Room for Both: Horror and Social Commentary in 3 Japanese Classics

None of these movies are related, apart from that. What’s curious is that each ends up feeling like a horror film, to me—in spite of it being inadvisable: the act of classifying them as “horror” in a purist sense. All the same, while watching them, I couldn’t shake the feeling of watching very different movies than whatever I had initially expected.

Teshigahara’s movie, Woman in the Dunes, is about an entomologist—tricked by some rather unscrupulous villagers into being lowered down a hole, out in the desert. The hole is surrounded by sand dunes that must be shoveled on a daily basis, lest they grow unstable and threaten the village resting on top of them. Meanwhile, the hole contains a hut, which will be destroyed first, unless the dunes are dealt with. A woman lives in this hut and she shovels sand. Like Sisyphus, she is resigned to her dull, inescapable task.

What a strange system, I thought. Why not use more practical methods? The answer is simple: Slaves are a readily-available, cheap alternative (one theory as to why the Romans never developed past a certain technological state is because they didn’t need to: they had all the slaves they could ever require; the same warped logic is applied by the villagers). In any case, the man falls in love with the woman, who becomes pregnant and is evacuated, while he remains. When, at last, he has a chance to escape, he chooses not to. He has acclimated to his new prison.

At the end, I was left feeling as though I’d just watched a lengthy Twilight Zone (1959-64) episode. This was not my feeling going in. The best horror often leads off this way. It establishes a false sense of security and then disillusions it; said reveal can be sudden, or gradual. Dunes was a bit of both—the shock at the start, and the gradual acceptance of one’s inescapable doom.

In Funeral Parade of Roses, we are presented with something altogether different: a “queen,” or man who dresses and acts a woman, including sleeping with men—in 1960s Japan. This seemed largely to involve performances—makeup, body language, upspeak—rather than surgical procedures. Needless to say these persons aren’t always accepted: they skirmish with surly women, whilst their own male lovers uselessly fawn over them from a distance.

Wanting to be different, the protagonist, Peter, walks around, troubled, not simply because he is a queen, but how he became one. Towards the end of the movie, his past is shown, with his mother scolding him fiercely for wearing makeup like a girl. The son explodes, killing his mother—along with an unfamiliar man whilst the two adults are about to have sex. It’s a very violent ordeal, brought to life with terrific blood effects. Peter’s tendency to explode builds, eventually leading him to gouge out his own eyes, like Sophocles’ Oedipus. The gore, here, is equally fabulous, using makeup and prosthetics to rival the sort of digital visual effects showcased in much newer movies.

Being shot in black-and-white, Roses reminded me of a much bloodier version of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). In that movie, Hitchcock used chocolate syrup for its famous kill. I’m pretty sure Matsumoto didn’t, with his actors. Blood is hard to get right (while far from the greatest movie ever filmed, Brian O’Malley’s Let Us Prey [2014] at least manages to). In particular, fake blood in older movies generally looks pretty shoddy. For example, in William Friedkin’s The French Connection (1971) it looked way too thick, like ketchup; then again, in newer movies, like Tarantino’s latter-day output Django Unchained (2013) or The Hateful Eight (2015) the blood looks oddly like paint (this is a stylistic choice, not a technical limitation, however). Whatever the reason or method, Matsumoto’s blood looks fabulous; his characters wear white, and their pure clothes are coated in black blood that stains, runs and ruins.

Maybe blood, like cigarette smoke, simply looks more striking in black-and-white. Then again, maybe not: many horror movies look excellent in color. I certainly can’t imagine Fred M. Wilcox’s Forbidden Planet (1956) in black-and-white: when purple, those blaster shots simply leap off the screen at you. At the same time, they were displayed as black-and-white in John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978): in that movie, a little girl stares at Forbidden Planet, featured curiously on her family’s old, black-and-white television set. Such sets were common, in the 1950s, when the movie was new (seeing it in color would have been a privilege exclusive to the theater). I’m not sure if they were, in the late 1970s, but I remember my brother owning one as a collector’s item, in the 1990s. Apart from colorful visual effects seen in Forbidden Planet, the Technicolor showcase The Wizard of Oz (1939) initially bombed. It didn’t pick up steam—not until broadcast on family TV sets, in the 1950s (the irony being that many of these sets would have been black-and-white).

The fact remains, Dunes and Roses both felt perfect to me, as black-and-white movies. So does the third movie, Love Song. Shot by Kazuo Hara, its premise is explained from the offset: Hara, unable to cope with the loss of the girlfriend who left him, shoots her (with a camera). He does this with her permission, while she and her partner(s) are in the room. To quote Tom Hanks, from Joe Dante’s The ‘Burbs (1989): “I’ve never seen that; I’ve never seen someone drag their garbage down to the middle of the street and then bang the hell out of it with a stick.” Despite having seen hundreds of films, across genres, I’ve never seen what Hara does with Miyuki.

That being said, I’ll be the first to admit that the premise of unwanted separation can be used to great comedic effect. Just watch Nicholas Stoller’s Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008) or David Wain’s Role Models (2008): the guy who can’t let go is either a hilarious or a sympathetic wreck. And yet, while I’ve heard an ex stalking a former girlfriend, including by filming them, I’ve never in all my days heard of someone seriously being allowed to do so by their old partner—to act as a silent observer in midst of all her future shenanigans. Who’d want to film that?

I figured, Hara must be a glutton for punishment—that or the whole affair had to be royally trashy. Instead, I found it fascinating and insightful. This is because whole the invasive process required Hara to have been in the same room with Miyuki and her lovers (an immediacy assisted by the analogue approach); we’re privy to it all, seeing how his unwelcome presence exhibits a toll on everyone, including him. It’s a unique perspective, to say the very least.

Miyuki’s also a piece of work. She boldly “experiments,” trying relationships with other women, and black men with “big black cocks” (which she writes, in pamphlets she wrote and printed herself, before trying to administer them amongst angry men, in Okinawa). She hotly encourages women to simply take a man’s money and run. I don’t think the 1970s would have allowed for anything other than radicalism, given how stringent expectations on female behavior were, in Japan or abroad (the Okinawans tore up Miyuki’s pamphlets and attacked Hara).

If I’m being honest, my gut reaction was that everyone in the movie was ridiculous. However, then I paused and wondered to myself, what’s so outrageous about birth or parenthood? These are very ordinary things. Miyuki simply didn’t want to be a stay-at-home mom, didn’t want to have to be stuck with a man she didn’t love (simply due to him being Japanese). Sure, it sucks to be him; then again, given the way Miyuki was acting would he have been happy with her as she was? Or should he have put her in her place?

The movie, to its merit, raises awareness towards a lot issues like these—ones that would otherwise simply go unaddressed, even nowadays. I shall explore Love Song in further detail, in part two.

Part Two

Horror excels at exploring taboos—those things which disgust us. Here, the movies Woman in the Dunes, Funeral Parade of Roses and Extreme Private Eros: Love Song do just that. In particular, Love Song has Hara follow his ex, Miyuki, around, filming her as she jumps from partner to partner. From an emotional standpoint, this, right here, would make for a good horror premise, wouldn’t it?

The movie does us one better, however. It has Hara film Miyuki giving birth to Yu, her second child (not his). And when I say he films it, I don’t mean shots of her groaning stentoriously followed by an immediate cut to her magically holding the swaddled tot. Instead, I mean the actual birth, unsterilized (eat your heart out, Ridley Scott).

It’s goes beyond mere medical exhibition, though. We’re not just seeing the kid being pushed out, here, but a scandal in the making: a birth that is anything but the result of a purebred Japanese nuclear family (a native husband and wife who bears only his children). Instead, the baby is Miyuki’s second: from another man—and not just any man, but a black man! Perhaps in today’s day and age this isn’t so odd; in 1970s Japan, it would have been unimaginable.

Thus, leading up to the birth and during it, we have actually have three nightmare scenarios: male impotency, racial supplantment; and the delivery, itself. First, the abandoned lover is made redundant by another man. Second, that competitor is black. Third, the fruit of their deplorable union is exposed for all to see (when shooting it, Hara was so nervous that he failed to notice the shot wasn’t always in focus). The movie doesn’t imply these themes; it candidly narrates them.

Miyuki continues to surprise, as well. During the birth, we watch her calmly speak about how exhilarating it is as a process. There is nothing fake about any of this—especially her conviction. She squats and prods her belly before laying out the plastic sheets, the buckets of water. She knows the whole process like the back of her hand; and thus, might as well be cutting the lawn, for all the shock it poses on her system.

Indeed, she smiles and laughs all the way through, chirping happily into a microphone being held by another woman, who smiles politely and listens to everything Miyuki says as she gives a blow-by-blow commentary on and during her own pregnancy. I was hooked, all the more so because this isn’t a visual effect, but a real, undeniable event. As Kambei Shimada in Seven Samurai (1954) said, of the speared woman carrying her baby to safety from the burning mill: “What willpower!” Concerning my reaction towards Miyuki, the incredulity was no less inspired.

All the while, the baby is forced out, dangling by its umbilical cord as Mom prates nonchalantly about placentas. If that isn’t horror I don’t know what it is. Yet, Miyuki isn’t rambling. She’s lucid, putting her money where her mouth is. The movie paints a genuine picture of earnest, enthusiastic motherhood detached from men altogether. To this, the movie raises a lot of interesting points. For example, in watching Miyuki give birth, I have to wonder why men consider any resultant child to be solely theirs, the so-called “fruit” of their labor versus the mother’s. Given the choice, what man would swap places? You tell me.

Personally I think this kind of rhetoric—of men owning their children and their money—is aimed to keep women around more than convince them of anything that is actually true.

One, my own father spent as much on other women than he did Mom; instead of providing for us kids, he wooed other men’s wives (men who were his friends, who trusted him). Was it his right, simply because he worked, as a man? The only reason Mom couldn’t work was because she was pregnant, thanks to him. Yet, after the divorce, she worked and went to grad school, doing her own thing. Likewise, Miyuki decided to raise Rei and Yu on her own. In my opinion, she succeeds. Yes, she lives with men, but also women, and eventually on her own. All the while, Rei’s father misses them; Yu’s couldn’t care less. Regardless, Miyuki simply doesn’t need their money to be a mother because, like them, she’s capable of making ends meet.

Two, is men’s money actually theirs? They certainly like to say it is. To me, the whole idea of owning money seems odd (for the majority of us who don’t own banks). It’s not like most men own the place they work at, either. I mean, does the paycheck they get actually constitute as theirs when it’s signed by someone else? I wonder.

Furthermore, should they be allowed to do whatever they wish, including let their own children suffer from neglect? Whatever happened to parent responsibility? This includes managing funds and not devoting the majority of those to drugs or booty calls whilst one already has a pregnant wife and three small kids sitting at home. If one can’t handle that, then don’t have kids. Or, is that and having sex every man’s right—essentially to do whatever one pleases?

I can’t condone such heedless, flippant hedonism. So while I may be a result of my father’s errant trysts, it doesn’t mean I approve of what he did, following that. Nor do I approve of telling “lazy” women or kids to fend for themselves, while the “hard-working man” assumes total ownership over them, but doesn’t actually provide. Such a blatant double standard is having one’s cake and eating it, too; it’s convenient nonsense. There’s no reason to allow for it beyond enabling those in total control to bask in the luxurious perks.

None of this means I like Miyuki—point in fact, as a mate, I don’t; I find the idea of being with her not only unappealing but impossible (she wouldn’t allow it, for starters). At the same time, whilst giving birth to Yu, Miyuki seemed pleased, more so than she was at any other point in the movie (with the men, on-screen). And why shouldn’t she be allowed that chance, the same as everyone else?

At the same time, the men are free to complain, here. If they felt wronged, certainly they could’ve taken it up in court. None do. Let’s not forget, these men choose not to be in the picture; many simply disappear long before the woman knows she is pregnant (especially in those days, when pregnancy tests and contraceptives were far less reliable than they are now). Should Miyuki pay for it by being labeled a slut? If so, then why is the man given a pass, here? Is what happened to Miyuki just another case of the old adage, “boys will be boys; girls will be mothers”? Or, should both sides be held accountable?

What I liked about Love Song is that it gets one thinking about these questions, even if we don’t agree with the answers. For example, I initially thought Miyuki was mental; in the end, I felt her methods extreme, but not devoid of merit. At the very least, she shows us society isn’t fixed, but can change. I didn’t see this as a bad thing but that’s just me. Certainly it can always be argued that some people are happy with the way things are. However, what about the ones who aren’t? Shouldn’t they also be allowed to do as they wish? In fact, doesn’t the whole idea of individualism revolve around such entitlement? If people want to be themselves and try to change the world, in the process, more power to them. That’s what free speech is all about.

Part Three

My partner and I love to show each other movies. Our mutual aim is to show the other something different, and to explore new things together. Neither of us had seen these three movies. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. However, lacking a better way of putting it, none of the movies—based on their premise, cover or pedigree—screamed “horror!” They sounded like dramas, more interested in social commentary. What I didn’t realize is there was plenty of room for both.

All the same, I was interested by them, having been deeply fascinated with Japanese movies ever since I was little. One of the first Japanese movies I saw was Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954). Having repeatedly heard it to be one of the greatest movies of all time, I decided to watch it; I loved it, and showed it to my friends and family (and their friends). To this day it’s one of my all-time favorites.

From Kurosawa’s own canon, I also saw Ran (1985), Throne of Blood (1957) and Stray Dog (1949). By the time Kurosawa did Ran, he was no longer working with Toshiro Mifune. However, from 1945-68, the pair had done 16 films together. Needless to say I was exposed constantly to Mifune on-screen; he always had a starring role, always hit it out of the park. I was engrossed with his talent, and Kurosawa’s. However, whilst Mifune remained as prolific as, say, someone like Clint Eastwood, I daresay he managed it without the burden of only being portrayed as a man of few words (whereas Eastwood made a career out as just that).

Watching Mifune, I realized how varied he could be: In Throne of Blood and Seven Samurai, he was over-the-top, demanding your attention. And yet, in movies like Kihachi Okamoto’s Sword of Doom (1966) or Hiroshi Inagaki’s Samurai trilogy (1954-1956), he displays much more reserved warrior—in the form of Toranosuke Shimada or Musashi Miyamoto, respectively. That variety certainly didn’t hurt his career or the notoriety that came with it; he continued to acting for another three decades, but (for better or worse) would always be the man who played Kikuchiyo, Tajômaru and Miyamoto.

To this, one can note a cross-cultural heritage throughout worldwide cinema: In seeing Inagaki’s aforementioned trilogy, it was for me hard not to compare it to Leone’s Dollars trilogy (1964-66) that followed, ten years later—just as I struggled not to compare John Sturges’ The Magnificent Seven (1960) to Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai.

This is because movies mirror each other. It just happens. Likewise, so do actors: I see Mifune’s varied career and find myself thinking of Robert Redford and Paul Newman, working together as reversible, polarized opposites in the George Roy Hill movies Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) and The Sting (1973). Good actors should play against type—if not, should own it (see: Eastwood). The best do both (see: Mifune).

The point here is that movies are flexible, as are their actors. Mifune wasn’t restricted by what made him famous, early on. Instead, he evolved, demonstrating himself capable of being more than anything suggested by his outer layer (that, and he had expensive appetites—bills that weren’t going to pay themselves). Thus, as of now I can’t simply look at him and assume anything concrete when watching a new (to me) movie, from his extensive canon—anymore than I could of Robin Williams, Max Von Sydow, or Peter O’Toole.

Williams has made more garbage than I so easily list, here; he’s also starred in excellent movies like (according to me) Seize the Day (1986) and (according to most people) Good Will Hunting (1997). Max Von Sydow starred as Antonius Block in the seminal The Seventh Seal (1957) and Ming the Merciless in the guilty pleasure that is Flash Gordon (1980). O’Toole immortalized himself as Lawrence, in Lawrence of Arabia (1962) then co-starred in the frankly-awful Supergirl (1984).

Perhaps they needed paychecks. Mifune certainly did. Then again, it didn’t stop Frank Langella from delivering a wonderful performance as Skeletor, in Masters of the Universe (1987). His thespian heft doesn’t change the fact that the movie is mostly sub-par, but at least Langella is having fun; if not for that, the movie wouldn’t be any at all, for us. It just goes to show that, when dealing with movies and their actors, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—or, as James “J.Y.” Young from Styx once said, “sometimes the cover makes the book.”

The same is true with Woman in the Dunes, Funeral Parade of Roses and Extreme Private Eros: Love Song. Each is a black-and-white Japanese movie from the mid-20th century. As I watched each, it seemed straightforward enough: drama, and society commentaries on controversial topics. However, as things progressed, I realized I was dealing with a trio of films that worked just as well as horror as anything else. I went into them with my own subdued expectations—least of all, the sort of classic horror provided by Carpenter, Cronenberg or Scott. At the same time, I also wasn’t surprised to have these predictions obliterated, given the sheer potential contained within Japanese cinema, as demonstrated by Kurosawa, Okamoto or Inagaki. Instead, as each movie proved itself capable of being more than whatever I simply predicted, I was delighted to be proven wrong.

---

About the Author

Persephone van der Waard is the author of the multi-volume, non-profit book series, Sex Positivity—its art director, sole invigilator, illustrator and primary editor (the other co-writer/co-editor being Bay Ryan). Persephone has her independent PhD in Gothic poetics and ludo-Gothic BDSM (focusing on partially on Metroidvania), and is a MtF trans woman, anti-fascist, atheist/Satanist, poly/pan kinkster, erotic artist/pornographer and anarcho-Communist with two partners. Including multiple playmates/friends and collaborators, Persephone and her many muses work/play together on Sex Positivity and on her artwork at large as a sex-positive force. That being said, she still occasionally writes reviews, Gothic analyses, and interviews for fun on her old blog (and makes YouTube videos talking about politics). To learn more about Persephone’s academic/activist work and larger portfolio, go to her About the Author page. To purchase illustrated or written material from Persephone (thus support the work she does), please refer to her commissions page for more information. Any money Persephone earns through commissions goes towards helping sex workers through the Sex Positivity project; i.e., by paying costs and funding shoots, therefore raising awareness. Likewise, Persephone accepts donations for the project, which you can send directly to her PayPal,  Ko-Fi, Patreon or CashApp. Every bit helps!