APRIL 17, 2026 – (Cont.) In the abstract, “doing one’s duty” and “doing the right thing” sound so simple and straight forward. But as the venerable and inimitable Professor Maynard Pirsig, Sr. (as distinguished from “Jr.,” author of The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) was wont to do in my criminal law class, he’d say, “Suppose . . . this case . . .” then pitch a hypothetical curve ball at a random member of the class who was expected to swing big, after which Pirsig would throw a change-up at another student whose number was up. Pretty soon half the class was swinging away at one hypothetical after another. There were no correct answers—or at least no correct answers that lived past the next twisted hypothetical hurled by the good professor. His course—and so many other areas of the law—could be summed up by the amorphous phrase, “It depends.” So it is with defining “duty” and “doing the right thing”: often “it depends” on a host of circumstances.
The movies and stories I like best are those that grapple with clear-cut moral and ethical questions amidst ambiguity created by competing interests and inner conflicts. With its many subplots and sub-subplots, The Man in the High Castle is replete with such material. The two principal antagonists—Reichsmarschall John Smith on the Nazi side, and Inspector Takeshi Kido of the Japanese occupation forces—put themselves through intense anguish thanks to an assortment of conflicts between familial “duty” and “duty” to the Reich (Smith) and Emperor (Kido). Inumberable other characters, major and minor, face continual choices that muddle ostensibly simple moral and ethical imperatives. Of course, survival instincts kick in too, which often make a mess of things—highlighting what is an inescapable feature of the human condition.
Though Smith and Kido meet and discover a common interest in seizing, controlling, and perhaps (though it’s not entirely clear) destroying the Man in the High Castle, the two aren’t exactly allies. Their governments certainly aren’t. Each faces his unique set of enemies and adversaries, but their sharpest conflicts are familial, in each case, between father and son, and in Smith’s case too, conflicts with his wife and one of their daughters over party policies vs. personal values. These are played out quite successfully cinemographically, as measured by the pain and empathy experienced by the viewer.
In the case of the Reichsmarschall, the father-son conflict (accompanied by spousal conflict) is triggered by the teenage son’s diagnosis of facioscapulohumeral muscular dystrophy, an hereditary disease that eventually leads to total paralysis. Under Nazi rules, the discover triggers mandatory reporting for euthanasia. As Obergruppenfuhrer at the time, Smith knows this, of course, but he refuses to sacrifice what is dearest to him. He’s willing to murder (and does) the diagnosing physician—a good Nazi—and send the beloved son to South America where a “friendly kidnapping” is to be arranged. The son, however, being an even better Nazi than his Obergruppenfuhrer father, is determined to “be a heroic example.” He turns himself in to the euthanasia squad—much to his horrified Nazi parents.
This father-son conflict is revisited in the “alt-world” that Smith, now as Reichsmarschall, enters via Die Nebenwelt device managed by none other than Dr. Mengele. He finds his way to his alt-world suburban home in Virginia, where his wife welcomes him back from an overnight “sales trip.” Soon after his arrival he learns that his son, now 18, is intent on joining the Marines so he can “join the fight” in Vietnam.
Smith, who in that same alt-world had served in the army in the Philipines in WW II and committed unspecified atrocities, is horrified by his son’s plan. He takes him to a café to “talk it over” and tells him he’s making a terrible mistake. The son is unmoved. He simply wants to emulate his father, who was a war hero. Smith amps it up with a stridently anti-war fervor and even goes on to attack some of the great myths of America, such as our “freedom.”
Just then a Black couple enters the establishment and attempts to sit at the counter and order food. Other patrons and the man behind the counter will have none of it. The sheriff is called and hauls the couple off. All the while, Smith is seriously troubled by the incident (having just told his son that many people in America aren’t “free”), but he says nothing—until the sheriff and the “offenders” are gone and Smith’s son, who was also disturbed by what he saw, asks, “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you do something?” Smith punts, saying there was nothing he could do, but the viewer knows he’s feeling nothing but shame. The scene ends with the son leaving in disgust—and enlisting in the Marines.
One of the finer features of the show is the genius of Rufus Sewell (Smith) for facial expressions. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other actor communicate so much by his eyes and facial muscles, accompanied by masterfully subtle movements of his head guided by his chin. He matches this talent with superb voice control—volume, timbre and changes in annunciation.
In another set of brief but scorching scenes embedded in his past life within the main world in which he resides (the one in which the Nazis and Imperial Japanese were victorious), Smith betrays his close army buddy, who’s Jewish, in order to save his own neck.
Then there’s Inspector Kido, who is as cruel and conniving as he is ramrod straight and formal. Every thought, every word, every deed is suborned to his “duty” to the Emperor. His pride in country is matched only by his pride in his son, a soldier in the occupying force in San Francisco and a veteran of the war in Manchuria, where he was awarded the medal of honor. Kido tells him to be sure to wear the medal at an upcoming interview for a post under a key Japanese general. But the taciturn son refuses. He’s ashamed of the medal because he’s filled with remorse for the atrocities he committed to win the medal. Kido tells him “that’s war” and is “something in the past.” A violent altercation ensues between father and son. They split.
Only later, when Japan withdraws from “JPS” (Japanese Pacific States), does Kido finally face up to his hand in the evil and violence of the occupation. He achieves a modicum of reconciliation with the son when the latter departs for the homeland.
On the Smith side, everything unravels when the teenage daughter, then Helen Smith confront, then acknowledge the evil of all to which the family has subscribed and by which they’ve benefited. Torn by it all too is the Reichsmarschall himself, except he never confronts his own wrong-doing and never “does the right thing”; just “things necessary,” immoral and unethical, to keep his family safe.
The point to all this is that by a mix of historical realities and fictional stories, The Man in the High Castle presents innumerable conflicts and confrontations in which the characters must wrestle with contradictions, ambiguities, and unknown influences in the face of choosing between “right and wrong.” The combination of top-flight writing, acting and directing—supported by all those detailed and authentic-appearing props!—give meaning to this edifying show.
The next time Beth and I play cards with Ann and Ravi, I’ll have to give them my new perspective on an old show. Stay tuned for their reaction.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
