Notable Cast: Yui Natsukawa, Chiaki Kuriyama, Michitaka Tsutsui, Toshie
Negishi, Ren Osugi
While the J-Horror boom of the late 90s and early 00s
provided enough creep factor and impressive tonal scares to influence an entire
generation, one of its better aspects was the films that used the emotional
echoes of sadness and melancholy. Shunichi Nagasaki’s 1999 film, Shikoku,
might be one of those intriguingly overlooked gems. Encased in a somber tone,
this folk-horror ghost story effectively crafts a dreamlike haziness in its
visuals and narrative, less a scare factory and more akin to a grim-toned fairy
tale. While its narrative punch feels like it pulls back to avoid moving too
far into melodramatic flair, which doesn’t necessarily always work in its
favor, Shikoku is a film that deserves a gander for its subtle theming
and impressive visuals for those looking for perhaps a less aggressive J-Horror
tale.
When Hinako, played by Yui Natsukawa, returns to her
childhood home in Shikoku, she learns that her close friend from childhood,
Sayori, has passed away in high school. As old memories resurface and a
rekindled friendship with another childhood friend, Fumiya, begins to grow into
something more, Sayori’s ghost starts appearing to her old friend. However, as
Hinako starts to look into matters, she finds that Sayori’s mother, a medium,
might be trying to resurrect her lost daughter.
At its heart, Shikoku is the story of loss. Hinako
was ‘lost’ to her friends and her childhood town when her father took a job in
Tokyo. Her friends, who never left Shikoku, were a bit lost to time,
never able to grow in a place that kept them stationary. Ultimately, Sayori,
played in an occasionally over-subdued manner by Chiaki Kuriyama, lost her
life, and her mother has seemingly lost her sanity. There’s an aspect to how
its characters all handle the loss that makes for an intriguing character
study. Hinako’s loss of her childhood perhaps saved her from a more dire fate,
particularly as it reveals more about her childhood and her friendships, while
the others find the loss suffocating. Fumiya seems almost void of direction for
his life, unable to really cope with Sayori’s death until Hinako shows up, and
Sayori’s mother finds obsession in her loss, using her skills as a medium to
try to break the boundaries of death to alleviate her sadness. Most tragically,
it’s Sayori who resonates the loudest here as she chimes lines like ‘do a
person’s feelings have to die with them, and ‘why am I the only one who wasn’t
allowed to become an adult’ as she copes with her own death and possible
rebirth. Shikoku isn’t afraid to ask these philosophical questions
through its horror story, and in a way, it's refreshingly dedicated to those
somber ideas as it grapples with its character's loss in different ways.
The somber tones that Nagasaki brings to the film are
inherent to its themes, and the sadness that hangs in the air only makes the
film’s investigative plot feel more like a funeral procession than a bombastic
detective story. It’s actually beneficial here, as Shikoku feels
uniquely emotional in so many ways, from how its characters and story are told.
Much of its plotting is subtle, unless the occasional exposition is needed,
particularly from Sayori’s mother or the various folklore experts that our
protagonists find, who fill in a lot of gaps in the third act by giving
direction to characters perhaps not suited to actually do detective work. Not
that its plot is inherently all that original, but the way that it's told
certainly feels like it belongs solely to this film.
Its third act, which will be divisive for many viewers,
would rather remain fully in its funeral-esque tonality than aim for something
more emotionally grandiose. Sayori’s expression of grief, a moment when her
disbelief comes out as a verbal “Noooooo,” is delivered as an almost-monotone
groan rather than a scream. While a part of me wanted its final act to have
bigger emotional cathartic moments, I’ll give the film credit for sticking to
its tone rather than playing a more traditional narrative build for its
characters and plot.
Yet, despite its strength in concept and dedication to tone, perhaps the biggest success Shikoku finds lies in its visuals. Nagasaki and cinematographer Noboru Shinoda slay this film. While the film starts off in the past, which is shot to look grainier with more muted colors, which is a tactic that still exists to this day, it also has this “home movie” feeling that works really well with how the rest of the film is shot. Once the film shifts to the present, its use of the rural setting, along with increasingly fantastical visuals leading up to the finale, creates remarkable imagery. The night shots are gloriously contrasted, with deep blacks and blue hues that give the film even more dreamlike qualities, and they're countered by very bright yellow tones in the day. It sounds generic on paper, but it pops. As more supernatural occurrences happen, the film tends to add more theatrical lighting, camera positions, and colors to the mix. Its final moments occur in a place that feels like it exists between reality and a ghostly realm. It’s built on a set that clearly looks like one, but that only adds to its fantastical approach. To say that Shikoku is a gorgeous film for 1999 might be an understatement, given how effectively it looks and is shot.
While some later J-Horror films that use the more
melancholic tones of a ghost story strike a slightly better balance between
somber notes and a more propulsive plot, Shikoku remains a film that
deserves a bit more recognition. A strong performance from Natsukawa anchors
the film in reality, while Nagasaki meticulously slathers the rest of the film
with an incredibly effective emotional atmosphere to complement its impactful
visuals. Sure, the plotting and narrative pull some punches in the third act,
but it doesn’t detract from the film feeling, as a whole, like it’s giving the
audience what the filmmakers intended.
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