Welcome back friends! So this week we’re finally leaving the summer movie behind, and will be slowly gearing up for the Halloween season. But before going full tilt, I figured we’d ease our way into it with some stuff that is pretty horrifying in its own right. Two flicks by Hisayasu Satô! Should the words “ease” and “Satô” ever go together in the same sentence? Well, maybe if you throw some spit and body oil in the mix! Why not???
Like the last C&C entry, I’m giving a fair warning to those who are not interested in these kinds of movies. The genre of pinku eiga, or pink films, are essentially independent Japanese erotic softcore with an emphasis on narrative and theatrical presentation, to distinguish it from actual pornography. But within the genre is a wide range of subgenres: romance, thrillers, horror, arthouse, and so on. And as is the case with this week’s flick, pretty damn transgressive. So take note: there is quite graphic sex in these flicks, though nothing technically “hardcore.” Though people’s definition of hardcore may vary and be put to the test here. There is a also good dose of violence. These films are not for everyone. They are difficult, harsh, confrontational, and can be quite controversial. So consider that before diving in!
This is also my first foray into pink films, so admittedly my reference points are rather limited. But there had been a few on my watchlist, and I was finally inspired to dig in after after reading an excellent essay recently published by film critic Fred Barrett: Pink Films: A Transgressive History of Hisayasu Satô. (Check out his Substack here!) That article will be my reference point moving forward watching these flicks, and if you’re interested in checking out some Satô, I recommend reading it as well.
With that, I’ll be hosting Celluloid Nightmares (1988) and in The Bedroom (1992), both known by many other titles and two films that deal with voyeurism, violence, sex, desire, self-reflection, alienation, and surveillance. Let’s get to it!
The Quick Gist
Celluloid Nightmares is about a Crime Hunter, played by Satô regular Kiyomi Itô, who is on the hunt for a serial killer known for recording their victims as they’re murdered.
The Bedroom is about an underground club where women take a drug to fall asleep, allowing club goers to do what they want with them while they’re passed out.
Celluloid Nightmares
Celluloid Nightmares opens with disturbing footage of a woman being assaulted, then murdered. Cut to the eye of a camera, staring at us, a technique we’ll see often. Cut to Tokyo’s cityscape. We pan across piles of trash until we come across a dismembered hand jutting out of an abandoned refrigerator, clutching a VHS tape. An ominous offering to an already harsh uncaring city.
The next scene we are introduced to the Crime Hunter, who’s watching a clip of body parts being mutilated. Her lover turns off the TV for a bout of sex. Violence and eros blend together, inextricably linked. This theme plays throughout the film, consuming everyone, including another character we soon become familiar with: a young man who works at a sex shop. He finds the video and becomes obsessed with it, believing that the woman is calling out to him. And the only thing capable of tearing him away from the screen is his sister’s plea for sex. Yes, you unfortunately read that right.
Many people rightfully liken Celluloid Nightmares to Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960) and Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983). Let’s throw in a dash of Larry Cohen’s Special Effects (1984) for good measure. All those movies share elements of voyeurism taken to the extreme, a link between violence and sex. Like in Peeping Tom, Satô’s killer films their victims being murdered. But in Satô’s film, the camera itself is the murder weapon, a blade quite literally attached inside the camera (rather than the tripod) jutting out at the moment the killer is ready to take their victim. But don’t worry, we got some tripod death action, too!
Though the subject matter is shocking, it all adds up to more than just shock value. The repetitive use of cameras staring back at us, of being forced to watch gruesome scenes mediated by screens act as away to confront us. It’s almost as if Satô is explicitly asking, “Is this what you’re interested in?” He forces us to reflect back on ourselves. Why do we keep watching? Why do we subject ourselves to these images? It brings to mind the obsession to true crime, and the desire to know all the grisly sensational details of someone’s misfortune.
Everything is mediated by screens, to a nearly claustrophobic degree. And like the characters, we can’t escape being watched. And we can’t escape the act of watching. We become implicit in the violence and sex. We are pushed to the breaking point, to where there is literally no other option but to finally smash through the screen.
Is this the best jumping off point for Satô? I’m not sure. While there are some engaging themes and ideas, the film does feel quite convoluted at times. Others more knowledgable than me say it’s not the best one to start with. But I was encouraged after watching, The Bedroom. I found a lot of thematic overlap between the two films, which made me appreciate this film even more.
The Bedroom
The Bedroom is about a Tokyo nightclub where women willingly (though the idea of consent here is obviously complicated) take a drug called “Halcion” to put themselves to sleep, while other club goers can have their way with them. Tired of not knowing what goes on while she’s asleep, Kyoko (again played by Kiyomi Itô) decides to stop taking the drug so she can witness what people do to her, an act to regain some agency.
Like in Celluloid Nightmares, The Bedroom concerns itself with surveillance, cameras, voyeurism, watching, and being watched. We often see things through the POV of cameras, or have cameras pointed directly at Satô’s camera. Often, we see Kyoko open her fridge, inadvertently staring directly at us — the fridge a sort of surreal portal to the obscene world of desire and fetish (note the fridge also featured in the opening of Celluloid Nightmares — Satô loves keeping things fresh!). This idea of these normal banal places turning into surreal, nightmare-like spaces made me think specifically of David Lynch, and his ability to imbue a real sense of dread in what should be everyday objects and settings.
What The Bedroom seems to expand upon from Celluloid Nightmares is that the camera can do so much more than violate. Yes, it can distort and pervert (and even kill), but it can also reveal hidden truths. It can be used as a tool to get to something hidden — capture something our eyes can’t — an essence that only presents itself when mediated by the lens. In The Bedroom, the camera acts as a kino conduit to our desires, as dark as they may be. The eyes are insufficient. And that’s why Kyoko keeps her video diary, a camera always within arms reach. She’s trying to get at the truth.
Consider two scenes: the one in which she sleeps with her lover, who forces her to wear a blindfold while they make love, and then a later scene where they both “make love” by staring at each other through the lens of their respective camcorders. They press the cameras together as if the machines are the ones having sex. They can’t look at each other with their naked eyes; what would be the point? They can only see their true selves — they can only truly connect — when seen through the lens of a camera. At one point, someone asks “Why do you only film these things? Isn’t it all a lie?” But for Kyoko, and maybe Satô himself, it’s the exact opposite.
This also lends itself to the theme of communication breakdown. There is the inability to broadcast desires, wants, and needs. We not only witness this when Kyoko’s cold indifferent husband rebuffs her, but also through the constant display of snowy, fuzzy TVs. When in the Sleeping Room, the women and men are often framed by a giant screen, displaying nothing but fuzz. There is a disconnect.
So what is this disconnect? Is it a disconnect between each other, between humanity? An alienation to our surroundings? The city? Or is it the inability to connect and face our own desires? Maybe all of that. A disconnect between our taboo selves, our desires and wants, and the inability to share them comfortably with other people. Because the whole idea of wanting to be put to sleep while allowing someone to do whatever they want to you lends itself to a fear of your own fetishes, or maybe even normal wants — like that of a family, which Kyoko’s husband has no interest in. When Kyoko refuses to take the pill, it’s an act to take back her agency, to engage with her desires, even if those ideas frightens her.
Well, this ended up being much longer than anticipated! Something that happens more often than not, I guess. But with complicated films like these, I feel like it’s worth trying to engage and interrogate the ideas presented, rather than just passively watching them. These movies are packed with intense imagery, and lots of ideas. And of course, lots of weird sex! Which was mandatory for these kinds of films to get funding. Well, maybe not the weird part. Just know you’ll get your fair share of underwear licking, since while sex was obligatory, showing genitals was prohibited. And on that wonderful note, enjoy!
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Supplements
Video Interview: Hisayasu Satô on The Bedroom
Pink Films: A Transgressive History of Hisayasu Satô - Fred Barrett
Split Your Head Podcast: Ep. 9 - Discussion on Hisayasu Satô with Fred Barrett
“Into the Pink Whirlwind: Interview with Jasper Sharp” - Oliver Ebisuno
Behind the Pink Curtain: The Complete History of Japanese Sex Cinema - Jasper Sharp