Anticipation for a Glimpse of Hell
Disregard the notion that eternal damnation in the fires of Hades is mentioned; it is a punishment quietly discussed in the deepest recesses of our collective fears. For some, the lengthy anticipation for a glimpse of hell has been arduous enough—an unsettling journey through our desires and existential questioning of our mortal existence. Director Nobuo Nakagawa’s 1960 film Hell, also known as Jigoku, is a renowned testament to the human experience. This Japanese masterpiece transcends genres, delving into the infernal desires that perpetually tempt us in our earthly existence and the afterlife agonies that await those who yield.
This cinematic treasure emerged in 1960, coinciding with the first films of the budding Japanese new wave during a time of profound transformation in the cinematic landscape. Although somewhat more ideologically ambiguous than its counterparts, Jigoku swiftly gained “cult classic” status in its home country, influencing the growing cinephile communities. However, it remained an elusive mystery for Western audiences—an often-discussed phenomenon that few could see on the big screen.
In the subsequent years, Jigoku became an enticing puzzle, a film surrounded by wild rumors but seldom shown in international cinephile circles. Its mystique deepened, adding to its allure. Decades passed, and the whispers persisted, cultivating an almost mythical reputation for Nakagawa’s creation. Today, the film rightfully holds a place in cinema history, acknowledged as the cornerstone of Nakagawa’s remarkable career. It is an emblem of his visionary-extremist approach, pushing conventional boundaries and leaving an enduring impact on those willing to delve into the depths of human temptation and its repercussions.
Genesis of Jigoku
Borne from an unholy amalgamation of Goethe’s Faust and Genshin’s Ojoyoshu, a tenth-century Buddhist manuscript detailing the torments of the lower realms, Jigoku represents the pinnacle in a series of nine innovative and wildly eccentric horror films conceived by Nakagawa during his tenure at the genre-centric Shintoho Studios in the 1950s. Serving as Nakagawa’s cinematic masterpiece, this magnum opus takes audiences on a distressing odyssey through psychological and supernatural realms, constructing a narrative inspired by Faust‘s profound philosophical reflections and ancient Buddhist portrayals of hellish suffering.
With stagnant pools of seething pus, disconcerting disjunctions of sound and image, and occasionally bewildering plot twists accompanied by visually assaulting sequences of rough montage, Jigoku surpasses the confines of traditional horror. It emerges not merely as a boundary-defying classic but as a vivid exploration of sin devoid of redemption, challenging the limits of what the silver screen has dared to explore.
The storyline unfolds the fateful journey of two male college students—one feeble, one malevolent—who abruptly deviate from the path of righteousness, finding themselves on a treacherous route to hell. Drawing inspiration from the actual Leopold-Loeb murder case, the narrative resonates with echoes of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope and Richard Fleischer’s Compulsion. However, Nakagawa’s fearless exploration and extension of ero-guro-nansensu (erotic-grotesque-nonsense) elements, a tradition cherished by Japanese filmmakers since Yasujiro Ozu’s silent era, solidify the film’s enduring notoriety.
Merging the bloodiest details of thirteenth-century jigoku-zoshi (hell scroll paintings) with Tsukioka Yoshitoshi’s nineteenth-century ukiyo-e depictions of innocence disemboweled, Jigoku culminates in a centrifugal, frenzied finale reminiscent of quasi-Butoh theatrics. It anticipates the psychedelic contortions of the 1960s’ Living Theatre as much as the ravenous flailings of Night of the Living Dead. The film’s brilliantly art-directed and emotionally devastating portrayal of unrelenting dread leaves even the most stoic contemporary moviegoers in stunned disbelief. Nakagawa’s brilliance lies not only in constructing a narrative that withstands the test of time but in crafting an immersive encounter that surpasses the bounds of traditional cinema, lingering in the minds of those bold enough to confront the incomprehensible depths of human sin and its repercussions.
Night of Surreal Nightmare
Unfortunately, Shiro, who is betrothed to Yukiko, the daughter of his theology professor, finds himself in a car driven by the ominous Tamura. Together, they become embroiled in a hit-and-run incident with a drunken yakuza on a poorly illuminated country road. The night unfolds as a surreal nightmare, casting guilt-laden shadows over Shiro. However, convincing Tamura of their involvement in the accident proves futile. Shiro is left uncertain about Tamura’s true identity—a mysterious figure embodying the darker aspects of the human psyche.
Consumed by guilt and despair, Shiro persuades Yukiko to join him in turning themselves in at the police station. Tragedy strikes when their taxi crashes, claiming Yukiko’s life and shattering Shiro’s future. Burdened by guilt and seeking solace, Shiro visits Tenjoen, his father’s countryside retreat, hoping to escape his haunted conscience. However, he discovers that this seemingly tranquil place mirrors the moral decay he tried to flee, with inhabitants embodying various vices. To compound matters, a strange double of Yukiko wanders the grounds, transforming the supposed heavenly garden into an earthly hell.
In a suicidal daze along a desolate railroad track, Shiro once again encounters the enigmatic Tamura, a spectral presence haunting him at every turn. Tension heightens with the arrival of the car crash victim’s mother and former girlfriend, determined to avenge the yakuza’s death. The night turns dark with revelry, a feast of tainted stream fish, and poisoned sake. By morning, the entire community, including Shiro, succumbs—and Jigoku, finally reaching its titular destination, comes alive in a surreal climax of guilt, revenge, and cosmic justice. The film skillfully intertwines horror, morality, and the supernatural, leaving the audience in awe of the intricate and nightmarish journey it embarks on through the human soul.
Widescreen Portrayal of Buddhist Torments
The widescreen portrayal of Buddhist torments in Jigoku unfolds as a surreal descent into a nightmarish realm where the lines between the living and the dead merge into a grotesque tableau. Heads scream in agony as they are pulled from skinless carcasses, blue-skinned oni (demons) ruthlessly strike at the legions of the damned with blood-streaked truncheons, and the nerve-shattering cries of an unborn infant drift helplessly along an endless river of blood. It is a visually stunning spectacle that must be witnessed to be fully grasped—an immersive experience surpassing the confines of traditional horror.
The film serves as a proto-pop display of post-existential anxieties, delving into the depths of human consciousness and the haunting uncertainties that pervade our existence. Simultaneously, it acts as a relentlessly visceral resurrection of centuries-old dread, drawing extensively, and often literally, from Genshin’s pre-Boschian depictions of the increasingly unbearable inner circles of the afterworld. This chilling journey is further enriched by the spine-chilling atmospherics borrowed from Edogawa Rampo’s Taisho-era tales of mystery and suspense.
Jigoku is a cinematic tapestry that intertwines the horrors of the supernatural and the lingering traumas of a war that had ended barely a decade before its release. Nakagawa’s creation looks ahead, influencing other cinematic masterpieces, from Kaneto Shindo’s Onibaba, which explores deadly mother–daughter-in-law dynamics, to the scorched-earth and charnel house–bordello backdrops of Suzuki Seijun’s Gate of Flesh. It anticipates the eerie adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe by Roger Corman, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that remains in the collective memory.
In the company of world-cinema contemporaries like Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom, Mario Bava’s Black Sunday, and Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, Jigoku contributes to a seemingly universal effort to discover new, modern ways of inducing matinee-packing dread. Despite this pursuit of contemporary horror, Nakagawa believes that sometimes the most ancient terrors can feel uncomfortably close, reminding audiences that the roots of fear are as ancient as the human soul itself.
Early Filmmaking Journey
Nobuo Nakagawa, born in Kyoto in 1905, embarked on his illustrious filmmaking journey in 1929. Starting as an apprentice at Masahiro Makino’s Mikiko Studio, he honed his craft. Nakagawa’s creative talent surfaced early, directing his initial film while working for the Chanbara giant Ichikawa Utaemon in 1934. However, it was at Toho that Nakagawa found more stability, primarily specializing in slapstick comedies, until he was deployed to a battle station in Shanghai shortly after the commencement of World War II.
Nakagawa returned to Toho after Japan’s surrender, encountering a studio in turmoil due to labor strikes. The disputes were resolved when U.S. occupation force tanks intervened, an extraordinary event reflecting the tumultuous post-war period. Undeterred, Nakagawa shifted to the splinter studio Shintoho (New Toho) in 1947, marking a pivotal moment in his career. Here, he explored various genres, including jidaigeki samurai sagas, noirish thrillers, musicals, and melodramas.
At the time of his death in 1984, Nakagawa had etched an enduring legacy in Japanese cinema with around ninety feature films. His impact encompasses two distinct cinematic reputations: first, as a suspense specialist often compared to “the Japanese Alfred Hitchcock,” showcasing his ability to craft intricate tales of mystery and tension, and second, as the visionary filmmaker who, in the mid-century, reimagined the feudal-era dreams of the kaidan-geki (ghost story) at Shintoho. This creative phase earned him the esteemed title of the “master of Japanesque horror,” a descriptor that, though semantically curious, aptly captures Nakagawa’s unique contributions to the genre. His films continue to enthrall audiences, and his name is remembered with respect as a pioneer fearlessly navigating the ever-changing landscape of Japanese cinema.
Shintoho’s Notable Productions
Shintoho produced notable films like Akira Kurosawa’s Stray Dog and Kenji Mizoguchi’s Life of Oharu during its relatively brief corporate existence. However, as the early fifties unfolded, the fledgling studio was overshadowed by larger competitors dominating Japanese movie screens. The situation changed in 1955 when Mitsugu Okura, a former benshi and carnival barker, was appointed Shintoho’s new top executive. Tasked with cutting operating costs and boosting box-office receipts, Okura initiated a transformation that redefined the studio’s identity.
Under Okura’s guidance, Shintoho radically shifted its cinematic landscape. War films, space operas, and an array of increasingly daring nudies featuring figures like Michiko Maeda, an office girl–turned–striptease sensation, became the low-budget mainstays for the genre-centric studio. Okura’s tenure at Shintoho, often described as a veritable reign of terror, was not indicative of his management style but rather a nod to the new brand of Japanese horror film that he nurtured.
While traditional kaidan-eiga had been a Shintoho staple since at least Kunio Watanabe’s 1949 Nabeshima kaibyoden, a variation on the age-old blood-slurping black cat theme, it was under Okura’s leadership that the studio entered a new era. A decade later, numerous gore-streaked chillers with evocative titles like Blood Sword of the 99th Virgin were being produced annually, marking a distinct departure from the studio’s earlier prestigious productions. Okura’s hands-on approach and personal interest in fostering this emerging genre demonstrated a keen understanding of the audience’s evolving tastes, propelling Shintoho to the forefront of Japanese horror cinema during this transformative period. The legacy of his bold decisions continues to resonate, leaving an enduring imprint on the studio’s history and the broader landscape of Japanese film.
Esteemed Directors in Shintoho’s Horror Venture
Within Shintoho’s venture into horror, several esteemed contract directors sought to make their mark. However, Nakagawa distinguished himself by skillfully turning formulaic assignments into uniquely personal journeys into Gothic excess. His contributions to the genre, notably in Vampire Moth and Black Cat Mansion, demonstrated his exceptional talent and set him apart. Nakagawa infused these films with unconventional camera movements, abrupt sonic surges, soul-shattering twists of karmic retribution, and a nightmarish array of grotesquely deformed she-demons, creating a succession of spine-tingling Shintoho films synonymous with his name.
Nakagawa’s cinematic pinnacle in the horror genre reached its height in 1959 with his rendition of Ghost Story of Yotsuya. Despite the tale’s familiarity—a murderous samurai facing avenging ghosts—Nakagawa’s interpretation broke new ground. His version unfolded as a visceral experience, featuring blood baths, heightened emotional turmoil, and rapidly decaying flesh. These elements shocked cineastes during the film’s initial release, establishing Nakagawa as a trailblazer in horror. Today, his work is acknowledged as a crucial link between the fantastical kaidan-eiga of the past and the unnerving modern nerve-janglers of directors like Kiyoshi Kurosawa. Nakagawa’s influence extends to the jet-black gore comedies of Takashi Miike and the enduring impact of the phenomenon universally known by its unfortunate transliteration, Ringu. In Nakagawa’s hands, the Ghost Story of Yotsuya transcended its historical roots, becoming a timeless masterpiece that resonates across generations and continues to shape the trajectory of Japanese horror cinema.
Unprecedented Nature of Jigoku
While Nakagawa’s Ghost Story of Yotsuya set new benchmarks for the future of the horror genre, his entirely unprecedented follow-up, Jigoku, appeared to foretell no future at all. It was not solely because Nakagawa, having partially financed Jigoku himself, would never create another film for Shintoho or the fact that Shintoho itself would go bankrupt the following year. Jigoku embraced the aesthetics of annihilation in ways that not even the new-wave nihilist Nagisa Oshima’s The Sun’s Burial and Night and Fog in Japan dared to.
Jigoku distinguished itself as a film so unique in its fervent desire to peer into oblivion that it ultimately plunges in by lingering ever closer to the edge of the Pit. Unafraid of incomprehensibility, Jigoku ultimately proves to be less an articulation of the moral and postmortal consequences of sin and more a free-associative head-on collision of righteously motivated evil intentions and well-intentioned innocents who capriciously lose their souls. Nakagawa’s film challenges conventional narrative structures, choosing instead an immersive experience that immerses viewers in the abyss of moral ambiguity, where the line between right and wrong blurs, and the consequences of sin manifest in unpredictable and chaotic ways.
Jigoku is a cinematic odyssey that defies categorization, crafting a tapestry of visceral and nightmarish images that linger in mind long after the credits roll. Nakagawa’s departure from the expected norms of storytelling and his willingness to explore the darkest recesses of the human psyche makes Jigoku a groundbreaking work of art that continues to captivate and disturb audiences, leaving an indelible mark on the landscape of Japanese cinema. In its daring exploration of the abyss, Jigoku remains a testament to Nakagawa’s visionary approach to filmmaking and his commitment to pushing the boundaries of storytelling in ways that challenge and transcend traditional cinematic conventions.
Tamura’s Mysterious Presence at Tenjoen
How can one explain the presence of a character like Tamura, who frequently appears (often in a comical fashion) seemingly out of thin air, illuminated from below and covered in corpse-white grease paint, when interrupting Shiro and Yukiko’s happiness early in the film? He later shows up at Tenjoen, wearing a half-unbuttoned, blood-red sports shirt, persistently tailing Shiro. Tamura remains an enigmatic figure, shrouded in mystery and ambiguity, contributing a surreal layer to the narrative. Is Tamura a spurned former suitor of Yukiko’s, motivated by jealousy to ruin Shiro’s life? Or is Tamura some demurge on a mission from the underworld, sent to claim guilty mortals slated for damnation, privy to their secret histories of past wrongdoings?
The unresolved questions surrounding Tamura intensify the film’s sense of foreboding and uncertainty. Why, ultimately, must Tamura join the others in their eternal agonies, screaming in despair like a blood-daubed voodoo doll? The film prompts us to grapple with the cosmic and moral implications of Tamura’s fate, further blurring the lines between victim and perpetrator. What about the relatively innocent Shiro, guilty only of premarital relations and, perhaps, careless friend selection? Why does he have to suffer alongside the rest? Could it be the unexplained detour he insisted Tamura take down a fateful country lane one evening that eventually condemns him and those he encounters to a one-way trip to hell? The narrative’s ambiguity encourages viewers to contemplate the nature of guilt and accountability in the face of cosmic justice, leaving room for interpretation and self-reflection.
Jigoku twice remade in its home country and once in Thailand, remains unparalleled in its assertion that mortal answers to existential questions are bound to seem hopelessly incomplete. The film’s repetitive remakes and reinterpretations underscore its enduring enigma, a tribute to Nakagawa’s ability to create a work that transcends cultural and temporal boundaries. Did Nakagawa view a life spent in cinema as equally absurd? The film’s credit sequence, featuring Shintoho nudies and the voice of an offscreen director shouting “Action” without any apparent connection to the rest of the movie, suggests so. The credit sequence becomes a meta-commentary, challenging the purpose and absurdity of the cinematic endeavor itself—a surreal reflection of Nakagawa’s contemplation on the meaning of his life’s work.
Exploring Alternative Realms
The potential solutions may not reside solely in the distant heavens above or the now seemingly closer hell, thanks to Jigoku‘s resurrection. Nakagawa’s cinematic world, filled with ambiguity, reflects the intricate nature of human existence, where the distinctions between good and evil, heaven and hell, are frequently indistinct and subjective. Alternatively, much like Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low, it might be preferable to leave the answers slightly mistranslated, suggesting that language struggles to capture the profound mysteries Nakagawa delves into on the screen. What do humans truly understand about hell and heaven anyway? Are not we all, much like the characters in Nobuo Nakagawa’s films with their peculiarly faced madmen, tragically maimed lovers, and occasional blood-sucking moths, perpetually and infernally stranded somewhere in between, in a realm that is both elevated and low?
The metaphorical landscape within Nakagawa’s films mirrors the human condition, portraying a transitional space where the borders between good and evil, pleasure and pain, are flexible and constantly changing. Similar to his characters navigating surreal supernatural realms, audiences also find themselves journeying through the ambiguous terrain of Nakagawa’s storytelling. Jigoku‘s resurgence is a reminder that the exploration of these existential questions is an ongoing odyssey that may never provide conclusive answers. Nakagawa’s films encourage viewers to embrace uncertainty, acknowledging that the human experience is a continual balancing act between the celestial and the infernal, where the pursuit of meaning is as elusive as the enigmatic truths explored in his cinematic works.
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