This must be how people escape the pull of the earth, the gravitational leaf-flutter that brings us hourly closer to dying. Simply stop obeying. Steal instead of buy, shoot instead of talk.
–Don Delillo, White Noise
Sometimes while looking through my old notebooks and blogs, I wonder what kind of picture the media would paint of me if I ever committed an overly violent act. I’ve spent many years gushing over horror films, playing violent video games, indulging in various mind-altering substances, and writing about the ways in which I’m frustrated by society. So in other words, I’d be up shit creek – destined to go down as one of society’s crazies. Never mind that I am cognitively sound and have never displayed any tendencies of antisocial behaviour; yet I’d be made into a monster simply for the benefit of keeping up appearances. I mean, ‘normal’ people can’t be killers—right?
As a society we create monsters in order to justify our shortcomings and convince ourselves our own actions aren’t so bad, because, well, at least we don’t go around killing people. In cinema, the monster has a rich history. From Frankenstein to Leatherface, audiences have always been fascinated with figures that, for whatever reason, stand outside the confines of everyday behaviour. Figures we analyze from a distance, yet ones whose monstrosity has been clearly defined.
In real life we try to do the same thing with mass-murderers and serial killers. Through the media we demonize these individuals and look for objective-like proof to show exactly what went wrong. Whether it be mental illness, drug abuse, or an over exposure to violent stimuli, we go about creating these pseudo-blue prints for identifying someone who will commit horrifying acts; when in reality, there are no easy answers.
Sometimes mass murder is senseless. Just this month, the Canadian news was littered with coverage of the RCMP murders carried out by Justin Bourque in Moncton, New Brunswick; and much has been made about his ‘normal’ upbringing and Moncton’s lack of previous homicides (none reported in 2011 and 2012). But I’m not surprised the event occurred. Being from New Brunswick, I’m well aware of the province’s lack of violent crime and the friendly nature of much of the population, yet I’m also aware of how isolating and depressing a place it can be—especially in today’s economy. Obviously this is no excuse for what Justin did, as he allowed hate to fuel his actions – but I don’t think there are any definitive reasons for his rage. However, people are going to demand an answer: What catalyst led to his revolting behaviour? (many articles have singled out his use of Megadeath lyrics on Facebook). What drug warped his mind? How can we find the next Justin Bourque?
And I’m willing to bet it was a regular combination of ennui and narcissism that had been building for years. Justin probably had a similar upbringing to me; he simply failed to develop coping mechanisms – preferring instead to punish others for his own dissatisfaction. In these cases, outside of momentarily bringing up issues of gun control, we hardly ever consider widespread social issues. Sure, we point at certain elements—drugs, violence, social media, etc—yet we rarely address the bigger picture: What are we doing as a collective to foster this sort of mind frame? To quote The Trailer Park Boys: “Shit apples fall from shit trees.” In other words, if there are individual monsters, is there not a collective monster?
This is exactly the type of question Shohei Imamura poses in Vengeance is Mine. Starring Ken Ogata as the cold-blooded Iwao Enokizu, Vengeance is a fictionalized account of the real-life crime spree committed by Japanese serial-killer Akira Nishiguchi. Posing as both a lawyer and a university professor, Enokizu goes on the run, murdering and stealing as he sees fit. Showing no remorse and having no obvious motivation, Enokizu is a true monster in every sense of the word. Yet Imamura never de-humanizes him. Nor are his actions glamourized.
Instead of presenting an easily definable monster characterized by convenient explanations, Imamura builds a psychological profile of Enokizu without ever providing any interiorization. At no point do we know what Enokizu might be thinking, or what drives him, outside of his sheer impulse to act. Plus, Imamura’s camera captures the events with immediacy – creating a documentary-like feel, where long takes and static setups evoke ordinariness.
Also, by structuring the film in non-linear order via flashbacks, Imamura lessens any sort of cause and effect type analysis. We learn of Enokizu’s distaste of authority and his desire to do whatever he wants, yet, by the end of the film we know very little about him. He is simply a puzzle without answers. Even when we see him as a child—attacking a Naval official for bullying his father—we don’t necessarily know how to read it. Maybe this has something to do with how he turned out, or maybe he has always been this way.
At some points, it’s even easy to forget Enokizu is a killer. Not to say he is a likeable character, but because he has so many personas, we never know what to expect. And with Imamura neglecting to cue our emotions through either music or shot selection, it becomes a guessing game. The only thing we know for sure is that Enokizu is a man of strong passion: When he wants something he’ll do whatever he can to get it; when he’s happy he can be generous; when he’s either horny or hungry, he’s insatiable (both are linked to over-consumption).
Yet there are no moments of transcendence or any real lessons to be learned; there is simply information: life is a struggle and evil is prevalent. And to stress this, Imamura and screenwriter Masaru Baba explore multiple subplots, involving a variety of unsympathetic characters—the main one consisting of Enokizu’s wife, Kazuko, and his father, Shizuo.
Within their dynamic, much is made over their love for one another. When Enokizu goes to jail for the first time, Kazuko is disgusted by his secrecy and undisciplined ways. She then falls in love with the devout Catholic, Shizuo, who believes in the sanctity of marriage and the repression of desire. And while Shizuo has similar feelings for Kazuko, their romance never flourishes because he wants to stay loyal to his wife, Kayo. What amounts is an atmosphere of repression meant to showcase how poisonous family dynamics can be.
In one frightening scene, Shizuo punishes a dog for acting aggressively towards Kazuko by burying the animal up to its neck and pouring boiling water over its head. He has Kazuko assist him, and the moment is agonizing to watch even though Imamura keeps the dog offscreen; choosing, instead, to leave the camera directly on the two humans (it is no coincidence that an earlier erotic scene between the two took place in a hot springs). Also, we receive this information through flashback when Kayo describes the incident to Enokizu; and when relaying the event, she makes sure to describe how Kazuko and Shizuo did it as a pair, as if baiting the unpredictable and aggressive Enokizu – knowing he may be her only ally.
In Vengeance—and in many of Imamura’s films—the household is a site of imprisonment, whereby family members often treat each other horribly. Characterized by corruption, perversion, and personal gain, the family is a microcosm for the nation. In Vengeance, Japan is portrayed as a country overhauled by Westernization, where rampant consumerism and squander has led to soullessness and depravity—and Imamura spares no one.
And though Enokizu may be the extreme manifestation of this decay, the film is packed with details that implicate the entire culture: a detective pays more attention to a baseball game than he does a witness; a prostitute recognizes Enokizu’s mug shot on TV yet does nothing about it; the Inn manager’s mother is a peeping tom; and the list goes on and on. Also, within the aesthetic there are multiple occasions where characters are blocked together and framed behind bars or other prison-like set-ups (a device Imamura uses in most of his films). Basically no one is portrayed in an overly positive light, and the mood is one of pure cynicism – however, it is not one of misanthropy. Imamura is not condemning the individual, he is presenting an environment that breeds dissatisfaction, and he’s coming from a viewpoint of a would-be anthropologist. And with this, he begs the question: Why aren’t there more killers?
As a society driven by fear we want to believe that monsters are somehow inhuman and incapable of seeing the world through a ‘normal’ gaze. When interpreting their evil, we’re quick to focus on anomalies and overt signs of monstrosity, looking for ways to predict how it happened, when really, we should be fully exploring why it happened. Focusing on the how is merely a reminder of the ways in which humans need closure, even when we know it’s fabricated.
Vengeance is Mine accomplishes what so many serial killer films rarely do: it brings senseless murder into the everyday and shows that monstrosity is all around us. Enokizu is the ultimate monster because he could easily be you or I. What makes him scary is not his actions or his lack of sympathy, it is his ability to fit in and maneuver through the community with ease.
(FYI – Vengeance is Mine is coming to Blu-ray on August. 26th)
– Griffin Bell