Trigger warning: the following review contains a discussion of rape and murder.
For his follow-up to the notorious In the Realm of the Senses (1976)—which was banned in many countries for its graphic sex, rampant nudity, and unflinching portrayal of sadomasochistic obsession—Japanese director Nagisa Ōshima turned to a genre he had never before attempted: the kaidan, or ghost story. This genre is well-known from Japanese cinematic history, from outright horror tales like Kuroneko (Kaneto Shindo, 1968) and Kwaidan (Masaki Kobayashi, 1964) to more plaintive dramas like Ugetsu (Kenji Mizoguchi, 1953). It has a longstanding pedigree in literature as well, as kaidan tales were popularized during the Edo period (1603-1868) and gained worldwide attention in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
The term has a somewhat antiquated air nowadays, bringing to mind historical folktales rather than modern horror, but there’s nothing antiquated about Empire of Passion (1978). One of many breakthroughs that Ōshima brought to the New Japanese Cinema in the mid-twentieth century, along with fellow directors like Hiroshi Teshigahara and Shōhei Imamura, was a move away from the stoic, gentle suffering typified by the tenet of mono no aware1 toward fiery provocation—a bluntly political and passionate style that depicts the transformative power of human drives and obsessions. Life is strange, intense, sometimes carnal, often horrific, Ōshima’s movies suggest.
I should mention that, although I find him to be one of the most intriguing Japanese New Wave directors, there are many Ōshima films I have yet to see—particularly among his early, brazenly political period, including A Town of Love and Hope (1959), Cruel Story of Youth (1960), The Sun’s Burial (1960), and Night and Fog in Japan (1960), all of which came out in a two-year period. The 1960s saw even more provocative works from Ōshima, like Violence at Noon (1966), with a story that revolves around rape and double suicide, and Death by Hanging (1968), which conveys the attempted execution of a Korean criminal in Japan through Brechtian abstraction and absurdity. Three Resurrected Drunkards from 1968 (which I have seen) continues the theme of anti-Korean racism in Japan (and boasts a jarring two-half structure that “rewinds” to the beginning partway through). Boy (1969), meanwhile, shows how family dysfunction negatively impacts the titular character. Ōshima continued his transgressive tendencies throughout his career, in later films like Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983), which depicts repressed homosexuality in the army and among samurai with surprising tenderness; Max, Mon Amour (1986), in which Charlotte Rampling plays an aristocrat carrying on a romantic affair with a chimpanzee; and his aptly named swan song, Taboo (1999), which returns to the theme of homosexuality among samurai.
But it’s the one-two punch of In the Realm of the Senses and Empire of Passion that’s most pertinent here. In order to skirt Japan’s harsher censorship constraints, Ōshima partnered with French producer Anatole Dauman on this pair of films (and with Kōji Wakamatsu, a producer of pinku eiga or exploitation movies, on In the Realm of the Senses). Both films are based in part on real-life events: Senses on a scandalous 1936 murder in which prostitute Sada Abe strangled her lover and cut off his penis and testicles, carrying them around in her kimono for days; and Empire of Passion on another murder, this one from the late nineteenth century, in which a woman and her young lover killed her husband, a rickshaw driver. Clearly, tales of adultery, l’amour fou, obsessive jealousy, and sordid crime were on Ōshima’s mind, all teeming beneath a veneer of Japanese propriety and respectability.
Empire of Passion’s attitude toward its characters is curiously apathetic: unlike heartfelt works by forerunners like Ozu, Kurosawa, Mizoguchi, and Naruse, Ōshima’s approach is decidedly non-humanistic.2 The characters seem driven toward their morbid demises and awful, irredeemable behavior, as if they’re powerless to do anything to prevent them. The rickshaw driver, Gisaburo (Takahiro Tamura), is decent enough, but on most nights he’s content to get passed-out drunk from shochu, indifferent to the plight of his wife, Seki (Kazuko Yoshiyuki), or their two children. One might imagine we’d have some sympathy for Seki, who is trapped between two despicable men (more on this later), but even she quickly devolves into a state of madness and obsession (endangering her kids through self-destructive acts in the process). Her young lover, Toyoji (Tatsuya Fuji), might be the worst of them all, a former soldier just released from the military who avoids work, exploits others, rapes Seki, and has no qualms about murder. Even if these attitudes were instilled by the nascent Imperial Japanese Army (which was only formed in 1868), they’re inexcusable as manifested by this ferocious, predatory man.
The frame is often littered with circular shapes (the wheels on Gisaburo’s rickshaw, the open well cover into which Seki and Toyoji throw Gisaburo’s corpse) that stress the cyclical patterns of life—one decision sets others in motion, with a cruel fate doomed to repeat itself. Meanwhile, distant shots with objects obscuring the characters suggest an omnipotent but passive God who simply observes these horrors play out. This is why the overall vibe is cold and unemotional: these characters are both trapped and driven by social and political forces, which is in line with Ōshima’s removed and analytical approach, depicting shocking human transgressions with an awareness of the structures that surround them.
To be honest, though, those social and political forces could use more elucidation, as could the depiction of tormented Seki, who should carry at least a trace of humanity in order for Ōshima’s themes to fully land. Unlike in Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, in which the restrictive codes of the samurai and the military very clearly traumatize characters unable to resist them, it’s unclear how the world of Empire of Passion dictates the characters’ actions, even if that’s what the movie formally suggests. There’s the backdrop of the military, a burgeoning police force, and cruel and unusual punishment from the state, as shown in the final, harrowing scene. And there’s the vicious patriarchy that surrounds Seki at every turn, giving her no chance of escape. But these come across as vague semblances of theme rather than a cohesive worldview.
Empire of Passion’s greatest failure, I think, is its depiction of Seki, a character who is mistreated by her husband, expected to raise two kids alone and do all the housework, raped by Toyoji, forced to murder her husband against her will, driven to madness and obsession by Toyoji’s manipulations, covered in mud, blinded, and beaten (and those are just the literal tortures she goes through). Of course, an unflinching look at human cruelty and depravity is Ōshima’s aim, and it’s commendable in theory (here and in In the Realm of the Senses). But what are we to make of Seki throughout all this, other than the fact that she’s unremittingly victimized? During Toyoji’s first rape of Seki, she clearly and adamantly says “no” and insists that he stop; but when he doesn’t, her apparent sexual pleasure could be interpreted as a ploy for power, a way to weaken Toyoji’s defenses. This motivation could still be in the realm of possibility over their next few lustful encounters. As the story progresses, though, Seki becomes addicted to the sexual thrill that Toyoji provides, even as (or because) she’s eventually consumed by guilt and shame over her murder of her husband. While rape victims very rarely show an attachment to their tormenters in a form of trauma bonding or Stockholm syndrome, Seki’s infatuation with Toyoji isn’t very convincing; if Ōshima means to portray how she’s driven mad by her abuse at the hands of two uncaring men, then Empire of Passion should plumb her psyche with a little more curiosity, rather than just viewing her (and her behaviors) with unsettling detachment.
This was my third viewing of Empire of Passion, with the last one about six years ago. At one point, it was on my list of favorite movies, which I think must have been the result of the film’s formal mastery and brutal updating of horror tropes. There’s no doubt this is a staggering formal achievement, thanks especially to Toru Takemitsu’s music; the composer’s austere, frightening soundtrack is integral to Empire of Passion’s disturbing tone. (His work here is second only to his music for Akira Kurosawa’s Ran from 1985.) The cinematography by Yoshio Miyajima is similarly gorgeous in a severe way; the lighting is bold and unrealistic, the use of slow-motion impeccable, the compositions sometimes from the bizarre points-of-view of an ant or a hovering god. (One shot, of ghostly Gisaburo driving his wife in a rickshaw through a foggy marsh, is truly an image for the ages.) For horror lovers (like myself), Empire of Passion’s melding of ghost-story conventions with extreme human trauma and political commentary (albeit a muddled kind) is also exhilarating. The horror genre might be my favorite because it so ably portrays people at their lowest depths, committing or withstanding unspeakable acts—a way to comment on the starkness of human nature that Ōshima takes full advantage of.
After this rewatch, though, I feel the need to knock Empire of Passion off my list of favorites, largely because its themes are so vague that they’re almost inscrutable, and because the film shows little interest in deciphering the overwhelming mental trauma that Seki faces. Nagisa Ōshima is a groundbreaking and admirable artist because he pulls no punches in showing us the worst tendencies inherent in all of us, even if they’re (thankfully) never realized by most viewers in the audience. But, if he and other Japanese New Wave directors tried to obliterate the sense of quiet, wistful suffering that defined previous eras of Japanese cinema, the lack of humanity in Empire of Passion must ultimately be seen as one of the things that keeps it from greatness.
Verdict: Off the List
Next Up: Baby Doll (Elia Kazan, 1956)
Literally translated as “the pathos of things,” mono no aware is a quasi-Buddhist mindset that stresses the impermanence of earthly things and a sense of wistfulness at their inevitable passing. Cinematically, this philosophy is epitomized by the films of Yasujirō Ozu and Mikio Naruse; it was this tradition that the directors of the New Japanese Cinema were explicitly trying to subvert.
This was one of the criticisms of Ōshima going back to his feature debut, A Town of Love and Hope, which (contradicting the title) observes its characters’ poverty-stricken hardships with clear-eyed political acumen, not emotional platitudes.