Entry #8: Kwaidan
Kwaidan is named after a Japanese term that translates into English as "ghost stories", so you know some creepy and crawly things will be going down in this Masaki Kobayashi directorial effort from 1964. Kwaidan certainly lives up to the "stories" part of the term "ghost stories" as it delivers a trio of haunted tales (plus an epilogue) each connected by the recurring moral of the necessity of keeping your promises. The first of these stories is The Black Hair, which follows a swordsman (Rentaro Mikuni) leaving his faithful wife for another woman in the hopes of gaining a better place in society. Next up is The Woman of the Snow, which see's a man named Minokichi (Tatsuya Nakadai) trapped in a frozen wasteland and encountering a deadly spirit known as the Yuki-Onna (Keiko Kishi), which promises to spare his life if he promises to never tell a soul about their encounter.
Finally comes the longest of the three tales in Kwaidan (it takes up about half of the runtime), Hoichi the Earless, which follows blind musician Hoichi (Katsuo Nakamura) being commanded by spirits to sing the song The Tale of the Heike, a turn of events that baffles and terrifies Hoichi's colleagues. This assortment of stories isn't just united by a recurring lessons related to promises, they're all also told through highly stylized production design that truly lives up to the word unforgettable. In the process of adapting classic Japanese fables, director Masaki Kobayashi has decided to fully embrace a fanciful visual sensibility that feels fitting for cinematic adaptations of fantastical tales such as these.
Just look at the skies in The Woman of the Snow, which are not littered with clouds but rather with eyeballs meant to symbolize how the protagonist of the story is always being watched by an otherworldly force making sure he's keeping his promise. The opening scene of Hoishi the Earless, meanwhile, depicts the Battle of Dan-no-ura (the place where the spirits of this story perished) in a gloriously grandiose fashion that certainly isn't realistic, but does reflect the dramatic manner in which the battle is recalled in the song The Tale of the Heike. Realism isn't just thrown into the wind in Kwaidan, it's basically tossed into an incinerator never to be seen from again.
Such a creative move benefits Kwaidan's visuals immensely and allows for a bevy of distinctive colors to be employed throughout its running time that are particularly effective at conveying mood. Just look at how orange and similar light colors are used in scenes of The Woman of the Snow to indicate when Minokichi is in a more peaceful part of his life while a specific bold hue of blue is utilized to indicate when the intimidating presence of Yuki-Onna is near. The moment that latter color creeps into the frame, you immediately become more tense. Kwaidan is a visual feast in a number of ways but it's especially impressive visually when it comes to the way it generates unease in the viewer.
Interestingly, some of the most unsettling moments of Kwaidan actually make use of a sense of restraint that the production design and cinematography smartly tend to eschew. The ending of The Black Hair is an especially good example of this as it depicts the sight of the unnamed lead character being attacked by the hair of his deceased wife and growing older in mere seconds all without sound. There's just this distant humming noise on the soundtrack, the screams of the character himself and the sound effects of him crashing around his decrepit house are nowhere to be found. Holding back in this auditory-related regard makes this sequence especially eerie as a character who has shut out the anguish of others (namely his original wife) now has his own agony silenced.
A similar instance of restraint to create an extra chilling effect is utilized in the inevitable scene of Hoishi the Earless where Hoishi loses his ears to samurai ghost. Like the ending of The Black Hair, this gruesome scene makes no use of music and the way its filmed eschews the grandiose tendencies that permeate much of Kwaidan. Instead, Hoishi is filmed being repeatedly smashed across a room in close-up shots that put us right next to him in his moment of immense suffering. The lack of music or camerawork theatricality accentuates the realism of the scene and makes it extremely unsettling to watch. Kwaidan, an easy contender for best anthology movie of all-time, has sharp instincts for when to lean into bombast (those scrumptious backgrounds!) and also for when a certain scary sequence calls for a pinch of restraint.
Finally comes the longest of the three tales in Kwaidan (it takes up about half of the runtime), Hoichi the Earless, which follows blind musician Hoichi (Katsuo Nakamura) being commanded by spirits to sing the song The Tale of the Heike, a turn of events that baffles and terrifies Hoichi's colleagues. This assortment of stories isn't just united by a recurring lessons related to promises, they're all also told through highly stylized production design that truly lives up to the word unforgettable. In the process of adapting classic Japanese fables, director Masaki Kobayashi has decided to fully embrace a fanciful visual sensibility that feels fitting for cinematic adaptations of fantastical tales such as these.
Just look at the skies in The Woman of the Snow, which are not littered with clouds but rather with eyeballs meant to symbolize how the protagonist of the story is always being watched by an otherworldly force making sure he's keeping his promise. The opening scene of Hoishi the Earless, meanwhile, depicts the Battle of Dan-no-ura (the place where the spirits of this story perished) in a gloriously grandiose fashion that certainly isn't realistic, but does reflect the dramatic manner in which the battle is recalled in the song The Tale of the Heike. Realism isn't just thrown into the wind in Kwaidan, it's basically tossed into an incinerator never to be seen from again.
Such a creative move benefits Kwaidan's visuals immensely and allows for a bevy of distinctive colors to be employed throughout its running time that are particularly effective at conveying mood. Just look at how orange and similar light colors are used in scenes of The Woman of the Snow to indicate when Minokichi is in a more peaceful part of his life while a specific bold hue of blue is utilized to indicate when the intimidating presence of Yuki-Onna is near. The moment that latter color creeps into the frame, you immediately become more tense. Kwaidan is a visual feast in a number of ways but it's especially impressive visually when it comes to the way it generates unease in the viewer.
Interestingly, some of the most unsettling moments of Kwaidan actually make use of a sense of restraint that the production design and cinematography smartly tend to eschew. The ending of The Black Hair is an especially good example of this as it depicts the sight of the unnamed lead character being attacked by the hair of his deceased wife and growing older in mere seconds all without sound. There's just this distant humming noise on the soundtrack, the screams of the character himself and the sound effects of him crashing around his decrepit house are nowhere to be found. Holding back in this auditory-related regard makes this sequence especially eerie as a character who has shut out the anguish of others (namely his original wife) now has his own agony silenced.
A similar instance of restraint to create an extra chilling effect is utilized in the inevitable scene of Hoishi the Earless where Hoishi loses his ears to samurai ghost. Like the ending of The Black Hair, this gruesome scene makes no use of music and the way its filmed eschews the grandiose tendencies that permeate much of Kwaidan. Instead, Hoishi is filmed being repeatedly smashed across a room in close-up shots that put us right next to him in his moment of immense suffering. The lack of music or camerawork theatricality accentuates the realism of the scene and makes it extremely unsettling to watch. Kwaidan, an easy contender for best anthology movie of all-time, has sharp instincts for when to lean into bombast (those scrumptious backgrounds!) and also for when a certain scary sequence calls for a pinch of restraint.
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