Tag: Shuntaro Emi

Impure Nuns (汚れた肉体聖女, Michiyoshi Doi, 1958)

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Shintoho had arisen as a new studio during the labour disputes that engulfed the film industry in the late 1940s and to begin with specialised in artistic fare by orphaned filmmakers such as Kon Ichikawa and Kenji Mizoguchi, but faced with several box office failures it was in red right from the very beginning. After several attempts at relaunches and reorganisations, the studio appointed Mitsugu Okura to work his magic. The owner of a chain of cinemas and a former benshi, Okura had a reputation for being able to turn failing businesses around. His ethos was, however, decidedly populist. He shifted the studio’s focus from artistic films towards the low-budget genre fare with which it became most closely associated such as racy dramas and ghost films.

To that extent, you could say that Shintoho was ahead of its time. Most of the other studios would shift in the same direction as the studio system went into decline, and many of the stars at Toei in the 1960s such as Bunta Sugawara, Tetsuro Tamba, and Tomisaburo Wakayama had their start at Shintoho. Michiyoshi Doi was one of the studio’s key directors, though he often worked on its higher-bow output of literary adaptations. All of which might help to explain the seeming mismatch between the salacious Japanese title of 1958’s Impure Nuns, “Holy Women with Sullied Flesh” (汚れた肉体聖女, Kegareta Nikutai Shojo), and its content, which turns out to be a rather sensitive, sympathetic love story set in a Catholic Convent.

Eri (Miyuki Takakura) is the daughter of the aristocratic Taira family which apparently has a long history of Christianity. She is particularly devout and shortly after we meet her, she genuflects in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Throughout the film the welcoming arms of Mary seem to be contrasted with violent images of Christ on the cross, a presence that seeks to oppress the women in the free embrace of their desire. While her brother’s friend, Tsuyama (Toshio Mimura), is visiting, Eri suggests going into town to get something, but her mother is against it due to reports of some kind of “trouble” plaguing the streets. Tsuyama offers to accompany her, and they are actually beset by a gang of street toughs intent on raping Eri. Tsuyama does his best to fight them off until a policeman eventually arrives and chases them away. But then he ends up raping Eri himself, after which she becomes pregnant and undergoes an abortion at the urging of her parents.

While her father is scandalised and angry, Eri’s mother is sympathetic, but still each of them decide that the best thing to do is send Eri to a nunnery where she can be reborn in Christ. Due to her experiences, Eri seems to have developed a fear of men, but is also known as the strictest and most severe of the nuns. As the captivating Anna (Mayumi Ozora) enters the convent, another woman is being kicked out apparently by Eri for an undisclosed indiscretion with another woman. The mild implication is that Eri’s frustrated sexual desires have been channelled into authoritarianism in the insistence on discipline and punishing its breaches. It may be this that first attracts Anna who, to begin with, seems to be trying to initiate a sadomasochistic relationship by continually doing things to get Eri to punish her, such as singing while working which is, contrary to expectations, considered very bad form for a nun. 

Anna is, however, hardly a typical bride of Christ and is forever dancing and being cheerful. Her influence seems to break Eri out of her asceticism, as she too begins to ignore the rules and become more of herself again. After the convent bizarrely agrees to organise a dance, Eri gives in to her desire for Anna and the two fall in love, sharing a passionate kiss. But Sister Kashiwagi (Junko Uozumi) is watching, not so much because of the scandalous nature of their relationship, but because they are rivals for a coveted opportunity to study abroad in Rome with Eri currently the front runner. The trip to Rome is positioned as the antithesis of Eri’s freedom in her relationship with Anna as a symbol of repression in committing herself to religion. 

But Anna also disrupts the convent as she becomes the centre of a love triangle, while another nun later declares her love for Eri, only to be rebuffed. Sister Kashiwagi is killed by falling down the stairs while physically fighting over Anna, whose affections sometimes seem to wander, while Sister Sone similarly falls in a bottomless swamp that seems to stand in for obsessive desire. The love between the two women begins to amass a body count as they struggle to maintain it. Though it might seem as if the arrival of male policemen might further disrupt the convent, they simply declare their work done when Anna tells them she was asleep when her roommate left and didn’t see anything. But for her part, Anna has already described herself as cursed, abruptly revealing that her mother killed her father and then herself and that everyone in her family meets a bad end. Even her brother (Shuntaro Emi), who turns out to be a rapist and eventually takes his own life, describes her as a kind of demon that ruins everyone around her, and there is something of that in the way that she seems to attract so much attention at the convent.

Yet even when the script seems to want to paint this same-sex love as something dark or evil, Doi resists the impulse and largely depicts the relationship between the two women as something real and true that has beauty and delicacy. There’s something poignant in Eri’s final plea to run away together, and Anna’s reply that there isn’t any point because there’s nowhere they could go where they could live happily together. It’s Anna who now seems unable to break free of the convent, unexpectedly turning on Eri and going back to her bell ringing. The bell may represent a kind of order, but it’s also ironically reminiscent of the original Shintoho logo. In any case when they eventually fall from the tower, the other nuns arrive with flowers and encircle them with sorrow as if in recognition that it wasn’t the love that was a tragedy, but its impossibility. Though its frankness may have shocked audiences at the time, the film avoids the exploitative content suggested by the title, featuring little nudity beyond a silhouette of bared breasts, and embraces overt melodrama, a touch of gothic horror, and the beauty of this love rather attempt to censure or constrain it.

Impure Nuns screened as part of this year’s BFI Flare.

Original trailer (no subtitles)

The Military Policeman and the Dismembered Beauty (憲兵とバラバラ死美人, Kyotaro Namiki, 1957)

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The Military Policeman and the Dismembered Beauty (憲兵とバラバラ死美人, Kenpei to Barabara Shibijin) was apparently a substantial hit on its release, though to modern eyes at least it doesn’t quite live up to the salaciousness of its title. In fact, it seems a little more interested in reassessing the militarist past while attempting to rehabilitate an authoritarian power and reframing it as good and compassionate unlike the corrupted killer who is selfish and ambitious to the extent that he’s literally poisoning the militarist wells. 

What we’re first introduced to, however, is a rather familiar tale of a soldier who’s gotten a girl pregnant but now won’t marry her mainly because he’s onto a good thing with a pretty girl from a prominent family so his girlfriend’s in the way. Though we see a prelude to the murder, we don’t get good a look at the soldier’s face (though we do hear his voice) which on one level hints at the generalised violent threat of the militarist machine but is also a neat plot device that allows us to into the crime but still maintains the mystery. When we do see the actual killing, it’s surprisingly frank for the time period and disturbing in its sexual charge though there is no gore involved save a grisly discovery in yet another well. 

The killing occurred shortly before the regiment left for Manchuria, which seems to be one way the killer sought to move on and leave his crime behind. The first hint of the corruption is discovered by a gang of new recruits as yet unused to the militarist machine. They notice that the water in the well in the barracks is bad, but are at first bullied and insulted by another soldier who’s been there longer and gives them a rather priggish speech about the sanctity of the regimental water. What they discover is that the water tastes bad because there’s a dismembered torso in there and has been for the last six months. One has to wonder why the culprit would think this a good place to hide a body given the risk of discovery and increasing suspicion but as it turns out no one is all that interested. The Military Police aren’t that keen on investigating themselves, and then we get the familiar conflict between the local cops and the specialists as a top investigator, Kosaka (Shoji Nakayama), is assigned to investigate the crime and insists on doing so thoroughly rather than just beating their favourite subject into a false confession. 

Kosaka is then posited as a nice Military Policeman, an emissary of legitimate authority rather than bumbling provincials who are ridiculous and self-serving not to mention incompetent and resentful. We’re told repeatedly that Kosaka is prepared to work with the civilian police unlike the other military policemen who insist on militarist primacy and refuse to allow the detectives onto the base to investigate. He’s a representative of a less authoritarian age that looks forward to the democratic future, but he is also a part of that organisation himself no matter how different he may seem to be and cannot escape the overarching structures of militarism. Nevertheless, his edges are further softened by a nascent romance with the middle-aged innkeeper at his lodging house while his assistant is after her sister, a childhood friend who can’t stop calling him by his old nickname. 

The two of them investigate scientifically, making frequent trips to the pathologist to discuss theories and evidence though Kosaka is eventually guided towards the solution after seeing the young woman’s ghost. The local military police meanwhile fixate on another soldier who has a reputation for using sex workers, one of whom has recently disappeared, though Kosaka thinks the man is a just a crook with what modern viewers make think of as a sex addition that sees him steal supplies from the kitchen to sell in order to finance his visits to the red light district. The military police whip him in an oddly sexually charged manner to try to get him to confess, but he maintains his innocence. One of the motives for the murder was seemingly that the victim planned to expose the affair, taking her concerns to the killer’s superior officer in an effort to force him to marry her which would have ruined his career prospects in what is supposed to be an organisation of honourable men. Unlike Kosaka who shares his name with the writer of the novel the film is based on which may have been inspired by true events, the other military police are largely like the killer, arrogant, selfish and unfeeling though all Kosaka himself represents is a supposedly more benevolent authority that for his niceness may not actually be all that much nicer.

365 Nights (三百六十五夜, Kon Ichikawa, 1948)

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For his second film at Shintoho, Kon Ichikawa had wanted to adapt a story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa that later inspired Rashomon, but was handed a standard melodrama to direct first. Ichikawa apparently did not think much of the novel the film was to be based on nor the script by Kennosuke Tateoka which he subsequently brushed up with the help of his new wife Natto Wada, and it’s not difficult to see why he might have felt he had an uphill battle. Melodrama is after all a genre that is founded on coincidence, though 365 Nights (三百六十五夜, Sambyaku-rokujugo ya) quickly strains credulity with the sheer number of unlikely events and surprise reappearances along with its rather strange take on the contemporary post-war society which is undoubtedly influenced by the demands of the Occupation censorship regime. 

Indeed, the setting itself seems reminiscent of 1930s cinema following the dashing hero Koroku, played by the equally dashing Ken Uehara, an architect who has walked away from his privileged upbringing as the son of a successful construction magnate. His problem is that he’s being aggressively courted by the haughty Ranko (Hideko Takamine), also the daughter of a successful but shady businessman, who to modern eyes is basically stalking him. Grinning with an evil glint in her eye, she tells her minion Tsugawa (Yuji Hori) that she’ll have seduced Koroku within 365 days which by melodrama standards seems to give her quite a lot of leeway.

Clueing us up to her villainy, Ranko is always seen wearing incredibly stylish Western outfits but otherwise behaves in a transgressively masculine fashion ordering her male employees about while set on the sexual conquest of Koroku who despises her for everything she is. It’s difficult not to see an inherent criticism of the new post-war woman and an anxiety regarding the power that comes with wealth being wielded by someone who is not a man. The contrast between Ranko and traditional femininity is rammed home by the fact that Teruko (Hisako Yamane), the daughter of the landlady in the house where Koroku finds new lodging after moving home to escape Ranko, is always dressed in kimono and otherwise naive and innocent. 

This positions Ranko, and her minion Tsugawa who is also in love with her, as the villains who are rebelling against the kind of earnestness expressed by Koroku and Teruko. From more humble origins, Tsugawa is deeply resentful of Kokoku’s class privilege and feels that he looks down on him which is one reason he seeks revenge by destroying his life along with his sexual jealously that Ranko pays him no attention yet is fixated on Kokoku perhaps precisely because he is entirely uninterested in her though it remains mystery why you’d want to be married to someone who strongly dislikes you. 

Yet for all his own earnestness, Koroku is almost betrayed by the capitalist father of whom he also seems to disapprove when he asks him to consent to an arranged marriage with Ranko to save his business. Meanwhile, it also transpires that Teruko’s father has been absent from her life because he two has a criminal past further tainting the legacy each of them bear. Ichikawa stages each evolution of their relationship at the same, noirish street corner that seems to exist as a kind of border between the illicit underworld that seeps out from Tsugawa’s bar into the post-war society, and the geniality represented by Teruko’s otherwise nice, middle-class home. 

It’s the this transgressive quality, of being caught between these two worlds, that starts to eat away at Koroku leaving him a broken and shabby man little better than a tramp. In a break with melodrama norms, though he is aware that he has led Teruko into Tsugawa’s trap he comes to believe that she has betrayed him while she clings fiercely to her love and in the end attempts to sacrifice it basically giving Koroku to Ranko whom she believes can better care for him in his now corrupted state. Though events become grim with a wedding that is staged like a funeral and takes place at a death bed, there is also the sense that something must come right that seems a little incongruous and perhaps a concession to the censors board as may be the coda implying that Ranko, despite having undergone a kind of redemption, will also have to pay for all her dodgy dealings. Though clearly hampered by the material, Ichikawa crafts some stunning images such as the final scene at Tsugawa’s bar along with a surprisingly energetic action sequence during which Koroku fights off burglars at Teruko’s home and wins her heart with his manliness. In any case despite the hints at redemption the implication remains that this is a world dark at its core in which not even the earnest can escape its creeping corruption. 

The Ceiling at Utsunomiya (怪異宇都宮釣天井, Nobuo Nakagawa, 1956)

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Crime does not pay for a series of conspirators at the centre of Nobuo Nakagawa’s supernaturally-inflected historical tale, The Ceiling at Utsunomiya (怪異宇都宮釣天井, Kaii Utsunomiya Tsuritenjo). As the title implies, Nakagawa’s ominous jidaigeki is inspired by a historical legend in which a retainer supposedly attempted to assassinate the shogun through the rather elaborate device of a mechanical ceiling designed to crush him as he slept. In actuality no such thing took place, the shogun changed his route and subsequent investigations of Utsunomiya Castle found no sign of a false ceiling, yet the story took on a life of its own as local folklore. 

In this version of the tale, conspirators Councillor Kawamura (Ureo Egawa) and local yakuza Kagiya (Masao Mishima) are conspiring to depose Tokugawa Iemitsu (Yoichi Numata) in favour of his brother, manipulating Lord Honda (Shuntaro Emi) of Utsunomiya Castle by convincing him that his clan will prosper when the other retainers fall in behind the new shogun. The pair have arranged for nine talented craftsmen to be shut up in the castle to install “the mechanism” in time for the arrival of the shogun who is due to stay at the castle on his way to Nikko. Meanwhile, Kawamura is also intent on sleeping with the daughter of head carpenter Toemon (Yoji Misaki), Ofuji (Konomi Fuji), whom chief minion Tenzen (Tetsuro Tamba) is supposed to kidnap once the workmen have gone into isolation in the castle. Righteous samurai Ryutaro (Hiroshi Ogasawara) however, an undercover shogunate bodyguard, begins to disrupt their plan saving Ofuji while bonding with a friendly bar hostess, Onobu (Sachiko Toyama), and secret princess forest woman Oshino (Akemi Tsukushi). 

The plot represents in itself a malfunctioning of the feudal order in the essential weakness of Lord Honda, the ambition of his underling Kawamura, and the cruel greed of Kagiya. As the two men conspire, Kagiya jokingly laments that he isn’t a samurai while Kawamura reminds him that if the plan comes off he’ll be fantastically rich. Kagiya, a yakuza who sends his thugs to extort protection money from the local market, is representation of the threat of the rising merchant class whose financial power presents a challenge to the authority of the samurai. Toemon, meanwhile, a master craftsman, is manipulated into participating in the plan because he is in debt to Kagiya, later promised that he too will be “promoted” in being given permission to carry a sword little knowing that Kawamura and Kagiya not only plan to kidnap and rape his daughter but never intend to allow any of the craftsmen to live because they simply know too much. 

The Ceiling at Utsunomiya is not a ghost story in the manner for which Nakagawa is best known but it certainly plays like one, Kagiya eventually haunted by the figure of a betrayed Toemon which in turn leads him to a self-destructive attack on Tenzen and his eventual demise collapsed over his ill-gotten gains, a koban falling from his hand. Greed and violence will only repay in the same, the weak-willed Lord getting his comeuppance from the ever confident shogun even if he himself coolly stands back while others risk their lives to protect him. Even so, the eventual operation of “the mechanism” is intensely startling, the ceiling abruptly collapsing with alarming ferocity though one wonders what the advantage is in such an expensive, elaborate contraption aside from its ironic symbolism when the point of a sword will do. 

Then again, the heroic Ryutaro is almost assassinated while crossing a river via zip wire later fished out of the river by sullen forest woman Oshino, first encountered hunting birds with darts but later revealed to be the illegitimate child of samurai parents who fell foul of political intrigue. In a sense this revelation emphasises the restoration of the political order, Ryutaro permitted to fall in love with Oshino because they are of the same social class, while the romance between Ofuji and craftsman Yoshichi (Kotaro Sugiyama) also comes to fruition eliding the minor class difference between them in allowing the boss’ protege to marry the now orphaned daughter. Onobu meanwhile pays heavy price for her misplaced love for Ryutaro, denied romantic fulfilment in her liminal existence as a bar hostess. In any case, the corruption is exorcised and the normal order resumes reinforcing the hierarchical shogunate society with each of the players back in their rightful positions and possessing new hope for the future as Ryutaro and the shogun continue their tour while their former comrades kneel at the roadside.