Kwaidan (1964) – Hooptober Challenge #2
Requirements:
- Countries (2/6) – Japan
- Decades (2/8) – 1960s
Have you ever avoided watching a movie you know you ‘need’ to watch because you’re worried that it’ll feel like a chore? I’m not talking about something for class, or something that you’re needing to watch because some hyper-passionate friend or family member insists that you need to see something for one obnoxious reason or another. I’m not even talking about a film that is near and dear to your significant other and causes you to sneer whenever they bring it up. I’m talking about a movie you want to watch. I’m talking about a movie that, for whatever reason, is something that you yourself choose to put on your own list… but for some reason, you just can’t bring yourself to do it.
I have a feeling that this is something that most people encounter– not just obsessive film literati nerds or mole-eyed horror chuds like me. The thought of the film is enticing. It either is supposed to be incredible, or it’s by a director you love, or the subject matter is of special import to you. But the prospect of actually watching it feels burdensome. Maybe it’s the length. Maybe it’s that you know it will be slow, and you’re only watching movies when Mr. Sandman is sure to prove you a fool for attempting to power through. Maybe the subject matter, although interesting, is going to be emotionally taxing or difficult to stomach. I’ve occasionally put off watching movies because I’d had the ending spoiled for me and didn’t know if it could merit my attention, lacking the vim of the hook.
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So what does that say about movies and our relationship with them? That’s something my inner philosopher thinks about way too often. What I’ve come to believe is that movies tie in closely with our identity; both inside and out. There are movies that we feel as though our persona is incomplete without, and so we feel a sort of obligation to rectify it. Our identity is important to us, but it’s also a lot of work. If we take films as a mode of entertainment, it seems pretty antithetical to consider a movie you want to watch as work or a chore. So maybe movies aren’t actually entertainment (though they’re often entertaining), and they become more of a hobby or a lifestyle. Hobbies definitely require commitment, patience, and hard work from time to time. Surely, not every moment of building that ship in a bottle is a pleasure cruise. Certainly, some aspect of your philately is less than rosy. Most assuredly, there are dark dealings to be done in brewing beer. Sometimes it pays off, and sometimes it doesn’t. Honestly, more often than not, the payoff has been worth it for me with these thorny movies.
Don’t let it get you down that you’ve got that millstone movie still yet to be checked off your list. There will come a time– a day, a month, a decade down the road– when that movie is the right fit for the moment. If you really actually want it to happen, the stars will align.
Kwaidan has long, long, long been on my watchlist. I dabbled in a formal film education on top of being a diehard horror fanatic. Japanese culture, and ghost/yokai stories specifically, have always fascinated me. The movie is considered one of the all-time greats. It’s Oscar-nominated and won the Special Jury Prize at Cannes. Rolling Stone, Timeout, and Paste Magazine, among others, have it highly regarded on their greatest horror films of all-time lists. It is also over three hours long and comes from an era of Japanese film that could very conservatively be called quiet.
I was afraid to watch it. There, I said it. And not because I was afraid to be scared. I was afraid to be lulled to sleep. I was afraid to sit across from a canonical great film and be tempted to reach for my phone to check the time. I was afraid to have it just not resonate with me. In my defense, I tend to watch my movie picks after my little ragamuffin is in bed– and the prospect of three hours of sitting in the dark with anything after a day of work and dad duties and middle-aged weariness is daunting. Hell, it’d been on my Hooptober list for probably four straight years as something I meant to get to, just in the hopes that seeing it as part of my challenge would get me to go for it once and for all. Still, it languished.
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I decided to make the resolution to myself to make this the Hooptober I watched it. And while I didn’t feel like I could set the tone for the whole Hooptober X with something this ominous and intimidating, I sat down and made it my second. And it was absolutely magnificent!
I’ll say this about the film: It may well be the most quiet talkie I’ve ever seen. Silence is so omnipresent that each line becomes absolutely integral; each note of the score becomes an event to be savored, engrossed in, and feared. But somehow, it all comes together in a way that acts as stimulant rather than sleep-aid. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the screen and didn’t dare to stop it even during the intermission.
Kwaidan is stunning to look at. The movie begins with opening credits that may well be worth the price of admission alone– spare instrumentation playing as psychedelic swirls of colored water writhe and billow on a field of white. It is a clue to the quasi-surreal and dreamlike tone of the Japanese folklore horror tales we’re about to watch. The film itself, the most expensive Japanese film ever made to that point, is meticulous in a way that gives it an air of artificiality. Every moment is filmed inside a fully controlled sound stage so that every gust of wind, every flurry of snow, and every single tree can be presented with intent. Think Wes Anderson, but less symmetrical.
The movie itself is a terrific representation of Japanese folklore. Some of the horror of the situations is probably lost in the cultural divide and the overt moralism of the tales. But that doesn’t stop the film from being eerie even in its weakest moments (which I’d argue are not weak at all).
The first tale, “The Black Hair,” follows a samurai who abandons his wife when he accepts a new station with a noble. He marries into wealth and title, but all the while regrets his heartless decision and pines for his adoring and devoted first wife. He returns to the woman he spurned, and the horrors he encounters are at turns chilling and oblique– as a little bit of it is lost in translation. It does not stop the segment from being effective and memorable, however.
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The second story, “The Woman of the Snow,” felt awfully reminiscent of a Western fairytale. I’m not talking about the neutered, Disney-fied version of a fairy tale, though. I’m talking about the dark tales of mutilation and body horror that comprise a great deal of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen oeuvres. A woodcutter avoids being killed by a spectral personification of winter’s chill by being a cutie. He’s left to live on the condition that he doesn’t ever divulge the spirit’s secret stay of execution.
Of course, a tale built on a moral lesson doesn’t mean a thing unless his loose lips eventually sink (icy) ships. I won’t spoil how things turn, but this story felt much more wholesome and endearing than it felt horror. It’s still very much in line with the film’s retellings of old folktales, but it has a decidedly non-horror bent to it.
The third segment is probably the one that you’ve seen images from. Titled “Hoichi the Earless,” it certainly feels the most memorable after having watched the movie. The story centers on Hoichi, a young blind man with a gift for playing music, who lives in a monastery. Hoichi is approached by a specter that entreaties him to play a tune that tells the story of an epic battle from the past for the ghost’s also-undead lord. This happens several times before it comes to the attention of the monks watching over Hoichi. An attempt is made to save Hoichi from the ghastly repercussions of his nocturnal dalliances with the dead– but there are some unexpected results that come from it.
This portion of the movie may resonate with you depending on your tolerance/appreciation of the biwa (the Japanese stringed instrument that Hoichi plays and caterwauls over). But no matter your thoughts on the singular musical history of Japan, this story will stick with you.
The final tale is perhaps shockingly my favorite. After reading several reviews, it seems to universally be the most disparaged. “In a Cup of Tea” relates a story within a story. It tells the tale of a writer and his unfinished epic horror masterpiece. Said masterpiece involves a stately samurai who keeps seeing an unnatural reflection of a man in his cup of tea. Instead of taking it as a sign to skip the drink, he quaffs the tea– smirking reflection and all. The samurai is then pestered by spirits and begins to lose both his reputation and his mind.
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At this point, the story gets very meta and has an ending that I will say feels distinctly 1960s and reminiscent of the narrative experimentalism going on in the French New Wave. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I was really high (I was). But I liked it. And it felt like a terrifically odd end to the whole shebang.
Kwaidan stands as an investment of time and attention and constitution. The compensation you’ll receive is one of the most beautiful films you will ever see. If you’re unfamiliar with Japanese films from this era, it might not be your ideal starting point… but do make it a point to at least put it on your long, long, long watchlist for when the time is right.
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