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Land
of the Dead
An Interview with Kiyoshi Kurosawa
By Paul Matthews
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Photo by David LaSpina
The cinema of Kiyoshi Kurosawa has thus far managed
to assert itself without much fanfare. A relative
snail’s crawl up the mountain of recognition,
the actuality of the Japanese filmmaker’s career
trajectory—at least to those on this side of the
Atlantic— belies erroneous comparisons shoehorning
Kurosawa in with both J-Horror marquees and the
more obvious art-house favorites; the only intrinsic
quality he shares with Hideo Nakata or Takashi
Miike is nationality. One of the most striking
differences, especially for those of us who began
watching his work before the millennium and the
occasional concomitant festival appearance, is
that unlike those filmmakers, Kurosawa’s work
just wasn’t available; that is, unless you knew
where to look. Most stories of Kurosawa fandom
begin the same way: with a bootlegged copy of
one his films from the mid to late Nineties. Works
for television like The Serpent’s Path
or Eyes of the Spider did the trick for
some; Charisma or Cure most often
guaranteed a cinephile’s addiction and return
trips to the section boasting scratched CD-Rs
and home-computer-printed sleeves with a video-store
clerk’s zealous synopsis bleeding onto the spine.
A personal memory: Eyeing those titles for the
first time, I thought, “If they’ve gone to all
the trouble of getting these, there must be something
worth watching.” Right they were.
Somehow over the last decade, an American fan
base has grown out of the drop-in-a-pond presence
Kurosawa once was. 2001’s touring retrospective
no doubt fueled interest in his formidable canon
from both distributors and audiences alike. In
time, films like Cure (1997), Charisma
(1999), Séance (2000), Doppelganger
(2003) and Bright Future (2003) secured
distribution in the rental markets, while first
and last even saw short theatrical runs courtesy
of Cowboy and Palm Pictures, respectively. The
most telling sign his work has found prominence:
It’s now not uncommon to hear “which Kurosawa?”
in response to overheard ruminations on “the films
of Kurosawa.” That question speaks the greatest
praise anyone could give the filmmaker. Most remarkably—and
in contrast to many it-auteurs cropping up in
droves from the shores of Asia—it’s also a comment
well deserved.
It’s been a long time coming, but Kiyoshi Kurosawa
is finally getting the respect and representation
from the U.S. industry that he’s always warranted,
and upon the theatrical release of 2001’s Pulse,
audiences will get to see one of the great works
of horror, period. For fans, the occasion is particularly
sweet, as the release marks the end of a dirty
industry secret: Pulse has been rotting
in the catacombs at Miramax since the studio purchased
domestic rights to the film at Cannes ’01. Since
the dissolve of a Weinstein-owned Miramax, the
film has moved into the hands of art-house distributor
Magnolia Pictures, though Miramax is in production
on a Wes Craven remake with Christina Milian.
The parting, as a result, takes on a somewhat
somber tone. As much excitement as the release
of Pulse inspires, one can’t help but think
the original is being robbed of its soul after
being kidnapped for four years. That may be effusive
cinephilia speaking (or just plain stupidity—as
if it’s really a surprise the studio is remaking
the film), but Kurosawa’s work has thus far been
so underplayed it was easy to believe it would
be rescued unscathed and spared the mistreatment
of J-Horror captives on U.S. mainland.
I had the opportunity to sit down with Kiyoshi
Kurosawa on the occasion of a pre-release presentation
of Pulse at the Japanese Society of New
York. With his wife at his side and the Japanese
Society’s Senior Film Curator, Linda Hoaglund,
as translator, the interview took on a unique
form. Kurosawa, who speaks virtually no English,
relied almost entirely on Hoaglund’s translation
of both question and answer, making it difficult
to maintain any kind of conversational pattern.
The atmosphere translation imposes isn’t easily
stomached: the slow process eats up time, one
wonders how both parties are being represented,
and the emotional distance between interviewer
and interviewee can seem as wide across as the
oceans dividing their respective nations. Still,
I couldn’t help but feel my frustrations were,
in the end, fitting. I was, after all, speaking
with one of the most thoughtful, enigmatic, and
misunderstood filmmakers of my time.
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REVERSE
SHOT: Pulse was released in Japan in
2001, bought by Miramax at Cannes that year,
and now it’s being released by Magnolia
Pictures. Can you talk a little bit about
the life of the completed product and why
it is just now getting a stateside release?
KIYOSHI KUROSAWA: Well, I was delighted
at first when Miramax picked up the distribution
rights, but then time passed, and it never
was released, and I heard that there was
a sort of sense—it wasn’t my personal outrage—that
people were asking why they would buy the
rights to a film if they were not going
to distribute it. But it’s not every day
that Japanese movies get picked up for distribution
in the United States, and I figured I’d
just wait and see what happened. Now, due
to reasons that I am not aware of, it has
been passed into Magnolia’s hands and is
being released...so I don’t really know.
RS: Miramax has long been reviled among
some in the film community for doing things
like this—Pulse is a classic example:
fans of your work have been waiting for
its release for some time. What kind of
relationship did you have with Miramax?
Did they tell you what was going on with
your film?
KK: No, I’ve never met anybody from Miramax.
I don’t have any rights to the movie in
Japan—the studio has all the rights so it’s
up to them to do with it what they will
but conversely because I’ve never met anybody
from Miramax I don’t have any hatred for
them either. But now I’m starting to get
pissed off. [laughs] Everybody’s telling
me that they’re pissed off about it so I
think it’s time that I get pissed off.
RS: With regard to strategy, is it much
different working with American distributors
than working with those in Japan?
KK: Mmm…The truth is that I don’t think
anybody in Japan can understand that well
what’s going on in terms of distribution
strategies in America, but in Japan the
idea is that you release a film after you
make it so that you don’t lose momentum.
You make a film, and then you distribute
it. I guess because it’s a foreign film
in the United States the release can take
place a little more out of context. But
I would think that part of it is that when
Miramax bought this film no one ever imagined
the incredible success The Grudge
and The Ring would find here. That
was unexpected.
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RS: And
now it seems there is even more interest
in Pulse as a result of those successes.
What do you think the interest in J-Horror
is in America? What does it have to offer
that American horror films don’t?
KK: I think one of the clear reasons for
its popularity is that in J-Horror ghosts
are simply a foreign presence. They don’t
attack, they don’t kill, they don’t threaten
human life; they are just there. And they
show up in your daily life rather nonchalantly.
They don’t make a terrifying entrance. I
think that that’s not a phenomenon prevalent
in western horror mythology or the horror
cycle, and I think horror that doesn’t attack
and doesn’t kill is unique.
RS: And there’s a strong connection there
to classical Japanese storytelling practices
and the old Kaidan films…
KK: Well there are the old Kaidan films
which are Japanese ghost stories that really
began a long time ago with Kabuki and then
were adapted in many different films throughout
the Fifties and Sixties, and it kind of
stopped in the Seventies. But they are not
violent ghosts—the ghosts just show up and
sit in the corner of the room to tell you
how vengeful they feel, but they don’t act
on that; they just want to tell you that
they’re vengeful, and then they just sit
there. So it is an updating of that. It’s
a modernized version of something that existed
in Japanese storytelling cycles a long time
ago. But it never occurred to me that Americans
would take to it so well.
RS: Do you find that kind of horror more
frightening than what is portrayed in American
horror films?
KK: I find ghosts in Japanese horror much
more terrifying. In the standard American
Horror cannon, because a ghost violently
attacks you or comes after you, at least
you have the chance to fight back. And what
you’re fighting for is the idea that you
can beat the bad thing and go back to the
good old days when you were peaceful and
happy and there weren’t any ghosts hanging
around. But if they don’t attack you then
the best you can do is figure out a way
to co-exist with them. I find the idea that
one just has to live with this thing much
more terrifying. You have no chances of
running away or fighting it; you’re stuck
with it forever.
RS: So many of your films are terrifying
in different ways. In Charisma you
manage to create an incredible atmosphere
of dread around a tree. People often talk
about the tree as pure allegory, but what
I remember most was the atmosphere surrounding
it. Cure is another film which is
outright terrifying at moments. Do you differentiate
between Pulse and those films, for
example? Do you see Pulse as the
most “horror” of your films?
KK: I think what I did in Pulsewas
to really get down and explore the ghosts—what
can I do to show what I think a ghost
is? But what the film has in common with
all my other films—as you said, around a
single tree in Charisma, or say the
jellyfish in Bright Future—is that
I take reality and characters who live in
a certain kind of world and then I inject
something that’s foreign. Through the injection
of that foreignness into their daily lives,
they start to see their lives differently
and re-evaluate their realities. That’s
the overall horror that holds my films together.
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RS: Another
link is your use of genre as a starting
point. So often you combine standard genre
tropes with ideas and methods which aren’t
commonly explored or applied in a classical
genre film. What is your interest in exploring
the genre?
KK: The way I approach commercial filmmaking
is that with genre film you have to tell
your story within about a hundred minutes—that’s
the basic template. It can be a little longer
and a little shorter, but if you rely on
the conventions of genre it’s an effective
way of telling what might be a complex story
in a more abbreviated format. For instance
if a policeman shows up, because of the
policier genre we know that all we
have to do is say this is a cop and he’s
investigating a crime and he captures criminals.
You don’t have to delve into a lot of back
story, it telegraphs that and helps you
to abbreviate and make your narrative much
more compact.
RS: In terms of genre, one could say
that Pulse is a horror film, but
that seems reductive. There is so much going
on; the “bad guy,” more than the ghosts,
is technology and isolation…
KK: At the time I wrote this film the internet
was just starting to become popularized.
It was before anybody really had a full
idea of what effect it was going to have
on our daily lives. Through the power of
marketing it just spreads all over—in the
case of Japan, to just so many households,
I think at the time it was just kind of
this unknown force that was spreading like
a virus throughout the country and had that
kind of ominous and menacing feel to it.
Five years later, clearly the internet,
and its use in our lives, has kind of stabilized
as part of the infrastructure. But I think
you could talk about the threat of technology
in terms of nuclear power. Before we have
a handle on what it really means we are
seduced by its potential power, and it very
quickly can spread beyond our ability to
contain it. I think technology presents
that kind of problem.
RS: Interesting that you should bring
up nuclear power, as both Pulse and
Charisma have apocalyptic endings.
KK: Charisma came out in ’99, Pulse
was 2000, and I think the vague idea I had
at the time was that we were really on the
cusp of a new century. The idea was to abandon,
by destroying everything from the 20th century
in order to head into a good, new future.
It wasn’t that the apocalyptic vision was
negative or despairing, it was positive,
a way to get rid of old baggage. |
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