Monsters and the Monstrous
“She is a monster of girlish youth” (Ataru
Oikawa, director of “Tomie”)
Film theorist Steven Schneider has proposed
that cinematic depictions of the monstrous can be collapsed into three
general categories: reincarnated monsters involving belief that the
dead can return to life, psychic monsters involving belief in the omnipotence
of thought, and dyadic monsters involving belief in the existence of a
double. Under this scheme, reincarnated monsters include zombies,
medically created creatures, and both disembodied and physical spirits.
Psychic monsters refer to instances of telekinesis or telepathy, while
dyadic monsters include replicas, replicants and monstrously aberrant behavior.
Japanese horror films eagerly embrace abject zombies
as in Naoyuki Tomomatsu’s bloodbath of female teenagers “Stacy” (2001),
Atsushi Muroga’s “Junk: Shiryô-gari” (“Junk,” 2000) that pits Kaori
Shimamura against legions of re-animated corpses in an abandoned factory,
Tetsuro Takeuchi’s gender-bending “Wild Zero” (2000), Ryuhei Kitamura’s
“Versus” (2000) and short vampire film “Longinus” (2004). These reincarnated
monsters, as well the perfect “Tomie,” are forms of return from the dead
that connote the wild release of emotion. The nude, feral young woman
in Takashi Shimizu’s “Marebito” (2004) exacts the price of her attention
by sucking the blood of the man who finds her.
It may be less straightforward to identify medico-scientific
monsters in Japanese horror. Shinya Tsukamoto’s “Tetsuo” (“The Ironman,”
1988) and “964 Pinocchio” are instances, but also seem much more actively
political statements about dehumanization rather than primarily critiquing
the hubris of science. There is definite pathos to the predicament
of these figures, as well as to that of “Isola” as the product of scientific
experimentation in the film of the same name. Perhaps Japanese horror
more actively explores the destruction of the body than its creation.
Medical settings supply the elements of mise-en-scene for the “Ringu” sequel
“Rasen” (“Spiral,” 1998) directed by Joji Iida as well as Masayuki Ochiai’s
explicit “medical-splatter” film “Kansen” (“Infection,” 2004) in which
grotesque medical malpractice, murder, and infectious organ liquefaction
provide a disgusting metaphor for madness and more conventional homicide
perpetrated by a male physician. Although therapists – perhaps by
virtue of their perceived openness – may be accorded a feminine role irrespective
of their screen gender, as in “Tomie” and another Ochiai title “Saimin”
(“The Hypnotist,” 1999), the familiar patriarchal power of male medical
professionals provides the context for serial cannibalism of young women
(played by, among others, Hitomi Miwa and Fumina Hara) in Osamu Fukutani’s
“Saigo no bansan” (“The Last Supper,” 2005).
Akihide Kuwabara’s “Jukai” (“The Curse Zone,”
1998) invokes the typical horror device of a haunted forest as an uncanny
place, as does Toshikazu Nagae’s “Gosuto shisutemu” (“Ghost System,” 2002),
as well as Takeshi Miyasaka’s “Genkaku” (“Hallucination,” 2005) that involves
a return to the theme of “Versus” – yakuza tormented by the spirits of
their victims. Here, Kimika Yoshino plays the hapless girlfriend
of a yakuza who is sent to detoxify in a remote house set in the deep woods,
with Hitomi Miwa in the part of her nurse. In the ensuing paranoia
of isolation, everyone dies. Based on yet another Junji Ito
manga, Shibuya Kazayuki’s “Shibito no koiwazurai” (“Lovesick Dead,” 2000)
combines traditional mythology with the device of teenage concerns with
urban legends and romance. Risa Goto and Asumi Miwa play high school
classmates who become involved in romantic rivalry that goes awry under
the influence of fortune-telling that seems linked to a mysterious shrine
that leads to death. In Kei Horie’s “Shibuya kaidan” (“The Locker,”
2003) young people unleash a vengeful female spirit when they operate a
haunted coin locker.
Diffuse demonic forces or spirits are relatively
rare in Japanese horror, but uncanny external forces appear in “Spiral”
as exaggerated control by particular signs or environmental cues.
Mass suicide, carried to exquisite extremes in Shion Son’s disturbing “Jisatsu
saakuru” (“Suicide Circle,” 2002) is attributed to diffuse pathological
influences rooted in cultural change and consumerism, while the “Suicide
Manual” films appear to articulate a fear of elemental loss of all personal
control to external influence. Madness seems to be a common corollary
to social isolation and may be attributed to aberrant behavior (“Banquet
of the Beasts”), confinement as in Hiroki Yamaguchi’s “Gusha no bindume”
(“Hellevator,” 2004) or uncanny places (“Hallucination”).
Apart from young girls (as in the “Wizard of Darkness”
series) or the lethally frenzied desires engendered by “Tomie,” direct
spiritual possession of an individual also seems relatively rare, although
spiritual “infection” results in the serial deaths of Tsuruta’s “Ringu
0: Bâsudei” (“Ring 0: Birthday,” 2000). The return of the spirits
of specific persons is quite common in films such as Nagasaki’s “Shikoku”
(“Land of the Dead”) or Takahashi’s “Mail” with a frequent emphasis on
vengeance for an undiscovered murder, and this theme can be viewed as a
continuation of traditional artistic expressions such as Kabuki and woodblock
prints. In many “Ringu”-influenced titles the victim may be female
while the perpetrator is often a male family member. Madness and
death appear to be the fate of people cut off by circumstances from their
larger system of social supports (“Battle Royale,” “Banquet of the Beasts,”
“Living Hell,” “Hellevator,” “Hallucination”) – a potential comment on
Japanese Hell.
Occult horror films, in the tradition of “The
Exorcist,” may imply negative references to reproductive themes through
vocalizations and dramatic physical changes such as swelling, vomiting
and the appearance of stigmata on the female body. The relative scarcity
of such elements in Japanese horror – as distinct from their prominence
in closely related exploitation films – may represent yet another instance
of the cultural specificity of the uncanny and abject.
Wishes may be promptly – and violently – fulfilled
by female telekinetic influence (“Pyrokinesis,” “Parasite Eve” “Rubber’s
Lover”), but mental transparency as practiced by telepaths or vampires
seems rare. This may reflect the often substantial lack of correspondence
between “honne” and “tatemae” so graphically portrayed by voice-over of
the female rivals of Yukihiko Tsutsumi’s “2LDK” (2002). These two
women initially maintain a polite façade while privately finding
fault with each other.
Japanese horror seems less concerned with replacement
by natural replicas than with the merger of robotics and flesh (“Tetsuo”).
Anime, in particular, vigorously explores the co-existence of cyborg and
person (“Ghost in the Shell,” “Armitage,” “Appleseed”) without necessarily
constructing this as uncanny. Even “Honey Kisaragi” (Eriko Sato)
in “Kyûtî Hanî” (“Cutie Honey,” 2004) appears to represent
a kind of “post-sexual” figure – an alluring but cheerfully indifferent
android. Twin figures (doppelgangers) occasionally wreak havoc or
constitute the site of the uncanny as in Miike’s short film “Box,” part
of the “Three . . . Extremes” (2004) collection.
But J-Horror is definitively replete with real
individuals whose actions constitute horrifying violations of other persons
and our very construction of the basis of social relations. The equation
of people with garbage adequately summarizes the ethos of “All Night Long”
that lingers over suffering, decay and bodily waste. Literal saturation
with garbage, vomit and body fluids is present in films such as “Organ,”
“964 Pinocchio,” “Rubber’s Lover” or “Banquet of the Beasts” as a flagrant
violation of norms of polite behavior, cleanliness and basic order.
Takashi Miike’s “Tajuu jinkaku tantei saiko - Amamiya kazuhiko no kikan”
(“MPD Psycho,” 2000) – a made-for-television series of shorts adapted from
a manga – presents disgustingly bizarre mutilation of women. Such
profoundly rejected aspects of conduct return with a degree of felt violation
commensurate with the strength of the initial rule. In a society
so attentive to rules of place, propriety and hygiene, the opportunities
for such violations in Japanese horror films are legion. Toshiharu
Ikeda’s “Hasami otoko” (“The Man Behind the Scissors,” 2004) examines the
motivations and actions of a serial killer couple, while Satoshi Isaka’s
“Hasen no marisu” (“The Frame,” 2000) is one of the more intelligent dramatic
treatments of stalking and murder in the genre, as it dwells quite explicitly
on how patriarchal power conspires to undermine and defeat the female protagonist
played by Hitomi Kuroki. Using the metaphor of investigative journalism,
voyeurism is itself interrogated in this film, instead of foregrounding
the more typical horror themes of female fear and suffering.
