Unfurling the Hell Scroll: Traditionalism in Early Japanese Horror
by Dylan Stevens
Japan produces some of the most iconic and unique horror films out there today: The Grudge, The Ring, and Dark Water all have their origins in Japan, and even local productions such as Audition have become wildly popular amongst horror fans abroad. But, you might be surprised to find that Japan has a long and interesting history with horror: Japanese folklore is filled with strange and gruesome ghost stories, religious literature and art concerning spirits and demons established much of the mythos for the perception of hell, and the traditional arts of ukiyo-e woodblock printing, and noh theatre explored the macabre since their inception. During Japanese cinema’s New Wave period, a number of directors shook up the array of yakuza and exploitative skin-flicks by introducing these traditional elements of horror into their storytelling, paving the way for the philosophically inclined, but graphic and disturbing hallmark of Japanese horror we know today.
A key element of traditional Japanese culture is the passing down of folk tales, some of the most popular being kaidan (or kwaidan) – ghost stories with roots in Buddhist morality. In the world of kaidan, numerous yokai (ghosts or spirits) play tricks or cause genuine harm to humans to teach them a moral lesson, usually related to Buddhist themes of minimalism, transience, and selflessness. Two of the most famous kaidan collections are the Ugetsu Monogatari by Ueda Akinari, and the English-language Kwaidan by Lafcadio Hearn; these two collections informed some of the most influential early Japanese horror films – Mizoguchi Kenji’s Ugetsu (1953) and Kobayashi Masaki’s Kwaidan (1964). In Ugetsu, Mizoguchi combines two stories to tell the story of a peasant farmer who leaves his family during a war, and finds himself seduced by a spirit of a serpent. Long, slow takes mirror the careful unravelling of the story and its methodical use of rhythm, while the composition of Ugetsu has been compared to traditional zoshi or scroll paintings, while its colour palette implies inspiration from sumi-e ink landscape painting and calligraphy. Conversely, Kwaidan is an anthology of tales, where Kobayashi gives each careful development, and an individual world. The slow pacing of these stories is mirrored by the directors’ long, slow takes, and careful use of silence; suspense is established as the viewer feels the sense of treachery approaching. In one of the film’s best segments, Hoichi the Earless, Kobayashi directly utilises imagery from ukiyo-e woodblock prints, set to traditional music as seen in noh theatre: the message is clear, these directors are carving a uniquely Japanese sensibility in their horror. These two films, like their origins, seek to tell ultimately moral stories through their exploration of the macabre and the spooky; they relate to Buddhist themes of suffering, as well as native Japanese aesthetics of minimalism, elegant decay, and unsettling serenity.
The somewhat stuffy nature of the old-school horror of Kobayashi and Mizoguchi was hoisted aggressively out the door when the rambunctious New Wave directors arrived on the scene. The New Wave was inspired by urban life, gang violence, sex, and social criticism, and as such, they have more in line with yakuza and pinku eiga exploitation films aesthetically than the classical style of their forefathers. However, two directors – Nakagawa Nobuo and Shindo Kaneto – retained the sense of traditional Japanese values while appealing to the new, shiny cinema demographic; it is in this period that contemporary “horror” is perhaps best observed. Nakagawa’s Jigoku is a yakuza meets exploitation gore film that barely conceals its adoration for the traditionally Japanese: its critique of the wayward culture of rambunctious urban youth and deep appreciation for Buddhist mythology is evident in the film’s stunning final act, set entirely in the titular Japanese Buddhist hell. Here, the god of hell, Lord Enma, and his band of oni (demonic ogres) torture the amoral characters to demonstrate Buddhist lessons of achieving enlightenment through suffering and reincarnation, and the role of karma and causation in one’s fate. Visually, the film is a surreal combination of classic 60s Japanese New Wave and traditional jigoku-zoshi (hell scrolls), notable even in their time for their graphic detail; there is perhaps no other Japanese horror film that so fully encapsulates the complex psyche of Japanese life at the time than this. Conversely, Shindo’s Onibaba draws from traditional masked theatre such as the aforementioned noh, as well as bunraku and kabuki, in adapting a classic Buddhist parable for a modern audience. A period setting in a rural locale establishes the film’s major theme of survival and danger, as the contradiction between the violence of feudal Japan and the traditional Buddhist values of mindfulness and minimalism. A thinly veiled metaphor for the destruction of Japan following WWII, Shindo utilises traditional aesthetics and plenty of gore and skin to arrest his audience and present them a strong social critique.
This brief encapsulation of the folklore and mythology surrounding early Japanese horror barely scratches the surface of one of cinema’s most engaging and esoteric periods. The sheer uniqueness of these films imbues them with an arresting, lyrical quality that is the hallmark of great horror, as they touch deep within the unsettling reality behind the familiar, and perplex with the surreal. The work of directors like Mizoguchi, Kobayashi, Nakagawa, and Shindo paved the way for later masterpieces for which Japanese horror is now renowned; if you’re interested in digging into an incredible period in cinema history, don’t give these films a miss.
by Dylan Stevens
Japan produces some of the most iconic and unique horror films out there today: The Grudge, The Ring, and Dark Water all have their origins in Japan, and even local productions such as Audition have become wildly popular amongst horror fans abroad. But, you might be surprised to find that Japan has a long and interesting history with horror: Japanese folklore is filled with strange and gruesome ghost stories, religious literature and art concerning spirits and demons established much of the mythos for the perception of hell, and the traditional arts of ukiyo-e woodblock printing, and noh theatre explored the macabre since their inception. During Japanese cinema’s New Wave period, a number of directors shook up the array of yakuza and exploitative skin-flicks by introducing these traditional elements of horror into their storytelling, paving the way for the philosophically inclined, but graphic and disturbing hallmark of Japanese horror we know today.
A key element of traditional Japanese culture is the passing down of folk tales, some of the most popular being kaidan (or kwaidan) – ghost stories with roots in Buddhist morality. In the world of kaidan, numerous yokai (ghosts or spirits) play tricks or cause genuine harm to humans to teach them a moral lesson, usually related to Buddhist themes of minimalism, transience, and selflessness. Two of the most famous kaidan collections are the Ugetsu Monogatari by Ueda Akinari, and the English-language Kwaidan by Lafcadio Hearn; these two collections informed some of the most influential early Japanese horror films – Mizoguchi Kenji’s Ugetsu (1953) and Kobayashi Masaki’s Kwaidan (1964). In Ugetsu, Mizoguchi combines two stories to tell the story of a peasant farmer who leaves his family during a war, and finds himself seduced by a spirit of a serpent. Long, slow takes mirror the careful unravelling of the story and its methodical use of rhythm, while the composition of Ugetsu has been compared to traditional zoshi or scroll paintings, while its colour palette implies inspiration from sumi-e ink landscape painting and calligraphy. Conversely, Kwaidan is an anthology of tales, where Kobayashi gives each careful development, and an individual world. The slow pacing of these stories is mirrored by the directors’ long, slow takes, and careful use of silence; suspense is established as the viewer feels the sense of treachery approaching. In one of the film’s best segments, Hoichi the Earless, Kobayashi directly utilises imagery from ukiyo-e woodblock prints, set to traditional music as seen in noh theatre: the message is clear, these directors are carving a uniquely Japanese sensibility in their horror. These two films, like their origins, seek to tell ultimately moral stories through their exploration of the macabre and the spooky; they relate to Buddhist themes of suffering, as well as native Japanese aesthetics of minimalism, elegant decay, and unsettling serenity.
The somewhat stuffy nature of the old-school horror of Kobayashi and Mizoguchi was hoisted aggressively out the door when the rambunctious New Wave directors arrived on the scene. The New Wave was inspired by urban life, gang violence, sex, and social criticism, and as such, they have more in line with yakuza and pinku eiga exploitation films aesthetically than the classical style of their forefathers. However, two directors – Nakagawa Nobuo and Shindo Kaneto – retained the sense of traditional Japanese values while appealing to the new, shiny cinema demographic; it is in this period that contemporary “horror” is perhaps best observed. Nakagawa’s Jigoku is a yakuza meets exploitation gore film that barely conceals its adoration for the traditionally Japanese: its critique of the wayward culture of rambunctious urban youth and deep appreciation for Buddhist mythology is evident in the film’s stunning final act, set entirely in the titular Japanese Buddhist hell. Here, the god of hell, Lord Enma, and his band of oni (demonic ogres) torture the amoral characters to demonstrate Buddhist lessons of achieving enlightenment through suffering and reincarnation, and the role of karma and causation in one’s fate. Visually, the film is a surreal combination of classic 60s Japanese New Wave and traditional jigoku-zoshi (hell scrolls), notable even in their time for their graphic detail; there is perhaps no other Japanese horror film that so fully encapsulates the complex psyche of Japanese life at the time than this. Conversely, Shindo’s Onibaba draws from traditional masked theatre such as the aforementioned noh, as well as bunraku and kabuki, in adapting a classic Buddhist parable for a modern audience. A period setting in a rural locale establishes the film’s major theme of survival and danger, as the contradiction between the violence of feudal Japan and the traditional Buddhist values of mindfulness and minimalism. A thinly veiled metaphor for the destruction of Japan following WWII, Shindo utilises traditional aesthetics and plenty of gore and skin to arrest his audience and present them a strong social critique.
This brief encapsulation of the folklore and mythology surrounding early Japanese horror barely scratches the surface of one of cinema’s most engaging and esoteric periods. The sheer uniqueness of these films imbues them with an arresting, lyrical quality that is the hallmark of great horror, as they touch deep within the unsettling reality behind the familiar, and perplex with the surreal. The work of directors like Mizoguchi, Kobayashi, Nakagawa, and Shindo paved the way for later masterpieces for which Japanese horror is now renowned; if you’re interested in digging into an incredible period in cinema history, don’t give these films a miss.