Much like the short-story collection upon which it is based, Kwaidan is a synthesis of various influences from different parts of the world - as the forward to the book put it, a "meeting of three ways" - even though both projects (text and movie) are clearly rooted in the folklore of old Japan. The book was written by Lafcadio Hearn, a Greek-Irish adventurer who was among the first from the "Occidental" world to achieve serious and sustained penetration into the famously closed-off Japanese culture of the 19th century. Having made his settlement and earned the trust of the locals, Hearn set about gathering up as much of the old stories as time and circumstance allowed him. His book, Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things (published in 1904), was promoted by its publisher as an insightful and sympathetic "interpretation" of Japan's exotic milieu, and I can only imagine how astonishing it must have been for Western readers of this era to let their minds linger over the eerie and unsettling tales that Hearn recounted. A whole world was being opened up to them, a distinctive treasury of supernatural legends that had been accumulating for centuries, now presented by a dedicated student and masterful communicator who excelled at creating a bridge for novices to commence their exploration.
In Hearn's slim volume of tales, the "three ways" referred to in the Introduction were Buddhist religion, Japanese aesthetics and the author/translator's "spirit of occidental science" that fused to create "a compound so rare as to have introduced into literature a psychological sensation unknown before." I'll grant the editor a measure of hyperbolic license to make his pitch to the reader, but I think the same sentiments, toned down just a bit, apply quite fairly to Masaki Kobayashi's hefty omnibus feature film that selected four of the short stories that Hearn presented in literary form. In this case, the three elements compounded could be regarded as the allure of the eerie old tales themselves, the opportunity to re-tell them in a new visual medium that would appeal to a global audience increasingly curious about Japanese culture, and Kobayashi's exceptional technical gifts for creating powerfully indelible cinematic imagery that he hoped would impress viewers both foreign and domestic. His aspirations were handsomely validated by a Special Jury Award at the 1965 Cannes Film Festival, an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Language Film that same year, and widespread acclaim among general audiences that has continued to this day. Previous works such as his massive trilogy The Human Condition and Harakiri, demonstrated Kobayashi's fearless courage to stage scenes of the utmost solemnity, and to sustain such serious moods for long, unrelenting sequences that few directors would dare take on. Kwaidan, in its original cut, runs just a little over three hours, and for nearly that entire running time, the pace is kept deliberately and at times distressingly slow, with no overt forays into anything resembling comic relief. The emotional gravity, stately pacing and long build-ups in each of the segments lead to payoffs that, while memorable and skillfully realized, could be considered by many of today's viewers as obvious, simplistic and perhaps insufficient rewards for their patience.
A sometimes vigorous, sometimes petty online debate can be found on IMDb and elsewhere as to whether or not Kwaidan really ought to be considered a horror film, at least the way that genre is understood these days. In terms of delivering shocks, jumps or even that queasy but somewhat enjoyable state of psychological disorientation that a good scary movie usually induces, viewers looking for such thrills are advised to find them elsewhere. What Kwaidan does deliver, quite magnificently in my opinion, is a potentially immersive theatrical experience - I say "potentially" because I think the film would benefit from a blu-ray upgrade and a more comprehensive presentation along the lines of the Masters of Cinema edition - where massive set designs, vibrant color schemes, the jagged dissonance of Toru Takemitsu's marvelous soundtrack and exceptionally disciplined acting performances all come together to stir our emotions as we contemplate how these odd and ancient hair-raisers might actually apply to the mundane circumstances of our everyday lives. Rather than point to the existence of some creepy supernatural realm that exists "out there" to possibly interfere with the usual order of things, Kwaidan's stories, if viewed from a slightly oblique angle, actually underscore how we ourselves are often so responsible for the difficult circumstances that beset us. Each of the four stories yields a supposedly obvious surface reading with an apparent moral attached, but closer examination subverts the conventional wisdom about what is being said.
In The Black Hair, an ambitious young samurai leaves the wife of his youth in order to marry the daughter of a rich nobleman, but after years of unhappiness with a woman he doesn't love, he returns to his home town, where he reunites with his wife and tries to make amends. Their brief moment of reconciliation is sweet indeed, but is quickly followed up by a horrific discovery. The obvious message would seem to indicate that he should have never left her in the first place, but perhaps his greater fault is the double-mindedness that led him to forsake his subsequent commitments in a futile attempt to repair the damage that he needlessly caused.
Likewise, The Woman of the Snow's denouement, in which a man carelessly brings down a curse upon himself for disclosing a secret that he had been forbidden to ever talk about with anyone else, seems pretty harsh for such a small offense. After all, he was nearly dead and probably delirious in that circumstance - who could fault a guy for sharing such an unusual memory? But his extreme reversal, from happy and prosperous to widowed and distraught in an all too sudden moment, mirrors how swiftly life can swing from simple contentment to dreadful uncertainty, no matter how comfortable our lot, how well-managed our routine.
Hoichi the Earless is the marvelous spectacle at the heart of Kwaidan, running nearly an hour all by itself and incorporating Kobayashi's most ambitious efforts in recreating a colorful medieval maritime battle fought with swords and spears by men standing on narrow floating vessels within the confines of a large indoor set. That historical sequence is ingeniously intercut with images from ancient tapestries that evoke the fury and madness of such combat, melding classical Japanese artwork with the latest in cinematic showmanship. All the action serves as a prelude to the story of a young man whose musical and recitative gifts make him both exceedingly appealing to denizens of the spirit world, and whose blindness and naivete render him vulnerable to manipulations by those same macabre forces. When it becomes clear to his elders that the demand for his talents has placed him in great danger, extraordinary measures are taken to keep him safe, but they prove partially inadequate and he suffers greatly due to a sad oversight. Still, the young man's fortitude allows him to withstand the wrath of his tormentor, and eventually to prosper from his ability to weave a fascinating narrative out of the misfortunes that he experienced. Thus a cautionary tale that some might regard as a warning to avoid risky entanglements with those who have passed beyond the veil becomes more about self-reliance and an informed, skeptical reluctance to simply rely on the instructions and safeguards of those in authority when faced with coercion or other kinds of interference.
Finally, Kobayashi ushers out of this unsettling realm that he and his colleagues created with the ambivalent fourth episode, In a Cup of Tea. It's the shortest and slightest of the tales, but in its own way, perhaps the most disturbing in its implications for creative types. The story involves Kannai, a stern warrior who inexplicably begins to see the reflection of another man's face smirking back at him when he peers into his teacup. The phenomenon occurs on several occasions, but rather than pausing in wonder, the aging swordsman reacts aggressively, impulsively gulping down the tea and ignoring the ominous portent it contains. When the man whose face appeared to him in the teacup earlier in the day shows up within the confines of Kannai's securely guarded house, Kannai denies recognition and weapons are drawn. After several lunges and jabs at the elusive ghost, Kannai finally makes contact, sending his uninvited visitor on his way with a serious injury to show for it. But that frightful encounter is just the beginning of his troubles, as he's confronted the next evening by three more spectral visitors who seek vengeance for their wounded companion. Another furious conflict erupts, and this one leads to madness... and an unresolved ending, as the written transcript that survives turns out to be a mere fragment, leaving it up to each of us to draw our own conclusions.
So what are we to make of these ghost stories, this Kwaidan, anyway? At a minimum, it's a most impressive demonstration of creative style and technique that establishes a vividly felt atmosphere for those who are willing to sink in and find their bearings in it. Given what I've learned about Kobayashi over the course of watching his major films, he also strikes me as a man of supremely lofty ideals who had to deal with the inevitable frustration and disappointment that the world heaps upon those who dare expect something better than the mediocrity and compromise we're all forced to endure. In making this film, Kobayashi didn't exactly abandon the sharp-edged protests that made him a distinctive voice in Japanese cinema (see this year's Eclipse Series set Masaki Kobayashi Against the System to see that critical perspective as it developed in his earlier works), but he did sublimate his confrontational tones just enough to envelope them in a dazzling, compelling cloak of colorful and nightmarish fantasy that has seldom been rivaled in its haunting, aesthetic splendor.
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