Junji Ito, with
Susan Daigle-Leach & Sam Elzway (Masumi Washington, ed.; Yuji Oniki, trans.),
Uzumaki: Deluxe Edition, VIZ Media LLC., San Francisco CA, 2014.
As a seller of books,
I am not a huge fan of manga. On the one hand, anything that gets the younger
crowd to stick their nose into a book is great; on the other, because these
things are pumped out in long series, few punters are willing to shell out for
anything untried, and so, while the first volumes leap readily off the shelf,
the subsequent tomes in any series languish unsold for unconscionably long
periods of time. Many’s the time that a customer will ask “do you have issue
number one?” and I grit my teeth while suggesting that they might start with
number two and backtrack, all the while knowing that they absolutely won’t take
that route. The other issue is that the readership is largely kids, and kids
don’t have the ready cash to pay for an entire run of say, “Food Wars!”,
or “Black Butler” – certainly not firsthand – and still, unlike a Marvel
or DC trade paperback, will refuse to start a series without having read the
first instalment. Finally, turnover in the world of manga is swift, and
something that’s scorching hot one day, cools dramatically in a heartbeat. Grab
your copies of “One Piece” while you can…
The other issue I
have with these productions is a cultural one. In Japan, there is an understood
commonality in place regarding who reads this material and how. Manga is largely
targeted at young men; some manga is written for young women and other manga
are intended for older readers: the idea is that every sector of the community
has its specific ‘read’ and people tend to outgrow these pigeonholes as other
necessities of life intrude. Of course, this is not written down as chapter and
verse and is definitely not policed in any fashion, but there is an unspoken –
and certainly unwritten – set of guidelines about how these “irresponsible
pictures” proliferate throughout the Japanese-speaking world. Interest from
outside of Japan has slowly changed how this material is disseminated and consumed,
with the American market and its strategies affecting how manga is sold in the
US, and European tastes influencing creation, translation and marketing in that
global sector. The result is that overseas readers partake of things that are
not “meant” to be read or evaluated by their age (or gender) group and such
material is weighted inappropriately in those markets. Certainly, something
like “Dragonball Z” was not to be considered high art, or lofty
literature, but, amongst fans and collectors, it has almost attained this
status. The Western equivalent is the prevailing notion that American comics
are for children, when it is highly evident that only adults buy Marvel and DC
comics and then discuss them in terms of university-level jargon.
So, in discussing
Junji Ito’s “Uzumaki”, I feel that I’m not the target audience and that
any kind of close dissection of the text is unwarranted and possibly unnecessary.
There are further
wrinkles to all this. Because manga is pumped out in huge quantities as a
disposable product for an endlessly thirsty readership, necessarily a bunch of
tropes and other genre constructions start to become obvious after a short
period of exposure. This is also visible in the field of anime – which developed
from the manga substrate – and can be seen in other forms of Japanese popular entertainment
as well. There is a type of cultural shorthand which permeates all of Japanese ‘pulp’,
or ‘B-grade’ entertainment, and once you see it, it is very difficult to let go
of it. Most of these notions can be seen in the way characters are established
and constructed in relation to each other.
In most manga
stories – and anime, and Japanese cinema – there is a girl and often there are
two suitors for her affections. One of these suitors is level-headed, studious
and determined while the other is generally excitable, dashing and “fun”. The female
lead vacillates between the two trying to determine which is the best in terms
of becoming a “life partner” and the narrative cut-and-thrust of this
determination is what underscores everything else going on with the story. I
say “most”, and it’s generally true throughout a majority of series, even when
the purpose of the book is to undermine this trope, or to subvert narrative
expectations: that is, when it’s not treading this path explicitly, it still
references the guideline in some fashion. Whether it’s the original “Godzilla”
movie, something goofy like “Project A-ko”, or horror fare like “Uzumaki”,
this character template is readily apparent underneath the overt storyline.
For me, this lends
a rubber stamp quality to most Japanese popular fare. It feels as though every “new”
title has come into being partially pre-fabricated in some sense and that the bulk
of the exercise is simply the ticking of boxes to an inevitable conclusion:
here’s the girl; there’s the studious guy she feels sorry for; there’s the jock
who’s determined to win her affections. It writes itself. For some series, this
is deliberate: some titles are intended to go on indefinitely without resolving
these interpersonal issues, since that’s the whole point of the exercise. In
other titles, the set-up is abandoned after its inception and the narrative
runs its own way to various conclusions. These hallmarks are quite clear in “Uzumaki”
too.
What
makes Junji Ito’s work a little different is that there is a creeping sense of
dread that permeates the story. A golden rule of his oeuvre seems to be “don’t
get attached”: characters get crunched down like corn chips at a roleplaying
session, and “Uzumaki” is no exception. Still, the characters occupy
certain set positions within the narrative format – potential boyfriend; rival
in love; annoying unrequited crush – and lack a lot of depth or interiorality,
the only difference is that here, they usually meet hideous ends.
The
essential requirement for a horror tale is that it take place in an environment
that is completely ordinary; the strangeness which the horror represents,
therefore, is thrown into stark contrast, against the humdrum quality of the real
world. Having “Uzumaki” spring from the standard manga set-up then,
would seem to be a neat way of highlighting the horror to come. On balance, I
would say that it’s a genius move on Ito’s part, except that it is the way that
every manga narrative is established, which would seem to cut it off at
the knees. As well, there is a fumbling quality to the way in which the series
builds through its instalments that makes me wonder how completely planned the
work was from the outset: as each episode falls into place, I had the sense
that the story was being made up as it went along. There’s no doubt that the
story had an endpoint predestined from its inception, but the steps along the
way feel a bit clunky and bolted-on.
“Uzumaki” (“Spirals”) takes place in a seaside
village which is nominally ‘cursed’. Our heroine is Kirie Goshima, the daughter
of an artisanal potter, who is attending school in the village. Her best friend
is Shuichi Saito, a scholar who lives at home with his parents and who attends
a higher school in another village nearby: this commuter existence which he
leads allows him to perceive that all is not quite well in their home village
of Kurouzo-cho. After Shuichi’s parents both go mad
and die horribly, after becoming obsessed by the idea of spiral formations
manipulating the world around them, Shuichi comes to believe that spirals are
the expression of the curse upon the place. As incident after incident unfolds,
highlighted by the presence of spiralling phenomena, a trail of investigation
leads our hapless pawns to the nightmare cosmic horror that dwells in caverns deep
below the village pond. It ends messily. As I said: “don’t get attached”.
For
most of the story, the manga framework guides the interactions of all the
players: Kirie likes Shuichi, but he is focussed on his work and can’t afford
to be distracted; Kirie attracts young male students keen for her attentions and
she struggles to rebuff them without offending them; she encounters other
girls, keen to steal Shuichi away from her. This is all textbook manga stuff
and apart from the fact that Ito is ruthless in dealing out hideous comeuppance
to the offending parties, it all goes rather by the numbers. On one hand, given
that most characters in this tale end up in some kind of deadly body horror
nightmare, it might be just as well that we don’t get to know the players better;
on the other hand, we care less about what happens to characters that are broadly
sketched on cardboard.
However,
Ito is all about the horror. Some deeply unpleasant things take place between
the covers of this book, and they are designed to make the reader feel as
uncomfortable as possible. There are all flavours of nastiness here - body
horror, splatterpunk, cosmic dread – and they all ratchet up to a fever pitch
by the book’s conclusion. People turn into giant snails; people take sharp
implements to themselves to extract offending organs; there are monstrous birth
sequences of deeply unpleasant aspect; people are driven to cannibalism; others
are transformed into boneless entities and forced to co-habit like spaghetti,
packed into crude shelters. By the end of it all, it’s a relief to close the
covers and walk away.
As
I finished reading, I was left to wonder why all this was taking place. In
terms of themes or larger concepts about the world at large, art speaking to
nature, there seemed to be little on offer here. There’s a common Mythos thing
associated with Hastur and Nyarlathotep whereby stuff happens, and people go
mad, and it’s this going mad which seems to be the whole, singular point. What
happens? People go mad! Ba-doom, tish! There’s no rationale or purpose
and this – for some authors and their readers – is good enough. Not me. I want
metaphor; I want internal logic; a universe with rules; a result that seems
somehow deserved. It’s not the case here. Why is Kurouzo-cho cursed by spirals?
Just ‘cause. What is “Uzumaki” trying to say? Nothing, and “Boo!”.
Quite unsatisfying…
The
upside to all of this – and its strongest aspect – is the artwork. The whole
purpose of the comics medium is to interrogate reality and conjure vistas and
visions which would be impossible to capture in any other medium. The scenery
in this book is truly gobsmacking, especially by the end when the full cosmic
nightmare is on display, and it does all the heavy lifting which the limping narrative
structure fails to achieve. This is a case where the story is definitely flying
on the coattails of the art, and it shows. I’m aware that more than a few
people have had images of these panels tattooed upon their person and I get
that: I don’t know personally that I’d enjoy having a image of a young girl
with a hole spiralling through her head inked upon my bicep but then, what do I
know?
In
the final analysis, this is a good comics read propped up by the art which definitely
delivers on the horror score, the various concepts leaving the reader alternately
creeped-out, shocked, and awed. I was left feeling more than a little grubby by
the conclusion. There is little in the way of characterisation and the set-ups
and narrative beats are nothing new for readers of manga or fans of anime. There
is too much dependence on there being no rationale for the mayhem (see also: “Ringu”
and “Ju on: The Grudge” – there’s no explanation! Ooh! Spooky! Not.)
which leaves the reader frustrated and which might just be the point – mileage will
vary. For me, it’s not how I like my chills.
I’m giving this three-and-a-half Tentacled Horrors.
