Jigoku


1h 40m 1960
Jigoku

Brief Synopsis

A student's life changes forever when his friend involves him in a hit and run.

Film Details

Also Known As
Sinners of Hell, The
Genre
Horror/Science-Fiction
Drama
Foreign
Horror
Release Date
1960

Technical Specs

Duration
1h 40m
Sound
Mono (Western Electric Noiseless Recording)
Color
Color (Eastmancolor)
Theatrical Aspect Ratio
2.35 : 1

Synopsis

A high school student has a friend who is pure evil. Him and his friend are outdriving one night when they hit a drunkard and the friend leaves him to die. The student's life then goes down hill from there.

Film Details

Also Known As
Sinners of Hell, The
Genre
Horror/Science-Fiction
Drama
Foreign
Horror
Release Date
1960

Technical Specs

Duration
1h 40m
Sound
Mono (Western Electric Noiseless Recording)
Color
Color (Eastmancolor)
Theatrical Aspect Ratio
2.35 : 1

Articles

The Gist (Jigoku) - THE GIST


Two men in a room, debating "what is murder?" It is not a grisly talk, rather one of philosophy. They begin with a thought experiment: what if they were adrift in the ocean, certain to drown. A single plank offers escape, but it has room to save but one. No matter what happens, at least one person is sure to die. The only question is, which one? The man who takes the plank consigns his comrade to death. Is that murder? After some discussion, they concur: yes, it is like murder.

From there, the talk grows more concrete. The world is full of examples of selfish actions whose consequences bring harm to others. Not all of these things are classed as crimes, but perhaps they are sins. There must be some cosmic justice, some supernatural court where immoral acts meet their punishment...

These two men are not philosophers. They are filmmakers, employed by a ramshackle movie company called Shintoho, an outfit that has barely stayed on one side of bankruptcy by crafting low-budget exploitation movies. The boss, a producer named Mitsugu Okura, storms into the room. It's time to get started on the next horror movie if it's going to be ready in time for the pre-ordained summer release slot for 1960, and he's hoping screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa and director Nobuo Nakagawa have been using their brainstorming time wisely. "Sure, thing, chief, have we got a pip for you," says Miyagawa (he said it in Japanese, but you get the idea). "It's about selfish people and the punishment they face in Hell." Okura likes what he's hearing, and proposes a working title: Heaven and Hell. When Okura later sees the movie that Nakagawa and Miyagawa actually made, he grumbles, "It's nothing but Hell. What happened to Heaven?" Shrugging, Miyagawa quips, "We'll get to that in the sequel."

Jigoku (1960, aka Hell) is like nothing before it. Even today its reputation is still growing. One would have thought that fifty years' influence on Japanese horror movies would have cemented a critical consensus that it is Nakagawa's masterpiece. Nakagawa was something like Japan's answer to England's Terence Fisher--like the master director at Hammer Studios, Nakagawa was a genteel and gentle practitioner of classical filmmaking who found himself making immensely popular horror movies for a marginalized studio. The depth of his craft and the extent of his commercial appeal were counterbalanced by the fact that he was working in a disreputable genre for a company too impoverished to lend him any artistic luster. Nakagawa felt slighted by the international critical attention paid to his contemporaries like Akira Kurosawa or Kenji Mizoguchi. Here he was, practically inventing the genre of Japanese horror single-handedly, and was being treated by the Japanese film industry like a black sheep.

Nakagawa had not set out to make horror films. But he made them well, and audiences liked them, which meant he got stuck. Okura, a former carnival showman, was not about to let that well run dry. And Nakagawa kept coming back from that well with something better than before. His career-making hit came with 1959's The Ghost of Yotsuya, and its enormous success bought him a measure of creative freedom. When he and Miyagawa proposed making Jigoku as a Japanese take on Faust, Okura never blinked (even though, in order to realize his vision fully, Nakagawa ended up investing his own money in the film to enhance the budget).

Miyagawa's background was in writing the Super Giants cycle of pre-Ultraman Japanese super hero movies; Nakagawa's most successful horror movies had been period pictures in which Samurais and their wives dealt with ghosts. Making a contemporary, and relentlessly grim, thing like Jigoku would bring a fresh challenge to both creators.

It begins with a bang: a full-frontal cinematic assault to put the audience on notice they are in for a ride. The credits roll over shots of naked women in what could double as a James Bond movie title sequence, but this is played over an aural collage of snippets of jazz recordings and seemingly random sound effects (the soundtrack is in fact foreshadowing important moments from later in the film, much as a Godzilla movie might roll its credits over freeze frames of monster battles to come). It is hard to imagine any movie meeting the promise of such a bravura opening, but Jigoku will. It will keep its best cards until the final round, though, and begins the story on a quieter note.

Shigeru Amachi stars as Shiro, a college student engaged to his professor's daughter (Utako Mitsuya). The problem is, Shiro can't seem to shake the presence of a creepy friend named Tamura (Yoichi Numata). One night, the two men are involved in a hit-and-run accident that kills a pedestrian Shiro is haunted by guilt and wants to confess the accident to the police; Tamura figures the whole thing is best forgotten. The victim was a yakuza gangster, who was crossing the street in a drunken stupor--Tamura thinks the world is better off without him.

Betraying his selfish friend, Shiro tries to turn himself in--but in so doing, merely precipitates yet another car wreck, this one leaving his pregnant girlfriend dead. It is the first strike in a fast-spiraling vortex of guilt, in which everyone Shiro meets will be consigned to a grisly end. Friends, acquaintances, family members, enemies, and strangers alike die in Shiro's midst. Run over by cars, killed by illness, poisoned, shot, strangled, thrown from bridges, crushed by trains...you name it.

Whether by accident or design, the story takes a form vaguely similar to Nakagawa's earlier Ghost of Kasane Swamp. That 1957 film involved a cursed man who leaves a stream of corpses in his wake without meaning to. He is the catalyst for tragedy and violence he never wants but consistently fails to prevent.

Shiro's guilt has become a contagion, infecting the world, but the initial "crime" was not his. Tamura was behind the wheel and tried to conceal the death -- Shiro is punished for Tamura's crimes because this is a ruthlessly unforgiving movie. Jigoku sends its entire cast to Hell, no infraction is too small to warrant eternal hellfire. But then again, one could linger on that sentence a little longer: Shiro is punished for Tamura's crime...Shiro and Tamura, ever together--even if Tamura has to appear magically out of nowhere. Shiro has no memory of meeting Tamura, and Tamura never once acts alone. In a later interview, Miyagawa confessed that a lesser filmmaker could unimaginatively cast the same actor as both Shiro and Tamura, since they are aspects of the same person.

Following the logic of a dream, where unconnected events connect themselves after the fact, Shiro's grieving meanderings introduce -- and kill off -- a number of other characters, each with their own vice and failing. Once the body count has reached a critical mass, the clock stops, it all kicks off.

The rest of Jigoku is as experimental as anything attempted in the conventional, commercial movie industry. Brace yourself for an uninterrupted forty minute-long sequence of sustained surrealism and potent abstraction. Nakagawa and Miyagawa realized they would have a hard time expressing interior, psychological torment on the screen. So, they substituted a graphic metaphor: beheadings, behandings, a man sawed in half, another flayed alive, our hero suspended upside down with a spike through his neck...this is strong stuff, given that the very same year there were censors saying Alfred Hitchcock had pushed the envelope too far with Psycho (1960). The effects are not especially realistic, nor are they intended to be, but the overall impression is one of abject terror. The most powerful are also the simplest--forget the severed limbs, the most horrifying sight is a swarm of humanity, running in circles in a vast empty space.

The final shot is the kicker -- Shiro has spent much of this sequence trying to rescue his infant daughter, the unborn child killed in the car wreck along with its mother. The poor screaming child is on the edge of a giant cogwheel, and Shiro is crawling along the teeth of the thing to reach her on the opposite side. She is screaming, as terrified babies are wont to do, and Shiro's own hysteria matches hers 100%. His exertions are useless--no matter how much he crawls along the edge, she will always be the same distance away. He will never reach her, and he will always try, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Hell. (What did the baby do to deserve such punishment?)

Much of the credit for Jigoku's jaw-dropping depiction of Hell should go to production designer Haruyasu Kurosawa. It was he who realized that the lack of money could be a boon rather than a deficit. Rather than try to concoct elaborate visions that would fall short of their ambitions because of poor execution, Kurosawa successfully argued for a minimalist approach. Rarely has so little achieved so much. Hell was an empty soundstage (the largest in Japan), with some colored lights and a fog machine. Instead of scenery or props, he had Nakagawa manipulate the camera. Images of blood and pain are intercut in staccato fashion with moments of poetry. The result is arresting, terrifying, and memorable.

The almost immediate implosion of Shintoho's finances did nothing to help the distribution and promotion of the movie. When audiences did find their way to it, they were torn in two between the lovers and the haters. The division exposed a generational fault line. Young folks thrilled to the movie, and embraced its experimental style and outrageous imagery. Oldsters rankled against its unpleasantness and cheap look. As time went on, that younger audience grew up and became the establishment. By the 1990s, a new generation of filmmakers had come to prominence who had been greatly influenced by Nakagawa. The likes of Hideo Nakata, Hiroshi Takahashi, and Kiyoshi Kurosawa started a new cycle of Japanese horror movies ("J-Horrors") in the late 1990s in explicit homage to Nakagawa -- even going so far as to cast actors like Yoichi Numata in Ringu (1998) and its sequels. In 1999, cult filmmaker Teruo Ishii made his own idiosyncratic remake of Jigoku (it was not the first such remake, but the less said about the 1979 version the better).

Nakagawa did not live to see his renaissance. He kept working, improbably, through the doldrums of the 1970s and 80s when the rest of the Japanese film industry went on life-support. He migrated to television, where the pay was worse and the hours longer but at least there was a steady audience. And on he plugged, making nightmares on the cheap for anyone that would have him, until his death in 1984.

He left behind an enduring legacy that seems to grow in esteem with each passing year. Jigoku is as startling and unsettling today as it was back then.

Producers: Mitsugu Ôkura
Director: Nobuo Nakagawa
Screenplay: Nobuo Nakagawa, Ichirô Miyagawa
Cinematography: Mamoru Morita
Music: Michiaki Watanabe
Film Editing: Toshio Gotô
Cast: Shigeru Amachi (Shirô Shimizu), Utako Mitsuya (Yukiko/Sachiko), Yôichi Numata (Tamura), Hiroshi Hayashi (Gôzô Shimizu), Jun Ôtomo (Ensai Taniguchi), Akiko Yamashita (Kinuko), Kiyoko Tsuji (Kyôichi's Mother), Fumiko Miyata (Mrs. Yajima), Torahiko Nakamura (Professor Yajima), Kimie Tokudaiji (Ito Shimizu).
C-101m.

by David Kalat

Sources:
Colette Balmain, Introduction to Japanese Horror Film.
Bill Cooke, "Noburo Nakagawa: Master of Japanesque Horror," Video Watchdog issue 103.
David Kalat, J-Horror.
Jay McRoy, Japanese Horror Cinema.
Marc Walkow, "Building the Inferno--Noburo Nakagawa and the Making of Jigoku," Jigoku DVD from the Criterion Collection.
The Gist (Jigoku) - The Gist

The Gist (Jigoku) - THE GIST

Two men in a room, debating "what is murder?" It is not a grisly talk, rather one of philosophy. They begin with a thought experiment: what if they were adrift in the ocean, certain to drown. A single plank offers escape, but it has room to save but one. No matter what happens, at least one person is sure to die. The only question is, which one? The man who takes the plank consigns his comrade to death. Is that murder? After some discussion, they concur: yes, it is like murder. From there, the talk grows more concrete. The world is full of examples of selfish actions whose consequences bring harm to others. Not all of these things are classed as crimes, but perhaps they are sins. There must be some cosmic justice, some supernatural court where immoral acts meet their punishment... These two men are not philosophers. They are filmmakers, employed by a ramshackle movie company called Shintoho, an outfit that has barely stayed on one side of bankruptcy by crafting low-budget exploitation movies. The boss, a producer named Mitsugu Okura, storms into the room. It's time to get started on the next horror movie if it's going to be ready in time for the pre-ordained summer release slot for 1960, and he's hoping screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa and director Nobuo Nakagawa have been using their brainstorming time wisely. "Sure, thing, chief, have we got a pip for you," says Miyagawa (he said it in Japanese, but you get the idea). "It's about selfish people and the punishment they face in Hell." Okura likes what he's hearing, and proposes a working title: Heaven and Hell. When Okura later sees the movie that Nakagawa and Miyagawa actually made, he grumbles, "It's nothing but Hell. What happened to Heaven?" Shrugging, Miyagawa quips, "We'll get to that in the sequel." Jigoku (1960, aka Hell) is like nothing before it. Even today its reputation is still growing. One would have thought that fifty years' influence on Japanese horror movies would have cemented a critical consensus that it is Nakagawa's masterpiece. Nakagawa was something like Japan's answer to England's Terence Fisher--like the master director at Hammer Studios, Nakagawa was a genteel and gentle practitioner of classical filmmaking who found himself making immensely popular horror movies for a marginalized studio. The depth of his craft and the extent of his commercial appeal were counterbalanced by the fact that he was working in a disreputable genre for a company too impoverished to lend him any artistic luster. Nakagawa felt slighted by the international critical attention paid to his contemporaries like Akira Kurosawa or Kenji Mizoguchi. Here he was, practically inventing the genre of Japanese horror single-handedly, and was being treated by the Japanese film industry like a black sheep. Nakagawa had not set out to make horror films. But he made them well, and audiences liked them, which meant he got stuck. Okura, a former carnival showman, was not about to let that well run dry. And Nakagawa kept coming back from that well with something better than before. His career-making hit came with 1959's The Ghost of Yotsuya, and its enormous success bought him a measure of creative freedom. When he and Miyagawa proposed making Jigoku as a Japanese take on Faust, Okura never blinked (even though, in order to realize his vision fully, Nakagawa ended up investing his own money in the film to enhance the budget). Miyagawa's background was in writing the Super Giants cycle of pre-Ultraman Japanese super hero movies; Nakagawa's most successful horror movies had been period pictures in which Samurais and their wives dealt with ghosts. Making a contemporary, and relentlessly grim, thing like Jigoku would bring a fresh challenge to both creators. It begins with a bang: a full-frontal cinematic assault to put the audience on notice they are in for a ride. The credits roll over shots of naked women in what could double as a James Bond movie title sequence, but this is played over an aural collage of snippets of jazz recordings and seemingly random sound effects (the soundtrack is in fact foreshadowing important moments from later in the film, much as a Godzilla movie might roll its credits over freeze frames of monster battles to come). It is hard to imagine any movie meeting the promise of such a bravura opening, but Jigoku will. It will keep its best cards until the final round, though, and begins the story on a quieter note. Shigeru Amachi stars as Shiro, a college student engaged to his professor's daughter (Utako Mitsuya). The problem is, Shiro can't seem to shake the presence of a creepy friend named Tamura (Yoichi Numata). One night, the two men are involved in a hit-and-run accident that kills a pedestrian Shiro is haunted by guilt and wants to confess the accident to the police; Tamura figures the whole thing is best forgotten. The victim was a yakuza gangster, who was crossing the street in a drunken stupor--Tamura thinks the world is better off without him. Betraying his selfish friend, Shiro tries to turn himself in--but in so doing, merely precipitates yet another car wreck, this one leaving his pregnant girlfriend dead. It is the first strike in a fast-spiraling vortex of guilt, in which everyone Shiro meets will be consigned to a grisly end. Friends, acquaintances, family members, enemies, and strangers alike die in Shiro's midst. Run over by cars, killed by illness, poisoned, shot, strangled, thrown from bridges, crushed by trains...you name it. Whether by accident or design, the story takes a form vaguely similar to Nakagawa's earlier Ghost of Kasane Swamp. That 1957 film involved a cursed man who leaves a stream of corpses in his wake without meaning to. He is the catalyst for tragedy and violence he never wants but consistently fails to prevent. Shiro's guilt has become a contagion, infecting the world, but the initial "crime" was not his. Tamura was behind the wheel and tried to conceal the death -- Shiro is punished for Tamura's crimes because this is a ruthlessly unforgiving movie. Jigoku sends its entire cast to Hell, no infraction is too small to warrant eternal hellfire. But then again, one could linger on that sentence a little longer: Shiro is punished for Tamura's crime...Shiro and Tamura, ever together--even if Tamura has to appear magically out of nowhere. Shiro has no memory of meeting Tamura, and Tamura never once acts alone. In a later interview, Miyagawa confessed that a lesser filmmaker could unimaginatively cast the same actor as both Shiro and Tamura, since they are aspects of the same person. Following the logic of a dream, where unconnected events connect themselves after the fact, Shiro's grieving meanderings introduce -- and kill off -- a number of other characters, each with their own vice and failing. Once the body count has reached a critical mass, the clock stops, it all kicks off. The rest of Jigoku is as experimental as anything attempted in the conventional, commercial movie industry. Brace yourself for an uninterrupted forty minute-long sequence of sustained surrealism and potent abstraction. Nakagawa and Miyagawa realized they would have a hard time expressing interior, psychological torment on the screen. So, they substituted a graphic metaphor: beheadings, behandings, a man sawed in half, another flayed alive, our hero suspended upside down with a spike through his neck...this is strong stuff, given that the very same year there were censors saying Alfred Hitchcock had pushed the envelope too far with Psycho (1960). The effects are not especially realistic, nor are they intended to be, but the overall impression is one of abject terror. The most powerful are also the simplest--forget the severed limbs, the most horrifying sight is a swarm of humanity, running in circles in a vast empty space. The final shot is the kicker -- Shiro has spent much of this sequence trying to rescue his infant daughter, the unborn child killed in the car wreck along with its mother. The poor screaming child is on the edge of a giant cogwheel, and Shiro is crawling along the teeth of the thing to reach her on the opposite side. She is screaming, as terrified babies are wont to do, and Shiro's own hysteria matches hers 100%. His exertions are useless--no matter how much he crawls along the edge, she will always be the same distance away. He will never reach her, and he will always try, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Hell. (What did the baby do to deserve such punishment?) Much of the credit for Jigoku's jaw-dropping depiction of Hell should go to production designer Haruyasu Kurosawa. It was he who realized that the lack of money could be a boon rather than a deficit. Rather than try to concoct elaborate visions that would fall short of their ambitions because of poor execution, Kurosawa successfully argued for a minimalist approach. Rarely has so little achieved so much. Hell was an empty soundstage (the largest in Japan), with some colored lights and a fog machine. Instead of scenery or props, he had Nakagawa manipulate the camera. Images of blood and pain are intercut in staccato fashion with moments of poetry. The result is arresting, terrifying, and memorable. The almost immediate implosion of Shintoho's finances did nothing to help the distribution and promotion of the movie. When audiences did find their way to it, they were torn in two between the lovers and the haters. The division exposed a generational fault line. Young folks thrilled to the movie, and embraced its experimental style and outrageous imagery. Oldsters rankled against its unpleasantness and cheap look. As time went on, that younger audience grew up and became the establishment. By the 1990s, a new generation of filmmakers had come to prominence who had been greatly influenced by Nakagawa. The likes of Hideo Nakata, Hiroshi Takahashi, and Kiyoshi Kurosawa started a new cycle of Japanese horror movies ("J-Horrors") in the late 1990s in explicit homage to Nakagawa -- even going so far as to cast actors like Yoichi Numata in Ringu (1998) and its sequels. In 1999, cult filmmaker Teruo Ishii made his own idiosyncratic remake of Jigoku (it was not the first such remake, but the less said about the 1979 version the better). Nakagawa did not live to see his renaissance. He kept working, improbably, through the doldrums of the 1970s and 80s when the rest of the Japanese film industry went on life-support. He migrated to television, where the pay was worse and the hours longer but at least there was a steady audience. And on he plugged, making nightmares on the cheap for anyone that would have him, until his death in 1984. He left behind an enduring legacy that seems to grow in esteem with each passing year. Jigoku is as startling and unsettling today as it was back then. Producers: Mitsugu Ôkura Director: Nobuo Nakagawa Screenplay: Nobuo Nakagawa, Ichirô Miyagawa Cinematography: Mamoru Morita Music: Michiaki Watanabe Film Editing: Toshio Gotô Cast: Shigeru Amachi (Shirô Shimizu), Utako Mitsuya (Yukiko/Sachiko), Yôichi Numata (Tamura), Hiroshi Hayashi (Gôzô Shimizu), Jun Ôtomo (Ensai Taniguchi), Akiko Yamashita (Kinuko), Kiyoko Tsuji (Kyôichi's Mother), Fumiko Miyata (Mrs. Yajima), Torahiko Nakamura (Professor Yajima), Kimie Tokudaiji (Ito Shimizu). C-101m. by David Kalat Sources: Colette Balmain, Introduction to Japanese Horror Film. Bill Cooke, "Noburo Nakagawa: Master of Japanesque Horror," Video Watchdog issue 103. David Kalat, J-Horror. Jay McRoy, Japanese Horror Cinema. Marc Walkow, "Building the Inferno--Noburo Nakagawa and the Making of Jigoku," Jigoku DVD from the Criterion Collection.

Jigoku


Two men in a room, debating "what is murder?" It is not a grisly talk, rather one of philosophy. They begin with a thought experiment: what if they were adrift in the ocean, certain to drown. A single plank offers escape, but it has room to save but one. No matter what happens, at least one person is sure to die. The only question is, which one? The man who takes the plank consigns his comrade to death. Is that murder? After some discussion, they concur: yes, it is like murder.

From there, the talk grows more concrete. The world is full of examples of selfish actions whose consequences bring harm to others. Not all of these things are classed as crimes, but perhaps they are sins. There must be some cosmic justice, some supernatural court where immoral acts meet their punishment...

These two men are not philosophers. They are filmmakers, employed by a ramshackle movie company called Shintoho, an outfit that has barely stayed on one side of bankruptcy by crafting low-budget exploitation movies. The boss, a producer named Mitsugu Okura, storms into the room. It's time to get started on the next horror movie if it's going to be ready in time for the pre-ordained summer release slot for 1960, and he's hoping screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa and director Nobuo Nakagawa have been using their brainstorming time wisely. "Sure, thing, chief, have we got a pip for you," says Miyagawa (he said it in Japanese, but you get the idea). "It's about selfish people and the punishment they face in Hell." Okura likes what he's hearing, and proposes a working title: Heaven and Hell. When Okura later sees the movie that Nakagawa and Miyagawa actually made, he grumbles, "It's nothing but Hell. What happened to Heaven?" Shrugging, Miyagawa quips, "We'll get to that in the sequel."

Jigoku (1960, aka Hell) is like nothing before it. Even today its reputation is still growing. One would have thought that fifty years' influence on Japanese horror movies would have cemented a critical consensus that it is Nakagawa's masterpiece. Nakagawa was something like Japan's answer to England's Terence Fisher--like the master director at Hammer Studios, Nakagawa was a genteel and gentle practitioner of classical filmmaking who found himself making immensely popular horror movies for a marginalized studio. The depth of his craft and the extent of his commercial appeal were counterbalanced by the fact that he was working in a disreputable genre for a company too impoverished to lend him any artistic luster. Nakagawa felt slighted by the international critical attention paid to his contemporaries like Akira Kurosawa or Kenji Mizoguchi. Here he was, practically inventing the genre of Japanese horror single-handedly, and was being treated by the Japanese film industry like a black sheep.

Nakagawa had not set out to make horror films. But he made them well, and audiences liked them, which meant he got stuck. Okura, a former carnival showman, was not about to let that well run dry. And Nakagawa kept coming back from that well with something better than before. His career-making hit came with 1959's The Ghost of Yotsuya, and its enormous success bought him a measure of creative freedom. When he and Miyagawa proposed making Jigoku as a Japanese take on Faust, Okura never blinked (even though, in order to realize his vision fully, Nakagawa ended up investing his own money in the film to enhance the budget).

Miyagawa's background was in writing the Super Giants cycle of pre-Ultraman Japanese super hero movies; Nakagawa's most successful horror movies had been period pictures in which Samurais and their wives dealt with ghosts. Making a contemporary, and relentlessly grim, thing like Jigoku would bring a fresh challenge to both creators.

It begins with a bang: a full-frontal cinematic assault to put the audience on notice they are in for a ride. The credits roll over shots of naked women in what could double as a James Bond movie title sequence, but this is played over an aural collage of snippets of jazz recordings and seemingly random sound effects (the soundtrack is in fact foreshadowing important moments from later in the film, much as a Godzilla movie might roll its credits over freeze frames of monster battles to come). It is hard to imagine any movie meeting the promise of such a bravura opening, but Jigoku will. It will keep its best cards until the final round, though, and begins the story on a quieter note.

Shigeru Amachi stars as Shiro, a college student engaged to his professor's daughter (Utako Mitsuya). The problem is, Shiro can't seem to shake the presence of a creepy friend named Tamura (Yoichi Numata). One night, the two men are involved in a hit-and-run accident that kills a pedestrian Shiro is haunted by guilt and wants to confess the accident to the police; Tamura figures the whole thing is best forgotten. The victim was a yakuza gangster, who was crossing the street in a drunken stupor--Tamura thinks the world is better off without him.

Betraying his selfish friend, Shiro tries to turn himself in--but in so doing, merely precipitates yet another car wreck, this one leaving his pregnant girlfriend dead. It is the first strike in a fast-spiraling vortex of guilt, in which everyone Shiro meets will be consigned to a grisly end. Friends, acquaintances, family members, enemies, and strangers alike die in Shiro's midst. Run over by cars, killed by illness, poisoned, shot, strangled, thrown from bridges, crushed by trains...you name it.

Whether by accident or design, the story takes a form vaguely similar to Nakagawa's earlier Ghost of Kasane Swamp. That 1957 film involved a cursed man who leaves a stream of corpses in his wake without meaning to. He is the catalyst for tragedy and violence he never wants but consistently fails to prevent.

Shiro's guilt has become a contagion, infecting the world, but the initial "crime" was not his. Tamura was behind the wheel and tried to conceal the death -- Shiro is punished for Tamura's crimes because this is a ruthlessly unforgiving movie. Jigoku sends its entire cast to Hell, no infraction is too small to warrant eternal hellfire. But then again, one could linger on that sentence a little longer: Shiro is punished for Tamura's crime...Shiro and Tamura, ever together--even if Tamura has to appear magically out of nowhere. Shiro has no memory of meeting Tamura, and Tamura never once acts alone. In a later interview, Miyagawa confessed that a lesser filmmaker could unimaginatively cast the same actor as both Shiro and Tamura, since they are aspects of the same person.

Following the logic of a dream, where unconnected events connect themselves after the fact, Shiro's grieving meanderings introduce -- and kill off -- a number of other characters, each with their own vice and failing. Once the body count has reached a critical mass, the clock stops, it all kicks off.

The rest of Jigoku is as experimental as anything attempted in the conventional, commercial movie industry. Brace yourself for an uninterrupted forty minute-long sequence of sustained surrealism and potent abstraction. Nakagawa and Miyagawa realized they would have a hard time expressing interior, psychological torment on the screen. So, they substituted a graphic metaphor: beheadings, behandings, a man sawed in half, another flayed alive, our hero suspended upside down with a spike through his neck...this is strong stuff, given that the very same year there were censors saying Alfred Hitchcock had pushed the envelope too far with Psycho (1960). The effects are not especially realistic, nor are they intended to be, but the overall impression is one of abject terror. The most powerful are also the simplest--forget the severed limbs, the most horrifying sight is a swarm of humanity, running in circles in a vast empty space.

The final shot is the kicker -- Shiro has spent much of this sequence trying to rescue his infant daughter, the unborn child killed in the car wreck along with its mother. The poor screaming child is on the edge of a giant cogwheel, and Shiro is crawling along the teeth of the thing to reach her on the opposite side. She is screaming, as terrified babies are wont to do, and Shiro's own hysteria matches hers 100%. His exertions are useless--no matter how much he crawls along the edge, she will always be the same distance away. He will never reach her, and he will always try, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Hell. (What did the baby do to deserve such punishment?)

Much of the credit for Jigoku's jaw-dropping depiction of Hell should go to production designer Haruyasu Kurosawa. It was he who realized that the lack of money could be a boon rather than a deficit. Rather than try to concoct elaborate visions that would fall short of their ambitions because of poor execution, Kurosawa successfully argued for a minimalist approach. Rarely has so little achieved so much. Hell was an empty soundstage (the largest in Japan), with some colored lights and a fog machine. Instead of scenery or props, he had Nakagawa manipulate the camera. Images of blood and pain are intercut in staccato fashion with moments of poetry. The result is arresting, terrifying, and memorable.

The almost immediate implosion of Shintoho's finances did nothing to help the distribution and promotion of the movie. When audiences did find their way to it, they were torn in two between the lovers and the haters. The division exposed a generational fault line. Young folks thrilled to the movie, and embraced its experimental style and outrageous imagery. Oldsters rankled against its unpleasantness and cheap look. As time went on, that younger audience grew up and became the establishment. By the 1990s, a new generation of filmmakers had come to prominence who had been greatly influenced by Nakagawa. The likes of Hideo Nakata, Hiroshi Takahashi, and Kiyoshi Kurosawa started a new cycle of Japanese horror movies ("J-Horrors") in the late 1990s in explicit homage to Nakagawa -- even going so far as to cast actors like Yoichi Numata in Ringu (1998) and its sequels. In 1999, cult filmmaker Teruo Ishii made his own idiosyncratic remake of Jigoku (it was not the first such remake, but the less said about the 1979 version the better).

Nakagawa did not live to see his renaissance. He kept working, improbably, through the doldrums of the 1970s and 80s when the rest of the Japanese film industry went on life-support. He migrated to television, where the pay was worse and the hours longer but at least there was a steady audience. And on he plugged, making nightmares on the cheap for anyone that would have him, until his death in 1984.

He left behind an enduring legacy that seems to grow in esteem with each passing year. Jigoku is as startling and unsettling today as it was back then.

Producers: Mitsugu Ôkura
Director: Nobuo Nakagawa
Screenplay: Nobuo Nakagawa, Ichirô Miyagawa
Cinematography: Mamoru Morita
Music: Michiaki Watanabe
Film Editing: Toshio Gotô
Cast: Shigeru Amachi (Shirô Shimizu), Utako Mitsuya (Yukiko/Sachiko), Yôichi Numata (Tamura), Hiroshi Hayashi (Gôzô Shimizu), Jun Ôtomo (Ensai Taniguchi), Akiko Yamashita (Kinuko), Kiyoko Tsuji (Kyôichi's Mother), Fumiko Miyata (Mrs. Yajima), Torahiko Nakamura (Professor Yajima), Kimie Tokudaiji (Ito Shimizu).
C-101m.

by David Kalat

Sources:
Colette Balmain, Introduction to Japanese Horror Film.
Bill Cooke, "Noburo Nakagawa: Master of Japanesque Horror," Video Watchdog issue 103.
David Kalat, J-Horror.
Jay McRoy, Japanese Horror Cinema.
Marc Walkow, "Building the Inferno--Noburo Nakagawa and the Making of Jigoku," Jigoku DVD from the Criterion Collection.

Jigoku

Two men in a room, debating "what is murder?" It is not a grisly talk, rather one of philosophy. They begin with a thought experiment: what if they were adrift in the ocean, certain to drown. A single plank offers escape, but it has room to save but one. No matter what happens, at least one person is sure to die. The only question is, which one? The man who takes the plank consigns his comrade to death. Is that murder? After some discussion, they concur: yes, it is like murder. From there, the talk grows more concrete. The world is full of examples of selfish actions whose consequences bring harm to others. Not all of these things are classed as crimes, but perhaps they are sins. There must be some cosmic justice, some supernatural court where immoral acts meet their punishment... These two men are not philosophers. They are filmmakers, employed by a ramshackle movie company called Shintoho, an outfit that has barely stayed on one side of bankruptcy by crafting low-budget exploitation movies. The boss, a producer named Mitsugu Okura, storms into the room. It's time to get started on the next horror movie if it's going to be ready in time for the pre-ordained summer release slot for 1960, and he's hoping screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa and director Nobuo Nakagawa have been using their brainstorming time wisely. "Sure, thing, chief, have we got a pip for you," says Miyagawa (he said it in Japanese, but you get the idea). "It's about selfish people and the punishment they face in Hell." Okura likes what he's hearing, and proposes a working title: Heaven and Hell. When Okura later sees the movie that Nakagawa and Miyagawa actually made, he grumbles, "It's nothing but Hell. What happened to Heaven?" Shrugging, Miyagawa quips, "We'll get to that in the sequel." Jigoku (1960, aka Hell) is like nothing before it. Even today its reputation is still growing. One would have thought that fifty years' influence on Japanese horror movies would have cemented a critical consensus that it is Nakagawa's masterpiece. Nakagawa was something like Japan's answer to England's Terence Fisher--like the master director at Hammer Studios, Nakagawa was a genteel and gentle practitioner of classical filmmaking who found himself making immensely popular horror movies for a marginalized studio. The depth of his craft and the extent of his commercial appeal were counterbalanced by the fact that he was working in a disreputable genre for a company too impoverished to lend him any artistic luster. Nakagawa felt slighted by the international critical attention paid to his contemporaries like Akira Kurosawa or Kenji Mizoguchi. Here he was, practically inventing the genre of Japanese horror single-handedly, and was being treated by the Japanese film industry like a black sheep. Nakagawa had not set out to make horror films. But he made them well, and audiences liked them, which meant he got stuck. Okura, a former carnival showman, was not about to let that well run dry. And Nakagawa kept coming back from that well with something better than before. His career-making hit came with 1959's The Ghost of Yotsuya, and its enormous success bought him a measure of creative freedom. When he and Miyagawa proposed making Jigoku as a Japanese take on Faust, Okura never blinked (even though, in order to realize his vision fully, Nakagawa ended up investing his own money in the film to enhance the budget). Miyagawa's background was in writing the Super Giants cycle of pre-Ultraman Japanese super hero movies; Nakagawa's most successful horror movies had been period pictures in which Samurais and their wives dealt with ghosts. Making a contemporary, and relentlessly grim, thing like Jigoku would bring a fresh challenge to both creators. It begins with a bang: a full-frontal cinematic assault to put the audience on notice they are in for a ride. The credits roll over shots of naked women in what could double as a James Bond movie title sequence, but this is played over an aural collage of snippets of jazz recordings and seemingly random sound effects (the soundtrack is in fact foreshadowing important moments from later in the film, much as a Godzilla movie might roll its credits over freeze frames of monster battles to come). It is hard to imagine any movie meeting the promise of such a bravura opening, but Jigoku will. It will keep its best cards until the final round, though, and begins the story on a quieter note. Shigeru Amachi stars as Shiro, a college student engaged to his professor's daughter (Utako Mitsuya). The problem is, Shiro can't seem to shake the presence of a creepy friend named Tamura (Yoichi Numata). One night, the two men are involved in a hit-and-run accident that kills a pedestrian Shiro is haunted by guilt and wants to confess the accident to the police; Tamura figures the whole thing is best forgotten. The victim was a yakuza gangster, who was crossing the street in a drunken stupor--Tamura thinks the world is better off without him. Betraying his selfish friend, Shiro tries to turn himself in--but in so doing, merely precipitates yet another car wreck, this one leaving his pregnant girlfriend dead. It is the first strike in a fast-spiraling vortex of guilt, in which everyone Shiro meets will be consigned to a grisly end. Friends, acquaintances, family members, enemies, and strangers alike die in Shiro's midst. Run over by cars, killed by illness, poisoned, shot, strangled, thrown from bridges, crushed by trains...you name it. Whether by accident or design, the story takes a form vaguely similar to Nakagawa's earlier Ghost of Kasane Swamp. That 1957 film involved a cursed man who leaves a stream of corpses in his wake without meaning to. He is the catalyst for tragedy and violence he never wants but consistently fails to prevent. Shiro's guilt has become a contagion, infecting the world, but the initial "crime" was not his. Tamura was behind the wheel and tried to conceal the death -- Shiro is punished for Tamura's crimes because this is a ruthlessly unforgiving movie. Jigoku sends its entire cast to Hell, no infraction is too small to warrant eternal hellfire. But then again, one could linger on that sentence a little longer: Shiro is punished for Tamura's crime...Shiro and Tamura, ever together--even if Tamura has to appear magically out of nowhere. Shiro has no memory of meeting Tamura, and Tamura never once acts alone. In a later interview, Miyagawa confessed that a lesser filmmaker could unimaginatively cast the same actor as both Shiro and Tamura, since they are aspects of the same person. Following the logic of a dream, where unconnected events connect themselves after the fact, Shiro's grieving meanderings introduce -- and kill off -- a number of other characters, each with their own vice and failing. Once the body count has reached a critical mass, the clock stops, it all kicks off. The rest of Jigoku is as experimental as anything attempted in the conventional, commercial movie industry. Brace yourself for an uninterrupted forty minute-long sequence of sustained surrealism and potent abstraction. Nakagawa and Miyagawa realized they would have a hard time expressing interior, psychological torment on the screen. So, they substituted a graphic metaphor: beheadings, behandings, a man sawed in half, another flayed alive, our hero suspended upside down with a spike through his neck...this is strong stuff, given that the very same year there were censors saying Alfred Hitchcock had pushed the envelope too far with Psycho (1960). The effects are not especially realistic, nor are they intended to be, but the overall impression is one of abject terror. The most powerful are also the simplest--forget the severed limbs, the most horrifying sight is a swarm of humanity, running in circles in a vast empty space. The final shot is the kicker -- Shiro has spent much of this sequence trying to rescue his infant daughter, the unborn child killed in the car wreck along with its mother. The poor screaming child is on the edge of a giant cogwheel, and Shiro is crawling along the teeth of the thing to reach her on the opposite side. She is screaming, as terrified babies are wont to do, and Shiro's own hysteria matches hers 100%. His exertions are useless--no matter how much he crawls along the edge, she will always be the same distance away. He will never reach her, and he will always try, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is Hell. (What did the baby do to deserve such punishment?) Much of the credit for Jigoku's jaw-dropping depiction of Hell should go to production designer Haruyasu Kurosawa. It was he who realized that the lack of money could be a boon rather than a deficit. Rather than try to concoct elaborate visions that would fall short of their ambitions because of poor execution, Kurosawa successfully argued for a minimalist approach. Rarely has so little achieved so much. Hell was an empty soundstage (the largest in Japan), with some colored lights and a fog machine. Instead of scenery or props, he had Nakagawa manipulate the camera. Images of blood and pain are intercut in staccato fashion with moments of poetry. The result is arresting, terrifying, and memorable. The almost immediate implosion of Shintoho's finances did nothing to help the distribution and promotion of the movie. When audiences did find their way to it, they were torn in two between the lovers and the haters. The division exposed a generational fault line. Young folks thrilled to the movie, and embraced its experimental style and outrageous imagery. Oldsters rankled against its unpleasantness and cheap look. As time went on, that younger audience grew up and became the establishment. By the 1990s, a new generation of filmmakers had come to prominence who had been greatly influenced by Nakagawa. The likes of Hideo Nakata, Hiroshi Takahashi, and Kiyoshi Kurosawa started a new cycle of Japanese horror movies ("J-Horrors") in the late 1990s in explicit homage to Nakagawa -- even going so far as to cast actors like Yoichi Numata in Ringu (1998) and its sequels. In 1999, cult filmmaker Teruo Ishii made his own idiosyncratic remake of Jigoku (it was not the first such remake, but the less said about the 1979 version the better). Nakagawa did not live to see his renaissance. He kept working, improbably, through the doldrums of the 1970s and 80s when the rest of the Japanese film industry went on life-support. He migrated to television, where the pay was worse and the hours longer but at least there was a steady audience. And on he plugged, making nightmares on the cheap for anyone that would have him, until his death in 1984. He left behind an enduring legacy that seems to grow in esteem with each passing year. Jigoku is as startling and unsettling today as it was back then. Producers: Mitsugu Ôkura Director: Nobuo Nakagawa Screenplay: Nobuo Nakagawa, Ichirô Miyagawa Cinematography: Mamoru Morita Music: Michiaki Watanabe Film Editing: Toshio Gotô Cast: Shigeru Amachi (Shirô Shimizu), Utako Mitsuya (Yukiko/Sachiko), Yôichi Numata (Tamura), Hiroshi Hayashi (Gôzô Shimizu), Jun Ôtomo (Ensai Taniguchi), Akiko Yamashita (Kinuko), Kiyoko Tsuji (Kyôichi's Mother), Fumiko Miyata (Mrs. Yajima), Torahiko Nakamura (Professor Yajima), Kimie Tokudaiji (Ito Shimizu). C-101m. by David Kalat Sources: Colette Balmain, Introduction to Japanese Horror Film. Bill Cooke, "Noburo Nakagawa: Master of Japanesque Horror," Video Watchdog issue 103. David Kalat, J-Horror. Jay McRoy, Japanese Horror Cinema. Marc Walkow, "Building the Inferno--Noburo Nakagawa and the Making of Jigoku," Jigoku DVD from the Criterion Collection.

Jigoku - A Vision of Hell from Japan - The 1960 Cult Horror Film JIGOKU on DVD


Although great works of art have described the fires of Hell at least since Dante Alighiere's Divine Comedy, films have given us relatively few glimpses of Hell outside of satirical comedies. Films blanc like Ernst Lubitsch's Heaven Can Wait often picture Paradise and Hades as bureaucratic waiting rooms. When the flames of Hell find more direct expression, as in the rather confused 1935 Dante's Inferno with Spencer Tracy, the experience usually turns out to be a dream, with visuals cribbed from classical paintings or the engravings of Gustave Doré. Souls in torment wave their arms like modern dancers, and wailing victims appear to be imprisoned within trees and fused with rocks.

Americans have always been familiar with hellfire & brimstone church sermons, but our most frequent movie representations of Hell are to be found in cartoons. Depicting the tortures of the damned in a live- action film was almost impossible after the Production Code came in. An ordinary toilet wasn't allowed on-screen until 1960's Psycho, and making jokes about Hell could be equally jittery. In Robert Wise's 1963 The Haunting Russ Tamblyn is shown a classical engraving of a scene from Hell and quips that it would make perfect artwork for a Christmas card.

Americans had no idea how extreme was Japanese exploitation filmmaking at this time. Less prestigious Japanese companies churned out crime films more cynical and violent than anything seen in the west. Japanese horror pictures added explicit gore to rigidly codified ghost tales about betrayed lovers becoming ghosts and murder victims transforming into demon cats. The Shintoho studio augmented its low budget nudie films with a string of ever-bloodier horror product, some of the most notable of which were directed by industry veteran Nobuo Nakagawa: Vampire Moth, Black Cat Mansion. Nakagawa's last film for Shintoho, Jigoku, translates literally as "Hell," and is a thematic leap beyond both in subject and style.

Jigoku arrays an assortment of partial nudes under its main titles, pointedly making us conscious of our own impure interests. The first two-thirds of the story unfold in a modern setting stylized to express a cruel logic of guilt and tragedy. The final third depicts an appalling afterlife that offers no hope whatsoever, a terror-vision of grotesque and gory images completely unacceptable on western screens.

Synopsis: Shiro (Shigeru Amachi), a good-looking but morose student, is having premarital relations with Yukiko (Utako Mitsuya), the daughter of his philosophy professor Yajima (Torahiko Nakamura). Shiro is easily swayed by his roommate, the dominant and amoral Tamúrá (Yoichi Numata), who accidentally runs over a drunken Yakuza and refuses to stop. Shiro and Yukiko declare their engagement but soon thereafter she's killed in a taxi accident. Yukiko's mother (Fumiko Miyata) becomes irrational over the loss. Shiro goes to a rest home to the country to see how his own mother is doing and becomes involved in another complicated situation. Shiro's father, also hospitalized, is carrying on with another man's younger 'friend.' Shiro meets a young woman, Sachiko, who looks just like Yukiko. Meanwhile, the unwelcome Tamúrá shows up just as the rest home is celebrating an anniversary. Tamúrá criticizes Shiro for his lack of courage and claims to know horrible truths about everyone. Then, the wife and mother of the dead Yakuza arrive. They've traced Tamúrá through his car and are determined to take a murderous revenge. Yukiko's despondent parents join the unpleasant ensemble and the night develops into a drunken carnival of murder and suicide. But death is only the start, as unimaginable torments await these "Sinners of Hell" in the next world.

Jigoku's most shocking aspect is its nihilistic view of existence. Professor Yajima's lecture ("Concepts of Hell") surprises us with the information that many religions and not just Christianity believe in the existence of Heaven and Hell; the scheme pictured here is the Buddhist model. The kinds of morality plays we see in American literature and film tend to be of the Young Goodman Brown school, where curious innocents learn the path of Virtue by catching a glimpse of the alternative. In folksy fantasies like Cabin in the Sky, or even a George Pal Jasper Puppetoon, relatively minor sins like gambling or sloth invariably lead to utter chaos with the Devil biting at one's heels. More often than not, the sinner discovers his experience has only been a bad dream. Thus chastened, he hurries back to the proverbial Straight and Narrow. This pattern fits fantasies both trashy and sublime, from A Guide for the Married Man to Eyes Wide Shut. (* see footnote #1 at the bottom of this article)

Jigoku never heard of atonement. Its wailing songs and poetry preach only one lesson: We're all sinners, we're all damned, and there'll be Hell to pay. All humanity is marked by an Original Sin that cannot be erased. Shiro and Yukiko have had sex out of wedlock. It makes no difference that they love one another. Shiro isn't responsible for the hit-and-run of the drunken gangster, but it doesn't matter. His 'friend' Tamúrá functions like a vindictive conscience. Like Edgar Allan Poe's William Wilson, Tamúrá may represent Shiro's suppressed malevolence, his 'evil side.' Tamúrá never explains how he knows privileged information: Yukiko's pregnancy, Professor Yajima's unsavory behavior in the war.

Director Nakagawa frequently isolates Tamúrá with eerie colored lighting, leading us to assume that he is a Devil's envoy sent to lure Shiro to damnation, a suspicion the film doesn't confirm. The cynical Tamúrá is as human as anyone else, and just as guilty. All mortal sins are equated in this universe. No distinction is made between intentional poisoners and heartbroken suicides, or between passive negligence and active malice. The 'Earthly' segment of Jigoku culminates in an absurd series of bizarre deaths that take down the entire cast.(* see footnote #2 at the bottom of this article)

The Jigoku is Up:

Nakagawa's Hell is an almost random array of ghastly, garish visions laid out in widescreen. A minimalist design scheme dominates. The Styx-like Sanzu river is merely a foggy band of mist cutting through a velvet-black frame, and various fumaroles of fire, lava and other boiling liquids stand ready to receive the damned souls from the earlier section of the film. One unpleasantly colored receptacle is described as filled with "human pus." As the victims are all screaming in agony, close identification of our earlier cast of sinners is sometimes difficult. But it really matters not, as this is an equal opportunity Hell -- a horribly special fate has been prepared for everyone!

When Jigoku was finally imported for U.S. screenings, horror genre cognoscenti were quick to realize that its gory visions predated the supposed 'first' American gore offerings of Herschel Gordon Lewis. Nakagawa throws a number of images in our faces that certainly match American gore porn of the 1960s. A saw slowly bisects a human trunk and a screaming victim is instantly turned into a bloody mess of exposed organs. (* see footnote #3 at the bottom of this article)

Weirdly, even in Hell Shiro is still able to debate the dismal state of affairs with Tamúrá. The opening narration stated that Hell punishes those that escape Man's law, but what we see doesn't play like fair retribution. Shiro and Yukiko must bear witness to the fate of their unborn child, which will forever float away on the river, crying in the darkness. We're told that children who die before their parents are left in Limbo, but Shiro and Yukiko are now dead as well, so the logic of this cruel cosmic technicality escapes us. By the time the abrupt ending arrives, the film has become an abstract dreamscape. Shiro is given an odd binary vision of Yukiko and Sachiko that suggests a faint ray of hope, but Jigoku's final impression is one of unrelieved despair.

Criterion's DVD of Jigoku is a good enhanced transfer of an element with slightly soft colors -- until the underworld segment, when flaming pits and oceans of hands reaching for help splash the screen with stark primary hues. Disc producer Marc Walkow began work on the title over two years ago, when Criterion was planning a second branded label called "Eclipse" to handle genre cinema. The focus was eventually changed to include more general overlooked and lesser- known cinema, a category for which Jigoku certainly qualifies. Eclipse hasn't been abandoned altogether, but both this film and Equinox were re-routed to the standard Criterion banner. Nobuo Nakagawa's Ghost Story of Yotsuya (Tokaido Yotsuya Kaidan) was acquired at the same time and so may appear in the future.

The special features include a trailer, a selection of colorful posters for both Nobuo Nakagawa and Shintoho releases and a helpful insert essay by Asian cinema expert Chuck Stephens. The revealing interview docu Building the Inferno is a terrific look at Nakagawa, Jigoku, the development of the Shintoho studio and Japanese horror in general, featuring interviews with actor Yoichi Numata, screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa, other Nakagawa collaborators and modern J-Horror director Kiyoshi Kurosawa.

For more information about Jigoku, visit The Criterion Collection. To order Jigoku, go to TCM Shopping.

by Glenn Erickson

Footnotes:

1.There is a curious mini-genre of tiny (about 2" by 5") American comics, each using a different narrative gimmick to reach the same conclusion: The reader needs to accept Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior or face a judgment condemning him to the fires of Hell. The comics are designed for purchase by evangelists, to be left on bus benches for students and other young people to find. Some are crude and others well drawn, and some are even funny. In more than one comic, a 'cool' character tempts the hero to compromise his immortal soul, and is later revealed to be an agent of Satan.

2.Oddly, the only similar demise in Western films happens two decades later in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, when another dinner party is wiped out by tainted fish. And it's a comedy.

3.Amusingly, this horror-view of a man regarding his own denuded rib cage and beating heart is framed almost identically to a (bloodless) scene in a Warner Bros. cartoon: Bugs Bunny wakes up, thinks he's been 'skeletonized' in a like manner, and starts bawling!

Jigoku - A Vision of Hell from Japan - The 1960 Cult Horror Film JIGOKU on DVD

Although great works of art have described the fires of Hell at least since Dante Alighiere's Divine Comedy, films have given us relatively few glimpses of Hell outside of satirical comedies. Films blanc like Ernst Lubitsch's Heaven Can Wait often picture Paradise and Hades as bureaucratic waiting rooms. When the flames of Hell find more direct expression, as in the rather confused 1935 Dante's Inferno with Spencer Tracy, the experience usually turns out to be a dream, with visuals cribbed from classical paintings or the engravings of Gustave Doré. Souls in torment wave their arms like modern dancers, and wailing victims appear to be imprisoned within trees and fused with rocks. Americans have always been familiar with hellfire & brimstone church sermons, but our most frequent movie representations of Hell are to be found in cartoons. Depicting the tortures of the damned in a live- action film was almost impossible after the Production Code came in. An ordinary toilet wasn't allowed on-screen until 1960's Psycho, and making jokes about Hell could be equally jittery. In Robert Wise's 1963 The Haunting Russ Tamblyn is shown a classical engraving of a scene from Hell and quips that it would make perfect artwork for a Christmas card. Americans had no idea how extreme was Japanese exploitation filmmaking at this time. Less prestigious Japanese companies churned out crime films more cynical and violent than anything seen in the west. Japanese horror pictures added explicit gore to rigidly codified ghost tales about betrayed lovers becoming ghosts and murder victims transforming into demon cats. The Shintoho studio augmented its low budget nudie films with a string of ever-bloodier horror product, some of the most notable of which were directed by industry veteran Nobuo Nakagawa: Vampire Moth, Black Cat Mansion. Nakagawa's last film for Shintoho, Jigoku, translates literally as "Hell," and is a thematic leap beyond both in subject and style. Jigoku arrays an assortment of partial nudes under its main titles, pointedly making us conscious of our own impure interests. The first two-thirds of the story unfold in a modern setting stylized to express a cruel logic of guilt and tragedy. The final third depicts an appalling afterlife that offers no hope whatsoever, a terror-vision of grotesque and gory images completely unacceptable on western screens. Synopsis: Shiro (Shigeru Amachi), a good-looking but morose student, is having premarital relations with Yukiko (Utako Mitsuya), the daughter of his philosophy professor Yajima (Torahiko Nakamura). Shiro is easily swayed by his roommate, the dominant and amoral Tamúrá (Yoichi Numata), who accidentally runs over a drunken Yakuza and refuses to stop. Shiro and Yukiko declare their engagement but soon thereafter she's killed in a taxi accident. Yukiko's mother (Fumiko Miyata) becomes irrational over the loss. Shiro goes to a rest home to the country to see how his own mother is doing and becomes involved in another complicated situation. Shiro's father, also hospitalized, is carrying on with another man's younger 'friend.' Shiro meets a young woman, Sachiko, who looks just like Yukiko. Meanwhile, the unwelcome Tamúrá shows up just as the rest home is celebrating an anniversary. Tamúrá criticizes Shiro for his lack of courage and claims to know horrible truths about everyone. Then, the wife and mother of the dead Yakuza arrive. They've traced Tamúrá through his car and are determined to take a murderous revenge. Yukiko's despondent parents join the unpleasant ensemble and the night develops into a drunken carnival of murder and suicide. But death is only the start, as unimaginable torments await these "Sinners of Hell" in the next world. Jigoku's most shocking aspect is its nihilistic view of existence. Professor Yajima's lecture ("Concepts of Hell") surprises us with the information that many religions and not just Christianity believe in the existence of Heaven and Hell; the scheme pictured here is the Buddhist model. The kinds of morality plays we see in American literature and film tend to be of the Young Goodman Brown school, where curious innocents learn the path of Virtue by catching a glimpse of the alternative. In folksy fantasies like Cabin in the Sky, or even a George Pal Jasper Puppetoon, relatively minor sins like gambling or sloth invariably lead to utter chaos with the Devil biting at one's heels. More often than not, the sinner discovers his experience has only been a bad dream. Thus chastened, he hurries back to the proverbial Straight and Narrow. This pattern fits fantasies both trashy and sublime, from A Guide for the Married Man to Eyes Wide Shut. (* see footnote #1 at the bottom of this article) Jigoku never heard of atonement. Its wailing songs and poetry preach only one lesson: We're all sinners, we're all damned, and there'll be Hell to pay. All humanity is marked by an Original Sin that cannot be erased. Shiro and Yukiko have had sex out of wedlock. It makes no difference that they love one another. Shiro isn't responsible for the hit-and-run of the drunken gangster, but it doesn't matter. His 'friend' Tamúrá functions like a vindictive conscience. Like Edgar Allan Poe's William Wilson, Tamúrá may represent Shiro's suppressed malevolence, his 'evil side.' Tamúrá never explains how he knows privileged information: Yukiko's pregnancy, Professor Yajima's unsavory behavior in the war. Director Nakagawa frequently isolates Tamúrá with eerie colored lighting, leading us to assume that he is a Devil's envoy sent to lure Shiro to damnation, a suspicion the film doesn't confirm. The cynical Tamúrá is as human as anyone else, and just as guilty. All mortal sins are equated in this universe. No distinction is made between intentional poisoners and heartbroken suicides, or between passive negligence and active malice. The 'Earthly' segment of Jigoku culminates in an absurd series of bizarre deaths that take down the entire cast.(* see footnote #2 at the bottom of this article) The Jigoku is Up: Nakagawa's Hell is an almost random array of ghastly, garish visions laid out in widescreen. A minimalist design scheme dominates. The Styx-like Sanzu river is merely a foggy band of mist cutting through a velvet-black frame, and various fumaroles of fire, lava and other boiling liquids stand ready to receive the damned souls from the earlier section of the film. One unpleasantly colored receptacle is described as filled with "human pus." As the victims are all screaming in agony, close identification of our earlier cast of sinners is sometimes difficult. But it really matters not, as this is an equal opportunity Hell -- a horribly special fate has been prepared for everyone! When Jigoku was finally imported for U.S. screenings, horror genre cognoscenti were quick to realize that its gory visions predated the supposed 'first' American gore offerings of Herschel Gordon Lewis. Nakagawa throws a number of images in our faces that certainly match American gore porn of the 1960s. A saw slowly bisects a human trunk and a screaming victim is instantly turned into a bloody mess of exposed organs. (* see footnote #3 at the bottom of this article) Weirdly, even in Hell Shiro is still able to debate the dismal state of affairs with Tamúrá. The opening narration stated that Hell punishes those that escape Man's law, but what we see doesn't play like fair retribution. Shiro and Yukiko must bear witness to the fate of their unborn child, which will forever float away on the river, crying in the darkness. We're told that children who die before their parents are left in Limbo, but Shiro and Yukiko are now dead as well, so the logic of this cruel cosmic technicality escapes us. By the time the abrupt ending arrives, the film has become an abstract dreamscape. Shiro is given an odd binary vision of Yukiko and Sachiko that suggests a faint ray of hope, but Jigoku's final impression is one of unrelieved despair. Criterion's DVD of Jigoku is a good enhanced transfer of an element with slightly soft colors -- until the underworld segment, when flaming pits and oceans of hands reaching for help splash the screen with stark primary hues. Disc producer Marc Walkow began work on the title over two years ago, when Criterion was planning a second branded label called "Eclipse" to handle genre cinema. The focus was eventually changed to include more general overlooked and lesser- known cinema, a category for which Jigoku certainly qualifies. Eclipse hasn't been abandoned altogether, but both this film and Equinox were re-routed to the standard Criterion banner. Nobuo Nakagawa's Ghost Story of Yotsuya (Tokaido Yotsuya Kaidan) was acquired at the same time and so may appear in the future. The special features include a trailer, a selection of colorful posters for both Nobuo Nakagawa and Shintoho releases and a helpful insert essay by Asian cinema expert Chuck Stephens. The revealing interview docu Building the Inferno is a terrific look at Nakagawa, Jigoku, the development of the Shintoho studio and Japanese horror in general, featuring interviews with actor Yoichi Numata, screenwriter Ichiro Miyagawa, other Nakagawa collaborators and modern J-Horror director Kiyoshi Kurosawa. For more information about Jigoku, visit The Criterion Collection. To order Jigoku, go to TCM Shopping. by Glenn Erickson Footnotes: 1.There is a curious mini-genre of tiny (about 2" by 5") American comics, each using a different narrative gimmick to reach the same conclusion: The reader needs to accept Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior or face a judgment condemning him to the fires of Hell. The comics are designed for purchase by evangelists, to be left on bus benches for students and other young people to find. Some are crude and others well drawn, and some are even funny. In more than one comic, a 'cool' character tempts the hero to compromise his immortal soul, and is later revealed to be an agent of Satan. 2.Oddly, the only similar demise in Western films happens two decades later in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, when another dinner party is wiped out by tainted fish. And it's a comedy. 3.Amusingly, this horror-view of a man regarding his own denuded rib cage and beating heart is framed almost identically to a (bloodless) scene in a Warner Bros. cartoon: Bugs Bunny wakes up, thinks he's been 'skeletonized' in a like manner, and starts bawling!

Quotes

Trivia