it was respected, but it did not always make headlines. That was fine with Yakusho, because he was not an actor who sought headlines. He was an actor who sought good work, and he found it, year after year, in films and dramas that were loved by the people who saw them, even if they were not seen by everyone.

Perfect Days, Cannes Best Actor, and a Toilet Cleaner

In 2023, Yakusho took on a role that would become one of the most famous of his career. In Perfect Days, directed by Wim Wenders, he played Hirayama, a man who cleans public toilets in Tokyo. Hirayama lives a simple, quiet life. He wakes early, he cleans toilets with great care, he listens to music on cassette tapes, he reads books, and he takes photographs of trees. He says very little, and he seems content with his small, orderly life, even though it is a life that many people would call humble or even sad.

Yakusho played Hirayama with almost no dialogue, and with a face that showed everything. He showed the pleasure Hirayama takes in his work, the joy he finds in a song, the sadness that comes from a past that is only hinted at, and the peace that comes from living simply. It was a performance of great beauty, and it won him the Best Actor award at the Cannes Film Festival in 2023. He was sixty-seven years old, and he was being honoured as one of the best actors in the world, for playing a man who cleans toilets. That contrast, between the humble job and the great honour, is part of what makes the story so moving.

Perfect Days was a success around the world, and it introduced Yakusho to a new generation of viewers who had not seen his earlier work. Many of them were struck by the film’s quiet beauty, and by Yakusho’s performance, which showed that a life can be meaningful even when it is small, and that a person can find happiness in simple things, in work done well, in music, in books, and in the light through trees. The film was a reminder that cinema does not always need big stories or loud action. Sometimes it only needs a man, a mop, and a song.

For Yakusho, the award was a recognition of a lifetime of work. He had spent decades learning his craft, playing ordinary men, and telling quiet stories, and now the world was honouring him for it. He accepted the award with the same humility he had shown throughout his career, and he spoke about the film with a quiet pride. It was a moment that felt right, because it came late, and because it came for a role that was true to everything he had always believed about acting.

A Master Actor Who Started Late and Lasted Long

Today, Koji Yakusho is regarded as one of the great actors of Japanese cinema, and his story is often told as an example of what can happen when a person does not give up on a dream. He started late, he worked as a clerk, he studied acting in his spare time, and he took small roles for years. He did not become famous until he was forty, and he did not win his greatest award until he was sixty-seven. That long, slow path is not the usual path to fame, but it is a path that has given him a depth and a wisdom that younger stars often lack.

His legacy is not only the list of his films. It is the way he has shown that an ordinary man can be a great subject for a film, and that a quiet performance can be as powerful as a loud one. He has played salarymen, murderers, samurai, and toilet cleaners, and he has made them all feel real, because he has never treated any of them as small or unimportant. He has treated each character as a person with a full inner life, and that respect is what makes his work so moving.

He is also a reminder that age is not a barrier to great work. Many actors worry that their best years are behind them when they reach sixty, but Yakusho’s best work has come in his later years, and Perfect Days is proof of that. He is still working, still choosing roles, and still giving performances that are worth watching. That is a hopeful message for anyone who feels that they have started late, or that their time has passed. Yakusho’s life says that time is not an enemy, and that a dream pursued with patience can still come true, even when it takes decades.

A Life in Television and the Small Screen

Yakusho’s work in television is often overlooked when people talk about his films, but it is an important part of his career, because Japanese television dramas are watched by millions of people, and they deal with the everyday lives of ordinary families. He has taken leading roles in dramas that run for many episodes, playing fathers, husbands, and men who are trying to hold their lives together, and he has brought the same quiet truth to those roles that he brings to his films. A television role is a grind, with long hours, fast shooting, and little time to rehearse, and an actor who can do that work well, week after week, is a professional in the fullest sense.

One of the things that makes his television work special is the way he listens. In a drama, an actor must react to the other actors, must let a scene grow out of a conversation, and must make the audience believe that the people on screen are a real family, with a real history. Yakusho does that by listening, by pausing, and by letting a small change in his face tell the audience what his character is feeling. That listening is a skill that he learned in the theatre, and it is a skill that has served him well in every medium he has worked in.

His television roles have also allowed him to play a wider range of ages and situations than his films sometimes allow. He has played a young man, a middle-aged man, and an older man, and he has played them all with a truth that comes from his own life, from his years as a clerk, from his years as a young actor, and from his years as a father. That range is a sign of an actor who is not afraid to grow older on screen, and who trusts that the audience will grow with him, rather than asking him to stay young for ever.

The Man Behind the Quiet Face

People who have worked with Yakusho often describe him as a quiet, thoughtful man, who prepares carefully, who listens to his directors, and who does not make a fuss on set. That quietness is not shyness. It is a form of respect, for the work, for the other actors, and for the story being told. He does not try to dominate a scene. He tries to serve it, and that service is what makes his performances feel so honest. A scene with Yakusho in it feels like a real moment, not a performance, because he is not showing off. He is simply being, and letting the camera see what is there.

His preparation for a role is said to be thorough, and it involves thinking about the character’s life, about what he eats, about how he walks, and about what he worries about when he is alone. Those small details, which the audience may never consciously notice, add up to a performance that feels complete, because the character has a life beyond the scenes we see. Hirayama, in Perfect Days, is a perfect example of that. We see him clean toilets, listen to music, and read books, but we also sense a past, a sadness, and a peace that are not explained, and that sense comes from Yakusho’s careful, quiet work.

In his private life, Yakusho is known as a family man, who values his home, his wife, and his children, and who has kept that life out of the press. That privacy is a choice, and it is a wise one, because it allows him to return to a real life after a film, and to remember who he is when he is not playing a character. An actor who has a strong private life is often a stronger actor, because he has something to draw on, something real, and something that grounds him when the work becomes difficult.

My Take:

I want to start with the toilet cleaner, because that image has stayed with me since I first heard about Perfect Days, and I think it says everything about Koji Yakusho. A man who cleans public toilets in Tokyo, who says very little, who listens to old songs on cassette tapes, and who finds joy in the light through trees, is not the kind of character that usually wins a Best Actor award at Cannes. And yet Yakusho won it, at sixty-seven, for playing exactly that man, and I think that is a beautiful thing, because it tells me that a life does not have to be big to be meaningful, and that an actor does not have to play a king or a hero to be great. He only has to play a real person, with truth, and the audience will see the greatness in that truth.

I think about his beginning as a clerk, and I find that beginning very moving, because I know what it is like to have a steady job and a dream that does not fit inside that job. Yakusho worked in a city office, he dealt with papers and with people, and he went home in the evening and thought about acting. That double life must have been hard, because a steady job is safe, and acting is not safe, and every day he had to choose between the safe thing and the true thing. He chose the true thing, in the end, and he left the office to act, and I admire that choice, because it takes courage to leave safety behind, especially when you are not young, and when you have no guarantee that the new path will work.

What I admire most about him is his patience. He did not become famous until he was forty, and he did not win his greatest award until he was sixty-seven, and yet he kept working, year after year, without bitterness, without giving up, and without trying to rush the process. That patience is rare in a world that tells us to succeed early, to be famous by twenty-five, and to give up if we have not made it by thirty. Yakusho’s life says something different. It says that a career can grow slowly, that a talent can deepen with age, and that the best work can come late, when a person has lived enough to understand what they are playing. I find that message hopeful, and I think many people need to hear it.

I also think about Shall We Dance?, because that film is about a man who has everything and yet feels empty, and I think many people feel that emptiness, even when their lives look good from the outside. Yakusho played that man with such honesty that audiences recognised themselves in him, and I think that recognition is the highest praise an actor can receive. He did not play a hero. He played an ordinary man who dances in secret because he is afraid to admit that he is unhappy, and that small, secret act of dancing becomes a way back to joy. I find that story deeply human, and I think Yakusho’s performance is the reason it works, because he lets the audience see the sadness underneath the smile, and the hope underneath the sadness.

The Eel is another film I keep thinking about, because it is a dark story, and it asks a hard question. Can a man who has done a terrible thing ever live a good life again? Yakusho played a murderer who tries to rebuild his life, and he did not ask the audience to forgive him, and he did not ask them to hate him. He simply showed them a man trying to be good, and he let the audience decide what to think. I admire that restraint, because it is easy for an actor to tell the audience what to feel, and it is harder to let them feel for themselves. Yakusho trusts his audience, and that trust makes his performances feel honest rather than manipulative.

I think about his age, and about what it means to do your best work when you are older. Many people believe that youth is the time for great work, and that age is a time for slowing down. Yakusho proves the opposite. His work in Perfect Days, at sixty-seven, is some of the finest work of his career, and it could only have been done by an older man, because it needed the wisdom, the patience, and the quiet that come with age. A young actor could not have played Hirayama in the same way, because a young actor has not yet learned to be still, to be content with small things, and to find joy in a simple routine. Yakusho has learned those things, and he brings them to the screen, and that is why his performance feels so true.

I also reflect on what his career says about ordinary people, because he has spent his life playing ordinary men, salarymen, clerks, cleaners, fathers, and he has shown that those men have rich inner lives, full of hope, sadness, and dignity. That is an important message, because films often focus on kings, heroes, and rich people, and they forget the ordinary people who make up most of the world. Yakusho has not forgotten them. He has played them with respect, and he has shown that an ordinary life can be a worthy subject for art. I think that is a generous thing for an actor to do, and I am grateful for it.

There is a lesson here for me about dreams, and I keep turning it over. We are often told to dream big, and to chase our dreams quickly, but Yakusho’s dream was not big in the usual sense. He did not dream of being a Hollywood star, or of being rich and famous. He dreamed of acting, of doing good work, and of telling true stories, and he pursued that dream slowly, patiently, and without giving up. That is a quieter kind of dream, but it is a more lasting kind, because it is based on love for the work itself, not on love for the rewards that come with it. I try to remember that when I feel impatient with my own life, and when I want things to happen faster than they do.

I think about the audience at Cannes, and about what they must have felt when they watched Perfect Days, and when they saw Yakusho’s face on the screen, quiet, kind, and full of a simple joy. I imagine that many of them were moved, not because the film was dramatic, but because it was true, and because it reminded them of the small pleasures in their own lives, a song, a book, a tree, a morning routine. That is the power of Yakusho’s acting. He does not need a big story to move an audience. He only needs a true one, and he tells it with such care that the audience feels it as if it were their own.

If I could say one thing to a person who feels that they have started too late, it would be to look at Koji Yakusho and to take heart. He started late, he worked as a clerk, he studied in his spare time, and he became one of the great actors of his generation, not by rushing, but by working steadily, year after year, and by never giving up on the thing he loved. That is a message of hope, and it is a message that I need to hear myself, because I often feel that time is passing too quickly, and that I have missed my chance. Yakusho’s life tells me that time is not an enemy, and that a dream pursued with patience can still come true, even when it takes decades to do so.

I also think about 13 Assassins, and about the man Yakusho played in that film, Shinzaemon Shimada, a samurai who leads a group of men to kill a cruel lord, knowing that many of them will die. That role asked him to be a leader, to be brave, and to be willing to die for what he believes is right, and he played it with a calm, steady strength that made the character feel honourable, not reckless. I admire that performance, because it shows a different side of Yakusho, a man who can lead, who can fight, and who can carry a big, epic story, as well as a man who can clean toilets and listen to music in silence. That range, from a samurai to a cleaner, is rare, and it is a sign of a great actor.

Another thought that stays with me is about his work in television, and about how television dramas in Japan are a part of daily life, watched by families in the evening, and discussed the next day. Yakusho’s work in those dramas has made him a familiar face in Japanese homes, not only in cinemas, and that familiarity is a different kind of fame from film fame. It is a quieter fame, a fame that comes from being in people’s living rooms, night after night, and it is a fame that asks an actor to be reliable, to be consistent, and to be true, week after week. Yakusho has done that, and he has done it well, for decades.

I think about the city office where he once worked, and about the people he must have met there, people who came to the office with problems, with papers, and with worries, and who needed help from the city. Those people, ordinary people with ordinary problems, are the people Yakusho has played throughout his career, and I think his time in that office taught him to see them, to listen to them, and to respect them. A young actor who has never worked a normal job might not understand those people, but Yakusho did, because he was one of them, and that understanding is in every performance he gives.

I also reflect on what it means to be a late bloomer, and on how our culture often treats late bloomers as failures, as people who missed their chance. Yakusho’s life proves the opposite. He bloomed late, and he bloomed beautifully, and his best work came when he was older, wiser, and more patient than he had been as a young man. I think that is a hopeful message for anyone who feels that they are behind, that they have started too late, or that their time has passed. Your time has not passed. It may simply be coming, slowly, in its own way, and when it comes, it will be worth the wait.

I wonder what he thinks about when he is cleaning a toilet on screen in Perfect Days, and about what Hirayama is thinking, as he works, as he listens to music, and as he looks at the trees. I think Hirayama is thinking about simple things, about the pleasure of work done well, about the beauty of a song, and about the peace that comes from a life that is small and orderly. Yakusho played those thoughts without saying them, and he let the audience feel them, and that is a kind of acting that is very hard to do, because it asks the actor to trust the audience, and to trust the silence.

I also think about the music in Perfect Days, and about the cassette tapes that Hirayama listens to, old songs by American and British artists, played on a small player, in a van, on the way to work. Those songs are a part of Hirayama’s life, and they are a part of Yakusho’s performance, because he listens to them with a joy that is visible on his face, a small smile, a tap of a finger, and a sense of peace. I think about the music I love, and about how a song can make a hard day feel lighter, and I am grateful to Yakusho for showing me that joy, in such a simple, honest way.

I think about his wife and his family, and about the life he has built away from the cameras, a life that is private, and quiet, and far from the red carpets and the awards. That private life is a kind of success that is easy to overlook, because it does not win prizes, and it does not make headlines, but it is the success that matters most, a home, a family, and a sense of peace. I hope he knows how valuable that is, and I hope he protects it, because fame fades, but a good home lasts, and a good life, lived quietly, is a life well lived.

I will remember Koji Yakusho as a man who cleaned toilets on screen and won the world’s highest acting honour for it, as a man who danced in secret and made audiences laugh and cry, and as a man who played a murderer with an eel and made the audience see the humanity in him. He is not the loudest actor in Japan, and he is not the most famous, but he is one of the wisest, and I think that is a better thing to be. A loud actor is remembered for a moment. A wise actor is remembered for a lifetime, and Yakusho has built a lifetime of work that is worth remembering.

Frequently Asked Questions

Who is Koji Yakusho?

Koji Yakusho is a Japanese actor born on 1 January 1956 in Isahaya, Nagasaki prefecture. He is known for Shall We Dance?, The Eel, 13 Assassins, and Perfect Days. He worked as a city clerk before becoming an actor, and he won Best Actor at Cannes in 2023.

What did Yakusho do before acting?

Before acting full-time, Yakusho worked as a clerk in the Chiyoda ward office in Tokyo. He studied acting in his spare time and joined a theatre group. He later left the office job to pursue acting, taking small roles in theatre and television before moving into film.

What is Shall We Dance? about?

Shall We Dance? is a 1996 Japanese film in which Yakusho plays Shohei Sugiyama, a salaryman who secretly takes dance lessons after seeing a woman in a dance studio. The film is about a man who feels empty despite a good life, and who finds joy again through dance. It was a success in Japan and abroad.

What role did Yakusho play in The Eel?

In The Eel in 1997, Yakusho played Takuro Yamashita, a man who murders his wife, serves time in prison, and tries to rebuild his life with only an eel as a companion. The film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. His quiet performance was widely praised.

What did Yakusho win at Cannes in 2023?

Yakusho won the Best Actor award at the Cannes Film Festival in 2023 for his role as Hirayama in Perfect Days. Hirayama is a man who cleans public toilets in Tokyo and lives a simple, quiet life. The award came when Yakusho was sixty-seven years old.

What is Koji Yakusho’s role in Perfect Days?

Perfect Days is a 2023 film directed by Wim Wenders, in which Yakusho plays Hirayama, a toilet cleaner in Tokyo. Hirayama wakes early, cleans with care, listens to music on cassette tapes, reads books, and photographs trees. The film is a quiet study of a simple life lived with joy.

Why is Yakusho called a master actor?

Yakusho is called a master actor because of his long career, his range, and his quiet, truthful style. He has played salarymen, murderers, samurai, and cleaners, and he has made each one feel real. His work has won awards in Japan and around the world, including at Cannes.