'They sat side by side in forward-facing seats, and her mother settled deep into the seat and fell into a slumber. Nagase tried to look out the window at the night-time landscape along the tracks, but the only thing she could see in the window was her own reflection against the dark background.'
– Kikuko Tsumura, Potosu raimu no fune, 2009 (tr. Kendall Heitzman).
Played with BertKnot, in preparation for my upcoming video essay on the Sumida River and urban watercourses. This game and review evoke situations of suicide, incest and sexual violence in postwar Japan. Reader discretion is advised.
Japanese horror stories have historically been dominated by vengeful spirits (onryō), whose death or tragic circumstances of life cause them to return to haunt the world of the living. Often women, they come to embody the failure of individuals to live up to their moral obligations of respect and altruism (on) to others. The onryō has a special place in this system of obligations, as women are frequently in a subordinate position in the Japanese hierarchy; their revenge is thus associated with an implicit critique of the structural injustice of Japanese society. Female spirits are metaphysical intermediaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead, embodying the faults of the former. It is no coincidence that Japanese horror films have historically been shown during the summer: the Obon festivals, celebrated in August, are considered times when the dead return to family altars to communicate with the living, who must then pay their respects.
Mountains, water and forests: to die among the trees in Japanese fiction
Fatal Frame: Maiden of the Black Water explores common themes in Japanese horror, overlaying them with a Shintō aesthetic in which women are the catalysts for harmony between human civilisation and the natural environment. The player is invited to follow Yuri Kozukata, Ren Hojo and Miu Hinasaki, all three of whom are irresistibly drawn to Mt. Hikami. The site exerts an uncanny attraction, playing on their mental instability. Although Mt. Hikami is a place with traces of urban modernisation, it is best known as a convenient place to commit suicide. The forest in the game is reminiscent of Aokigahara, which is notorious for its high suicide rate. The depiction of Aokigahara is heavily influenced by its description in Seichō Matsumoto's Nami no Tō (1960). Several elements of this detective story have had a major influence on popular culture and beliefs: suicide, steeped in shintō and Buddhist sensibilities, is presented as a positive alternative to real-world suffering [1]. Aokigahara is also described as a place from which no one ever returns.
An epidemiological study of suicide in Aokigahara reveals that people who attempt suicide in this forest do not necessarily do so for religious reasons and are not originally from the region, but admit to wanting to experience a 'pure' death by sharing their last vision with other suicide victims. Remarkably, cases of dissociative amnesia and suicide pacts have also been documented in Aokigahara. For Yoshitomo Takahashi, 'forms of significance attached to suicide in Jukai are symbolic value, imitation, purification of one’s death, reconfirmation of one’s will to commit suicide, sanctuary, the wish to disappear, and the wish to belong' [2]. These socio-cultural phenomena are echoed in Maiden of the Black Water, where the corruption of memory and the desire to rejoin the dead haunt the game's discourse. The more she explores Mt. Hikami, the more vulnerable Yuri becomes to the recollection of her previous suicide attempt, while her ability to see the memories of others builds empathy for those who wish to die on the mountain. Unlike Ren and Miu, who are primarily interested in finding a specific person, Yuri is haunted by the ghosts of a large group of departed souls.
Mt. Hikami's sickly charm is explained by the symbiosis between the ghost of one of the priestesses, whose gaze drives the victim to commit suicide, and the mysterious environment. The dense forest suffocates the player in a gloomy, alienating heat, while the streams, fog and setting sun add to the mystique of the place. A similar depiction can be found in Episode 26 of Mushishi's first season (2005), Kusa o fumu oto, where the mountain is constantly surrounded by fog, the colour of which changes according to the well-being of the region and the Mushi River (kōmyaku) that runs beneath it. Mushishi links the prosperity of the region's inhabitants to the well-being of the mountain; Maiden of Black Water follows suit, making water the symbol of Mt. Hikami's purity. Described as purifying when the rites are properly observed, the water absorbs the memories of its inhabitants and must be constantly cleansed of this corruption (kegare) by women's sacrifices. This cyclicality of human experience – born of water and returning to water – is the primary driving force behind the tragedy, as it is consubstantial with the appearance of curses.
Making and unmaking of the body on Mt. Hikami
Much of postwar Japanese horror is directly concerned with the notion of the body (nikutai) [3], and Maiden of the Black Water instantiates this aspect in a number of ways. The characters' bodies can get wet, making them more vulnerable to ghosts and supernatural phenomena. The rain thus acts as a constant reminder of the corporeality of the protagonists, who cannot escape the contingencies of physical existence. Moreover, Maiden of the Black Water does not hesitate to break and twist bodies in particularly violent ways. The boxes in which the women are placed force them to bend their limbs into uncomfortable positions, as illustrated by the erratic movements of their ghostly forms. The various spirits are disturbingly animated, both in their disquieting immobility and in their sudden motions.
The title manages to convey the circumstances of their death and their regrets through their movement. Each encounter with a ghost instantiates their physical death, contributing to a real sense of malaise. The more action-oriented gameplay of Maiden of the Black Water contributes to this newfound nervousness. The title requires the player to be more mobile and constantly think about the camera angle – with the WiiU version forcing them to move the Gamepad. The horror is no longer so much in the viciousness of the encounters, made easier by the introduction of weak spots and the fact that photographs taken during a Fatal Frame do not consume film, but rather in the depiction of the spirits themselves, which are much more vengeful and aggressive.
Maiden of the Black Water also succeeds in its first half in striking an elegant balance between the introduction of new environments and their repetition. Mt. Hikami uses all the grammar of Japanese gothic horror while blending it with the disturbing grime of urbanisation. The cable car that leads in and out of the forest is used to enclose the horror, suggesting that spiritual experiences can only take place on the mountain. The title, however, subverts this idea by emphasising the physical suffering of the characters, beyond mere nightmares. Even outside Mt. Hikami, the protagonists' bodies are failing, abused by nightmares or numbed by suicidal thoughts. In a way, Maiden of the Black Water is a reminder that the trauma suffered by women leaves indelible marks. Several characters suffer the consequences of sexual violence, while Rui is constantly torn by the weight of gender and social pressures.
New masculinities, femininities and motherhoods in Shinzo Abe's Japan
Ren's representation of ideal Japanese masculinity makes him a disturbing presence: the sections in which he has to defend the shop from ghostly attacks are particularly effective. The appearance of the spirits outside the mountain decisively shatters the idea of a curse confined to Mt. Hikami, while Ren's visits to the rooms where the various teenage girls sleep are bound to cause acute concern. Ren is never voyeuristic, but he serves as a unsettling male avatar, demonstrating that women can never let their guard down around men. Ren highlights both the breakdown of masculinity and the growing social problems in 2010s Japan.
Contemporary Japanese horror is characterised by the dissolution of traditional solidarities in the face of rapid urbanisation. Ada Lovelace argues that recent decades have seen a shift in the representation of the onryō, whose figure is no longer necessarily linked to issues of revenge for violated social norms. The weight of globalisation and Western influences is said to have deconstructed the traditional female monstrosity: 'ghostliness is no longer the figure of anxiety; whether it is the self destructive longing for the abject maternal, or masochistic fetishes for a Westernized woman, women who are not confined to gendered discourse, who are thus monstrous, become the figure of desire' [4]. It seems to me that Maiden of the Black Water mitigates this hypothesis by offering a third neo-traditionalist path.
The suicide pacts of the high school girls, the implication of sexual violence and the incestuous relationships evoke the limits of the social contract in Japanese culture, where the expectations placed on girls are unbearable. The paranormal is precisely one way of highlighting this oppression: the fate of the priestesses illustrates an insupportable philosophy of sacrifice in contemporary Japan – through Shintō rituals – but also the betrayal of the concept of family, as the men fail to live up to the promise they made to the priestesses. The role of Kunihiko Asō and the various men portrayed is particularly telling, as they are both the main causes of the curses of Mt. Hikari, and the people the game chooses to repudiate in its final scenes.
Ikiru
What sets Maiden of the Black Water apart from the other games in the series is its focus on motherhood, guilt and the desire to make amends. Unlike previous titles, the relationship between daughters and mothers – biological or otherwise – is infused with genuine hope. The violence suffered in the past is acknowledged as part of their identity, but the focus is firmly on the future. In the light of the social changes of the 2010s and the new motherhood theorised by Shinzo Abe, the game seems determined to reject the eternal tragedy of the female condition and propose the rebuilding of a family, softening the weight of blood and accepting that a family is not necessarily biological [5]. Maiden of the Black Water reappropriates traditional notions of on to create a new vision of Japanese society with a more peaceful relationship between daughters and mothers. This new representation of motherhood can also be found in recent crime and horror fiction: Paranormasight (2023) is a topical example of this renewed discourse.
The noticeable change in the game's discourse compared to the previous Fatal Frame games gives the series a sense of closure. While it is unclear whether a future project is planned, the absence of a new game for almost ten years supports the idea that Makoto Shibata no longer sees its relevance. It is possible that Maiden of the Black Water was an unintentional way of exorcising the nightmares that plagued his nights and were the source of the various Fatal Frame games. Steeped in the traditionalist aesthetic of Japanese gothic horror, Shibata may have wanted to put an end to the voyeuristic male gaze of female tragedy. This latest title brings to a close the storylines of the series' core characters – Miku Hinasaki finds an answer to her relationship with the world of the living, while Asō is ultimately presented as the cause of all the misfortunes, though he never understood it, being so fixated on himself.
In this newly imagined future, a new Fatal Frame is perhaps unnecessary, as the answers are left to Japanese society itself, whose challenge is to adapt to a modern world and its issues. Maiden of the Black Water is far from a perfect title; less overtly horrific than the first three titles, some chapters suffer from a certain slowness and excessive ghost encounters, while some narrative threads are abandoned too early as the title tries to evoke too many different themes. Nevertheless, the game is carried by a constant flame that begs not to let go of life and not to surrender one's individuality to the pessimism of traditional rituals. Yuri's last tears are filled with sincere empathy; Shibata's voice, mixed with those of Asō and Ren, disappears in favour of an optimistic sisterhood. After thirteen years of suffering, this is perhaps the best way to end Fatal Frame.
__________
[1] Roxanne Russell, 'Views of suicide in modern Japanese literature: a positive portrayal in Nami No Tou', in Southeast Review of Asian Studies, vol. 28, 2006, pp. 199-201.
[2] Yoshimoto Takahashi, 'Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest', in Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior, vol. 18, no. 2, 1988, pp. 174.
[3] This centrality of the body can be explained by a number of factors. In particular, the atomic bombs are seen as a direct attack on the idealised body (kokutai) of the Japanese nation, while the American occupation has been compared to the sexual violence suffered by prostitutes. On corporeality in Japanese art, see, for example, Fusako Innami, 'The Flesh, Subject, Embodiment in Postwar Japan: Through Nikutai and Gutai', in Gérard Siary, Toshio Takemoto, Victor Vuilleumier, Yinde Zhang (ed.), Le corps dans les littératures modernes d’Asie orientale : discours, représentation, intermédialité, Collège de France, Paris, 2022 ; Ayako Saito, 'Occupation and Memory: The Representation of Woman's Body in Postwar Japanese Cinema', in Daisuke Miyao (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Japanese Cinema, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2014, pp. 327-362.
[4] Ada Lovelace, 'Ghostly and Monstrous Manifestations of Women: Edo to Contemporary', in The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies, vol. 5, 2008, p. 41.
[5] The game is neo-traditionalist in that it promotes a familial ideal in line with Japan's new political agenda; it should be contrasted with feminist authors such as Sayaka Murata, whose work is characterised by a radical rejection of the traditional family and a defence of asexuality. Although Chikyū seijin (2018) makes no value judgements, it describes the complete dissolution of interpersonal relationships to the point of total social isolation, a sign of the tragedy of women's condition.
– Kikuko Tsumura, Potosu raimu no fune, 2009 (tr. Kendall Heitzman).
Played with BertKnot, in preparation for my upcoming video essay on the Sumida River and urban watercourses. This game and review evoke situations of suicide, incest and sexual violence in postwar Japan. Reader discretion is advised.
Japanese horror stories have historically been dominated by vengeful spirits (onryō), whose death or tragic circumstances of life cause them to return to haunt the world of the living. Often women, they come to embody the failure of individuals to live up to their moral obligations of respect and altruism (on) to others. The onryō has a special place in this system of obligations, as women are frequently in a subordinate position in the Japanese hierarchy; their revenge is thus associated with an implicit critique of the structural injustice of Japanese society. Female spirits are metaphysical intermediaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead, embodying the faults of the former. It is no coincidence that Japanese horror films have historically been shown during the summer: the Obon festivals, celebrated in August, are considered times when the dead return to family altars to communicate with the living, who must then pay their respects.
Mountains, water and forests: to die among the trees in Japanese fiction
Fatal Frame: Maiden of the Black Water explores common themes in Japanese horror, overlaying them with a Shintō aesthetic in which women are the catalysts for harmony between human civilisation and the natural environment. The player is invited to follow Yuri Kozukata, Ren Hojo and Miu Hinasaki, all three of whom are irresistibly drawn to Mt. Hikami. The site exerts an uncanny attraction, playing on their mental instability. Although Mt. Hikami is a place with traces of urban modernisation, it is best known as a convenient place to commit suicide. The forest in the game is reminiscent of Aokigahara, which is notorious for its high suicide rate. The depiction of Aokigahara is heavily influenced by its description in Seichō Matsumoto's Nami no Tō (1960). Several elements of this detective story have had a major influence on popular culture and beliefs: suicide, steeped in shintō and Buddhist sensibilities, is presented as a positive alternative to real-world suffering [1]. Aokigahara is also described as a place from which no one ever returns.
An epidemiological study of suicide in Aokigahara reveals that people who attempt suicide in this forest do not necessarily do so for religious reasons and are not originally from the region, but admit to wanting to experience a 'pure' death by sharing their last vision with other suicide victims. Remarkably, cases of dissociative amnesia and suicide pacts have also been documented in Aokigahara. For Yoshitomo Takahashi, 'forms of significance attached to suicide in Jukai are symbolic value, imitation, purification of one’s death, reconfirmation of one’s will to commit suicide, sanctuary, the wish to disappear, and the wish to belong' [2]. These socio-cultural phenomena are echoed in Maiden of the Black Water, where the corruption of memory and the desire to rejoin the dead haunt the game's discourse. The more she explores Mt. Hikami, the more vulnerable Yuri becomes to the recollection of her previous suicide attempt, while her ability to see the memories of others builds empathy for those who wish to die on the mountain. Unlike Ren and Miu, who are primarily interested in finding a specific person, Yuri is haunted by the ghosts of a large group of departed souls.
Mt. Hikami's sickly charm is explained by the symbiosis between the ghost of one of the priestesses, whose gaze drives the victim to commit suicide, and the mysterious environment. The dense forest suffocates the player in a gloomy, alienating heat, while the streams, fog and setting sun add to the mystique of the place. A similar depiction can be found in Episode 26 of Mushishi's first season (2005), Kusa o fumu oto, where the mountain is constantly surrounded by fog, the colour of which changes according to the well-being of the region and the Mushi River (kōmyaku) that runs beneath it. Mushishi links the prosperity of the region's inhabitants to the well-being of the mountain; Maiden of Black Water follows suit, making water the symbol of Mt. Hikami's purity. Described as purifying when the rites are properly observed, the water absorbs the memories of its inhabitants and must be constantly cleansed of this corruption (kegare) by women's sacrifices. This cyclicality of human experience – born of water and returning to water – is the primary driving force behind the tragedy, as it is consubstantial with the appearance of curses.
Making and unmaking of the body on Mt. Hikami
Much of postwar Japanese horror is directly concerned with the notion of the body (nikutai) [3], and Maiden of the Black Water instantiates this aspect in a number of ways. The characters' bodies can get wet, making them more vulnerable to ghosts and supernatural phenomena. The rain thus acts as a constant reminder of the corporeality of the protagonists, who cannot escape the contingencies of physical existence. Moreover, Maiden of the Black Water does not hesitate to break and twist bodies in particularly violent ways. The boxes in which the women are placed force them to bend their limbs into uncomfortable positions, as illustrated by the erratic movements of their ghostly forms. The various spirits are disturbingly animated, both in their disquieting immobility and in their sudden motions.
The title manages to convey the circumstances of their death and their regrets through their movement. Each encounter with a ghost instantiates their physical death, contributing to a real sense of malaise. The more action-oriented gameplay of Maiden of the Black Water contributes to this newfound nervousness. The title requires the player to be more mobile and constantly think about the camera angle – with the WiiU version forcing them to move the Gamepad. The horror is no longer so much in the viciousness of the encounters, made easier by the introduction of weak spots and the fact that photographs taken during a Fatal Frame do not consume film, but rather in the depiction of the spirits themselves, which are much more vengeful and aggressive.
Maiden of the Black Water also succeeds in its first half in striking an elegant balance between the introduction of new environments and their repetition. Mt. Hikami uses all the grammar of Japanese gothic horror while blending it with the disturbing grime of urbanisation. The cable car that leads in and out of the forest is used to enclose the horror, suggesting that spiritual experiences can only take place on the mountain. The title, however, subverts this idea by emphasising the physical suffering of the characters, beyond mere nightmares. Even outside Mt. Hikami, the protagonists' bodies are failing, abused by nightmares or numbed by suicidal thoughts. In a way, Maiden of the Black Water is a reminder that the trauma suffered by women leaves indelible marks. Several characters suffer the consequences of sexual violence, while Rui is constantly torn by the weight of gender and social pressures.
New masculinities, femininities and motherhoods in Shinzo Abe's Japan
Ren's representation of ideal Japanese masculinity makes him a disturbing presence: the sections in which he has to defend the shop from ghostly attacks are particularly effective. The appearance of the spirits outside the mountain decisively shatters the idea of a curse confined to Mt. Hikami, while Ren's visits to the rooms where the various teenage girls sleep are bound to cause acute concern. Ren is never voyeuristic, but he serves as a unsettling male avatar, demonstrating that women can never let their guard down around men. Ren highlights both the breakdown of masculinity and the growing social problems in 2010s Japan.
Contemporary Japanese horror is characterised by the dissolution of traditional solidarities in the face of rapid urbanisation. Ada Lovelace argues that recent decades have seen a shift in the representation of the onryō, whose figure is no longer necessarily linked to issues of revenge for violated social norms. The weight of globalisation and Western influences is said to have deconstructed the traditional female monstrosity: 'ghostliness is no longer the figure of anxiety; whether it is the self destructive longing for the abject maternal, or masochistic fetishes for a Westernized woman, women who are not confined to gendered discourse, who are thus monstrous, become the figure of desire' [4]. It seems to me that Maiden of the Black Water mitigates this hypothesis by offering a third neo-traditionalist path.
The suicide pacts of the high school girls, the implication of sexual violence and the incestuous relationships evoke the limits of the social contract in Japanese culture, where the expectations placed on girls are unbearable. The paranormal is precisely one way of highlighting this oppression: the fate of the priestesses illustrates an insupportable philosophy of sacrifice in contemporary Japan – through Shintō rituals – but also the betrayal of the concept of family, as the men fail to live up to the promise they made to the priestesses. The role of Kunihiko Asō and the various men portrayed is particularly telling, as they are both the main causes of the curses of Mt. Hikari, and the people the game chooses to repudiate in its final scenes.
Ikiru
What sets Maiden of the Black Water apart from the other games in the series is its focus on motherhood, guilt and the desire to make amends. Unlike previous titles, the relationship between daughters and mothers – biological or otherwise – is infused with genuine hope. The violence suffered in the past is acknowledged as part of their identity, but the focus is firmly on the future. In the light of the social changes of the 2010s and the new motherhood theorised by Shinzo Abe, the game seems determined to reject the eternal tragedy of the female condition and propose the rebuilding of a family, softening the weight of blood and accepting that a family is not necessarily biological [5]. Maiden of the Black Water reappropriates traditional notions of on to create a new vision of Japanese society with a more peaceful relationship between daughters and mothers. This new representation of motherhood can also be found in recent crime and horror fiction: Paranormasight (2023) is a topical example of this renewed discourse.
The noticeable change in the game's discourse compared to the previous Fatal Frame games gives the series a sense of closure. While it is unclear whether a future project is planned, the absence of a new game for almost ten years supports the idea that Makoto Shibata no longer sees its relevance. It is possible that Maiden of the Black Water was an unintentional way of exorcising the nightmares that plagued his nights and were the source of the various Fatal Frame games. Steeped in the traditionalist aesthetic of Japanese gothic horror, Shibata may have wanted to put an end to the voyeuristic male gaze of female tragedy. This latest title brings to a close the storylines of the series' core characters – Miku Hinasaki finds an answer to her relationship with the world of the living, while Asō is ultimately presented as the cause of all the misfortunes, though he never understood it, being so fixated on himself.
In this newly imagined future, a new Fatal Frame is perhaps unnecessary, as the answers are left to Japanese society itself, whose challenge is to adapt to a modern world and its issues. Maiden of the Black Water is far from a perfect title; less overtly horrific than the first three titles, some chapters suffer from a certain slowness and excessive ghost encounters, while some narrative threads are abandoned too early as the title tries to evoke too many different themes. Nevertheless, the game is carried by a constant flame that begs not to let go of life and not to surrender one's individuality to the pessimism of traditional rituals. Yuri's last tears are filled with sincere empathy; Shibata's voice, mixed with those of Asō and Ren, disappears in favour of an optimistic sisterhood. After thirteen years of suffering, this is perhaps the best way to end Fatal Frame.
__________
[1] Roxanne Russell, 'Views of suicide in modern Japanese literature: a positive portrayal in Nami No Tou', in Southeast Review of Asian Studies, vol. 28, 2006, pp. 199-201.
[2] Yoshimoto Takahashi, 'Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest', in Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior, vol. 18, no. 2, 1988, pp. 174.
[3] This centrality of the body can be explained by a number of factors. In particular, the atomic bombs are seen as a direct attack on the idealised body (kokutai) of the Japanese nation, while the American occupation has been compared to the sexual violence suffered by prostitutes. On corporeality in Japanese art, see, for example, Fusako Innami, 'The Flesh, Subject, Embodiment in Postwar Japan: Through Nikutai and Gutai', in Gérard Siary, Toshio Takemoto, Victor Vuilleumier, Yinde Zhang (ed.), Le corps dans les littératures modernes d’Asie orientale : discours, représentation, intermédialité, Collège de France, Paris, 2022 ; Ayako Saito, 'Occupation and Memory: The Representation of Woman's Body in Postwar Japanese Cinema', in Daisuke Miyao (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Japanese Cinema, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2014, pp. 327-362.
[4] Ada Lovelace, 'Ghostly and Monstrous Manifestations of Women: Edo to Contemporary', in The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies, vol. 5, 2008, p. 41.
[5] The game is neo-traditionalist in that it promotes a familial ideal in line with Japan's new political agenda; it should be contrasted with feminist authors such as Sayaka Murata, whose work is characterised by a radical rejection of the traditional family and a defence of asexuality. Although Chikyū seijin (2018) makes no value judgements, it describes the complete dissolution of interpersonal relationships to the point of total social isolation, a sign of the tragedy of women's condition.
2 Comments
wow, this is one hell of a review!! excellent work.
Angel_Arle
8 months ago