A set of four segments rigorously joined together to create a cyclical set that borders on perfection. Ontological work that sketches admirably the painting of the universal man through encounters and seasons.
The viewer is put in the very special atmosphere of the film from the opening credits, where streaks of colored inks are deployed in the water, to the sound of slow hypnotic percussions. Kwaïdan will therefore not be a scary film, but a haunting one, which haunts the viewer long after the last frame. The first sketch, Black Hair, is an apparently very simple tale, and perhaps the one in which the ghost is of the least importance and is not revealed anyway until the very last part of the story. More than a specter, the samurai is haunted by his own guilt, and the presence of the ghost could almost pass for a hallucination if there were not the presence of this decomposed body. It is from this necrophilic profanation that much of the horror of this episode comes. The awareness of his fault associated with the outrage done to the remains of his beloved ends up driving the samurai into madness. This dramatic conclusion is further accentuated by the deliberately slow rhythm of the sketch, which works on theatrical and sound atmospheres.
The second
episode, The Woman of the Snow, is probably the most accessible for an audience
not yet initiated into traditional kaidan eiga. On the one hand, it is the sketch
that is closest to the stories of Western ghosts, on the other hand the
appearance of the spectrum will remind memories to those who discovered the
genre through Ring and other contemporary avatars. In fact, the image of this woman with
a pale complexion and long black hair, seeming to float above the ground in her
immaculate kimono, permanently marks the viewer. Finally, it is one of the most
daring in terms of style, for while all the episodes of Kwaïdan were shot in
the studio, it claims its theatrical appearance, especially through painted
canvases depicting the sky, a sky sometimes composed of gigantic eyeballs. Far
from discrediting the whole, this aesthetic construction manages instead to
build a coherent universe.
The third part, entitled Hoichi the Earless, is the longest: it opens with the story of a naval battle, there again entirely shot in studio. It is also shown without any other sound accompaniment than voice-over narration. Narration that will come back regularly throughout the story, since it is due to the poet whose songs seduce so many ghosts. It is probably the most visually elaborate sketch, and it contains probably the strongest images, the most striking Hoichi and his body covered with writings, an image that will also often be used to promote the film. But it also innovates visually in the sense that it proposes to adopt the point of view of ghosts. Thus, when the samurai enters the temple for the last time, he perceives only the ears of Hoichi, ‘protected’ by the tattooed incantations. If it is perhaps a little too long, this sketch is undoubtedly one of the most striking.
While generally the least popular, the latest sketch, In a Cup of Tea, is perhaps the most daring. Because the narration of this spirit story appearing at the bottom of a cup is post-modern to say the least. It opens with a question: why have so many tales remained unfinished? The epilogue suggests an interpenetration of the author's universe and that of his creation, but again nothing is made explicit, and the viewer is led to conclude the story for himself. Casually, this latest story remains perhaps the scariest one, not only because of the appearance of quiet-looking and utterly human ghosts, but also because its narrative remains utterly unsettling.
Far from
being just a gateway to allow the Western viewer to enter the world of Japanese
fantasy cinema or a sumptuous picture book, Kwaïdan is a plunge of stunning
visual beauty into a fantastic universe of unsuspected richness.
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