THE KADOKAWA COLLECTION

Revitalizing the nature of the genre with unique interpretations of the supernatural intimately connected with the seemingly concrete existence of the everyday, Asian horror brought a new level of thematic maturity, emotional depth, and intellectual resonance to the horror film. Finding new ways to express timeless motifs, Japanese thrillers like Ringu and Ju-On encouraged audiences to see threats both physical and psychical, depicting the nightmarish and abhorrent as both terrifying and strangely beautiful. Enacting cosmic tragedies against symbols of supernatural fear and internal responsibility, these films question Man's perception of himself and the possibly illusory nature of existence, illuminating the spiritual Otherworld with a sensibility soaked in the horrific heritage of folklore. The four films that comprise The Kadokawa Collection, a new and extremely affordable package from BCI, achieve this symbiosis of the supernatural and psychological with equal degrees intelligence, style, and subversive poetry. Each title, despite its narrative flaws, invest intimately involving stories with the resonance of cross-cultural myth, teaching something authentic about their exotic cultural beliefs at the same time they tell frightening stories. Each also manages to make the universal applicable to the fears of the individual, thereby inviting viewers to invest emotional empathy with the characters. While not without flaws of pacing and lapses of story logic, the universally successful evocation of eldritch, tragic atmosphere and heart-breaking themes manage to reinterpret old tropes of folk tradition with wit and simplistic elegance. Scary and touching, subversive and traditional, this package is an attractive, affordable way to start an Asian horror film collection of various themes and imagery.

* * *

Perhaps the finest aesthetic achievement of these films is the balance attained between graphic horror and moody subtlety. Finding terror in suggestion, lighting, and stories devoted to thematic ambiguity and complex shades of characterization, the best of these Asian fright fests spill blood one moment, shadows the next. This is particularly the case in Inugami, which walks a tight line between graphic explicitness and suggestive nightmare. Combining the tensions of alienation with liberation, an Outsider living with shame and insecurity experiences a horrible freedom, of sorts, by indulging unconsciously in a forbidden sexuality. This reinterpretation of a classic tragic trope is an emotionally painful examination of unreasoning superstition, prejudice, and culpability -- so very effective because its kiss of wormwood is as deadly as it is seductive.

In a plot that interweaves classical tragic themes and romance with the understated supernatural, this modern folk tale of love, loss, and decadence is an unnerving take on the classic Greek Oedipus myth, deftly mixing traces of psychology with the unknown. Somehow it retains its balance despite various stylistic detours along the way. Miki Bonomiya (Yuki Amami), a middle-aged paper maker, lives estranged form her village and family, thought to possess the curse of the Inugami, Wild Dog spirits/demons that are capable, when aroused, of bringing death and misfortune to the community. Surviving by selling her crafts to Seiji Doi (Eugene Harada), she meets Akira Nutahara (Atsuro Watabe), a visiting teacher. Both are attracted to one another amidst mounting contempt and threats by the villagers. The suggested occult influence lurking behind what could have been a simple romance is the legend of the Bonomiya family: each woman is believed to be sworn protectors of the Inugami: Wild Dog Gods. If one of these Dog Gods escapes then the entire village is doomed . . . The belief in this legend, encouraged by the villagers, the family, and the lovers themselves, supplies the story with the crux of its tragedy, leading to a heart wrenching yet oddly hopeful finale.

Whereas in the original Oedipus myth, the doomed hero descends into shame and loneliness after sleeping with his mother and killing his father, in this modernization of the theme Atsuro Watabe and his mother find an emotional and physical revelation/liberation in this most subversive of social acts. This breaking of cultural taboo is also a kick against the oppressive dictates of a village mad with blood and superstition -- an act of defiant freedom that, while unsavory, serves here as a symbolic act of 'difference.' Masato Harada uses fantastical imagery and strange folk stories throughout to empathize the struggle of outsiders to overcome not only their community's restrictive social codes but their own insecurities. The final result is both romantic and unsettling, with the act of love and discovery occurring simultaneously with a bloody, savage adherence of the villagers to a cruel display of slaughter.

The visual clarity in Inugami is quite pleasing, lacking any significant grain or speckling. Presented in 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen, the picture merges somber shadows and misty lit forests with convincing flesh tones. Audio is offered in 5.1 Surround Sound and Dolby Digital 2.0, both of which are well produced and clear, with impressive balance maintained throughout.

* * *

Finding fresh, emotionally disturbing forms for elements of the unknown that both plague and fascinate us, Shikoku, the second film, entertains with its 'spook show' surface mentality and desire to get under the skin. At the same time, the story and the director's approach wages a cultural exorcism, analyzing within its visually stunning imagery those menacing mysteries of night-time existence. Similar to the effects of nightmares, which carry their own sense of twisted logic, this title evokes the terror of the unbelievable not so much through invading reality as by subverting it all together. The director understands just where to separate flesh from bone, nerve from muscle, successfully separating the banal everyday appearance of surface reality from the nightmarishly evocative, using the unknown as his scalpel, and the lives of everyday characters as his canvas. The world, if but for a brief time, is transformed into a secret geography of nightmare.

Hinako, a naive but likeable young girl, is led from her poor rural hometown by her parents' career move to the city of Tokyo. In doing so she loses contact with her best friend, Sayori, and the boy she harbored feelings for. Years later, when she has achieved success, she returns to Shikoku and her ancestral home. Wishing to sell her house, she runs into teen crush Fumiya, who both she and her old friend Sayori had their sights on. She is shocked to learn that Savori drowned in a lake when she was but sixteen. Fumiya confesses that, since then, he has rarely felt alone . . . Always he senses Sayori's spirit clinging to him, devastating his further relationships and haunting his peace of mind. Amidst uneasy warnings from townspeople and suggested spectral presences, Hinako, who remembers being saved from drowning by her deceased friend, begins to suspect that the jealous Sayori holds a grudge against her. To make matters worse, her mother, a powerful witch, desecrates holy shrines in a ritualistic attempt to resurrect her daughter. The unholy pilgrimage of Sayori's mother, which involves following the '88-temple circuit' backwards, lends a further trace of vengeful mysticism to an already emotionally intense plot. As the dead reach across the frail sphere of the living, and the truths about several relationships is unearthed, this modern ghost story of conscience and culpability springs close like a tightly wound bear trap.

Though somewhat repetitive, Shikoku manages to find its own identity in both story and approach. While Shunichi Nagasak doesn't manage to evoke the tension or atmospheric flourishes of say a Hideo Nakata, he does manage to weave a fairly coherent and ambitious story fusing elements of the parable and inner journey for an original adult fairy tale. Convincing as both supernatural horror and tragic elegy of love and loss, the script is given undeniably eerie life in the mist-laden hillsides and forests that are themselves characters. The final showdown between a Buddhist priest and spiritual darkness, while at first ridiculous, become primal -- crucial to the story. A sense of the 'in between' surrounds the narrative and its convincing characters -- twilights and sun sets abound, as do such borderland imagery as natural land barriers, caves, locks, doors, and other physical embodiments of passage/travel/secrets. This theme is further explored in the story's major theme of passages and those actions/rituals that allow the dead and the living to interact.

The visual polish of Shikoku is consistent, maintaining an elegant balance between well lit exterior shots and the more moody shots of dancing shadows and lurking faces. Offered in anamorphic 1.85:1, the picture is crisp and colors are well balanced. The audio tracks in 5.1 Digital Surround and 2.0 Stereo are clean and efficient, offering clear contrasts between dialogue, effects, and score. Extras are minimal but engaging, including a standard "Making Of" feature which discusses the project's scope and challenges as well as how the themes were approached by cast and crew. The only other extras are TV spots and trailers.

* * *

From its origins in cross-comparative mythology to its subsequent refinement as literary fiction the ghost story has terrified audiences most effectively through the medium of the cinema. Disturbing us with evidence of our mortality, descending into macabre possibilities of the after-life, supernatural themes also question life. Exploring the spectral and the complexities of the shadowy human heart, ghost stories reflect both the universal terrors of culture and the intimate anxieties of the individual. Shadow of the Wraith draws tension from both the personal and the cosmic, evoking some solid scares but ultimately lacking the focus or originality required to truly engage an audience. An uneven if atmospheric homage to the child-like revenant terrors and 'curse' exploited with such success in Ringu and others of its ilk, the narrative of this ghost story fails to live up to its stylistic promises.

A typically average 'Kaidan' offering neither originality of story or approach, Shadow of the Wraith somehow manages to misdirect each of the thematic and stylistic conventions that should have made it successful. The plot is structured in two major parts, both of which relate to one another while dealing specifically with one of two brothers. The first portion revolves around brother Ryoji, a youth pop idol haunted in his dreams by Asaji, a new girl in his school. A wraith, which in folklore is a human capable of separating their soul from body, Asaji visits Ryoji in the evenings, tormenting him with desire. Meanwhile Mariko, Ryoji's girlfriend, senses something sinister about the new girl (a riff, this whole segment, from Tomie), meeting a messy if un-dramatic ending later during a bike ride home. When still another lass who likes him is offed, with all fingers pointing at Asaji, Ryoji awaits what can only be a dark end to this supernatural romance. The second chapter introduces us to Naoko, a girl who moves into an apartment complex wherein dwells a mournful revenant. When she crosses paths with the second brother Kazuhiko, who often visits his sister there, the two form an obligatory friendship. Soon they discover traces of the evil spirit residing in the dark, leading them to investigate the history of their dwelling . . .

Devoted to evoking the terrors of ghostly manifestations Shadow of the Wrath is also intent on treating its subject matter and characters more seriously than is often the genre's habit, approaching both the lost souls of a decidedly convincing Otherworld as well as those lost souls walking, sleeping, eating, and sleepwalking lives of banal chaos - those who are dead and longing to reach out to the living and those who, though alive, are unable to respond to their own hearts. Unfortunately, it fails on various levels, unable to draw its scattered references together. Panic and pathos are evoked by creative camerawork and suggestive atmosphere but fail to reach a dramatically satisfying conclusion. A minimal budget cheapens the technical savvy. Worse, the fragmented narrative drive, spinning too many ways at once, lacks a dramatic focus. We are not made to care for the alienated characters whose suggested darkness of soul makes them receptacles of misery and melancholy. Director Toshiharu Ikeda (Evil Dead Trap, Angel Guts) appears more at home when exploring physical pain, perversion, and taboo than he is at controlling the suggestive menace and careful pacing required of a ghost story. An organic rehash of already cliché Asian story conventions, the film leaves us with a frustrated sense of what could have been.

Shadow of the Wraith enjoys a clear anamorphic transfer in 1.85.1. Blacks are deep, and the shadows, which comprise much of the mood, are clearly defined. Background detail is captured with accuracy, and no grain or splotching is noticeable. Audio in Japanese language Dolby Digital 2.0 lacks the realism of Surround Sound but gets the job done with conciseness and clarity. Optional English subtitles are included.

* * *

Celebrating perverse sexuality, pain, and the art of viscera in an excessive manner, Asian horror often feels like an emotional vivisection. However, it can also disturbs the mind. The intellectual and emotional challenges inherent in the genre help Isola succeed. A revelation to viewers lulled into idleness by the countless remakes and mindless freak-fests of late, this film challenges our perceptions as easily -- and with as much sadism -- as its poetically brutal violence chips away at our tolerance. Superior to such gore-fests as Evil Dead Trap, which lack emotional depth or intellectual sophistication despite sporting an exhilarating pace and gory effects, Isola is a philosophically rich story that weds psychology and the fantastic in a carefully orchestrated puzzle. The plot, a tragic examination of humanity's alienation and over-dependence on technology, is careful to underscore an intellectual theme with compassion.

After an earthquake reduces the cities of Kobe and Osaka into rubble, a psychic volunteers her time to the city. Capable of reading thoughts, she is brought by fate into contact with Chihiro, a young girl suffering, it seems, from Multiple Personality Disorder. Not long after, our heroine discovers that those who slight the girl are soon killed by Chihiro's 13th personality, Isola. Investigating Chihiro's past, our protagonist discovers that Chihiro's problems developed after a car accident killed her parents, evoking in her an astral 'out of body' experience. During this time, a scientist just happened to be researching such experiences, and died in an isolation tank during the aforementioned earthquake. What do you think happened to her spirit? Although the answer is made painfully obvious too soon, the concluding events of misery wrap viewers in a thoughtful spell.

In Isola the mind is as battered as the mind. The filmmaker's force us to feel both fear and awe as this catalogue of atrocities transpire. While any number of references can be found, the director achieves his own voice, finding the terror of/relationship between both the mind and flesh. Juxtaposing human needs and hatreds, desires and fears, he makes the impossible probable and the repulsive fascinating. This tapestry of strong emotion is injected with subversive beauty. Sato's film not only explores the relationships between cold hard science and subjective human desires but between objective reality and the undependable tool of human perception. The emotional effects of this film -- awe, horror, and eroticism -- are heightened by the intimate connection of physical shock and the subversive, philosophically profound themes supporting them. Whereas other films of this ilk would be satisfied to repulse, horrify, and titillate audiences with brazenly authentic viscera, wallowing happily in over-the-top carnality, -- surrounds shocking set-pieces with a carefully plotted story, introspective sub-text, and socially conscious themes. Extreme physical suffering is merged with emotional pain, coating the entire experience in a haze of delirium. At the same time, the surrealism that soaks up the story and performances is never used to justify an incomplete story.

The visual quality of Isola is as polished as the aforementioned titles, sporting clean, engaging layers of visual information. The picture is presented in 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen, with edge enhancements regulated to a minimal notice. Colors are again vibrant and life like, with light and shadow encouraged to play, mirroring the darkly fantastic theme of the script. Audio is offered in both 5.1 Digital Surround Sound and Dolby Digital 2.0. Both of these audio tracks are competent, but the SS option sounds slightly better, enjoying a greater distribution between sounds. Interviews with the Cast, a 'Making of Feature,' and Trailers round out the final film in this comprehensive, thematically challenging collection of Asian horror.

Review by William P. Simmons