MONSTROUS WIVES, MURDEROUS LOVERS, AND DEAD WET GIRLS:

EXAMINING THE FEMININE VENGEFUL GHOST IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL

THEATRE AND HORROR CINEMA

A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE DIVISION OF THE UNIVERSITY

OF HAWAIʻI AT MĀNOA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR
THE DEGREE OF

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

IN

THEATRE

May 2022

By:
Jennifer M. Yoo

Dissertation Committee:

Julie A. Iezzi, Chairperson

Lurana O’Malley
Kirstin Pauka
Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak
Robert Huey
 Dedication

To my parents, for always doing your utmost to support me, even when you had no idea what I

was talking about.

To SKY, without whom I would not have made it.

ii
 Acknowledgements
I would like to take this moment to acknowledge all the financial, scholarly, as well as

emotional support I have received in the completing of my doctoral degree and dissertation.

The pursuit of my degree while at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa was largely

supported by the Asian Theatre Research Graduate Assistantship. I thank the faculty of the

Department of Theatre and Dance for selecting me for the position, not only for providing the

fiscal assistance to make it possible to continue my studies, but also for the work experience. The

fieldwork research for my dissertation in Kyoto, Japan was completed with the support of the

Crown Prince Akihito Scholarship and a Center for Japanese Studies Fellowship. My deepest

gratitude to Mr. Allen Uyeda, the board of the Crown Prince Akihito Scholarship Foundation,

the administrators of the Crown Prince Akihito Scholarship in Japan, and the Center of Japanese

Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa.

I wish to acknowledge and thank my wonderful doctoral committee. I especially would

like to thank my advisor Dr. Julie Iezzi for the support, encouragement, and advice throughout

this whole process. I also would like to express my gratitude to Dr. Lurana O’Malley and Dr.

Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak for taking such a personal interest in my graduate studies when I

first started at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa and encouraging me to take the plunge and

pursue a doctoral degree. I would also like to acknowledge Dr. Ryō Akama and Dr. Keiko
Suzuki of the Ritsumeikan University Art Research Center for their assistance in my conducting

my fieldwork while in Kyoto.

As the world was turned on its head due to the COVID-19 pandemic, this past year or so

has been particularly emotionally trying. I wish to personally thank friends as well as family for

helping me keep my spirits up as I struggled to complete my dissertation. I would also like to

thank (and maybe also apologize) to all those who agreed to be my “watching buddy” through

the dozens of stage performances and Japanese horror films for this project, and in so doing

helping to keep the nightmares at bay.

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 Abstract
As in many cultures, woman is often portrayed as monstrous or evil by the sheer fact of

her being female. Today, no Japanese horror film is considered complete without its haunting

woman specter, the female onryō, or “vengeful ghost” archetype. Barbara Creed’s writings on

the “monstrous feminine” illustrates an innate connection of “affinity” between woman and

monster as “potent threats to vulnerable male power.” Although when writing Creed was

referring to Western horror cinema, the same theories can be extended to Japanese media.

By analyzing elements of narrative style, visual representation, and enactment style of

this archetype found in Japanese theatre forms nō and kabuki compared to Japanese horror films,

it becomes apparent that the female onryō reflects views of the feminine identity in Japanese

society. Contrary to the portrayal of the male, only after these women have become “monstrous”

can they break free from sociocultural limitations and act on their vengeance. Their frightening

and grotesque forms, however, invoke more terror and horror than sympathy, transforming the

victims into the villains.

Despite the change in norms of Japanese society over time, the way these female onryō

are presented remains arguably consistent, positioning them as more “monsters” and “freaks”

than women. More significant is the tendency to associate these characters with feminine traits or

behavior, thereby transforming them into something grotesque, extending the association of
horror to woman herself. In so doing, the female onryō may have helped serve as a means of

patriarchal control prescribing women’s behavior, perhaps explaining the archetype’s continued

prevalence in media.

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 Table of Contents

Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................................... iii

Abstract....................................................................................................................................................... iv

List of Tables .............................................................................................................................................. ix

List of Figures.............................................................................................................................................. x

Chapter I. Introduction of Research ......................................................................................................... 1

I.1 RESEARCH PURPOSE & OBJECTIVES ......................................................................................... 1

I.2 LITERATURE REVIEW .................................................................................................................... 6

I.2.1 Theoretical Framework ............................................................................................................... 6

I.2.2 Sources ......................................................................................................................................... 9

I.2.3 Critical Assessment of Existing Literature in English ............................................................. 15

I.3 RESEARCH METHODOLOGY ...................................................................................................... 18

I.3.1 Definition of Terms, Assumptions, Limitations & Delimitations............................................. 18

I.3.2 Points of Analysis ...................................................................................................................... 19

I.4 SUMMARY OUTLINE OF DISSERTATION ................................................................................. 22

Chapter II. The Classic Female Onryō .................................................................................................... 25

II.1 BACKGROUND ON THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ .............................................................. 25

II.1.1 Supernatural & Religious Origins of the Onryō .................................................................... 25

II.1.2 Performative & Narrative Origins in Portrayal of the Onryō ................................................ 37

II.1.3 Emergence & Prevalence of the Classic Female Onryō ........................................................ 48

II.2 DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ IN PREMODERN

LITERATURE & THEATRE................................................................................................................. 56

II.2.1 Elements of Narrative Style...................................................................................................... 56

II.2.1.1 Characterization.................................................................................................................. 56
v
 II.2.1.2 Plot ..................................................................................................................................... 68

II.2.2 Elements of Visual Representation .......................................................................................... 88

II.2.3 Elements of Enactment Style ................................................................................................. 101

II.3 ANALYZING STAGE AND LITERARY PORTRAYALS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ
.............................................................................................................................................................. 109

II.3.1 In Nō ....................................................................................................................................... 109

II.3.1.1 Kanawa............................................................................................................................. 109

II.3.1.2 Aoi no Ue .......................................................................................................................... 123

II.3.1.3 Dōjōji................................................................................................................................ 141

II.3.2 In Kabuki ............................................................................................................................... 150

II.3.2.1 Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan .................................................................................................. 150

II.3.2.2 Kaidan Botan Dōrō .......................................................................................................... 162

II.3.2.3 Banshū Sarayashiki .......................................................................................................... 175

Chapter III. Beginning Transitions from the Classic to the New Female Onryō .............................. 183

III.1 BACKGROUND ON CHANGES TO THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ ................................ 183

III.1.1 Development of the Kaidan Film Genre in Japan .............................................................. 183

III.1.2 Continued Prevalence of the Classic Female Onryō & Beginnings of the New Female
Onryō in Japanese Cinema ............................................................................................................. 195

III.2 CHANGES TO DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ IN

FILM ..................................................................................................................................................... 203

III.2.1 Changes to Elements of Narrative Style ............................................................................... 203

III.2.1.1 Characterization .............................................................................................................. 203

III.2.1.2 Plot .................................................................................................................................. 211

III.2.2 Changes to Elements of Visual Representation ................................................................... 224

III.2.3 Changes to Elements of Enactment Style............................................................................. 232

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 III.3 ANALYZING FILM PORTRAYALS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ .......................... 238

III.3.1 In Kaidan Films Adapted from Kabuki and Literature ..................................................... 238

III.3.1.1 Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan (1959) ..................................................................................... 238

III.3.1.2 Botan Dōrō (1968) .......................................................................................................... 252

III.3.2 In “Original” Kaidan Films................................................................................................. 262

III.3.2.1 Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji (1954) ........................................................................................... 262

III.3.2.2. Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko (1968)................................................................................ 270

Chapter IV. The New Female Onryō ..................................................................................................... 282

IV.1 BACKGROUND ON THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ.................................................................. 282

IV.1.1 Development of the Cinematic Horror Genre from Kaidan Films to J-Horror ................ 282

IV.1.2 Emergence & Prevalence of the New Female Onryō ......................................................... 296

IV.2 DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ ...................................... 301

IV.2.1 Elements of Narrative Style .................................................................................................. 301

IV.2.1.1 Characterization .............................................................................................................. 301

IV.2.1.2 Plot .................................................................................................................................. 313

IV.2.2 Elements of Visual Representation ...................................................................................... 322

IV.2.3 Elements of Enactment Style ................................................................................................ 331

IV.3 ANALYZING FILM PORTRAYALS OF THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ ................................. 335

IV.3.1 In J-Horror Boom Films ...................................................................................................... 335

IV.3.1.1 The Ju-On Films: Ju-On: The Curse & The Curse 2 (2000) | Ju-On: The Grudge (2002) |
Ju-On: The Grudge 2 (2003) ........................................................................................................ 335

IV.3.1.2 The Ringu Films: Ringu (1998) | Ringu 2 (1999) ........................................................... 357

Chapter V. Conclusion ........................................................................................................................... 373

V.1 SUMMARY ................................................................................................................................... 373

V.2. FURTHER DISCUSSION ............................................................................................................ 376

vii
 V.3. REFLECTIONS & THOUGHTS ................................................................................................. 378

Appendix A: Japanese Literary Titles Referenced .............................................................................. 381

Appendix B: Japanese Stage Works Referenced ................................................................................. 384

Appendix C: Japanese Personages Referenced .................................................................................... 387

Appendix D: Japanese Films Referenced ............................................................................................. 394

Glossary of Japanese Terms .................................................................................................................. 399

Bibliography ............................................................................................................................................ 407

viii
 List of Tables
Table 1 Points of Analysis for “Classic” Female Onryō Portrayal ............................................................ 20
Table 2 Points of Analysis for “New” Female Onryō Portrayal (Compared to the “Classic”) .................. 21
Table 3 Basic Descriptions of the Five Nō Play Categories with Play Title Examples (Cited in
Dissertation) .............................................................................................................................................. 102

ix
 List of Figures
Fig. 1. Illustration showing the cardinal directions of the Chinese zodiac, with the kimon or ushitora
indicated, as was primarily utilized by onmyōdō in Japan. Illustration by Diana Tantillo. ........................ 33
Fig. 2. Example of portrayal of oni in jigoku. Kitano Tenjin engi emaki [北野天神縁起絵巻; “Illustrated
Legend of the Kitano Tenjin Shrine”]. Late 13th century, Metropolitan Museum of Art, scroll d, sec. 8 of
10. ............................................................................................................................................................... 35
Fig. 3. Depiction of a hyakumonogatari kaidankai. Kawanabe Kyōsai. Kyōsai Hyakki Gadan [暁斎百鬼
画談; “Kyōsai’s Pictures of One Hundred Demons”]. 1890, Smithsonian Institute, Gerhard Pulverer
Collection, pp. 6-7....................................................................................................................................... 43
Fig. 4. Illustration of the ubume from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 35) (Left). Utagawa Toyokuni I.
Actors Onoe Matsusuke I as the Ghost of Iohata and Matsumoto Kojiro as Mokuemon. 1804, Smithsonian
Institute, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery (Right). .............................................................................................. 56
Fig. 5. Illustration of Kiyohime’s attack on the Dōjōji bell from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 144)
(Left). Illustration of woman-turned-snake kaidan from Kīzō Tanshū (Takada 1: 204) (Right). ............... 71
Fig. 6. Illustration of jatai from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 165) (Left). Illustration of jealous wife
whose fingers transform into snakes as punishment kaidan from Zenaku Mukuibanashi (Takada 1: 331)
(Right) ......................................................................................................................................................... 73
Fig. 7. Illustration of the ushi no koku mairi ritual (Toriyama 86) (Left), and of Hashihime (Toriyama 80)
(Right) from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō................................................................................................................ 77
Fig. 8. Photo of the Isuzu River that runs through Ise Jingū (Mie Prefecture) where people still cleanse
themselves before approaching Naiku, the innermost shrine. Photo taken by author in December 2019. . 81
Fig. 9. Photo of the sanzu no kawa at Mount Osore (Aomori Prefecture), which from as early as mid-
seventeenth century was considered a physical representation of the borders between konoyo and anoyo,
signified by both the bridge and the point where the river meets the ocean. Photo taken by author in July
2018. ........................................................................................................................................................... 83
Fig. 10. Photo of a torchlit nō performance of Aoi no Ue featuring the use of uroko as well as the hannya
mask. Performed by Honda Mitsuhiro as part of the Itō Sukechika Festival in Itō (Shizuoka Prefecture).
Photo taken by author on May 17, 2014. .................................................................................................... 89
Fig. 11. Photo of a namanari mask, carved by nō mask craftswoman Nakamura Mitsue (Left). Photo of
hannya mask. 15th century, Museum of Fine Arts Boston Collection. (Right) .......................................... 90

x
Fig. 12. Photo of a deigan mask (Left) and ayakashi mask (Right), carved by nō mask craftsman Ōtsuki
Kōkun. Japanese Performing Arts Research Consortium (JPARC). .......................................................... 91
Fig. 13. Illustration of Tamakoto’s hair transforming into snakes as she is tortured to death. Utagawa
Toyokuni. 19th century, Waseda University Library, Japanese & Chinese Classics Collection.
Sakurahime Zenden Akebonozōshi, written by Santō Kyōden, Bunkeidō, 1805, vol. 1, p. 30. .................. 97
Fig. 14. Illustration of futakuchi-onna (Left). Takehara Shunsensai. Ehon Hyaku monogatari [絵本百物
語; “Picture Book of a Hundred Tales”]. 1841, Smithsonian Institute, Gerhard Pulverer Collection, vol. 2,
p. 19. Illustration of kejōrō from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 107) (Right). ........................................ 98
Fig. 15. Illustration depicting the honmizu stage effect of a ghost appearing from Okyōgen Gakuya no
Honsetsu (Santei 122-23). ......................................................................................................................... 100
Fig. 16. Illustrations depicting the kabuki stage effects used to portray ghosts’ unnatural movement from
Okyōgen Gakuya no Honsetsu (Santei 136-37, 130-31). .......................................................................... 103
Fig. 17. Screenshots of “disrobing” from video recording of “Spica Nō” Kanawa performance. ........... 123
Fig. 18. Screenshots of “disrobing” from video recording of Aoi no Ue. Performance by Tōyama
Takamichi, 20 May 2001, Hōshō Nōgakudō, Tokyo. ............................................................................... 140
Fig. 19. Screenshots of bell-jumping from video recording of Dōjōji Performance by Kanze Kiyokazu, 24
December 2000, Ōhori Park Noh Theater, Fukuoka................................................................................. 149
Fig. 20. Chart measuring frequency of scenes included in kabuki performances of Tōkaidō Yotsuya
Kaidan at major venues in Japan from 1947 to present. Data compiled from Kabuki Kōen Database,
Japan Actors’ Association......................................................................................................................... 160
Fig. 21. Screenshots from kaibyō film Nabeshima Kaibyōden [鍋島怪描伝; “Legend of the Nabeshima
Ghost Cat”]. Directed by Watanabe Kunio, Shintoho, 1949. ................................................................... 185
Fig. 22. Charts showing the percentage of adaptations of kabuki, kaidan, and other literary sources to
“original” works in films made from 1910 to 1949 (Left) compared to films made from 1950 to 1989 in
Japan (Right). Data taken from Eiren Database, Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and
Japanese Cinema Database, Agency of Cultural Affairs, Government of Japan..................................... 188
Fig. 23. Screenshots of uncanny atmosphere from Ugetsu Monogatari (Left), and Yabu no Naka no
Kuroneko (Right). ..................................................................................................................................... 193
Fig. 24. Screenshots of “horror” using the body or face from Kaidan Kasanegafuchi (Left), and Kaibyō
Otamagaike (Right). ................................................................................................................................. 195

xi
Fig. 25. Chart measuring frequency of nō performances held at the National Noh Theatre (国立能楽堂)
in Tokyo, Japan, featuring female onryō characters compared to male onryō characters from 1979 to the
present. Data compiled from Bunka Digital Library, Japan Arts Council, and Gendai Nō Kyōgen Jōen
Kiroku Database, Tsubouchi Memorial Theatre Museum, Waseda University. ...................................... 197
Fig. 26. Chart measuring frequency of kabuki performances at major venues in Japan featuring female
onryō characters compared to male onryō characters from 1979 to the present. Data compiled from
Kabuki Kōen Database, Japan Actors’ Association, and Nihon Geinō Engeki Sōgō Jōen Nenpyō Database,
Art Research Center, Ritsumeikan University. ......................................................................................... 197
Fig. 27. Chart showing the number of kabuki plays featuring female onryō compared to male onryō
characters chosen for adaptation in kaidan films from 1910 to 1949 and 1950 to 1989. Included films
have been limited to those for which the kabuki title being adapted was explicitly stated. Data compiled
from Eiren Database, Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and Japanese Cinema
Database, Agency of Cultural Affairs, Government of Japan. ................................................................. 199
Fig. 28. Screenshots of supernatural as erotic from Ugetsu Monogatari (Left), and Yabu no Naka no
Kuroneko (Right). ..................................................................................................................................... 207
Fig. 29. Screenshot of the husband’s return in Kurokami episode from Kaidan (Left) and set photo of
Okiku’s ghost appearing before Harima from Kaidan Banchō Sarayashiki (Right). ............................... 209
Fig. 30. Screenshots of the mother-in-law as the “monster” from Onibaba............................................. 211
Fig. 31. Screenshots of Lady Hyūga from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa .......................................................... 213
Fig. 32. Screenshots of the hebi-onna’s victims, both living and dead, from Kaidan Hebi-Onna. .......... 216
Fig. 33. Screenshots of Rui injured, her image obstructed (Left) and as an onryō, her image destroyed
(Right) from Kaidan Kasanegafuchi......................................................................................................... 217
Fig. 34. Screenshots of Miyaji pleading to Tama before killing herself (Left) and of the bakeneko
revealing itself to exact vengeance (Right) from Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki. .................................................. 218
Fig. 35. Screenshots of Sōetsu, moments before death (Left) and as an onryō (Right) from Kaidan
Kasanegafuchi........................................................................................................................................... 219
Fig. 36. Screenshots of Hōichi’s performance for the onryō of the Taira in Miminashi Hōichi episode
from Kaidan. ............................................................................................................................................. 220
Fig. 37. Screenshots of the snow woman’s forced separation from Minokichi (Left) and her disappearing
from konoyo (Right) in Yuki-Onna episode from Kaidan. ........................................................................ 221

xii
Fig. 38. Screenshots of villains Naoshige (Left) from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa and Gensai (Right) from
Kaibyō Otamagaike being killed in the same body of water as their victims. .......................................... 223
Fig. 39. Film set photo of Yachimaru and Kozasa’s ghosts at the pond (Left) and screenshot of the
bakeneko disguised as Kozasa following her death (Right) from Kaibyō Otamagaike ............................ 225
Fig. 40. Film set photos from hebi-onna film Hakuja Komachi [白蛇小町; “White Snake Woman”].
Directed by Hirotsu Mitsuo, Daiei, 1958. ................................................................................................. 226
Fig. 41. Screenshots of Lady Hyūga’s true bakeneko nature being exposed through hair during her love
scene with Naoshige from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa. ................................................................................. 228
Fig. 42. Screenshots of Kozasa’s floating comb (Left) and Akino’s bleeding hairpin (Right) from Kaibyō
Otamagaike ............................................................................................................................................... 229
Fig. 43. Screenshots of the abandoned wife (Left) and her hair attacking her husband (Right) in Kurokami
episode from Kaidan. ................................................................................................................................ 230
Fig. 44. Screenshots of the growing blood stain on Shōgen’s wall (Left) and the appearance of Miyaji’s
onryō in front of the wall (Right) from Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki .................................................................. 231
Fig. 45. Screenshots of water polluted by blood or death from Kaibyō Otamagaike (Left), and Miminashi
Hōichi episode from Kaidan (Right). ....................................................................................................... 231
Fig. 46. Screenshots of the samurai eating while watching Oyone and Oshige’s rape from Yabu no Naka
no Kuroneko. ............................................................................................................................................. 234
Fig. 47. Film set photos of Mōri Ikuko (Left) from Hakuja Komachi and Suzuki Sumiko as the bakeneko
(Right) from Kaibyō Nazo no Shamisen [怪描謎の三味線; “The Ghost Cat and the Mysterious
Shamisen”]. Directed by Ushihara Kiyohiko, Shinkō Kinema, 1938. ...................................................... 236
Fig. 48. Screenshots of Irie Takako as the bakeneko from Kaidan Saga Yashiki (Left) and Mishima
Yuriko (1940-) as one of the bakeneko’s appearances from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa (Right). ................. 238
Fig. 49. Screenshots of Iemon with Oiwa (Left) and with Oume (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.
.................................................................................................................................................................. 240
Fig. 50. Screenshots of Oiwa and Iemon from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ................................................ 242
Fig. 51. Screenshots of Iemon preparing Oiwa the “medicine” from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ............. 244
Fig. 52. Screenshots of Oiwa from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. .................................................................. 245
Fig. 53. Screenshots of Oiwa leading Osode to Yomoshichi (Left), Osode and Yomoshichi exacting
vengeance on Iemon (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ................................................................... 246
Fig. 54. Screenshots of Iemon’s death from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. .................................................... 247
xiii
Fig. 55. Screenshots of Oiwa’s comb and hair, after death (Left) and Osode with her sister’s comb (Right)
from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ................................................................................................................. 249
Fig. 56. Screenshots of Oiwa’s ghost appearing before Osode (Left) compared to how she appears before
Naosuke (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ...................................................................................... 250
Fig. 57. Screenshots of the snake from the beginning of the film (Left) and Oiwa’s resentment towards
Naosuke manifesting as snakes (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. .................................................. 251
Fig. 58. Screenshots of Oiwa emerging in the Onbō Canal (Left) and her appearance after Iemon kills
Naosuke (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ...................................................................................... 251
Fig. 59. Screenshots of Iemon’s final “image” of Oiwa in his mind before death (Left), and Oiwa having
achieved salvation (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. ...................................................................... 252
Fig. 60. Screenshots of Shinzaburō and Otsuyu from Botan Dōrō........................................................... 254
Fig. 61. Screenshots of Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō. ............................................................................. 255
Fig. 62. Screenshots of Otsuyu finally reunited with Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō. ............................... 257
Fig. 63. Screenshots of Oyone and Otsuyu from Botan Dōrō. ................................................................. 259
Fig. 64. Screenshots of Omine’s body (Left) and Oyone’s grave marker (Right) from Botan Dōrō. ...... 260
Fig. 65. Screenshots of Otsuyu making love to Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō. ....................................... 261
Fig. 66. Screenshots of Otsuyu and Oyone in their true form (Left) and dragging Banzō and Omine back
with them to remove the talisman (Right) from Botan Dōrō .................................................................... 262
Fig. 67. Screenshots of Senjo from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji........................................................................ 264
Fig. 68. Screenshots of Senjo appearing before Kochō from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji. ............................... 267
Fig. 69. Screenshots of Senjo as the monster from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji................................................ 268
Fig. 70. Screenshots of Senjo rising up from the water (Left) and leaving a stain behind (Right) from
Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji. ............................................................................................................................... 270
Fig. 71. Screenshots of Oyone and Oshige’s deaths and the black cat from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.
.................................................................................................................................................................. 272
Fig. 72. Screenshots of Oshige preying on samurai (Left) and Oyone dancing (Right) from Yabu no Naka
no Kuroneko. ............................................................................................................................................. 273
Fig. 73. Screenshots of Oshige hesitating to lure Hachi (Left) and Oshige and Oyone yearning to see him
(Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ................................................................................................ 274
Fig. 74. Screenshots of Oshige making love to Hachi from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ....................... 275
Fig. 75. Screenshots of Oyone and Hachi from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko........................................... 276
xiv
Fig. 76. Screenshots of Oyone flying (Left) and Hachi (Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ........ 278
Fig. 77. Screenshots of “hair” from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ............................................................ 278
Fig. 78. Screenshots of Oyone and Oshige leaping, almost flying, from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ... 279
Fig. 79. Screenshots of Oshige thrashing as she exacts vengeance (Left) and Oyone dancing in sorrow
(Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ................................................................................................ 280
Fig. 80. Screenshots of Oyone’s “true” form being reflected in water (Left) and during the climactic battle
with Hachi (Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko. ............................................................................. 281
Fig. 81. Screenshot of the final fight and “hose accident” from chanbara film Tsubaki Sanjūrō............ 286
Fig. 82. Screenshots from Audition (Left) and Battle Royale (Right). ..................................................... 290
Fig. 83. Film set photo from Tetsuo (Left) and screenshot from Sweet Home (Right)............................. 293
Fig. 84. Screenshots from “techno-horror” films Kairo (Left) and Chakushin Ari (Right)...................... 296
Fig. 85. Chart of Japanese horror films comparing the gender of the sole or primary antagonist(s) from
kaidan films 1950-1989 compared to J-horror films 1990 to the present. Data taken from Eiren Database,
Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and Japanese Cinema Database, Agency of Cultural
Affairs, Government of Japan. .................................................................................................................. 297
Fig. 86. Screenshots from Tomie. ............................................................................................................. 304
Fig. 87. Screenshots of Li Li predicting death (Left) and being silenced (Right) from Chakushin Ari 2. 305
Fig. 88. Screenshots of Kyoko from direct-to-video film Ju-On: The Curse 2. ....................................... 306
Fig. 89. Screenshots from Kuchisake Onna. ............................................................................................. 308
Fig. 90. Screenshots of Marie holding Nanako (Left) and Mimiko left to die (Right) from Chakushin Ari.
.................................................................................................................................................................. 310
Fig. 91. Screenshots of Professor Ōmori from Rinne (Left) and Zero from Akumu Tantei (Right). ........ 312
Fig. 92. Screenshots of Harue lamenting human isolation (Left) and a ghost stalking a victim (Right) from
Kairo. ........................................................................................................................................................ 317
Fig. 93. Screenshots of Reiko searching for Sadako in the well from Ringu (Left) and Teruko resurrecting
Sayori from Shikoku (Right). .................................................................................................................... 318
Fig. 94. Screenshots of Yoshimi and daughter Ikuko being threatened by “dark water” from Honogurai
Mizu no Soko Kara.................................................................................................................................... 318
Fig. 95. Screenshots of Kyōko with her daughter (Left) and having transformed into the new female
onryō after reconciling (Right) from Kuchisake Onna. ............................................................................ 321
Fig. 96. Screenshots from Kuchisake Onna (Left) and Teke Teke (Right). .............................................. 323
xv
Fig. 97 Screenshots of Takeo from Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-On: The Grudge (Right). .............. 324
Fig. 98. Screenshots of Sadako from Ringu.............................................................................................. 325
Fig. 99. Screenshots of hair from Shibuya Kaidan (Left) and Chakushin Ari (Right). ............................ 326
Fig. 100. Screenshots from Exte. .............................................................................................................. 327
Fig. 101. Screenshots of Mayumi’s final scene in the rain from Kuchisake Onna 2. ............................... 329
Fig. 102. Screenshots of Mitsuko attacking through water from Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara. .......... 330
Fig. 103. Screenshots of the ghost’s walk from Kairo. ............................................................................ 334
Fig. 104. Screenshots of Kayako’s journal from Ju-On: The Curse......................................................... 337
Fig. 105. Screenshots of Kayako’s onryō first appearing in the house from Ju-On: The Curse. ............. 340
Fig. 106. Screenshots of Hiromi receiving Kayako’s journal (Left) and killing her husband (Right) from
Ju-On: The Curse 2................................................................................................................................... 341
Fig. 107. Screenshots of Katsuya possessed by Takeo (Left) and Kayako first appearing (Right) from Ju-
On: The Grudge. ....................................................................................................................................... 344
Fig. 108. Screenshots of Kayako and Toshio haunting Rika (Left) and seizing female victims (Right)
from Ju-On: The Grudge. ......................................................................................................................... 345
Fig. 109. Screenshots of Kayako’s onryō appearing before Rika from Ju-On: The Grudge. .................. 346
Fig. 110. Screenshots of Rika murdered by Takeo and made in Kayako’s image from Ju-On: The Grudge.
.................................................................................................................................................................. 347
Fig. 111. Screenshots of Kayako killing Tomoka and Noritaka from Ju-On: The Grudge 2. .................. 349
Fig. 112. Screenshots of Kyoko holding Kayako as her “baby” (Left) and Kayako having killed Kyoko
(Right) from Ju-On: The Grudge 2. .......................................................................................................... 351
Fig. 113. Screenshots of Kayako’s living image from Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-On: The Grudge 2
(Right). ...................................................................................................................................................... 352
Fig. 114. Screenshots of Kayako looking out from the outside window in Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-
On: The Grudge 2. .................................................................................................................................... 353
Fig. 115. Screenshots of Kyoko at the house from Ju-On: The Grudge 2................................................ 354
Fig. 116. Screenshots of Kayako’s hair strangling Tomoka (Left) and possessing a wig, changing its
length (Right) from Ju-On: The Grudge 2. ............................................................................................... 355
Fig. 117. Screenshots of Kayako as a “wet” stain (Left) and in Megumi’s vision (Right) from Ju-On: The
Grudge 2. .................................................................................................................................................. 355

xvi
Fig. 118. Screenshots of Kayako reborn and attacking Keisuke (Left) compared to how she appears
earlier attacking Megumi (Right) from Ju-On: The Grudge 2. ................................................................ 356
Fig. 119. Screenshots of Shizuko and Sadako at Ikuma’s psychic demonstration from Ringu. ............... 359
Fig. 120. Screenshots of Reiko finding Sadako’s body in the well (Left) and Ryūji’s spirit helping Reiko
realize what she must do to save Yōichi (Right) from Ringu. .................................................................. 363
Fig. 121. Screenshots of Sadako’s coffin being returned to the sea (Left) and Takashi and Mai in the sai
no kawara sea cave (Right) from Ringu 2. ............................................................................................... 366
Fig. 122. Screenshots of Ryūji saving Yōichi in anoyo from Ringu 2. .................................................... 368
Fig. 123. Screenshots of Sadako’s torn nailbeds (Left) and obstructed image (Right) from Ringu. ........ 371
Fig. 124. Screenshots of Sadako’s facial reconstruction (Left) and her “face” (Right) from Ringu 2. .... 371
Fig. 125. Screenshots of the water from Sadako’s well (Left) and Sadako’s skull (Right) from Ringu. . 372

xvii
 Chapter I. Introduction of Research
I.1 RESEARCH PURPOSE & OBJECTIVES

As in many other cultures, the feminine is often portrayed as having an affinity with the

supernatural, even the monstrous or evil, by the sheer fact of being female. Rather than simply

accept this as “fact,” however, this dissertation will examine the female ghost, specifically the

onryō1(怨霊, “vengeful ghost”) archetype, its prevalence and its portrayal in the Japanese theatre

forms of nō and kabuki as well as in Japanese horror films. In so doing, I hope to show a

correlation between the development of female onryō characters – in literature, on stage, and in

film – and changes in societal attitudes towards women in Japan over time.

The supernatural, especially ghosts or spirits, hold a certain significance in Japan, as

evident in the history of kaidan (怪談, “strange tales”),2 or ghost stories, and the tradition of

ghost storytelling. This in turn can explain the prevalence of the supernatural as a subject in

Japanese theatre and cinema. The prevalence, or one might even say popularity, of the

supernatural female specifically is apparent in Japan from as early as the Heian period (794-1185

CE) and continued through the Edo period (1603-1867 CE), as evident in Japanese folklore,

religious texts, literature and nō and kabuki. Over time this tendency has continued, even

increased in prominence, to the extent that Japanese horror films today are rarely without a
haunting woman specter as the primary antagonist.

The literary traditions, most notably the oral storytelling and print publishing of kaidan

during the Edo period, have had a significant effect on this trend of the female ghost character, as

many early ghost story texts and kaidan are attributed as the source material or inspiration for

1
Japanese names and terms have been transliterated in accordance with the modified Hepburn system of
romanization.
2
The term kaidan is often used to refer to Japanese ghost stories, traditional as well as even some modern; however

the term itself was not coined until 1627 (Reider, “Emergence” 81).
1
numerous dramatic works featuring onryō in the nō and kabuki repertoire. Similarly, horror films,

or at least films that feature an antagonistic supernatural, initially took much of their inspiration

from the same kaidan that influenced theatrical works in Japan. As a result, these early films are

often referred to as kaidan, sometimes kaiki (怪奇, “strange, grotesque”) films. While kaiki was

used interchangeably with kaidan to refer to the genre, it was also used to refer to foreign

imported films of the “horror” genre (Crandol, “Horror” 299). Therefore, the term “kaidan films”

will be used to point specifically to the domestic films influenced by the kaidan literary genre.

Although horror films existed prior to the end of World War II, the 1950s and 1960s saw

a “boom” in the kaidan film genre in Japan. Starting in the 1990s, however, there was a tangible

change in the genre which sparked an international interest in so-called “J-horror,” resulting in

Japanese horror films becoming a seminal presence in not only the horror genre, but also cinema

worldwide.3 The vengeful female figure prominently featured in these J-horror films, however,

differs significantly from the female ghost characters found in kaidan films of the 1950s and

1960s, and by extension the more “classic” female onryō found in nō and kabuki. This “new”

female ghost archetype, initially and popularly referred to in English as “dead wet girl,”4 first

personified by the character Sadako in Nakata Hideo’s5 (1961-) internationally successful Ringu6

3
Some credit for the international success of the J-horror genre should also be given to works that have been remade

for Western audiences, such as The Ring, directed by Gore Verbinski in 2002.
4
David Kalat has been credited for coining this term to describe this “new” female ghost in J-horror films. It is a

term used almost exclusively in English language discussion of the genre.

5
Japanese names have for the most part been written in the Japanese order with surname first. Exceptions, however,

have been made when citing sources written in English by Japanese authors whose names have been published in
the Western order.
6
Japanese language literary, dramatic, and cinematic works will be referred to by their transliterated title, especially

films to avoid confusion with their respective Western film remakes.

2
[リング; “The Ring”] in 1998,7 continues in Japanese horror cinema to this day, becoming a

central image of Japanese horror.

By means of primarily archival research and comparative analysis, I will examine shifts

in portrayal of the female onryō over time as found in Japanese traditional theatre forms nō and

kabuki, and Japanese horror films, both those referred to as kaidan films as well as those

explicitly referred to as J-horror. While the origins for this archetype may be rooted in both

supernatural and literary traditions in Japan, I will argue that the portrayal of the female onryō

largely reflects views of women in Japanese society that position them as the abject, the

utilization of which thereby acting as a means of patriarchal control. Using Julia Kristeva’s

theory of abjection as a framework, I will analyze how the female onryō character is depicted as

the “other,” and how the behavior she exhibits, both preceding and following her emergence as a

vengeful spirit, is socially unacceptable for women in the audience to emulate. For female

spectators or readers who feel powerless or oppressed like these characters, the female onryō

may serve as an “image” of empowerment or release from pressures and frustrations they

experience in real life. This means of empowerment or release, however, requires these

characters to destroy, or at least distort, themselves and become “monsters” in order to act. As

noted by Barbara Creed in The Monstrous-Feminine, the female monster, as found in horror

films especially,8 positions her more as a monster or “freak,” rather than a woman deserving of
sympathy or support. Thus, while women in the audience may feel vicarious vindication, seeing

the full physical, sociocultural, and spiritual consequences of such vengeful actions played out

by their emotional surrogates, they may be more reluctant to act on their stifled desires out of a

self-conscious fear of being treated or viewed the same way.

7
Based on the novel by the same title written by Suzuki Kōji (1957-), published in 1991.
8
Although when writing Creed was referring to Western horror cinema in discussion of the “monstrous-feminine,”

the same theories can be extended to Japanese media.

3
 My primary research goal is thus to assert that the female onryō archetype developed as a

means of patriarchal control in reaction to contemporaneous views towards women in Japan. I

will accomplish this by fulfilling the following objectives:

1. Identify and delineate the contextual elements, namely the literary, folkloric, as well

as religious and supernatural origins, that have contributed to the development of the

onryō archetype, especially the female onryō in Japanese theatre and cinema.

2. Establish the extent of the female onryō’s presence in nō, kabuki, and Japanese horror

films in comparison to the male onryō character.

3. Identify and delineate the defining characteristics of the classic female onryō

compared to the male onryō archetype, and elucidate how this characterization has

changed over time, resulting in the emergence of a new female onryō archetype,

primarily associated with J-horror films.

4. Compare and analyze the portrayal of the female onryō in nō, kabuki, and Japanese

horror cinema, both kaidan films and J-horror films.

5. Illustrate the effects and influence of the female onryō as both an image of

empowerment but also a means of patriarchal control as a persuasive explanation for

the archetype’s continued prevalence.

Although a key component of this dissertation is to analyze the portrayal of the female
onryō over time, it is not feasible to examine all possible examples of the archetype in detail and

consolidate them into a comprehensible analysis. In my survey of dramatic and cinematic onryō

depictions, however, I have identified the presence of further specification within the female

onryō archetype in the form of role types, the most predominant of which I refer to in this

dissertation as the “monstrous wife,” the “murderous lover,” and the “dead wet girl.” While the

term “dead wet girl” is almost exclusively an English term and (as noted earlier) was initially

coined to describe what I refer to in this dissertation as the new female onryō, I would argue that

4
the dead wet girl herself is more of a ”new” role type, albeit a highly popular one, that appears

alongside the other predominant roles rather than an overall term that can be applied to the

breadth of female vengeful ghost characters that appear in J-horror films.

By focusing my analysis on how these role types have been both utilized and altered

across Japanese stage and cinema depictions, shifts in portrayal of the female onryō over time are

easier to delineate. The monstrous wife and murderous lover, both inherently imbued with a

given social role that they consequently reject in some way or another, are found predominantly

in Japanese premodern literature and traditional theatre as well as a majority of kaidan films. The

dead wet girl refers to the younger, less romantically (and socially) inclined role type that tends

to be found in contemporary J-horror films. Even with the dead wet girl, however, which as has

been noted, did not “officially” appear until the development of the J-horror film in the 1990s, a

precursor to this role type is still observable in works made prior to the “J-horror boom” in

Japanese cinema. This “proto-dead wet girl,” a term I use to refer to a female character that

deviates from the more “traditional” monstrous wife and murderous lover by lacking a clearly

defined social role to inform her behavior and motives, can be found not only in films made prior

to the 1990s, but also in some nō and kabuki plays. By examining both the development and

changes to these three role types, it is easier to distinguish how the new female onryō that

emerged in J-horror differs from the classic, as well as how the archetype continues to evolve
overall, thereby making it easier to identify what has or has not changed over time.

Few writings in English have addressed the implications of the most prominent ghostly

figures in both Japanese theatre and films being female onryō. By analyzing this phenomenon in

portrayal and considering the potential consequent impact such portrayals may have on women

in Japanese society, I intend to fill a void in existing literature. In so doing, I aim to expand on

and encourage future studies regarding the impact of the media and female characters on women

audiences. As the frequency and apparent popularity of the female onryō is a trend that not only

5
continues to present day, but also appears to be increasing, it is important to consider the

potential impact of media portrayals of female characters. These portrayals have an influence not

only on societal views of women and feminine behavior, but also on how women may come to

view themselves.

I.2 LITERATURE REVIEW

I.2.1 Theoretical Framework

In my analysis I will be primarily referencing scholars of feminist film and performance

theory, especially those who address the horror genre. Barbara Creed and her writings on what

she calls the “monstrous feminine,” are particularly useful in analyzing the implications of the

female onryō archetype. In The Monstrous-Feminine, Creed refers to how women are commonly

represented as weak in horror cinema, except when represented as the villain, in which case they

are inherently evil. She asserts that previous critical work has focused on the “woman as victim

of the (mainly male) monster,” not as the female monster her/itself (1). Creed expands on this by

illustrating an innate connection or “affinity” between woman and monster that both

acknowledges their “similar status within patriarchal structures [as] biological freaks” and

recognizes both woman and monster as “potent threats to vulnerable male power” (6). I heavily

reference Creed’s writing on the form of the feminine body as “monstrous” in my examination of

both the narrative portrayal as well as the visual representation of the female onryō archetype in

select plays and films. Using the monstrous feminine as a framework will also be useful in

examining possible correlations between the development of this character and societal attitudes

towards women in Japan.

I will also take into consideration Julia Kristeva’s concept of abjection as illustrated in

her work Powers of Horror, focusing on how horror emphasizes the boundaries of humanity, and

that through maintaining that boundary the monstrous is thereby constructed. According to

Kristeva, abjection refers to the human reaction by which the “abject,” defined as that which

6
“disturbs identity, system, order,” is “radically excluded” (2-3). In so doing, “primitive societies

have marked out a precise area of their culture in order to remove it from the threatening world

of animals or animalism” (12-13). A classic example of this found in many cultures is the

emphasis on cleanliness and aversion to sources of “pollution,” thereby separating the self from

death. The corpse, as Kristeva describes, represents that which is “thrust aside in order to live

[…and] is the utmost of abjection […as it is] the most sickening of wastes, a border that has

encroached upon everything. […] It is death infecting life” (3-4). Creed also draws on Kristeva

to describe how patriarchal society separates the human from the non-human, suggesting that

anything that crosses that line is considered other from the self and thus abject. The monstrous

feminine, being both monster and woman, effectively represents either a rejection of that order or

at least a blurring of those lines or boundaries. In a similar fashion, I reference Kristeva on the

practice of abjection in society to support my argument regarding the female onryō being utilized

as a means of patriarchal control over time.

Finally, in discussion of image and the potential consequent impact that portrayals of the

female onryō archetype in select plays and films may have on women in Japanese society, I will

apply both the sociological concept of “controlling images,” as well as film and performance-

based theories regarding female spectatorship to support my arguments. In her book, Black

Feminist Thought, sociologist Patricia Hill Collins discusses the presence of what she refers to as
“controlling images”9 and how they are utilized in media to subordinate women (69).10 The

concept of controlling images provides a compelling link as to how the social becomes the

9
First introduced in her 1986 article “Learning from the Outsider Within.”
10
It should be noted that when discussing “controlling images,” Collins focuses on how these images affect black
women specifically. Since its introduction, however, the idea of controlling images has been expanded on and

become a key theoretical concept in ethnic as well as gender studies that can arguably be extended to any socially

delineated group.
7
psychological, explaining how the image of (or stereotypes associated with) the female onryō

can induce or discourage certain behavior in its female spectator.

In discussion of female spectatorship in film, Mary Ann Doane’s critical essay in Femme

Fatales, titled “Film and the Masquerade,” is especially pertinent, positing several modes for

female spectatorship, all of which depend on the spectator’s ability to achieve a certain distance

from the on-screen image of woman. Doane argues that unlike the male spectator, the female

spectator lacks distance because of her proximity to the image, citing how almost all films are

filmed with an inherently male-driven perspective, or “male gaze.”11 Because the female

spectator rarely has opportunity to perceive herself as the “viewer” and is always seen as the

image, according to Doane, she struggles more to distance herself compared to the male, as to

view film is “to assume the position of fetishist” (23). If she does not distance herself, the female

spectator risks “over-identification and narcissism” because the spectacle of woman is also

herself, a woman (22).

Lastly, though largely framed in the context of Western stage performance, Jill Dolan’s

The Feminist Spectator as Critic is grounded in the belief that representation in any media

creates meanings from an ideological base that have specific, material consequences.

Furthermore, it directs its address to a gender-specific spectator, employing culturally

determined gender codes that in turn reinforce cultural conditioning. I refer to both Doane and
Dolan’s theories primarily in my examination of the potential effect of the female onryō, how her

image might be viewed as a source of empowerment but at the same time as a means of

patriarchal control of women in the audience.

11
A key concept of feminist film theory introduced by scholar Laura Mulvey, made popular in her 1975 essay

“Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” It should be noted that in Mulvey’s discussion of the “male gaze” she is

primarily concerned with and addresses the concept’s presence in Western film.
8
 I.2.2 Sources

Due to the theoretical nature of this project, research has involved consulting historical,

social, literary, and artistic sources – both primary and secondary – to gather sufficient breadth

and depth of material. As it is not feasible to examine all possible examples of portrayal of the

female onryō archetype in detail, I have chosen select plays and films as key examples, for both

comprehensive as well as close case-study-style analysis for this dissertation project. To

determine which works to select, as well as the points for analysis, I have reviewed as many nō

and kabuki productions, both live performance and video recording, and Japanese horror (both

kaidan and J-horror) films as possible. As indicated in my dissertation title, I ultimately chose to

limit my analysis to works that feature at least one of the three predominant role types for the

female onryō, what I refer to in this dissertation as the monstrous wife, the murderous lover, and

the dead wet girl.

Through my survey of dramatic and cinematic depictions, I have found these three role

types to be the most prevalent and therefore representative of the female onryō. For my close

case-study-style analysis of the classic female onryō, I have thus limited plays from the nō

theatre not only to those belonging to kijo-mono (鬼女物, “demon-woman plays”), but also those

featuring one of the aforementioned role types, namely Kanawa [鉄輪; “Iron Trivet”],12 Aoi no

Ue [葵上; “Lady Aoi”],13 and Dōjōji [道成寺; “Dōjōji Temple”].14 While Kanawa and Aoi no
Ue feature strong examples of the monstrous wife and murderous lover for the nō theatre

respectively, Dōjōji has been included to serve as an example of deviations from the more

traditional role types applied to this vengeful female ghost figure, a form of proto-dead wet girl.

Furthermore, the selection of Dōjōji as a nō play written comparatively later than Aoi no Ue and

12
Author unknown, sometimes attributed to Zeami Motokiyo (1363-1443).
13
Most often attributed to Zeami.
14
Author unknown, tentatively attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu (1435-1516).
9
Kanawa has been to demonstrate breadth as well as to indicate developments of the classic

female onryō archetype within the nō theatre.15 Similarly, kabuki plays chosen for close analysis

have been limited to kaidan-mono (怪談物, “ghost story plays”) that feature these role types,

with Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan [東海道四谷怪談; “Ghost Story of Yotsuya in Tōkaidō”]16 as an

example of the monstrous wife, Kaidan Botan Dōrō [怪談牡丹燈籠; “Ghost Story of the Peony

Lantern]17 as an example of the murderous lover, and Banshū Sarayashiki [播州皿屋敷; “Dish

Mansion at Banshū”]18 as an example of the proto-dead wet girl. Similar to Dōjōji, the choice to

include the more recent kaidan-mono Botan Dōrō has been to provide opportunity to consider

developments made to the classic female onryō within the kabuki theatre over a period of time.

I have also chosen to further restrict plays for case-study to dramatic works that have

remained both (more or less) active to the present day and narratively preserved in their

respective nō and kabuki repertoires. In my comprehensive analysis of the overall portrayal and

characteristics of the classic female onryō, I will reference additional nō and kabuki works to

indicate the history or prevalence of defining traits. Focusing on plays that are part of the active

repertoire will not only make it easier for close analysis, but will also help indicate what

narratives continue to resonate with audiences today. This in turn can help support observations

15
Aoi no Ue and Kanawa are believed to have been written during early or mid-Muromachi period (1336-1573 CE),

while Dōjōji is considered to have been written in late Muromachi period.

16
Written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV (1755-1829), first performed in 1815.
17
Based on the rakugo (落語, “fallen words”) oral story created by San’yūtei Enchō (1839-1900), Botan Dōrō was

first adapted for the kabuki stage by Kawatake Shinshichi III (1842-1901) in 1892. However, a more modern version

was written by Ōnishi Nobuyuki (1929-2016) in 1974.

18
Also known today as Banchō Sarayashiki [番町皿屋敷; “The Dish Mansion at Banchō”], a popular kaidan first

adapted for the kabuki stage in 1720. It was not referred to by the title Banshū Sarayashiki, however, until its debut
as a ningyō jōruri (人形浄瑠璃, “puppet theatre”) performance at the Toyotake-za in 1741. With the huge success

of this rendition, many kabuki revisions soon followed, the most notable of which are adaptations written by

Nagawa Harusuke I (1782-1826) in 1824 and Segawa Jokō III (1806-81) in 1850.
10
regarding consequent changes and developments within the female onryō as the archetype made

its transition from stage to film.

In selecting films for close case-study-style analysis of the new female onryō, choosing

key examples of both classic and new embodiments as found in film has been most useful in

denoting changes in characterization over time. As a result, chosen films have been primarily

restricted to those produced during the two respective “boom” periods for Japanese horror films,

the 1950s to 1960s and the 1990s to 2000s. As the 1970s and 1980s witnessed a significant

decline in interest in films pertaining to the supernatural overall, works from this interval have

been omitted for case-study-style analysis. I will also reference additional films to indicate the

history or pervasiveness of evolving traits in my comprehensive analysis of the overall changes

in portrayal of the new female onryō compared to the classic. However, I have chosen to restrict

films for case-study to cinematic works that not only best represent the utilization of the three

aforementioned role types of the female onryō, but also have been possible to acquire and view

in their entirety for better analysis.

The first period, often referred to as the “kaidan boom,” clearly references the classic

female onryō archetype. The way the classic female manifests in these kaidan films, however, is

not identical to how she is found in Japanese premodern literature and traditional theatre forms

nō and kabuki, even when the film is a direct adaptation of a given literary or dramatic work. It is
more with the “original” kaidan films, as in those that are not a direct adaptation of an existing

text or script, where deviations from the classic female onryō of literary and dramatic portrayals

are more apparent. This indicates the beginnings of change in portrayal that will ultimately give

way to the new female onryō archetype. Of particular note in this respect are Tōkaidō Yotsuya

Kaidan,19 Botan Dōrō,20 Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji [怪猫逢魔が辻; “Ghost Cat of Ōma Crossing”],21

19
Directed by Nakagawa Nobuo (1905-84), released in 1959.
20
Directed by Yamamoto Satsuo (1910-83) and released in 1968.
11
and Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko [藪の中の黒猫; “A Black Cat in a Bamboo Grove”],22 which

have been chosen as representative of the period. Yotsuya Kaidan and Botan Dōrō both serve as

key examples of kaidan film adaptations of kabuki and Japanese premodern literature, as well as

of role types monstrous wife and murderous lover, respectively. The inclusion of Ōma ga Tsuji is

not only to serve as an example of the proto-dead wet girl, but also of the kaibyō (怪描, “strange

cat”) film, a major subgenre within kaidan films. Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko, on the other hand,

is highly distinct in its portrayal, not only in how it re-interprets the “strange cat” subgenre, but

also in its characterization of its central female vengeful ghost figure, who presents as closer to a

“monstrous mother” rather than a monstrous wife. This in turn indicates changes in the defining

characteristics of the classic female onryō, suggesting the kaidan boom is more of a transitional

period that bridges the gap between the classic and the new female onryō.

Known as the “J-horror boom,” the second period made significant strides in firmly

establishing a new female onryō. The first and perhaps most well-known example of this new

female ghost as well as the dead wet girl role type is Yamamura Sadako from the Ringu film

series, first started by Nakata Hideo.23 The monstrous wife, best illustrated for contemporary

audiences by Saeki Kayako from the Ju-On [呪怨; “The Grudge”] film series, first started by

Shimizu Takashi (1972-),24 has persisted in J-horror cinema but undergone significant changes,

21
Directed by Kato Bin (1907-82), released in 1954.
22
Also known as Kuroneko, directed by Shindō Kaneto (1912-2012), released in 1968.
23
Nakata directed the first film of the series Ringu, released in 1998, as well as its direct sequel, Ringu 2 [リング 2;

“The Ring 2”], which was released in 1999.

24
The series initially began with two direct-to-video films titled Ju-On: The Curse and Ju-On: The Curse 2, both

directed by Shimizu Takashi and released in 2000. Shimizu later directed the better-known cinematic theatrical
version of the film, titled Ju-On: The Grudge to better distinguish it from its previous renditions, which was released

in 2002. Shimizu also directed its cinematic sequel, Ju-On: The Grudge 2 [呪怨 2; “The Grudge 2”], released in

2003.
12
distinguishing it from its classic equivalent. The decision to consider Ringu and Juon as film

series for analysis rather than limiting discussion to single installments in each respective

franchise was made in order to better demonstrate not only how this new female onryō of J-

horror initially differed from the classic archetype, but also continues to evolve and change. The

most significant of these changes are shifts in characterization, namely the monstrous wife, as

first hinted at with Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko, turning into a monstrous mother, and the

murderous lover role type all but disappearing from J-horror, both of which can be indicative of

changes and reactions to social views of and expectations placed on women in Japan.

In addition to my observations of stage productions and horror films, I have also included

dramatic and literary texts, such as playscripts and kaidan-shū (怪談集, “supernatural tale

collections”), for insight into the nature of stories associated with the female onryō archetype.

Ideally, scripts of the plays selected for close analysis should be of the respective contemporary

period, but in some cases, it has been extremely difficult to obtain such a manuscript. In such

cases, it was necessary to examine a more current edition of the play. Furthermore, while the

viewing of films for analysis has been relatively easy, the viewing of stage performances or even

video recordings of past performances (if even available) still does not accurately present the

way a given play may have been originally performed. This is especially true for kabuki, which,

as a popular form, was more prone to alterations and improvisation over time compared to nō.
However, combined with close readings of scripts and literature, as well as visual sources such

as stage photos,25 ukiyo-e (浮世絵, “wood block print”), and ehon-banzuke (絵本番付,

“illustrated program”), it is possible to make speculations about the actual representation of the

onryō archetype, and suppositions about the reception. To further support these observations, I

25
This includes what are sometimes referred to as “bromides” in Japanese (ブロマイド), which are more “staged”

and often focus on the actor rather than the performing scene.
13
have also taken into consideration documents regarding staging, as well as interviews with

Japanese scholars and artists or professionals as part of my field research in Japan.

Secondary sources of related studies have especially helped provide the historical and

sociocultural context for analysis and conclusions. For historical reference in writing, I have

utilized relevant volumes of The Cambridge History of Japan for premodern Japanese history

and referred to writers such as Donald Richie on the developmental history of film in Japan. For

discussion of the Japanese horror film specifically, I reference works by writers such as Michael

Crandol, Colette Balmain and Jay McRoy, who provide comprehensive historical and cultural

overviews of the genre (both kaidan and J-horror) in their respective works, as well as David

Kalat, who is credited for coining the term “dead wet girls,” to refer to the more recent

embodiment of the female onryō character type mostly found in J-horror films.

As part of my analysis of portrayals of the onryō archetype, discussion of this vengeful

spirit in a sociocultural context has been essential. Japanese folklore scholars Ema Tsutomu and

Komatsu Kazuhiko are noted authorities on research regarding yōkai (妖怪, “apparition”),

whereas Suwa Haruo and Tsutsumi Kunihiko have been more focused on studies on ghosts in

Japan. I also reference Yamada Yūji, who has written extensively on the onryō specifically and

its historical as well as sociocultural significance.

Finally, in order to support my argument regarding shifts in portrayal of the female onryō
being reflective of changes in societal attitudes towards women, I have also consulted sources to

gain a better understanding of how the social position of women itself has changed over time in

Japan. I reference Wakita Haruko as an authority on medieval Japanese women’s history, as well

as Marcia Yonemoto and Amy Stanley on women during the Edo period. I also consider Barbara

R. Ambros’ work, which examines the roles women have played in religions in Japan over time.

14
 I.2.3 Critical Assessment of Existing Literature in English

The effect of media portrayals on women is a topic that has been regularly explored.

Draza Lee Fratto’s thesis Conduct Unbecoming, for example, presents an interdisciplinary

analysis of a range of diverse Japanese media and its representation of “woman.” In so doing,

Fratto asserts the presence of a “code of femininity” by which women are both defined and at the

same time repressed through representation. Studies that draw connections between Japanese

theatre and cinema, too, are not uncommon and have even become more prevalent in recent

years. Starting from as early as 1994 with Keiko McDonald’s book Japanese Classical Theater

in Films, a precedent for theatre influencing cinema in Japan has been established, as the text

analyzes a wide range of film adaptations of kabuki and nō texts, as well as the influence such

theatre forms have had aesthetically on directors such as Kurosawa Akira (1910-98). This is

reinforced by Robert Knopf’s 2005 comparative anthology, Theater and Film, which extends

beyond Japan to consider many regions wherein theatre is seen to have had an impact on the

production of film.

The focus of many of these more recent stage and film comparative studies, however, is

on the aesthetic influence Japanese theatre forms have had on films, rather than a genre-specific

analytical study of Japanese “horror,” or the sociocultural implications of the female onryō.

Frank Bishop dedicates an entire chapter to J-horror in his thesis, Japanese Mythology. He pays
particular attention to what he refers to as the “avenging spirit” subgenre in horror cinema, and

its predecessor genres in both nō and kabuki. However, as the focus of Bishop’s research is to

assert that Japanese mythology has heavily influenced traditional theatre and in turn

contemporary cinema in Japan, his film and play selections stretch across multiple genres to

illustrate the pervasiveness of Japanese mythology. John E. Petty, on the other hand, does focus

his research on the influence of traditional theatre on films in Japanese horror cinema, or what he

refers to as “Japan’s cinema of the fantastic” in his work Stage and Scream. Petty’s thesis is

15
particularly useful in that it considers the influence of not only traditional theatre, but also kaidan

literature traditions. Neither study, however, addresses the presence of the female onryō

character type found in both nō and kabuki as well as Japanese horror films, even though both

studies utilize similar if not identical stage and film examples.

While film-centric studies on Japanese horror tend to address this feminine supernatural

presence more consistently, most of these studies are more focused on comparing films to their

respective Western remakes rather than explaining the prevalence of a predominantly female

onryō figure as a villain. Valerie Wee, for example, focuses on comparing contemporary

Japanese horror films with their respective American adaptations in her book, Japanese Horror

Films and Their American Remakes. As her focus is specifically on films that feature

supernatural and ghostly horrors, much of her analysis considers the cultural backgrounds in both

societies that shape how the supernatural is portrayed. Wee also stresses themes relating to

family structure and female agency in select Japanese horror films and suggests that a number of

these films can be viewed as expressions of a growing cultural angst in Japanese society. In so

doing, Wee observes the presence of these mainly female supernatural villains, but it is not the

primary focus of her study. In Hunju Lee’s dissertation, The New Asian Female Ghost Films, Lee

discusses how historical, social, textual and contextual elements influenced the development of

what she terms “new” Asian female ghost films, which revolve around “prematurely dead
women’s revenge.” Lee’s dissertation, however, is a case study of four Asian films, one each

from Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong, and Thailand and their respective Western remakes. The

monstrous feminine in these films, Lee argues, is a hybrid construction of the conventions of

Western horror films and the cultural traditions of female ghost stories in these Asian countries.

Lee’s work heavily resonates with the argument I intend to make, especially concerning the

emergence of the new female onryō in J-horror, and how the archetype continues to evolve under

both domestic and international influences. Being a survey of “Asian horror,” however, her focus

16
on how portrayals in J-horror reflect views towards women in Japanese society is comparably

limited. Raechel Dumas extends her analysis of “female monsters” to selected Japanese works of

fiction, manga, video games as well as film utilizing Creed’s theory of the monstrous feminine in

The Monstrous-Feminine in Contemporary Japanese Culture. To provide context and support

her analysis, Dumas also considers premodern literary, historical, and theoretical texts; the focus

of her study, however, is directed more towards contemporary Japan. Furthermore, the

observations made in all these studies are still limited solely to a discussion of film or at least

contemporary media with comparatively minimal reference to Japanese theatre.

In comparison, Japanese literature and theatre-based studies with a focus on a

supernatural female character type and its connections to societal views of women are more

prevalent. In her doctoral dissertation Reflections of the Demon-Woman, Joni Koehn presents the

argument that the principal “demon-woman” characters found in the two nō plays Kanawa and

Aoi no Ue are positioned and constructed in such a way that their jealousy and consequent

actions are not only destructive but also pose a threat to social order. Satoko Shimazaki’s study

Edo Kabuki in Transition re-examines the history of the kabuki theatre, emphasizing the key role

the onryō archetype played in Edo period kabuki’s transition away from its focus on depictions

of military power. Shimazaki makes penetrating observations regarding the female onryō and its

connections to Buddhist views of women, Japanese literature and folklore. However, discussion
of these aspects is comparatively brief as her study’s focus is on the evolution of Edo kabuki

through the lens of playwright Tsuruya Nanboku IV. Furthermore, neither Koehn’s nor

Shimazaki’s work includes discussion of Japanese horror films, nor does either study consider

the influence of supernatural belief in Japan or other forms of Japanese theatre (nō theatre in the

case of Shimazaki, kabuki theatre in the case of Koehn) on the development of the onryō figure.

The potential impact the continued presence of such a figure might have on audiences even today

is also not a topic considered.

17
I.3 RESEARCH METHODOLOGY

I.3.1 Definition of Terms, Assumptions, Limitations & Delimitations

I have chosen to use the terms “classic” and “new” for the female onryō to better

distinguish between what has been archetypal for this character and comparatively recent

deviations in portrayal. Similarly, using “kaidan films” and “J-horror” distinguishes between the

two major periods of the cinematic horror genre and their respective films. The classic female

onryō refers to the figure that can be most typically found in Japanese premodern literature,

traditional theatre forms nō and kabuki, as well as kaidan films. As has been noted earlier,

however, this “cinematic classic” female is not exactly identical to her literary and dramatic

characterizations, indicative of shifts in portrayal.

In contrast, the new female onryō has emerged far more recently out of J-horror, which

has only developed within the past thirty years or so. As consistently fewer media examples of

the classic female onryō are being made in Japan, by comparing the classic to the increasingly

popular new vengeful female ghost, I hope to show that the female onryō archetype has

developed as a means of patriarchal control due to contemporaneous views. I also intend to

demonstrate that shifts in character portrayal reflect changes in societal attitudes towards women

in Japan over time.

To clarify, when considering examples in portrayal of the onryō in analysis, I will be

considering works with spectral characters that fit the definition of the term, rather than

restricting myself to works that explicitly use the term to refer to the central ghost figure. Most

often translated as “vengeful” or “wrathful,” an onryō is defined as the spirit of one who, bearing

a deep grudge or urami (恨み, “resentment or hatred”), curses those who wronged them,

typically after being oppressed or driven to an unnatural or violent death (Yamada 38). Utilizing

this definition rather than the specific term allows me to also consider literary, stage, and film

works whose central ghost figure may be categorized using terms that are synonymous with the

18
onryō, such as the goryō (御霊, “honorable ghost), which was a term used to refer to vengeful

ghosts from the aristocratic classes specifically, as well as examples in which the ghost character

is not explicitly referred to by any term. Additionally, though being deceased certainly seems to

affect the potency of one’s “curse” as a ghost, I have chosen to also consider examples of

vengeful ikiryō (生霊, “living ghost”) in my analysis of onryō portrayal, given that the kanji

characters for onryō can be translated as “vengeful soul or spirit.” This is especially pertinent

because it appears that based on my research only women have been shown to be capable of

becoming onryō even while alive, albeit at great cost to herself.

Given that most of the data collected for analysis will be qualitative and descriptive in

nature, considerations must be made for potential bias. Although I have striven to be as objective

and unbiased as possible in my observations, I acknowledge that my positionality may have

influenced how I have perceived and recorded what I observed in stage performances and films.

As has been discussed previously, it is not feasible to provide an exhaustive account and

analysis of all examples in portrayal of the female onryō, both classic and new. This dissertation

is therefore limited to case studies of select plays and films, which I have selected based on the

three aforementioned predominant role types to effectively represent their respective theatre

forms nō and kabuki and film periods kaidan and J-horror for discussion.

I.3.2 Points of Analysis

Based on observations collected from my review of nō and kabuki plays and Japanese

horror films (both kaidan and J-horror), I have chosen to frame my analysis of portrayal from

three perspectives, organizing my points of analysis into elements of narrative style, visual

representation, and enactment style. These same styles of portrayal will be used as the means for

comparative analysis of the classic female onryō, the figure that appears in premodern literature

and theatre forms nō and kabuki, cinematic renditions of the classic as found in kaidan films, and

finally what I have termed the new female onryō that appears in J-horror films.

19
Table 1 Points of Analysis for “Classic” Female Onryō Portrayal
Elements of Visual
Elements of Narrative Style Elements of Enactment Style
Representation

Characterization: Monstrous Transformation

Wife, Murderous Lover, Proto- Movement
Dead Wet Girl Destruction of Image
(Physical Disfigurement)

Plot: Role of Transformation, Hair

Power of Sight & Revelation, Sound/Music
Connection to Water, Endings Water/Wetness

Elements of narrative style will include addressing the archetypal characterization of the

classic female onryō, as well as plot structure of her story. Prior to becoming onryō, these

women are often shown to be somehow outside the social norms. It is important to note that

while these characteristics define the female classic onryō overall to varying degrees, they

especially apply to the monstrous wife, murderous lover and proto-dead wet girl role types. In

terms of overall characteristics typically attributed to these female figures compared to male

onryō, the women who become classic female onryō tend to be portrayed as more violent or

destructive, as being fueled by passion or jealousy and driven by more personal, or “private”

affairs, which may be due to differences in positions of power for women compared to men in

Japanese society. Overriding plot points typically place a strong emphasis on transformation, as

well as the importance of her transformed state being perceived or revealed to others. Water is
also given considerable narrative significance, often utilized as a liminal space for the monstrous

feminine. Discussion of plot will also include how her story tends to end, calling into question

who is being cast as the tragic figure that the audience is meant to sympathize with.

Elements of visual representation will involve the distinctive visual traits associated with

either the classic female onryō herself or how she manifests. Visually, the effect of

transformation is notably associated with snakes as well as the oni (鬼, “demon, ogre”). While

often physical disfigurement is used to signify a destruction of the woman’s image, in so doing

20
effectively removing her femininity, hair and water (or wetness) are more utilized to express the

overall supernatural presence or powers of the classic female onryō.

Lastly, elements of enactment style will consider the bodily and auditory expression of

the classic female onryō in the form of movement and use of sound, dialogue, or music.

Unconventional movement or stage effects tend to be utilized in order to distance the female

onryō from the audience, heightening the discomfort towards her presence. This also tends to

manifest as a removal of, or at least distancing from, her feminine image in terms of behavior.

These points of analysis will be the basis on which not only the case studies of select

plays will be conducted, but also comprehensive discussion of how the female compares to the

male onryō in classic portrayal. While utilizing these same styles of portrayal, changes in these

defining characteristics when the cinematic classic female onryō appears in kaidan films will be

examined. This will also be the means for comparative analysis of the classic to the new female

onryō when she appears in J-horror films. In the case of the new, the specific elements of

narrative style, visual representation, and enactment styles analyzed may differ from those of the

classic. Highlighting these differences will serve to address how the portrayal of this archetype

has changed over time.

Table 2 Points of Analysis for “New” Female Onryō Portrayal (Compared to the “Classic”)
Elements of Visual
Elements of Narrative Style Elements of Enactment Style
Representation

Destruction of Image
Characterization: Monstrous Wife (Physical Disfigurement)
Turned Monstrous Mother,
Movement
Lessening of Murderous Lover,
Dead Wet Girl Obstruction of Image

Plot: Transformation via Violence, Hair

Power of Sight & Technology in
Sound/Music
Revelation, Significance of Water
& Place, Endings Water/Wetness

21
I.4 SUMMARY OUTLINE OF DISSERTATION

This dissertation is divided into five chapters. In this Chapter I, I have introduced my

research by discussing the focus of my study and its significance, the theoretical framework and

sources utilized, including a critical review of the existing related literature in English, as well as

the overall argument and research approach in design and analysis for my dissertation. Chapters

II, III, and IV make up the bulk of this dissertation, dedicated to discussion of the classic female

onryō, the transitional phase from the classic into the new, or the cinematic classic, and new

female onryō respectively.

Chapter II, which focuses on the portrayal of the classic female onryō, is subdivided into

three sections and begins first with a background section establishing both a historical and

sociocultural context for the onryō. This first section addresses the origins of the onryō itself in

terms of supernatural belief in Japan, the performative and narrative origins of portrayal, as well

as what contributed to the emergence and prevalence of the classic female onryō in premodern

literature and traditional theatre forms nō and kabuki. The second section as part of Chapter II

focuses on clearly delineating the defining characteristics of the classic female onryō through

comprehensive and comparative analysis. These characteristics are subdivided into the three

styles of portrayal – narrative, visual representation, and enactment – and their respective

elements as outlined in my Research Methodology. Discussion of these elements will include

examples from Japanese premodern literature, nō, and kabuki of both the classic female and male

onryō to better illustrate and assert the distinction between them. These characteristics will serve

as points for analysis in the case studies that follow in the third and final section of this chapter

that analyzes portrayal of the classic female onryō in traditional Japanese theatre forms, namely

the plays Kanawa, Aoi no Ue, and Dōjōji in nō, and Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan, Kaidan Botan

Dōrō, and Banshū Sarayashiki in kabuki theatre.

22
 Similarly, Chapter III, which is dedicated to addressing the beginning transitions from the

classic female onryō to the new female found in J-horror, opens with a section providing

background as to how the cinematic horror genre initially developed in Japan as kaidan films, as

well as how changes in the classic female onryō began to emerge, perhaps reflecting changes in

views of women in Japanese society of the time, ultimately leading to the development of the

new archetype to be discussed in the Chapter IV. The second section of Chapter III is focused on

identifying changes in defining characteristics of the cinematic classic female onryō compared to

how she was portrayed in Chapter II. In a similar fashion as the previous chapter, these

characteristics will be subdivided into elements of narrative style, visual representation, and

enactment style. The differences in these elements will serve as the points for analysis in the case

studies of the final section of this chapter, analyzing the cinematic classic female onryō as she

appears in select kaidan films, namely in Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan, Botan Dōrō, Kaibyō Ōma ga

Tsuji, and Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

For Chapter IV, which addresses the portrayal of the new female onryō, the background

section focuses on how the initial kaidan film as covered in Chapter III made way for the J-

horror film in Japan, and in turn how the new female onryō fully emerged and became more

prevalent than the classic, perhaps reflecting both shifts in audience interest as well as in societal

attitudes towards women. Like the previous chapters, the second section of Chapter IV will
outline the defining characteristics of this new female onryō, subdivided into elements of

narrative style, visual representation, and enactment style. The distinctive elements of what

defines the new female onryō will be utilized as the points for analysis in the third and final

section, where select films of the J-horror boom period of the 1990s to 2000s will be closely

examined. These case studies will include select films of the Ju-On and Ringu film series.

Finally, in Chapter V observations made in Chapters II, III, and IV will be interpreted and

discussed as they relate to how the portrayal of the female onryō has reflected and continues to

23
reflect the views of women in Japanese society, as well as the potential effect the female onryō

has on female spectators. Some consideration will also be given to other recent trends in

depiction of the female onryō in Japanese media, and the possible implications of such

developments.

24
 Chapter II. The Classic Female Onryō
II.1 BACKGROUND ON THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ

II.1.1 Supernatural & Religious Origins of the Onryō

The existence of onryō, if not in name at least in essence, can be traced back as early as

the eighth century in Japan, from which time it was accepted as fact that enraged souls of the

dead possessed the ability to influence or harm the living (Kuroda 328). During the Heian period

(794-1185 CE) it was believed that illness, even natural disasters, were caused by restless and

resentful spirits. Spirit possession in particular was believed to be at the root of physical or

mental ailments, for which rather than a physician, “Buddhist monks and yin-yang diviners were

commissioned to conduct esoteric rituals and chant spells and incantations in order to transfer the

possessing spirits into female mediums, where they then could be identified and expelled”

(Ambros 62).

The basis for such beliefs is largely derived from Japanese views of the dead. According

to Michiko Iwasaka in her work Ghosts and the Japanese, it is commonly held even today in

Japan that after a person has died, they still retain a connection with and an interest in the world

of the living, colloquially known as konoyo (この世, “this world”), that can interfere with their

moving on to anoyo (あの世, “that world”), the world of the dead. As the literal meaning implies,

rather than some concrete, spatially oriented place designated as the afterlife, the anoyo is simply

“that world over there,” on the other side of konoyo, and as a result has a sense of closeness in

relation to the world of the living (15). Furthermore, these terms are not specific to a given

religion in Japanese belief, allowing for anoyo to inclusively refer to a variety of places

according to different rationalizations and reinterpretations as theologies changed or new ones

such as Buddhism were introduced to Japan (16).

Although the terms konoyo and anoyo are considered by some scholars of Japanese

religion as more contemporary, references or at least allusions to both can be found in early

25
writings such as classical Japanese poetry. Izumi Shikibu (976-Unknown), a renowned woman

poet of the mid-Heian period and member of the Thirty-Six Medieval Poetry Immortals,26 writes

in one of her poems for Goshūi Wakashū [後拾遺和歌集; “Later Collection of Gleanings of

Japanese Poems”]:27

あらざらむこの世のほかの思ひいでに今ひとたびの逢ふこともがな28

“As soon I will be not of this world, to take with me as a memory would that I could meet

with you one last time”29

Rather than refer to anoyo explicitly, Izumi Shikibu, like other Heian period poets writing on

similar matters, alludes to the world of the dead as a world “other” than konoyo (この世のほか).

Though this may have served as a euphemism in poetry of the time, philosopher Umehara

Takeshi writes how the concept of anoyo being an “other world,” with “no distinction between

heaven and hell, and consequently no judgment of the dead,” is considered to have existed since

prehistoric times in Japan and consequently a part of ancient Shinto beliefs (163). Perhaps then

the “world other than konoyo” can be viewed more as an early name for anoyo rather than just a

euphemism or poetic allusion.

The denoted closeness lent by referring to the world of the dead as anoyo also allows for

the acceptance of ghosts in general as it is apparent that “the spirit does not go far, and may be

ready to come back” (Iwasaka 15). The full passage of the recently deceased from konoyo to
anoyo is viewed as a long process which can easily be impeded by a variety of obstacles. People

who are still deeply attached to the living world cannot pass on to the “other world” without

great difficulty (Umehara 166). These attachments can take the form of “unfinished business,

26
A group of poets from the Asuka (538-710 CE), Nara (710-794 CE), and Heian periods selected as paragons of

Japanese poetry talents.

27
Compiled in 1087.
28
Taken from the Waka Database run by the Nichibunken International Research Center for Japanese Studies.
29
This translation and all others are by the author unless otherwise noted.
26
unfulfilled obligations, need for vengeance, feelings of jealousy or attachment, desire for proper

burial or ritual, etc.” which can often keep a spirit in konoyo as a result (Iwasaka 16).

In keeping with this belief is the onryō, about which Yamada Yūji writes: “After being

oppressed and driven to an unnatural or violent death […] in order to fulfill their longstanding

desire in death they might curse the one who wronged them, or even bring about calamity to

society in general” (38). Although it cannot be clearly determined from when the idea of the

onryō started in Japan, one of the earliest texts found using the explicit term onryō is Gukanshō

[愚管抄; “Jottings of a Fool”],30 a historical and literary seven-volume collection on the history

of Japan collected by Tendai Buddhist priest Jien (1155-1225) in the early thirteenth century.

According to Jien, an onryō was only as powerful as its reason for appearing, which would

explain how some were believed capable of causing natural disasters while others were believed

to be behind the sudden or mysterious deaths of single individuals (Brown and Ishida 218-21).

Even if not explicitly referred to as onryō,31 the presence and ready acceptance of such

resentful spirits and fears regarding their potential impact on society predates the writing of

Gukanshō by several centuries. One of the earliest examples of which was Prince Sawara

(Unknown-785), who was implicated in the assassination of Fujiwara no Tanetsugu (737-85),

who was chief adviser to Prince Sawara’s elder brother the Emperor Kanmu (735-806) and

administrator in charge of the newly declared imperial capital Nagaoka-kyō. As a result, Sawara
was deposed and condemned to exile and, as the story goes, starved himself to death in protest of

wrongful conviction. What followed soon after was “famine, devastating floods, epidemic

disease, and a series of deaths and illnesses in [the Emperor Kanmu]’s family, which diviners

had no difficulty interpreting as the revenge of Sawara’s angry spirit” (Shively and McCullough

30
Written in 1219.
31
As most (if not all) publicly recognized onryō were those born from the aristocratic classes, the term goryō was

used to refer to vengeful spirits of the time.

27
24). Out of fear of future acts of vengeance the onryō Sawara might inflict, in 793 Emperor

Kanmu made the decision to seek a new location for the capital and moved to Heian-kyō.32

It is worth noting, however, that the onryō Jien refers to in his writings differs from the

initial concept of the onryō. While before the eighth century it was believed that onryō could

cause calamities, the calamity “would [only] befall those toward whom the wrath was

specifically directed.” From the eighth century onward, however, “it was believed that the wrath

of [an onryō] could manifest itself in the form of a natural disaster or misfortune directed at

rulers, thus harming or disturbing an entire society, rather than simply targeting certain

individuals” (Gunji 171). As translated by Delmer Brown and Ichiro Ishida, Jien refers to the

onryō in Gukanshō, noting its potential for destruction of state in achieving its aims for revenge:

When the vengeful soul [onryō] is seeking to destroy the objects of its resentment – all

the way from small houses to the state as a whole – the state is thrown into disorder by

the slanders and lies it generates. The destruction of people is brought about in exactly

the same way. (220-21)

As the threat of the onryō became a matter of public fear and concern because of this shift in

their attentions, the pacification of these spirits in turn became a public affair, fully developing

into a “religion” known as goryō shinkō (御霊信仰, “religion of ghosts”), sometimes referred to

as “vengeful spirit cults” (Kuroda 323). The primary focus of goryō shinkō was to placate an
onryō that harmed the living and the state through the practice of chinkon (鎮魂, “sinking of the

soul”), or “spirit pacification,” transforming the vengeful spirit into a benevolent one (Gunji 173).

This “transformation” often entailed some form of memorialization and veneration. The

first official goryō shinkō services on record can be found in the Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku [日本三

大実録; “The True History of Three Reigns of Japan”]33 which describes the very first “goryō

32
Present day Kyoto.
33
Written in 901.
28
ceremony,” held in Heian-kyō at the Emperor’s private garden Shinsen-en in 863 after a

particularly terrible plague had ravaged the country.34 Believed to be brought on by resentful

spirits, the chinkon rituals were dedicated to the six deemed responsible, including Prince Sawara,

who was posthumously elevated to Emperor, given the title Emperor Sudō, as part of the

ceremony.35 These rituals were accompanied by performances of gagaku (雅楽, “elegant

music”), the classical music and dance of the imperial court, as well as sangaku (散楽,

“miscellaneous music or arts”), a form of circus-like ancient Chinese entertainment that is

considered to be the roots for what would eventually become known as the nō and kyōgen theatre

forms. In addition, the whole affair was highly public as the gates of the Shinsen-en were opened

to the common populace, allowing for the ceremony to be celebrated in front of a massive

audience (Kuroda 323-25).

Given the highly public nature of goryō shinkō, not all people who suffered wrongful or

violent deaths were recognized as onryō and in turn “treated” with chinkon as a result. The status

of onryō was “officially determined by elite figures of political and religious authority, often

verified with an oracle,” although this process has been known to have been “affected by

sympathy and rumors generated among the lower classes” (Gunji 172). As the spread of such

rumors could be viewed as a form of criticism of one’s abilities to rule, those in positions of

power and authority often were pressured by public perception to engage in substantial efforts of
chinkon. Given this, it is little surprise that the officially recognized onryō, such as those

recorded in Jien’s Gukanshō, tend to be politically involved and thus predominantly male, often

defeated warriors or disgraced nobles.

34
This ceremony held at Shinsen-en is said to be the origin of the Gion Festival.
35
Prince Sawara has the distinction of being the only recorded example of posthumous elevation to the title of

Emperor in Japan.
29
 Instrumental in the dissemination of belief in the onryō itself, however, was the practice

of onmyōdō (陰陽道, “the way of yin and yang”) which played a major role in chinkon rituals as

part of goryō shinkō. A popular belief that was introduced to Japan from China in the seventh

century, onmyōdō’s roots are found in Chinese esoteric cosmology, largely centered on the

duality of yin and yang. The Heian period was considered a time when the practice prospered, as

the court nobility heavily relied on onmyōdō practitioners, known as onmyōji (陰陽師, “yin yang

specialist or master”). Through a combination of astronomy, astrology, geomancy, and

divination, the onmyōji maintained the current almanac and advised on fortuitous timing for

activities or events as well as spiritual taboos to avoid (Shively and McCullough 547-58). In

addition, as members of the onmyōryō (陰陽寮, “Bureau of Yin and Yang”) and thus in the

employ of the Ministry of Central Affairs, onmyōji were also responsible for warding off and

defending Heian-kyō from all forms of supernatural dangers, especially the onryō. It was during

this time when onmyōdō particularly flourished among not only the nobility but also the common

people, primarily by virtue of onmyōji participating in chinkon rituals as part of goryō shinkō,

ceremonies, which as has been mentioned were always a highly public affair. This is largely how

exemplary onmyōji, most notably Abe no Seimei (921-1005),36 considered to be the greatest

“magician” of Japanese folklore, entered the public sphere to be included in later literary and

performative works, which in turn led to popular culture depictions.

Related to the belief in the onryō is the oni, for which onmyōdō is also credited for

spreading among the common populace. Often (but arguably insufficiently) translated as “demon”

or “ogre,” the Japanese term oni tends to evoke imaginings of a fearsome horned apparition or

yōkai, often sporting a tiger skin loincloth and carrying an iron club. In Chinese, however, the

36
Though an actual historical figure who served as an onmyōji for six different emperors, there are numerous

legends about his supernatural prowess and exploits as recorded in literary texts as well as plays, movies, anime, etc.
30
same character (鬼)37 refers to the “invisible soul or spirit of the dead, [which could be either]

ancestral [or] evil” (Reider, Japanese Demon Lore 4). In keeping with this original meaning, in

early onmyōdō practices the word oni was used to refer to “invisible evil spirits that caused

human infirmity,” and so were largely indiscernible from onryō as a result (13).

Not only were the early oni of Japan considered to be invisible, but it was also implied

that an oni could come from anywhere, including from within a human being. According to Baba

Akiko, there are five categories of oni, which include the prototypical invisible oni, as well as

humans transforming themselves into “demons” due to grudges, indignation, or a desire for

revenge, the latter of which heavily overlapped with the onryō (13-14). Upon viewing an

illustrated scroll depicting a woman possessed by the evil spirit of her husband’s former wife and

his attempts to subdue the oni who had appeared, Murasaki Shikibu (978-1014), lady-in-waiting

and writer of Genji Monogatari [源氏物語; “The Tale of Genji”],38 is noted to have written the

following poem, which was later included as part of the Murasaki Shikibu-shū [紫式部集; “The

Murasaki Shikibu Collection”]:39

亡き人にかごとをかけてわづらふも おのが心の鬼にやはあらぬ40

“He makes an excuse of the dead, but is it not the demon in his own heart that torments

him?”

Though in this case Murasaki implies that the “demon” might be the husband’s own guilty
conscience, it was readily accepted that oni could be “born of fear, doubt, suspicion, often

referring to a woman’s feelings toward her estranged lover [or] suffering caused by carnal

attachments” (Li 164).

37
Pronounced gŭi in Chinese.
38
Written in 1008.
39
Compiled in 1019.
40
Taken from the Waka Database run by the Nichibunken International Research Center for Japanese Studies.
31
 As oni were as yet invisible entities, protecting against them took the form of avoiding

particularly inauspicious times or directions according to onmyōdō beliefs. The most notable of

these was the northeastern direction, which according to Chinese esoteric cosmology was

believed to be the direction from which oni as well as all other forms of evil spirits or energies,

including the onryō, could enter, and thus was referred to as the kimon (鬼門, “demon or oni’s

gate”). Choosing the location of a site for a given city would often take the northeastern direction

into consideration, such as whether there was a temple facing the kimon that could protect it.

Such was the case in choosing the site for Heian-kyō with the placement of Enryaku-ji, which

was built on Mount Hiei in 788 and continues to guard Kyoto to this day. If there was no temple

facing the northeast, one was often built to better ensure the city’s future. Even in contemporary

Japan, buildings, especially residences, tend to be constructed without windows or doors in the

kimon direction or corner of the structure to ward against possible supernatural invasion of oni or

onryō.

With the assignment of the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac to the cardinal

directions and hours, the kimon was also sometimes referred to as the ushitora (丑寅, “ox-tiger”),

for the northeast lay between the ox and tiger (Reider, Japanese Demon Lore 7). It is for this

reason that it is believed when oni were eventually portrayed with a physical form, largely due to

the growing influence of Buddhism, they were often associated with traits from both animals,
namely the horns of the ox and the wearing of tiger skin. Even with the prevalence of Buddhist

belief in the following centuries, however, the threat of the invisible oni continued to emerge.

32
Fig. 1. Illustration showing the cardinal directions of the Chinese zodiac, with the kimon or ushitora indicated, as
was primarily utilized by onmyōdō in Japan. Illustration by Diana Tantillo.

Although Buddhism was introduced to Japan as early as the sixth century, it was not until

the Kamakura period (1185-1333 CE) that concepts commonly associated with Japanese

Buddhism in terms of karmic hindrances and retribution became widespread (Ambros 84).

Esoteric Buddhist practices were often incorporated into goryō shinkō ceremonies, however

these were “based more on a belief in the magical power of Buddhist images and scriptures than

on [some] kind of scholarly, high-level doctrine” (Kuroda 326). Although it is through these

dealings with the onryō that Buddhism reached the general populace, it presented as a “simply

magical means to worship the spirits,” much like onmyōdō (326).

Unlike onmyōdō, Buddhist doctrines were far more explicit in their views and practices

regarding what might be considered “evil.” Particularly skilled onmyōji such as Abe no Seimei,

for example, were known to be gifted with the ability to see, even summon, control, or create oni

to serve them as shikigami (式神, “ceremonial spirit”) to do their bidding (Reider, Japanese

Demon Lore 14). While the practices of an onmyōji were altogether protective, the shikigami

themselves were often employed for more sinister purposes, namely in the form of curses

commissioned by royal or aristocratic patrons. As Japanese historian Shigeta Shinichi describes

33
in his article on Abe no Seimei, because the nobility of the time “had a great abhorrence for

spilling human blood they did not attempt acts of violence to eliminate political rivals, but rather

employed curses. As a result, there were more incidents involving curses within aristocratic

society […] a majority of cases the curses were placed by [onmyōji]” (91-92).

Despite being invoked by onmyōji as servants, there was an apparent degree of risk in

trying to fully control what was at its heart still an oni. Recorded incidents imply that a shikigami

might linger and manifest on their own to willfully harm innocent passersby as a “freewheeling

curse” (Pang 115). According to Reider, what contributed to these fears was that oni themselves

were known for the rather gruesome attribute of craving human flesh. As described in her book

Japanese Demon Lore, numerous accounts of cannibalism in historic texts such as Nihon Sandai

Jitsuroku, in which the first goryō shinkō ceremony was recorded, have been considered the

work of oni (15-16). Despite the fear of their potential harm and identity as “evil spirits,” the

position onmyōdō took against oni was not always clear. This in turn obscured the role of the

onmyōji at times, making them something to be feared or at least wary of by the general populace.

In contrast, Buddhism cast the oni as incontrovertibly evil and horrific by associating the oni

with its concept of jigoku (地獄, “hell”) as its servants, prison guards and torturers of condemned

human souls. Consequently, Buddhist priests ended up taking over the role of exorcising and

driving away evil spirits such as oni and onryō from the onmyōji during the Kamakura period, as
through their incantations and prayers they demonstrated the “power to make the invisible visible

and possessed methods of negotiating and [perhaps more importantly] fighting the unseen”

(Reider, Japanese Demon Lore 11-12).

This new focus on “evil” is evident in the increased interest in depicting jigoku in

paintings from around the twelfth century. Though some considerations need to be made for

different sects of Japanese Buddhism, for the most part jigoku is believed to be comprised of

multiple hells. There are typically eight “great hells” and sixteen “lesser hells,” each one

34
reserved for different crimes, making for many opportunities to depict the variety of possible

tortures awaiting in Buddhism, reminding the viewer of the suffering that may lie ahead if they

committed particular sins. What was considered a “sin” deserving of punishment ranged from

perhaps the more obvious such as killing (the killing of one’s parents considered one of the most

heinous of crimes), stealing, and sexual offenses like adultery, but also included acts such as the

drinking of alcohol, telling of lies, as well as the butchery, cooking, and consumption of animals.

The focus of such illustrations thus appears to be rather didactic in nature, warning against the

dangers of karmic attachments and the potential sins attributed to them:

While these images highlight demons [oni] or other creatures that torture and devour

sinners, ultimately they portray the sinner as the agent of the punishment experienced.

[…] Many works portray hell as a monstrous prison with impregnable walls, demonic

guards [oni], and fierce watchdogs. It is a “punitive city” displaying “hundreds of tiny

theatres of punishment,” where the “penalty must have its most intense effects on those

who not [yet] committed the crime.” (Hirasawa 7-8)

Fig. 2. Example of portrayal of oni in jigoku. Kitano Tenjin engi emaki [北野天神縁起絵巻; “Illustrated Legend of
the Kitano Tenjin Shrine”]. Late 13th century, Metropolitan Museum of Art, scroll d, sec. 8 of 10.

35
 This focus on sinful conduct and the potential karmic consequences for committing them

was a comparably new concept, which differed from earlier concepts of “pollution” or

defilement. Often referred to as kegare (穢れ, “uncleanliness”) in Shinto belief, the two principal

sources being blood and death, if one suffered such pollution they would be prohibited from

certain acts or taking part in certain events. Once a predetermined length of time had passed

since exposure, or in some cases, after undergoing an additional process of purgation, the

individual would be cleansed, and the prohibition lifted (Blacker 42). Unlike Buddhist concepts

of sin, kegare carried no moral guilt as it was viewed as something more physical, an

unavoidable consequence of human life, rather than an innate evaluation of one’s moral character.

Being physical, too, kegare was treated more akin to an illness, as it was believed possible to

infect another with the same defilement. However, upon infection kegare was believed to be

cured relatively easily and physically cleansed through quarantine or purification rituals. In

contrast, Buddhist sin not only weighed heavily on and posed a danger solely to the individual,

but it also was viewed as a result of transgression, emphasizing a practice of moral restraint and

abstinence to avoid it rather than a natural occurrence like kegare.

As these Buddhist concepts entered the common knowledge of lay circles, they came to

also affect views of ghosts such as onryō. Whereas earlier it was accepted that becoming an

onryō could arguably happen to anyone given the right circumstances, be they man or woman,
with the growing influence of Buddhism there arose a new implication of sinfulness. As being an

onryō meant suffering karmic attachments so strong that one was heavily hindered from moving

on, there was now more inherent judgement for staying in konoyo as an onryō. Consequently, the

reasons for becoming an onryō also came under more scrutiny than before. This is most apparent

when examining the medieval literary and dramatic depictions of such vengeful spirits around

this time, which began to feature scenes of chastisement by those seeking to pacify them, or

36
alternatively expressions of shame by the self-conscious onryō characters themselves as to their

wretched state.

II.1.2 Performative & Narrative Origins in Portrayal of the Onryō

As the presence of Buddhism became increasingly widespread among the populace in the

medieval period, the practice of goryō shinkō declined; however, the principle of chinkon and

belief in onryō persevered. Although earnest belief in onryō may not be as prevalent today,

during ancient and medieval times, fear of onryō was both pervasive and entrenched in Japanese

society, as “everyone from the Emperor to the common people feared the existence of onryō,”

which might explain their prevalence in, or even the existence of, ghost story literature of the

time (Yamada 39).

The earliest ghost story texts, predating the term kaidan, a commonly used term for

ghostly and supernatural stories today, can be traced back to the Heian period. As Carmen

Blacker writes in her book The Catalpa Bow, “[m]any examples of [onryō] and the havoc

wrought by their rage can be found in the literature of the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries” (48).

Works such as Genji Monogatari and Konjaku Monogatari-shū [今昔物語集; “Anthology of

Tales from the Past”],41 written and collected during the Heian period, are credited for serving as

not only the inspiration for many later well-known kaidan, but also as the source material for

some of the most iconic works featuring onryō in the kabuki and nō theatrical repertoire, several
of which will be close-examined in later parts of this dissertation.

In addition to the pervasive belief in the onryō, another reason for the spirit’s prevalence

may be found in the performance of narratives, which was also believed to have a placatory

effect. Kuroda Toshio notes in his essay, “The World of Spirit Pacification,” the essential role of

performance and entertainment in chinkon:

41
Specific date of compilation unknown, a collection of over one thousand stories gathered from India, China and

Japan believed to be written in the late Heian period.

37
 […] popular goryō [shinkō] ceremonies included not only dances and songs but also

competitions in which various groups showed their skills, such as acrobatic performances,

equestrian archery by costumed and made-up youths, and sumō matches between

strapping wrestlers, and it is said that everywhere crowds thronged to watch. These

performances were not simply for the amusement of the audience, however […] they

were probably intended for thaumaturgic purposes in that they – together with the

laughter they provoked in the audience – were believed to appease the dead. (326)

The importance of this performative aspect to the effectiveness of chinkon is apparent in the long

tradition of songs or poems that were composed and sung to appease the souls of the dead in

Japan, typically referred to as chinkonka (鎮魂歌, “poems or songs for spirit placation”). These

can be traced to writings as early as the eighth century, to the poem anthology Manyōshū [万葉

集; “Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves]42 which contains numerous poems that were sung

during the liminal period when the body of the deceased was awaiting its final burial. This

suggests that the singing of such poems was directed to the spirit of the departed before they

made their journey to anoyo (Ebersole, Ritual Poetry 61).

Even with the decline of goryō shinkō practice, performance continued to play a crucial

role in pacifying the dead. The Heike Monogatari [平家物語; “The Tale of the Heike”],43 for

example, a war epic recounting the rise and fall of the Taira samurai clan in the Genpei War
(1180-85 CE), is believed to have been “recited for the express purpose of spirit placation”

(Gunji 179). Compiled from a collection of oral tales performed by biwa hōshi (琵琶法師, “lute

priest”), blind priests who told stories to the accompaniment of the biwa (琵琶, “Japanese lute”),

the Heike Monogatari might be considered a form of goryō shinkō, the performance of which

was largely aimed at the repose of the souls of the Taira, as well as those who had lost their lives

42
Compiled circa 759.
43
Compiled in 1330.
38
in the battles of the Genpei War, to help them attain enlightenment. Biwa hōshi themselves had

long been called upon as intermediaries with anoyo to perform, as the biwa was considered

“efficacious in establishing contact with unseen powers” (Gunji 179). Being blind, too, they

“were believed to possess a gift of spiritual vision and to be capable of communicating with the

other world [anoyo]” (179). In fact, it can be argued that it is precisely because of their long-

standing positions as spiritual visionaries that they developed and performed the Heike

Monogatari.

This connection between the performance of chinkonka, or in the case of the Heike

Monogatari, the dramatic retelling of stories of the deceased, and its effect on appeasing the dead,

may, at least in part, explain the focus on ghosts in the nō theatre, which emerged during the

Muromachi period (1333-1573 CE). While authors of early nō plays drew from Heian period

classics such as Genji Monogatari as well as Chinese sources, the Heike Monogatari also served

as an important source for numerous plays, especially those classified as shura-mono (修羅物,

“warrior ghost plays”). Additionally, within the nō repertoire, regardless of source material, a

majority of early nō plays44 portray the shite (シテ, “principal actor or character”) as some kind

of ghost, be they of literary or semi-historical origins, unable to move on to anoyo due to some

Buddhist karmic attachment to the material world. The initial performance of nō plays might be

viewed as another form of chinkonka. Much like the Heike Monogatari, through performance
before a live audience attention is called to the spirit of whoever’s story is being performed and

consequently serves a thaumaturgical purpose in the repose of their souls.

Texts such as Konjaku Monogatari-shū of the late twelfth century as well as later

anthologies like the Uji Shūi Monogatari [宇治拾遺物語; “Gleanings of Tales from Uji”]45

44
Largely considered to be plays written by early nō playwrights and actors such as Kan’ami Kiyotsugu (1333-84),

Zeami Motokiyo, and Konparu Zenchiku (1405-70).

45
Compiled in 1221.
39
reflect the growing popularity of Buddhist concepts being applied to the supernatural in medieval

writings. Referred to as setsuwa (説話, “spoken story”), these collections were largely compiled

to illustrate Buddhist principles such as karmic retribution, and often were compiled by monks

themselves. As such, these collections of setsuwa often contained tales from India and China as

well as “original” Japanese narratives, reflecting the introduction of Buddhism to Japan.

Although it is important to acknowledge that not all setsuwa dealt with the supernatural, a

distinct subset of this medieval literary form existed, which is most often considered the direct

precursor to kaidan.

Some of the earliest literary depictions of oni can be found in setsuwa collections

belonging to this subset. The origins of the oni often encountered in these tales, however, are

believed to be more connected to the shikigami tradition of the onmyōji, who also make

occasional appearances in setsuwa. According to Japanese folklore histories, Abe no Seimei was

said to leave his oni-turned-shikigami at the bridge, Ichijō Modoribashi, in Heian-kyō, where he

“had used incantations to seal [his oni as shikigami] under the bridge and summoned them when

needed as his wife feared the appearance of shikigami” (Pang 106). This is considered to be why

many oni encounters in later medieval literature were associated with crossing over bridges

(Reider, Japanese Demon Lore 14).

Though there is often a strong emphasis of Buddhist didactic elements in setsuwa, the
tales themselves were often secular in narrative style. This reflects the implicit goal of most of

these collections to present Buddhism in a simple, easily comprehensible, but appealing way. As

a result, some sort of guidance is included at the close of many of these setsuwa, usually on how

to avoid whatever gruesome or tragic fate befell the characters of the narrative, such as an

encounter with an oni or an onryō, thereby reducing the fear of the unknown for the reader by

giving them a sense of control (Li 49).

40
 While the appeal of setsuwa heavily contributed to the spread of the oni, their fame and

popularity are largely due to their theatrical adaptations in nō and in later kabuki performances,

indicating a continued importance placed on performance, even as the need for the performance

to serve as chinkon declined. The legend of the onibaba (鬼婆, “demon hag”),46 for example,

soared in popularity thanks to the fourteenth century nō play adaptation Adachigahara [安達原;

“The Fields of Adachi”],47 which tells the story of an unassuming elderly woman who turns out

to be a fearsome, carnivorous mountain witch with skeletons literally in her closet. Eisaburo

Kusano indicates that although it is unknown how widespread the onibaba folktale was before

Adachigahara was written, it undoubtedly became known nationwide due to performances of the

play (45).

With the coming of the Edo period, supernatural tales gradually shifted even further

towards the secular, and the setsuwa soon gave way to the kaidan in literature. The term kaidan

itself was coined by Confucian scholar Hayashi Razan (1583-1657) when he translated numerous

“strange tales” from China and collected them in a five-volume work known as Kaidan Zensho

[怪談全書; “Complete Works of Supernatural Tales”].48 Much like the setsuwa prior, the source

material for early kaidan often came from other countries, mainly China; however, such outside

influences gradually lessened as kaidan developed more into a literary form (Reider,

“Emergence” 81). The classic tale Kaidan Botan Dōrō, for example, largely considered a
“prototype” of the kaidan genre, originated from a fourteenth century Ming Chinese collection of

ghost stories, but was adapted rather than directly translated for Japanese audiences by Asai Ryōi

46
Also referred to as the yamauba (山姥, “mountain hag or crone”), sometimes pronounced as yamanba.
47
Author unknown, sometimes attributed to Zeami. This play is also referred to by the title Kurozuka [黒塚; “Black

Mound”]. The title Adachigahara is used for performances within the Kanze school of nō.
48
Written in 1627.
41
(1612-91) in 1666.49 This adaptation amounted to more than just changing the setting or names

of characters, but also entailed alterations to plot, focusing more on human psychology rather

than a Buddhist moral lesson on karma, reflecting a shift in style of ghost story literature (82-84).

The oral telling of kaidan, many of which featured onryō, became a popular pastime as of

the seventeenth century, known as hyakumonogatari kaidankai (百物語怪談会, “gathering of a

hundred supernatural tales”). These tales were often told in summer to forget the sweltering

evening heat by sharing frightening tales that sent chills down the spines of those gathered to

listen. Although these kaidan were viewed more as entertainment and no longer served the same

ritual function as chinkon, the precedent for calling the attention of spirits for placation through

telling their stories may explain the popularity of hyakumonogatari kaidankai, as well as its

capacity to evoke fear in the audience. This is evident in that even with the lack of ritual aspect,

there persisted a superstitious belief that telling supernatural tales would draw spirits, and that

the participants would in fact be joined by one such ghost if all one hundred kaidan were told,

heightening the apprehension of those taking part (Foster, Pandemonium and Parade 52-53).

49
Written as part of a collection of supernatural tales titled Otogi Bōko [御伽婢子; “Hand Puppets”], the title refers

to the dolls (bōko) traditionally kept by children’s bedsides to ward off harmful spirits.
42
Fig. 3. Depiction of a hyakumonogatari kaidankai. Kawanabe Kyōsai. Kyōsai Hyakki Gadan [暁斎百鬼画談;
“Kyōsai’s Pictures of One Hundred Demons”]. 1890, Smithsonian Institute, Gerhard Pulverer Collection, pp. 6-7.

The popular practice of hyakumonogatari kaidankai, combined with advances in printing

technology in Japan, made it possible for kaidan to be disseminated in the form of kaidan-shū or

published “kaidan collections” throughout the populace (Reider, “Emergence” 86). Soon, this

new type of ghost story lacking a didactic emphasis on Buddhist values like the setsuwa would

become a defining characteristic of kaidan. One of the most representative works, Ugetsu

Monogatari [雨月物語; “Tales of Moonlight and Rain”],50 was first published as a kaidan-shū in

1776. These factors allowed for kaidan to fully emerge as a distinct literary genre that would
eventually influence and inspire later kabuki and film works.

Although often translated as “ghost story,” the term kaidan itself was considered to be

any sort of “strange tale,” which could include apparitions, or yōkai, as well as ghosts. Although

referred to by different names such as ayakashi (妖) or mononoke (物の怪) throughout Japanese

folklore, yōkai have persisted in being a popular subject in both art and literature since the tenth

century in Japan, the belief in such supernatural creatures in many cases equal to that of spirits

50
Written by Ueda Akinari (1734-1809).
43
like the onryō (Komatsu, An Introduction to Yōkai Culture 15). Aside from the oni of setsuwa,

however, there were far fewer entities considered to be yōkai in the tenth century, especially

compared to the numbers of those that appeared in Edo period kaidan. As interest in learning

flourished among the upper class and wealthy townsfolk of Edo society, there was an increased

demand for all manner of reading, and so “yōkai stories also began to appear as mass-produced

books with illustrations, which became popular among people living in urban centers” (19).

Through these literary and artistic depictions, the numbers of yōkai stories dramatically increased,

resulting in a plethora of supernatural creatures to fascinate and captivate audiences.

Unlike the oni, whose visual depiction continuously shifted over the centuries, during the

Edo period the form of a given yōkai tended to become fixed once illustrated by an artist and

consumed by the populace via print publication. A key contributor to this effect were the “yōkai

encyclopedias” that began to be published from the mid-Edo period, in addition to these

illustrated stories. Artist Toriyama Sekien (1712-88) has the distinction of being the first to

compile the increasingly expansive menageries of yōkai into an encyclopedic context. Published

as a series of books entitled Gazu Hyakki Yagyō [画図百鬼夜行; “Illustrated Night Parade of a

Hundred Demons”] and published between 1776 and 1784, Toriyama’s work was the first of its

kind to actually define the nature of these apparitions, outlining their characteristics and noted

habitats. The volumes include nearly two hundred entries, each given a full-page illustration,
with very little mention of origins or the stories regarding them. As folklore professor Michael

Dylan Foster describes in Pandemonium and Parade, “[b]y extracting yōkai from their narrative

contexts and cataloging them encyclopedically, [Toriyama] Sekien allowed them to exist

independently of the specific legend or experience in which they were first encountered” (55). In

so doing, while codifying their appearances, these works also enabled yōkai to survive and

transcend oral legend and folklore.

44
 Although the term “encyclopedia” has been used to describe Toriyama’s series, it should

be noted that his focus was on illustrating the supernatural, rather than defining or analyzing its

existence. For numerous entries, there is little more than a sentence in description, and for some

no text at all. The success of his books would later inspire many imitators, some of whom would

take a more natural history approach to cataloging yōkai. Nevertheless, by focusing on imagery

Toriyama effectively made these apparitions far more tangible and closer to real life, “fixing

their image as stand-alone characters,” but also transforming them into more readily usable

objects of entertainment, opening the way for “entry into a range of new domains” (Komatsu, An

Introduction to Yōkai Culture 23). The success of Gazu Hyakki Yagyō series also “stimulated the

imagination of countless Edo [artists who] also created yōkai illustrations based on literature,

plays, and the like” (23).

Although plays featuring ghosts such as the onryō, or yōkai such as the oni, have

appeared in nō as well as early kabuki, it is largely held that in the kabuki theatre such plays did

not reach their peak until the late Edo period. Given the narrative and visual culture of kaidan,

ghosts, and yōkai, however, which was already rich and flourishing, it is little surprise that

authors of the kabuki stage had turned to such stories for inspiration well before the turn of the

nineteenth century. As the city where the kabuki theatre originated, Kyoto, alongside its

neighboring city Osaka, often vied for supremacy in terms of both craft and popularity with
Edo51 as the dominant city for theatrical entertainment. Referred to as kaidan-mono, plays

featuring the supernatural were staged in the theatres of Kyoto and Osaka, collectively referred

to as kamigata (上方, “upper side”), from the early eighteenth century. The story of Okiku, for

example, one of the “three great kaidan,” was first staged for the kabuki theatre in Kyoto at the

51
Present day Tokyo.
45
Sakakiyama-za in 1720.52 Osaka playwright Namiki Shōza (1730-1773) is credited with creating

numerous stories of grand drama and spectacle for the kabuki stage,53 including yōkai-inspired

stories such as Kiritarō Tengu Sakamori [霧太郎天狗酒醼; “Mountain Goblin Kiritarō’s

Drinking Party”],54 which was first staged at Osaka’s Kado theatre in 1761.

Aside from kaidan-mono, interest in stories featuring ghosts manifested in other forms of

kabuki performance. Within the dance drama repertoire, there were numerous pieces that

featured the ghosts of keisei (傾城, “castle toppler”), the top-class courtesan. A significant

number of which fell under the category known as dōjōji-mono (道成寺物, “Dōjōji plays”), so

named for all taking inspiration in some way from the setsuwa-inspired nō play Dōjōji. Although

not onryō, these (notably female) ghosts were highly appealing to audiences, with one of the

earliest dōjōji-mono recorded to have been performed in Osaka in 1694. The most famous of

which being Musume Dōjōji [娘道成寺; “Maiden at Dōjōji Temple”], which is considered the

oldest surviving nō adaptation within the kabuki dance drama repertoire.55

As noted with nō plays such as Adachigahara, the fame and popularity of certain

supernatural tales and their associated figures are largely due to their theatrical adaptations.

Given the prevalence of dōjōji-mono within kabuki dance, it is apparent the popularity of the

setsuwa surrounding Dōjōji Temple, which details how a young woman’s lustful attachment

towards a priest turns to jealous rage after he shirks her advances, had extended well beyond its
initial nō rendition. Interestingly, in some cases, the performance of the supernatural tale itself

resulted in the story’s wide dissemination. The nō play Momijigari [紅葉狩; “Maple

52
Debuted under the title Nishiki Sarakumai Yakata [錦皿九枚館; “The Nishiki Mansion of Nine Plates”], author

unknown (Itō 41).

53
Namiki Shōza is also credited for inventing the mawaributai (回り舞台, “revolving stage”) for the kabuki theatre.
54
Loosely translated as “mountain goblin,” tengu are typically portrayed as winged yōkai known to be masters of

the martial arts as well as for possessing sorcery-like powers.

55
First performed in 1753.
46
Viewing”],56 for example, was based on the story of the kijo (鬼女, “demon woman”) of Mount

Togakushi.57 Unlike most nō plays, including Adachigahara, which were usually based on

already well-known tales or classic poems, the legend of Mount Togakushi’s kijo was virtually

unknown prior to its theatrical adaptation and was made famous only after Momijigari started to

be performed (Kusano 50). Its popularity resulted in the kabuki theatre later adapting the play for

its own stage, performed for the first time in 1887. This interest in the supernatural in turn would

eventually carry over from stage to film, as the kabuki performance of Momijigari inspired one

of the earliest films in Japan. Directed by Shibata Tsunekichi (1850-1929) and filmed in 1899,

the movie starred renowned kabuki actors Ichikawa Danjūrō IX (1838-1903) and Onoe Kikugorō

V (1844-1903) both of whom performed the central roles in the first kabuki version of

Momijigari (Kobayashi 6).

While kaidan-mono had clearly been produced well before the nineteenth century within

kamigata kabuki, the full realization of the genre is attributed to the combined contributions of

kabuki playwright Tsuruya Nanboku IV (1755-1829) and actors Onoe Matsusuke I (1744-

1815)58 and Onoe Kikugorō III (1784-1849), under whom kaidan-mono became just as much

about the human element as extravagant display. Through the use of spectacular stage effects

interwoven with scenes of both intense pathos and gruesome murder or torture, the three put on

numerous such “ghost story plays.” In addition, these plays typically featured ghosts bent on
vengeance to fully captivate the imaginations and stimulate the fears of audiences, perhaps

inspired by the social instability of the time (Yokoyama 7).

56
Attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu.
57
Located in present day Nagano Prefecture.
58
The name held by Shōroku I from 1764 to 1809.
47
 II.1.3 Emergence & Prevalence of the Classic Female Onryō

The frequent appearances of female ghosts, especially the female onryō, in art depicting

the supernatural and literary texts as well as nō and kabuki performances has been attributed to

women’s so-called “primal nature” and the belief that they “possess the ability to directly interact

with [anoyo]” (Suwa, Nihon no Yūrei 197). According to Barbara Ambros, archaeological

evidence throughout Japan supports the presence of early shamanic traditions in which women

were arguably essential to the ritual practice, as indicated by artistic depictions of shamans

largely being identified as female (13). Carmen Blacker notes that Japan originally followed a

type of shamanism where “sacral power was believed to reside more easily and properly within

women and where in consequence women were recognized to be the natural intermediaries

between two worlds” (28). Although sources indicate that both men and women could be

shamans in early Japanese history, the prevalent belief appears to be that the feminine held more

power than the masculine, due to their close connection to anoyo. This shamanic tradition and

focus on the power of the female can be found even through to mid-Heian, as “[f]emale shamans

could be found in individual households, at shrines, or on the road […transmitting] not only the

words of the kami but also those of dead humans” (Goodwin 91-92).

It is this “power” women were believed to possess that often sanctioned their rule as

monarchs in early Japanese history. Serving as a mouthpiece for both the gods and anoyo was
“one of the means by which a shaman, particularly a female shaman, could gain authority”

(Ambros 14). This is apparent given the presence of figures such as the semi-legendary Empress

Jingū (c. 169-269), who was believed to have had extraordinary ritual powers that allowed her to

transmit the wishes and expectations of the gods. Ambros cites renowned Japanese folklorist

Yanagita Kunio (1875-1962), who considered the presence of women like Empress Jingū, as

well as the later Ise priestesses and female spirit mediums in general as “evidence for the

spiritual monopoly women held in protohistoric and ancient Japan” (14).

48
 As women were believed to possess a close connection to anoyo, they were also

considered especially vulnerable to supernatural forces. According to Ambros, “Heian literature

depict[ed] women as particularly (but not exclusively) susceptible to spirit possession

[…especially] during childbirth, which was very dangerous and often fatal before the advent of

modern medicine” (61-62). Perhaps just as easily as being possessed by outside supernatural

forces, women were also depicted in Heian literature as being susceptible to having their own

spirits “escap[ing] from the body [while alive,] in search of union with the loved one or to

destroy those who stand in [her] way” (Pandey 39-40). This has perhaps been made most famous

by the character Lady Rokujō in the Genji Monogatari. Although not definitive, it can be argued

that a woman’s unnaturally strong ties to anoyo are believed to be what makes it possible for her

soul to leave her body and become an ikiryō, or “living ghost.” This is further supported by

instances of “living ghosts” across premodern literature and theatre being portrayed as

predominantly, if not exclusively, female.

This association has in some cases been utilized to account for the supernatural talents of

otherwise human male figures. For example, the explanation given for onmyōji Abe no Seimei’s

extraordinary talents, as well as the reason for him being unusually long-lived for his time, was

the belief that his mother, Kuzunoha, was in fact a mystical kitsune (狐, “fox”) in disguise as a

human, making Abe no Seimei himself part yōkai. It is of particular note that though the yōkai
itself is not female-specific, the most well-known kitsune in Japanese folk history are all female.

However, this association with the supernatural female grew progressively negative. In the case

of the kitsune, a compelling example of this is the image of Tamamo no Mae, a fictional figure of

the Heian period who according to legend appeared to be a young, beautiful consort for Emperor

Toba (1103-56), but was actually a malicious nine-tailed kitsune in disguise. Although her

character has served as inspiration in art and drama from medieval times with works such as the

49
nō play Sesshōseki [殺生石; “The Killing Stone”],59 it was not until the Edo period that Tamamo

no Mae was depicted as a solely evil being. While in the nō play she presents as a deeply sinful

figure, despite having killed many humans in her lifetime she is still portrayed as deserving of

and successfully achieving enlightenment and salvation. By the Edo period, however, Tamamo

no Mae was increasingly cast in plays and art as villainous, and an incontrovertible monster in

need of being vanquished, to the extent that she is considered one of the “three great evil yōkai”

of Japan (Komatsu, Nihon Yōkai Ibunroku 184).

Eventually, Heian society sought to restrict the power of women, perhaps out of fear of

their potential destructiveness of patriarchal authority. Although women would continue to serve

as shamans and spirit mediums elsewhere in Heian society, “[…] the court often regarded the

shamans’ activities with suspicion if their predictions led to social unrest or interfered with the

affairs of the court […and] sought to limit the activities of spirit mediums among the populace”

(Ambros 62). Before long, concepts regarding female “pollution” gained currency, resulting in

growing efforts to limit women’s activities in general, not just those of shamans. Although there

were Shinto beliefs in female-specific kegare, or “defilement,” that consequently excluded

women from some social spheres, these only applied at certain times of her life, namely when

she was menstruating or after having given birth, and not to the entirety of a woman’s activities.

Similarly, early Buddhist writings discuss sin without a gendered focus, speaking more to
the potential “sins accrued by all humans, male or female, over the course of their lives or the

sins accrued by the state” (Ambros 49). Once “concepts of gender pollution fused with Buddhist

ideas of female sinfulness, [however,] women were barred from many sacred places on a

permanent basis,” thus transitioning away from views of woman’s pollution as something

temporary and possible to cleanse, and identifying women as being in a state of “permanent

uncleanness” (Goodwin 106). A significant contributor to the wide acceptance of such beliefs,

59
Author unknown.
50
Ambros notes, is the Blood Pool Sutra,60 which details how women are destined to be sent to chi

no ike jigoku (血の池地獄, “blood pool hell”) where they are “forced by the guardians of hell to

imbibe” uterine blood as “punishment for polluting the soil” with blood produced during

childbirth or menstruation, “thus antagonizing the earth gods as well as sullying the drinking

water of holy men” (85).

With the increased influence of Buddhism, women’s perceived vulnerability to the

supernatural and innate pollution in turn manifested as a particular susceptibility to or inherent

sinfulness in, and consequent “demonization” of the feminine. By the late medieval period,

women came to be associated with sinful qualities, implying an evolution from “simply an

external hindrance suffered by women [to] an inherent moral flaw” (Ambros 85). As Ambros

demonstrates through the citing of several writings by select Buddhist monks of the time, women

were noted for being “jealous, malicious, and selfish […] deceitful and envious […] vain and

lustful […] dishonest and vengeful […] ritually unclean, […] thus attracting evil spirits and

dispelling benevolent divinities” (90). Caroline Hirasawa further supports this in her work

discussing Japanese hell imagery, “The Inflatable, Collapsible Kingdom of Retribution,” by

observing that:

While relatively neglected in early hell painting, […] hells related to female reproductive

issues and responsibilities became popular subjects for illustration in Japan. Women,
accused of a growing catalogue of “sins,” were threatened with hells resulting from

jealousy, attachment, menstruation, infertility, abortion, infanticide, having too few

children, and dying in childbirth. (16)

60
Sometimes also referred to as the Blood Bowl Sutra (血盆經), likely composed around the beginning of the
thirteenth century and originated in China. For an English translation of one version of the origin legend for the

Blood Pool Sutra, pronounced ketsubonkyō in Japanese, see Williams, Duncan Ryūken, The Other Side of Zen, pp.

125-28.
51
Views of women would eventually transition from being sinful and attracting of evil to being

inherently evil or innately demonic themselves, which may explain how women’s jealousy

became such a common trope in medieval setsuwa as well as nō plays. Rather than simply being

jealous, the resentful, repressed feelings of the woman were depicted as something far uglier and

more frightening, as she was often shown to be transformed by her “evil thoughts” into a living

kijo. The prevalence of this belief in the mutable qualities of the woman to easily turn into a

demon is implied by the number of kijo-mono within the nō repertoire. This growing

demonization of the feminine is noted to reflect much of the spread of Buddhist values in society

regarding women, as “while [oni] in earlier tales generally took male form, we see the

emergence of [oni] in female form – both young and old woman – […] motivated by jealousy

and rage” (Ambros 60).

By the sixteenth century, views of women increasingly positioned the feminine as

inherently evil, which may further attest to the increased prevalence of the female onryō. As

quoted from a translation of the early sixteenth century medieval tale Fuji no Hitoana Sōshi [富

士の人穴草子; “The Tale of Fuji Cave”] which illustrates one man’s journey into hell: “It’s true

that both men and women fall into hell, but many more women do than men. Women’s thoughts

are all evil. […] Women don’t know their own transgressions, which is why they fail to plant

good karmic roots” (Ambros 90).

Similarly, this popularity of the female in ghost story literature is also believed to have

increased over time, as records indicate that before the Muromachi period, male appearances

were more frequent. It is estimated that this change came about after the Ōnin War (1467-77 CE),

with an increase of approximately 2.5 times as many female appearances compared to male

(Ema 116). This trend continues through to the Edo period, with a vast majority of the surviving

kaidan texts being about women turned into ghosts, most typically onryō. This is supported by

the fact that the “three great kaidan” of Japan are all stories that not only have been told and

52
retold for centuries, but all feature female ghosts, namely Oiwa,61 Otsuyu,62 and Okiku63

(Davisson, Yūrei 87).

This gravitation toward the female is also evident in yōkai narratives. As has been noted,

the oni of early setsuwa tradition tended to demonstrate the ability to take both the form of male

and female humans as disguise. As Michelle Osterfeld Li describes in Ambiguous Bodies,

however, oni became increasingly feminized: “Incarnated, they [drew] from representations of

women idealized according to Heian cultural standards: delicate but fleshy aristocratic young

women with long, full hair, a perpetually forlorn expression and perfect features” (155). While

the explicit gender of the oni itself in these setsuwa is not always made clear, the increased

tendency for an oni to present as female is significant in of itself. Even if in disguise, these

narratives increasingly associate the malicious character with the feminine, which in turn can be

extended to views of women themselves. This is indicated by the later development and presence

of explicitly gendered female oni or kijo characters, and the existence of the kijo-mono genre in

nō.

Although the oni has by nature always been ambiguous in form and body, perhaps

making it easier to adopt this distinctly feminine characterization, other examples of yōkai

shifting towards feminine portrayal during the Muromachi period are also apparent. According to

Noriko Reider, the creation of the Tsuchigumo Sōshi [土蜘蛛草紙; “Picture Scroll of an Earth
Spider”] in the early fourteenth century marks one of the earliest, if not the first, portrayals of the

tsuchigumo (土蜘蛛; “earth spider”) as a “female killer shape-shifter” (“Tsuchigumo sōshi” 62).

Not only does she appear in the guise of a “mysterious, beautiful woman” to prey on the

legendary samurai Minamoto no Raikō (948-1021),64 but she also presents as a monstrous female

61
From Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.
62
From Kaidan Botan Dōrō.
63
From Banshū (Banchō) Sarayashiki.
64
Also known as Minamoto no Yorimitsu.
53
herself, pregnant with smaller spiders (60). Reider implies that the presence of this explicitly

female tsuchigumo, whose story served as inspiration for nō and later kabuki works, can be

interpreted as a precursor to the female-specific spider yōkai, the jorōgumo (女郎蜘蛛;

“prostitute spider”),65 which emerged later in kaidan of the Edo period (61).

Based on existing records of Japanese ghost story texts, the prevalence of kaidan

featuring onryō is evident, especially given the abundance of female-specific yōkai in Japanese

folklore during the same Edo period. Distinguished yōkai studies scholar Ema Tsutomu notes in

his research that there are significantly more feminine yōkai, often indicated by the names of

such creatures containing the character for “woman” (女) or similar (116). Artists painting ghosts

also often chose to draw their subject as female, or at least suggest the presence of a female ghost

by featuring traits that were typically attributed as feminine, such as hair or articles of clothing.

This speaks to the popularity of the supernatural female, be she a yōkai or an onryō.

Although the female onryō is a prevalent figure that has frequently appeared in ghost

story texts for centuries, the female onryō as a character archetype model was not fully

established until the contributions of Tsuruya Nanboku IV. One of the earliest, if not the first

vengeful female ghost that appeared on the kabuki stage was in the play Keisei Asama ga Take

[傾城浅間嶽, “The Courtesan of Mount Asama”]66 in 1698 (Davisson, Yūrei 38). Performed by

Yoshizawa Ayame I (1673-1729), the most celebrated onnagata (女形, “woman role”), or
female-role specializing actor of his time, the climactic scene involved Ayame I emerging as the

dead spirit of the keisei Ōshū from the smoke caused by the fire in which her still living lover

was nonchalantly burning the love notes and promises he had elicited from her. The appearance

65
By the time Toriyama Sekien began compiling his Gazu Hyakki Yagyō during the late eighteenth century, the

kanji used for the jorōgumo had since changed to mean “entangling bride” (絡新婦) instead.
66
Author unknown.
54
of her angry spirit, however, was brief and largely left unfulfilled. Despite technically being an

onryō and venting her frustrations, she is ultimately unable to avenge herself against her lover.

This characterization changed with the plays of Tsuruya Nanboku IV who, writing for

actors Onoe Matsusuke I and Onoe Kikugorō III, is credited for not only popularizing the

kaidan-mono genre in kabuki but also bringing the female onryō character front and center

stage.67 Beginning with his first kaidan-mono Tenjiku Tokubei Ikoku Banashi [天竺徳兵衛韓噺,

“Tokubei of India Tales of Strange Lands”] in 1804,68 Nanboku IV introduced the wet-nurse

Iohata, played by Matsusuke I, who is later killed and returns as a ghost. The appearance of

Iohata is considered to be Nanboku IV’s prototype for the female onryō characters he would

come to be known for, the most representative work being his play Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan,

which was first written and performed in 1825.

Tsuruya Nanboku IV is particularly credited for being the main contributor in setting a

standard appearance for female onryō characters. According to Satoko Shimazaki, he utilized the

image of another type of female ghost closely associated with both the female onryō and the

inherent Buddhist sins of women, the ubume (産女, “birthing woman”), who embodies “the

sufferings of women who died during pregnancy or childbirth” (194). Belief in the ubume was

widely accepted by the mid-Edo period, and by Tsuruya Nanboku IV’s time its figure had been

long since defined in visual terms, described as “[having] long hair; her lower body [drenched] in
blood, evoking the blood she shed during her miscarriage and suggesting that she is suffering in

Blood Pool Hell [chi no ike jigoku] and her body fades away, ghost-like, toward the bottom” (S.

Shimazaki 201). Already a popular motif in both Japanese theatre and literature by the early

nineteenth century, Tsuruya Nanboku IV used the ubume as a model for all his female onryō

67
Discussed further in IV.2.3 Elements of Enactment Style.
68
A rewrite of a play written by Chikamatsu Hanji (1725-83).
55
characters, regardless of whether the characters were in fact mothers or childbearing women, an

association which continues to be seen in contemporary Japanese horror cinema.

Fig. 4. Illustration of the ubume from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 35) (Left). Utagawa Toyokuni I. Actors Onoe
Matsusuke I as the Ghost of Iohata and Matsumoto Kojiro as Mokuemon. 1804, Smithsonian Institute, Arthur M.
Sackler Gallery (Right).

II.2 DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ IN

PREMODERN LITERATURE & THEATRE

II.2.1 Elements of Narrative Style

II.2.1.1 Characterization
The defining characteristics of what constitutes the classic female onryō archetype in

terms of narrative style are first apparent in her characterization. Prior to their deaths or whatever

events that unfold which cause them to transform into onryō, women, though oppressed and

restricted by social norms, are shown to struggle and sometimes fail in conforming to the roles

they are expected to play in society. This is most apparent in the role types of monstrous wife

and murderous lover, which are both largely identified by the expectations of a given social role,

thereby implying expected behavior for female characters, and by extension women of the time

as a whole.

56
 In both classical and medieval Japanese society, particularly for the aristocracy, the

position of women in marriage and romantic courtship practices appears to be highly favorable.

Wakita Haruko notes, however, that although “uxorilocal marriage predominated among the

aristocracy and accordingly the position of women was comparatively high […it] does not

necessarily reflect the dominance of women” (83). As a polygynous society, there were multiple

forms of marriage residence observed, the most common among the Heian aristocracy being

what Wakita refers to as tsumadoi (妻問; “wife visiting”), where both husband and wife lived

separately, and the husband paid her visits. While this form of marriage is considered to have

been the most prevalent and allowed for the woman to maintain a considerable degree of

independence, it was also the cause of much potential anguish as tsumadoi concurrently “allowed

one man to have multiple wives and multiple concubines” (Wakita 84).

Furthermore, not all these relationships needed to be long-lasting, and a man could freely

have transient affairs with women, typically women who were of much lower status than himself,

with little to no censure of his character. The same, however, did not necessarily hold true for

women. As Barbara Ambros notes:

Social etiquette among the nobility prohibited the open expression of raw emotions in

romantic relationships. Emotions had to be carefully packaged in poetic expression.

Repressed tensions within polygynous relationships, such as overt female sexuality,

jealousy, and resentment, were expressed metaphorically by likening women to

demons[.] (Ambros 60)

Consequently, the female characters who become classic female onryō, especially those found in

the nō theatre, which tended to reflect both the values of classical and medieval Japanese society,

are shown to be more often motivated by such jealousies or passions above all other potential

sources for their resentment. As wives or lovers, these women are depicted as unable to endure

and suppress their feelings of frustration, anguish, and hatred and become “demons” as a result.

57
 Furthermore, the typical classic female onryō’s motivations, especially those found in nō,

are often presented as steeped in Buddhist attachment and thus sinful, the censure of which

frequently figures in as part of her narrative. Such is the case in Kinuta [砧; “The Fulling

Block”],69 in which the spirit of the Lord of Ashiya’s wife is shown to be suffering eternal

damnation as punishment for her persisting feelings of jealous attachment towards her husband

still living in konoyo, feelings which have since transformed from longing into resentment, even

hatred:

Now as before, I have no peace: this sin,

a heart in pain, yields me its reward: the Ahōrasetsu,70

brandishing their rods and raining blows.

Beat on, beat (they howl), as you deserve,

the block: for all my hate

reaps me the fruit of wrongful clinging (Tyler, Japanese Nō Dramas 168)

Not only is her behavior considered socially unacceptable as a wife, but it also hinders her soul

from attaining enlightenment as a woman. Thus, her motivations and actions are regarded as

especially transgressive.

With the wide acceptance of Buddhist concepts regarding karmic hindrances, as well as

philosophies later adopted in Japan such as Confucianism, female onryō came to be

characterized by their roles as wives, mothers, or even daughters more so than lovers, especially

those found in the later kabuki repertory. As the samurai class rose to prominence and military

rule evolved in Japan, the marital relationship became a symbol for “social order, and the

69
Attributed to Zeami. A kinuta refers to the wooden mallet used to beat cloth dry and soft, as well as give the

beaten cloth a certain shine. Kinuta could also refer to the block or stone upon which the cloth was laid to be beaten,
or even denote the act itself.
70
Described as a type of guardian of hell that is distinguished for having the legs of an ox but the arms of a human,

comparable to the Buddhist notion of the oni.

58
relationship between man and wife served as a metaphor for the relationship between governors

and governed” (Stanley 311). Beginning from as early as the late medieval period and reaching

its peak during the Edo period under the rule of the Tokugawa shogunate, the laws created and

enforced regarding marriage as well as sexual relations between men and women were all

designed to “[reinforce] the privileged position of husbands and fathers” (Stanley 313). The

values and social conduct encouraged in women of the time is also indicative of this. As Barbara

Ambros writes in Women in Japanese Religions:

During the Edo period, Neo-Confucianism became an important socio-political ideology

for the ruling regime […which] stressed that women needed to strive to acquire virtue,

consisting primarily of purity, chastity, obedience, and filial piety. […] Before marriage,

a girl should be filial to her parents. In marriage, a woman should submit completely to

her husband’s household, serving him and his parents with obedience, filial piety, and

diligence, even if treated with hostility by them. […] At all times must she conduct

herself in order to maintain familial harmony. (102-04)

It is the inherent “duty” associated with their roles, imbued with Edo period Neo-Confucian

values, that many of the female onryō found in kabuki plays tend to struggle with fulfilling. In

Tsuruya Nanboku IV’s Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan, for example, Oiwa struggles in her role as the

villainous Iemon’s wife. Despite being miserable, she is obligated to stay married to him in order
to avenge her murdered father, a vendetta Iemon has agreed to fulfill.

In their failure to comply to these expectations of behavior, these wives and lovers are

constructed as monstrous and abject, as is evident when compared to women characters who do

conform, and therefore do not transform into onryō as part of their narratives. In the nō play

Uneme [采女; “Lady-in-Waiting”]71 the shite, who initially presents as a village woman, is

revealed to be the spirit of an uneme, a title given to those “ladies-in-waiting” that directly served

71
Most often attributed to Zeami.
59
the emperor, who drowned herself in the Sarusawa Pond near the Kasuga Taisha72 after falling

out of favor with him. As the shite relates her story to the waki (ワキ, “supporting actor or

character”), who is a traveling monk:

始めは叡慮浅からざりしが程なく御心変りしを. 及ばず乍ら君を恨み参らせて73

“In the beginning the emperor loved her deeply, but before long his heart began to change.

Although she knew such things could not be helped, she became full of bitter resentment.”

Although the woman admits to feeling “resentment” (恨み) over being discarded and certainly

struggles with those emotions, she is not portrayed as desiring or actively pursuing vengeance

against her former lover. Rather than defy her position, as a woman, a lover, and as an uneme,

she chooses to kill herself instead. As a result, the shite is characterized as a sympathetic figure

instead of a demon. Even the emperor is shown to feel pity over her death, and he composes a

poem in her honor beside the Sarusawa Pond. Seeing this, she is both humbled and ashamed of

having harbored him any ill will. Her sincere devotion to the emperor while she was alive as an

uneme is later celebrated and serves as the highlight of the play.

In a similar vein, the classic female characterization of the onryō also contrasts with the

character role of the keisei, the top-class courtesan, which was considered to be the ultimate ideal

of feminine allure in kabuki by preeminent onnagata such as Yoshizawa Ayame I. Although

plays featuring female courtesan characters returning as ghosts were quite prevalent, and one of
the earliest, if not the first kabuki female onryō was indeed a keisei in the play Keisei Asama ga

Take, these characters were defined more by qualities of feminine virtuousness and softness. As

keisei, despite being part of a caste largely considered outside the prevailing social norms, these

women are more often depicted as upholding Confucian values rather than defying them.

Yoshizawa Ayame I himself was quite known for portraying keisei roles who would willingly

72
Located in Nara, the Sarusawa Pond is an artificial pond that was dug in 749.
73
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 1).
60
sacrifice themselves for their lovers. Within the dance drama repertoire, numerous pieces

featuring keisei were based on the mugen no kane (無間の鐘, “Bell of Hell”) legend,74 which

revolved around the belief that whoever struck the ill-fated bell would attain immense riches for

their life in konoyo but would suffer eternally in hell upon their death. Desperate to help their

lovers in need of money, the keisei characters in these mugen no kane-inspired dance dramas

readily sacrifice themselves by striking the “bell of hell.” Even when they return as ghosts

embittered, or perhaps are shown to be suffering in hell for their attachments, these female

characters are not seen seeking vengeance against their lovers, and thus maintain their feminine

charm for the audience.

Despite the prevalence of the monstrous wife and murderous lover role types, hints of a

proto-dead wet girl, which later fully manifests as the dead wet girl in J-horror film, can be seen

in later stage portrayals of both the nō and kabuki theatres. Rather than be associated with a

specific role in society, such as a wife or a lover, this proto-dead wet girl is largely characterized

by her status as a “girl,” which typically takes the form of a young, unmarried woman. Female

characters with distinct social roles have equally distinct values placed on them that they are

expected to uphold. As they struggle, their failure, or even refusal, to fulfill the duties associated

with these roles is highlighted as socially transgressive and thus abject. In contrast, by lacking a

clearly socially defined role that she can fail at or reject, the grounds for the proto-dead wet girl’s
abjection are made as ambiguous as her role in society. This in turn implies that rather than some

social transgression based on an attributed role, what makes this role type “monstrous” is instead

something more innate or natural, resulting in her transformation presenting less a moral lesson

of what is acceptable behavior for women, and more a spectacle in and of itself.

74
A legend believed to have begun with the bell of Sōtō Buddhist temple Kannonji, which was located in present

day Shizuoka Prefecture.

61
 Women have been the subject of romanticized voyeurism and thus made spectacle in

Japan from as early as the Heian period with regular, almost expected, practice of kaimami (垣間

見, “peeping”), in which “the male discovery of a beautiful woman by spying on her without her

realizing that she has been exposed to view, was likened to the hunter’s discovery of prey”

(Ambros 57). This can be interpreted both as a precursor to and evidence in support of the

presence of the “male gaze” in later Japanese cinema. Even when the man comes to visit the

woman’s quarters, rarely is the whole woman perceived by the man, for she still is somewhat

concealed by the darkness evening brings. Her beauty and image are similarly reflected in a scent

of the incense that perfumes her clothing, a whisp of her long tresses, or a glimpse of her

carefully coordinated sleeves.

Just as the classic Heian noblewoman was broken down into elements or characteristics

and thereby objectified, so too is the classic female onryō. The elements of this objectification,

however, are contextualized via primarily, or perhaps exclusively, the male perspective,

determining what traits of the woman to which the man attributes “femininity.” A similar

“viewing” of men does not occur, by either fellow men or women. Thus, while the female onryō

archetype may potentially reflect overall views regarding the position of women in

contemporaneous society, it is important to consider the predominantly male, if not patriarchal,

perspective that is being reflected.

This in turn may account for the differences in characterization between female and male

onryō characters that emerge in nō and kabuki. Among the most popular traditional stories or

appearances of onryō, females are characterized as the more dangerous and destructive compared

to males. In the nō repertory, the female onryō are among the most violent characters. They are

the ones who aim to commit or who have in the past committed murder, such as the Lady Rokujō

in Aoi no Ue, who attempts to murder the principal wife of her former lover Genji. Male onryō in

nō on the other hand are rarely if ever violent. Even when they are, the force of their violence is

62
often portrayed as more subdued or even incomparable to that of the female. In some cases, a

male ghost one would expect to be violent and vengeful in death does not ultimately manifest as

an onryō as part of the narrative, such as in the play Atsumori [敦盛; “Atsumori”],75 where the

titular young samurai’s spirit is able to find peace through the intercession of prayers by

Kumagai, who after murdering Atsumori has since become the priest Renshō:

‘You are my foe!’ Atsumori shouts,

lifting his sword to strike; but Kumagai

with kindness has repaid old enmity,

calling the Name to give the spirit peace.

They at last shall be reborn together

upon one lotus throne in paradise.

Renshō, you were no enemy of mine. (Tyler, Japanese Nō Dramas 48)

While Atsumori’s spirit initially appeared before Kumagai seeking vengeance and intending to

do violent harm, he is appeased before actually doing so, resulting in a lack of overt violence on

the part of the male ghost in the play.

It is worth noting that this divide in violent characterization is also apparent in nō plays

featuring non-human, yōkai-like figures. In Momijigari, it is revealed that the beautiful

noblewoman holding what appears to be an autumnal party at Mount Togakushi is in fact a kijo
in disguise, bent on luring the samurai Taira no Koremochi (1158-84) into a trap. What follows

is an intense battle where the female oni is ultimately slain by Koremochi with the aid of a divine

sword. In the play Nue [鵺; “Nue”],76 however, which is based on the eponymous legendary

monster that appears and tortures Emperor Konoe (1139-55) in the Heike Monogatari, the ghost

of the nue presents as a tormented soul that both expresses its sadness and sufferings after being

75
Attributed to Zeami.
76
Attributed to Zeami.
63
slain by the samurai warrior Minamoto no Yorimasa (1106-80) as well as its aspirations to be

saved by Buddhist teachings. While the text itself, both the nō play and the episode as recorded

in Heike Monogatari, does not make the gender of the nue explicit, the masks utilized by the

shite actor to portray the nue imply a masculine figure. Furthermore, no fierce conflict ensues in

the second half of the play when the shite reveals itself as the ghost of the nue, especially

because unlike Momijigari, where the waki is a warrior like Taira no Koremochi, in Nue the waki

is a traveling monk who holds Buddhist prayers for the monster’s ghost. This is similar to

Atsumori, where prior to the opening of the play the waki has already renounced his status as a

samurai to become a priest, reducing the likelihood for direct, violent conflict between the two

characters.

When considering this violence, or lack thereof, it is worth noting that typically male

onryō in nō theatre are the spirits of fallen warriors or nobles, while female onryō are more often

wives, lovers, or young girls who have been wronged, usually in romantic affairs. It can be

argued that this distinction between the male and female is perhaps because historically men in

Japanese society have had more opportunity for violence while alive, whereas women, restricted

to the domestic sphere by their lower social position, can only act on violent impulses, be they

physical or psychological, as ghosts. Even noblewomen during the Heian period, who arguably

enjoyed the most power in premodern Japanese history, were still restricted to the private aspects
of court life. Though they had rights to inherit land and consequently amass personal wealth,

these women were still restricted by the aesthetic and religious views of the time.

Males, on the other hand, have always enjoyed higher positions of power and perhaps are

thus left less unfulfilled in death compared to the female onryō. Furthermore, male onryō are

often shown to be motivated by honor or some kind of political disgrace, in keeping with the

more public personas they maintained in life. A notable example of this can be seen in Raiden

64
[雷電; “The God of Thunder and Lightning”],77 a nō play based on the historical figure

Sugawara no Michizane (845-903), a scholar politician wrongfully accused and disgraced who

died in exile. In the play, his onryō returns to the Imperial Palace to exact revenge on those who

betrayed him, including the emperor himself (Marra 438-9). This more political focus of their

motives for vengeance, combined with their higher social position, may explain the more public

efforts made to appease the male onryō’s as part of goryō shinkō, such as was the case with the

posthumous elevation of the onryō Prince Sawara to emperor as part of the chinkon rituals held

in 863.

In contrast, almost all female onryō, especially in the nō repertoire, are shown to be

motivated by jealousy or passion and love-related affairs, presumably because they were

excluded from more public positions of responsibility. As a result, similar public attempts to put

a female spirit to rest are rarely if ever made as part of chinkon rituals, for the primary purpose of

such rituals was to pacify onryō that were a potential threat to the living and to the state. The

grievances a female onryō held, by contrast, were largely focused on far more personal revenge,

targeting a specific individual. The tendency to associate female characters with such personal or

private matters is evident in nō plays like Tomoe [巴; “Tomoe”]78 and its portrayal of the

eponymous Tomoe Gozen (1157-1247), one of the greatest examples of a female warrior in

Japanese history. In the Heike Monogatari, as translated by Helen Craig McCullough, Tomoe
Gozen is described as a “warrior worth a thousand, ready to confront a demon or a god, mounted

or on foot” (291). In Tomoe, however, despite the play itself being categorized as a shura-mono,

or “warrior ghost play,” she presents as a spirit obsessed with resentment for not being allowed

to die with her master Minamoto no Yoshinaka (1154-84), not out of a warrior’s loyalty, but out

of a woman’s love and yearning (C. Shimazaki 176-78).

77
Author unknown.
78
Author unknown.
65
 This association of the female with more “private” affairs compared to the more “public”

male is also apparent in who are identified as the “three great onryō” in Japan.79 Unlike the

“three great kaidan,” which are women turned ghost due to personal grudges, all three of the

“great onryō” are men who were in positions of some authority in life and driven by more

political motivations.80 Their displays of power as onryō were similarly more in the public

sphere, much like their personas in life, and as a result, measures taken to pacify them were

equally public. Sugawara no Michizane, for example, was held responsible for not only the

deaths of many of his enemies and their descendants, but also a series of natural disasters,

culminating in lightning striking the imperial palace and resulting in the death of four more

courtiers and the death of the emperor himself soon after. Fear of the power of his onryō was so

strong that not only was he pardoned and all of his titles posthumously restored, but he was also

deified as the Shinto god of learning, Tenjin (天神) to further placate his spirit (Borgen 314-15).

While this gendered divide in characterization may not be as strongly apparent in kabuki

portrayals of onryō, the overall “public-mindedness” of the male characters who return as

vengeful ghosts persists. Often the motivations for a male onryō seeking vengeance involves the

righting of some injustice, and usually one that concerns more than just himself. The character

Sakura Sōgorō81 in Higashiyama Sakura no Zōshi [東山桜荘子; “The Higashiyama Story Book

of Sakura”],82 based on a semi-legendary historical figure, takes it upon himself to act for the
sake of his village at the cost of his own life. Despite knowing that as a lowly commoner his

offense would be punishable by death, Sōgorō appeals directly to the shogun by delivering a

79
According to Japanese scholar Yamada Yūji, this designation was heavily influenced by Edo period literature and

kabuki plays.
80
The “three great onryō” in Japan are recognized as Sugawara no Michizane, Taira no Masakado (903-40), and
Emperor Sutoku (1119-64).
81
In early performances of the play the character was named Asakura Tōgo.
82
Written by Segawa Jokō III and first staged at the Nakamura-za in 1851.
66
petition on his village’s behalf regarding the cruel taxes being levied by the corrupt Lord Hotta,

which are driving the people to starvation. As punishment, Hotta forces both him and his wife,

Osan, to watch their children be executed before their own crucifixion. Sōgorō’s onryō proceeds

to haunt and torment Hotta as revenge for his family’s deaths. In contrast, like depictions in nō,

female onryō as found in the kabuki theatre are strongly, if not solely motivated by personal

interest. Consequently, male onryō are typically cast as sympathetic or heroically righteous

figures, whereas the female onryō seen in kabuki are more often portrayed exclusively as

monsters.

At the same time, the nature of the female onryō’s motivations is implied to confer a

particular strength compared to the male’s typical motive for revenge. Female onryō in nō are

consequently more often shown to require a full-blown exorcism to try and appease them,

whereas for male onryō, simple, earnest prayers can be enough for their pacification. In Funa

Benkei [船弁慶; “Benkei in a Boat”],83 although the sea off the coast of Damotsu no Ura84

becomes completely overrun by the souls of the dead Taira soldiers, and Minamoto no

Yoshitsune (1159-89), the one most instrumental in their defeat, comes under attack by Taira no

Tomomori (1152-85), with prayers Tomomori’s onryō and all the spirits are appeased and

dissipate. Even when an exorcism takes place in a play featuring a female onryō, however, this

prayer is sometimes shown to be ineffective against the force of her resentment, as seen in
Kanawa, in which the woman cursing her ex-husband for abandoning her becomes a force so

fearsome that even Abe no Seimei cannot fully defeat her. Although these women can possibly

be viewed as empowered by breaking free of the social restrictions placed on them, both literary

and dramatic narratives are infrequently framed to sympathize with the female onryō character.

83
Attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu.
84
The historic site of the final battle as part of the Genpei War between the Taira and Minamoto samurai clans,

located in the Shimonoseki Strait of present day Yamaguchi Prefecture.

67
Having fully embraced her feelings of jealousy or resentment, she is often portrayed as corrupted

by passion, rendering the woman incapable of achieving enlightenment, transforming her story

into what seems more like a cautionary tale.

II.2.1.2 Plot
The concept that rage can distort, even physically mutate or transform a spirit, especially

a female one, plays a large role in the plot of the onryō narrative, as indicated by the traditional

popular Japanese saying regarding the consequences of maltreatment of women:

怒りゃふくれる、叩きゃ泣く、殺せば化ける85

“Make them mad, they sulk. Hit them, they cry. Kill them, they change (into ghosts,

demons…)”

As women, they are acknowledged to be weak in life, but if they receive abuse several times

over in their lifetimes, it should be expected that the resentment and means of revenge will be

several times that and, as is implied in the popular saying, will involve some kind of

transformation of the female.

Many kaidan of the Edo period, the most popular of which featured women as onryō

victimized in some way by men while alive, have instances of women suffering resentment so

intense that they transform into an animal, most frequently a snake. Associated in many cultures

with the feminine in terms of expressing lust or jealousy, this use of the snake predates the Edo

kaidan phenomenon and can be found as early as the eleventh century in setsuwa literature. One

such example is the original setsuwa of Kiyohime that served as one of the sources of inspiration

for the nō and kabuki plays, Dōjōji and Musume Dōjōji. In the original story, Kiyohime appears

as an unnamed,86 lustful young widow who, possessed by such passion and rage at being rejected

85
As quoted in Yokoyama Yasuko, Edo Kabuki no Kaidan to Bakemono 170.
86
The name Kiyohime itself first appeared in a variant of the Dōjōji legend written in the late Muromachi period but

did not emerge as part of the explicit Dōjōji narrative until the eighteenth century (Waters 64).
68
by a young monk, transforms into a massive poisonous snake so that she can pursue him. Not

only is her transformation regarded with horror by all who witness, but she also gains fearsome

powers which she uses to vent her resentment by killing the monk who broke his promise to her.

As described in Marian Ury’s translation of Konjaku Monogatari-shū:

Before the eyes of the monks, the great bell of the temple [Dōjōji] blazed and was burned

in the poisonous hot breath of the serpent. It was too hot to come near. But they threw

water on it to cool it, and when they lifted it away to look at the monk, they saw that fire

had consumed him utterly. Not even his skeleton remained. All that there was, was a little

ash. (95)

Although the story of Kiyohime is perhaps the most well-known and popular example of

a woman transformed, many later kaidan would feature a woman transforming into a giant snake

to exact vengeance. A kaidan taken from the 1687 Kīzō Tanshū [奇異雑談集; “Collection of

Strange Miscellaneous Tales”] depicts a similar story to Kiyohime in which a woman becomes

enamored with a Sōtō Buddhist sect priest:

One summer, as he often did, the priest held a series of Buddhist sermons. A woman

around the age of thirty came every day, sometimes two even three times, and gradually

became a close friend. In so doing and becoming involved in worldly affairs, the priest

became troubled and filled with regret. He tried to keep her at a distance, but the woman
would not allow it.

One time when she had not yet come, he decided that he had no choice but to flee,

and so he put on his straw sandals and left. When the woman arrived and inquired after

his whereabouts, she immediately took off after him.

Faster and faster she ran, so fast her straw sandals soon split and so she ran barefoot.

The tie for her hair broke and so her long tresses whirled about her, bending to the back

69
 and sides. Her obi came undone, the thin sleeves of her kimono blowing in the wind

fluttering behind her.

She ran like one who had thrown her life away.

In what seemed like little time at all, the woman caught up with the priest at the Seta

Bridge. Upon seeing her, he jumped into the water to escape, but she plunged in after him,

twisting into a giant snake and curling around him, finally dragging him back with her.87

In contrast to earlier setsuwa, this kaidan is indicative of the literary form emerging more as a

means of entertainment, as the narrative features a woman transforming into a serpentine

monster but lacks an explicit Buddhist didactic message. This differs from the original setsuwa

depicting Kiyohime’s tale, which not only promotes the soul-saving properties of the Lotus Sutra,

but also explicitly cautions against “the strength of the evil in the female heart,” explaining to

readers that this is the reason “that the Buddha strictly forbids approaching women” and

encouraging them to “[know] this and avoid them” (Ury 96). In comparison, not only does this

Kīzō Tanshū kaidan clearly illustrate the “evil” in a woman’s heart, but the narrative also ends in

a manner much like one might expect of in later J-horror films with their “dead wet girls” – with

the “evil” woman achieving her aims and little to no apparent hope for salvation.

87
Translated by the author. For the original Japanese text, see Takada Mamoru, Edo Kaidanshū 1: 201-04.
70
Fig. 5. Illustration of Kiyohime’s attack on the Dōjōji bell from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 144) (Left).
Illustration of woman-turned-snake kaidan from Kīzō Tanshū (Takada 1: 204) (Right).

Snakes, and by extension dragons, are found throughout Japanese lore. The feminine

snake, however, has a particular Buddhist connotation, associated specifically with the “sins” of

women regarding jealous attachments. A fundamental tenet found in most if not all sects of

Buddhism is that any strong emotional attachment to the material world impedes the path to

salvation. As Mary Picone writes in her article discussing transformation, or what she refers to as

“rebirth,” into snakes in Japanese popular religion:

Passion […] is often equally dangerous for lover and for beloved, while hatred kills its

object but also consumes the slayer. The intensity of these ties is frequently attributed to
attachments formed in a previous life. Thus those who appear innocent are actually being

punished for past wrongdoing. […] In Japan the positive meaning of serpentine

metamorphosis – rebirth – with the coming of Buddhism became a negative consequence

of attachment to illusory material form, a perpetuation of ignorance. […] Passion is the

greatest impediment to enlightenment […and] it is thought that in snakes are embodied,

as it were, the lineaments of ungratified desire. (110)

71
While rebirth into a snake was believed to be a form of karmic retribution primarily for sexual

transgression, these sins could be incurred by both man (or, as in most stories, monk) and woman

alike. As the concept of female defilement permeated religious belief in Japan, however, this

association with snakes became increasingly feminine. In addition to the chi no ike jigoku,

Satoko Shimazaki makes reference to the presence of another female-specific Buddhist hell, the

futame jigoku (両婦地獄, “two wives hell”), where jealous women are turned into serpentine

monsters and tormented for being such (166).

By the Edo period, the transformation into a snake in narratives had become a common

trope to signify lust, passion, and the jealous attachments of a sinful woman, or in some cases

even the woman’s will or nature itself. In some kaidan, the victim’s resentment is expressed by

transforming a part of their oppressor’s body, often a woman, into a snake as punishment. The

early Edo period kaidan-shū titled Zenaku Mukuibanashi [善悪報ばなし; “Stories of Good, Evil

& Retribution”]88 contains multiple accounts of women, especially wives, being punished in such

a manner. One tale relates the story of an extremely jealous wife who took to tormenting a

maidservant whose looks were “a little too good.” While her husband was away, she would do

such things as assigning her “needlework or some other work to do with her hands, and if [the

maidservant] made a mistake would take a hammer and strike all five fingers of the offending

hand.” When the maidservant eventually died, the wife openly rejoiced: “Now I am at ease.”
Soon after her death, however, the wife’s own fingers became afflicted, presumably possessed by

the maidservant’s onryō, her fingertips changing into vicious snakes that proceeded to torture her

for fifty days until she too died in suffering.89

In addition to possessing people and transforming parts of their body into snakes, the will

or nature of the woman is also shown to be able to similarly affect her physical possessions.

88
Specific date of compilation and publication unknown.
89
Translated by the author. For the original Japanese text, see Takada Mamoru, Edo Kaidanshū 1: 330-32.
72
Toriyama Sekien describes in one of his yōkai and supernatural phenomena compendiums the

belief in the strength of a woman’s jealousy possessing the ability to transform her obi sash into

a “poisonous snake capable of wrapping around its victim seven times,” known as a jatai (蛇帯,

“snake obi”) (165). Rather than be interpreted solely as some form of karmic punishment as

found in earlier setsuwa literature, later kaidan and visual depictions imply that the woman

herself is what is “snake-like,” and not her actions or feelings of attachment. This tendency to

associate the woman with the snake inherently, however, increasingly deprives her of her

recognizable feminine image.

Fig. 6. Illustration of jatai from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 165) (Left). Illustration of jealous wife whose fingers
transform into snakes as punishment kaidan from Zenaku Mukuibanashi (Takada 1: 331) (Right)

Typically, a female onryō’s transformation involves a destruction, or at least a distortion

of her image, often emerging from a scene of violence as part of the narrative. This is especially

found in kabuki works, which often feature some form of masculine or patriarchal violence that

serves as the catalyst for the woman’s change into a vengeful ghost. A notable example of this is

the story of Kasane, the original kaidan which inspired an entire sekai (世界, “world”), or

dramatic setting, for kaidan-mono within the kabuki repertoire, later referred to as kasane-mono

73
(累物, “Kasane plays”).90 Although the circumstances and motives of the characters may vary

between versions, all kasane-mono feature the eponymous female onryō figure and her murder at

the hands of Yoemon, who in most versions is her husband or lover, in other cases her father.91

While most women on the verge of becoming onryō are usually in some way already outside the

norm, the use of violence to destroy the female image forcefully casts her into the abject and

consequently outside all social restrictions. By being cast as “other” she is free to circumvent that

which oppressed her; however, this comes at the cost of being transformed into the monster,

barring her from both participating in as well as re-entering human society.

While more commonly found in the kabuki theatre, instances of a woman suffering a

destruction of image through violence are also present in nō. In some cases, however, this act of

violent destruction is done willingly by the woman herself rather than forced upon her. An

auxiliary chapter to the Heike Monogatari, titled Heike Tsurugi no Maki [平家剣巻; “Heike

Sword Scroll”],92 contains the story of Hashihime, which serves as the inspiration for the nō play

Kanawa. The chapter is so named due to it comprising of anecdotes featuring legendary swords,

90
The kaidan of Kasane was first published in print in 1690, but is believed to have been based on a true story that
took place over the course of sixty years, from 1612 to 1672.
91
Though first produced as a kabuki play in 1731, the most well-known kasane-mono today is the dance drama Iro

Moyō Chotto Karimame [色彩間苅豆; “Sensual Colors, Going to Cut Beans”], which itself was originally a part of
the longer play Kesakake Matsu Narita no Riken [法懸松成田利剣; “Surplice-Hanging Pine and the Sharp Sword

of Narita”] written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV and first performed in 1823. The dance drama was first performed

independently from the rest of the play in 1849.

92
As the Heike Monogatari is originally based on oral tales performed by biwa hōshi, it is believed that there are

more than one hundred variant manuscripts, some of which were produced solely as works to be read rather than

recited, some other texts that were not compiled until the Edo period. Tsurugi no Maki is included in what is referred
to as the “Yashiro text” of the Heike Monogatari, which dates from the mid-thirteenth century and is thought to be

one of the “two earliest preserved manuscripts, and the ones which retain most closely the form and content of the

original” (Butler 8-10).

74
many of which are in the possession of Minamoto clan samurai. Most of the stories recount a

battle of some kind, usually featuring a given sword and its awesome, often divine power. The

story of Hashihime as part of the Tsurugi no Maki, tells of a woman who, overcome with

jealousy, prays to be turned into a living demon, a kijo, for revenge. She then disfigures herself

as part of a ritual, making her appearance so fearsome that, as described by Noriko Reider,

“those who see her are so terrified that they swoon and die” (Japanese Demon Lore 54). Having

successfully destroyed her image, she is free to act and gains sufficient power to exact her

vengeance.

The legend of Hashihime is believed to be the primary source of dissemination for the

cursing ritual later known as ushi no koku mairi (丑の刻参り, “shrine visit at the hour of the

ox”)93, which is believed to have become popular practice as early as the Muromachi period. So

named due to the belief in there being particular spiritual potency for prayers made in the middle

of night during the hour of the ox, this ritual was said to be most often practiced by the “jealous

woman who would place a hex on her husband and, especially, his lover” (Stone and Walter 187).

By altering her appearance and stealing away to a shrine late at night, the woman casts her curse

by nailing straw effigies of the subject of her vengeance to a sacred tree. The efficacy of prayers,

or in this case, curses, made during the hour of the ox refers to the northeastern cardinal direction

which, as noted earlier, was strongly associated with supernatural energies, particularly the oni.
Even today, the hour of the ox94 has consequently become a time when supernatural energies are

believed to be at their peak, and when one is most likely to encounter a yōkai or ghost. Given the

oni’s association with the ox, which is believed to largely be the reason for visually depicting the

oni having horns, the ushi no koku mairi ritual itself can be viewed as a practice by which a

93
Also referred to as ushi no toki mairi (丑の刻参り, “shrine visit at the time of the ox”)
94
While the length of a given “hour” traditionally changed with the seasons of the annual calendar, the hour of the

ox is popularly considered to be between the hours of 1:00 and 3:00 AM in Japan today.
75
woman is able to transform herself into an oni, specifically a kijo. The wearing of an upturned

iron trivet and affixing burning candles to the legs as part of the ritual can be viewed as the

woman adopting these “horns” for herself. Although it was commonly accepted that women

possessed the innate ability to transform themselves into oni or kijo, both in the case of

Hashihime and the ushi no koku mairi ritual, a destruction or at least distortion of image is

required for the transformation or curse to be successful.

Similar pre-kaidan narratives that feature a woman’s willful self-destruction to gain the

power to exact vengeance tend to be more focused on the consequences of such a woman’s

decision. In Kankyo no Tomo [閑居友; “A Companion in Solitude”], a setsuwa collection written

by the Buddhist priest Keisei (1189-1268) in the early Kamakura period, there is the story of a

young woman who mars her image and transforms herself for vengeance against a lover who has

shunned her. After exacting her revenge, however, the woman is shown to regret choosing to do

this to herself:

Stricken by an emotion I wish I had never felt, I did this and that and left my parents’

house. I went off as I was and murdered the man, but after that it was impossible for me

to return to my original form; nothing I tried worked, and since I couldn’t let people see

me as I was and since I had nowhere else to stay, I hid myself in this temple. […]

Everything was pain; I suffered so much I can’t even describe it. All night and all day it
felt as if my insides were on fire, blackening from the heat, and I was filled with regret,

with an infinite sense of how wasteful my life has been. (Emmerich 693)

Even with Hashihime, whose story concludes with the historic samurai figure Watanabe no

Tsuna (953-1025) vanquishing her demon form, there is the inherent message that nothing good

will come of a woman actively rejecting her role and “acting out” on personal vengeance.

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Fig. 7. Illustration of the ushi no koku mairi ritual (Toriyama 86) (Left), and of Hashihime (Toriyama 80) (Right)
from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō

In contrast, while image destruction through violence is frequently found in kabuki and

kaidan literature, instances of similar “willing” self-destruction for vengeance is not as common.

Rather, in some cases, self-disfigurement is utilized to highlight the ideal qualities of a female

character. In the kabuki play Natsu Matsuri Naniwa Kagami [夏祭浪花鑑; “Summer Festival:

Mirror of Osaka”],95 for example, the wife character Otatsu presses a hot poker to her face to

prove her moral strength and eliminate herself as an object of sexual temptation (Brandon and

Leiter 1:218-20). Unlike practices such as the ushi no koku mairi curse ritual, Otatsu’s motives

for her self-disfigurement are selfless and self-sacrificing, an act that is regarded with such high
esteem by the men who witness it, and by extension is a type of conduct encouraged for women

to emulate as part of the narrative.

Compared to the female, male onryō do not undergo so violent or dramatic a

transformation, if one even happens at all. Even after suffering considerable violence, most often

they appear almost exactly as they did in life, their image largely unscathed. This lack of

transformation is particularly compelling given the word for “monster” in Japanese even today,

95
Written by Namiki Sōsuke (1695-1751), first performed in 1745.
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bakemono (化け物), literally translates as “thing that changes,” implying that the transformative

element is essential to be considered “monstrous.” This is arguably because as the male body

does not signify the history of commodification that the female represents, a man cannot be

objectified in the same way a woman can through violence, be it incurred or self-inflicted. As Jill

Dolan writes in The Femininst Spectator as Critic, the “female body is laden with connotation,

the most prevalent of which is sex object,” which thereby constructs the woman’s image to

specifically fulfill (male) desire and visual pleasure (52). This implies that the spectator is

constructed as predominantly male, and “in a representational exchange set up for male visual

pleasure, the […] male is not the object of the exchange” (55). Even when completely nude on

stage, the male can still be identified as “the active protagonist of the narrative at hand” (54).

This, in addition to citing “feminist attempts to eroticize the male body in pornography for

women,” Dolan points to as supporting the argument that “the simple gender reversal” – in other

words, replacing the woman as an object of visual pleasure with a man – “does not work” (54-

55).

This concept of “male visual pleasure” can in turn extend towards other more morbid,

even sadistic, forms of titillation, which may explain the prevalence of scenes of violence and

torture against women. In the kabuki theatre, scenes referred to as semeba (攻め場, “torture

scenes”) were a popular means by which predominantly female characters were made both
sympathetic and attractive to the audience.96 While semeba were not exclusively found in kabuki

plays featuring onryō, the brutality in physical violence towards female characters notably

increased, from as early as the mid-eighteenth century in kamigata kabuki. By the early

96
It should be noted that the semeba found in kabuki, especially those in kamigata kabuki, are significantly inspired

by semeba in ningyō jōruri plays, referred to as kojōruri (古浄瑠璃) up to around the late seventeenth century,

which often featured tortured female characters.

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nineteenth century, kabuki in Edo (Tokyo) also was seen to adopt this trend of physical violence,

especially within the kaidan-mono genre (Leiter 566).

Given this “viewing” of women, which consequently also frames what embodies

women’s femininity through a predominantly male perspective, it is easier to understand not only

the gendered divide in onryō characterization between public and private, but also the focus of

many female characters wishing to control how they are seen, both socially and physically.

Women being encouraged to control their appearance is evident as early as the tenth century in

Japan, as noblewomen “hid their faces behind fans or their garments’ sleeves […] stayed in the

inner rooms of the house and spent their time behind curtains and bamboo screens” (Dimitrio

and Kimura 373). As Laura Dimitrio, with the collaboration of Yoko Kimura, writes in her

article “The Hidden Visages of Japanese Women,” the custom of hiding a woman’s face in

public became widespread “during the Kamakura and Muromachi periods even among middle

class women” (371). As was expressed by the woman in Kankyo no Tomo, upon actively

rejecting and destroying her image for vengeance, she later hides herself away, ashamed of being

seen in the form she has become after having made a spectacle of herself. This concern over

appearing unsightly extends beyond experiencing shame over one’s physical appearance to

include matters of one’s personal pride or dignity as a woman, which is an especially prevalent

trope in kabuki plays overall, regardless of genre.

Though there is undoubtedly power in the voyeur as the agent of viewing, especially in

acts like kaimami that were regularly practiced by the Heian noblemen, there is also a certain

power in being “unseen,” or at least hidden or obscured, especially when it involves the

supernatural. Of all the senses, sight is generally the one relied on the most by humans to

accurately perceive the world. Thus, for many when faced with something such as the existence

of the supernatural, “seeing” truly is believing. The power of sight is evident, as oftentimes the

full realization of figures like the onryō is in fact dependent on being seen. While an overt scene

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of transformation may not always be present, as is the case with many nō theatre depictions, a

scene of “revelation” often figures prominently in the onryō’s narrative. This may manifest as a

scene resembling kaimami, wherein the supernatural being in disguise is furtively spied on and

thus forcefully exposed. In some cases, they might be pressured by others to reveal themselves or

even do so willfully, by choosing to reveal their true form or name, such as is the case in many a

nō play. Having her presence acknowledged is especially potent for the female onryō, as in life

she was often relegated to the domestic, or private, secluded sphere of existence, often obscured

or hidden away and thus easy to ignore. By being seen she gains the power lent by the

incontrovertible fact that she does, in fact, exist.

In addition to the power of sight and revelation, water is in some way or another

associated with many notable characters who re-emerge as onryo. This association with water

harkens back to both Shinto and Buddhist beliefs, both of which place a heavy emphasis on

purification, often using running water as a primary instrument. Though regarded today in Japan

as a highly austere practice, ritual ablutions known as misogi (禊) were traditionally performed

as a part of Shinto worship. Believed to be in reference to the god Izanagi purifying himself in a

river to rid himself of the kegare of death he sustained entering the underworld to try and retrieve

his wife Izanami, it was considered standard practice to purify one’s body in water before

approaching a shrine (Ambros 29). It is for this reason that most shrines were built near a body
of water, usually a river or spring, sometimes the ocean.97 To this day, at almost every Shinto

shrine and even some Buddhist temples, one can find purification fountains, or chōzuya (手水舎,

“hand water hut’),98 which visitors are required to use to perform a smaller scale form of this

ablution before entering the sacred grounds. At these chōzuya, water is constantly flowing into

97
Ise Jingū, which was first constructed in 4 BCE, is a notable example of this, located in present day Mie
Prefecture.
98
Also pronounced as temizuya. The chōzuya was introduced to preserve the waters of streams and springs from

contamination. They were first installed at shrines from as early as the late Sengoku period (1467-1615 CE).
80
the fountain’s basin in a steady stream, so much so that it spills over the sides of the walls.

Despite this, to properly purify oneself, one must not dip the ladle directly into the basin but fill

it with the water flowing out of the spigot, essentially, running water, to cleanse the hands and

inside of the mouth.

Fig. 8. Photo of the Isuzu River that runs through Ise Jingū (Mie Prefecture) where people still cleanse themselves
before approaching Naiku, the innermost shrine. Photo taken by author in December 2019.

In Japanese Buddhism, the ritual nagare-kanjō (流れ灌頂, “flowing consecration”) uses

running water to purify the spirits of women believed to specifically be suffering in chi no ike

jigoku. For such a woman suffering for the sins of having died in, before, or soon after childbirth,

as well as being polluted both with the kegare of death and (menstrual) blood, performing this

specific ritual was believed required for her soul to be saved. The practice that can be traced as

far back as the early eighteenth century, though the nature of nagare-kanjō has varied in form

ranging from:

[…] floating banners out to sea […to] standing short wooden slat-stupas in the flow of a

river […] The most common form was the suspension of a cloth from two or four poles

above a river or along a roadside. This cloth was dyed red (in some cases it was an actual

piece of blood-stained clothing or bedding from the birth itself), and a portion of a sutra

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 or, most usually the legend “Namu Amida Butsu” was written upon it. Passersby would

splash water on this cloth, with prayers for the dead woman’s welfare, until the red color

faded to white. (Stone and Walter 185-86)

Given its strong connection to chi no ike jigoku and childbirth, it is little surprise that the nagare-

kanjō in turn also became associated with the ubume ghost. This is evidenced by Toriyama

Sekien choosing to include a form of the nagare-kanjō ritual in his illustration of the ubume as

part of his encyclopedic compendium (see Fig. 4, left). Interestingly, in the earliest performances

of Tsuruya Nanboku IV’s Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan, the onryō of Oiwa, whose appearance was

modeled after an ubume, despite not narratively being a woman who died in childbirth, actually

emerges out of a nagare-kanjō set up by her villainous husband Iemon, just after he pours water

over it in an attempt to stave off her vengeance (S. Shimazaki 195).

Furthermore, water is used in both Buddhism and Shintoism in Japan as a means to

delineate the fluid boundaries between konoyo and anoyo. According to scholar Akima Toshio,

there is literary evidence to indicate a Shinto-based belief in a primary access point between

worlds, called the unasaka (海坂, “slope of the sea”), “where ocean currents come together to

flow down the slope toward the nether world [anoyo]” (487). Akima also brings up the

complementary belief in making use of the unasaka to travel between konoyo and anoyo by

means of a boat, which helps explain the ancient funerary Japanese custom, believed to be well-
established even before the seventh century, of placing their dead in “boat-shaped coffins […]

for the deceased’s journey to the next world” (488). In a similar fashion, the sanzu no kawa (三

途の河, “river of three crossings”) is the way by which the dead cross over to anoyo in Buddhist

belief. So named for the three points at which one can make the crossing after death, the ease of

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navigating the river is dependent on the weight of one’s sins and determines which path one is

able to take.99

Fig. 9. Photo of the sanzu no kawa at Mount Osore (Aomori Prefecture), which from as early as mid-seventeenth
century was considered a physical representation of the borders between konoyo and anoyo, signified by both the
bridge and the point where the river meets the ocean. Photo taken by author in July 2018.

As implied with the nagare-kanjō ritual that is largely concerned with women in relation

to childbirth, there is a strong connection drawn between water and children who have died

prematurely. To this day, the term used for an aborted, stillborn or miscarried fetus is mizuko (水

子), which literally translates as “water child.” Alongside the sanzu no kawa, which serves as the

boundary between the world of the living and the dead, there is believed to be the sai no kawara

(賽の河原, “dry riverbed of Sai”), oftentimes translated as the “children’s limbo,” where

99
Traditionally, the three crossing points are a bridge, a ford, and a deep part of the sanzu no kawa that is infested
with serpents. It is believed that those who did purely good deeds while alive get to cross via the bridge, while those

whose karmic balance of good and evil is relatively equal are able to cross at the ford. Those who committed terrible

sins, or “great evil,” have no choice but to wade through the snake-infested waters.
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children who have died too young100 end up caught between konoyo and anoyo. There, the

children attempt to earn their crossing by piling up stones from the riverbed in the shape of

stupas101 only to be constantly interrupted by oni who come to knock their efforts down. In place

of parents to care for them, the bodhisattva Jizō is entrusted to save the souls of the children from

their fate. While Jizō is also often called upon to aid the souls of women suffering from chi no

ike jigoku, it is interesting to note that in addition to being the guardian of children, he is

considered the Buddhist patron saint of travelers, who is concerned with the journeys and

crossings of all lost souls.

This strong association with water as essentially a conduit for anoyo can explain why

onryō often appear near a body of water when haunting the targets of their vengeance. Given the

importance of flowing bodies of water like the unasaka or sanzu no kawa in making the journey

to anoyo, the tendency to utilize still bodies of water as haunting sites can be better understood.

In Shinto belief especially, death is a form of both physical and spiritual kegare, and stagnant

water is also associated with this view. Water that is not allowed to breath or flow, trapped from

reaching the unasaka, is ripe for supernatural activity. In the original kaidan narrative that

inspired the play Banshū Sarayashiki, for example, the servant girl Okiku is drowned in a well

after being framed for losing one of her master’s prized plates and rejecting a covetous

manservant’s advances. As a rare example of a male onryō motivated by “private” affairs in nō,
Aya no Tsuzumi [綾野鼓; “Damask Drum”]102 features an old man gardener who drowns himself

in a pond after failing to make a hand drum sound – due to its head being made of twill – to win

100
Though sources vary on the specific age, generally considered to be any child that has died before they were able

to reach the age of seven. It is believed that children who have died too young are barred from crossing due to not

having lived long enough to build sufficient karma.

101
This act is derived from the tradition of building stupas as an act of building merit or good karma.
102
Author unknown, sometimes attributed to Zeami largely due to him having written a revised version of the play

titled Koi no Omoni [恋重荷; “Love’s Heavy Burden”].

84
the attention of the imperial consort he had fallen in love with. It is from this still pond that his

onryō emerges full of bitterness toward the object of his infatuations. In narratives like Banshū

Sarayashiki, this effect is accentuated because Okiku is not just drowned in a well, her body is

left to rot inside, and her death further pollutes the already still body of water, effectively

trapping her spirit in konoyo.

Although stagnant, polluted water may serve as a potent source for supernatural power

and activity, confining an onryō to konoyo, in some narratives flowing water is shown to serve as

a channel one can traverse towards anoyo and salvation. This association with water is found in

nō plays featuring both female and male ghost characters alike throughout the theatre tradition’s

history. In the play Fujito [藤戸; “Fujito”],103 believed to have been written in the early sixteenth

century, the fisherman whose body was sunk into the ocean, arises on the water as an onryō to

confront the samurai who murdered him. Consoled by the prayers and ceremony held for his

spirit’s placation, it is through water that the fisherman is able to cross over to anoyo and attain

salvation:

I was pushed into the sea.

And sinking toward the thousand-fathom bottom

In ebbing tide just at that time,

Drawn by the ebbing tide just that time, I went

Floating and sinking in the waves. […]

Used as I am to water, as I go poling it along,

I cross the sea of Life and Death. And with ease,

As I have prayed, I reach the Other Shore […] (Wilson 448-49)

As seen in Fujito, most nō plays tend to be implicit, even poetic in their references to water – in

the case of this play, specifically the ocean – and its connection as a conduit or boundary

103
Author unknown.
85
between konoyo and anoyo (“the Other Shore”). Some plays, however, are more overt by directly

referring to and portraying the ghost character as traversing the sanzu no kawa.

Physically extant flowing bodies of water, especially rivers, are similarly utilized as a

vehicle for transition. In addition to traditionally serving as sites for ritual purification, rivers

were often viewed as boundaries for Shinto shrines by which worshippers would traverse from

the human realm into the divine. Such is the case of the Isuzu River that runs through Ise Jingū

(see Fig. 8). When used for the female onryō’s narrative, however, instead of a distinct boundary

between konoyo and anoyo, the river can be viewed more as demarcating a liminal space. In its

flowing waters is where her form becomes mutable, and she is shown to transform into the

monstrous. This may account for the frequent instances in both kaidan and kabuki narratives of

vengeful women transforming upon traversing a river, as seen in the Kizō Tanshū kaidan earlier.

This significance of water in female transformation will become increasingly more apparent as

the female onryō makes her transition from the classic into the new, to be overtly expressed in

the role type of the dead wet girl.

In a similar vein, incurred violence suffered by the female onryō is frequently associated

with water, as she is often killed by or directly in a body of water, usually a river. Across the

various kasane-mono in kabuki, though the characters themselves and their circumstances may

differ, Kasane is almost always murdered by Yoemon and often nearby or directly in water,
frequently the Kinu River. In the original story of Kasane’s onryō origins, as described in the

third volume of Kabuki Plays on Stage, Darkness and Desire: “Yoemon [tortures] her to death

by filling her mouth with river stones and holding her under water until she [drowns]” (Brandon

and Leiter 120). In the violent throes of her watery death does Kasane enter a liminal space

where she becomes a monster for vengeance.

Finally, the way in which the female onryō’s story tends to end gives a sense of the

implicit purpose of her narrative, which is to censure her actions as socially adverse. As is the

86
case with setsuwa like Kankyo no Tomo, most often the woman is shown to be suffering from

and regretting her decision to go to such lengths to exact vengeance. At no point is her behavior

condoned as part of the narrative, and sometimes she is directly criticized by another character.

In contrast, as often the male onryō’s reasons for vengeance are related to being a samurai or

similar public figure, his actions are viewed as not in particular violation of social norms, and

thus not deserving of the same degree of admonishment. This may account for why resentful

male spirits are more frequently depicted as able to find salvation, whereas some female onryō

are portrayed as being beyond saving due to the gravity of her transgression.

Even in the rare instance when the cause of his resentment has been brought upon by a

woman, such as in Aya no Tsuzumi, her culpability instead becomes the focus:

The drum is silent. Only her own voice

bursts forth, wailing: Horror, horror!

What have I done? And, in answer, his:

Repent, repent your cruelty! (Tyler, Japanese Nō Dramas 56)

And yet, in the case of the female onryō where the culprit of her torment is male there is rarely a

part of the narrative in which he is censured for his actions towards her. In some stories, he is not

even shown to reflect upon those actions.

In kabuki, while there may not be as much direct censure of the female onryō’s actions
compared to the nō theatre, there is also little sense of condonement or support. Added to this is

the fact that the most notable kabuki examples of the female onryō, especially those written by

Tsuruya Nanboku IV, tend to also feature the iroaku (色悪, “sexy villain”) male character type

as part of the narrative. As characters like Iemon in Yotsuya Kaidan are considered “sexy” and

attractive despite committing villainous acts towards the female onryō character, his image as a

villain is still romanticized for the audience. Although the iroaku is unquestionably a villain, by

romanticizing his villainy, the character’s actions escape overt censure. In a similar vein, while

87
the female onryō may be seen as an unfortunate victim, she is rarely if ever cast as the hero(ine)

of her story, even when she is acting to right some injustice. Thus, while the audience may

sympathize with the monster, the female spectators are not encouraged to empathize with or

adopt the feelings of the female onryō.

II.2.2 Elements of Visual Representation

Much like how the classic Heian noblewoman could be identified by key visual traits, so

too can the classic female onryō be visually identified based on how she is portrayed in stage as

well as artistic depictions. Many of these elements of her visual representation are notably

evocative of her characteristic narrative elements. In nō performances especially, the classic

female onryō’s supernatural strength as well as her transformation are often visually represented

utilizing imagery pertaining to snakes. The most prominent example of this is the use of uroko

(鱗, “scales”) in nō costumes. With the checkered rows of golden triangles meant to evoke a

serpent’s scales, this pattern is strongly associated with, and is used to denote, the supernatural or

at least “mad” feminine, as found in kijo-mono in nō. This visual trait is not just applied to the

female onryō figures who explicitly transform into a serpentine monster, such as the one found in

Dōjōji, but extends to virtually all expressions of the “demonic” female within nō (Tsutsumi,

Nyonin Jatai 150-51). The implication is that all women have an “inner snake,” one prone to

lustful jealousy. This is supported by the foremost use of uroko on the haku (箔, “foil; leaf”), or
inner robe in nō costuming of this classic female onryō character. At the opening of a given kijo-

mono, the glimpse of this pattern on the woman’s haku under the folds of clothing is the first hint

the audience is given of her true “snake-like” nature before she fully transforms and reveals her

demonic self to exact vengeance.

The use of gold, too, is also used to signify the presence of the non-human, be it divine or

supernatural, especially when used in nō masks.104 As nō mask craftsman Kitazawa Hideta

104
Gold is also utilized in costuming to indicate the shite role type within a given performance.
88
describes, though the mask for a female onryō may have extremely pronounced features like

long protruding horns, “the source of madness for a woman’s mask is found in the eyes and in

the shape of the mouth, and it is the use of gold in the eyes and in the teeth that shows

supernatural power.”105 Of all nō masks, the hannya (般若) mask – with its mouth so wide it

appears to split the face open, glittering golden eyes, and facial features contorted into a snarl –

is perhaps the most recognizable instance of this. It is most notably used in Aoi no Ue and Dōjōji,

plays in which a human woman overwhelmed by uncontrollable resentment transforms herself

into a demon.

At the same time, however, though the hannya is depicting a demon, it is still very much

a woman, and a tortured one at that. As Udaka Michishige discusses in The Secrets of Noh Masks,

the painting of the disheveled hair as well as the anguished expression of the eyes help “[capture]

what shreds of sanity remain in this woman, for the [hannya]’s expression is a mix of malice and

misery” (51-52). Though the classic female onryō undergoes a destruction of her womanly image

through her transformation, visually some vestiges of her femininity still remain.

Fig. 10. Photo of a torchlit nō performance of Aoi no Ue featuring the use of uroko as well as the hannya mask.
Performed by Honda Mitsuhiro as part of the Itō Sukechika Festival in Itō (Shizuoka Prefecture). Photo taken by
author on May 17, 2014.

105
Interview conducted at Kitazawa’s studio in Tokyo, July 13, 2018.
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 The features of the hannya are thus meant to represent a jealous, explicitly female demon,

which differs from masks used for general ghost and even male onryō characters. A reason for

this visual distinction between male and female onryō could be that the negatively transformative

effects of jealousy are consistently assigned to women more than men. Women in Japan have

long been associated with a propensity for violent jealousy and even an oni nature. The hannya

mask can therefore be interpreted as a physical manifestation of the perceived innate demonic

nature of women as a whole. This can be compared to the namanari (生成, “becoming bestial”)

mask used to express a woman about to become a demon, primarily used to perform plays like

Kanawa. As Kitazawa describes:

[…] the namanari and the hannya masks are both strictly female masks. Despite the

dynamic protruding features of the hannya, the actual size of the mask itself is identical

to that of any other woman mask used in nō performance, implying that the horns grew

out of the mask from within.

Fig. 11. Photo of a namanari mask, carved by nō mask craftswoman Nakamura Mitsue (Left). Photo of hannya
mask. 15th century, Museum of Fine Arts Boston Collection. (Right)

This can be further compared to the deigan (泥眼, “muddy eye”) mask, which is frequently used

in the first half of kijo-mono works such as Aoi no Ue to indicate that the shite character’s eyes

90
have been clouded with madness. The name for the mask is derived from the use of gold paint to

“muddy” the eyes. The deigan presents a “woman stifling resentment, a complex mixture of

insane jealousy and the struggle to contain this all-consuming emotion” (Udaka 42). Even before

the classic female onryō is fully transformed, the glimmer of gold in the eyes and teeth of the

mask visually represent both the dangers and the struggles of the woman becoming monstrous.

The use of the deigan mask in the first half of the nō play serves not only as a hint of

what is to come, much like the uroko patterning of the haku, but also reinforces the implication

that all women have innate potential for the demonic. This contrasts with the use of masks in

plays that feature male onryō. Prior to him fully revealing himself in the second half of the play,

there is rarely a hint of the supernatural, such as golden eyes found in the first mask used as with

the deigan. In fact, the use of gold in the eyes and occasionally the teeth is often the only

supernatural trait present in the mask used for the second half of plays featuring the male onryō,

such as is the case with the ayakashi (怪士, “apparition warrior”) mask that is used in plays like

Funa Benkei to represent Taira no Tomomori’s vengeful spirit.

Fig. 12. Photo of a deigan mask (Left) and ayakashi mask (Right), carved by nō mask craftsman Ōtsuki Kōkun.
Japanese Performing Arts Research Consortium (JPARC).

91
 It should also be noted that the only nō masks that feature horns of any kind are those

associated with women. This association of women with an inherent oni nature, which has

persisted throughout history, is apparent even in later Japanese religious customs, such as the

tsuno-kakushi (角隠し, “horn hiding”), which literally functions to “hide the horns” of the

bride’s jealousy (Jeremy and Robinson 116). The wearing of this headdress, which became

common practice in Shinto weddings beginning in the late Edo period, essentially demands that

the woman subdue and restrain her inner passion and propensity for jealousy toward her

husband-to-be while implicitly relinquishing any right to object to any possible future sexual

extramarital affairs.

While in nō performance the transformation of the classic female onryō may visually

evoke snakes or an oni, in kabuki the female character’s destruction of image, often takes the

form of some more literal physical disfigurement, usually incurred through violence. This

disfigurement, or at least distortion of the woman’s image, typically entails a removal to some

extent of her femininity, the most common manifestation being a literal marring of her face or

loss of hair. In both cases, this distancing from or removal of her femininity via her

transformation frees her from the limitations and pressures of maintaining a societal femininity,

largely prescribed by the male perspective, allowing her to fully act out her vengeance. The cost,

however, of being made a “non-woman” or monster makes it impossible for her to re-enter that
society in life, and often, too, her soul is shown to be damned in death, as punishment for giving

in to personal passions and casting her femininity aside.

Despite these gruesome disfigurements, some nō plays, as well as other literary texts,

indicate that this transformed state may not be permanent. Some works illustrate the classic

female onryō achieving not just vengeance but also spiritual salvation, or at least the potential for

such. The disfigurement of the female onryō can therefore be interpreted as not a case of

physical transference, but as an emotional reflection of the events that transpired from her mortal

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life. It is her own feelings of betrayal, anger and resentment that lock her in her mutilated image.

Her disfigurement thus manifests as a visual representation of what continues to bind her to the

living world and can consequently be reversible. The transience of her disfigurement, and by

extension the potential for restoration, however, is not a luxury that all female onryō equally

share. For those female characters who actively chose to be “other” while still alive, their

narratives do not frame them so much as victims and they are censured more, quite often by

other characters, for their choices as a result.

While physical disfigurement or distortion is frequently used to represent the burdens of

resentment a female onryō carries, her actual nature and power may be better understood by

examining her hair. This association of power with hair is one that is distinctly feminine and is

rarely if ever attributed to male onryō. In his essay “Of Women’s Hair” in Glimpses of

Unfamiliar Japan, Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904)106 attempts to explain this, saying that because

“the hair of the Japanese woman is her richest ornament, it is all of her possessions that which

she would most suffer to lose” (354). The significance of women’s hair dates back to as early as

the Heian period, with long hair as one of the most prominent signs of feminine beauty among

the court noblewomen. As such, even the slightest cut or trim held immense significance, with

the offering of locks of hair to temples or shrines considered highly effective for prayer-making.

With the conflation of a woman’s femininity with her hair, “even a moderate cropping [was
indicative of] a religious commitment […as] tonsure implied casting off one’s femininity”

(Ambros 72).

While a woman’s hair is regularly associated with her femininity, it also is naturally

imbued with her sexuality, which might account for its recurrent eroticization throughout Heian

literature. This is evident in how frequently hair figures as a trope in classical Japanese poetry,

used by both men and women alike, “to articulate feelings of sexual pleasure and longing

106
Also known as Koizumi Yakumo.
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[…often] expressed through the image of tangled hair” (Pandey 49). Albeit unstated, the image

being evoked is that of hair tangled in the throes of passion and sexual intercourse. In a similar

fashion, the act of brushing hair was considered highly titillating, even well beyond the Heian

period. Referred to as kamisuki (髪梳き, “hair combing”), in the kabuki theatre, this term

denotes a scene in which the deep passion between a couple is conveyed by having a woman

comb out the tangles in her lover’s hair. When a kamisuki scene is enacted by a woman alone,

however, it is her deep-seated feelings of jealousy or resentment “to the point of madness” that

are conveyed instead (Leiter 270). Rather than as an expression of the woman’s passion or

devotion to her lover, the act is appropriated as an expression of personal loss of power for the

woman.

The nature of one’s hair came to increasingly speak volumes as to one’s age, social or

marital status. This held especially true for women as a woman’s hair represented her sexuality

as much as her social identity, a power which needed to be contained. Although historically in

Japan hair was kept long, for both men and women, it was not to be left tangled, unkempt or in

disarray, as to do so was regarded as socially unacceptable. Starting from around the sixteenth

century and throughout the Edo period, women were expected to keep their hair up in a coiffure,

or at least tied back, with hairstyles becoming increasingly elaborate and decorative.107 To leave

one’s hair, especially a woman’s, undone implied unconventionality, if not instability, which was
not to be encouraged or condoned. As Gary Ebersole explains in his chapter on “Hair Symbolism

in Japanese Popular Religions” in Hair: Its Power and Meaning in Asian Cultures:

Hair is associated with both pleasure and anxiety; it is wild and unruly and at once

attractive and frightening. The function of combs, of course, is precisely to control, order,

and style hair. […] If hair suggests sexuality, […then hair] that is well groomed or

107
Marcia Yonemoto describes numerous Edo period self-cultivation texts in The Problem of Women in Early

Modern Japan which detailed both proper hair care and styling for women based on their status (73-74).
94
 coiffured suggests controlled sexuality and, more generally a self-controlled [woman]. At

the same time, long hair that is tied up nevertheless suggests the possibility (attractive

and yet dangerous) that it could [be] let down. (93-94)

It is worth noting, however, that though men also had similar social regulations placed upon

them regarding the styling of their hair, only with women was such special attention paid,

implying more than a purely sexual power that needed to be contained. According to Ebersole:

[…] the long hair of young women was believed to have the power to attract kami or

divinities, who would descend into it and temporarily reside there. […] The power of hair

was especially identified with female mediums, […] although all women possessed this

power to some extent. […] At times, the spirit of the dead […] would be attracted by

women’s hair and possess them. (85-86)

This potential for supernatural power to be housed in a woman’s hair is significant for visual

expressions of the female onryō’s power, especially the dead wet girl found in later J-horror

films.

Eventually, this association ended up extending to the supernatural in Japan with ghosts

being represented with “hair loose and long, falling weirdly over the face” (Hearn, Glimpses of

Unfamiliar Japan 353). Scholars such as Ōgata Tōru indicate a possible influence, citing the

Chinese belief in the soul, thought to “reside inside the head i.e. the brain, […being able to] pass
through the soft part of the skull, travel along the hair and out the body,” as a possible reason

hair left exposed became associated with ghosts and those who could commune with them, rather

than simply conveying “madness.” (86-89). Though not conclusive, the change in Japanese

hairstyling fashions to a coiffure may be correlated as it appears to coincide with when this belief

may have entered Japan.

Given this significance lent to hair, it is perhaps little surprise that combs, too, figure

quite prominently in the portrayal of spirits, with combs seeming to “take on the personality or

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spirit of their owners and so their appearance in connection with a ghost is more than a matter of

fashion or decoration” (Iwasaka 33). While early Japanese mythology often portrayed combs as

mystical items possessing “magical powers” with no inherently gendered association, combs and

other hair accessories became increasingly representative of not only sexual intimacy, but also

the woman herself, the comb especially serving as a “repository of [her soul]” (Ebersole, Hair

91-92). For this reason, some Japanese people hesitate even today to pick up a comb they find

dropped in the street lest they become possessed by the owner’s spirit, or take on whatever

misfortune that might have led to the comb being discarded or lost.108

This potential power of hair, be it sexual or supernatural, might also explain the visual

expressions of feminine resentment and madness utilizing women’s hair as the vehicle. Some

kaidan of the Edo period depict wealthy men keeping their concubines under the same roof as

their legitimate wives who, “although the severest patriarchal discipline might compel them to

live together in perfect seeming harmony by day, their secret hate would reveal itself by night

[…and their] long black tresses would uncoil and hiss and strive to devour those of the other”

(Hearn, Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan 352). In the Edo novel Sakurahime Zenden Akebonozōshi

[桜姫全伝曙草紙; “Book of Dawn: The Uncut Tale of Princess Sakura”],109 sterile wife Nowaki

no Kata is overcome by jealousy of her husband’s mistress, Tamakoto, who has been brought

into the household solely to produce an heir. Nowaki no Kata sends her servant to capture
Tamakoto, and then tortures her. As Satoko Shimazaki describes the narrative, “Tamakoto [begs]

Nowaki no Kata to let her live at least until the baby is born, but to no avail. [Her] resentment

and attachment to her unborn baby are so intense that her hair turns into snakes as she dies” (S.

Shimazaki 223).

108
Another reason for this superstition may be due to the fact that the Japanese word for comb, kushi (櫛), can also

be read as “suffering” (ku) and “death” (shi), and is consequently viewed as an ill omen (Iwasaka 33).
109
Written by Santō Kyōden (1761-1816) in 1805.
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Fig. 13. Illustration of Tamakoto’s hair transforming into snakes as she is tortured to death. Utagawa Toyokuni. 19th
century, Waseda University Library, Japanese & Chinese Classics Collection. Sakurahime Zenden Akebonozōshi,
written by Santō Kyōden, Bunkeidō, 1805, vol. 1, p. 30.

In addition to the human feminine, hair has also been equally attributed to the

supernatural feminine. A number of female-specific yōkai have been largely defined by this

physical characteristic, such as the futakuchi-onna (二口女, “two-mouthed woman”), whose hair

is often shown to manifest as snake-like tentacles that help feed the second mouth on the back of

her head. The kejōrō (毛倡妓, “hairy harlot”), however, is a particularly notable example, as she

is effectively hair itself, lacking both a face and sense of body. As Toriyama Sekien illustrates

the female yōkai in his Gazu Hyakki Yagyō, the kejōrō appears little more than lengths of

voluminous hair enclosed by clothes. Compared to earlier times where tangled or loose hair

simply signified sexual power or madness, there is an evident shift in visual portrayal in which a

woman’s hair is being utilized to convey significant supernatural power. Power that she did not

have while a human woman, but now possesses as a monster. Through her hair, the monstrous

feminine is presented as something to be feared.

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Fig. 14. Illustration of futakuchi-onna (Left). Takehara Shunsensai. Ehon Hyaku monogatari [絵本百物語; “Picture
Book of a Hundred Tales”]. 1841, Smithsonian Institute, Gerhard Pulverer Collection, vol. 2, p. 19. Illustration of
kejōrō from Gazu Hyakki Yagyō (Toriyama 107) (Right).

This emphasis on hair is also seen in Japanese theatre. In the nō tradition, the wild wigs

used to perform the female onryō’s character signifies madness or possession just as much as the

distorted demonic masks the actors wear. Even before the development of kaidan-mono in

kabuki, a female character’s wig would unfurl or come at least partially undone to signify any

form of distress, emotional or physical, indicating that she had lost her sanity and become

unstable, or was about to die. For female onryō characters, however, hair in and of itself was

used to evoke her vengeful spirit. According to Zack Davisson, one of the many special effects
for kabuki used to express the supernatural “was to have stagehands underneath the stage

pushing more and more hair up through special holes” when a female onryō appeared (Yūrei 49).

Finally, as noted earlier, ghosts and the supernatural in Japan have a strong association

with water, or at least wetness, which is frequently expressed visually, not solely as a narrative

element. Although certainly vivid imagery pertaining to water is evoked in the language of nō

plays, as seen in Fujito, this is purely aural. The more literal, truly visual expression of water

connected to ghosts is not seen until later artistic, especially kabuki depictions. Renowned for its

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stage effects, some of the most spectacular of these were known as honmizu (本水, “real water”)

tricks. While the original motivation behind such stage tricks may have been an effort to cool the

audience during the intense summer months, honmizu became an effective way to express a

character’s superhuman or ghostly power. As detailed in Okyōgen Gakuya no Honsetsu [御狂言

楽屋本説; “Backstage Stories of Kabuki”],110 which contains a variety of kabuki stage effects

illustrated with diagrams and descriptions, a number of effects outline how a ghost or other

supernatural figure might appear from out of water. Almost every kaidan-mono script written by

Tsuruya Nanboku IV made use of water to this effect.

Furthermore, the performing or oral telling of kaidan was believed to create “a

psychological form of air conditioning by thoroughly chilling the [audience]” (Anderson and

Richie 262). This “chilling” effect of ghosts is considered a key motivation behind both the

tendency to stage kaidan-mono, as well as the popularity of the pastime hyakumonogatari

kaidankai during the summer, which is a tradition that persists in Japan even today. Even with

advancements such as modern air conditioning in movie theaters, many J-horror films tend to be

released in August, the time of O-bon (お盆). Also known as the Bon Festival, O-bon is a

Japanese Buddhist celebration during which one welcomes back their family’s ancestral spirits to

honor them. It is consequently a time when spirits are traditionally believed to be most active.

This parallels with the tendency in most Western countries to release horror films in October for
Halloween.111

110
A two-volume work written by Santei Shunba (Unknown-1852), each volume originally published in 1858 and

1859 respectively.
111
Although today Halloween is widely considered more of a secular holiday, traditionally it marks the beginning of
Allhallowtide, a triduum in Western Christianity similar to O-bon, during which the (Christian) dead are honored

and remembered. Originally known as All Hallows’ Eve, Halloween was believed to be the last night souls of the

departed wandered the world of the living, and for angry spirits it was their last chance to take vengeful action
99
Fig. 15. Illustration depicting the honmizu stage effect of a ghost appearing from Okyōgen Gakuya no Honsetsu
(Santei 122-23).

The effect of honmizu not only visually associates the supernatural with water, but also

effectively presents the specific image of a “wet” ghost, especially a female one. While initially

not inherently feminine, with the development of kaidan-mono, especially under Nanboku IV,

water or wetness has become increasingly associated with specifically female ghosts. This is

further indicated by the tendency for artists of the same period to not only depict ghosts or yōkai

as feminine, but also to favor drawing them in scenes of rain, especially those identified as

female-specific such as the ubume.112 While water has the potential as a source for purification,

not all water is equal in this regard, and certainly not water that has been polluted by death, nor

the “water” of a woman, as indicated by the prevailing concepts of female defilement. As women,

they are more attuned to water, or at least “wetness” or bodily fluids, especially blood. Blood

flows regularly as part of menstruation, and to give birth, life is essentially enveloped in “water”

against their enemies before moving on to the next world. This is believed to be the original purpose behind the
tradition of wearing costumes and masks during Halloween in order to escape the notice of such ghosts.
112
For a closer analytical discussion of illustrations of the ubume done by artists of the late eighteenth century

through the nineteenth century, see Yasui Manami, “Imagining the Spirits of Deceased Pregnant Women.”
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within the womb. In the case of the ubume ghost, most notably utilized by Nanboku IV as a

visual model for his female onryō, this wetness can be seen to also extend to the use of

(menstrual) blood, in reference to the chi no ike jigoku from which these female spirits are

known to suffer. This in turn can be viewed as a reflection of beliefs in the impurity or pollution

of women, as well as a precursor to the so-called “dead wet girls,”113 which will embody the new

female onryō of J-horror cinema.

II.2.3 Elements of Enactment Style

In the case of theatrical examples of ghostly portrayals, in addition to the narrative and

visual elements utilized, the manner in which figures such as the onryō are enacted is also

distinctive. For both male and female ghosts in nō and kabuki, there is a focus on using

movement to distance the supernatural from the audience as much as possible. Within the nō

tradition, this focus is discernible in the use of the overriding principle known as jo-ha-kyū (序破

急, “beginning, break, rapid”), which not only refers to the categorization and pacing of a given

play, but also applies to movement overall, as it is a pattern “visible even in one gesture in a

dance, or in the echo of one step” (Rimer and Yamazaki 138). While nō performance is overall

characterized by slow, gliding movements, when the female onryō characters finally appear,

usually in the kyū arc of the play, and act out their aggression, their movements are notably

erratic, clipped, quick, and even violent. How they move is contrary to what the established norm
is for characters, especially for the female, within the nō theatre. This emphasis of kyū also

applies to the overall pacing of plays featuring onryō, as nearly all of such plays, especially those

featuring female onryō, fall under the fourth and fifth categories, which are characterized as

more fast-paced and dynamic compared to the first three categories. In contrast to the normal

grace and subtlety, these wild movements and pacing both excite but also create distance

113
Discussed further in Chapter IV. The New Female Onryō.
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between the character and the audience as it highlights the onryō figure, especially the female as

unnatural.
Table 3 Basic Descriptions of the Five Nō Play Categories with Play Title Examples (Cited in
Dissertation)

Category of Play Play Titles

First: Shite plays role of a god, often telling the story of a shrine
[No Example]
myth or praising a spirit
Jo
Second: Shite plays role of a warrior’s ghost, often telling story of
Atsumori | Tomoe
(him) suffering regret for past actions

Third: Shite plays role of a woman’s ghost, often telling story of her
Ha Matsukaze | Uneme
suffering over lost love
Aoi no Ue | Aya no Tsuzumi |
Fourth: Shite plays role of a crazed spirit, often driven mad by some
Dōjōji | Fujito | Kanawa |
terrible situation
Kinuta
Kyū
Adachigahara | Funa Benkei
Fifth: Shite plays role of a demon, goblin, or otherworldly creature
| Momijigari

Similarly, the kabuki theatre achieves this same effect of distancing the supernatural from

its human audience through movement, except the style of movement utilized is quite contrary to

that which is implemented in nō performance. As a popular theatre form characterized for being

dynamic and exaggerated, the ghosts in kaidan-mono are shown to move with a controlled,

shuffling but seemingly effortless gait. Movement is made further otherworldly through the use

of special stage effects such as chūnori (宙乗り, “mid-air flying”), creating distance, both literal
and figurative, between the supernatural and the audience. As indicated in Okyōgen Gakuya no

Honsetsu, onryō figures, both male and female alike, were shown to be capable of things their

still-living spectators could never do, such as fly or emerge out of burning lanterns. Additionally,

the superstitious conception that ghosts did not have feet is believed to have been popularized by

theatrical enactment, especially with the performance of kaidan-mono. Actors of ghost characters

would take great care to keep their feet hidden, swallowed by the hem of their kimono, which

was kept long to better facilitate this.

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Fig. 16. Illustrations depicting the kabuki stage effects used to portray ghosts’ unnatural movement from Okyōgen
Gakuya no Honsetsu (Santei 136-37, 130-31).

With the enactment of the female onryō specifically, however, there is an additional

focus on removing her femininity through movement. In nō, this is accomplished through acts of

“disrobing.” Most plays feature some form of costume change between the first and second act,

often to signify the shite revealing their true form. As Rajyashree Pandey writes in Perfumed

Sleeves and Tangled Hair, clothes are as integral to the “constitution of a meaningful self” as the

body that wears them (35). Thus, when a female onryō discards her clothing on stage, or at least

appears with less than considered appropriate attire for a woman, she is casting aside her socially

constructed feminine self. While there is often a hint of the uroko patterned haku worn under the
folds of the female onryō’s garb in the first half of a given kijo-mono, only after she has come

out fully as herself does she shed all pretense and bare her haku for all to see.

This act of disrobing contrasts significantly with acts of “robing” performed by female

characters in nō. Instead of an assertion of self, “robing” is considered more as an act of love,

often enacted by women driven mad by grief or longing. In Matsukaze [松風; “Pining Wind”],114

114
Original text attributed to Kan’ami, but considered to be heavily revised by Zeami.
103
for example, the shite clings desperately to the court hat and hunting cloak left behind by

Yukihira, obsessing over the memories of the love the items represent:

Our love grows again,

And gathers like dew

On the tip of a leaf

So that there’s no forgetting,

Not for an instant.

Oh endless misery!

(She places the cloak in her lap.)

“This keepsake

Is my enemy now;

For without it

(She lifts the cloak)

I might forget.” (Tyler, “Matsukaze” 29)

Pandey notes the tradition of “keepsake robes” which were “believed to have the power to

connect lovers who were forced to be apart […functioning] as profoundly erotic and affective

tropes in classical and medieval texts, bridging the gap between the living and the dead and

serving as living repositories of the essence of absent loved ones” (41). Overcome with desire to
hold onto their long-lost love, Matsukaze ultimately takes to “robing,” putting on the keepsakes

as if her own. In so doing, she effectively becomes possessed as part of the narrative. While

clothes are considered to take on the character of the one who wore them, rather than become

possessed by Yukihira himself, Matsukaze is shown instead to become more possessed by

passion for Yukihira, which deludes her into believing that Yukihira has returned. Although her

act of robing is considered irrational, Matsukaze’s plight is viewed as more tragic rather than

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socially adverse, as indicated by the fact that Matsukaze is categorized as a third category instead

of as a fourth or fifth category play.115

While loss of clothing was considered tantamount to being stripped of one’s dignity and

proper sense of self, there is also something titillating about the sight of a woman who has cast

all sense of propriety away, which wholly embodies the female onryō. As nō performer Ōshima

Teruhisa shared in an interview regarding costuming, “To go out with just a haku, an

undergarment, is pretty erotic, comparable to lingerie or underwear,” and noted that this is

perhaps why the act of exposing the haku is rarely if ever enacted by male characters.116 At the

same time, however, though provocative, through her act of “disrobing” the female onryō also

increasingly sheds signs of her femininity, thus giving less of an impression that the character on

stage is in fact to be identified as a “woman.”

This removal of femininity is taken one step further in kabuki with the casting of actors

who perform the vengeful female ghost roles. Through the performances by Onoe Matsusuke I

and Onoe Kikugorō III of Tsuruya Nanboku IV’s plays, the overall use of such characters in

kabuki was revolutionized. Prior to the collaborative advances of both actors and playwright, the

vengeful female ghost characters that appeared in plays were strictly performed by the onnagata

in a given kabuki troupe. Although they certainly provided some excitement and action, these

roles rarely if ever took center stage and were left largely unfulfilled, as has been noted with
Keisei Asama ga Take. Instead, Nanboku IV’s female onryō characters were written to be

performed by kaneru yakusha (兼ねる役者, “combining actor”). Most notable was Kikugorō III,

who was not only the first and among the most famous of kaneru yakusha, but also the first to

perform the role of Oiwa, which was written specifically for him by Nanboku IV. These “all-

around” performers, capable of playing multiple role types, therefore “took over elements of

115
See Table 3 Basic Descriptions of the Five Nō Play Categories with Play Title Examples.
116
Interview conducted June 17, 2018.
105
[kabuki] performance – the settling of household struggle or the perpetration of revenge – that

had previously been reserved for male roles” (S. Shimazaki 216). This shift allowed these

resentful female ghost characters the freedom to fully act out their aggression by becoming the

direct agents of vengeance, openly expressing their grievances and committing acts of torture

and murder to satisfy their thirst for justice.

Assigning these characters to performers other than the onnagata, whose goal was to

strive to enact the ultimate feminine ideal, highlights how “non-feminine” the actions of the

female onryō are. In the Yakusha Rongo [役者論語; “The Actors’ Analects”], a renowned

treatise on kabuki acting compiled in the seventeenth and early eighteenth century, Yoshizawa

Ayame I’s thoughts on what is essential in performing as an onnagata, were published in a

section titled Ayamegusa [菖蒲草; “The Words of Ayame”], and illustrates this concept of a

gendered divide in behavior. As translated by Charles Dunn and Bunzō Torigoe, according to

Ayame I:

If one who is an onnagata gets the idea that if he does not do so well in his chosen career

he can change to a tachiyaku, this is an immediate indication that his art has turned to

dust. A real woman must accept the fact that she cannot become a man. Can you imagine

a real woman being able to turn into a man because she is unable to endure her present

state? (55)
It is important to acknowledge that the concept of gender is not in fact a strict binary but a

spectrum, awareness of which has become increasingly more widespread in present day.

However, the ready acceptance of such concepts regarding what defines a “real” woman

compared to a man, as reflected in popular theatre traditions like kabuki, is indicative of views of

expected feminine conduct, as prescribed by contemporaneous society. As female onryō

performed by kaneru yakusha, actors who by taking on both female and male role types are,

according to Ayame I, unable to fully perform a “real” woman on stage, their actions as female

106
characters are dissociated from the feminine ideal being promoted on stage via the onnagata.

While this casting makes it possible for such female characters to behave more aggressively, at

the same time it further removes or at least distances the female onryō from what is recognizable

as feminine, making it less likely for the female spectator to emulate.

Dissociating acts of aggression from femininity is also apparent in the casting of other

plays in the kabuki tradition. The play Kagamiyama Kokyō no Nishiki-e [加賀見山旧錦絵;

“Mirror Mountain: A Women’s Treasury of Loyalty”]117 is a notable example of this, as it

features strong and highly aggressive female characters, both villainous and virtuous, where the

villainous female is customarily enacted by male-role specializing tachiyaku (立役, “standing

role”) instead of onnagata. As noted in Kabuki Plays on Stage, while characters such as the

righteous and loyal maidservant Ohatsu, who was raised as a samurai, are still portrayed by an

onnagata, by having the villainous Iwafuji, who drives Ohatsu’s mistress Onoe to suicide, be

performed by a tachiyaku, “the more overt masculinity of such actors brings a menacing sense of

power to the women they portray” (Brandon and Leiter 2: 175). Although still performed by an

onnagata, it is important to note that in Kagamiyama even characters like Ohatsu are shown to

exhibit power. Not only are these characters shown to be emotionally and socially aggressive,

but they are also shown to be physically violent, as Ohatsu in the end is able to avenge her

mistress Onoe by dueling and killing Iwafuji. As Ohatsu’s actions resemble far more of a
samurai’s devotion than a simple maidservant’s, her enactment of aggression and violence

appears to be contrary to the supposed tenets of feminine performance, as according to Ayame I:

“the onnagata role has its basis in charm and even one who has innate beauty, if he seeks to

make a fine show in a fighting scene, will lose the femininity of his performance” (Dunn and

Torigoe 53). While this may imply that despite being performed by an onnagata, Ohatsu exhibits

117
Originally written and performed for ningyō jōruri in 1782, later adapted for the kabuki theatre by Yō Yōtai

(dates unknown) the following year.

107
non-feminine behavior, throughout the play what is emphasized above all else is her feminine

virtue. Her virtuousness is what sustains her character, what allows her to “maintain her feminine

charm and composure even while fighting” (Brandon and Leiter 2: 175). This attribution of

virtue to roles played by the onnagata, compared to the villainousness attributed to roles like

Iwafuji in Kagamiyama, in turn extends to portrayals of female onryō in kabuki. While Ohatsu is

shown to be aggressive, even violent, by being performed by an onnagata she is still shown to be

virtuous and thus is seen as a heroine by the audience. Lacking this clear association with virtue,

the female onryō’s own moral status is made questionable, further discouraging spectator

emulation.

Lastly, in terms of enacting the classic female onryō, what is distinctive is that through

transformation, though she may gain the ability to become an active agent of vengeance, she

often goes “unheard.” In nō, the shite is typically given time and space to air her grievances;

however, not all characters are created equal in this respect, nor granted the same level of

opportunity to do so. The story of the female onryō in Dōjōji, for example, is almost entirely

relayed to the audience by others, namely the abbot of the temple Dōjōji. Even after she emerges

transformed, she does not get to speak for herself. In comparison, the wife of Lord Ashiya in

Kinuta, whose obsessive love for her husband has resulted in her soul’s damnation and torment,

for which she becomes full of hatred and accuses him of indifference, is not only permitted to tell
her story herself, but is also able to directly confront her husband:

Husband I so love, it was two lives

you pledged to me, as man and wife will do,

and swore devotion for a thousand ages,

till seas swallow the inviolate mountains.

Yet your vows were empty.

They were lies.

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 Was that really all your love was worth? (Tyler, Japanese Nō Dramas 169)

The disparity in social status may be one of the reasons for differences in opportunity to speak;

however, even in the case of Kinuta, although the shite character is able to express herself more

freely than in Dōjōji, it is still a one-sided conversation with no reaction or response from her

husband. This contrasts with the male onryō of the old man gardener in Aya no Tsuzumi, in

which the target of his resentment, the imperial consort, is shown to respond (“Horror, horror! /

What have I done?”), her words expressed aloud, implying that the male onryō has been heard

(Tyler, Japanese Nō Dramas 56).

In kabuki, opportunity for the classic female onryō to express herself is even more rare

than in nō, and often occurs more through taking direct action towards the target of her bitterness.

These actions are often punctuated by music or other sound effects. Often in place of words, the

rhythmic thundering of drums coupled with the eerie lilting sound of a flute is utilized to denote

the presence of the supernatural, both for female and male ghosts. This effect of “soundscaping”

an onryō’s resentment for the audience in place of explicit words will be increasingly seen in

film, especially in later J-horror. One might argue that actions speak louder than words and so

her character being granted the space to vocally air her grievances is unnecessary. As a victim,

however, there is something almost cathartic in being able to verbalize incurred trauma. Having

the female onryō’s story be properly heard is what makes it possible to understand and
empathize with her, and arguably opens the way for her ultimately being able to find peace.

II.3 ANALYZING STAGE AND LITERARY PORTRAYALS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE

ONRYŌ

II.3.1 In Nō
II.3.1.1 Kanawa
The monstrous wife female onryō of Kanawa is perhaps one of the best personifications

of the potency as well as the “dangers” of female power in the nō theatre. Based largely on the

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“Hashihime” anecdote in the Tsurugi no Maki auxiliary chapter of the Heike Monogatari, which

details a jealous noblewoman transforming herself into a living kijo for revenge, Kanawa makes

a number of references to the original narrative. Upon closer examination of differences in the

woman’s characterization and portrayal of her story, however, an inherently different, potentially

didactic message for the female spectator of the nō play emerges.

The most indicative of these differences is the emphasis on and utilization of the

monstrous wife role type in and of itself. In the play, an unnamed woman makes a pilgrimage to

Kibune Shrine118 night after night to curse her husband out of resentment over him divorcing her

and taking a new wife. In answer to her prayers, the woman is delivered an oracle by the gods,

which contains ritual instructions on how she can turn herself into a demon to exact vengeance.

Soon after, her former husband becomes plagued by horrible nightmares and seeks out Abe no

Seimei, for guidance. Seimei informs the husband of the woman’s curse and the danger it poses

to both him and his new wife. Ultimately, Seimei holds a ceremony to attempt to exorcise the

woman’s vengeful spirit and save the couple’s lives.

Like the Tsurugi no Maki chapter, the shite of Kanawa exhibits not just jealousy but a

strong intent to punish her ex-husband who has cast her aside for another woman. In the original

“Hashihime” anecdote, however, there is little in the text to indicate the noblewoman has a

marital relationship with the man in question. In A.L. Sadler’s translation of Heike Monogatari,
she is described simply as the “daughter of a certain Courtier of high rank [who] was so

overcome by jealousy” that she secluded herself for seven days at Kibune Shrine to pray to be

changed into a demon (327). While one might infer her reasons based on context, the lack of any

elaboration as to the circumstances of her relationship with the man she is targeting results in

limited understanding of her violent rage. Consequently, the extent of the character’s furious

118
Located on Mount Kurama, in the northern outskirts of present day Kyoto. Kibune Shrine is popularly associated

with the ushi no koku mairi cursing ritual.

110
onslaught in the Tsurugi no Maki chapter seems disproportionate, as she goes on to “seize and

slay not only the woman of whom she was jealous and the man who had spurned her, but all their

relations and [connections], high and low, male and female” (Sadler 327-28). In contrast, by

being contextualized as a wife in Kanawa, to some extent she is framed in a more sympathetic

light. The audience understands that she has been betrayed in some way by the man, and thus her

desire for “retribution” is perhaps not as irrational as her Tsurugi no Maki counterpart.

This emphasis of the wife role in the nō play compared to the original text is indicative of

a shift in focus in female character portrayal. Though the author of Kanawa is unknown, the play

is sometimes attributed to Zeami Motokiyo, which tentatively places its writing during the early

to mid-Muromachi period, well after the Tsurugi no Maki text, which dates from the mid-

thirteenth century. Additionally, while the events of the play itself appear to be set during the

Heian period, as indicated by the inclusion Abe no Seimei, who is not present in the “Hashihime”

anecdote of Tsurugi no Maki, the focus on the woman’s marriage in Kanawa reflects more of the

values placed on women in medieval Japanese society. According to Janet Goodwin, by the

fourteenth century the ruling government “came to favor male unigeniture over partible

inheritance patterns and began to restrict the rights of women” accordingly (9). With the shift in

focus on patrilineal descent patterns, the woman’s role, in both the household and society at large,

came to be shaped almost entirely by her marriage. Thus, in Kanawa, despite deriving its
inspiration from earlier texts and being set during the Heian period, it is the woman’s role and

her conduct as a wife that comes under censure and serves as the major conflict of the play.

Furthermore, in Kanawa the woman does not exhibit murderous intent from the onset,

unlike the “Hashihime” anecdote, and instead comes into her own as a monstrous wife over the

course of the play’s narrative. Although she has prayed fervently for her ex-husband to be

punished “not in some future life […] but in this world,” she still approaches Kibune Shrine with

a passive, “quiet heart,” rather than a heart burning with passionate, murderous fury (Kato 198).

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When the shite first appears, she presents as a woman so forlorn over loss of love she is on the

verge of disappearing from konoyo altogether as she approaches Kibune Shrine:

In the dead of night,

Along the river bank at Tadasu.

Plunged in the darkness of my troubled mind,

Heedlessly I go by deep and muddy pools,

Knowing no joy in life, sure that death

Will soon dissolve my weary body. (Kato 198)

Once the oracle is relayed to her in answer to her prayers, however, this passive figure suffering

in silence gives way to a woman of aggression. Chafing under the social expectations of both her

domestic role as a wife but also as a woman, she chooses to embrace actively punishing her

former husband, and even convinces herself that she is “right” to be doing so:

It is right I take swift vengeance

On people who have wronged me so.

They say that those who, for love,

Throw themselves into the Kamo River,

Are doomed to sink and never rise again, […]

Not I! I am the burning firefly

Grazing the shallows of Kibune River. […]

Ah! I am filled with hate!

When I pledged to be your wife

I thought that, like the jeweled camellia flower,

Our love would last a thousand ages, […]

Why did you abandon me this way? (Kato 202)

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Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to temper her feelings and simply go quietly as others in her

similar position have done, she chooses violent retribution over fading away.

It is her choosing to act upon her desires and feelings of bitterness that effectively vilifies

her character for the audience. If she had chosen to drown herself in the Kamo river, the

woman’s passionate devotion to her husband might be lauded and even valued, for as Wakita

Haruko notes, even during the Heian period, where in court society it was common practice for a

man to have several publicly recognized partners, “in much of Heian literature, […] the vice of

adultery for women is strongly conveyed” (85). Because of the strength of her attachments and

her refusal to defer to her husband, however, she is cast as the villain of the play. As Janet

Goodwin describes, during the same Heian period and throughout the subsequent Kamakura

period, it was readily accepted that “[court] marriages were not necessarily permanent,” with

divorce and remarriage a frequent occurrence for both nobleman and woman as “there was no

unconditional ban on remarriage for divorced women or widows” of the time (9).

Furthermore, given the legal act of divorce is typically at the man’s discretion, albeit

perhaps coldhearted, in views of both society and audiences of the time, the man in Kanawa has

not committed any serious transgression warranting such vengeance. This may account for the

ex-husband’s lack of contrition or guilt when he seeks guidance from the “diviner” onmyōji Abe

no Seimei:
MAN. I live in the Lower City. Lately I have been troubled by continuous nightmares, so

I have come to consult you.

DIVINER. I see. This is most unusual. But there is no need to resort to divination. You

have fallen victim to the jealous hatred of a woman. Your life would appear to be in

danger this very night. Might this be the case?

MAN. I have nothing to conceal. I divorced my first wife and married another woman.

Do you think that could be it?

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 DIVINER. Yes, I believe it is. The woman you divorced has, by her repeated prayers to

the gods and Buddhas, secured an end to your life this very night. (Kato 200)

The lack of reaction to the admission of divorce from Seimei further supports the view that the

man has not done anything particularly deserving of censure. In fact, although the husband does

not elaborate as to the reasons, given how unabashed he is, it is likely that he divorced the

woman for at least a socially acceptable reason. The female onryō character of Kanawa is thus

portrayed as a woman committing a transgression of normative behavior. By actively rejecting

rather than accepting the social norms and expectations of her role as a wife, she is rendered

abject for the audience as she fully transforms into a monstrous wife so she can murder her

former husband.

Her “monstrous” transformation as witnessed by the audience is actually the focus of the

play’s narrative. It also serves as the vehicle through which the inherent message regarding

socially acceptable behavior for women is conveyed. As the audience watches the woman on

stage step from the passive into the active, in so doing she crosses the boundaries of acceptable

femininity. Her transformation in both Tsurugi no Maki and Kanawa is portrayed as particularly

monstrous for, unlike many depictions of female onryō in both Japanese premodern literature

and the nō theatre, she not only commits an act of willing self-destruction of her image in order

to transform herself into a kijo, but she also does so while still among the living. As described in
Tsurugi no Maki:

[…she] divided her long hair into five tresses, and made it into five horns. She put

vermillion on her face, and reddened her body, on her head she placed a tripod, to the

legs of which she fastened torches, holding also in her mouth another torch flaming at

both ends. […When people] saw her thus with face and body red and eyebrows painted

thick and black with dye, while five jets of flame flared out from her head, they never

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 doubted that she was a demon, and fell down in the streets beside themselves with fear,

some even dying in the excess of their terror. (Sadler 327)

Although there is no doubt in anyone’s mind who witnesses her destroyed image that they have

seen a demon, she was still distinctly a woman, at least at one point during her transformation,

thus begging the question of when did the “woman” end, and the “demon” begin?

In Kanawa, the signs of her transformation are almost immediate, as she begins to change

while the attendant at Kibune Shrine is relaying the oracle in answer to her prayers. In the

Japanese verse, he refers to her as having a bijo no katachi (美女の容), implying his doubts as to

whether the woman before him is indeed a “woman,” or merely possesses the “shape” (katachi)

of a beautiful lady (bijo). As he speaks to her, “everything about her [begins] to look sinister”

and he becomes overcome with fear:

In less time than it takes to tell,

Her whole appearance has changed.

She was a beautiful lady,

But now her raven hair stands on end;

It bristles skyward! (Kato 199)

This is perhaps where the fear, even the horror, of her narrative emerges, as the lines between

woman and monster are virtually imperceptible. Her intent to accept the oracle and do as it
instructs is enough for her to begin to change, even before she has physically done anything to

herself. However subtle, it is important that the changes she undergoes are observed as part of

the narrative, as her transformation both highlights the woman she was as well as what she has

become.

As an integral element of her transformative process, water, namely a river, figures quite

prominently in the female onryō’s narrative. This is especially apparent in the Tsurugi no Maki

text, wherein the woman completes her ritual of transforming into a kijo by going “to the Uji

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[River] and [bathing] herself in its waters […] whereupon […she is] transformed living into a

demon” (Sadler 327). Upon entering the river, she sheds her remaining vestiges of humanity to

fully become the monstrous feminine. Water, especially a flowing body of water like a river, can

thus be viewed as a liminal space where the woman is seen to transgress boundaries. Even in the

nō play Kanawa, which does not directly reference the Uji River, the shite is shown to traverse a

river, specifically the Kurama River, on her way to Kibune Shrine, which instigates her

transformation: “In darkness I go by Kurama River / I cross the bridge, and soon / I have arrived

at the shrine of Kibune” (Kato 198). Although it should be acknowledged that the utilization of

rivers, or in this case bridges, may also be related to setsuwa associations with oni, the narrative

focus on water indicates the importance of its connection to the supernatural, especially the

supernatural feminine. While water has not as of yet come to define a role type in its entirety, as

is seen more so with the proto-dead wet girl and the later emergence of the dead wet girl herself,

given the mutable qualities of water, especially a flowing body of water like a river, this may

account for how often entering water, especially crossing a river, figures into the transformation

of the female onryō’s narrative, regardless of role type.

Although transformation is entirely willful on the female onryō’s part, one might argue

that had it not been for the gods answering her prayers, effectively enabling her to act out her

vengeance, the events of Kanawa may not have transpired as they do. The oracle relayed to her
include specific instructions such as assuming a mindset of unrestrained anger:

怒る心を持つならば、忽ち鬼神と御なりあろうずる119

“If you adopt an enraged heart, you shall become a demonic god in an instant”

Translated by Eileen Kato as “let her heart be consumed with anger” in Twenty Plays of the Nō

Theatre, this contrasts significantly with her original state of “quiet-heartedness” (心静か) at the

opening of the play (197). This may explain why despite her willing acceptance of the oracle, she

119
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
116
still harbors some sympathetic feelings for her ex-husband even in the thick of her jealous

hatred:

Now he will learn what retribution means. […]

Tonight his life must end!

Tonight he shall die!

But ah! I still feel pity for him! (Kato 203)

At the same time, however, she is punished and censured by the very same gods who answered

her prayers. Although vestiges of the woman and her capacity for feeling sympathy remains, she

is likened to an “evil spirit” (akki, 悪鬼)120 warranting little to no sympathy or clemency in

return:

Faithless man! I’ll snatch you off with me!

She draws near the pallet where he lies, […]

So the gods rebuke her, and she rages! […]

She loses the man she loves, and worse –

She has incurred the wrath of all the gods. (Kato 204)

Rather than other female onryō characters, or even other monstrous wives, who are more often

driven across the line between woman and monster due to some unfortunate circumstance, she

presents as a woman who willingly stepped over that line. The gods may have answered her
prayers and given her instructions as to how she might attain power and exact vengeance, but

that does not indicate their permission. Thus, her decision to act out the willing self-destruction

of her image is still viewed as an active rejection and defiance of social norms which incurs the

rebuke and “wrath of all the gods.” This may explain the depicted reactions to her behavior as

exceptionally transgressive and consequently deserving of harsh reproval as part of the narrative.

120
In the Japanese script, the word used to refer to the female character can also be translated as “demon” or more

literally, an “evil oni.”

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This is echoed by characters both divine and human alike, as indicated by Abe no Seimei’s

words in preparation for the exorcism ceremony:

Since the very beginning of creation, when, upon the rock throne of Heaven, our

Heavenly Ancestors, Izanagi and Izanami, celebrated their august marriage, men and

women have been joined in wedlock; and yin and yang, the way of male and female, has

come down from ancient times. Why, then, should evil spirits interfere and take a

couple’s lives before their allotted span has run its course? (Kato 201)

Despite being herself a (former) wife and woman, her actions have made her underserving of

being regarded or respected as such. Though she should accept that her marriage has come to an

end, and her husband has wed another, she violently refuses and even seeks to disrupt the

established order. As such, she is no longer recognized as a human, but an “evil spirit.”

The female onryō’s transformation from the passive into the active, from the socially

normative to the monstrous wife, can in turn be viewed as a reflection on the potential dangers

posed by a woman who attempts to penetrate the more public spheres of society. By refusing to

keep her affairs private and remain unseen, by choosing to come out into the open, she makes a

spectacle of herself. This emphasis is perhaps most apparent in the Tsurugi no Maki text, as the

woman-turned-kijo not only enters the public eye, but also becomes a matter of public concern as

after her initial vengeance, she proceeds to lay siege to the capital itself, threatening its entire
populace attacking at random:

[…] fear seized on all, and from the Sovereign to the common people everyone was in

indescribable confusion and panic […] so that all the people of the Capital of all ranks

shut the doors of their houses after the Hour of the Monkey, […] and would neither go

forth nor allow anyone to come in. (Sadler 327-28)

Such a woman who makes a spectacle of herself is not only horrific but equally terrifying due to

the strength she gains by doing so. Ultimately, it takes the likes of legendary samurai Watanabe

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no Tsuna wielding a sacred sword to defeat the public threat her demonic figure poses. Even in

defeating her, however, he fails in killing the demon, only driving it away by cutting off an arm

(Sadler 329-31).

Similarly, in Kanawa, although she is rebuked by the gods, the female onryō is shown to

possess powers so formidable that even Abe no Seimei, a semi-legendary figure reputed for

being one of the greatest onmyōji and exorcists in Japanese folklore, admits that his incantations

are “powerless” against her (Kato 200). Although in the end her murderous vengeance is

thwarted, and thus the threat she poses is perhaps more contained within the play than the

original Tsurugi no Maki text, Abe no Seimei is still not able to fully rid konoyo of the woman’s

“evil spirit,” and she makes promises to return:

The wheel has turned and I have lost;

I must wait until it comes full circle.

Then my turn may come again.

But now I must go back. (Kato 204)

Like her Tsurugi no Maki counterpart, the power she has gained by coming into clear view and

demanding to be seen proves too formidable for even the likes of men. Not even a man who,

according to legend, was himself part yōkai.

Consequently, the most that can done to deprive her of power is to mitigate her threat to
society by rendering her invisible:

言ふ声ばかり聞こえて姿は、[…] 目に見えぬ鬼となりにけり121

“Now a figure who is just a voice that can still be heard […] she is but an unseen demon”

As the saying goes, by being put “out of sight,” she is also placed “out of mind” – namely, the

minds of men. Eileen Kato has taken to expressing this more overtly in her translation of the

121
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
119
same passage by specifically indicating those who are “unseeing” (目に見えぬ) the woman’s

“evil spirit” to be men:

Only her voice is clearly heard;

The demon now is invisible.

She has passed beyond the sight of men,

An evil spirit beyond the sight of men. (204)

Although the potential danger she poses to (male) public society still remains as she is left not

fully defeated at the end of the play, by being forced to be hidden or something unseen again, her

presence is made less of a threat.

In terms of imagery as well as enactment, this emphasis on the power of sight and

revelation of the female onryō and her true nature is equally apparent. At the opening of the play,

the shite traditionally appears wearing a wide-brimmed hat that mostly covers the feminine

features of her mask. She keeps herself hidden, even initially denies that she is the woman meant

to receive the oracle by the gods. As she comes into her own and embraces her decision to exact

vengeance, however, she reveals more and more of herself. By the climax during the second half

of the play, she has fully exposed her features and shed the outer layers of her clothing to reveal

her haku. Unlike other nō plays featuring female onryō characters, however, the mask used for

the woman of Kanawa once transformed is typically the namanari (see Fig. 11, left), sometimes
the hashihime (橋姫, “princess of the bridge”) mask. Unlike the hannya mask, the mask used in

Kanawa is meant to denote a woman on the verge of becoming a demon, which may explain the

diminished presence or, in the case of the hashihime mask, conspicuous lack of horns. In place of

this, her wearing of a “tripod crown” made of iron with “three blazing firebrands” can be viewed

as a reflection of the horns that are growing within, or that have been there all along.

At the same time, the lack of “actual” horns like those found on the hannya mask make

the audience increasingly aware of the “woman” before them making a spectacle of herself.

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Although they recognize her “horns” to be an artifice to an extent, her unwomanly behavior

makes her less and less recognizable as a woman in the eyes of society. By bringing herself more

and more out into the open, she is also shedding further markers of her femininity, namely

through the act of discarding articles of clothing. To signify the beginning of her transformation

into an onryō at the end of the first act of the play, as she willingly accepts the oracle, not only

does the shite remove her hat, but she suddenly breaks into a brief, furious dance, ending with

her spinning in circles. Her final action before leaving the stage is violently throwing the hat,

casting aside what had up until this point kept her so hidden and subdued.

Furthermore, the actions of the monstrous wife of Kanawa once she appears fully

transformed, are characterized as at least unnatural if not non-feminine altogether. Compared to

her movements in the first half of the play, the actions she takes during the climax where she

comes to exact her vengeance and murder her former husband and rival, are particularly striking

as they are more physical and direct. Her actions are clearly readable as mimetic rather than

stylized movements imbued with meaning by the accompanying script, as is more common of

enactment in nō. Twisted by jealousy and resentment, the shite is seen taking up the hair of the

one whom she believes to be the new wife. She twists the hair in her hand, runs her fingers

through the tresses, but then strikes the hair with her rod as if cutting it. While in the text the

audience is informed that the onmyōji Abe no Seimei has made use of straw effigies to serve as
surrogates to try and divert the vengeance of the monstrous wife and redirect her curse, on stage

by using the props of a samurai hat and a wig to represent the husband and his new wife

respectively, the visual impression is given that the shite is committing serious violence to an

“actual” woman, consequently dehumanizing herself for the audience.

In some performances of Kanawa, this emphasis on clothing and “disrobing” to remove

her femininity and distance her from the audience is taken even further. In the candle-lit “Spica

Nō” performance held at the Sapporo Media Park Spica in 2004, the traditionally used hat was

121
replaced entirely with a robe which she wore over her head upon entering the stage, completely

obscuring her image from view. Although unorthodox, the choice of a robe is partially informed

by the text as the shite herself makes poetic reference to the article when she first appears in the

play:

日も数そひて恋衣、貴船の宮に参らん122

“Counting the days wrapped and bound by love, I go to pray at Kibune Shrine”

The most overt of these references can be found in the phrase koigoromo (恋衣), which likens

the feeling of being caught up in love (koi) to wearing it as one would wear a robe (goromo). The

opening words himo (日も) which translate as “days” can also be read as a homonym for the ties

for a robe, which further evokes this imagery, both of which are utilized in Eileen Kato’s

translation of Kanawa:

As the days unfold and pass,

My love becomes a robe

Whose fastenings ever multiply

To hold and bind me (197)

The robe worn in the Spica performance of Kanawa supports this view of the robe as a visual

metaphor for what constricts and oppresses her character, echoed in spoken verse. As she throws

off the robe that had up until that point kept her unseen and the audience is shown the woman’s
face, they witness her cease being a woman and become a demon.

122
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
122
Fig. 17. Screenshots of “disrobing” from video recording of “Spica Nō” Kanawa performance.

II.3.1.2 Aoi no Ue
For both the nō theatre and Japanese classical literature, the Lady Rokujō is perhaps the

best-known example of the classic female onryō archetype, especially the murderous lover role,

in terms of her narrative and characterization. Of the nō plays that feature a vengeful ghost

character, she is one of the few female shite who explicitly refers to herself as an onryō in her

play, Aoi no Ue:

これは六条の御息所の怨霊なり123

“I am the onryō of Rokujō no Miyasudokoro”124

While other female vengeful figures such as the one found in Kanawa can certainly be defined as

onryō even without naming herself as such, with her explicit declaration is the far more overt

intent of vengeance, coupled with an acknowledgement on Rokujō’s part of the nature of her

own behavior. Considered to be the oldest and most popular of existing nō plays based on

Murasaki Shikibu’s Genji Monogatari, Aoi no Ue largely concerns the chapter in which the Lady

Rokujō, as an ikiryō, subconsciously attacks the principal wife of the young Genji, referred to as

123
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
124
Her full title as written in Genji Monogatari, most often referred to as the Lady Rokujō due to her residence
being on “Sixth Avenue.” Miyasudokoro, which literally translates to the “emperor’s resting area,” was a title

typically given to an imperial princess, or to a lady serving at the imperial court who was lower rank than the

empress.
123
“Aoi,”125 in retaliation for being slighted as his lover. In comparison to her portrayal in the novel,

however, there are notable changes in how the Lady Rokujō character is depicted in the nō play,

especially in terms of her motivations for appearing as an onryō. This suggests a shift in both

social views of women of the time as well as utilization of the classic female onryō figure.

The most distinctive difference in Rokujō’s characterization as a murderous lover is the

actual spiritual state of her character. In the nō play Aoi no Ue, a nameless courtier explains to

the audience that the Lady Aoi has been possessed by a malicious spirit, and none of the rites

performed to cure her have worked. At a loss for what to do, the courtier calls on the female

medium Teruhi to perform a summoning ritual to discern the identity of what torments Aoi, be it

living or dead. Shortly after, the spirit is revealed to be Rokujō, who has possessed Aoi out of

intense jealousy. With Aoi’s life in peril, the courtier sends for a “holy man” from Yokawa126 to

perform an exorcism.

In Genji Monogatari, unlike Genji’s other women, Rokujō is characterized as having a

great sense of dignity and an indomitable spirit for revenge, both in life and in death. Prior to the

events of the “Aoi” chapter, Rokujō’s wandering spirit has already struck out violently at Yūgao,

a lower-ranked lady who contributed to Genji’s disinterest in Rokujō. As described in Royall

Tyler’s translation of Genji Monogatari:

Late in the evening he [Genji] dozed off to see a beautiful woman seated by his pillow.
She said “You are a wonder to me, but you do not care to visit me: no, you bring a

tedious creature here and lavish yourself upon her. It is hateful of you and very wrong.”

She began shaking the woman [Yūgao] beside him […] (Shikibu 67)

125
Occasionally translated as “heartvine” in reference to both the plant’s heart-shaped leaves and the
contemporaneous spelling of the word being afuhi (あふひ), which is homophonous for “a meeting between lovers.”
126
The northernmost part of the Enryaku-ji temple complex on top of Mount Hiei, located in present day Kyoto

prefecture.
124
Not only does Rokujō’s ikiryō bring about the deaths of both Yūgao and Aoi, but even in death

her spirit remains in konoyo to exact vengeance on Genji by possessing and ultimately killing

Murasaki, the most beloved and treasured of his romantic liaisons.

Unlike Genji Monogatari, however, in the nō play the Lady Rokujō is presented as a

spirit of one deceased, rather than as an ikiryō as in the “Aoi” chapter of the original novel. As

she appears before Teruhi in Aoi no Ue, her words express the anguish of her karmic

attachments:

Riding the Three Vehicles of the Law

Others may escape the Burning House.

Mine is but a cart

In ruins like Yūgao’s house;

I know not how to flee my passions. […]

Like an ox-drawn cart, this weary world

Rolls endlessly on the wheels of retribution. (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature

928)

Rokujō’s passions for Genji, the object of her obsessions, resulting resentment towards Aoi, and

desire for revenge, all of which seem to have outlived her own lifetime, cause her to both linger

as well as continue to suffer in konoyo for her sins of attachment. Caught in an endless cycle, she
finds herself unable to move on and be at peace.

Passion-fueled jealousy is largely considered the foremost motive for the classic female

onryō, especially within nō theatre portrayals, and the same level of passions Lady Rokujō

harbors are also present in the novel. Given her actions towards other female characters, such as

Yūgao and Aoi, her vengeance appears to be motivated largely by passionate jealousy of Genji’s

other lovers. Upon closer examination of Rokujō’s conduct throughout Genji Monogatari, both

living and dead, it becomes evident that Rokujō exhibits more a desire to protect against damage

125
to her dignity rather than a desire to regain Genji’s attentions. As described in the novel, Rokujō

is a highly educated older woman of high birth who, if not for her husband’s untimely death,

would have become Empress. Such a woman must be in possession of a lot of pride, as can be

inferred by her refusal to be relegated to concubine status in the currently ruling Emperor’s

entourage. Rather than consenting to a status that is beneath her, she decides to leave the court

altogether and spend the rest of her days with her daughter in a house just outside the capital.

It is this pride that is identified by Genji as a critical flaw of Rokujō’s character as a

woman. While initially this reserve was a source of titillation and intrigue, posing as a great

challenge to overcome, once he had succeeded in getting her to surrender herself to him:

[…] he had changed and taken most unfortunately to treating her like any other woman.

One wonders why there lived on in him nothing of the reckless passion that had

possessed him when he first began courting her. She herself, who suffered excessively

from melancholy, feared at the same time that rumors of an affair already embarrassing

because of their difference in age would soon be in circulation, and she spent many a

bitter night, when he failed to come, despairing over her troubles. (Shikibu 59-60)

Rather than be outright pining for Genji, Rokujō is more concerned about the effect of such a

scandalous affair on her reputation, which she prizes above all else. Based solely on her

extraordinarily high social position, she should be entitled to the utmost level of respect. As a
woman, however, this does not play in her favor and her attitude is viewed as being too prideful

and unbefitting to Genji, who then turns his attention to more desirable partners such as Yūgao,

unknowingly incurring her supernatural wrath:

How strange a love this is! And on Rokujō, what a state she must be in! She above all

stirred his guilt, and he understood her anger, however painful it might be. The more

fondly he dwelled on the artless innocence [Yūgao] before him, the more he longed to rid

her [Rokujō] a little of the pride that so unsettled him. (Shikibu 66)

126
Although Genji is not completely devoid of guilt, which he himself acknowledges, he is still put

off by her prideful air and believes it to be in excess.

Furthermore, it is arguably an injury to her pride, rather than outright jealousy, that

provokes Rokujō into targeting Genji’s principal wife Aoi in Genji Monogatari. The inciting

incident that leads to Aoi’s possession in the “Aoi” chapter is generally accepted to be the Kamo

Festival,127 which both Rokujō and Aoi attend out of a secret desire to see Genji as part of the

proceedings. Unlike Aoi, however, the Lady Rokujō has chosen to attend incognito in an

unassuming carriage out of concern of being seen in public. Not only is she identified, but her

carriage is also forcefully ejected from its spot by members of Aoi’s entourage to make way for

her own carriage, and Rokujō is left mortified:

By the time all the carriages were in place [the Lady Rokujō’s] had been pushed behind

the least of the gentlewomen’s, and she had no view at all. She was not only outraged but

extremely put out that she had been recognized after all. With her shaft benches broken

and her carriage shafts now resting willy-nilly on the wheel hubs of other carriages, she

looked so ridiculous that she rued her folly and wondered helplessly why she had ever

come. (Shikibu 167)

As much as she is concerned with how she appears to others, however, she is still shown to be

attached to Genji, as she “knew how badly she would miss him if she were to actually break with
him” (Shikibu 171). Despite being keenly aware of how much continuing her relationship with

Genji will damage her reputation and image, she is tormented by her inner conflict of pride and

love. It is this torment from which she had sought relief by attending the Kamo Festival in the

first place, only to be met with even deeper mortification.

127
Although the official name still remains the Kamo Festival due to its continued association with the Shimogamo

and Kamigamo Shrines, the festival is referred to more often as the Aoi Festival in present day Japan.
127
 Rather than be focused on cultivating her feminine image, Rokujō is almost entirely

concerned with how she might be viewed being in a relationship with Genji, who is far beneath

her status. Her excessive amount of pride and consequent efforts to uphold her image are

resented by Genji. As she asserts herself to him and makes demands on their relationship, she

also emphasizes the disparity in status between them, effectively placing the man beneath the

woman. This implies that in the Heian court society of Genji Monogatari, even during a time

when the noblewoman enjoyed the most “power” in terms of rights, she was still expected to

sublimate her own will for the man, and refusal to do so was a serious failing on the woman’s

part.

Although Rokujō is also portrayed in the nō play as a woman preoccupied by how she

appears to others, implying a similar conflict of pride within her character, it is not to the same

extent as in the novel. Like the Genji Monogatari, albeit oblique, references to the carriage

incident in Aoi no Ue indicate the degree of its impact on the Lady Rokujō’s onryō, and how it

serves as the impetus for her vengeful actions. Throughout the play, the shite speaks of a “cart”

(車), or carriage, and its parts such as the wheels as a metaphor for her torment numerous times.

When she first appears after being summoned by Teruhi, Rokujō makes reference to the manner

in which she attended the festival and the attached “shame” of the incident:

あら恥ずかしや今とても、忍び車の我が姿128
“Ah, how shameful it is to come now like I did before, appearing in a concealed carriage”

To Teruhi, too, it is apparent that the effect of the event has also influenced how the spirit

presents herself, as is clear in the way the medium describes Rokujō’s appearance to the courtier:

How strange! I see a gentle-born lady,

Though I know not who she is,

Riding in a decrepit cart,

128
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
128
 And one who seems a waiting-maid,

Clutching the shaft of the ox-less cart (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature 929)

While Rokujō is still ashamed by her unsightly appearance, she does not express the same

indignation over her damaged reputation as she does in Genji Monogatari. Rather than feeling

bitterness over public humiliation and mortification in her past life, her lamentations in Aoi no

Ue are more nostalgic, even melancholy:

In days of old when I moved in society,

On spring mornings I was invited

To the flower feasts at the palace,

And on autumn nights

I viewed the moon in the royal garden.

Happily thus I spent my days

Among bright hues and scents.

Fallen in life, today I am no more

Than a morning glory that withers with the rising of the sun. (Shirane, Traditional

Japanese Literature 930)

Unlike in Genji Monogatari, Rokujō is seen more to be forlornly reminiscing over her glory days

as a prominent noblewoman in court society rather than agonizing over the actual reception of
her public image.

Despite Rokujō’s expressions of melancholy, her intensity as an onryō in Aoi no Ue is not

tempered. Soon after being summoned by Teruhi and expressing her yearning for a life long

since past, Rokujō makes clear her reasons for appearing and possessing Aoi:

My heart knows no respite from pain;

Bitter thoughts grow like fern shoots

Bursting forth in the field.

129
 I have appeared here to take my revenge. (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature 930)

With her expression of intent for “revenge” and her self-identification as an onryō, it becomes

quickly apparent that however forlorn and pitiful she may appear to Teruhi, and by extension the

audience, her thoughts are fixated on exacting vengeance on those who have done her wrong:

我人の為つらければ、必ず身にも報うなり129

“To those at whose hands I have suffered, retribution will surely come”

Unlike in Genji Monogatari, however, the target of Rokujō’s “retribution” over past wrongs in

Aoi no Ue appears to be primarily, or perhaps solely, Aoi rather than Genji himself.

Although both the novel and the nō play share the same apparent inciting incident and

breed a similar degree of resentment in the Lady Rokujō, the spiritual attacks on Aoi in Genji

Monogatari are implied to be brought on or at least exacerbated by Genji’s action. Consequently,

Aoi presents as more of an unfortunate victim or casualty in the novel rather than a direct culprit

deserving of vengeance. By his own admission, Genji is not willing to commit himself to Rokujō.

At the same time, however, he finds the idea of losing her unpleasant and so he persists in

maintaining their relationship: “I quite understand that you should wish to see the last of me,

worthless as I am, but even if you are fed up with me by now, it would still be much kinder of

you to continue receiving me” (Shikibu 171). Rokujō’s vexations consequently manifest as an

ikiryō that seeks out and torments Aoi, as the carriage incident had “inflamed in her heart a
rivalry hitherto dormant for many years” (Shikibu 172). Because of this, however, Genji is

preoccupied with seeing to Aoi’s condition as his principal wife, and as a result his attempts to

renew his attentions to Rokujō fall short. Seeing this, she confronts him over whether his

intentions to re-devote himself to her are genuine, to which Genji responds in kind by

questioning the “depth” of her own feelings toward him:

“Only your sleeves are wet? So your feelings have no depth…

129
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
130
 It is shallow, then, the field of your hard labors, not at all like mine,

for I am wholly immersed in the deep slough of love’s mire.

Have I failed to answer you in person only because you mean so little to me?” (Shikibu

173)

In his message and poem addressed to Rokujō, he compares the depth of her feelings of love to

his own and calls her “shallow” in comparison. It is not until Genji insults Rokujō that Aoi truly

begins to suffer, eventually losing her life to the force of her vengeful ikiryō. Even in the thick of

her jealous violent onslaught, however, Rokujō is still shown to be largely preoccupied with her

public image and the scandal over being known as so out of control of her own mind:

She would, she knew, be talked of far and wide. No doubt it was common enough to

leave a still-active malevolence behind after death, and this alone, when told of another,

would arouse repulsion and fear; but that it should be her tragic destiny to have anything

so horrible said of herself while she was still alive! No, she could not remain attached to

so cruel a lover. (Shikibu 173)

Although she resents Aoi and lashes out at her, at no point in the novel does she appear to hold

Aoi responsible for her misfortune and instead considers Genji as her lover largely to blame

In contrast, Rokujō’s hatred in Aoi no Ue appears to be solely reserved for Aoi, which she

openly expresses while attempting to directly attack the object of her resentment:
あら恨めしや、今は打たでは叶ひ候まじ130

“Ah, how I do hate you, I shall not be satisfied unless I strike you down”

Not only is her hatred for Aoi more apparent in the nō play, but Rokujō also blames her romantic

rival for what has happened to her. She fully intends to make it known to both Aoi and all those

who are witness by her words, “omoishire” (思ひ知れ: “Recognize what you have done!”) and

declares with conviction what is happening at present to be “retribution”:

130
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
131
 今の恨みはありし報ひ131

“This hatred I harbor now is retribution for the past”

Rather than as a casualty of Genji’s actions as depicted in the novel where Aoi receives the

unfortunate backlash and suffers the ultimate price as a result, Aoi appears to be the sole

intended target of Rokujō’s vengeance in the play.

Unlike in Genji Monogatari, Genji’s role in what has driven Rokujō to present as an

onryō is considerably diminished in Aoi no Ue. This is indicative in the only reference made to

Genji in the play being in terms of his bond to his principal wife:

My unfathomable hatred

Causes Lady Aoi to wail in bitter agony.

But as long as she lives in this world,

Her bond with the Shining Genji132 will never end (Shirane, Traditional Japanese

Literature 931-32)

An added effect of Genji’s diminished presence in Aoi no Ue is that his actions are portrayed as

largely innocent. This is further enhanced by the fact that the character Genji himself makes no

appearance in the actual play. Instead, a nameless courtier in the service of the Emperor Suzaku

is the one present to watch over Aoi and witness Rokujō’s visitation. The audience is neither

privy to Genji’s role in the affair, nor are they given any reason to question his character or
culpability in either Rokujō’s or Aoi’s suffering. Even if the audience may have had prior

knowledge of the original Genji Monogatari text, by lacking an opportunity to see Genji as

anything short of “shining,” the character’s absence results in all the wrongdoing in the play

falling entirely on Rokujō as the female onryō.

131
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
132
In the Japanese script, Genji’s name is not explicitly used. He instead is referred to as hikaru kimi (光君), which

roughly translates to “shining prince.”

132
 In contrast, Genji’s actions in the novel, especially in regards to how he treats the Lady

Rokujō, are not condoned as part of the narrative in Genji Monogatari. Prior to the events at the

Kamo Festival that ultimately lead to Aoi’s possession, the Retired Emperor, Genji’s father,

censures Genji for his poor treatment of Rokujō, reminding his son of both her elevated social

position and status, even warning him about the possible consequences of his conduct: “His Late

Highness thought very highly of her and showed her every attention, and I find it intolerable that

you should treat her as casually as you might any other woman. […] Never cause a woman to

suffer humiliation” (Shikibu 165). Despite his father’s scolding and attempts to intervene,

however, Genji’s actions ultimately lead to Aoi’s death. The fact that the Retired Emperor is

aware of his misconduct enough to admonish him, too, is a clear indicator of just how much

Rokujō’s privacy has been compromised due to the affair, and also how extensive her public

mortification.

Although still embittered in the nō play, rather than explicitly reproaching Genji for his

contributing to her feelings of neglect and shame like she does in Genji Monogatari, the Lady

Rokujō of Aoi no Ue does not blame or strike out at Genji, not even verbally. To her, he is

luminescent, and “more beautiful than a firefly that flits across the marshland” (932). Instead, as

she laments her loss of and helpless longing for his love, it is the thought of disappearing

altogether, effectively becoming unseen, that she cannot abide or endure:

もとあらざりし身となりて、葉末の露と消えもせば、それさへ殊に恨めしや133

“To become one so uprooted and desolate, and to disappear like the dew on the tip of a

leaf, this I find hateful above all else”

Consumed by the thoughts that the love they shared is over, a bond “[n]ever to be revived even

in a dream,” Rokujō becomes fixated on Aoi:

Standing by her pillow,

133
Taken from the Shinpen Nihon Koten Bungaku Zenshū Yōkyokushū (Koyama and Satō, vol. 2).
133
 I shall place Lady Aoi

In my wrecked cart […]

And secretly carry her off. (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature 932)

Killing Aoi thus becomes the means by which the self-proclaimed onryō will achieve her

retribution by putting an end to Aoi’s “bond” with the one she covets.

While Genji is portrayed in Genji Monogatari as not beyond reproach and perhaps even

at fault for what transpires concerning the Lady Rokujō, at the same time it should be noted that

the character Rokujō, similar to how she is presented in Aoi no Ue, is also not necessarily

portrayed in a positive light. As noted earlier, her preoccupation with her reputation and her

sense of pride are viewed as largely negative traits, especially for a woman. Later in the novel,

long after Rokujō has passed away, Genji still remembers quite vividly what “painfully trying

company” she made while alive and even complains to others:

I agree that she had reason to be angry with me, but the way she brooded so interminably

over the matter, and with such bitter rancor, made things very unpleasant. There was

something so daunting about her that I could never enjoy with her the daily intimacies of

life; I could never drop my guard, lest informality invite her contempt (Shikibu 646)

Chastising her character and memory so openly to others, however, turns out to be a grave

mistake on Genji’s part. The intensity of Rokujō’s pride is strong enough to summon her spirit
back from anoyo, now as a “true” onryō, to punish Genji for speaking ill of her by possessing

Murasaki, through whom she makes her resentment towards him very clear:

“[…] I hate you, oh, I hate you!” Her air of proud reserve had not changed at all, despite

her weeping and wailing, and it filled him [Genji] with such fear and loathing that he

wanted only to silence her.

134
 “[…] What I find particularly offensive, more so even than your spurning me for

others when I was among the living, is that […] you callously made me out to be a

disagreeable woman. […]” (Shikibu 655)

Even in death, Rokujō’s reputation continues to be her principal concern, a preoccupation strong

enough to cause torment to her spirit in the afterlife and prevent her from being at peace. Unlike

in the earlier “Aoi” chapter, however, there is less of a sense of guilt or contrition on Genji’s part,

upon seeing Murasaki’s possessed form. Instead, he reacts more with horror, even revulsion: “To

think that someone frightening enough already when she was alive had now assumed so

appalling a guise in another world” (Shikibu 656). It is at this point that Rokujō truly becomes a

monster to Genji, virtually unrecognizable as a human woman. Her attachment to her reputation,

to her public image, and her unnaturally desperate attempts to maintain it from beyond the grave

are what irrevocably transform her into the monstrous feminine.

In the nō play, however, Rokujō is not seen as suffering the same level of censure for her

actions. In contrast to her character in Genji Monogatari, or even the monstrous wife seen in

Kanawa, Rokujō’s motivations and vengeance in Aoi no Ue all remain strictly within the private

sphere, which seems to absolve her to some extent. This is not only reflected in her verbal

expressions of anguish, but also narratively in that her tormented spirit itself is invisible to all but

Teruhi: “Though all night long I gaze upon the moon, I, a phantom form, remain unseen by it.
[…] As I have no form, people pass me by” (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature 929).

Instead of an excess of pride in Genji Monogatari, what “vilifies” Rokujō for the

audience in Aoi no Ue has more to do with her apparent lack thereof. Heedless of how she might

appear to others, she has given herself entirely to passion and behaves as one completely

unbefitting of her stature. Even Teruhi, who initially expressed some sympathy or at least pity

for Rokujō when she first appeared, views her actions and her violence towards Aoi as unsightly

and censures her openly:

135
 What shame!

For Lady Rokujō, gentle born,

To seek revenge

And act as one lowborn:

Are you not ashamed?

Stop and say no more. (Shirane, Traditional Japanese Literature 931)

Unlike her literary counterpart in Genji Monogatari, who as has been noted was at times more

concerned with her public image being tarnished rather than pure romantic jealousy of her rivals

for Genji’s affection, so consumed is the Lady Rokujō of the nō play by passion-fueled hatred

that she has abandoned all sense of propriety and shame. Her earlier embarrassment is long since

forgotten as she aims to inflict overt violence upon her rival. This is even more apparent in the

Japanese text, in which Teruhi likens the behavior Rokujō exhibits to an act of uwanari uchi (後

妻打, “beating of the later wife”), a custom that entailed the previous wife of a man venting her

anger by beating his newly married spouse, typically practiced by those far beneath someone of

Rokujō’s social position (Yonemoto 120).

Furthermore, being unmarried to Genji, Rokujō is also being censured in Aoi no Ue for

overstepping her bounds as a lover. The Heian court society was largely polygynous, and

marriage for most was more of a loose construct or, as Hitomi Tonomura describes, “a social
process without a name” (135). A man was neither obligated to financially support nor devote

himself to his wife. What was perhaps the main social responsibility of a husband in a given

marriage was to see to the futures of any children borne as a result of his marital union.134 The

principal wife, however, was considered a special position elevated above any other wives and

concubines. According to Yoshie Akiko, “[w]hether or not he has sexual relations with her, [the

134
For a detailed account on Heian period marriage customs, see McCullough, William H., “Japanese Marriage
Institutions in The Heian Period.”
136
woman’s] secure position as [principal] wife is guaranteed by the longevity of the marriage

[being married first] and her achievement of bearing him many children” (Yoshie 445).

As Genji’s lover, however, Rokujō does not have the same social expectations or

responsibilities as one with the role of wife, principal or not, which arguably serves as a primary

source for her private anguish. Despite being only a lover, the Lady Rokujō’s desire to place

herself as equal to or above Genji’s principal wife Aoi is therefore what casts her character into

the abject for the audience. Her actions threaten the established social order. It is her inability to

reconcile her lower position in her relationship with Genji and her passionate desires that breeds

the karmic attachment she suffers from in Aoi no Ue.

What perhaps makes Rokujō’s transgressions less unforgiveable, however, is that unlike

in the “Aoi” chapter of Genji Monogatari or the onryō in Kanawa, the female onryō of Aoi no

Ue appears not as an ikiryō but as a spirit of one deceased. Unlike the monstrous wife in Kanawa,

the extent of Rokujō’s transgressions are not as severe or as monstrous as to warrant as harsh a

reproval from the gods in the play. This is arguably because, contrary to how she behaves in the

novel, she is not portrayed as having actively rejected her role while still a living member of

society to exact her vengeance. This might also explain why despite her being censured as a

murderous lover and being still referred to as an “evil spirit”135 upon her transformation like the

female onryō in Kanawa, the soul of Rokujō is ultimately shown to be saved through Buddhist
prayer:

Hearing the voice of incantation,

The demon’s heart grows gentle. […]

She enters nirvana,

Released from the cycle of death and rebirth – Buddha be praised! (Shirane, Traditional

Japanese Literature 936)

135
In the Japanese script, the same word (悪鬼) is used as in Kanawa.
137
In contrast, having so disturbed the social norm, the monstrous wife in Kanawa is given no such

opportunity, or, perhaps, has forsaken all possibility, for karmic salvation. At the same time,

although she is saved by the power of the Buddha, Rokujō’s own power as an onryō in Aoi no Ue

is considerably tempered compared to how she is depicted in Genji Monogatari. Unlike in the

novel, not only does her spirit ultimately fail in killing Aoi, but the exorcism ritual is also a

success in the nō play.

When considering the differences in characterization and narrative plot between the novel

and the nō play, it is important to acknowledge the potential influence of writer perspective and

intended audience. In her article, “The Tale of Genji: Required Reading for Aristocratic Women,”

according to G. G. Rowley:

From its very inception, […Murasaki Shikibu’s Genji Monogatari was] produced and

consumed by women at the highest echelon of Japanese society. Until the early

seventeenth century, when a complete text was printed […] Genji remained an

aristocratic text, its manuscripts the property of aristocrats and aristocrats its principal

interpreters. (39)

As both a woman writer and a member of the Heian aristocracy, this may account for Murasaki

Shikibu’s apparent focus in Genji Monogatari on more “female” court politics, namely love

intrigues. This may also explain certain portrayals of female characters in her novel, especially
the Lady Rokujō, as a reflection of what was viewed as acceptable womanly behavior from the

perspective of a fellow woman. In contrast, Aoi no Ue is most often attributed to Zeami

Motokiyo, which tentatively places its writing sometime during the early to mid-Muromachi

period. The changes made in the nō play to both Rokujō and her narrative reflect not only a shift

in social values of a medieval society largely driven by the samurai class, but also the

perspective of a male playwright writing for presumably a predominantly male audience.

138
 In terms of imagery as well as enactment, unlike the onryō of Kanawa, the shite in Aoi no

Ue is witnessed by the audience directly engaging with the higher powers, in this case Buddhist

forces, hard at work to stave off her vengeance. In her movements there is an almost disturbingly

vivacious and martial energy as she battles with the priest who has been summoned to exorcise

her spirit and save the Lady Aoi. As her onryō wields her uchizue (打杖, “hitting cane”), a stage

prop commonly associated with demonic or aggressive deity characters in the nō theatre, raising

it overhead to strike, the priest is shown placing himself directly in her path, blocking her

attempts to attack Aoi. This results in Rokujō’s onryō presenting as far more dynamic and

menacing.

Additionally, the threat she poses to Genji’s principal wife is more immediate, as Rokujō

transforms to reveal her true nature as an onryō without once leaving the stage. This is unlike

what is typical for most nō plays featuring ghost characters, where the shite often exits at the end

of the first act of a given play to change costume for the revelation of their true form in the

second act. The resulting effect is the audience is given more of a sense of foreboding as they

wait for the shite to turn and reveal her “demonic” self. Furthermore, the threat she poses to Aoi

is far more real altogether, for although in Kanawa the female onryō is shown to enact physical

violence, all of it was directed at effigies of her intended victims rather than the people

themselves.
Despite this, although the dialogue informs the audience of the presence of Aoi, it is

important to note that like the character Genji, Aoi is not physically present on the stage. Instead,

a robe is laid out to represent her prone, silent form for the entire duration of the play. This stark

contrast between Rokujō as the “othered” woman who is actively seeking vengeance, and Aoi as

the “ideal,” passive woman who is not even physically present, increases the female onryō’s

menacing presence. Although Rokujō gets to openly verbalize her grievances, she still goes

largely unheard, as neither her lover Genji nor Aoi are really present in Aoi no Ue to interact

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with. Not only is she unheard, but she is also unseen, as her form is invisible to all but Teruhi,

who consequently has to translate her words and convey her presence to others.

Only after she has transformed and emerges as a monster can she be seen, an act that, as

in Kanawa is also punctuated by disrobing and shedding markers of her femininity. In Aoi no Ue,

this largely takes the form of the shite literally pulling off her outer robe from her own body at

the end of the first half, which she then brings over her head to conceal herself as she turns away

from the audience to change. During the climax in the second half of the play, she fully sheds her

robe as she reveals her transformed image to the audience with the contorted features of the

hannya mask and her bared uroko-patterned haku (see Fig. 10). The robe that had up until that

point kept her hidden and contained, is left discarded on the stage as she abandons vestiges of

acceptable femininity and actively engages the priest who stands in the way of her vengeance.

Fig. 18. Screenshots of “disrobing” from video recording of Aoi no Ue. Performance by Tōyama Takamichi, 20 May
2001, Hōshō Nōgakudō, Tokyo.

In addition to the literal robe, the discarding as well as taking up of other articles of
clothing or props are utilized to signify change in the character over the course of the

performance. Prior to the initial disrobing, the shite also casts aside the large fan Rokujō has

been holding up until this point, which she later replaces with the uchizue. Later, however, when

the shite’s powers are overcome by the strength of Buddhist prayer, she leaves the uchizue

behind to take up the fan once again. While her hannya mask may not have changed and her

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haku is still left exposed, through spoken verse and the act of once again taking up the fan, the

audience is informed of the shite’s attainment of salvation.

II.3.1.3 Dōjōji
As a play written comparatively later than both Kanawa and Aoi no Ue, Dōjōji is

considered more of a contemporary piece within the nō theatre. Loosely based on a setsuwa in

the Konjaku Monogatari-shū, in which a nameless woman136 and her lustful infatuations with a

monk ultimately lead to his death when she transforms herself into a serpentine monster in order

to pursue him, Dōjōji presents a narrative that is markedly different than its original source

material.137 These changes, especially in the characterization of the female onryō and the overall

plot within the play, indicate not only the presence of changes within the nō theatre in terms of

portraying the female onryō archetype, but also the early presence of a proto-dead wet girl, hints

of the role type and its associated views of women that will become so prominent in later

Japanese horror cinema.

The most indicative change is the shift in the female onryō characterization in Dōjōji

from being depicted as a widow as in the original literary text, to a young unmarried “girl” in the

nō play. In the play, the abbot of the temple Dōjōji, after many years of leaving the belfry tower

empty, has finally decided to have a new bell raised and holds a dedication ceremony. While the

ceremony is taking place, however, he strictly forbids the temple servants to allow women inside

the grounds. In the abbot’s absence, a mysterious woman claiming to be a “dancer” or

shirabyōshi (白拍子), approaches and persuades the servants to admit her in exchange for a

dance. As she dances, her true nature is slowly revealed as a malevolent spirit in disguise and she

flies up into the bell, causing it to come crashing down. After the fall of the new bell, the abbot

136
In later literary renditions of the tale she will be known as Kiyohime.
137
Although it should be acknowledged that there are multiple accounts of the Dōjōji legend, the nō play is

considered to have mostly taken narrative inspiration from the setsuwa version found in the Konjaku Monogatari-

shū. (Klein 296-97)

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explains that the “woman” the servants had allowed inside was in fact the spirit of a woman who,

upon transforming herself into a giant serpent in the Hidaka River, had chased a priest she was

madly in love with all the way here to Dōjōji. Using her newly attained powers, she killed the

priest who had been hiding inside the original bell by roasting him alive in a jealous rage and has

been haunting the temple as an onryō ever since. The abbot then gathers his priests to battle her

monstrous form.

Tentatively attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu, which places the nō play’s writing

sometime during the late Muromachi period, Dōjōji reflects a time when women increasingly

became integrated into the patrilineal household. As Barbara Ambros writes in Women in

Japanese Religions, starting as early as the late fourteenth century:

The rise in virilocal marriages was accompanied by a loss of women’s inheritance rights.

Additionally, remarriage gradually became less acceptable for widows, due primarily to

the spread of Confucian ideas about marriage and feminine ideals […] These changes had

far-reaching repercussions for female renunciation, the increasing demonization of

female jealousy and sexuality, the association of women’s bodies with pollution and

defilement, and the exclusion of women from […] religious spaces. (76)

With the growing affirmation of the patrilineal household, woman’s primary role during the

Muromachi period shifted towards being more defined as her husband’s wife than she was in the
Heian period. Consequently, female characters not portrayed in roles such as wives were all the

more emphasized as abject and outside the expected social norm.

Although the character in the Konjaku Monogatari-shū setsuwa is also acknowledged to

be young, as she is in the nō play, as a widow she is by extension more closely associated with

the social role of a wife. Having been married once before, she should presumably have a better

sense of propriety. Despite this, her “lustful desires” drive her to grievously overstep social

boundaries and be sexually aggressive in pursuing the monk:

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 At midnight she secretly crept to where the young monk was sleeping, covered him with

her dress, and lay down beside him. She nudged him awake; he opened his eyes in fright

and confusion. “I never give lodging to travelers,” said the woman, “but I let you stay

here tonight because from the time I first saw you, this afternoon, I have longed to make

you my spouse. […] My husband is dead and I am a widow. Take pity on me!” (Ury 93)

The widow’s actions are portrayed as appalling not just for being socially and sexually

transgressive as she makes advances on the man in attempts to make him her husband rather than

the other way around, but also for being morally transgressive as she pursues not just any man,

but one of religion. Aware of the karmic consequences, the monk attempts to warn her of the

dangers, but to no avail: “Should I carelessly break my vow here, the consequences would be

dreadful for both of us. Abandon all such thoughts at once” (Ury 93). The monk’s repeated

attempts to refuse her advances only vexes the widow further and encourages her to increase the

degree of her transgressive behavior by persisting in “embracing him and teasing and fondling

him” (Ury 93). Ultimately, he deceives her by promising to do as she asks once he returns from

his pilgrimage so that he can escape. When she discovers his betrayal, this prompts her emerging

as a female onryō.

Unlike in Kanawa, where the female character is explicitly attributed the social role of

wife that she ultimately rejects as part of the narrative, in Dōjōji she is stripped of virtually all
social attributes altogether. Much like the dead wet girls that will follow centuries later, it is

neither her behavior as a wife nor as a lover, but as a “girl” in and of herself that is viewed as

transgressive. Her initial prohibition from entering the temple courtyard to attend the bell

dedication ceremony is solely on the grounds of being female, which echoes concepts of inherent

female defilement that were increasingly taking hold of Japanese medieval society. The resulting

effect on her characterization in Dōjōji is that her identity as a “woman,” or in this case a “girl,”

is emphasized above all else.

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 Furthermore, by being a “girl,” and not even a sexually experienced woman, her

character is portrayed in the nō play as more naïve, led astray by the careless words of others,

namely her father, as described by the temple abbot:

The priest never forgot to bring charming little presents for the steward’s daughter, and

the steward, who doted on the girl, as a joke once told her, “Some day that priest will be

your husband, and you will be his wife!” In her childish innocence the girl thought he

was speaking the truth, and for months and years she waited. (Keene 248)

While being so young and ignorant may garner some degree of sympathy or pity from the

audience, ultimately her character is still admonished due to her behavior. Although she may

have been innocently misled at first, the force of her passion becomes so inexplicably strong that

she loses all capacity for reason when she is rejected by the monk and violently transforms

herself to exact vengeance.

Additionally, the shite found in Dōjōji is more narratively associated with water than her

original setsuwa counterpart, which reinforces the framing of her role type as a proto-dead wet

girl. As noted previously, water is frequently associated with ghosts overall in Japan, and the

young woman Kiyohime, as she will be later widely known as, is no exception with her

momentous transformation taking place in the currents of the Hidaka River:

Soon the girl followed, swearing she would never let him [the monk] go. At that time the
River [Hidaka] was swollen to a furious flood and the girl could not cross over. She ran

up and down the bank, wild with rage, until at last her jealous fury turned her into a

venomous snake, and she easily swam across the river. (Keene 248)

While water has been often utilized as a fluid boundary demarcating konoyo from anoyo, the

Hidaka River within the Dōjōji narrative is utilized as a similar boundary, except in this case

between the human woman and her monstrous supernatural self. In Kanawa a similar

transformation of the woman using water is implied to have taken place, however the references

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are only minimal at best. Hardly any reference to the Uji River is made in the play, where

according to Tsurugi no Maki, the original text on which Kanawa is based, the monstrous wife

onryō had supposedly completed her ritual of transformation by bathing in its waters.

Furthermore, the shite of Dōjōji is not shown to have prayed to the gods like the woman in

Kanawa to attain her transformative power, implying that her ability to transform herself into a

monster came solely from within.

Whereas the emphasis on water in Kanawa is considerably diminished, the shite of Dōjōji

is as much defined by her transformation in water as she is a “girl.” The legend behind the

founding of the temple Dōjōji itself is heavily imbued with both water and the feminine, for

according to Susan Blakeley Klein:

Dōjōji was supposed to have been founded by a young woman diver who lived along the

shore at Komatsubara. As the sole support for her aging parents, she spent her days

diving in the cold sea water […] One day when she was diving, she found a small

Buddhist icon […] glowing beneath the waves. It was this image, a reward for her faith

and filial piety, that was enshrined at the establishment of Dōjōji temple. (309)

From even the temple’s origins, the motif of women submerging themselves in water is central to

the Dōjōji legend. It is for this reason that although narratively the nō play appears to be derived

from the setsuwa found in Konjaku Monogatari, Virginia Skord Waters points to the illustrated
scroll Dōjōji Engi Emaki [道成寺縁起絵巻; “Picture Scroll of the Founding of Dōjōji”]138 as a

significant contributor to the nō play rendition, at least in terms of emphasizing water and

transformation. As Waters notes, not only is there no mention of the river in any of the setsuwa

versions of the legend, but the woman’s transformation is only briefly described (67).

138
Author unknown, a two-scroll work considered the first expression of the Dōjōji legend in illustrated narrative

form from the late Muromachi period. For an English translation of the text, see Waters, Virginia Skord “Sex, Lies

and the Illustrated Scroll” pp.75-84.

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In Konjaku Monogatari-shū, for example, the widow dies and transforms into a “poisonous

snake forty feet long” within the confines of her bedroom (Ury 94). This contrasts with the

illustrated scroll depiction, where the female onryō’s “transformation makes up almost all the

action of the first scroll” (Waters 67). In the Dōjōji Engi Emaki, the woman, who is depicted as

the young daughter of an innkeeper, chases after the priest, her clothing and hair becoming

increasingly disheveled, until she finally casts off her clothing and dives into the Hidaka River to

transform into a giant serpentine monster. Well before the official arrival of the dead wet girl,

this choice to especially characterize the girl of Dōjōji with water, or wetness, is indicative of the

presence of this role type before its development in Japanese horror cinema.

So strong and fearsome a girl is she that her jealous spirit continues to haunt the temple

Dōjōji where she had killed the priest, threatening those that live there. Her reasons for

continuing to remain in konoyo, however, are markedly inexplicit. Unlike the female onryō in

Kanawa or Aoi no Ue, although the shite of Dōjōji makes reference to her “sin” and “guilt,” the

audience is given comparatively little context as to what continues to torment her spirit, at least

not in her own words. In fact, her story is wholly conveyed by other characters, namely the

temple abbot, to the audience:

The serpent glided here, to the Temple of Dōjōji, and searched here and there until her

suspicions were aroused by the lowered bell. Taking the metal loop between her teeth,
she coiled herself around the bell in seven coils. Then, breathing smoke and flames, she

lashed the bell with her tail. At once the bronze grew hot, boiling hot, and the monk,

hidden inside, was roasted alive. […] Isn’t that a horrible story? (Keene 248)

Unlike the Lady Rokujō in Aoi no Ue, or even the monstrous wife in Kanawa, she is deprived of

an opportunity to explain or justify herself and her actions to the audience, making her less

relatable and thus present as more of a monster than a human character. While the female onryō

in Kanawa’s circumstances are explained by men, she still is granted an opportunity to express

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herself both before and after her transformation. Furthermore, she is still recognized as a woman

in the end of the play. In Dōjōji, once the identity of her spirit and her story has been revealed by

the abbot, the priests react with revulsion rather than sympathy. This is evident in that after her

story is told and the temple abbot and the other men ready themselves to engage her malevolent

spirit, she is referred to as a “serpent” (蛇), and no longer as a girl. Lacking her voice and thus

her perspective, the shite in Dōjōji is dehumanized for the other characters as well as the

audience.

The threat she poses to the other characters, and by extension the audience, is thus

likened more to a monster needing to be conquered rather than a human soul in need of salvation.

In the climax of the second half of the play, as the priests ready themselves to battle the “serpent,”

they are primarily concerned with whether the power of their prayers will be sufficient: “Though

the waters of [Hidaka] River seethe and dry up / Though the sands of its shores run out / Can the

sacred strength of our holy order fail?” (Keene 248) Their entire focus with their prayers,

however, is trained on defending their temple from her threat rather than guiding her spirit

towards enlightenment:

And as we pray,

Defeated by our prayers,

Behold the serpent fall! […]

Her body burns in her own fire.

She leaps into the river pool, […]

Into the waves of the River [Hidaka],

And there she vanishes.

The Priests, their prayers granted,

Return to the temple (Keene 250-51)

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She is viewed as more of a supernatural occurrence or phenomenon to be dealt with, and less as a

person. Furthermore, unlike in other nō plays featuring onryō characters, both male and female,

the shite of Dōjōji is portrayed as actively striving to deceive and threaten the men in the play.

When she first appears, she disguises herself as a shirabyōshi and lies to the temple servants so

that she can disarm them to achieve her goals:

In villages along the river banks –

And if the watchers sleep when danger threatens

I’ll not let my chances pass me by! […]

Up to the bell she stealthily creeps

Pretending to go on with her dance. (Keene 245)

Her intent to deceive paints her character in a more malicious light and invites uncertainty as to

her humanity. The bitter grudge she holds onto that keeps her from moving on from konoyo is

one from long ago, and hardly concerns those whose lives she threatens. This altogether makes

her more akin to the kind of threat the dead wet girl female onryō poses to her victims in

contemporary Japanese horror films.

In terms of enactment, the impression of a monster is accentuated in the shite of Dōjōji

acting not just unnatural or uncharacteristic of a female character, but as a human. Near the end

of the first act, as the shite approaches the bell, her dance, which starts off in slow, large circles,
gradually quickens. Her earlier, circular movements become tighter until she at times looks like

she is spinning in place, as she draws closer to the bell. As she stands directly under the bell

suspended overhead, the audience is witness to a startling display of power as the dropping of the

set piece is synchronized with the shite’s jumping upward into it. The effect gives the impression

that the character has flown up into the bell, literally isolating her from the audience.

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Fig. 19. Screenshots of bell-jumping from video recording of Dōjōji Performance by Kanze Kiyokazu, 24 December
2000, Ōhori Park Noh Theater, Fukuoka.

This dramatic bell-jumping feat, which is unique to the performance of Dōjōji, is notably

one of the primary draws for spectators. Additionally, the shite’s unnatural power is further

exhibited to the audience in that the actual transformation of the female onryō of the play, as

with Rokujō in Aoi no Ue, takes place not only on stage, but inside the bell itself. As the priests

prepare to engage the monstrous threat the audience knows is brewing from within, the suspense

builds. Although they cannot see, or perhaps precisely because they cannot see what is

happening, the fear and discomfort is heightened for the spectators. This results in a stirring

reveal when the bell is finally raised again for the climax in the second act.

While the bell plays an essential part in the actual revelation of the shite’s true form, as in

Kanawa and Aoi no Ue, the taking up and discarding of signifiers of gender accentuate the

female onryō’s transformation. In the case of Dōjōji, this entails “robing” or “disrobing” articles
of clothing from both genders. At the beginning of the play, when the shite first appears claiming

to be a shirabyōshi, she is given a male courtier’s hat by the temple servants so that she can

dance for them. While the wearing of such a hat is customary for the profession, given that her

identity as a “dancer” was entirely a ruse, it is significant that she effectively utilizes a signifier

of male nobility to gain access to the bell. It is perhaps equally significant that once she has

achieved her goal, she quickly knocks the hat off her head before flying into the bell, discarding

the borrowed marker of masculinity. Once inside the bell, however, she also sheds the indicators

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of her femininity. As it is raised, she raises her outer robe that she had pulled over her head to

conceal her transformed image, in much the same fashion as in Aoi no Ue, and reveals her uroko-

patterned haku and wild red wig that partially conceals her mask’s contorted features.

Once the “snake” is revealed, the onryō engages the priests in an intense battle that

resembles the ebb and flow of a river’s waves as they defend their temple from its onslaught. As

the shite of Dōjōji demonstrates her power and the serious threat she poses to not one, but

multiple grown men, the overall effect is an increased focus on spectacle, and perhaps less so on

the story. This focus on spectacle may account at least in part for the widely destructive nature

she exhibits, as it is more frightening or horror-inducing to witness a monstrous being attack

others indiscriminately. As a result, there is more of an emphasis on her as a spectacle than a

woman.

II.3.2 In Kabuki
II.3.2.1 Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan
While Lady Rokujō may be one of the best-known depictions of the female onryō within

the nō theatre and Japanese classical literature, Oiwa of Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan is perhaps the

epitome of the classic female onryō archetype altogether. With the coming of the Edo period and

consequent changes in social values due to the influence of philosophies such as Neo-

Confucianism, portrayals of the classic female onryō in the kabuki theatre underwent similar
changes. These changes are most apparent in how she is characterized and how her narrative

within a given play unfolds. Initially written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV in 1825, the kabuki play

Yotsuya Kaidan, which largely concerns Oiwa and her vengeance against her villainous husband

Iemon, is considered one of the “three great kaidan,” and continues to be highly influential in

Japanese theatre and cinema even today. Oiwa’s characterization as a monstrous wife, however,

differs significantly from earlier nō portrayals of the role type, which in turn reflects changes in

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social views, namely the kinds of values that were considered desirable in women in early

modern Japan.

The play opens with the rōnin, Tamiya Iemon, confronting his father-in-law Yotsuya

Samon over his wish to dissolve his marriage with Samon’s daughter, Oiwa. Samon, convinced

of his son-in-law’s immoral character and wishing to cut ties, rebukes Iemon, who subsequently

kills Samon in retaliation. Running concurrently to this scene is the medicine seller, Naosuke,

murdering whom he believes to be Yomoshichi, the husband of Osode, who is Oiwa’s younger

sister and the woman Naosuke lustfully desires for himself. Together, Iemon and Naosuke cover

up their crimes and deceive both Oiwa and Osode by promising to avenge the deaths of their

father and husband, respectively. Later, however, Iemon becomes increasingly dissatisfied with

his life of poverty as Oiwa’s husband and seizes the opportunity that presents itself to marry the

young granddaughter, Oume, of the extremely wealthy Itō Kihei. To do away with Oiwa, Kihei

has her poisoned and disfigured, and Iemon tries to set her up for adultery so that he has grounds

for divorce. Ultimately, Oiwa dies in complete outrage and promptly returns to konoyo as an

onryō to torment those who have wronged her.

Prior to her transformation into a monstrous wife, Oiwa presents as a rather frail and

weak woman who must depend on her marriage with Iemon so she can fulfill her social

obligations as a daughter to avenge her father’s murder. Of all the Confucian values, filial piety
is one of the most highly stressed, both for sons and daughters, but as a young woman, Oiwa

lacks the power needed to fulfill this duty on her own, which leaves her no choice but to rely on

Iemon, no matter how cruelly he treats her:

OIWA. Iemon has been mean to me from the moment we were married. He didn’t even

look pleased when I told him his baby was a boy. Every day, from dawn to dusk, he calls

the boy a brat, saying he is nothing but a nuisance. He grumbles that the baby is just

another mouth to feed. He says things like that even when he knows I can hear him.

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 Living in this house is constant torture, with little wounds that never heal. But I must

remember that Iemon promised to help me attack my father’s murderer. […] If I can just

endure this a little while longer, I’ll be able to leave this evil man. (Oshima 855)

Despite Oiwa’s personal misery and apparent dislike for Iemon, she subjugates her personal

feelings so that she can meet the social expectations and responsibilities of being both a

samurai’s daughter and a married woman in Edo period society.

Not only does she continue to tolerate her unfortunate situation, but she also bears Iemon

a son. As a wife, the social role is intrinsically associated with motherhood, as failing to produce

offspring to one’s husband was frequently grounds for divorce. Even when Iemon abandons her,

rather than anger, she exhibits only helpless misery and concern for their son:

OIWA. Iemon, you’re cruel! You were born heartless. I always knew what you were like.

I married you because –

IEMON. You needed help to avenge your father’s murder. Well, I don’t feel like getting

involved. Avenging murder is old-fashioned. Leave me out of it. We got married because

you wanted a swordsman, but I’m not interested. […] If you don’t like it, leave. Go find

someone else who has the time to waste on vendettas. Vendettas make me sick.

OIWA. If you refuse, I have no one else to turn to. I suppose I should have expected you

to fail me. If you want me to go, I will. But what about the child? Will you have your
new wife take care of our baby?

IEMON. If you don’t want a stepmother to have him, take the brat with you. I’m not

giving up a chance for a good new wife for the sake of a stupid baby. (Oshima 861-62)

Despite Iemon’s cruelty, Oiwa still upholds her role as a wife by demonstrating obedience to her

husband and agreeing to his wishes, however heartless and self-serving they may be. Not only is

she willing to leave, but she also hands over the clothes off her own back as Iemon demands

them to pawn. What she will not let go of, however, is the mosquito netting meant to protect her

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son. Despite her struggles, Oiwa exhibits the idealized values of both a woman and wife in her

society, effectively painting her as a noble, self-sacrificing motherly figure, as she clings to the

netting so hard that it rips her nails clean out of their nailbeds.

At the same time, however, Oiwa expresses discontent with as well as an intent to leave

her marriage, which indicates her struggling within her assigned social role as a wife. By

expressing a yearning to leave her husband once her obligations to avenge her father are

completed, she exhibits behavior unbecoming of what was expected of a married woman of her

status. According to Neo-Confucian values, she was expected to be at least equally committed

and devoted to her husband and his household as she was to her own parents (Ambros 102-04).

Furthermore, after giving birth to their son, she becomes so ill and weak that she is unable to

manage the household as she should and properly see to all of her husband’s needs. This, added

to their impoverished state, is arguably what contributes to Iemon’s contempt.

What Oiwa, doesn’t know, however, is that Iemon is in fact her father’s murderer, a truth

which she ends up dying without knowing. What therefore serves as the impetus for her

transformation into an onryō instead is her personal, even “selfish” pride. After having given

birth to a son for her husband, Iemon becomes increasingly dissatisfied with his life of poverty.

So dissatisfied is he that he seizes the opportunity to marry the young granddaughter, Oume, of

the extremely wealthy Itō Kihei, who will go to whatever lengths necessary to attain what his
granddaughter desires. He does not stop at merely enticing Iemon with riches and an elevated

position, but even goes so far as to send Oume’s wet nurse to Oiwa with disfiguring poison

disguised as medicine, thus ensuring Iemon would no longer be attracted to his wife. Oblivious

to all of this, Oiwa expresses the deepest gratitude over perceived charities bestowed by the

household of Itō Kihei. Even after being so cruelly cast aside by Iemon, Oiwa continues to try

and fulfill her role in society, for though she may be in such dilapidated conditions, she was and

still is the wife and (perhaps more importantly) daughter of a samurai. When the masseur

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Takuetsu tries to take advantage of her, under orders from Iemon so that he can accuse his wife

of adultery and divorce her without reproach, she clearly invokes this status:

OIWA. What are you trying to do? Remember, I’m the wife of a samurai. If you try

anything like that again, I won’t forgive you next time.

TAKUETSU. Wait! Your faithfulness will only hurt you, Iemon lost his love for you

long ago. If you insist on staying with him, it will lead to nothing but more misfortune.

I’m the man for you.

OIWA. What? Rather than patiently enduring hardships with my rightful husband, I

should turn to you? Explain yourself. Are you trying to lure me into adultery?139 You

insolent creature! Even though I’m only a woman, I am the wife and the daughter of

samurai. Do you think you can get away with talking that way to me? (Oshima 864)

Although Oiwa cites both status and social values such as loyalty and filial piety, hints of her

personal pride start to become apparent. Upon learning of the truth of both Iemon’s and the Itō

household’s misdeeds from Takuetsu, Oiwa becomes overcome with humiliation over her

ignorance:

I never guessed the

truth these gifts concealed,

sent day after day by our good neighbor Itō Kihei.

My heart swelled with thanks.

Even when the wet nurse came, the destructive poison in her hand,

to cause my ruin, I clapped my hands in gratitude.

Now each time I think of it, my heart fills with shame.

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While Oiwa’s indignation is understandable even in a modern context, during the Edo period laws regarding
adultery or illicit sexual relations were notoriously harsh and samurai were “permitted to use violence to resolve

cases of sexual misconduct.” This typically took the form of me-gatakiuchi (婦敵討, “wife-revenge”) where the

samurai husband murdered both the adulterous wife and her lover. (Stanley 315)
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 They must laugh and laugh at me.

Bitter, oh how bitter, is this humiliation. (Oshima 865)

It is not until she suffers personal humiliation that Oiwa begins to express genuine rage, and in

her anger, she finally shirks all responsibilities and sense of duty as a wife that she struggled so

hard to uphold, and instead opts to pursue personal revenge.

Her feelings of humiliation and injured pride, her outrage over being made a fool of, are

what ultimately incense her to act, driving her to strike out and seek to punish both Iemon and

the entirety of the Itō household. As she combs her hair and blackens her teeth, she gives in to

“selfish” indulgence, completely ignoring her child to whom she was only moments before so

devoted, and is transformed, fully coming into her own as a monstrous wife:

Every moment is uncertain, as the end comes for Oiwa.

But one thing is sure, the moment I die he will marry that girl. […]

Now I have nothing but hatred for you, Iemon,

And hate for the house of Kihei, hatred for the Itō family.

None of you shall ever escape to a life of peace.

The more I think about it

the more my heart is filled with bitter, bitter hatred. (Oshima 867)

In her moments shortly before her death and re-emergence as an onryō, this earlier image of a
desolate, miserable, and abandoned wife who is so wronged by her husband and devoted to her

child gives way completely to a woman of personal pride.

Oiwa’s actions contrast significantly from those of her sister, Osode, another “wife”

character present in Yotsuya Kaidan. Like her sister, as a woman Osode lacks the power to

avenge the supposed death of her husband, Yomoshichi, and so she agrees to a common-law

marriage with the medicine-seller Naosuke in exchange for his promise to fulfill her vendetta.

Also like Oiwa, unbeknownst to Osode is the fact that Naosuke is actually the one who killed her

155
husband out of jealousy and wounded pride. The man he killed, however, whom both had

mistaken for Yomoshichi, is later revealed to be Naosuke’s former master. When Osode

discovers the full extent of her own disgrace, having married and slept with another man while

her husband was in fact still alive, effectively (albeit unknowingly) committing adultery, she

chooses to have herself killed by both men rather than live with such shame. In so doing, Osode

preserves herself by atoning for her offense against her husband and taking responsibility for her

failures as a wife. Oiwa, on the other hand, refuses to abide by the gender norms of her time

which might compel her to commit a similar act of quiet submission. While she has nothing to

atone for like her sister, if she were to end her own life Oiwa would demonstrate a socially

accepted form of silent protest over her husband’s actions. At the same time, the act of suicide

would also imply her taking responsibility for personal failures that may have led to her

unfortunate circumstance. Oiwa’s refusal to do either is indicative of the extent of her bitter

indignation.

Oiwa’s actions also contrast with the loyalty exhibited by Kohei, who manifests as

another onryō in Yotsuya Kaidan. In both life and death, Kohei is presented as an exemplar of

masculine devotion. Out of desperation, he resorts to stealing medicine from Iemon so that he

can cure his samurai master Matanojo, who is grievously ill, so that he can take part in the

vendetta for his own lord’s death. Not only is Kohei captured and tortured as punishment for the
theft, but he is ultimately murdered by Iemon to cover up Oiwa’s death. Even as a vengeful ghost,

Kohei’s thoughts are still preoccupied with his master Matanojo’s wellbeing, as his words as a

spirit are only pleas for the medicine that would save the samurai’s life. Ultimately, he succeeds

in death what he could not manage to do in life and delivers the medicine to Matanojo. Once he

is able to see this task to the end, the resentment Kohei harbors towards Iemon appears to

dissipate and his onryō is presumably pacified as he does not appear again.

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 The hatred Oiwa harbors and what drives her to become an onryō, however, has little to

do with her father’s murder, for Oiwa is not fully aware of Iemon’s treachery as it extends to her

father prior to her own death. One might assume that Oiwa learns of the full extent of Iemon’s

villainy towards her familial household as a powerful onryō in death, however at no point in the

play is the audience given any explicit dialogue to indicate that she is aware, or that she even still

cares. In the few instances when Oiwa as a vengeful spirit is able to verbalize her resentment

within the play, she appears not to have changed her focus in revenge:

OIWA. My hatred will not rest until the whole bloodline of the Tamiya family is dead

and every branch and leaf of Itō Kihei’s clan has withered. […]

IEMON. Hail Amida Buddha, Hail Amida Buddha. The passion of a woman never dies.

Haven’t you found salvation yet, Oiwa? Maybe if the crows consume her body, her sins

will disappear and she will find rest. (Oshima 881)

As it turns out by targeting Iemon for personal vengeance she is by extension upholding her duty

as a daughter to avenge her father’s death, though this is arguably pure coincidence. The overall

impression given in her actions and her words is that her only concern is avenging the personal

affronts to her pride. By deluding Iemon into seeing her disfigured image instead of Oume, Oiwa

manipulates Iemon into killing both his new bride and Itō Kihei, branding him a criminal and

forcing him to have to go into hiding. Later, she also kills the wet nurse Omaki, the one who
brought her the “medicine” that led to her disfigurement, her violent rage manifesting as a giant

rat140 that drags Omaki into the Onbō Canal to drown.

Of all Oiwa’s supernatural acts of aggression, what is perhaps the most notorious is the

killing of her own son. Although in initial performances of Yotsuya Kaidan Kohei’s onryō is

portrayed as the one killing the baby boy by eating him before Iemon’s very eyes,141 many

140
The rat is viewed as an incarnation of Oiwa’s onryō, since her character was born in the year of the rat.
141
As found in Tsuruya Nanboku Zenshū 199.
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versions depict Oiwa as the culprit, her spirit manifesting as giant rats that tear her son apart

shortly after her death. If her onryō is cognizant of Iemon’s role in her father’s murder, this act of

infanticide might be viewed as almost necessary, to atone for the sins of having slept with her

father’s killer and bearing him a son. In neither the initial script written by Nanboku IV,142 nor

current productions of Yotsuya Kaidan, Oiwa’s onryō makes no verbal mention of avenging her

father to Iemon to indicate her awareness. Because it is uncertain in the play whether she is

aware of this truth, her motivations behind killing her son, whom she had been so devoted to in

life, are equally unclear and her character is thus made more disturbing to the audience.

This is accentuated by her seeming to relish using the image of their son to further

torment Iemon later in the play. After Iemon has gone into hiding at a hermitage on Hebiyama,

Oiwa appears before him holding the baby in her arms. She silently implores her husband to take

their son and care for him, which Iemon accepts, taking this to be a means by which he can

pacify her spirit. Once he takes the baby in his arms, it transforms into a stone Jizō statue. As he

verbally expresses his contempt for Oiwa, she sneers back before vanishing. While certainly

dramatic and exciting, Oiwa’s displays of supernatural violence are equally terrifying and

unnerving for the audience. Her complete abandonment of both gender and social norms

consequently calls into question her moral character. This may explain why, though her behavior

does not receive the same overt censure as does that of most classic female onryō of the nō
tradition, and justice may be served with Iemon’s death at the hands of Yomoshichi, Oiwa’s

actions are neither celebrated nor championed at the conclusion of Yotsuya Kaidan.

It is important to note, too, that not all scenes as originally written in the script are

included or preserved in a given production of Yotsuya Kaidan, which further affects how the

characters are perceived. Following its initial debut in 1825, Nanboku IV’s script underwent

several revisions and variations, as it was performed nearly thirty times during the late Edo

142
Taken from Tsuruya Nanboku Zenshū.
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period alone.143 A number of revisions have since been adopted as canon. One particularly

notable addition is the line spoken by Iemon after he is confronted with his villainous tenacity to

survive by Naosuke, while the two are standing alongside the Onbō Canal:

IEMON. 首が飛んでも、動いてみせるわ。

“I’ll keep moving, even if my head is cut off.”

Despite not being present in Nanboku IV’s script, this line has become iconic for not only

Iemon’s character, but the entire play itself. The fact that what is now considered the most

memorable line of the play is spoken not by Oiwa, but by Iemon, furthers his impression as an

iroaku, attributing his character a sense of charisma and romanticizing his villainy.

Just as the inclusion of Iemon’s line alters the impression of his character, the regular

exclusion of certain scenes which were a part of the original script have a similar effect on the

narrative. Some scenes are often omitted presumably to streamline the narrative and focus the

plot on fewer characters. Such is the case for the scenes “Sankaku Manor in Fukagawa” and

“Oshioda’s Secret House,”144 which both expand on Osode and Kohei, respectively. One scene

often excluded that is particularly pertinent to discussion is the “Catching Fireflies in

Takinogawa” dance scene, in which Oiwa visits Iemon in his dreams. Although a dream, it is the

only opportunity the audience is given to see Oiwa as a young and beautiful woman, before her

transformation into an onryō. Furthermore, it is the sole scene in the original script145 during
which Oiwa is able to speak directly to Iemon and confront him with the wrongs he has

committed against her upon her transformation. Despite this, the scene has been performed so

infrequently since initial productions that it is not always recognized as part of the narrative. Out

of the past productions Yotsuya Kaidan following World War II, less than half have included the

143
Based on records found in the Nihon Geinō Engeki Sōgō Jōen Nenpyō Database run by the Art Research Center,
Ritsumeikan University.
144
Translations of scene titles taken from Shochiku, Kabuki Greats: Domestic Dramas 22-24.
145
As found in Tsuruya Nanboku Zenshū 234-38.
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“Catching Fireflies in Takinogawa” scene. By being deprived of this scene, the character Oiwa

loses both the opportunity to be heard by the object of her resentment and to be humanized for

the audience.
40
35
30
25
20
15
10
5
0

Fig. 20. Chart measuring frequency of scenes included in kabuki performances of Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan at major
venues in Japan from 1947 to present. Data compiled from Kabuki Kōen Database, Japan Actors’ Association.

In many ways, Oiwa ceases to be not only a wife, but a woman altogether. Narratively, as

an onryō her character is without spouse or spawn, as her infant son is one of the first to die upon

her transformation into an onryō, thus resulting in her casting off both the roles of wife as well as

mother that would socially define her as a woman. Visually, she is deprived of virtually all

markers of femininity, the most important being her beauty and hair. The poison she imbibes

results in part of her face becoming grotesquely marred and swollen, so much so that even while

still alive her visage is already considered monstrous and almost inhuman by those who witness

it. After the truth is exposed to Oiwa by Takuetsu, and she visually confirms for herself the

destruction of her image, she prepares to go out to pay a visit to the Itō residence. Her long

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tresses come out of her scalp in bloody clumps as she combs her hair. As part of her preparations,

she also attempts to apply ohaguro (お歯黒, “tooth blackening”), resulting in not just a

blackening of her teeth but her entire mouth as well, further distorting her face.

In addition to Oiwa’s kamisuki scene being perhaps one of the most iconic for her

character in the play, the acts of applying makeup and combing one’s hair themselves are heavily

imbued with femininity even today. These actions as they are utilized in Yotsuya Kaidan by

Oiwa, however, serve as a means for her to try and seize control of the destruction wrought upon

her by Iemon. The act of ohaguro in particular can be viewed as an attempt to assert her position

as a wife, as this was a custom reserved for married women. Ultimately, her attempts to use these

acts to preserve what remains of her femininity work against her and she is made even further

monstrous. In so doing, a highly feminine act is transformed into something grotesque,

perverting the act of kamisuki and what it tended to represent in both premodern literature and

the kabuki theatre.146

As she loses these social and visual indicators through her transformation into an onryō

Oiwa gains power and strength she did not possess as a woman. In terms of enactment, as she

squeezes the blood from masses of her hair that have fallen out from combing it with her hands

and verbally expresses bitter resentment towards Iemon and the house of Itō Kihei, there is a

strength of voice not heard before. This dramatically audible change in Oiwa, combined with her
later highly aggressive actions as a vengeful spirit, are perhaps one of the reasons the role of

Oiwa continues to be played by a kaneru yakusha rather than the traditional onnagata, even in

current productions of Yotsuya Kaidan.

It is important to note, though, that once Oiwa has died and her transformation into a

vengeful spirit is thereby complete, her opportunities to use her newfound strength of voice is

146
It is worth mentioning that this “perversion” was not unique to this single play, as Tsuruya Nanboku IV is known

for inverting established kabuki convention in his works.

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comparatively limited. In some performances of Yotsuya Kaidan, she is shown to make little

more than guttural noises as she sneers at Iemon. This may be to maintain some manner of

realism, as Oiwa died with her throat cut open by a sword, but by being limited or, in some cases,

completely lacking in speech, the audience struggles to relate to or sympathize with her. One

might argue that Oiwa’s actions speak for themselves, and words are not necessary. However,

combined with her visual appearance, it is difficult for the audience to recognize such a figure as

anything other than a monster.

II.3.2.2 Kaidan Botan Dōrō
As a comparatively more contemporary piece than Yotsuya Kaidan, the kabuki play

Kaidan Botan Dōrō presents as a rather non-traditional kaidan-mono, in terms of its production

history as well as the portrayal of its female ghosts and the supernatural element overall. The title

of the play is derived from the kaidan written by Asai Ryōi in 1666; however the play itself is

considered more directly inspired by the perhaps more famous rakugo version, which was

adapted and performed by San’yūtei Enchō in 1861 and published in 1884. As a kabuki play,

Botan Dōrō presents as a particularly compelling kaidan-mono, written following the Meiji

Restoration of 1868, where practical imperial rule was restored, and Japan entered a period of

rapid modernization in what was known as the Meiji period (1868-1912 CE).

During this time of industrialization and embracing of Western ideas, literature, and even

theatre, influences on more traditional art and literary forms in Japan, particularly Japanese

views of the supernatural, is evident. According to Susan Napier in her book The Fantastic in

Modern Japanese Literature:

In premodern literature and prints beautiful women turned into serpents, metamorphosed

into mountain witches (the so-called yamauba) and, most frequently, transformed into

horrific and vengeful ghosts, wreaking revenge against their (usually male) oppressor

with a success that their real-life counterparts could never have achieved. After the

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 [Meiji] Restoration, however, such melodramatic depictions of women and the

supernatural were increasingly regarded as old-fashioned or vulgar. (23)

Napier’s observations of this shift in portrayal of the supernatural are supported by Noriko

Reider, who considers the primary reason for which to be that “many [Meiji] intellectuals

interpreted the supernatural as unrealistic […or] unenlightening”147 (“Appeal” 278). According

to Reider, Enchō himself openly lamented how the supernatural was being increasingly

considered a “product of the mind, and kaidan an extension of that neuropathy” (“Appeal” 278).

Despite this, some supernatural narratives continued to resonate with audiences. Fumiko Jōo

notes that even after the Meiji Restoration, the Botan Dōrō narrative “circulated widely through

various cultural forms,” with the 1884 publication of Enchō’s version becoming “one of the best-

selling fictional works of the time” (17). How Enchō presented the supernatural element, as well

as the narrative focus of his version of the Botan Dōrō, however, was markedly different from

Edo period kaidan. This reflects both changes in interests as well as the social values of a

modernizing Japan.

The same holds true for the kabuki rendition of Botan Dōrō, which shares more in

common with Enchō’s rakugo performance than the original kaidan written by Asai Ryōi. First

written by Kawatake Shinshichi III, who adapted select parts of Enchō’s rakugo to be performed

for the kabuki stage by Onoe Kikugorō V in 1892, the play soon “became one of the most
popular pieces of theater repertoire in modern Japan” (Jōo 179). The events of the kabuki play

revolve primarily around the love affair between the beautiful Otsuyu and a young samurai

named Hagiwara Shinzaburō. Forced to be apart from one another for months, Shinzaburō is

both shocked and deeply saddened by the news of Otsuyu’s passing, whose death was followed

soon after by that of her wetnurse and maidservant, Oyone. The strength of Otsuyu’s passions for

Shinzaburō prevent her from moving on, however, and she returns as a ghost to continue their

147
The use of the word “unenlightening” is in reference to the fact that Meiji literally translates as “enlightened rule.”
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romance. While Shinzaburō attempts to protect himself from her nightly supernatural visitations,

these efforts are ultimately thwarted by the acts of his manservant, Tomozō, and his wife Omine.

As the servant couple bargain with the ghosts to dismantle their master’s protections in exchange

for money, Shinzaburō’s life is finally claimed by Otsuyu, who takes her lover back to anoyo

with her.

Compared to earlier kaidan-mono like Yotsuya Kaidan, the supernatural presence is

notably less emphasized in favor of featuring the more human characters of the play. In fact, it is

more difficult to identify who of the spirits that appear in Botan Dōrō can be defined as the

actual onryō of the narrative, as the central female ghost, Otsuyu, does not exhibit the typical

characteristics of a vengeful ghost, let alone the murderous lover role type. While the story of

Botan Dōrō is considered one of the “three great kaidan” of Japanese folklore, unlike Oiwa of

Yotsuya Kaidan and Okiku of Banshū Sarayashiki, Otsuyu’s presence as an antagonist is

distinctively limited. Rather, it is in the living, human characters of the play where resentment

demanding vengeance breeds.

This comparatively modern take on portraying a traditional kaidan narrative strongly

resonated with audiences in the Meiji period. Upon witnessing Kikugorō V’s performance of

Botan Dōrō in Tokyo, Lafcadio Hearn wrote how he was made to feel “a new variety of the

pleasure of fear” (Hearn, In Ghostly Japan 73). Experiencing this newfound “pleasure of fear”
that Hearn describes was perhaps a strong draw for audiences of Shinshichi III’s Botan Dōrō and

would continue to be influential in adaptations of kaidan that followed long after the Meiji

period. In 1974, Ōnishi Nobuyuki wrote a more modern version of the Botan Dōrō play,

featuring a narrative that was closer to the complete Enchō version, for the Japanese

contemporary theatre company Bungakuza.148 The success of this version resulted in Ōnishi’s

Botan Dōrō being performed on the kabuki stage shortly after its Bungakuza premiere, and fully

148
Founded in 1937.
164
adopted by the kabuki theatre in 1989.149 In present day, Ōnishi’s 1974 version of Botan Dōrō

has almost completely overshadowed the original kabuki version from 1892 in popularity. By

comparing both kabuki plays150 to one another, as well as to the rakugo performance and the

original seventeenth-century kaidan, differences in female character portrayal, both ghost and

human, help indicate a shift in views of women in modern Japanese society, as well as how the

female onryō is utilized to highlight social transgression.

In both kabuki play versions, as well as the rakugo performance of the narrative, the

ghost of Otsuyu is shown to be, as much as she was in life, pining for Shinzaburō rather than

resenting him. In fact, it is the strength of her desire that results in her death, as she wastes away,

desperate to see him again. Upon her death, she along with Oyone, who also returns to konoyo as

a ghost to serve her mistress, waste little time to visit Shinzaburō’s residence. Instead of jealousy,

as is typical of most depictions of the murderous lover, or even resentment over Shinzaburō

failing to come to see her in life, Otsuyu is preoccupied solely with feelings of helpless love and

longing. After convincing him that the news of their deaths was just nasty rumor meant to keep

him away, Shinzaburō is only too happy to embrace Otsuyu once again. Reunited at last, Otsuyu

makes it clear to her lover that she has no intention of ever letting him go:

OTSUYU. たとえどのようなことになりましょうとも、露は新三郎さまのほかに

夫はないと決めております。死んでも思いは変わりませぬ。お見捨てなさると恨
みですよ。151

149
Ōnishi’s Botan Dōrō was first staged for kabuki in 1976, however the cast was mixed featuring both kabuki

actors and contemporary Japanese actresses. It was staged for the first time with an entirely kabuki cast in 1989

starring “golden pair” actors Kataoka Nizaemon XV (1944-) and Bandō Tamasaburō V (1950-).
150
Although Ōnishi Nobuyuki initially wrote Botan Dōrō for the contemporary theatre, as of 1989 it became

thoroughly recognized as a kabuki play.

151
Taken from Ōnishi Nobuyuki, Botan Dōrō 116.
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 “No matter what happens, I have decided that there is no other husband for me than you,

Shinzaburō-sama. Even if I were to die, those feelings will not change. I shall resent you

if you ever forsake me.”

To both Shinzaburō and the eavesdropping Tomozō, Shinzaburō’s manservant, these words do

not appear to raise any sort of initial alarm. Her words present more as a declaration of the

woman’s love rather than a warning or threat. This is largely because, at least at this point in the

narrative, neither of the two men are aware that Otsuyu is in fact deceased, and such a young

woman would pose little danger. Once Tomozō spies on his master with Otsuyu and her true

form is revealed, her presence takes on more of a menacing air to both him and the audience.

Surprisingly, once Tomozō helps his master discover the truth and Shinzaburō has

protective talismans placed at every entry point to his house, preventing Otsuyu from visiting

him, she does not fully keep true to her word. Even after Shinzaburō has apparently abandoned

his love for her, there is no significant change in Otsuyu’s behavior. Instead of “resentment” (恨

み) or anger, she expresses more of the same desperate longing as before. Even when Oyone

tries to reason with her mistress to give up on Shinzaburō whose “heart had changed” (お心変わ

りました), Otsuyu refuses to let go of her passion and appeals to Oyone for help:

OTSUYU. いやです、いやですよ。私は新三郎さまのおそばへ行きたい…ねぇ米

や、お願いだよ。152
“No, I refuse. I wish to go to Shinzaburō-sama’s side… Yone, I’m begging you.”

Although ultimately Otsuyu does claim his life for herself, firmly placing her in the role of

murderous lover, her feelings for Shinzaburō remain the same as before, despite his betrayal.

Rather than Otsuyu, it is her maidservant Oyone who becomes more aggressive and takes it upon

herself to help her mistress get what she wants by haunting, even threatening Tomozō to make

him remove the talismans on Shinzaburō’s residence so that they can enter. Although Otsuyu is

152
Taken from Ōnishi Nobuyuki, Botan Dōrō 125.
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the one who motivates Oyone to act, it does not appear that she is able to achieve much on her

own. Unlike other female ghost characters, let alone murderous lovers, death does not seem to

lend Otsuyu’s spirit any additional agency or power compared to what she possessed in life.

Given the strength of her obsessions, however, one might imagine that if Oyone were ever to

refuse her, she would not simply resign herself and return to anoyo.

Although not overtly vengeful, Otsuyu still poses as a form of onryō in that she harbors

“resentment.” Rather than be openly fixated on a specific individual, her resentment is both quiet

and pervasive as she bitterly resents the world at large for denying her the opportunity for love

while alive. As such, she suffers from the most intense passionate attachment in death. She has

things she covets and wants them desperately no matter what the spiritual or material cost. When

Tomozō, at the suggestion of his wife, Omine, negotiates his complicity for the price of one

hundred gold coins, she implores Oyone to pay the exorbitant sum without hesitation. In

Kawatake Shinshichi III’s 1892 kabuki adaptation, the intensity of her passion is made apparent

even prior to her death, as the performance opens with Otsuyu’s father interrupting the two

lovers’ secret meeting due to a stark disparity in status (Kincaid 296). Despite belonging to a

higher social class, Otsuyu helplessly desires one who she should not have and being forced

apart from Shinzaburō by her father is what drives her to commit suicide. In both kabuki

renditions, the extent of her romantic attachments to Shinzaburō from beyond the grave,
although not accorded the same Buddhist censure or association with karmic sin as typical

female onryō found in nō plays, still strikes the audience as unnatural, even disturbing as she gets

what she wants in the end. Despite this, she is still portrayed as an innocent, attractive young

woman, an image she is able to maintain precisely because she does not act on her own in the

narrative. Through Oyone’s acts of aggression on her behalf, Otsuyu’s innocent virtue is

maintained, even protected.

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 In contrast, the murderous lover character from the original seventeenth-century kaidan

on which the rakugo and, by extension, both kabuki performances are based, is sexually

aggressive throughout the narrative. Adapted from a Chinese ghost story, the male protagonist in

Asai Ryōi’s kaidan adaptation, named Shinnojō, has no prior living relationship with the

supernatural female who appears in this tale. In fact, the first time he meets her is during O-bon,

after the recent loss of his wife who, up until this point in the story at least, had filled his

thoughts entirely:

[…] his breast smoldered with longing for [his wife] and his sleeves were always soaked

with tears. He lingered forlornly by his window, pining for the days they had passed so

happily together. […] To think that his own wife was now among the souls of the

departed! He spent his time offering sutras for her repose and had no desire to set foot

outside his home. (Mori 34)

Upon seeing this beautiful, mysterious young woman, however, he becomes thoroughly

entranced:

The woman’s eyes were bright as lotus blossoms, her figure lithe as a willow, her

eyebrows lovely as a laurel tree, her jet black tresses indescribably alluring. […] Truly,

she seemed a creature not of this world! [Shinnojō] lost his senses; he was so entranced

by the woman that he could not resist following her. (34)

Having no previous knowledge as to her identity or any form of past history with the protagonist,

the woman poses as entirely a mystery to both Shinnojō and the reader. She thus has more of a

potentially dangerous air about her to the reader, especially as the protagonist first encounters her

during O-bon, a time when spirits are believed to be highly active. Her appearance also seems to

have an almost hypnotic effect on Shinnojō. Despite only moments before having been beside

himself over the recent loss of his wife, he now seems to have forgotten about her completely,

consumed by his attraction to this mysterious young woman. This frames her as more of a

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malignant temptress, and she is likened to one by Shinnojō’s neighbor, who reveals the truth to

him about the true “evil” nature of his lover:

You are headed for disaster. It’s no use trying to hide anything. Last night I peeked

through the fence and saw everything. You know, human beings are energetic and pure

while they’re alive, but after they die and become ghosts they turn gloomy and vicious.

That’s why corpses are taboo. Now you’re dallying with a gloomy ghost and you don’t

realize it. You’re sleeping with a filthy evil enchantress, but you’re blind to it. Soon your

energy will be gone, your vigor depleted, and misfortunes will beset you. (Mori 36)

Unlike in Enchō’s rakugo and both kabuki versions, there is little mention of the servant

character beyond her accompanying the female ghost. The focus is entirely on the murderous

lover, who openly expresses her resentment over being shunned by Shinnojō. Not only is she

portrayed as more aggressive than Otsuyu, but also little to no context is given to explain her

violent behavior and thus humanize her character. Consequently, in the kaidan the woman

presents as far less sympathetic and more akin to a villain or monster, as she forcefully takes her

lover back to anoyo with her, claiming his life.

When San’yūtei Enchō chose to adapt Asai Ryōi’s kaidan to perform as a rakugo, he

sought to flesh out the narrative further with a full cast of characters. Rather than populate his

adaptation with more ghosts, however, he opted to incorporate and focus on conflicts involving
ordinary humans. As a result, rather than Otsuyu, the human characters in Enchō’s rakugo

narrative are the ones who openly exhibit qualities that could easily result in resentment in death.

Tomozō’s wife, Omine, is a notable example of this, as she is plagued with jealousy – a time-

honored motivation for the classic female onryō – throughout the narrative. When Tomozō is

initially troubled by Oyone’s supernatural visitation, Omine suspects the worst, believing her

husband is keeping another woman in their bedroom. Later, when the two have begun a new life

together after receiving gold as payment for removing the protective talismans from

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Shinzaburō’s home, resulting in their master’s death, Omine still has little faith in Tomozō’s

fidelity towards her. Her suspicions are confirmed when she discovers how frequently he

patronizes a certain “teahouse” where Okuni, formerly the second wife of Otsuyu’s father, works

as a prostitute. In the rakugo, shortly after her discovery of her husband’s affair, a bitter

argument ensues, during which Tomozō ends up killing his wife “when she goes crazy with

jealousy” (Drake 963).

In Ōnishi’s version of the narrative, Omine believes in his infidelity so strongly that even

as Tomozō is attempting to murder her, she is convinced that he wishes to do away with her so

that he can be with his new lover, and not to protect their secret as he claims. Her last words

spoken in the play are of her venting those frustrations:

OMINE. 嘘だ、お前は私を殺してお国の阿魔と… 口惜しい！153

“Lies, you wish to kill me to be with that wench Okuni… how bitter I feel!”

Given the feeling of mortification that she expresses, combined with being brutally murdered by

her husband shortly after, it is little surprise that her feelings breed resentment so strong that it

takes effect almost immediately upon her death. So powerful does she become in death that she

is able to prevent her husband from escaping, pulling him back despite his greatest attempts to

escape her supernatural grasp. In this scene, which takes place minutes before the close of the

entire play, Omine exhibits both power and agency as she ultimately rises up from the river in
which he tossed her body, and drags him down into the water with her. In life, she lacked the

power to do much about Tomozō’s infidelity and her jealous feelings, however as an onryō she

can exact vengeance. Compared to Otsuyu, Omine presents as a more proper onryō with a clear

grudge. Ōnishi’s 1974 version of the narrative also implies more supernatural involvement in

bringing the play to its conclusion, as Tomozō and Omine’s quarrel is interrupted by Oyone’s

spirit, who reappears possessing the body of Omine’s friend, Oroku. It is Oyone’s appearance

153
Taken from Ōnishi Nobuyuki, Botan Dōrō 170.
170
combined with Omine’s threats to expose their misdeeds that drives Tomozō to kill his wife and

be killed in turn by her onryō. The implication thus being that their deaths were orchestrated at

least in part by Oyone, presumably as punishment for the couple’s audacity to make demands of

her mistress.

At the same time, the human characters of the Botan Dōrō narrative are equally shown as

enabled by the supernatural, its presence merely exposing their inherent villainous nature. This is

especially true of Tomozō and, to some extent, Omine. When Oyone first appears before him,

while she does threaten and terrify him, she does not inflict physical harm on his person.

Additionally, in Enchō’s rakugo Tomozō is already portrayed prior to his supernatural encounter

as dissatisfied with his status and poverty. In the end, Tomozō agrees to do as the ghost wishes,

not so much out of fear for his life, but in exchange for monetary compensation in the amount of

one hundred gold coins. While he proposes this mostly to create an excuse to escape Oyone’s

threatening wrath, as it is presumed that ghosts do not have money,154 this request is sourced in

the desire to transcend his current financial and social position. Instead of Otsuyu’s feelings of

attachment towards Shinzaburō, the desires of Tomozō and Omine to effectively become their

own “masters,” even at the expense of the lives of others, are what is vilified. Even in death,

Shinzaburō does not realize that the talismans have been compromised, and never does he

suspect that his servants have doomed him for the price of gold and material gain. Furthermore,
while Omine is ultimately killed by her husband, the idea to trade their master’s life for riches is

conceived of by Omine, not Tomozō himself, which indicates a shared sense of material greed.

This is especially evident as neither Tomozō nor Omine exhibit much in terms of a guilty

conscience as to what befalls Shinzaburō. Omine threatens to expose their misdeeds not out of a

154
Originating from Enchō’s rakugo, this is actually meant to be a play on words in the Japanese script, yūrei wa

ashi ga nai (幽霊は足がない) as the word ashi can be understood to mean “legs,” but was also an archaic term for

“money or coin” (足).

171
desire for redemption, but out of selfish frustration over Tomozō’s infidelity. Later, too,

Tomozō’s claims that Omine must die due to the risk of the truth being exposed reflects his own

selfishness, as well as perhaps his greed in wanting to keep their acquired wealth for himself to

share with a new lover.

As a more contemporary kaidan-mono compared to kabuki works like Yotsuya Kaidan,

this non-traditional portrayal may also account for there being very little visual implication of

Otsuyu as an antagonist in either play version of Botan Dōrō. For almost the entirety of each

play, she presents as little more than a beautiful, pale young woman, making it even more

difficult for the audience to identify her character as antagonistic. The only instance when she is

shown to be otherwise is the initial revelation of Otsuyu’s true form to the spying Tomozō,

where she appears more as a skeleton, her face suddenly changing into that of a human skull.

This portrayal, which is quite unlike the appearance of what is by this point almost the expected,

bordering on stereotypical, ghost in kaidan-mono, is the only time when Otsuyu’s image presents

as anything short of innocent. Her appearing as a skeleton also implies that she is something

more akin to a corpse than a spirit. This is not an innovation unique to the kabuki play, however,

and has an established precedent in the original kaidan written by Asai Ryōi, in which the

appearance of the woman’s ghost is likened to a skeleton: “Lo and behold, there in the lamplight

sat [Shinnojō], face to face with a skeleton! When [he] spoke, the skeleton would move its arms
and legs, nod its skull, and reply in a voice that seemed to come from its mouth” (Mori 36). This

imagery in turn is inspired by the original Chinese ghost story155 adapted by Asai Ryōi to better

cater to Japanese readership, in which the discovery of the woman character to be a skeletal

revenant plays an essential role in the tale (Jōo 24-64). This choice in portrayal in the kabuki

performance may therefore have more to do with paying homage to the original source material

155
The title pronounced as Mudan dengji [牡丹灯記; “Tale of the Peony Lantern”] in Chinese. Written by Qu You

(1341-1427).
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and be less indicative of actual views of Otsuyu’s character. Regardless, the effect of this visual

portrayal in the kabuki performance arguably changes the impression she gives off as a ghost in

the play, for in some ways her presence is more physical and material than the typical ghost

character found in traditional kaidan-mono. She poses a corporeal presence that Shinzaburō can

in fact embrace, and who can, in turn, potentially do him real, physical harm. When it comes

time for Otsuyu to actually claim her lover’s life, however, she does not change in appearance in

the play, despite the original kaidan story detailing how the man died with the woman’s skeleton

wrapped painfully tight around his neck. This further supports the overall impression given that

Otsuyu is not meant to in fact pose as an antagonistic, or menacing, force in the narrative.

In contrast, the display of violence exhibited in the Ōnishi version by both Tomozō as he

is killing Omine, as well as Omine when she returns as an onryō to exact vengeance on her

husband, is in stark juxtaposition with the scene of Shinzaburō’s death at the hands of Otsuyu,

which marks the dramatic end to the first act of the kabuki play. Not only is there no visual use

of blood, unlike in the case of both Omine and Tomozō’s deaths, the expression on Shinzaburō’s

face is one that is, at the very least, one of surprise rather than fear or horror as he is taken by

Otsuyu. While this lack of fear or resistance may be largely due to his misunderstanding that his

love appearing before him must mean that she is in fact alive and not a spirit, Otsuyu herself

does not change at all in her disposition towards Shinzaburō either. His moment of death is
therefore depicted more as a scene of misfortune or romantic tragedy, and far less as a scene of

horror. This contrasts strongly with the contorted facial expressions of utter terror on Tomozō’s

face as he struggles desperately to escape Omine dragging him with her to anoyo.

When examining kabuki play renditions of Botan Dōrō, it is equally important to

consider the influence of not only script but also the actors’ preference in a given kabuki

performance. This accounts for there being multiple endings to both kabuki versions of the

narrative, a majority of which considerably diminish the supernatural element in favor of

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featuring instead the horrors of humanity. While Omine’s ghostly return as an onryō tends to be

the most popular ending for performances of Ōnishi’s version today, in the initial script, which

was also the version to be first fully performed by the kabuki theatre in 1989, Tomozō is driven

to madness and comes to his senses only after he has killed Omine. Horror-stricken and beside

himself with grief and regret, the performance ended with Tomozō holding his wife in his arms,

drenched in rain, desperately calling out her name. In contrast, Kawatake Shinshichi III’s

adaptation tended to adhere more closely to the rakugo’s ending, however, in a number of

performances the role of Tomozō is notably nuanced to make him more of a notorious villain.

While he still kills Omine, due to their quarrel, her death is portrayed as something calculated

rather than an accident as he remains calm and collected both throughout and after the deed, and

even covers up her murder (Tsuji 101). The implication is that Tomozō was always a villainous,

immoral man, regardless of the ghosts’ presence.

In a similar vein, the underlying message of both kabuki play versions of Botan Dōrō

differs from earlier kaidan-mono and seems to have notably less to do with the supernatural.

Rather than the central female ghost figure Otsuyu, or even her maidservant Oyone, the actions

of the human characters are far more fearsome. This is echoed by Enchō’s rakugo, where the

presence of the supernatural served more as a device to bring about the human villains’

punishment as part of his narrative. As indicated by the famous line spoken by Enchō in the
closing address of his performance, which was also used as the tagline for the kabuki play itself,

he expresses more a caution of the work of people rather than spirits:

幽霊より人間の方が恐ろしい156

“Rather than spirits or ghosts, humans are far more terrifying”

Rather than highlighting the female onryō’s behavior as transgressive, as was typical of most

Edo period kaidan, the human characters were the subject of Enchō’s censure. Although

156
Taken from San’yūtei Enchō Zenshū.
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Otsuyu’s passion for Shinzaburō and resulting attachment to konoyo is the root cause for the

events that take place, in the end it is the actions of humans, through their acts of greed, lust, and

jealousy that these events come to pass. None are the direct work of either Otsuyu’s or even

Oyone’s spirit, perhaps highlighting the potential wickedness of “normal” human beings.
II.3.2.3 Banshū Sarayashiki
The kabuki play Banshū Sarayashiki presents one of the kabuki theatre’s earliest

examples of the proto-dead wet girl for the classic female onryō. More so than preceding nō

examples of this role type, the proto-dead wet girl as she is found in the kabuki theatre shares

stronger similarities and serves as a closer prototype to depictions of the actual dead wet girl role

type found in later J-horror films.

First adapted for the kabuki stage in 1720 under the title Nishiki Sarakumai Yakata, the

kaidan narrative that would be later known as Banshū Sarayashiki would not fully capture the

imagination of theatre audiences until 1741, with its debut as a ningyō jōruri performance.

Numerous revisions for the kabuki theatre followed soon after, almost all of which were titled

Banshū Sarayashiki. One notable exception was when the play initially made its debut in Edo,157

written by Segawa Jokō III and titled Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki [実成金菊月] in 1850.158

To this day Jokō III’s version is the most well-known version of Banshū Sarayashiki, thanks

largely to its successful revival in 1971.159 The kaidan narrative that inspired all of these

theatrical renditions, however, dates back to the early Edo period. In addition to being considered

one of the “three great kaidan” alongside Oiwa and Otsuyu, the story of Okiku is, out of all the

157
Present day Tokyo.
158
After this initial 1850 performance, following productions of Jokō III’s script went by the title Banshū

Sarayashiki. As such, I will be referring to the work by this name and not its original title.
159
Starring “golden pair” Kataoka Nizaemon XV and Bandō Tamasaburō V in the leading roles.
175
existing kaidan, one of the most pervasive, as indicated by the number of regional variations that

are known to exist.160

At the opening of Jokō III’s kabuki play, the ruling lord of Himeji Castle has fallen

fatally ill and is on his deathbed. In preparation for the succession of the heir, Tomonosuke, a

prized set of ten plates have been placed in the lady-in-waiting Okiku’s care, as they are intended

to be a gift for the shogun. With this gift, Tomonosuke’s retainers, including Okiku’s fiancé

Sanpei, hope to obtain permission from the Tokugawa shogunate for Tomonosuke’s succession,

thus securing his future as the next lord of Himeji Castle. Not all men share this view, however,

as Asayama Tetsuzan, the chief retainer of the currently ailing lord, has been plotting to usurp

Tomonosuke for years. When his attempts to pressure Okiku into helping him in his schemes fail,

he kills her to silence her, but not before subjecting her to prolonged torture out of both spite and

sadistic pleasure. Incensed over the injustice of her death at Tetsuzan’s hands, Okiku returns as

an onryō to exact vengeance.

As was seen with the proto-dead wet girl in the nō play Dōjōji, there is an increased focus

on making the girl, in this case Okiku, into a spectacle in Banshū Sarayashiki. As such, there is

little exploration of her character as part of the narrative. Of all the kabuki pieces discussed in

this dissertation, Banshū Sarayashiki is comparatively one of the shortest narratives, and the

character Okiku herself does not appear until about halfway through the play. Upon her entrance,
the audience learns little about Okiku beyond that she is engaged to Sanpei and is highly coveted

by Tetsuzan in spite of this fact. Tetsuzan, having aspirations to seize power, attempts to attain

both things that he wants by coercing Okiku’s complicity in murdering her fiancé’s master.

Knowing that both Tomonosuke and Sanpei will suffer fatal consequences if the set of ten plates

160
There are as many as forty-eight known versions of the Okiku legend in various provinces, mostly concentrated

in western and southwestern Japan. For a comprehensive survey of the Okiku legend variations and the proliferation

of the legend itself, see Itō Atsushi, Nihon no Sarayashiki Densetsu.

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are not presented in pristine condition, Tetsuzan has one of the plates stolen in secret with the

intent to use it to blackmail Okiku. He confronts her over the missing plate and accuses her of

the theft, but promises to overlook her mistake if she will become his lover:

TETSUZAN. […] 三平を振すて身が心に従えば、科を許して今日より、栄耀栄華

は身の仕合せ、色よい返事は、どうだ。161

“If you forsake Sanpei and submit yourself to my will, I shall forgive your error from

today, and luxury shall be your good fortune, this is quite favorable, wouldn’t you say?”

OKIKU. お見下げ申たその詞、忠義を忘れぬ夫に見かえ。邪非道の悪人に、何と

てもこの身を汚そうぞ。

“You look down on me with those words, but I look to my husband not forgetting my

devotion. You wicked, inhuman villain of a man, you dishonor me.”

Although Okiku is not seen interacting with Sanpei prior to her scene with Tetsuzan, her

devotion to her fiancé can be inferred based on her continued adamant refusals even under pain

of death to surrender herself to Tetsuzan when he propositions her. Because the audience does

not see how Okiku is with Sanpei, little context is given as to the emotional nature of their

relationship, be it positive or negative. Consequently, this de-emphasizes her ties with him,

making her present as neither a wife, being still unmarried, nor a lover. The focus then of her

character becomes Okiku’s struggles with Tetsuzan to maintain her innate womanly virtue. By
staying loyal to both her fiancé and her master, even at the risk of losing her life, she is able to

fulfill her role as a proper woman.

While the audience is certainly compelled to pity Okiku and despise Tetsuzan, she

presents as little more than a young woman who exists to be tortured and killed, to suffer for the

sadistic pleasures of the antagonizing male figure. Rather than a scene of actual transformation,

such as is seen in Dōjōji with the bell, it is the excessive violence, both physical and

161
Taken from Mihonkoku Gikyokushū 22 Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki (Kokuritsu Gekijō 124)
177
psychological, done unto Okiku by Tetsuzan that becomes the spectacle of the play. Not only

does he take visibly tangible pleasure in seeing Okiku’s shock and horror at the discovery of the

missing plate, but he proceeds to torture her by having her tied up and beaten with a wooden

sword, all the while demanding from her the plate’s location, a question he knows that she

cannot answer even if she wished to.

This focus on making violence into a spectacle is not unique to this specific play.

Referred to as semeba, scenes of violence or torture were popular as the climax of many a kabuki

play. Literally translating as “scenes of pressure,” semeba did not necessarily require physical

torture and could consist of a character, either male or female, being psychologically backed into

a corner and “pressured” into divulging a secret or renouncing a lover or other claim. With the

influence of ningyō jōruri, however, kamigata kabuki plays increasingly featured semeba in

which women were physically tortured. From even the times of early ningyō jōruri, when the

theatre form was still referred to as kojōruri, plays frequently featured scenes of torturing women.

Due to its closer proximity to Osaka’s ningyō jōruri theatres and playwrights, kamigata kabuki

began adapting the puppet theatre’s plays for its own stage from the early 1700s, a period of

adaptation which reached its peak in the mid-1700s. Although not conclusive, this trend of

increasingly physically violent semeba in kamigata kabuki coincides with performances of the

original kabuki adaptation of Okiku’s narrative, which made its debut in Kyoto in 1720.
Okiku’s prolonged semeba at Tetsuzan’s hands is considered to be the highlight of the

play, especially due to its watery climax, which firmly identifies her as a proto-dead wet girl.

After already having beaten her quite severely with the wooden sword, Tetsuzan has Okiku

strung up over a well. To further draw out her suffering as much as possible, he has her plunged

into the waters again and again. Seeing her bloodied, hair in disarray, and drenched, Tetsuzan

genuinely delights at the sight. The scene concludes with him viciously cutting her down with his

sword, allowing her body to drop down into the well. The water itself that her body is drenched

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in, too, is attributed a death-like quality, as the honmizu effects at this point are specifically

“dyed crimson” (本水紅付) according to the script. This is reinforced by Tetsuzan’s retainer and

accomplice Chūta, who associates the water of the well with the sanzu no kawa:

CHŪTA. 三途の川の瀬踏のため、この世の水の食らい納め。162

“To measure the depths of the River of Three Crossings, take the water from this

world as your last meal.”

Unlike the proto-dead wet girl of Dōjōji, or even other examples of the classic female onryō

where water was seen to have a transformative quality on her character, the water of Okiku’s

narrative not only completes her transformation into an onryō, but also contributes to her death.

As a “girl” made “wet” by water polluted with death, Okiku thus presents as a proto-dead wet

girl that more closely resembles the dead wet girl of J-horror cinema out of the comparatively

few examples of this role type found in nō and kabuki.

Although water has consistently been utilized both narratively and visually to connote the

supernatural, in this regard, Okiku’s dying image is also eroticized by being made wet. As much

as water, or wetness, has been associated with the feminine in terms of (menstrual) blood and

giving birth, it is equally evocative of sex. This imagery is evident from as early as the Heian

period, where water, although often used to express lament in the form of tears, could also be

used in poetry to suggest sexual desire. Such as can be seen in the poem written by Fujiwara no
Toshiyuki (Unknown-907), a poet of the mid-Heian period and member of the Thirty-Six

Medieval Poetry Immortals alongside Izumi Shikibu, as found in the Kokin Wakashū [古今和歌

集; “Collection of Japanese Poems of Ancient and Modern Times”]:163

つれづれのながめにまさるなみだ河袖のみ濡れて逢ふよしもなし164

162
Taken from Mihonkoku Gikyokushū 22 Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki (Kokuritsu Gekijō 125).
163
Commonly abbreviated as Kokinshū, compiled in 914.
164
Taken from the Waka Database run by the Nichibunken International Research Center for Japanese Studies.
179
 “Falling without end, these rains have swollen into a river of tears, yet only my sleeves

are wet with no way to see you”

The association of water with sexual activity continues to be seen in the Edo period and is

present in even kabuki naming conventions. The term nureba (濡れ場, “love scenes”), which

literally translates as “wet scene,” was used to specifically refer to an ardent and sensual scene

with implied sexual intercourse (Leiter 477). As much as the audience may be horrified by the

extent of Okiku’s torture at the hands of Tetsuzan, seeing her image made physically wet with

honmizu stage effects, causing her clothes to cling to her bound body, creates an uncomfortable

degree of sexual attraction in seeing her death. The audience is thus also guilty of being morbidly

titillated by seeing Okiku’s “wetness” just as Tetsuzan is in the play.

Furthermore, the cause for Okiku incurring such vicious, almost vindictive, violence

which brings about her re-emerging as an onryō, has little to do with any shortcoming of hers or

wrong she has done. As an entirely innocent young woman who is not only wronged but made to

suffer so inexplicably, Okiku herself questions the iniquity of how much she is being punished:

OKIKU. あ、苦しや、耐えがたや。いかなる因果でこのような極悪人の手に懸り

… 苦患うけるが口惜しいわいの...165

“Ah, what pain, it is unbearable. Whatever ill-fated karma did I incur to suffer at the

hand of such an utter villain… I accept this hellish pain but how bitter I do feel…”
Parallels can certainly be drawn between Okiku’s narrative and Oiwa from Yotsuya Kaidan, who

is also made to suffer immensely by an abusive man. Oiwa’s story, however, implies that she has

in some way brought about her own misfortune by not only marrying her father’s killer (albeit

unknowingly), but also failing to see to her husband’s needs and consequently inviting Iemon’s

contempt. Furthermore, there is a certain degree of choice in Oiwa’s transformation into an

onryō, where she allows herself to be immersed in her feelings of outrage over being personally

165
Taken from Mihonkoku Gikyokushū 22 Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki (Kokuritsu Gekijō 124)
180
humiliated. In contrast, the only semblance of an explanation that Okiku is given comes from

Tetsuzan, who accuses her of inviting this upon herself by tempting him. He faults her for

enticing him to make sexual advances, by doing little else other than simply being a young

woman, only to reject him. Effectively, she has been persecuted not for anything she has actually

done, but for what she is, which is a “girl,” who is unfortunate enough to suffer at the hands of a

power-hungry sadist.

Tetsuzan’s words hardly suffice as an explanation or justification, and might account for

the highly vindictive disposition Okiku’s onryō assumes when she re-emerges. Rising from the

depths of the well, she appears as similarly sadistic as Tetsuzan was to her in life. Much like how

he psychologically tortured her before her death, she torments her murderer by counting plates

over and over:

OKIKU. 壱つ… 二つ… 三つ。[…] 恨めしや、鉄山殿。どうぞ今一度、その皿を

改めさして下さりませ。166

“One… Two… Three. […] How I hate you, Tetsuzan. Please by all means, let us

examine those plates once more.”

Her nature thoroughly changed from her traumatic experience, she becomes both violent and

aggressive, which strongly contrasts with her miserable figure from only moments before,

helpless to do anything about what was being done to her. As she pursues and haunts the culprit
of her misfortune throughout the remainder of the play, all her thoughts are bent on making

Tetsuzan suffer at least as much if not more than she herself did:

OKIKU. […] 邪見の刃に身を貫き、苦患を見せる幾世の苦しみ… 恨めしい鉄山殿。

167

166
Taken from Mihonkoku Gikyokushū 22 Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki (Kokuritsu Gekijō 126)
167
Taken from Mihonkoku Gikyokushū 22 Minoriyoshi Kogane no Kikuzuki (Kokuritsu Gekijō 137)
181
 “As my body was run through by that evil blade, I shall show you hellish pain and

suffering for the ages… oh how hateful you are, Tetsuzan.”

Her feelings of bitter outrage at the injustice of her death serve as the impetus for Okiku

becoming an onryō. Incensed by the extent to which she has been wronged, her vengeance on

Tetsuzan, though pointed, is not especially complex. As a proto-dead wet girl, she simply hates,

as indicated by the majority of her lines as an onryō consisting of her expressing her contempt

for Tetsuzan (恨めし).

The effect of Okiku’s simple hatred as an onryō is compounded by the fact that her

narrative lacks a clear resolution. While she swears to continue to haunt Tetsuzan until he is

made to suffer for all of his wrongdoing, the play Banshū Sarayashiki ends with the two staring

each other down. The audience is consequently left to consider the possibility that her onryō

continues to be at large, which is accentuated by the pervasiveness of Okiku’s kaidan in Japan.

Her ghostly presence is especially grounded in “reality” as superstitious belief in her onryō is

tied to the physical existence of the well she is believed to haunt even in present day.168 The

onryō of Okiku is thus implied to possess an intense desire for retribution long after death which

is more reminiscent of the dead wet girls of J-horror films, such as Sadako in the Ringu film

series, who is largely inspired by Okiku. As the female onryō makes her transition from the stage

to film, from the classic to the new, this will become increasingly more the norm in her portrayal.

168
Located on the grounds of Himeji Castle, in present day Hyōgo Prefecture.
182
Chapter III. Beginning Transitions from the Classic to the New Female Onryō
III.1 BACKGROUND ON CHANGES TO THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ

III.1.1 Development of the Kaidan Film Genre in Japan

As in many places, when motion pictures were first introduced to Japan, they were

viewed largely as a natural extension of theatre. Shortly after film was introduced from overseas

in 1897, the first film camera was imported to Japan by photographer Asano Shirō (1877-1955),

and though initial film subjects varied from shooting street scenes or geisha dances, filming

excerpts of stage performances soon followed (Richie 17-18). In 1899, Shibata Tsunekichi

filmed excerpts of kabuki performances,169 namely Momijigari, starring Ichikawa Danjūrō IX

and Onoe Kikugorō V, as well as Ninin Dōjōji [二人道成寺; “Two People at Dōjōji Temple”]170

starring Onoe Eizaburō V (1870-1934)171 and Ichimura Kakitsu VI (1874-1945).172 As Donald

Richie notes, “[t]he Japanese audience perceived film as a new form of [theatre] and not (as in,

say, the United States) a new form of photography,” as a result, it is little surprise that “nearly all

of the early Japanese story films were in some manner or other taken from the stage,” mostly

from the kabuki or shinpa (新派, “new school”)173 theatres (Richie 22).

Japanese cinema’s close connection to the stage extended not only to the narrative source

material of a given film, but also theatrical paradigms. Early films not only made use of the

onnagata tradition of kabuki, having male actors consistently perform the roles of women, but

also “the film itself was usually comprised of full-frontal, long-running stagelike shots” (Richie

169
It should be noted that these were not live kabuki performances, but staged solely for camera.
170
A version of the kabuki dance drama Musume Dōjōji. While Musume Dōjōji was first performed in 1753, Ninin

Dōjōji, which features two leading dancers instead of one, did not premiere until 1835.
171
The name held by Baikō VI from 1891 to 1903.
172
The name held by Uzaemon XV from 1893 to 1903.
173
A new form of theatre that emerged in the late 1880s as an early attempt to modernize Japanese theatrical

performance, generally based on stories of contemporary domestic life which made use of colloquial language.
183
23). According to Richie, this adoption of such mechanisms in cinema in Japan has largely to do

with an overall lack of “realism” in Japanese art up to that time, and so in “Japanese film, as on

the Japanese stage, actuality was one thing; theatricality was another” (27). Consequently,

women did not appear in film as actresses portraying female characters until comparatively late,

from 1918 at the earliest (Miyao 152).174 Although Daisuke Miyao notes in his article in The

Oxford Handbook of Japanese Cinema that there were a few exceptions, it was not until the

1920s that the use of actresses started to be normalized,175 and the “actual” female body was seen

performing femininity for film (153). As film production companies gradually made their

transition away from mechanisms evocative of the stylized kabuki stage and its theatricality, this

in turn contributed to Japanese film being recognized as “real,” or “pure,” film, as “with

actresses, the female body took on a new role and styles of acting changed” (Gerow 31-32).

Despite the modernization efforts during the Meiji period, especially the conscious effort

to embrace logic and science in literature due to Western influence, the rich narrative and visual

culture of kaidan, ghosts, and yōkai lent by the Edo period persisted. Consequently, fascination

with the supernatural continued in the growing modern age of Japanese cinema, with the first

film based on a kaidan recorded by Asano Shirō in 1898 (Kobayashi 6). Before long, much like

with the kabuki theatre, these films developed into a whole genre within Japanese cinema. By

1949, more than 270176 of these so-called kaidan films had been made in Japan. While some of

174
Another reason for the comparatively late appearance of film actresses is that women were not legally permitted

to perform since their banning from the stage in 1629, a prohibition which was not (officially) rescinded until 1891

(Kano 31). The Imperial Actress Training Institute, Japan’s first acting school for women, was founded by

Kawakami Sadayakko (1871-1946) in 1908 (Kano 73).

175
According to Miyao: “Even in 1919 only 3 out of about 150 films released in Japan during that year used female
actors for female roles.” (153)
176
Based on records found in the Eiren Database run by the Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc.

and the Japanese Cinema Database run by the Japanese Government’s Agency of Cultural Affairs.
184
these films from this time period were referred to as kaiki, which was used interchangeably with

kaidan to refer to the genre, Western imported films about monsters such as Dracula and

Frankenstein were also referred to as kaiki films in Japan. The term “kaidan films,” on the other

hand, was strictly used to refer to “native” stories, many of which were at least in part inspired

by a kaidan-mono from kabuki or a popular kaidan.

As increasingly more films were made in the kaidan genre, subgenres also emerged, most

notably kaibyō (怪描, “strange cat”). Remarkably, nearly a quarter of kaidan films made by 1949

fell under this category.177 Largely inspired by both kabuki plays and kaidan of the late Edo

period depicting normal cats possessing the ability to become yōkai, known as bakeneko (化け猫,

“monster or ghost cat”), these kaibyō films typically featured cats transforming for vengeance by

drinking the blood of their masters after their wrongful deaths. Quite often their master is female,

and her death a suicide, resulting from anguish over some injustice. While technically a yōkai,

the bakeneko as it manifests in a kaibyō film blurs the lines between ghost and apparition, often

taking on the attributes of its dead master, almost as if possessed by their spirit.

Fig. 21. Screenshots from kaibyō film Nabeshima Kaibyōden [鍋島怪描伝; “Legend of the Nabeshima Ghost Cat”].
Directed by Watanabe Kunio, Shintoho, 1949.

It is important to note, however, that discussion of kaidan films from prior to 1949 is

largely speculative as much of the films and records of Japanese cinema prior to World War II

177
The first known kaibyō film was made in 1910, based on the kabuki play Hana no Sagano Nekomata Zōshi [花嵯

峨野猫魔碑史; “Legend of the Cat-Demon of Saga”] which was written in 1853 by Segawa Jokō III.
185
has been lost to history. Little to no physical films exist due to the Great Kanto Earthquake of

1923, which destroyed nearly every film studio in Tokyo. Later the fire-bombings by the Allied

forces during World War II decimated large quantities of films made during the 1930s. As

Michael Crandol writes in his chapter on horror and kaiki films in The Japanese Cinema Book,

of the films made in Japan prior to World War II, “less than a dozen [kaiki films] are known to

survive, most of them incomplete and in poor condition” (“Horror” 300). As a result, a majority

of the discussion of pre-World War II kaidan films is based on records or descriptions rather than

the physical works themselves.

Jay McRoy notes, however, “[a]lthough horror cinema existed in Japan previous to the

end of World War II, Japanese film culture of the 1950s and 1960s was the site for a virtual

explosion of tales of terror and apocalypse” (6). Much like how interest in kaidan flourished

during times of great social uncertainty near the end of the Edo period, the 1950s and 1960s saw

a boom in the kaidan film genre in the wake of World War II as Japanese audiences developed a

renewed interest in horror, especially ghosts. As Colette Balmain describes:

[a]t a time of societal disruption, shifting relationships between men and women, the

demise of rigid distinctions between classes and the rapid [modernization] of Japan, the

horror film provided one of the most suitable mechanisms through which to articulate

anxieties and concerns over the changing nature of Japanese society at a time of
unprecedented upheaval. (31)

For both these early pre-World War II kaidan films and those of the later kaidan boom period of

the 1950s and 1960s, however, none were explicitly referred to or largely considered to be

“horror” by Japanese audiences (Wada-Marciano 34-36). While these films were often made to

express the fears of Japanese society, the focus was more on invoking psychological fears or

emotional horrors rather than featuring monstrous “jump scares.” This is indicative in the

comparatively delayed reveal of the monster in these films, even in films of the kaibyō subgenre,

186
where seeing the bakeneko was presumably a primary draw for the audience. This is quite unlike

most Western horror films of the time that tended “to introduce their monsters early and make

them the central focus” (Crandol, “Horror” 300).

Although early kaidan films arguably had more of a focus on the “monster,” likely taking

inspiration from imported Western kaiki films such as Frankenstein and Dracula,178 this largely

fell out of style in the years following World War II. Struggling to negotiate their national

identity and collective war responsibility, a majority of postwar filmmakers and authors were

preoccupied with what James Orr refers to as higaisha ishiki (被害者意識, “victim

consciousness”), and tended to portray their protagonists more as victims of circumstance,

capable only of reaction as opposed to assertive action.179 Utilizing the kaidan narrative as a

vehicle to engage with contemporary discourse on guilt and victimization, Japanese postwar

filmmakers (and audiences) were able to safely explore their feelings of anguish and torment,

effectively exorcising the horrors, or “ghosts,” of war.

This distinction of such early kaidan films not being explicitly regarded as horror may in

part be related to the genre’s focus on adaptation. Based on existing records, nearly three

quarters of films made prior to the 1950s in the genre were cinematic adaptations of kaidan-

mono in kabuki or existing kaidan. Even those pre-World War II films considered to be “original”

were still often loosely based on some kabuki play or kaidan with small details such as character
names or setting altered. This is not unlike the well-established tradition of writing “new” plays

in the kabuki theatre, where playwrights would typically select a dramatic setting, or “world”

(sekai), often derived from already existing literature, to set their plays in. By utilizing

previously established characters or narrative elements, these “new” plays could be made easily

178
Both films produced by Universal Pictures in 1931.
179
For more on the emergence of higaisha ishiki after World War II and its crucial role in forming Japan’s pacifist

national identity, see Orr, James J. The Victim as Hero.

187
understandable and engaging for the audience. In comparison, films made after World War II

were considerably less focused on adapting existing narratives, with filmmakers increasingly

seeking to come up with truly original films of the genre. This is comparable to how kaidan itself

emerged as a literary genre in Japan during the Edo period, where early works initially focused

on translation and adaptation of existing stories from other countries, eventually giving way to

truly original works as the kaidan genre fully developed as a style of ghost story literature.
FILM ADAPTATIONS FILM ADAPTATIONS
1910-1949 1950-1989
Kabuki Kaidan Kabuki Kaidan
Other Lit. "Original" Other Lit. "Original"

17%
24%
32%
4% 18%
58%
7%
40%
Fig. 22. Charts showing the percentage of adaptations of kabuki, kaidan, and other literary sources to “original”
works in films made from 1910 to 1949 (Left) compared to films made from 1950 to 1989 in Japan (Right). Data
taken from Eiren Database, Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and Japanese Cinema Database,
Agency of Cultural Affairs, Government of Japan.

Additionally, both in terms of narrative as well as visual style, post-World War II films of

this so-called kaidan boom period were more noted for taking inspiration from what Colette

Balmain refers to as an “Edo gothic” aesthetic rather than a purely traditional kaidan approach.

Inspired more by works written by authors such as Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892-1927) or Izumi

Kyōka (1873-1939), kaidan films became more focused on portraying the psyche of the

supernatural and delivering a haunting atmosphere. This is believed to have started with films as

early as Mizoguchi Kenji (1898-1956)’s Ugetsu Monogatari [雨月物語; “Tales of Moonlight

188
and Rain”],180 which is noted for its subtle approach to depicting the supernatural and

emphasizing more a sense of tragedy (Balmain 43).

As a genre, the Edo gothic is known to be at least partially inspired by the Western notion

of gothic horror. Originally a literary genre first established with the publication of Horace

Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto in 1764, the term gothic horror has been used to define Western

stories and films characterized by elements of fear, death, suffering, and gloom. The narratives

themselves tend to revolve around a battle between humanity and unnatural (though not

necessarily supernatural) forces set against an oppressive, bleak landscape, with the endings

often unhappy and romance hardly if ever a focus. Amidst all the horrors and death, at least some

discussion of morality, philosophy, or religion is typically expected. By the mid-1800s, gothic

horror literature became increasingly focused on utilizing its villains, be they supernatural or not,

as embodiments of human flaws. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein novel published in 1818 is

considered one of the earliest examples of this shift in focus in gothic literature. American author

Edgar Allen Poe perhaps made this the most famous in his works where he explored

psychological trauma and the evils of man. Additionally, because the genre’s imaginative

impulse was drawn from medieval buildings and ruins, from which it also draws its namesake,

stories are typically set in an old, dilapidated structure, such as a gothic castle or Victorian era

house. This setting tends to also weigh heavily on the plot, as the events of the gothic horror
story are often instigated by characters entering a space, whereupon it is often revealed that the

setting is concealing some terrible secret or an especially frightening and threatening monster.

The Edo gothic, which Balmain uses to describe traditional narratives that “tended to

reinforce conservative values, with their helpless victims trapped in nightmarish gothic

landscapes,” shares similarities with the Western concept of gothic horror (51). As Henry

180
Also known as Ugetsu, released in 1953, based on the Edo period kaidan-shū of the same title written by Ueda

Akinari.
189
Hughes notes, both traditions tend to “draw material from a medieval past, periodically

devastated by war and disease and afflicted with superstitions […] to dramatize uncontrolled

human violence and passion” (83). In the case of the Edo gothic, this past, especially the one

seen in kaidan films, is almost exclusively supernatural ridden. How this past is utilized,

however, is a key factor of distinction. Rather than have the past embodied in antiquated,

physical residences or structures that house some horrifying ancient mystery, Edo gothic works

tend to wholly transport their audiences to a faraway time, thereby creating a greater sense of

“fantasy.” As Susan Napier notes in her book The Fantastic in Modern Japanese Literature, the

use of the past and its “ghosts” are a means by which “fantasy” is created, what she defines as

“any conscious departure from consensus reality” (9). This departure from reality especially

served the interests of audiences, who sought the kaidan film as a vehicle for negotiating their

collective war responsibility. Distanced by time, the postwar Japanese viewer could dissociate

from and safely process their feelings of guilt and conflicts with national identity.

Consequently, while characters in a Western gothic horror film are likely to encounter the

monster of the narrative in the present day upon entering a medieval structure or haunted house

imbued with the past, rarely does the kaidan film’s narrative take place in contemporary times.

This may also account for the continued interest in adaptation of existing traditional kabuki and

kaidan narratives, albeit to a lesser extent compared to pre-World War II kaidan films.181 Even in
the case where the film is partially framed by a contemporary setting, the audience is still

transported to a fantastical past that comprises most of the film. Such is the case with the film

Kaibyō Otamagaike [怪描お玉が池; “Ghost Cat of Otama Pond”],182 wherein Keiko and

Tadahiko, a couple engaged to be married in the present day, are revealed to be descendants from

181
As indicated by Fig. 22 (right), kabuki kaidan-mono and kaidan adaptations still accounted for over one third of

kaidan films produced post-World War II.

182
Directed by Ishikawa Yoshihiro (1925-), released in 1960.
190
the families of two ill-fated Edo lovers. Because of this bond, Keiko has fallen prey to the curse

of a bakeneko, who still has not forgotten its grudge against her family’s ancestors, which

threatens her life. The audience is then transported to a distant past where the Edo couple,

Kozasa and Yachimaru, each portrayed by the same actors as their modern counterpart, and their

story which led to the cat Tama transforming into a vengeful bakeneko unfolds.

A further distinction of the Edo gothic from its Western counterpart is not only the

tendency to focus more on time rather than place, but also on the characters to embody this

supernatural past and escape from reality. In the Edo gothic, this fantasy tends to be expressed in

the entire cast of characters, both hero and villain, human and monster. Edo samurai or rōnin

figures in particular are often utilized to portray “images of courtly honor and love as well as

lawlessness and sanctioned brutality […] acts of unrestrained violence and sex – whether in the

cause of war, self-gratification, vengeance, or love” (Hughes 83). This emphasis on character is

evident in that encounters with the supernatural as part of the Edo gothic kaidan film is more

often instigated by character interaction, rather than entering a physical space. In the case of the

comparatively fewer kaidan films set in the present day, such as Kaibyō Otamagaike, the

characters are especially relied on to produce and transport the audience into the Edo gothic

fantasy.

As much as viewers may derive a dissociative pleasure from these characters, however,
the presence of ghosts in the Edo gothic also encourages them to confront their own notions of

reality. According to Napier, “[g]hosts, androgynes, metamorphoses […] abound in Japanese

fantasy, inherently questioning the notion of a single ‘real’” (11).183 In The Fantastic in Modern

Japanese Literature, she refers to Lois Zamora, an authority on American comparative literatures,

183
Consumers of Edo period kaidan literature itself readily accepted the existence of the supernatural. In fact, a

crucial element and powerful selling point of published kaidan-shū was the promise that all the stories were written

from personal, real-life experiences by their authors (Davisson, Yūrei 38).

191
who considers the presence of ghosts in fiction to be “inherently oppositional, because they

represent an assault on the basic scientific materialist assumptions of western modernity: that

reality is knowable, predictable, controllable.”184 Thus, while the presence of ghosts in the Edo

gothic kaidan film may be crucial in order to construct “fantasy,” it at the same time compels the

viewer to reconsider what they accept as “real.”

Despite this distinction from the Western gothic horror tradition, by no means does this

mean that the Edo gothic kaidan film is not equally concerned with generating a haunting

atmosphere. As Colette Balmain describes, this manifests as part of the Edo gothic aesthetic in

uncanny “landscapes articulated through the expressionistic surfaces of a subjective rather than

objective reality” (51). Visually, this “subjective reality” is created through stylized sets as well

as special effects. For both early kaidan films and those of the kaidan boom period of the 1950s

and 1960s, there is a strong focus on what Michael Crandol refers to as a “stylized hyperrealism”

aesthetic that is evocative of the kabuki theatre tradition as a product of shooting films on

entirely constructed, indoor sets (Nightmares from the Past 49-50). In Yabu no Naka no

Kuroneko, this aesthetic is evident in the lack of physical structure to the supernatural’s

residence in the film. Because both Oshige and Oyone are no longer beings of konoyo, their

home is seen as a liminal space that vacillates between states of reality and supernaturality to suit

their needs. Even supposedly outdoor scenes were filmed in this manner, such as in Ugetsu
Monogatari, where the characters are traversing a fog-laden Lake Biwa185 via boat, which was

actually shot on a pool in the studio with added smoke effects (Russel 60). Far removed from the

“realism” produced by filming in actual outdoor set locations, kaidan films made use of highly

stylized sets evocative of a world that literally does not exist, of an “Othered time and place, a

world spatially alien or removed from our mundane, contemporary existence” (Crandol,

184
As quoted in The Fantastic in Modern Japanese Literature 11.
185
Located in present day Shiga Prefecture.
192
Nightmares from the Past 53). It is through the use of these purely artificial, “anti-realistic” sets

that the uncanny atmosphere is produced, which serves as a distinctive trait of the kaidan film

compared to later J-horror films.

Fig. 23. Screenshots of uncanny atmosphere from Ugetsu Monogatari (Left), and Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko
(Right).

Crandol notes, however, that the special effects used to portray the monster of most pre-

World War II kaidan films and perhaps some of the early kaidan boom films differed from

kabuki’s “established repertoire of stage […] methods of portraying the otherworldly nature” of

the supernatural such as “trap doors and split-second costume changes,” and instead favored

“trick photography” and other “filmic techniques [such as] double-exposure, reverse filming, and

stop motion” (Nightmares from the Past 95-96).186 In addition to these “tricks,” scenes of wire-

assisted acrobatics and kabuki-styled stage combat were heavily utilized whenever the human

protagonist, typically a samurai, engaged the ghost or yōkai of the film. The effect these special
effects and scenes had, however, became increasingly viewed as garish and largely incompatible

with the emerging Edo gothic aesthetic in kaidan films. Though the presence of these

conventions can still be found in postwar films of the kaidan boom era, their usage became less

and less prominent compared to earlier films. Instead, directors of this later period of kaidan

films chose to focus less on overt spectacle and more on subtle tensions, creating an uncanny

atmosphere through filming and mise-en-scène (Crandol, “Horror” 303).

186
See Fig. 21, right, for an example of “double-exposure” being utilized in portraying the supernatural.
193
 Rather than the kaidan films made prior to World War II, these kaidan boom films, most

notably those made by Nakagawa Nobuo (1905-1984), are largely considered the precursors to

what would later be known as J-horror films. As noted previously, kaidan films were altogether

not recognized as belonging to the horror genre. While J-horror strongly differs from kaidan

films in both content and filming style,187 many J-horror filmmakers have taken considerable

inspiration from the overall haunting atmosphere in these kaidan boom films, despite filming in

actual “realistic” locations instead of on indoor, constructed sets.

Starting from the late 1950s, however, certain kaidan filmmakers sought to produce

images and scenes more evocative of true horror, indicating the beginnings of a transition

towards the J-horror genre. Nakagawa Nobuo’s kaidan films specifically have been cited as the

direct inspiration for several J-horror filmmakers, resulting in the director himself being credited

as one of the earliest auteurs of “genuine” Japanese horror. Although still highly atmospheric and

aesthetically stylized, Nakagawa has been noted for beginning to incorporate concepts

resembling “body horror,” bringing his films much closer to the J-horror genre compared to

earlier kaidan films. As Barbara Creed notes in her essay “Horror and the Carnivalesque” in

regard to the concept of body horror:

The grotesque body lacks boundaries; it is not “completed,” “calm,” or “stable.” […] here

the abject is created in the collapsing of boundaries between the living and the decaying
or putrefying flesh […for the] concept of a border is central to the construction of the

body-monstrous of horror. Although the specific nature of the border may change from

film to film, the function of the border remains constant – to bring about a conflict

between the whole and the proper body […] and that which threatens its integrity[.] (136)

This use of the “grotesque body” is observable especially in his works inspired by kabuki

kaidan-mono such as Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan and Kaidan Kasanegafuchi [怪談累ヶ淵; “Ghost

187
Discussed further in IV.1.1 Development of the Cinematic Horror Genre from Kaidan Films to J-Horror.
194
Story of Kasane Swamp”],188 wherein the classic female onryō’s body, most notably her face, is

portrayed with a disturbingly mutable quality. From the latter half of the kaidan boom period,

other kaidan filmmakers, too, started to utilize increasingly grotesque and unsettling imagery

similar to that of Nakagawa Nobuo in their films, choosing to make the graphic destruction or

degeneration of the (female) human body as a primary feature of the narrative.189

Fig. 24. Screenshots of “horror” using the body or face from Kaidan Kasanegafuchi (Left), and Kaibyō Otamagaike
(Right).

III.1.2 Continued Prevalence of the Classic Female Onryō & Beginnings of the New

Female Onryō in Japanese Cinema

Much as has been seen with the classic female onryō in Japanese theatre, kaidan films too

were heavily focused on portraying this archetype of the vengeful female ghost. It is not

insignificant that the first recorded examples of kabuki adapted for film in 1899 were both titles

that featured not only the supernatural, but a supernatural feminine character. Even with films
like Ugetsu Monogatari or Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko, which explore direct romantic, sexual

relationships between humans and (female) spirits, it should be noted that the supernatural

feminine is still presented as a fatal threat.

This focus on the supernatural female is perhaps the most distinctive trait in

characterization of the Edo gothic compared to its Western counterpart. According to Napier,

188
Also known as The Depths, released in 1957.
189
Discussed further in III.2.2 Changes to Elements of Visual Representation.
195
“frequently it is the woman who has supernatural control over life, death, and the connection

with the past” (25). In the Edo gothic, female characters of what Napier refers to as the “fantastic”

are particularly associated with an entirely different world, where they “seem to represent both

the Otherness and fundamental indestructability of traditional culture as they war against the

reality of modern Japan using their supernatural powers” (25). This contrasts with Western

gothic portrayals, in which the female is rarely if ever the villain or in possession of any power to

speak of. More often she is depicted as a damsel in distress, her suffering an appeal to the pathos

and sympathy of her audience. As Michael Crandol notes, this is especially distinct from

American and European examples of gothic horror films, where the presence of a female victim

is almost a necessity, as “the audience often experiences their view of the monster via the gaze of

a female victim, for patriarchal society permits the female horror movie victim to enact

responses to the monstrous deemed inappropriate for the traditional male hero” (Nightmares

from the Past 65).

The prevalence of the supernatural female, especially the female onryō, continues today,

as can be observed in nō and kabuki play records. In both the nō and kabuki repertoires, a

significant number of plays feature a female onryō instead of a male as the primary supernatural

antagonist. Furthermore, the frequency and apparent popularity of the female onryō is a trend

that continues to present day, as can be seen by examining the frequency of stage performances
featuring female onryō characters compared to male onryō characters. Upon examining recent nō

and kabuki performance records, it should be acknowledged that a marked increase in frequency

of performances featuring male onryō is also observable, indicating an overall increase in interest

in plays featuring onryō characters overall, regardless of gender. In any given decade, however,

the number of performances of the female onryō has been proportionately higher than the male.

196
 70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0
1979-1988 1989-1998 1999-2008 2009-Present
Female Onryō Male Onryō

Fig. 25. Chart measuring frequency of nō performances held at the National Noh Theatre (国立能楽堂) in Tokyo,
Japan, featuring female onryō characters compared to male onryō characters from 1979 to the present. Data
compiled from Bunka Digital Library, Japan Arts Council, and Gendai Nō Kyōgen Jōen Kiroku Database,
Tsubouchi Memorial Theatre Museum, Waseda University.

30

25

20

15

10

0
1979-1988 1989-1998 1999-2008 2009-Present
Female Onryō Male Onryō
Fig. 26. Chart measuring frequency of kabuki performances at major venues in Japan featuring female onryō
characters compared to male onryō characters from 1979 to the present. Data compiled from Kabuki Kōen Database,
Japan Actors’ Association, and Nihon Geinō Engeki Sōgō Jōen Nenpyō Database, Art Research Center,
Ritsumeikan University.

197
 Since 1979, the ratio of performances, for both nō and kabuki, that feature a female onryō

has remained consistently at least 1.27 times the number of performances that feature a male

onryō, implying an overall preference for the supernatural female. This ratio of performances is

shown to more or less increase over time, reaching as high as 1.47 times for nō, and 3.38 times

for kabuki. The increase in frequency of onryō performances during the 1990s to 2000s coincides

with the emergence of the J-horror film and the consequent J-horror boom period. This can be

viewed as correlated with an increased interest in and popularity of the J-horror film genre itself,

the implication thus being that traditional theatre capitalized on this interest and sought to stage

more performances that appealed to contemporary audiences.

Interestingly, though records are limited for kaidan films prior to World War II, even as

interest in adapted works started to wane in kaidan films of the 1950s and onward, a preference

for kabuki plays that featured a female onryō remained. Of these plays adapted for film, nearly

half are based on works inspired by the “three great kaidan.”190 The story of Oiwa as written by

Tsuruya Nanboku IV in Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan, for example, has been adapted as a kaidan film

34 times. It is particularly notable, too, that of the kabuki kaidan-mono and kaidan narratives

regularly chosen for adaptation into kaidan film, Yotsuya Kaidan is the only work that continues

to be chosen occasionally for adaptation (or at least as inspiration) in J-horror films, indicating

how much Oiwa’s narrative continues to resonate with audiences even today.

190
The first known kaidan films of Kaidan Botan Dōrō (Otsuyu) and Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan (Oiwa) were

recorded to have been made in 1910. The first known kaidan film of Banchō Sarayashiki was recorded to have been

made in 1911.
198
 90
80
70
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
1910-1949 1950-1989
Based on Female Onryō Plays Based on Male Onryō Plays
Fig. 27. Chart showing the number of kabuki plays featuring female onryō compared to male onryō characters
chosen for adaptation in kaidan films from 1910 to 1949 and 1950 to 1989. Included films have been limited to
those for which the kabuki title being adapted was explicitly stated. Data compiled from Eiren Database, Motion
Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and Japanese Cinema Database, Agency of Cultural Affairs,
Government of Japan.

The prevalence of the female onryō, be she the classic as found in kaidan films, nō and

kabuki plays, or the new character type as associated with J-horror films, is also seen in Japanese

horror cinema. In the case of Japanese film, however, Yanagi Masako notes in her article on

postwar spectatorship of the kaidan or kaiki film genre that audiences were predominantly

female (51). According to her research, at least half, if not more than half, of the typical kaidan
filmgoing audience was comprised of young women. Yanagi considers this to be a significant, if

not defining trait of the genre, as it may account for the emphasis on female-centric narratives.

In addition to the gendered demographics of the audience for the kaidan film, it is also

worth noting the overall influence of the presence of the actress on the popularity of the female

onryō. Film critics and scholars have generally attributed the rise of the actress to the adoption

of realism, or a “sense of authenticity,” in Japanese film (Miyao 153). As Hideaki Fujiki notes in

Multiplying Personas, cinema as a medium has been engrained with “an imperative of

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naturalness, especially because of its mechanical properties, its ability to provide close framing,

and its photographic reproduction” (234). With this notion, the onnagata’s performance became

insufficient, as the view that “gender should not be a performance but should correspond to

actual bodies of actors on the screen,” the actress’ actual body thereby providing “physical

naturalism to the widely accepted archetypal view of Japanese women” (Miyao 154, 153).

As the utilization of actresses in place of the onnagata became standard practice by the

1920s, the female movie star came to pose as an object of sexual desire, which “brought a new

site of attraction to Japanese cinema” overall, regardless of genre (Crandol, Nightmares from the

Past 111). In the case of the kaidan film, instead of relying on “displays of trick photography,”

filmmakers focused more on presenting “the sight of Japan’s newly minted screen sex symbols

transformed into hideous monsters before the audience’s eyes” (111). Even in the case of those

films adapted from actual kabuki kaidan-mono, the onnagata tradition was quickly abandoned in

favor of the actress. The first on-screen appearance of the classic female onryō Oiwa portrayed

by an actress, for example, is recorded to be in 1925 (Uchiyama 149). As has been noted by

Michael Crandol in his article on early Japanese horror films in The Japanese Cinema Book, in

the case of the kaibyō subgenre, the gender of this vengeful “strange cat” was not initially made

explicit in prewar kaidan films. In the kaidan boom period of the 1950s and 1960s, however, the

bakeneko figure became increasingly characterized as feminine, to the extent that actresses
known for portraying such roles, such as Suzuki Sumiko (1904-85) and Irie Takako (1911-95),

developed a reputation as “bakeneko actresses” (“Horror” 302). Even with the “natural” female

movie star, Fujiki points out that her performance was not limited to the sexuality of her physical

body, but also emphasized “Japanese conventional womanliness and femininity” (241). Like the

onnagata on the kabuki stage, the film actress in Japan, be she in a kaidan film or a

contemporary drama, continued to serve as an “embodiment of a national identity” (Miyao 154).

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 In the wake of World War II, however, as Japan struggled with its national identity,

women’s representation in Japanese film became complicated, even contradictory, which echoed

the position of women in postwar society. As Julia Bullock writes in her article on postwar

Japanese feminism:

Japanese women had been granted an unprecedented array of legal rights under the new

postwar Constitution, including the rights to vote and hold office, to choose their own

spouse, and to equal opportunity in education. Yet they found that attempting to exercise

these rights brought them into conflict with persistently conservative societal and cultural

norms about women’s “proper place” – attitudes that were increasingly reinforced by the

economic realities of the postwar period. (73)

Filmmakers immediately following World War II, under significant pressure by the American

authorities during the Allied Occupation to promote gender equality in social reform, were

encouraged to depict “apparently strong-willed, liberated, and independent women, freed from

wartime militarist repression and masculinist dominance […] as iconic representations of

democratized new Japan” in their films (Saito 329). Concurrently, however, this image of a

“liberated” Japanese woman as represented in cinema was at odds with the fact that the female

was increasingly commodified in postwar Japan as “various forms of sexually charged, erotic

entertainment, including cinema, were primarily targeted to and accordingly consumed by male
audiences” (Saito 332).

Although initially under strict censorship, by 1949 the Japanese government – as ordered

by the American authorities - established EIRIN,191 and under these new movie regulations,

Japanese filmmakers were granted more freedom for sexual expression in their works. So long as

the genital areas were not actually exposed, particularly the display of pubic hair, and there were

191
The abbreviated name for Eiga Rinri Kikō (映画倫理機構), which translates to “Film Classification and Rating

Organization.”
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no actual shots of penetration, sex and nudity could be freely portrayed on screen (Balmain 70).

Independent filmmakers took full advantage of this newfound freedom soon after, and the market

was quickly inundated with films “full of titillating sexual appeals” (Saito 332). In the case of

kaidan films, this manifested as what Balmain describes as the “erotic ghost story” in which,

although perhaps less sexually explicit, the female ghost was increasingly positioned as an object

of male desire (72).

As Ayako Saito writes in her article for The Oxford Handbook of Japanese Cinema:

“Postwar women’s liberation was, thus, first and foremost, marked as the ‘liberation of the body,’

both in reality and visual imagination, epitomizing the contradiction of postwar democratization”

(332). Saito raises the question, however, as to whether the intended audience of this “liberation”

was really “the women who were displaying their almost naked bodies or the men who were

watching them” (332). In the case of the female ghost, especially the onryō, the desire

experienced (by men) is also intertwined with the abjection of her image. By juxtaposing her

body as a site of both sexual desire and horror, the female onryō poses as more of a reflection of

male anxieties and fears regarding the growing powers of “liberated women” in a newly

democratized Japan.

Despite her premodern inspirations, the cinematic classic female onryō of kaidan films

exhibits marked differences in portrayal compared to earlier nō and kabuki works. These
differences are especially apparent in films made during the kaidan boom period of the 1950s

and 1960s, including those adapted from pre-existing kaidan-mono that feature the classic female,

such as Nakagawa Nobuo’s 1959 adaptation of Yotsuya Kaidan. These changes in portrayal

indicate not only the beginnings of a shift towards increasingly more horror-inducing film, but

also similar changes in social views towards women of the time.

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III.2 CHANGES TO DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ

IN FILM

III.2.1 Changes to Elements of Narrative Style

III.2.1.1 Characterization
As the classic female onryō has made her transition from stage to screen, significant

changes to how she is characterized as well as how her narrative tends to unfold are apparent.

Unlike her depiction in nō and kabuki, there is a distinct focus on characterizing the cinematic

classic female as a victim of circumstance, regardless of her attributed role type. Rather than her

becoming an onryō due to some transgression on her part, she is more often characterized as a

woman who is made to suffer horribly despite abiding by the rules and expected gender norms of

society. This shift in portrayal is viewed to be influenced by the concept of higaisha ishiki, which

took hold of postwar Japanese society as Japan struggled to come to terms with its collective war

responsibility. Often translated as “victim consciousness,” or by Takeo Doi as the “mentality of a

person who is wronged,”192 higaisha ishiki refers to the hyper-rationalization of Japan’s position

as the victim rather than as the aggressor following World War II. In so doing, Japan as a nation

was able to successfully navigate feelings of guilt regarding the country’s role in past war

activities and re-present itself “first and foremost a cultured, peace-loving nation” (Orr 2).

Consequently, the cinematic classic female onryō tends to be characterized wholly as a victim
who resorts to aggression in reaction to her wrongful torment rather than by willful choice, thus

justifying her acts of supernatural violence.

This shift in character focus may explain the marked increase in appearances of the proto-

dead wet girl role type in kaidan films. While the dead wet girl does not fully emerge until the

development of J-horror, hints of this figure are increasingly apparent with the proto-dead wet

girl as she is found in kaidan films. Unlike other predominant role types where her monstrous

192
As quoted in Doi Takeo, “Higaisha-ishiki” 297.
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quality is associated with a clearly defined social role, the proto-dead wet girl served as more of

the ideal vehicle for expressing the cinematic classic female onryō as a woman made victim in

and of herself. Rather than her behavior in human society, essentially what is being censured is

the woman for being a woman, potentially extending the association of “monstrousness” to the

entire gender itself.

This focus on the potential monstrousness of women as a whole can be viewed as a

reflection of contemporaneous anxieties and fears towards the changing position of women in

postwar Japan. While women previously had been restricted by a system that demanded their

subordination to the family patriarch, under the Allied Occupation women in Japan officially

attained long sought-after rights, namely “the rights to vote, join political parties, stand for office,

and unionize […as well as] equal rights to an education” (Ambros 135). At the same time,

however, women were discouraged from exercising these rights, as throughout the 1960s the

country’s “prosperity was increasingly predicated on a gendered division of labor that sought to

confine women to the domestic sphere [as a housewife], so as to enable men to devote

themselves entirely to powering the engine of economic growth” (Bullock 74). As David Slater

notes in his article on class and identity in postwar Japan for the Routledge Handbook of

Japanese Culture and Society, not all women adhered to these social expectations:

Middle-class wives of salarymen were able to stay home and fulfill their wifely and
motherly duties. But many women work[ed], either part- or full-time, and many working-

class women found themselves having to navigate between economic necessity and social

respectability. […] Women re-represented their own situation as one of independence, in

contrast to the good wives and wise mothers whom they thought of as living a “dark”

existence, “shut in” their homes all day alone. […] The years of work and salary from the

company gave many of these women pride of accomplishment. (109)

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As a young, unmarried woman, full of untapped potential and as of yet unbridled by a social role,

the proto-dead wet girl presents one of the best means to articulate growing concerns regarding

women and their newfound independence in postwar Japan.

While the increased presence of the proto-dead wet girl character in kaidan films may

imply less of an interest in utilizing the classic female onryō to censure certain social behaviors,

other socially imbued role types are still apparent, albeit with changes. The most notable are

changes to the monstrous wife, specifically, as her portrayal begins to change from a “wife” into

more of a “monstrous mother.” In contrast to earlier periods which were strongly influenced by

Neo-Confucianism, the woman’s role as a mother was emphasized above all else. According to

Barbara Ambros:

Trends such as greater urbanization, a higher percentage of wage labor (rather than

employment in family businesses), and increases in the number of nuclear families

(rather than multigenerational households) made the role of motherhood more important

than of wifehood. Technological innovation made household chores less time consuming,

giving women the opportunity to focus almost exclusively on their children’s education.

(136)

Although it should be noted that the monstrous wife has often been associated with motherhood

to some extent, especially as found in kabuki plays, starting from as early as the 1960s, the
classic female onryō’s character in kaidan films can be seen increasingly associated with her

inherent responsibilities as a mother more so than as a wife. It is those responsibilities that she

ultimately chooses to ignore or actively reject, resulting in her transformation into the monstrous

feminine. In Onibaba [鬼婆; “Demon Hag”],193 for example, the unnamed mother character,

played by Otowa Nobuko (1924-94), initially resents Hachi, a former neighbor who was drafted

along with her son to fight in the war ravaging the country and newly returned from the

193
Directed by Shindō Kaneto, released in 1964.
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battlefield. The mother holds Hachi responsible for her son’s death and warns her (also

unnamed) daughter-in-law to stay away from him. Later, however, the daughter-in-law is

seduced by Hachi, and the mother becomes not only angry but also jealous of their relationship,

despite her resentment of Hachi. Rather than as a daughter, the mother starts to view her

daughter-in-law as a rival, especially after her own attempts to seduce Hachi are coldly rejected,

and she resorts to terrifying the daughter-in-law, using the guise of a demon to force the two of

them apart. Consequently, however, the hannya mask that the mother has been wearing to scare

her daughter-in-law and prevent her from seeing Hachi becomes permanently adhered to her face.

In the daughter-in-law’s attempts to have it forcefully removed, the mother’s face becomes

horribly disfigured, transforming her into a “true demon.” This is one example to demonstrate

the transformation of the monstrous wife to “monstrous mother.” This figure will continue to be

found in kaidan films throughout the kaidan boom period and will later become a prominent

feature and role type for the new female onryō of J-horror.

In a similar vein, changes in views of social values regarding romance and passion have

affected the murderous lover role type in kaidan films. In contrast to the typical classic female

found in nō plays, whose passionate jealous rage tends to transform her into a demon, the

cinematic classic female is depicted more often as an attractive, haunting object of passion, even

sexual desire. In Mizoguchi Kenji’s 1953 film Ugetsu, the spirit of the young Lady Wakasa is
especially characterized by passion as it is revealed that she remains bound to konoyo not out of

explicit resentment towards a particular individual or even the samurai who killed her, but out of

bitterness over having died before ever getting to experience love, and so she actively pursues,

seduces, and consequently threatens the life of the still-living Genjūrō.

Rather than purely images of abject horror or fear, the cinematic classic female onryō is

often equally associated with sexual allure and beauty. The danger she potentially poses to the

human (male) characters in a number of kaidan films also tends to be sexualized, of which

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Shindō Kaneto’s Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko is an especially strong example.194 Using her body,

the onryō Oshige seduces her samurai victims so that she can tear into their throats as they lie in

bed with her, effectively turning her sexuality into a weapon to avenge her own sexual assault

and wrongful death. Her monstrous violence towards her male victims, however, is tempered by

her husband’s return, having survived being conscripted into war. Eventually, Oshige’s desire for

vengeance is overwhelmed by her feelings of genuine passion as she embraces her husband and

is thus made more beautiful than horrifying to the audience.

Fig. 28. Screenshots of supernatural as erotic from Ugetsu Monogatari (Left), and Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko
(Right).

Furthermore, in contrast to nō plays such as Kanawa or Aoi no Ue, where being seen as

one ruled by passion does not appear to attribute any particular sense of sinfulness to the classic

female of kaidan films. Consequently, her feelings and desires are no longer demonized as they

were in the past. Instead, having such recognizable wants and needs almost humanizes her for
the audience. This shift in characterization is indicative of changes in social views in Japan over

time. As the classic female onryō has made her transition from stage to film, the societal values

reflected have also shifted. Compared to the Edo period when Japanese society was largely

defined by Neo-Confucianism and Buddhist beliefs were widespread, postwar Japanese society

was encouraged to adopt more Western values, which were deemed more compatible with the

194
Believed to be at least partially inspired by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s short story Yabu no Naka [藪の中; “In a

Grove”], written in 1922.

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newly democratized nation. Narratives where feelings of passion or love were associated with

karmic attachment and sin that result in horrific consequences for those involved thus no longer

resonated with audiences.

In keeping with higaisha ishiki sentiment, this lack of sin attributed to the cinematic

classic onryō can also be viewed as a means to relieve the audience of their own feelings of guilt.

Through the expression of her feelings and suffering, she evokes sympathy and is portrayed

more as a victim driven to such vengeful and violent acts, rather than as a woman actively

choosing to be the aggressor. In the case of the Kurokami [黒髪; “Black Hair”] episode of the

anthology film Kaidan [怪談; “Strange Tales”],195 the wife character shares significant

similarities to that of the monstrous wife in the nō play Kanawa, as she is coldly cast aside by her

husband for another woman. Despite her strong feelings of resentment that are visibly tangible to

the audience, the wife in Kurokami does not seek her husband out to curse him, like the shite of

Kanawa, and instead quietly resents him from afar, even in death. It is only when he finally does

return to her and embraces her as if nothing has happened, not realizing that she has died, that

she begins to exact her vengeance as an onryō over his cruelty.

Interestingly, in some films made during the earlier half of the kaidan boom, the

cinematic classic onryō herself is almost entirely removed in favor of casting the female spirit

more as one of passion and devotion. A notable example of this can be found in the film Kaidan
Banchō Sarayashiki [怪談番町皿屋敷; “Ghost Story of Dish Mansion at Banchō”].196 Very

much unlike its earlier kabuki play rendition, Banshū Sarayashiki, Okiku returns not so much as

an onryō but as a tragic, lovelorn, and very “human” phantom that haunts the one who brought

about her demise, tormenting him with more self-induced feelings of guilt rather than terror.

195
Also known as Kwaidan, directed by Kobayashi Masaki (1916-96), released in 1965, based on Lafcadio Hearn’s

collection of writings, Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things, written in 1904.
196
Also known as Ghost in the Well, directed by Kōno Toshikazu (1921-84), released in 1957.
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Unlike Banshū Sarayashiki, in the kaidan film Okiku is depicted as one of the maids in the

family mansion of the young rebellious samurai Harima, who pursues her despite their stark

difference in status. When Harima is forced to accept an arranged marriage to secure his future,

the set of ten plates are presented as a dowry, rather than as a gift for the shogun to help secure

succession like in the original kabuki play. The plate she is punished for breaking thus represents

as much her own heartbreak as it does Harima’s betrayal and his broken promise to marry her. It

is the guilt he feels over having killed Okiku that haunts and torments him, driving him to his

death, rather than any aggressive action on Okiku’s part as a spirit. The film itself is heavily

influenced by the shin kabuki (新歌舞伎, “new kabuki”)197 modern adaptation of Banshū

Sarayashiki written by Okamoto Kidō in 1916,198 which had already transformed the original

narrative into more of a human drama, eliminating Okiku’s ghost entirely. In the shin kabuki

version, however, Okiku breaks one of the plates on purpose to test Harima’s devotion to her,

which is what incenses him to kill her. In contrast, Okiku’s breaking of one of the ten plates is

portrayed as a complete accident in the film, absolving her of any guilt or premeditation.

Fig. 29. Screenshot of the husband’s return in Kurokami episode from Kaidan (Left) and set photo of Okiku’s ghost
appearing before Harima from Kaidan Banchō Sarayashiki (Right).

197
Refers to plays composed for the kabuki stage during and following the mid to late Meiji period by playwrights

and writers outside of the kabuki theatre world.

198
Okamoto Kidō’s modern version was titled Banchō Sarayashiki to distinguish it from the kaidan-mono.
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 Both this lack of censure towards private attachments and emphasis on victimization have

had considerable influence lessening the gendered distinction between female and male onryō in

terms of motivation for vengeance. Rather than the female’s vengeance being fueled by romantic,

more private passions or resentment, the onryō archetype found in kaidan films tends to be more

focused on righting injustice, regardless of gender. While this motivation would have been

typically associated with the more public male onryō as found in nō and kabuki, such a clear

divide is not discernible when it comes to kaidan film depictions. This is especially apparent

with the kaibyō subgenre, where the ghostly bakeneko figures, most of which present as female,

emerge almost exclusively for justice on behalf of their deceased masters, a behavior that would

be expected more of a samurai to demonstrate his loyalty to his lord.

This focus on justice within kaidan films can be understood as a reflection of much of the

Japanese mindset following World War II. According to Robert Orr, a critical element that

figured into the conflicted feelings regarding war responsibility, as well as contributed to the

development of higaisha ishiki, “lay in the sense of betrayal at the end of the war, when the

ultimate sacrifice for the good of the state that was understood as ‘honorable death’ […] turned

into […] a ‘meaningless death’” (7). Struggling to find meaning and negotiate the moral

responsibility for waging a war of aggression that they ultimately lost, the postwar Japanese

audience of the kaidan film preferred to see the onryō, both female and male, completely
justified in their exacting of vengeance. This is evident in how rarely the male onryō, when

present in a kaidan film, was portrayed as that of a samurai. Unlike social roles like a farmer or

merchant, it was not as easy to divorce such a martial role from its history as an aggressor and

depict wholly as a victim.

With this shift in character motivation and focus on victimization, it arguably becomes

more difficult to discern the monstrous feminine. However, it is notable that among the rare

kaidan film exceptions that feature an especially aggressive and active vengeful figure, almost all

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of them are female. The existence of kaidan films such as Onibaba, which features women

capable of both physical violence and “monstrous” things even while alive, also hints at the

innate capacity for the monstrous feminine in all women, a theme that will become increasingly

popular later J-horror. While the presence of this “living” monstrous feminine in Onibaba is

most likely in reference to earlier superstitious belief in women possessing the ability to turn

themselves into kijo, a reference that is visually reinforced through the mother-in-law’s use of

the hannya mask specifically (albeit referred to as an “oni mask” in the film), what is

conspicuously absent from the film is a scene of explicit transformation for the mother-in-law.

Lacking a scene depicting her practice of a cursing ritual like ushi no koku mairi, or an act of

willing self-disfigurement to transform herself into a kijo, the audience is left feeling

uncomfortably ambiguous as to whether there is an actual supernatural presence in the film. This

in turn has led to some film scholars being divided on the genre of Onibaba. In so doing,

however, Onibaba effectively epitomizes the Edo gothic, blurring the boundaries between what

is supernatural and human so much so that the lines disappear almost completely, leaving the

audience with only the woman as the “monster,” be she living or dead.

Fig. 30. Screenshots of the mother-in-law as the “monster” from Onibaba.

III.2.1.2 Plot
Perhaps one of the most significant changes in terms of plot for the cinematic classic

female onryō’s narrative is the emphasis on portraying the supernatural female as something

erotic, even romantic. This often manifests as scenes of genuine passion, where the (male)
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human character is seen indulging in a romantic or sexual relationship with the supernatural.

This narrative element can be viewed as having derived from a number of Edo gothic literary

works, such as those written by Izumi Kyōka. Although his works did not always deal with “the

fantastic,” Napier notes how the author “created a brilliant variety of memorable female

characters, all of whom were deeply associated with old Japan and many of whom are strongly

connected with the supernatural” (27). Encounters with such women as part of the narrative are

heavily imbued with erotic tension and struggles regarding desire. In Mayu kakushi no rei [眉か

くしの霊; “The Eyebrow-Hiding Spirit”],199 translated by Charles Shirō Inouye as “A Quiet

Obsession,” for example, the traveler Sakai is both haunted and aroused by Otsuya, a supposed

fellow guest at the inn where he is staying:

Suddenly the light went out, and Sakai felt a chill start in his skull and move down his

backbone. He turned around and saw, there in his room, the figure of a woman who was

looking away. […] Her kimono was […] like a sasanqua blossom wilted by steam, wet,

damply clinging to her figure. […] One knee was slightly raised off the floor, so the dyed

silk fabric of her kimono spilled over it. Her hair was like a hanging drop of dew […] She

rustled her kimono, and he smelled the incense that had infused in the silk […] Her skin

was frighteningly white. She covered both her eyebrows with the paper, and looked

directly at him with her big eyes. “Does this become me?” (Inouye 86-87)
According to Napier, the supernatural woman of the Edo gothic embodies one of the most literal

forms of “fantasy,” as she presents not only “an alternative to consensus reality,” but one that

“embraces traditional Japan” (23). By seeing or, in the case of both Ugetsu Monogatari and Yabu

no Naka no Kuroneko, consummating a relationship with this “woman linked to a non-modern

world,” the male character is depicted as deriving the most intense “wish-fulfillment” as he

desires an escape from the reality of his current world (Napier 23).

199
Written in 1924.
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 While the harboring of passions may no longer necessarily be depicted as transgressive, a

level of caution against engaging in supernatural romance is still expressed as part of the

narrative. Even when the cinematic classic female onryō may present as erotic, beautiful, and

loving, she still often poses a fatal threat to the still-living human male character. Added to this is

the uncertainty as to whether the human male character, and, by extension, the audience, can

trust her feelings to be genuine. In a number of kaidan films, the cinematic classic female is

shown to effectively feign pure or genuine passion and use it as a weapon, to disarm and seduce

her (male) victims for malicious purposes (Uchiyama 182-85). Many a kaibyō film that features

a “bakeneko actress” makes use of this wherein the vengeful spirit presents as an alluring,

beautiful young woman – not to romance but to seduce – so that she can catch her human male

victims unawares and later attack them. In Kaibyō Noroi no Numa [怪描呪いの沼; “Ghost Cat

of the Cursed Swamp”],200 the bakeneko appears in the guise of multiple women to exact

vengeance against the corrupt and lecherous samurai lord, Nabeshima Naoshige, most notably as

one of Naoshige’s wives, the Lady Hyūga. Disguised as Hyūga, the bakeneko succeeds in

causing numerous deaths of both men and women who serve at the castle, mostly by the element

of surprise, but also by seducing and charming Naoshige himself.

Fig. 31. Screenshots of Lady Hyūga from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa

200
Also known as Bakeneko: A Vengeful Spirit, directed by Ishikawa Yoshihiro, released in 1968.
213
 In order to achieve this level of intimate interaction with the living, however, be it for

genuine passion or malicious intent, the supernatural female of kaidan films, including the

classic female onryō, must present as more human, at least in appearance if not also in character

and behavior, rather than something otherworldly. In order for the classic female onryō to be

considered attractive as an object of passion, her living partner (or victim) must see not a

monster, but a “human” woman. As she is freer to alter her destroyed (or at least distorted) image

than most earlier stage depictions, the cinematic classic female onryō is thus brought closer to

recognizably human nature. As the audience witnesses scenes of passion between the male

character and a beautiful human-presenting woman, they are left with a strong sense of the

female character’s humanity and perhaps less an impression of her as a monster. This blurring of

boundaries between what is “human” and what is “monster,” however, and the resulting unease

and uncertainty such ambiguity generates, is what effectively breeds apprehension of the

cinematic classic female onryō in the audience. By bringing the supernatural closer to what is

recognizable as human, but then creating distance from the audience by not having the

supernatural presence entirely behave as such, the abject, or monstrous quality of the

supernatural is thereby created. In the case of the cinematic classic female onryō, the emphasis

on her erotic beauty and apparent humanity highlights her monstrous nature due to the contrast

between what the audience expects from her character and her actual behavior in the film. This
thereby increases the feeling of horror within the audience as the viewer is uncertain as to

whether or not they can trust their own senses.

While the image of the cinematic classic female onryō may continue to be ambiguous as

she fluctuates on screen from her pristine to her distorted (destroyed) or monstrous image, the

female onryō’s narrative demands that some form of transformation transpire, however subtle or

transient that transformation may be. The most explicit and overt example is her transformation

into a bakeneko. Rather than seen transforming into a serpentine monster or a kijo, the cinematic

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classic female onryō tends to manifest more often as a demonic cat, as indicated by the prevalent

subgenre of kaibyō within kaidan films. Although the animal itself is recorded to have been

present in Japan from as early as the Heian period, kept mainly as a treasured pet, folklore

revolving around the innate supernatural powers of cats did not become widespread until the Edo

period. Similar to the snake, the cat in Japanese folklore poses something of a paradox in that it

was associated with good fortune, as indicated by the continued presence of the maneki-neko (招

き猫, “beckoning cat”) symbol even in Japan today, but at the same time was feared for being

especially dangerous and vengeful towards humans. What contributed to this unease was how

cats were observed to “disappear mysteriously immediately upon the death of their owners, thus

indicating some unusual relation between them and their masters” (Opler 269). This may account

for not only the prevalence of the kaibyō subgenre, but also the liminal quality of the bakeneko

itself, presenting as both the animal and its owner’s onryō.

Although the bakeneko tends to be more prevalent, the narrative association of the classic

female onryō with snakes did not disappear completely in kaidan films. Unlike the bakeneko,

however, there are comparatively fewer so-called hebi-onna (蛇女; “snake woman”) films where

the female characters explicitly transform into serpentine monsters (Uchiyama 182). More often

the classic female onryō in such films are shown to be capable of summoning snakes, effectively

using them as a weapon, to swarm and attack the targets of her vengeance. While this distinction
in kaidan films may be due to the practicality of staging such a fantastical transformation, this

utilization of snakes also dissociates its usage from previous associations in setsuwa and kaidan

of Japanese premodern literature, wherein the woman’s sins of jealous attachment were shown to

be transformative, punishing the woman by changing her into a giant snake. Consequently, the

reasons for the hebi-onna appearing and summoning snakes often have little to do with jealousy

or passionate resentments. More often, it is the killing of an actual snake that serves as the

impetus for the woman’s return as a vengeful spirit. Rather than a reflection of her personal

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character, it is the snake’s death, typically preceding or soon after the death of the actual woman

that causes her onryō to manifest as a hebi-onna. Even in Kaidan Hebi-Onna [怪談蛇女; “Ghost

Story of the Snake Woman”],201 which contains a rare example of the “snake woman” actually as

more of a serpentine monster, her appearance is precipitated not so much by the woman’s sins of

jealousy, but the villain’s coldhearted, sadistic killing of a snake that is being desperately

protected by the woman. As a result of her sacrificing her life in an attempt to protect the snake,

the woman’s onryō is granted the ability to curse others to death, even possess and control the

living. In both cases, the hebi-onna’s curse manifests as scales that gradually cover her victims’

bodies.

Fig. 32. Screenshots of the hebi-onna’s victims, both living and dead, from Kaidan Hebi-Onna.

In most kaidan films, however, as was noted with stage depictions of the classic female

onryō, the cinematic classic’s transformation more often manifests as some form of destruction,

or at least distortion, of her image, usually through a scene of violence, however slight that

violence might appear. In Nakagawa Nobuo’s 1957 film, Kaidan Kasanegafuchi, Rui suffers

what seems to be a small, innocent injury in an accident that results in her keeping half of her

face covered, her image thus obstructed. It becomes quickly apparent in the film that

supernatural forces are at work as the wound does not heal and swells to the extent that her entire

201
Also known as Snake Woman’s Curse, directed by Nakagawa Nobuo, released in 1968.
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face becomes deformed and she is virtually unrecognizable, leading to her eventual death and

full transformation into an onryō.

Fig. 33. Screenshots of Rui injured, her image obstructed (Left) and as an onryō, her image destroyed (Right) from
Kaidan Kasanegafuchi.

Even in the case of the kaibyō film, where technically it is the cat that is transforming, the

master, who is often a woman, still suffers some violence that results in a loss of at least her

socialized image, thus bringing about the need for vengeance which in turn initiates the

emergence of the bakeneko. In Nakagawa Nobuo’s most notable kaibyō film, Bōrei Kaibyō

Yashiki [亡霊怪描屋敷; “Mansion of the Ghost Cat”],202 the blind mother, Miyaji, first suffers

violence indirectly when her son is murdered. This violence is furthered when, upon failing to

avenge her son’s wrongful death, she is sexually assaulted by her son’s murderer. Driven to utter

despair and unable to endure her suffering, Miyaji begs her beloved cat, Tama, to consume her

body and exact vengeance in her stead. Miyaji then kills herself, and Tama dutifully drinks her
blood and transforms into a bakeneko.

Unlike stage and literary depictions of the classic female onryō, scenes of willing, self-

destruction of one’s image are comparatively rare in kaidan films. Instead of destruction in the

form of self-disfigurement, acts of self-inflicted violence in the form of suicide, especially within

the kaibyō subgenre when the cat’s master is female, are more apparent. What is also absent is

any form of censure of these women who are driven to such actions. Unlike women who

202
Also known as Black Cat Mansion, released in 1958.
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committed themselves to the ushi no koku mairi cursing ritual, their acts of self-inflicted violence

are not viewed as defiance or active rejection of their imposed social roles. Despite being so

egregiously wronged, Miyaji is depicted as lacking any other recourse. Her status as a helpless

victim is thereby heightened, inducing pity more than disapproval or scorn.

Consequently, Miyaji is able to preserve her humanity to some extent as she displaces her

desire for vengeance and aggression on her cat. Rather than embrace violence and transform into

a monster all on her own, she beseeches Tama to act in the role of aggressor in her stead.

Arguably, it is the (female) cat that actually commits an act of transgression by consuming

Miyaji’s blood, and in so doing commits an act of willful self-destruction of image. Though

often done in the name of avenging its master, upon feeding off the body, a cat can no longer be

considered a pet cat and something domestic, but something raw, wild, and monstrous.

Fig. 34. Screenshots of Miyaji pleading to Tama before killing herself (Left) and of the bakeneko revealing itself to
exact vengeance (Right) from Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki.

While there is less of a distinction in terms of motivation between genders,

transformation of the cinematic classic female onryō is still emphasized over the male. This is

particularly notable considering an overall increase in scenes of violence in narratives that

concern the male onryō, with many kaidan films featuring the male suffering a wrongful,

particularly violent death, often at the hands of a corrupt samurai. The incurred violence,

however, still does not result in an explicit scene of transformation for the cinematic male onryō

where his image is destroyed or at least distorted like the classic female. Even Nakagawa Nobuo,

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previously noted for beginning to incorporate “body horror” into the portrayal of the supernatural,

tends not to extend this image destruction to the male onryō characters that appear in his films. In

Kaidan Kasanegafuchi, the blind masseur Sōetsu’s murder and consequent “curse” serve as the

impetus for the film, ultimately resulting in his daughter Rui’s transformation. His death,

however, though violent, is shown to have little residual, physical effect on Sōetsu when he

appears as an onryō. This contrasts significantly with how Rui physically presents as a vengeful

spirit in the same film (see Fig. 33, right).

Fig. 35. Screenshots of Sōetsu, moments before death (Left) and as an onryō (Right) from Kaidan Kasanegafuchi.

The power of sight also continues to hold narrative significance in the cinematic classic

onryō’s narrative. For characters like Miyaji and Sōetsu, being physically blind made it

impossible to defend themselves from human threats, let alone supernatural ones, which led both

to become onryō in their respective kaidan films. More often, sight plays a crucial role in

perceiving the supernatural itself, regardless of the inherent gender, and allows the human

characters, and by extension the audience, to confront their notions of reality. As was shown in

premodern literary and dramatic depictions, sight or “seeing” the supernatural continues to be of

importance in acknowledging its existence. In some cases, lacking the ability to see is shown to

make one vulnerable to an onryō as it renders one incapable of perceiving a spirit’s true form. At

the same time, acknowledging having seen the supernatural is occasionally portrayed as

threatening to the spirit itself.

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 One of the most notable examples is Kobayashi Masaki’s film, Kaidan, in which the

episodes Miminashi Hōichi no Hanashi [耳無し芳一の話; “The Story of Hoichi the Earless”]

and Yuki-Onna [雪女; “Snow Woman”] respectively demonstrate instances of using sight. In

Miminashi Hōichi, the blind titular character, a biwa hōshi, or “lute priest,” is rendered incapable

of discerning the truth regarding his patrons who seek his performance of the Heike Monogatari

night after night. Rather than nobles wishing for purely literary entertainment, they are revealed

to be the onryō of the Taira clan, still caught in anguish over their deaths during the final battle at

Damotsu no Ura. Instead of in the main hall of a grand mansion, Hōichi has been performing in a

graveyard for the restless spirits of the Taira seeking a form of spiritual pacification through

Hōichi’s performance, but at the expense of his life. This characterization of Hōichi is

reminiscent of the historical tradition of the biwa hōshi being regarded as spiritual visionaries by

virtue of being blind, who were often called on to perform oral tales for the repose of people’s

souls. Hōichi, however, is depicted as both vulnerable to and endangered by the supernatural due

to his lack of sight, requiring the intercession of others who can see and reveal the truth.

Fig. 36. Screenshots of Hōichi’s performance for the onryō of the Taira in Miminashi Hōichi episode from Kaidan.

In contrast, for the female spirit of Yuki-Onna, it is not so much the actual seeing of her

true form but the acknowledging of having seen it that poses a threat. Upon choosing to spare the

life of the young, handsome woodcutter, Minokichi, she makes him swear to not tell a soul he

has seen her form, denying her supernatural existence to the world. When he unwittingly breaks

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his word by sharing his close encounter with his wife, who is actually the snow woman in

disguise, she is forced to leave, as being “unseen” is the only way she can continue to stay in

konoyo.

Fig. 37. Screenshots of the snow woman’s forced separation from Minokichi (Left) and her disappearing from
konoyo (Right) in Yuki-Onna episode from Kaidan.

Water continues to be narratively utilized in kaidan films, especially as a site for haunting

for the onryō, regardless of gender. Oftentimes the vengeful ghost figure of the film will emerge

from the depths after being killed, or, more often, their corpse disposed of in water. This

prevalence is evident given the number of kaidan film titles that contain some reference to water,

particularly a still body of water such as a pond or swamp, of which Kaibyō Otamagaike, Kaibyō

Noroi no Numa, and Kaidan Kasanegafuchi are notable examples. All three films feature deaths

of characters in or near water that re-emerge as onryō, however both Otamagaike and Noroi no

Numa are distinctive in featuring the deaths and disposals of multiple characters, both male and
female, in the same body of water.

In Kaibyō Noroi no Numa, for example, the “curse” of the swamp in the film is set in

motion first by the suicide of the Lady Takafusa in its stagnant waters. After the betrayal of

Nabeshima Naoshige resulting in the overthrow and torturous death of her husband, Takafusa

drowns herself along with her pet cat to escape being forced to become Naoshige’s wife. Though

Takafusa’s cat, the bakeneko that emerges is depicted as primarily acting in its mistress’ interest,

both its powers and the effects of its curse are shown to be compounded by the deaths of two

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other women in the same swamp. Years following Takafusa’s death, the young and beautiful

Yukiji catches Naoshige’s fancy, who is now relishing in his wealth and power as the lord of

Saga Castle. Although Yukiji tries to escape from Naoshige with her fiancé, the couple end up

fatally wounded and dying beside Takafusa’s swamp. It is at this point that the audience first

witnesses the almost obligatory blood-lapping scene for the kaibyō film, only it is Yukiji’s blood

that seems to prompt the cat’s full transformation into a powerful bakeneko that later terrorizes

Naoshige’s castle. Despite all the mysterious supernatural happenings and deaths, Naoshige has

still not mended his ways, and he turns his lecherous attention to the sister of one of his vassals,

Yuri, who also commits suicide at the cursed swamp to escape her fate. With the deaths of all

three women compounding the pollution of the still waters, the bakeneko is finally able to bring

its long vendetta against Naoshige to its conclusion.

Additionally, water is increasingly shown to be utilized by the cinematic classic onryō to

bring their vengeance to its conclusion. A majority of such films end with the villain being

drawn to the same body of water to be confronted for their misdeeds by the onryō, and often

meeting a similar watery demise. Such is the case for both the end of Naoshige in Kaibyō Noroi

no Numa (see Fig. 38, left) and Gensai, the primary villain of Kaibyō Otamagaike (see Fig. 38,

right), both of whom are dragged down into the death polluted waters, never to be seen again.

Even in Kaidan Kasanegafuchi this trend of utilizing water is apparent, as the female onryō Rui
avenges herself in the climax of the film by bringing about the deaths of all those who wronged

her in the very same swamp her father Sōetsu’s body was disposed in, even though she herself

did not die there.

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Fig. 38. Screenshots of villains Naoshige (Left) from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa and Gensai (Right) from Kaibyō
Otamagaike being killed in the same body of water as their victims.

Although the genre is considered to be largely derived from literary kaidan and kabuki

traditions (at least initially), in some ways the overall narrative of the kaidan film is more

reminiscent of setsuwa, albeit implicitly. The actions of the cinematic classic female onryō may

not necessarily be censured, compared to actual setsuwa literature, or even nō or kabuki works.

However, there is still an implied message to the audience regarding what one should do in order

to perhaps avoid a similar fate as those who fall victim to the onryō figure of a given kaidan film.

Rather than the cinematic classic female shown to commit transgressions, the human characters

are the ones who do; and often they are depicted as corrupt Edo samurai or men of similar status

who flout the rules of their society and thus invite the onryō’s curse upon them. The cause of the

cinematic classic female onryō is consequently portrayed as just, while the culprits behind her

torment have committed incontrovertible crimes and thus deserve punishment, absolving her of

her acts of aggression in destroying them. This is especially true within the kaibyō subgenre, as

the transformed vengeful bakeneko is often invoked not as an agent of petty revenge, but of

justice. Furthermore, the vengeance of the cinematic classic female onryō is more often shown to

be successful, giving the overall impression of righteousness. This contrasts heavily with later J-

horror films, where the new female onryō is rarely shown to be “in the right” or even vindicated,

let alone at peace.

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 Despite this portrayal of the cinematic classic female, however, she is still not typically

seen as the hero(ine) of her narrative. At best she is depicted as an unfortunate, sympathetic

victim who, after all of her wrongful torment, at least gets justice in the end. More often,

however, she simply vanishes, never to be seen again. Her role in righting the injustice wrought

upon her is only quietly acknowledged if it is even recognized at all. Even when she is presented

as an agent of justice, she continues to be framed as the monster, both in terms of her narrative

and how she is presented on screen.

III.2.2 Changes to Elements of Visual Representation

With the transition from stage to film, the classic female onryō has undergone changes in

the defining characteristics of her visual portrayal. As can be inferred given the prevalence of the

kaibyō film subgenre, the cinematic classic female onryō’s transformation is frequently visually

presented using imagery pertaining to cats. Even when not explicitly female itself, the bakeneko

in a given kaibyō film is heavily imbued with feminine attributes. Not only does the vengeful

bakeneko often utilize a woman’s image as a disguise to prey on victims, but it also is shown to

be essentially “possessed” by the onryō of its (often female) master after having consumed their

blood. Prior to transforming into a bakeneko, however, when the cat is identified by name in a

given film, it is often revealed to be a female pet cat.203

One might even view the visual transformation of the cinematic classic into a “strange cat”
as a replacement for prior associations with the oni or kijo, with her ears serving as a form of

horns, and the eyes of the bakeneko as a substitute for the gold eyes of the deigan mask as seen

in nō portrayals of the classic female. Unlike the horns or “muddy eyes” that imply a wholly

inherent “oni nature” in the woman, this transformation into the bakeneko requires an additional

element, namely the cat’s act of consuming its master’s blood. In a number of kaibyō films,

203
In Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki, Kaibyō Otamagaike, and Kaibyō Noroi no Numa, the pet cat that later transforms into a

bakeneko is both female and named Tama.

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however, the cat’s presence is considerably diminished, or even omitted entirely, implying more

of a direct visual association with cats for the cinematic classic female onryō. The kaibyō film

Kaibyō Otamagaike is a particularly notable example of this association as it is a comparatively

rare example of the bakeneko figure’s appearance being instigated by the death of a male master.

The young samurai Yachimaru is the only one whose blood is visibly shown to be consumed by

the family cat in the film. Despite this, not only does the bakeneko not assume the disguise of

male humans, but it also does not appear in a physical, visibly tangible form until the suicide of

Yachimaru’s lover, Kozasa in the same pond he had been murdered in. After her death, however,

the bakeneko is seen to primarily assume the form of Kozasa herself, and gives little visual

indication of its true nature save for a few instances, most notably when her shadow is seen to

take the form of a cat’s. Although the bakeneko does reveal itself in the climax, hands like claws,

covered in fur and with pointed ears, the film keeps this image of the bakeneko mostly obscured

by shadow. At no point in the film does its true, monstrous form come into full view of the

audience – not even a glimpse of its face is seen. As a result, the bakeneko is more strongly

associated with the image of Kozasa herself. The audience is thus given more the impression of

Kozasa as the female onryō avenging her lover than the bakeneko avenging its master. This is

accentuated by the fact that only after Kozasa’s death does the cat begin to truly enact its

vengeance for Yachimaru and his family.

Fig. 39. Film set photo of Yachimaru and Kozasa’s ghosts at the pond (Left) and screenshot of the bakeneko
disguised as Kozasa following her death (Right) from Kaibyō Otamagaike

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 In contrast to the waning use of oni or kijo imagery, snakes continue to be visually

utilized in kaidan films, albeit to a significantly lesser extent than the bakeneko or actual physical

disfigurement. As noted in the narrative portrayal of the cinematic classic female onryō, however,

rather than as a symbol for the jealous attachments of women, the snake instead tends to embody

the malice of the monstrous feminine when used in portraying the supernatural. While the

Buddhist connotation may have lessened since the days of setsuwa about figures like Kiyohime

transforming into a giant serpentine monster due to the karmic sins of passion and attachment,

snakes as visually utilized in kaidan films have interestingly developed somewhat of an erotic

connotation. This is largely due to several hebi-onna films, namely the “Hebi series,” featuring

Mōri Ikuko (1933-), who would later be known as the “snake actress” (see Fig. 40, left), in

scenes being ravaged by snakes while scantily clad or nude (Uchiyama 186-89). Rather than

jealousy, the snake became entwined with a morbid, yet highly sensual and titillating image.

Fig. 40. Film set photos from hebi-onna film Hakuja Komachi [白蛇小町; “White Snake Woman”]. Directed by
Hirotsu Mitsuo, Daiei, 1958.

Thanks largely to the influence of filmmakers such as Nakagawa Nobuo, as kaidan films

increasingly came to incorporate concepts of “body horror,” the visual manifestation of the

cinematic classic female’s transformation due to incurred violence also underwent changes. Less

and less often is her image destroyed or distorted figuratively or in the form of stylized violence.

Instead, physical disfigurement and mutation is relied on over stylized convention to intensify

the audience’s feelings of revulsion of her image. Even in the case of Onibaba, although direct
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reference is made to the nō theatre through the use of the hannya mask and its visual association

with the transformed “demonic” feminine, ultimately the mother-in-law’s actual transformation

involves more of a literal and graphic physical disfigurement of her face (see Fig. 30).204

This shift in visual depiction is viewed to be as much a reflection of the mindset of

postwar Japanese audiences as it is considered a development towards what is more recognizable

as “horror.” According to Balmain, the “physical scars” of the onryō are a visual embodiment of

Japan’s own trauma following World War II, “through which individual and historical trauma

become displaced from the ‘self’ on to the ‘other’” (51). This displacement is not entirely

successful, however, as “the boundaries between self and other become increasingly

[problematized], as the external alien turns inward” and horror is thereby evoked in the audience

(Balmain 51). Upon seeing the monstrous conveyed through the physical mutability of the

cinematic classic female’s body, the viewer becomes keenly aware how easily mutable their own

image is, and that virtually anyone can become a monster. This trend in visually portraying the

transformation through explicit and increasingly graphic means, or “real” physical disfigurement,

will come to be a major defining characteristic of the new female onryō in later J-horror, the

beginnings of which can be seen in kaidan films.

Changes are also evident in the visual association of the cinematic classic female onryō

with hair. In contrast to the gradually sexualized images of the snake, hair, once imbued with
sexuality and erotic tension, now more often is utilized to purely denote the supernatural. Ghosts

in kaidan films are frequently portrayed with their hair hanging down in disarray, as was also

noted with portrayals in kabuki. The most wild and overt displays are associated with the

bakeneko form of the classic female, where her lengths of hair often blend with the “fur”

covering her entire body, giving the audience the impression that she is completely covered in

204
It is also worth noting the visual homage to Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan apparent in Japanese horror cinema, starting

with kaidan films which continuously featured female onryō characters having physically distorted faces.
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hair, converting what was predominantly a feminine, often aesthetic, trait into something creepy

and monstrous. Hair is notably used in this more ominous manner in Kaibyō Noroi no Numa,

where the bakeneko disguised as Lady Hyūga seduces Naoshige, resulting in a disturbing love

scene as her monstrous nature is conveyed to the audience through her arms being covered with

hair.

Fig. 41. Screenshots of Lady Hyūga’s true bakeneko nature being exposed through hair during her love scene with
Naoshige from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa.

Hair imagery is still used in kaidan films to express the feminine identity, especially as a

woman transforms into the classic female onryō and her burgeoning feelings of resentment are

finally unleashed. Scenes of combing are often utilized in such scenes. In the case of cinematic

adaptations of the kaidan-mono Yotsuya Kaidan, given how iconic the kamisuki scene is and how

crucial it is to Oiwa’s transformation into a vengeful ghost in the original kabuki play, this scene

is almost always given its due, often depicting the loss of her hair in bloody clumps in graphic
detail as she combs through her tresses.

Similarly, combs and other hair ornaments are also associated with the emergence of the

cinematic classic female. In Kaibyō Otamagaike, hair ornaments are especially utilized to

visually represent feminine resentment. Upon seeing the ghost of her lover, Yachimaru, haunting

the pond and realizing he had died, Kozasa drowns herself in the waters, her death and return as

an onryō signified by a floating comb. In the case of Akino, Yachimaru’s sister, hair ornaments

figure more prominently in her spirit’s visual representation. To escape being raped by a corrupt

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magistrate, Akino stabs herself in the neck with her own hairpin. To conceal the death, her body

is thrown down a nearby well. However rather than water, it is through hair that her resentment

as an onryō is conveyed. Wholly embodied in the hairpin she used to kill herself, the same

hairpin suddenly reappears before the villains who brought about both her and her family’s

destruction. In their attempts to discard it, Akino’s hairpin ends up being stabbed into a wall,

which promptly starts to bleed.

Fig. 42. Screenshots of Kozasa’s floating comb (Left) and Akino’s bleeding hairpin (Right) from Kaibyō
Otamagaike

A particularly notable and unique example of the utilization of hair imagery in kaidan

films can be better found in the Kurokami episode of Kaidan. As the episode title implies, hair

figures prominently to not only represent the supernatural feminine, but the identity of the

woman herself. Seeking to elevate his social position, the woman’s husband decides to abandon

his wife to marry a noblewoman of higher status. Upon the husband’s departure and desertion,
the audience is given considerably less opportunity to perceive the wife in her entirety, with the

focus of most scenes being her hair rather than her face. Through her hair, the resentment over

being abandoned and betrayed is tangible, filling the audience with some apprehension when the

husband finally returns to find the wife just as he left her. Although he claims heartfelt regret and

deep contrition, what he expresses in words, too, has more to do with the physical traits of his

wife that he has dearly missed, namely her hair, which he almost fixedly caresses. Come

morning, however, the wife is revealed to have long since deceased, her hair being all that

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remains of her corpse. Her hair promptly stalks after the husband as he attempts to flee their

dilapidated house in terror, leeches the life and youth from him, and ultimately ensnares him in

vengeance.

Fig. 43. Screenshots of the abandoned wife (Left) and her hair attacking her husband (Right) in Kurokami episode
from Kaidan.

As can be inferred given the continued significance that water plays in the onryō’s

narrative, imagery evocative of the cinematic classic onryō’s connection to water figures quite

prominently in kaidan films. Even in the case of films where a specific body of water does not

play a significant narrative role as the site of death or corpse disposal, water is often used to

represent the presence of the supernatural. Atmospheric scenes of rain or a storm frequently

precipitate an onryō’s emergence. Often water is utilized in some way to generate an uncanny

atmosphere as part of the Edo gothic visual aesthetic overall, as seen in Ugetsu Monogatari (see

Fig. 23, left).

In addition to water, there is an increased focus on other forms of “wetness,” namely

blood. As something inherently impure or “polluted,” blood was not a visual element utilized in

nō and was used to a lesser degree in kabuki compared to kaidan films, which notably feature

increasingly more dramatic displays of blood. This can manifest as blood in scenes of violence,

or be used in a more sinister manner with an almost Macbethian connotation, visually reflecting

both the sins of the villain and the breeding resentment of the onryō themselves. In Bōrei Kaibyō

Yashiki, blood is used to this effect, manifesting as a steadily growing stain on the villainous

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Lord Shōgen’s wall, the same wall behind which he had disposed of the body of Miyaji’s son

who he murdered.

Fig. 44. Screenshots of the growing blood stain on Shōgen’s wall (Left) and the appearance of Miyaji’s onryō in
front of the wall (Right) from Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki

In some cases, blood is used in addition to water, emphasizing the death that is

effectively polluting its depths. In the Miminashi Hōichi episode of Kaidan, the ocean waters off

the coast of Damotsu no Ura are seen to turn red with the mass suicide of the Taira clan in the

face of defeat. In Kaibyō Otamagaike, blood is especially utilized to this effect, as with each

murder and body that the villains of the film discard in the pond, the waters turn a thick, vivid

red as it is sullied further and further by death. The overall emphasis on associating polluted

water with the onryō character is increasingly apparent in kaidan films compared to earlier stage

portrayals and will continue to be seen to greater extent in later J-horror.

Fig. 45. Screenshots of water polluted by blood or death from Kaibyō Otamagaike (Left), and Miminashi Hōichi
episode from Kaidan (Right).

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 While this association is seen to apply to the cinematic classic onryō of kaidan films

regardless of gender, with the later emergence of the dead wet girl in J-horror, water, namely

polluted water, will become an explicitly, almost exclusively feminine association.205 Hints of

this shift to an almost exclusively feminine association, however, can be observed in some visual

portrayals of the cinematic classic female onryō, especially those of the proto-dead wet girl in

kaidan films. These portrayals are much more evocative of its J-horror descendant compared to

earlier visual portrayal of the same role type in nō and kabuki, as the cinematic classic female

version of the proto-dead wet girl occasionally manifests as a bloody, bedraggled vengeful figure.

III.2.3 Changes to Elements of Enactment Style

As was demonstrated in the enactment of both male and female ghosts in nō and kabuki,

the focus of the enactment of such characters in kaidan films is similarly on using movement to

create distance between the supernatural and the audience. Largely reminiscent of the kabuki

theatre’s use of stage effects to both excite and terrify its audiences, this is often accomplished in

kaidan films through the use of special effects. This is especially evident within the kaibyō

subgenre wherein the bakeneko figure is shown to not only move in a manner more evocative of

cats than a human, but also to be capable of sudden feats of acrobatics and dramatic leaps

bordering on flight. The most notable of these feline-evoking acts is what is referred to as neko

jarashi (猫じゃらし, “cat toying”), which Crandol describes as almost obligatory in the
subgenre and “a holdover from the [kabuki] stage in which acrobats206 performing as the ghost

cat [bakeneko] and their human victim(s) would leap about the stage in a pantomime of a cat

toying with a mouse” (Nightmares from the Past 137-38).

205
Discussed further in IV.2 DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ
206
Although Crandol uses the word “acrobats,” it should be noted that the acrobatic feats performed in the kabuki

theatre were performed by actors within a given troupe, and not by specifically acrobats in the circus entertainment

sense of the word.

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 Furthermore, kaidan films tend to feature a degree of violence that is comparatively more

intense than earlier renditions of the classic female in traditional theatre and premodern literature,

wherein she has an arguably more direct hand in exacting her vengeance. Rather than acts of

relatively bloodless violence, often masked by stylized movements or stage effects, the cinematic

classic female onryō tends to resort to more explicit displays of violence, lending her a sense of

physicality that is comparable to a monster or yōkai. Many kaibyō films, for example, feature

female spirits who resort to tearing into the flesh of their victims with their teeth, effectively

getting their hands dirty with more explicit, physical displays of violence.

In addition to this increased emphasis on physical violence, the targets of the classic

female onryō’s vengeance in a given kaidan film are often greater in number compared to those

in many a stage play or kaidan narrative. This contrasts especially with the nō theatre, the onryō

characters in which typically have a single, explicit target for their resentment, be they female or

male. Furthermore, in some cases of the cinematic classic female onryō are shown to cast a

rather wide net, directing their violence towards people who share only a general affiliation with

her, rather than a clear, single person or explicit group of people such as her murderer or a

specific family clan. A notable film in this regard is Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko, which features

Oyone and Oshige as vengeful spirits who have dedicated themselves to eradicating all samurai,

not just those directly involved in their brutal rape and murder. This is indicative of a growing
trend of increased violence overall in postwar Japanese horror cinema, which will later become

especially associated with J-horror films. It should be noted, however, that while the classic

female onryō of kaidan films may not always be as discriminating in her revenge, she still tends

to have an explicitly understood motive. This will be a significant distinction between the classic

female onryō and the new classic female, especially those defined as dead wet girls.

As indicated by the presence of scenes such as Oyone and Oshige’s gang rape in

Kuroneko and Miyaji’s sexual assault in Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki, there is an apparent increase in

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scenes of gendered violence in kaidan films compared to the kinds of violence found in nō and

kabuki plays or Japanese premodern literature. It is notable that when scenes of gendered

violence are present, they are almost never suffered by a male. This tendency towards and

exclusivity of gendered violence continued to increase over time, eventually reaching the extent

of violence present in later J-horror films that is almost exclusively gendered. With the actress

taking the place of the male performer of femininity, the “viewing” of the female body has taken

on even more of a voyeuristic air which has only been accentuated by the medium of film.

Rather than the ideal of femininity embodied by the onnagata, the physical body of a woman is

present on screen to be both sexualized and sexually violated. Balmain calls attention to this,

pointing out that under the regulations regarding the portrayal of sex established by EIRIN in

1949, “sexual violence and extreme sadomasochism, unacceptable in the West, managed to get

through […] as long as there was no sign of female pubic hair” (70). Even decades after the rise

of the female movie star, the lurid, even morbid fascination with seeing her image both violated

and destroyed is still evident. The opening scene of Kuroneko fully encapsulates this, as the

samurai not only rape Oyone and Oshige, but they are also seen to watch their violation as they

eat and wait their turn, presenting a particularly disturbing visualization of the “male gaze.”

Fig. 46. Screenshots of the samurai eating while watching Oyone and Oshige’s rape from Yabu no Naka no
Kuroneko.

As much as the cinematic classic female onryō is seen to increasingly suffer acts of

gendered violence, the physical body of the supernatural feminine itself is also eroticized. From

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as early as the 1930s, “bakeneko actresses,” namely Suzuki Sumiko, relied more on her

performance and body with minimal makeup to deliver a supernatural feline performance in

prewar kaibyō films. Both sexually alluring and dangerous, the audience was captivated by the

“ambiguity of [her] monstrous sex appeal” (Crandol, Nightmares from the Past 171). This

emphasis on the sexualized female body in supernatural portrayal continued throughout the

kaidan boom period. In the case of Kuroneko, the actress Taichi Kiwako (1943-92) who portrays

the female onryō Oshige, titillates both her victims and, by extension, the audience, as she is seen

in various states of undress throughout the film.

For the “snake actress” Mōri Ikuko, it was the woman herself that was more monstrously

sexualized. Being both fond of snakes and even having one as a pet, Mōri, as Crandol notes,

“had no reservations about letting them slither over her buxom […] form for the camera, […]

giving Mōri a reputation as a sex symbol with a taste for the macabre” (Nightmares from the

Past 253). This effect was perhaps accentuated by the fact that the actress was arrested for

“murdering her married lover in a fit of rage,” shortly before the release of a kaidan film she had

starred in as the main monstrous attraction, effectively making “snake actress” an appellation

that extended beyond her predilections on set (Crandol, Nightmares from the Past 252-53).

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Fig. 47. Film set photos of Mōri Ikuko (Left) from Hakuja Komachi and Suzuki Sumiko as the bakeneko (Right)
from Kaibyō Nazo no Shamisen [怪描謎の三味線; “The Ghost Cat and the Mysterious Shamisen”]. Directed by
Ushihara Kiyohiko, Shinkō Kinema, 1938.

This blurring of boundaries between the supernatural and the human can be considered a

defining element of the Edo gothic aesthetic of kaidan films altogether, not just in portraying a

more effectively “monstrous feminine” onryō figure. In addition to reflecting shifts in social

views, this change in characterization of the classic female onryō and the tendency to portray the

supernatural (female) as erotic in kaidan films is likely due in no small part to the presence of

actresses instead of male performers of femininity as found in nō and kabuki. Successfully being

able to present such monstrous ambiguity in the cinematic classic female is arguably only
possible by making use of the woman’s physical form and body. Rather than calling attention to

the inherent sinfulness of the female character due to her actions or feelings of attachment, the

woman herself, her actual image, is what is rendered abject.

With the classic female’s transition from stage to film, her enactment in kaidan films

over time has grown increasingly focused on highlighting her monstrosity and removing her

from humanity altogether. This contrasts with stage depictions of the classic female onryō, where

the focus of the male performer’s enactment was removing her character from femininity. The

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development of the kaibyō subgenre in postwar kaidan films is a notable example of this, as the

“bakeneko actress” who followed Suzuki Sumiko, Irie Takako, was less focused on performing

as a “beautiful” monster, and more on presenting an “ugly” spectacle. Although this may have

been at least partially influenced by the fact that Irie was about ten years older than Suzuki when

she inherited the title of “bakeneko actress,” according to Michael Crandol:

Suzuki’s limited makeup […let her] large, coquettish eyes shine through the feline façade,

the monstrosity conveyed primarily through the actress’ performance. Irie’s portrayals

usually relied more on the makeup itself, which was more generously applied to the older

woman’s features. Heavy lines around the mouth and eyes, prosthetic cat ears, and

masculine fur-covered forearms almost completely obscure any traces of the actress’

femininity. (Nightmares from the Past 171)

From her very first kaibyō film, titled Kaidan Saga Yashiki [怪談佐賀屋敷; “The Ghost Story of

Saga Mansion”] in 1953,207 Irie’s performance as a vengeful bakeneko contrasted significantly

from that of her predecessor. While kaibyō films featuring Irie still adhered to the established

convention of having the actress present as a beautiful young woman before her monstrous

transformation, “the metamorphoses [were] more complete and spectacular than Suzuki’s”

(Crandol, Nightmares from the Past 171). Other postwar kaibyō films, such as Ishikawa

Yoshihiro’s Kaibyō Noroi no Numa, as well as the kaibyō works made by Nakagawa Nobuo,
similarly favored more of the monstrous spectacle for their bakeneko actresses, opting for

increased use of makeup and costume pieces to enhance the frightfulness of their appearances on

screen. Thus, rather than attempting to remove or distance the actress from femininity, kaidan

films’ enactment of the classic female tends to emphasize how non-human or monstrous she is,

despite how she might physically present or appear to the audience at times.

207
Directed by Arai Ryōhei (1901-80).
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Fig. 48. Screenshots of Irie Takako as the bakeneko from Kaidan Saga Yashiki (Left) and Mishima Yuriko (1940-)
as one of the bakeneko’s appearances from Kaibyō Noroi no Numa (Right).

III.3 ANALYZING FILM PORTRAYALS OF THE CLASSIC FEMALE ONRYŌ

III.3.1 In Kaidan Films Adapted from Kabuki and Literature

III.3.1.1 Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan (1959)
As not only one of the “three great kaidan,” but also perhaps the most well-known

Japanese ghost story in Japan, the story of Oiwa has been a popular source for adaptation both

for stage and for film. The most widely accepted as the best of these kaidan film versions is

director Nakagawa Nobuo’s 1959 cinematic production, which is acclaimed not only for its

stunning visuals but also for being true to the original narrative. From the opening credits scene,

Nakagawa clearly pays homage to the dramatic source material, as it is implied to the audience

that the events about to unfold are to take place on the set of a kabuki stage. Despite these overt

references, and staying more or less true to the original Yotsuya Kaidan narrative, however, there

are stark differences that arguably alter the overall impressions in the film compared to the

kabuki play. This is especially apparent in the characterization of not only Oiwa as a female

onryō, but also of Iemon as a human villain.

The film opens with the rōnin, Iemon, who accosts Yotsuya Samon, Oiwa’s father, as he

is on his way home late at night, demanding to know why Samon has withdrawn his acceptance

of Iemon’s marriage proposal to Oiwa. In a fit of rage, Iemon kills both Samon and his colleague,

Satō Hikobei. The murders are witnessed by Naosuke. Seeing an opportunity, Naosuke offers to

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become Iemon’s accomplice and falsely testifies as to the identity of the murderer so that he can

obtain Osode, Oiwa’s younger sister, as Naosuke fancies her for himself. Oiwa, along with

Osode, implores Iemon and Naosuke to assist in avenging their father’s death. They are

accompanied in this endeavor by Yomoshichi, the only son of Hikobei, who also seeks to avenge

his own father’s murder. As Yomoshichi is also Osode’s fiancé, Iemon agrees to help Naosuke

do away with Yomoshichi in exchange for his complicity. The four end up parting ways, with

Osode joining Naosuke in pursuit of the man who Naosuke claims not only killed their father,

but Yomoshichi as well. Months later, Iemon and Oiwa have married and even have an infant

son together, but he is vexed by their impoverished living conditions. Aided once again by

Naosuke, Iemon aims to do away with Oiwa by poisoning her so that he can marry the daughter

of the wealthy Itō Kihei, Oume, who is infatuated with Iemon. Upon her death, Oiwa returns as a

horrifying onryō, with all of her rage focused on exacting vengeance on her husband.

Compared to the kabuki play, Oiwa’s position as wife to Iemon is far more emphasized in

the kaidan film. As is sung by a performer off-stage during the open credits:

親子は一世, 夫婦は二世 […] 身も心も捧げし夫に何の因果か毒を盛られて死ぬる

とは208

“It is said that the bond of parent and child lasts one lifetime, but that of husband and

wife lasts for two […] What karma to devote mind and body to one’s husband only to be
poisoned and killed”

The implication therein is that the bond between a married couple is one of the most sacrosanct.

Oiwa’s duty as a daughter to avenge her father’s death, which consumed much of her thoughts

while alive in the play, is thus secondary to her responsibilities as a wife.

208
This Japanese transcription of film dialogue and all others are by the author unless otherwise noted. Dialogue

transcriptions with translations have been provided for films that either did not have subtitles, or, if present, were

determined by the author to be inaccurate.

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 Even as her health gradually fails over the course of the film, Oiwa does her utmost to be

a proper wife to Iemon and fulfill her role by seeing to his every need. Unlike in the kabuki play,

it is not seen that Oiwa dislikes or resents her husband at all. She bemoans their impoverished

lifestyle, but at no point does she speak ill of Iemon other than regretting that he still has not

acquired a position. He is cruel to her, but she does not complain. She only cries miserably and

helplessly over being so maltreated when she is alone. Despite this, she has faith in him being

true to her as a spouse. Even when the masseur Takuetsu shares with her rumors about Iemon

having an affair with Oume, she does not doubt his commitment:

OIWA. 貴方はまだ御一人身だそうですから、お分かりにならないでしょうが、

夫婦というのものはそのようなことで […] 家の旦那さまに限って、そのことを

なさるはずがありません。

“Because you [Takuetsu] are not yet married you may not understand, but being

husband and wife means that such things do not happen […] For my husband, at least, I

know he would never do such a thing.”

Just as she holds their bond to be sacrosanct and upholds her role as his wife, she believes that

Iemon will uphold his role as her husband. Discovery of his villainy later thus comes as a

complete shock to Oiwa. This contrasts with the kabuki rendition wherein she always knew

Iemon to be a brute and had only subjected herself to their marriage out of a daughter’s duty to
avenge her father’s murder.

Fig. 49. Screenshots of Iemon with Oiwa (Left) and with Oume (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.
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 The character of Iemon himself presents as a man of distinctly less confidence than his

kabuki counterpart. His image and status as a samurai, or bushi (武士, “warrior”), is what he is

highly fixated on and what largely drives his actions throughout the film. So sensitive is he to

any slight disparaging him as a samurai that he lashes out and slays Yotsuya Samon and Satō

Hikobei who both insult him. Their disdain for Iemon is also framed solely by the fact that he

lacks status. This contrasts with the kabuki play’s events where Samon has more concrete

grounds for refusing to give Oiwa’s hand in marriage as he has proof that Iemon embezzled

money.

Desperate to be recognized as a samurai, Iemon is driven to kill and commit great

misdeeds out of this desire. At the same time, aside from the material gains that come with being

a proper samurai with status, Iemon also strives to uphold the ideals and values of a member of

his class. Despite being very similar in acts of murder and subterfuge, he considers his

accomplice, Naosuke, beneath him and does his utmost to distinguish himself as different from

one so lowborn. Maintaining his image as an ideal samurai matters so much to him that, though

destitute, he refuses compensation from Itō Kihei after saving both him and his daughter Oume

from ruffians:

IEMON. 浪人暮らしの身の不自由ながら、武士は武士でございます。

“Although I may be destitute and without a position, a samurai is still a samurai.”

As the film progresses, however, it becomes clear to the audience that as enamored as Iemon

may be with the ideal of the samurai, he consistently falls short of that ideal. While he presents

this rather noble image to Itō Kihei of a true bushi who is above even money, this image is in

stark contrast to how he behaves in private, as Iemon is shown to be a man who readily pawns

off Oiwa’s belongings for money. He is even willing to put up his own wife as collateral for

borrowing money from Takuetsu, who also runs a brothel. Although a number of kabuki play

narratives are noted to feature samurai selling their wives in this fashion, unlike Iemon, these

241
characters are typically driven to this for some greater, “honorable” purpose, such as obtaining

needed funds in order to avenge the death of one’s lord. In contrast, Iemon’s interests in money

are strictly for personal gain, as being without a position he lacks the financial means to assert

his status as a samurai.

Iemon’s desire to attain the more material indicators of being acknowledged as a real

samurai, however, eventually outweighs his conviction to uphold the ideal, and he complies with

Naosuke’s plot to do away with Oiwa so that he can take Oume as his new wife and attain a

position for himself. Although he agrees, Iemon exhibits a great amount of hesitation, even guilt

that is unique to his character’s portrayal in the kaidan film. When Naosuke questions Iemon as

to whether he still has “lingering attachments” (未練) for Oiwa, he is unable to give a decisive

answer and he balks at the suggestion that he kill his wife himself. Although ultimately, he goes

along with Naosuke’s scheme, his guilt over having Oiwa killed in order to elevate himself is

evident. Even after Oiwa has died, seeing her disfigured face and mutilated body nailed to the

shutter door with Takuetsu still makes Iemon uneasy. He keeps reassuring himself that society

will not suspect or rebuke him. Having not only brought about Oiwa’s physical disfigurement,

but also set up his wife for the crime of adultery, both literally and figuratively besmirching her

image to improve his own, Iemon can hardly bring himself to look at her.

Fig. 50. Screenshots of Oiwa and Iemon from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

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 Consequently, Iemon presents as a far more conflicted character than in the kabuki

performance as he struggles to reconcile his actions which are so far from the ideal he aspires to.

Upon casting the shutter door on which Oiwa and Takuetsu’s bodies were nailed, into the water,

there is not even the slightest indication of triumph or satisfaction in his tortured expression. As

he retorts to Naosuke: “The likes of you would never understand how I feel.” Even to the very

end, Iemon is not seen to fully embrace his acts of villainy. As much as he attempts to be seen as

a samurai, he ends up further and further away from that ideal.

Instead of an iroaku character who is as sexually attractive and charismatic as he is

villainous, the audience is presented with a character both insecure and unsure of himself

throughout the entire film. While it is difficult to explain the exact reasons for this rather

dramatic character change, parallels can arguably be drawn between this emasculated Iemon and

the postwar Japanese soldier. Much like the soldier’s struggles to find meaning in what has

become a meaningless existence as the survivor of a lost war, Iemon desperately seeks to

validate himself and his existence as a samurai. Given the immoral acts he must resort to in order

to maintain it, however, Iemon’s pursuit of the bushi ideal is depicted as at the very least

impractical, if not unconscionable. By clinging to an old-fashioned ideal that stresses feudal

values, the adoption of which ultimately led to Japan’s defeat, Iemon becomes the subject of

censure in this postwar kaidan film.

While it should also be acknowledged that this change in Iemon’s characterization may

have been done to make him more of a sympathetic character, if anything, it almost makes his

actions worse. Despite his tangible reluctance and guilt, he still follows through with all of the

villainous deeds he commits in the play. While he refuses to kill Oiwa by his own hand, when

Naosuke proposes procuring poison to do the deed for him, he is seen silently considering.

Despite his appearing to have second thoughts repeatedly throughout, he gradually comes into

his own as a villain as he deceives both Takuetsu and Oiwa to achieve his goals.

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 Furthermore, Iemon as a villain takes on a more active role in what is done to his wife in

the film. In the kabuki play, by the time Iemon has learned of the poison sent to Oiwa disguised

as medicine, it is already too late to do anything about it even if he wanted to. In the film,

however, not only does he receive the poison from Naosuke, but he also puts on a farce by

apologizing for his past cruelty and gifting Oiwa a new kimono before preparing the “medicine”

for her himself. In spite of his conflicted emotions, his foreknowledge that the so-called

“medicine” he actively feeds to his own wife will do her irreparable harm makes his character

even more of a villain in the film compared to the play.

Fig. 51. Screenshots of Iemon preparing Oiwa the “medicine” from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

In contrast, the Itō household is presented as more unfortunate collateral in the film that

suffers due to Iemon and Naosuke’s plots rather than having a direct hand in Oiwa’s suffering. In

fact, Naosuke is featured in the film as being the actual primary orchestrator for many of the
wicked schemes that take place. Although Naosuke was not originally involved in Iemon’s

incident with the Itō household at all in the play, as he only re-encounters Iemon after the events

with Oiwa have already occurred, in the film he is revealed to have been paid by Itō Kihei to

coax Iemon into accepting Oume’s affections. Doing away with Oiwa so that Iemon can marry

Oume, too, is implied to be a conceit entirely of Naosuke’s design. He is also the one who

suggests to Iemon that he set up Takuetsu and Oiwa as lovers, as “there’s nothing illegal in

killing a woman who’s taken a lover behind her husband’s back.” What is the most significant

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difference, however, is Naosuke’s procuring of the poison to give to Oiwa. Having Naosuke

provide Iemon the poison eliminates much of the culpability in Itō Kihei’s character, whose

kabuki counterpart had sent Oiwa the poison well before even propositioning Iemon to marry

Oume. Furthermore, although still reprehensible, it should be noted that Itō Kihei’s poison was

only meant to disfigure, not kill, Oiwa, making her unattractive to Iemon. The poison that

Naosuke provides, on the other hand, is meant to do both.

Fig. 52. Screenshots of Oiwa from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

Upon her death, Oiwa is thus not fixated on being humiliated by the house of Itō Kihei

like she is in the kabuki play, for all the blame is to be placed on Iemon and Naosuke. Overcome

with grief and bitterness, she gives in to becoming a monstrous wife who can no longer abide her

husband’s cruelty and utter betrayal. Compared to how she was in life, too physically and

emotionally weak to accomplish very much by herself in terms of both avenging her father’s

murder and asserting herself in her marriage to Iemon, once she returns as an onryō she finally

attains the strength to act on her own.

With this newfound power, however, her onryō is shown to still be as selfless and dutiful

as she was in life, preventing her character from coming across as entirely monstrous to the

audience. Even in death, she is shown to protect Osode by haunting Naosuke and scaring him. In

so doing, she prevents him from taking advantage of her younger sister, as she promised to give

herself to him once the revenge for their father’s murder has been fulfilled. Even her last act of

245
killing her own child before dying is portrayed as more of an act of mercy, saving her son from

the evils of her husband, rather than purely an act of vengeance to deprive Iemon of his legacy as

it is depicted in the kabuki.

Not only does she gain power as an onryō, in death she also becomes cognizant of truths

heretofore unknown to both her and Osode in life. Her appearance before Osode and Naosuke at

their home compels Naosuke to reveal the truth about Iemon’s crimes against their father, as well

as Iemon’s hiding place. It is implied that upon becoming part of anoyo, Oiwa is made aware of

all of her husband’s and Naosuke’s misdeeds. While she may know this truth, she lacks the

ability as a spirit to communicate this for herself and must make it known through Naosuke’s

confession to not only protect Osode, but also to see that their father is properly avenged. After

Naosuke flees in terror, Oiwa then guides Osode to Yomoshichi, who is revealed to have

survived the attempt on his life by Naosuke and Iemon near the beginning of the film. The two

lovers reunited, they piece together the truth that Iemon not only killed both of their fathers, but

also caused Oiwa’s death. Armed with this knowledge and Iemon’s hidden location, the two set

out to avenge all three deaths.

Fig. 53. Screenshots of Oiwa leading Osode to Yomoshichi (Left), Osode and Yomoshichi exacting vengeance on
Iemon (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

When Osode and Yomoshichi find Iemon, he is already severely compromised. Haunted

incessantly by visions of Oiwa and Takuetsu’s bloodied corpses and plagued by both guilt and

horror over what he has done, he is presented as a man driven mad by his crimes. Even as he

246
duels both Yomoshichi and Osode, he doesn’t really see the two of them. All he sees is Oiwa’s

onryō, disfigured and mutilated, as her bloody hand rises up to grab his leg and stay his hand

from killing Osode, or her gruesome visage jumps up to fill his vision everywhere he turns. His

final words are full of both fear and regret as he begs Oiwa for forgiveness, and then stabs

himself with Osode’s own sword as penance:

IEMON. 許せ。岩…許してくれ。俺は悪かった。許してくれ！

“Forgive me. Iwa… Please forgive me. I was wrong. Please forgive me!”

Fig. 54. Screenshots of Iemon’s death from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

Not only is Oiwa’s indignation just, but she still manages to uphold all of her social

responsibilities, even in death. While Yomoshichi avenging Oiwa’s father on her behalf is more

of a coincidence in the kabuki play, in the film Oiwa’s onryō is portrayed as instrumental not

only in bringing Yomoshichi and Osode to Iemon, but also taking part in the vendetta itself.

Even after transforming into a monstrous onryō, she has not forgotten herself as a woman and

does not completely give in to personal interest as she is seen to do in the kabuki play. In fact, by

becoming an onryō, she attains the power to restore social order by bringing Iemon to justice

rather than disrupt it. This may explain why, unlike the kabuki play, Oiwa is shown to have

achieved spiritual salvation at the end of the film. The final scene is of her holding her child, her

image restored, ascending to the heavens.

247
 In terms of visual representation and enactment, there is an overall heightened emphasis

on violence and gruesome spectacle in the kaidan film version of Yotsuya Kaidan. Compared to

the kabuki theatre, more is possible with the use of cinematic special effects and editing,

especially with the utilization of close-ups. As is seen in the kabuki play, what marks the

beginnings to Oiwa’s transformation into an onryō is her discovery of her own destroyed image.

As she stares in the mirror, she questions if what she sees is truly herself (see Fig. 52, left). And

as she attempts to comb her hair with her mother’s tortoiseshell comb, bits of her hair and scalp

tear right off her head, leaving a bloody patch. Compared to the original kabuki performance,

there is considerably less focus on Oiwa actually combing her hair and more of the spectacle of

seeing the blood and grotesque disfigurement of her face.

While the actual kamisuki scene which is so instrumental to her character in the kabuki

play is comparatively short in the film, the presence and power of Oiwa’s onryō is visually

conveyed through the repeated use of physical markers of femininity, mostly her hair and comb.

Her hair caught up in her mother’s comb is an image that is significantly utilized in the film. As

Naosuke is dredging up the Onbō Canal hunting for eels, he catches masses of hair on his hook

and discovers both the tortoiseshell comb and a kimono in the waters. Upon bringing both items

back with him, Osode identifies them both as personal belongings of her sister. It is through

these feminine articles and the thought of her sister that Osode effectively summons Oiwa to
their home. It can be argued that through the comb especially, Oiwa’s onryō is able to manifest

before the two of them.

248
Fig. 55. Screenshots of Oiwa’s comb and hair, after death (Left) and Osode with her sister’s comb (Right) from
Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

How she appears to each character in the same space, however, is notably different. To

Osode she presents as a pale, silent version of her living self, her image intact. To Naosuke, she

presents the same as how he last saw her body, bloodied and face disfigured. It is through this

transformed appearance that she is able to compel Naosuke to reveal the truth to Osode. This

contrasts with how Oiwa tends to present in the kabuki play, as the audience is rarely if ever

given an opportunity to see Oiwa after her transformation into an onryō as anything other than

her disfigured form.209 In fact, most audiences familiar with the story of Yotsuya Kaidan almost

solely associate the name Oiwa with this more monstrous image. As is seen in the film, however,

even as a “monstrous” onryō, Oiwa’s transformed state is not fixed. This ability to vacillate

between forms allows for the audience to more easily remember Oiwa as an innocent woman

despite how she might appear.

209
As was noted earlier in discussion of the kabuki play, the only occasion the audience is given to see Oiwa’s
visage prior to her disfigurement and transformation into an onryō is if the “Catching Fireflies in Takinogawa”

dance scene is performed, which has been included in less than half of major kabuki productions of Yotsuya Kaidan

since 1947.
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Fig. 56. Screenshots of Oiwa’s ghost appearing before Osode (Left) compared to how she appears before Naosuke
(Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

In addition to altering her image and being able to manifest her spirit in objects, she also

appears embodied in other living things, namely snakes. Both Naosuke and Iemon are plagued

constantly with hallucinations of snakes following Oiwa’s death. A physical snake is also

discovered in Oume’s bedroom on the night of her wedding with Iemon. This visual imagery is

unique to the film, as Oiwa’s background is changed to have her born in the year of the snake,

whereas in the kabuki play she was born in the year of the rat. While the decision to change from

rats to snakes may have been a choice made for ease of filming, the utilization of the snake

draws connections to not only premodern references to snakes being imbued with feminine

qualities of jealous anger, but also of the contemporaneous cinematic association to the hebi-

onna seen in kaidan films. The snake that appears early on in the film that Iemon kills despite

Oiwa’s protests can be viewed as a reference to this, as the killing of a snake often served as the

impetus for vengeance in hebi-onna films.

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Fig. 57. Screenshots of the snake from the beginning of the film (Left) and Oiwa’s resentment towards Naosuke
manifesting as snakes (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

The scene of Oiwa’s onryō emerging from a lantern, which is considered to be a dramatic

highlight of the kabuki production, may be absent from the film, but the image of Oiwa’s

mutilated image nailed to the shutter door is heavily utilized. Following her death, she appears

before both Iemon and Naosuke in this form time and again. Often her appearance is coupled

with her rising from or sinking beneath murky waters made red with her blood, such as when she

appears before Iemon as he is fishing in the Onbō Canal. When everything starts to unravel for

the two villains and Iemon finally kills Naosuke, she appears yet again, bringing with her part of

the river they had disposed her body in.

Fig. 58. Screenshots of Oiwa emerging in the Onbō Canal (Left) and her appearance after Iemon kills Naosuke
(Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

The re-appearance of the shutter door in the Onbō Canal is undoubtedly a major and

compelling image in the original kabuki play. However, it is interesting to note how frequently

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Oiwa appears in this form throughout the film. Although the final, restored image of Oiwa is of

her holding her child, Iemon’s mind as he dies is full of nothing but images of his wife nailed to

the shutter door, floating on murky water. The significance therefore appears to be in that, much

like with Banshū Sarayashiki, Oiwa’s monstrous form is not only bloody and grotesque, but also

made wet. Although not an example of the proto-dead wet girl, this visual tendency in Oiwa’s

cinematic portrayal speaks to an increasing trend towards the image of the dead wet girl that will

eventually dominate the visual portrayal of the female onryō.

Fig. 59. Screenshots of Iemon’s final “image” of Oiwa in his mind before death (Left), and Oiwa having achieved
salvation (Right) from Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

III.3.1.2 Botan Dōrō (1968)

Like Yotsuya Kaidan, as another one of the “three great kaidan,” the story of Otsuyu has

continued to be a popular ghost story told and staged over the years. One of the most notable of

kaidan film adaptations is director Yamamoto Satsuo’s 1968 rendition titled Botan Dōrō, which

adapts elements from both the original kaidan written by Asai Ryōi as well as the kabuki stage

performance. Differences in the characterization of major characters in the film, namely the

protagonist Shinzaburō and the female ghosts Otsuyu and Oyone, however, result in an

inherently different narrative than earlier depictions.

One of the most notable narrative differences is the increased emphasis on romance

between Shinzaburō and Otsuyu. Not long after meeting the young, beautiful Otsuyu and her

attendant, Oyone, Shinzaburō falls quickly in love with Otsuyu and the two begin a passionate

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love affair. When his manservant, Banzō, spies on the two of them in Shinzaburō’s bedroom,

however, it is revealed that both Otsuyu and Oyone are not among the living. Concerned for the

young samurai’s life, the neighboring villagers, whose children Shinzaburō has been teaching to

read and write, do all they can to try and save him from the ghosts. Ultimately, their greatest

efforts end up being no match for the greedy Banzō and his conniving wife, Omine, who exact a

payment of one hundred gold coins from Otsuyu and Oyone in exchange for removing the

talismans set up to prevent Otsuyu from seeing her lover. While there is a significant focus, both

narratively and visually, on the supernatural romance between Shinzaburō and Otsuyu, elements

of horror in terms of Otsuyu and Oyone’s portrayal as ghosts are much more pronounced in the

film compared to the original source material.

Like the original kaidan, in the film Shinzaburō first encounters both Otsuyu and Oyone

during O-bon. The two women appear before him along the riverbank as people have gathered as

part of the festivities to set the lanterns adrift, guiding their families’ ancestral spirits on their

way back to anoyo. Unlike both the kaidan and the kabuki play, however, instead of a recent

widow or a student, Shinzaburō is depicted as a young, sensitive man who is resistant to

conforming to the expectations of his samurai family and fulfill his role in helping to elevate

their position. Rather than marry his brother’s widow, Okiku, and reestablish the family’s ties

with her family, he would much prefer to teach the children of the neighboring poor how to read
and write. This vexes members of his family to no end, who find his commitment to educating

the lower classes eccentric if not embarrassing, and they seek to put an end to it once and for all

by arranging his marriage with Okiku.

To Shinzaburō, whose disdain for and frustration over marrying a woman purely to

accrue his family profit or social merit is tangible from the opening of the film, Otsuyu is a

welcome presence. In a way, she serves as a form of escape from reality for Shinzaburō, who

chafes under the responsibilities of being a member of samurai society. Consequently, their

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budding romance presents as something that naturally unfolds and comes across to the audience

as more genuine. This contrasts especially with the original kaidan text, in which it is implied

that the woman ghost is more of an “evil enchantress” that has seduced and bewitched the

innocent male protagonist.

Fig. 60. Screenshots of Shinzaburō and Otsuyu from Botan Dōrō

Interestingly, this somewhat contrasts with another element unique to the film, which is

the characterization of Otsuyu as a courtesan of the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters. As Oyone

explains to Shinzaburō, Otsuyu, whose professional name is Tamamushi, is the unfortunate

daughter of a samurai, who due to past hardships and cruelty was sold to a brothel. Although

according to Oyone she is still a virgin, come O-bon’s end she reveals that Otsuyu will be forced

to repay the charities of a certain patron by giving him the privilege of deflowering her. By

associating her character with such a sexually proficient profession, she is similarly sexualized

and made into an erotic image. Her still being a virgin, however, is a crucial trait for her

character, as despite being more sexualized in the film, she retains an attractive innocence for

Shinzaburō, furthering his passions for her.

Similar to both the kaidan and the kabuki play, Shinzaburō is only made aware of the

truth that the two women who have been visiting him these past nights are “not of this world”

(この世の者じゃない) after he has already sexually consummated his relationship with Otsuyu.

Having spied his master with his newfound lover, Shinzaburō’s manservant, Banzō, learns that

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the courtesan Tamamushi has already died, having killed her patron at his residence and then

herself. Her death was followed soon after by her attendant Oyone’s. Once Shinzaburō confirms

their deaths for himself by going to see their graves, he becomes overcome by fear for the first

time. Instead of seeking the immediate help of a priest as he does in the written and stage

versions of the narrative, however, Shinzaburō first chooses to confront the two women ghosts

alone. Despite his fear, there is a tangible degree of anger as he accuses Otsuyu of deceiving him.

This implies that while Otsuyu being a spirit certainly terrifies him, it is not to the extent that the

protagonist of the original kaidan experiences, whose “[…] passion that had consumed him for

weeks was utterly quenched. […] Gone was the lover who had longed for dusk and lamented the

dawn” (Mori 37-8). This may explain Shinzaburō exhibiting real violence towards both Otsuyu

and Oyone by trying to cut them with his sword. When Otsuyu begs for his forgiveness and

Oyone appeals to him to have sympathy for her mistress, his heart is swayed by his lover’s

parting words:

OTSUYU. 生きている内に、新三郎さまを愛したかった。

“I wish I could have loved you, Shinzaburō-sama, while I was among the living.”

Hearing this is more than he can bear, and he stops Otsuyu from leaving as he is moved to

embrace her yet again, while Oyone looks on. Although it is possible to view this as more of an

insidious manipulation on Otsuyu’s part to keep ahold of her lover, the overall impression given
is that the feelings the two have for one another are mutually genuine.

Fig. 61. Screenshots of Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō.

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 This accounts for Shinzaburō’s overall seeming reluctance to be saved from his

supernaturally fatal bond with Otsuyu. Despite the entire neighborhood being moved to save the

life of the kind teacher who has been taking care of their children, he does not express much

gratitude over the efforts being made on his behalf. By his own admission, his agreeing to stay

enclosed in a room warded with paper talismans to prevent Otsuyu from visiting him has little to

do with a personal desire to protect himself from her:

SHINZABURŌ. 心変わりをしたのではない。其方たちを思う心に変わりはない。

“I have not had a change of heart. My feelings for you have not changed at all.”

OTSUYU. それならどうしてこんなお札を？

“Then why have you put up such talismans as these?”

SHINZABURŌ. 貧しい子供たちのためなのだ。子供たちのために生きていらねば

ならないのだ。

“It’s for the sake of the poor children. I have to stay alive for them.”

As much as it pains his heart to do so, for the sake of the future generations, and to better “this

world that tormented” the two of them (其方たちを苦しめたこの世), he denies what he truly

desires which is to be with Otsuyu.

As her lover does in fact ultimately die by her hand, in this respect, this film’s rendition

of Otsuyu should still be considered a form of a murderous lover. However, much like how the
kabuki play’s portrayal of Otsuyu is conspicuously lacking in explicit resentment, it is difficult to

view her character in the film as particularly vengeful. Even when she is denied by Shinzaburō,

she does not seem to doubt his declaration of unchanged feelings for her, nor does she express

any real vexation towards him. Similar to her stage depictions, Otsuyu’s quiet expressions of

bitterness take more the form of her bemoaning a life left unfulfilled and full of suffering rather

than be directed at Shinzaburō explicitly. Even more so in the film, Otsuyu is shown to have

suffered considerably more than simply wasting away pining for Shinzaburō as she does in the

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kabuki (and rakugo). Not only has she been deprived of the chance for genuine love while still

among the living, Otsuyu has been made to suffer hardships that have forced her to work in a

profession that threatens to corrupt her innocence. This intensifies her impression as a tragic

victim, evoking the sympathies of both Shinzaburō and the audience.

Added to this is the fact that Shinzaburō is both aware of his lover’s state as a ghost, as

well as her intent to take him back with her to anoyo, and yet he does not exhibit any real fear.

Her plaintive cries begging him to remove the talismans pain him rather than terrify him. When

the two are finally reunited, the expression on Shinzaburō’s face is not of fear or resignation to

his fate. He is as happy to see Otsuyu as she is to hold him in her arms again. Despite knowing

that their reunion means the end to his mortal life, he does not resist; he even welcomes his end.

Their last scene is of Otsuyu’s skeletal corpse gently embracing him in death, casting her

character in more of a romantic rather than malignant light.

Fig. 62. Screenshots of Otsuyu finally reunited with Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō.

Despite this more romantic portrayal of Otsuyu’s relationship with Shinzaburō, she still

poses a fatal threat to both him and the change he represents in society. Unlike his samurai

family, who exhibit visible disdain for the lower classes and his commitment to serving them,

through education Shinzaburō intends to bestow on future generations the opportunity to

improve their own place in society. Arguably, this is the primary motivation behind the villagers’

desperate attempts to save his life. Though they are genuinely concerned for his welfare, their

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concern is also self-serving – if Shinzaburō were to die, who would educate their children?

Shinzaburō is thus presented as endangered by his desire, as he is so immersed in love with

Otsuyu that he is tempted away from making positive contributions to society. This results in

audience apprehension of Otsuyu, despite their relationship being depicted as genuinely romantic.

No matter how genuine or mutual their passions, Otsuyu is shown unable to let go of her

attachments for Shinzaburō, and in her selfishness deprives the world of his existence.

Although Otsuyu’s selfishness is considered a fatal threat, she herself is not overtly

maligned for her desires. In contrast, the material desires of Banzō and his wife, Omine, are

depicted as particularly immoral and deserving of punishment. Despite Banzō’s initial concern

for his master’s wellbeing, due to his troubles with money and gambling which are established

early in the film, his greed ultimately gets the better of him. Omine is depicted as particularly

conniving and opportunistic, as soon after learning about Shinzaburō’s situation she comes up

with the plan to bargain with the ghosts to remove the talismans in exchange for money. Unlike

stage depictions of her character, Omine in the film is portrayed as considerably less likeable as

she not only bullies her husband but also plots and schemes. She is even visibly irritated when it

seems their plan to exact money from the ghosts failed, heedless of the fact that were it to

succeed it would mean the death of Shinzaburō. Once Oyone agrees to their terms and tells them

they can find their gold in the cemetery where she and Otsuyu are buried, however, both Banzō
and Omine’s greed reaches a new degree of immorality as they have little to no qualms about

desecrating a grave to get what they want. This is markedly different from the kabuki play, as the

two servants are simply given the gold by Oyone, and contributes to their sense of villainy in the

film for the audience. Even after attaining the promised one hundred gold coins, however, Omine

insists they have nothing to fear now that the ghosts have claimed Shinzaburō’s life and the two

go back to the cemetery to dig for more. It is this unfettered greed bordering on the immoral that

ultimately results in their mortal punishment for their transgressions, as it is revealed that the

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gold they had dug up earlier was not Oyone’s, but gold stolen and hidden in the cemetery for

safekeeping by a gang of robbers.

Similar to how she presents in the kabuki play, the character who arguably demonstrates

actual aggression and vengefulness is Otsuyu’s maidservant Oyone. In the film, Oyone actively

strives to fulfill the desperate desires of her mistress, as she speaks forwardly to Shinzaburō

about Otsuyu’s attraction towards him, and even asks him to be her lover, if even for a short

while. Perhaps more so than the kabuki counterpart for her character, however, the Oyone found

in Yamamoto Satsuo’s Botan Dōrō manifests as more akin to an onryō, as she is shown to be

vindictive, even malicious, towards those whom she resents. Of the two female ghosts, Oyone is

the only one who verbally expresses how hateful she feels by referring to the urami, or bitter

“resentment” (恨み) she harbors towards Banzō and Omine. To a lesser extent, she also uses the

word urami with Shinzaburō when he reacts violently upon his initial discovery that Otsuyu is in

fact a ghost and not a living woman. This particular urami of Oyone’s is dispelled, however,

when she sees him take her mistress back and she is not shown to act upon it.

Fig. 63. Screenshots of Oyone and Otsuyu from Botan Dōrō.

In contrast, Oyone is disgusted and incensed by the audacity of both Banzō and Omine to

demand money from her mistress, and in no small amount for that matter, just for helping Otsuyu

to see Shinzaburō again:

OYONE. よくもそんな無体なこと […] 伴蔵さん, 恨みますよ。

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 “How dare you say something so outrageous […] Banzō, you will regret this.”

It is heavily implied that their deaths are orchestrated by Oyone’s onryō as punishment, as they

both end up brutally murdered by the robbers when they return to the cemetery and are caught

digging in the same grave where the gang had hidden the gold, looking for more. In the kabuki

play, while the re-appearance of Oyone’s ghost is often what serves as the impetus for Tomozō

(Banzō in the kaidan film) murdering Omine to keep their secret, it is not made clear that Oyone

plays an active role in what befalls the characters. In the film, Oyone’s hand in Omine and

Banzō’s deaths is far more overt, as their bodies are left strewn over Oyone’s gravesite. The fact

that she gave them money that did not belong to her, knowing that being in possession of the

stolen gold would likely get them killed, is further indicative of her onryō-like vengefulness.

Fig. 64. Screenshots of Omine’s body (Left) and Oyone’s grave marker (Right) from Botan Dōrō.

Given this intensity of Oyone’s supernatural hostility, there is still a strong emphasis on

horror for both female ghosts of the film despite the romantic focus on Otsuyu and Shinzaburō’s

relationship. In terms of visual representation and enactment, this horror is most often achieved

through the manipulation of the female body. As a rather critical part of the original kaidan, the

discovery of Otsuyu’s true form – appearing as a skeletal corpse – is almost an obligatory scene

in any depiction of the Botan Dōrō narrative. Rather than simply being seen talking to her,

however, Banzō spies his master making love to a ghastly Otsuyu, bony and flesh discolored.

The film thus introduces an element of the grotesque, even the monstrous feminine. Through

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Banzō’s eyes, the audience witnesses a scene that should be intimate and perhaps arousing made

into something perverse and horrifying. This effect is heightened as not long prior to Banzō’s

spying, Otsuyu is portrayed as her human self, her bare skin exposed and face enraptured. By

immediately juxtaposing this erotic, human image with her monstrous one, Otsuyu’s liminality is

what evokes horror for the audience.

Fig. 65. Screenshots of Otsuyu making love to Shinzaburō from Botan Dōrō.

While for the most part both Otsuyu and Oyone’s ghosts tend to appear in forms more

closely resembling human beings, albeit perhaps more gaunt and ashen (see Fig. 63), like the

original kaidan narrative, the film makes clear that both women’s spirits have more of a

corporeal presence. In the climax, after Banzō and Omine have collected their gold from its

hiding place in the cemetery, both Otsuyu and Oyone appear before the servant couple by

bursting up from the water beside their gravesite as rotting skeletons. Moments later, the two

women change into their more human-resembling figures to accost the couple so that they can

make do on their promise to remove the talismans. In the final scene with Shinzaburō, when the

villagers discover his body in the sealed room, both Otsuyu and Oyone are also physically

present as skeletons (see Fig. 62, right). This emphasizes that while often presenting as more

human throughout the film, their true state is in fact that of a rotting corpse.

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Fig. 66. Screenshots of Otsuyu and Oyone in their true form (Left) and dragging Banzō and Omine back with them
to remove the talisman (Right) from Botan Dōrō

III.3.2 In “Original” Kaidan Films

III.3.2.1 Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji (1954)
Directed by Kato Bin, who would become known for his kaidan films throughout his

career, Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji presents a classic example of the kaibyō subgenre. Starring Irie

Takako, already by this point well-established as a bakeneko actress, this film is also a

compelling portrayal of the proto-dead wet girl role type for the cinematic classic female onryō.

While Ōma ga Tsuji certainly culminates in a dramatic climax full of monstrous cat-like effects

and the action anticipated of a so-called “strange cat” film, the character Senjo manifests her

vengefulness just as much as a “human” as she does a bakeneko monster.

In Ōma ga Tsuji, Senjo is at the height of her career as the leading actress of an onna

kabuki troupe. Neither a wife or lover, she is characterized more as being a young woman in

possession of extraordinary talents as a kabuki actress. It is because of these gifts that she is

deeply resented by Somewaka, a fellow actress who begrudges Senjo her fame and popularity.

Somewaka consequently entreats her older sister, Okume, a wealthy shopkeeper, to do away with

Senjo so that Somewaka can succeed her on the stage. Okume and Somewaka orchestrate several

“accidents” that befall Senjo, most notably damage to her face resembling Oiwa from Yotsuya

Kaidan. Ultimately, she is betrayed and murdered by her supposed lover, Genjirō, who is

revealed to be the actual long-time lover of Okume, enlisted to serve as her inside man. After

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being murdered, Senjo’s pent-up anguish gives way to supernatural wrath as she re-emerges as

an onryō.

Although Genjirō’s betrayal is undoubtedly among the grievances that Senjo as an onryō

possesses, having lost the ability to appear on stage is what most fuels her desire for vengeance.

Unlike Somewaka, for Senjo being able to act has little to do with fame, fortune, or even ego.

Rather, it has always been about the art, and worth great risk to herself. Early in the film, even

after suffering an injury on the hanamichi during a performance, an injury that was orchestrated

to prevent her from being able to perform, and thus allow for Somewaka to take her place, Senjo

adamantly refuses to be replaced out of commitment to her craft as an actor: “It is an actor’s

truest ambition to die on stage. […] That is what is called art.” To Senjo, living up to the image

of an actor is as important to her as life itself.

Senjo’s acting talent, however, is implied to be innately tied to her image as a woman.

When Okume’s schemes to sabotage Senjo at the kabuki theatre fail, she takes matters into her

own hands by lashing out at the actress directly at a celebratory dinner, on the pretext of being

insulted, which results in Senjo sustaining a large cut to her face. This injury is further

exacerbated when, reminiscent of Oiwa’s poisoning in Yotsuya Kaidan, the theatre manager

Umenosuke is paid by Okume to deliver Senjo a medicine which is in fact a poison that

permanently disfigures her face. Once she suffers this destruction of her image, Senjo completely
loses her ability to appear on stage. As she laments to Genjirō: “Everyone has already long

forgotten all about me.” For all her talents and tenacity, with the damage to her face so severe

that not even makeup can conceal, Senjo’s career as an actress is over, indicating that it is her

physical beauty as a woman that defines her.

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Fig. 67. Screenshots of Senjo from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji.

Not only is Senjo deprived of her future as a kabuki actress and thus her livelihood, but
she also loses her future as a woman in society. When Senjo tells Genjirō that she must give up

theatre, and he asks her what she intends to do going forward, he is mostly concerned about

Senjo still wanting to get married rather than her wellbeing:

SENJO. 源さん、安心をしよ。私はこんな体になった時から、あんたの奥さんに

なるなんてことわりに諦めているんだい。

“Gen, you don’t have to worry. From the moment I became like this, I have given up

on becoming your wife.”

GENJIRŌ. お仙、それ本心か？

“Sen, do you mean that truly?”

SENJO. 嬉しいか？

“Does that make you happy?”

Senjo’s relationship with Genjirō overall is notably understated in the film, implying perhaps that

her feelings for him may have not been very strong to begin with. What is clear, however, is that

with her image destroyed, Senjo is painfully aware she has no hope of marriage and

consequently little future in society. Much like the proto-dead wet girl Okiku from Banshū

Sarayashiki, the cause for Senjo’s persecution in Ōma ga Tsuji has little to do with a violation or

rejection of any social norm, and more to do with her simply existing as a young woman, or

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“girl.” The way she is punished, too, involves removing Senjo from ever being able to participate

in society, either as an actress or as a married woman, by first destroying her image and finally

killing her altogether. It is the injustice of the cruelty she has been made to endure that drives

Senjo to resort to almost excessively violent acts of supernatural aggression as an onryō. This is

a trait that will be increasingly found in future dead wet girls in later J-horror films.

Ōma ga Tsuji presents a particularly compelling message regarding women’s behavior as

it features multiple female characters in the roles of not only victim and onryō, but also as human

villain and aggressor. The overt reference to Yotsuya Kaidan in the film is a particularly

compelling example of this, as what was done to Oiwa was largely the work of a male but in the

case of Ōma ga Tsuji it is clearly Okume who both orchestrated and contributed to most of

Senjo’s suffering. She is the one who bribed the stagehands to rig the theatre to injure Senjo,

even cut Senjo’s face herself with the sharp edge of a bowl. Okume is also the one who procured

the poison for Umenosuke to give to Senjo, and even sends Genjirō to make sure she uses it.

Once Senjo becomes an onryō to enact her vengeance, the extent to which she focuses on Okume

above all others is indicative of how much she holds her responsible for her suffering.

The conflict of the film’s narrative thus becomes a woman tormenting and destroying

another woman. Not only is the primary aggressor of the film female, but the reasons for

Okume’s villainy have little to do with romantic jealousy. Instead, her villainy is in support of
her younger sister’s desire to be famous. This is quite unlike the motivation that was more

expected of a villainous female character by audiences, having grown accustomed to seeing

women driven by romance affairs. The sheer sadistic glee Okume and Somewaka derive from

torturing Senjo, as well as the complete lack of empathy or remorse in both women is nothing

short of uncomfortable. Although as women their physical images may be pristine, the behavior

of the two sisters presents them as truly ugly, even monstrous, despite still being human.

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 In contrast, despite her physical disfigurement and visible ugliness, Senjo manages to

maintain her humanity even as an onryō, at least up until a certain point in the narrative. Upon

being murdered by Genjirō while on a boat ride, her body cast into the river, she almost

immediately re-emerges as an onryō. Despite this, though she silently expresses her resentment,

she does not try to get immediate justice for herself or inflict any real violence towards Genjirō.

Instead, she seeks out Kochō, her one still surviving apprentice, and reveals the truth of her

demise:

SENJO. 子蝶… 私は殺されたんだよ、源さんに。登女次もあの人の手に掛かり、

証拠は源さんの腕にある歯形。[…] この恨みはきっと晴らします。

“Kochō… I have been murdered, by Gen. Tomeji was also killed by that man’s hand,

the teeth marks on Gen’s arm are the proof. This bitter grudge must surely be avenged.”

Not only does Senjo name her own killer, but she also shares that Tomeji, Kochō’s fellow

apprentice, was also murdered by Genjirō in order to silence her after she had discovered Okume

and Somewaka to be the cause for Senjo’s misfortune. She then beseeches her apprentice to

avenge her in her place, but Kochō expresses that such a thing would be impossible for her to do.

As a living woman, she lacks the power to exact vengeance for her mentor. Rather than anger at

this helpless refusal, Senjo only expresses her gratitude for all that Kochō has done for her in the

past, and leaves her with her last will as a “human”:

SENJO. 私が居なくても、芸の道を励んで立派な役者になってをくれ。そして、

二代目仙女の名を挙げてをくれ。

“Even though I am no longer here to guide you, please strive along the path of the arts

and become a splendid actor. And succeed my name as Senjo II.”

Through her apprentice, Senjo can ensure that she lives on in the memory of others, her art both

appreciated and recognized as being worthy of being passed on and emulated by future

generations. Despite being an onryō, Senjo’s ability to fully communicate with her apprentice

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implies that she still has retained some of her humanity. This is indicative in Kochō not being so

much terrified as she is grief-stricken by her mentor’s ghostly and tragic appearance before her.

Fig. 68. Screenshots of Senjo appearing before Kochō from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji.

This impression of Senjo does not last, however, as soon after this interaction with Kochō

she changes into a full-on aggressor in her own right with the help of her pet cat. As is typical of

many kaibyō films, the cat, named Miyo, is cognizant of all of the subterfuge afoot meant to

undermine her mistress Senjo throughout the film. From the very beginning of Ōma ga Tsuji,

Miyo tries to call attention to the sabotage done to the hanamichi, even scratches the culprit

stagehand who was bribed by Okume. Later, Miyo even tries to intervene and stop Genjirō from

applying the poison disguised as medicine to Senjo’s face. Despite Miyo’s knowledge and best

attempts to alert those around her to the dangers, however, as a normal cat she is unable to

prevent any of the misfortune that Senjo suffers.

As a so-called “strange cat” film, however, it is interesting to note that the role Miyo

plays helping her mistress in exacting her vengeance is considerably understated. Although

Senjo appears in the climax as a bona fide vengeful bakeneko, going from simply terrorizing the

likes of Genjirō and Umenosuke, to laying siege to the entire theatre where Somewaka is

rehearsing for her premiere performance as lead actress, her scene of transformation is not made

explicit. Unlike most kaibyō film plots, a scene involving the cat’s licking of its master’s blood

to bring about its transformation does not occur; Senjo is murdered by Genjirō and her body is

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plunged into the water. After speaking to Kochō, the cat can no longer be found after this point

in the narrative, only heard, implying that Senjo’s onryō may have possessed Miyo, which

served as the catalyst for her transformation instead. The resulting effect of this is that although

Ōma ga Tsuji is considered a classic example of the kaibyō film, the audience is nevertheless

given a very strong impression of Senjo as her human onryō self.

In order to fully execute her vengeance, however, Senjo must come into her own as a

genuine, corporeal monster. While Senjo’s desire for revenge is not necessarily censured, and

those whom she targets, especially Okume and Genjirō, are arguably deserving of punishment,

pursuing it on her own is not condoned as part of the narrative. By acting outside the norms of

human society, effectively taking the law into her own hands, and punishing as she sees fit, she

loses all semblance of humanity. The extent of her vindictiveness, unleashed only upon

transforming into a bakeneko reflects this; not only does she wreck the theatre and kill several

people, including Somewaka and Okume, but she also tortures Okume quite severely before

tearing into her flesh at the end. Despite Okume’s desperate attempts to flee Senjo’s supernatural

grasp, she is pulled back into Senjo’s especially protracted act of neko jarashi or “cat toying.”

She proceeds to make Okume dance, flip and turn, much like how a cat plays with its food before

eating it. Gone is the woman whose anguished spirit invoked the sympathies of Kochō and, by

extension, the audience. Now only a monster remains.

Fig. 69. Screenshots of Senjo as the monster from Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji.

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 Of all the female characters that appear in Ōma ga Tsuji, the one whose behavior is

perhaps championed the most in the film is Kochō. After her meeting with Senjo’s onryō, it later

becomes apparent that her mentor’s parting words have moved her to try and do what she can to

carry out Senjo’s wishes, despite her lack of power. When she uncovers physical proof of the

murder, rather than take matters into her own hands and embark on a vendetta, Kochō brings

Senjo’s case to the attention of the local magistrate to have Genjirō arrested for his crimes.

Although loyal to Senjo, Kochō’s actions reflect more democratic ideals rather than feudal ones,

stressing justice and following the law. Unlike Senjo, Kochō is presented as more of the heroine

at the end of the film, as she follows the social order to have Genjirō prosecuted and brought to

justice by human laws rather than butchered by Senjo, which is what happens to Somewaka and

Okume. The triumphant final scene of the film, showing Kochō to have succeeded Senjo’s name

as leading actress in their onna kabuki troupe, thereby enabling her mentor to live on, is further

indication of this view.

Compared to stage portrayals, cinematic depictions of the proto-dead wet girl role type in

kaidan films increasingly share closer similarities to the dead wet girl that will officially emerge

with the debut of J-horror films. In Ōma ga Tsuji, this is most notable in terms of Senjo’s visual

representation and enactment. As a kaibyō film, the climax certainly presents Senjo as having

assumed the classic markers of a bakeneko, with wild hair and makeup distorting her features as
well as her hands curled like a cat’s claws. The most visually intriguing of scenes of Senjo’s

onryō, however, are those that are evocative of her status as a proto-dead wet girl. Not only is

she killed and thrown into the water, but her resentful spirit immediately emerges, creeping up

from the depths. With her body dripping wet, her long hair all bedraggled and hanging down

about her, she grips the sides of the boat to leer eerily at Genjirō. As he tries to slay her again

with his sword, Senjo rises up and sinks down under the boat over and over as she haunts her

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murderer. Later, when she appears before Kochō, her apprentice notes how drenched she is (see

Fig. 68). When she disappears, she leaves nothing but a stain of water behind.

Fig. 70. Screenshots of Senjo rising up from the water (Left) and leaving a stain behind (Right) from Kaibyō Ōma
ga Tsuji.

III.3.2.2. Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko (1968)

The kaidan film Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko poses as a particularly intriguing example in

portrayals of role types for the classic female onryō, as the central vengeful figure is less of a

monstrous wife and more of a “monstrous mother.” Directed by Shindō Kaneto, who also

directed the film Onibaba four years prior, Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko opens with the brutal

gang rape and murder of Oyone and her daughter-in-law Oshige, after which their house is set on

fire. The two women soon after re-emerge as onryō who have sworn an oath to exact revenge on

all samurai indiscriminately, not just those who had directly assaulted and killed them. Their path

of vengeance is complicated, however, when Hachi, Oyone’s son and Oshige’s husband, whom

both women had given up as lost to the war, returns as a samurai. Hachi’s wife, Oshige, is shown

in the film to be conflicted with emotions of love and loyalty to her husband and her desire for

revenge. Her role as a vengeful figure, however, is considerably less emphasized compared to

that of Oyone, especially given that Oshige ultimately forsakes her vendetta while her mother-in-

law does not. As a female onryō, Oyone and her struggles with her role as a mother therefore

becomes the primary focus for the film. This indicates both a shift in female character portrayal

as well as social views of women.

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 As indicated in the title Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko, cats, specifically a “black cat,”

figures prominently in the film, which to many is an indication that Kuroneko should be

categorized as a kaibyō. Rather than an outright “strange cat” kaidan film, however, Kuroneko is

arguably more of an homage to the subgenre. As is typical of most kaibyō films, the supernatural

events of the film appear to be instigated by a black cat drinking the blood from Oyone and

Oshige’s corpses shortly after their deaths. The role of the cat itself, however, is significantly

diminished. Aside from a single comment by Hachi as he attempts to discern his wife’s and

mother’s identities, a comment which Oshige denies, there is little indication in the narrative that

the cat is theirs:

HACHI. 猫を飼っておられるのか。

“Do you have a cat?”

OSHIGE. いいえ、主を失った野良猫でございましょう。

“No, it is a stray cat who lost its master.”

HACHI. 猫といえば、私は戦に取られた時に、家に黒い子猫が居たんだが…

“Speaking of cats, when I was taken for the war, there was a black kitten at home…”

Added to the fact that the cat is not named, Hachi’s own recollection of the cat also implies a less

than strong personal attachment to it as a pet, thereby reducing the aspect of a pet’s loyalty to its

master that is found in a majority of kaibyō films. Furthermore, while its presence is tangible
throughout the film, the black cat itself is not shown to have been actually transformed by the

process of consuming Oyone and Oshige’s blood. While its image and sounds are frequently

seen and heard, the cat still remains a cat, and not a bakeneko. This further supports the argument

that Kuroneko should be considered as an homage or perhaps a twist on the kaibyō film rather

than a direct contribution to the subgenre.

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Fig. 71. Screenshots of Oyone and Oshige’s deaths and the black cat from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

Rather than a cat-turned-bakeneko, who in most “strange cat” films would typically serve

as the active agent of whatever supernatural violence that transpires, in Kuroneko there is little

question that the onryō of Oyone and Oshige are directly acting out their sworn vengeance on the

samurai of the film. Instead of the cat becoming possessed by spirits and carrying out vengeance

on their behalf as is typical of the kaibyō subgenre, the female onryō of Kuroneko appear to be

empowered by the black cat itself as they take on increasingly bakeneko-like qualities throughout

the film. In order to beguile and prey on the samurai they come across by Rajōmon, the southern

gate of the imperial capital, however, they make more use of their humanity rather than the

monstrous powers they have gained by posing as innocent beautiful women. As they invite each

man they target back to their residence and offer him food and drink, Oyone leaves the younger

Oshige to tempt and seduce the samurai with her feminine wiles so that she can get close enough
to tear up his neck with her teeth as he sleeps. While Oshige uses her femininity as a weapon to

disarm the men, Oyone uses more incorporeal means as she looks on and dances what director

Shindō Kaneto refers to in his diary as a “dance of murder” (殺しの舞).210 As the number of

their samurai victims grows, the matter becomes one of public concern for the imperial capital

and the emperor commands that the threat be dealt with. Mercilessly killing each and every

210
As described in Serper, Zvika, “Shindō Kaneto’s films Kuroneko and Onibaba,” 241.
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samurai they come across, the two women present as supernatural femme fatales who, despite

appearing to be very much human to their victims, are in fact dangerous monsters.

Fig. 72. Screenshots of Oshige preying on samurai (Left) and Oyone dancing (Right) from Yabu no Naka no
Kuroneko.

Oyone and Oshige’s convictions are only shown to waver when they are confronted by

Hachi, thereby highlighting that even in their transformed state, the two women may still harbor

human attachments. Having returned as a samurai with the new name, Yabu no Gintoki, Hachi

accepts the mission to hunt the apparitions that haunt Rajōmon, unknowingly placing himself at

odds with his own mother and wife. When the women meet Hachi for the first time since their

transformation into onryō, their feelings of hesitation and silent anguish are tangible as they

choose to vanish instead of following through with their oath of vengeance. Staying hidden from

his view, however, only furthers their suffering as both mother and wife yearn to see the man

they had given up as lost:

OYONE. 会いたいであろう、そうであろう。私もあの子に会いたい。[…]
“You want to see him, I’m sure. I also want to see the boy.”

OYONE. 辛抱して下さい。忍んで下さい。陰ながらあれの姿を見るだけで、辛抱

して下さい。

“Please endure it. And stay concealed. Please endure just seeing him from the

shadows.”

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As part of the vow they swore to the “evil gods of heaven and earth” (天地の魔神) upon their

deaths, both women are forbidden from revealing their identities or how they became onryō,

which only furthers their torment.

Fig. 73. Screenshots of Oshige hesitating to lure Hachi (Left) and Oshige and Oyone yearning to see him (Right)
from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

For Oshige, the anguish is too much to bear and she renounces her oath so that she can be

with Hachi once again. While both women swore to “kill and drink the lifeblood of samurai,”

Oshige’s love for her husband matters more to her than her desire for vengeance. So much so

that she willingly accepts the punishment of being sent to hell for breaking her vow. Unlike

Oiwa of Yotsuya Kaidan, Oshige does not present as a monstrous wife, as she forsakes her oath

out of devotion to her husband and at great cost to herself. The narrative of the film seems to

support this view of Oshige as even the “evil gods of heaven and earth” to whom they swore a

promise of vengeance are apparently moved by her sacrifice and allow her seven nights to make
love to Hachi before she is to receive her punishment.

In so doing, Oshige is shown to transform yet again, only this time from an onryō into a

figure of acceptable, even idealized femininity. Earlier in the film, although imbued with

considerable sexual allure, she was still a constant, potential threat due to her monstrous

ambiguity. Using her sexuality as a weapon, Oshige presented more as a supernatural femme

fatale who, though erotic, was more dangerous than loving. Once she chooses to abandon her

path of vengeance to be with her husband, she is presented less as a monster and more as the

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ideal woman. By embodying the values of love and devotion to the point of ultimate self-

sacrifice, Oshige is made into something beautiful and deserving of being emulated.

Fig. 74. Screenshots of Oshige making love to Hachi from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

One might argue that Oyone is in fact the primary orchestrator and drive behind the

vengeful acts that transpire in the film, with Oshige being more of a follower. While both women

supposedly share the same desires to exact revenge on samurai, the only one who verbalizes this

is Oyone, referring to the killing of all the samurai in the world as “our dearest and most

desperate wish” (私達の悲願). Although Oshige does not deny this statement, at no point in the

film does she affirm this to be true for herself either.

Given Oshige’s choice to ultimately abandon her vow, it is apparent that revenge for

Oyone matters more to her than her daughter-in-law. So much so that she is willing to forsake

her own son in the end. As Oyone proceeds after Oshige’s death to go on a rampage leaving a

trail of bodies behind her, Hachi is put in an increasingly terrible position as the samurai charged

with resolving the problem. Rather than sympathize with his mother and his late wife, he openly

resents Oyone for undermining all that he has achieved: “I’ve lost my honor and am about to be

killed! I’ve been driven to the point where tonight I must either destroy you or die.” As a mother,

Oyone should be obligated to support Hachi, but she continues to refuse to acknowledge who she

is to her son so that she can uphold her vow and continue her vengeful rampage to eradicate all

samurai from the world. By rejecting her identity as Hachi’s mother, she is also rejecting the

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social role itself, becoming increasingly monstrous as a result. Thus, rather than a monstrous

wife, the female onryō of Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko is presented more as a monstrous mother.

This gravitation towards emphasizing the woman’s qualities as a mother more than as a wife in

characterizing the female onryō will become increasingly prominent in later portrayals,

especially in films featuring the “new” female onryō.

Fig. 75. Screenshots of Oyone and Hachi from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

As the film progresses, Oyone’s humanity is emphasized less and less, as she abandons

social norms and behaves more and more like a monster. Though Oyone is sorely tempted to

break her vow and reveal everything to her son, ultimately, she is unable to let go of her

resentment, as Oshige did. Even when Hachi begs her to tell him who killed the two of them, she

does not speak. In so doing, Oyone demonstrates not only the strength of her convictions, but

also a rejection of premodern Japanese gendered social norm, which would be to leave the

settling of vendettas to men.

At the same time, although Oyone is prohibited from explaining her motivations to others

in order to maintain her vengeful power, Hachi can infer at least some of the reasons for his

mother’s actions. Given his reactions to his samurai superior’s overbearing skepticism as to why

anyone, human or monster, would resent a samurai, it seems clear that Hachi is certain that

samurai were responsible for the deaths of his mother and wife. Despite this, he demonstrates an

overall lack of understanding and empathy towards Oyone: “Why haven’t you left? You drink

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blood night after night, but for what? Why can’t you be at peace?” Part of this may be because of

Oyone’s inability, or unwillingness, to affirm her identity and explain herself to her son.

However, it is more likely that Hachi is uncertain about his own mother’s humanity. He is visibly

taken aback when she declares her burning hatred for samurai, her intent to not rest until she

“drinks the blood of every last samurai that walks this world.” The depth of her hatred seems

almost inhuman, which may explain his lack of empathy as well as why he is not driven to take

up her cause and avenge her and Oshige’s deaths. In the climax of the film, Hachi openly

questions whether Oyone is truly his mother or a “monster” (yōkai):

HACHI. お母さん、貴方は猫なんですか。妖怪なんですか。お母さんが妖怪にな

るわけはない。お母さん！出て来て下さい！お母さんが本当のお母さんなら出て

来て下さい。

“Mother, are you a cat? Are you a yōkai? My mother would not become a monster.

Mother! Please show yourself! If you are truly my mother, then please show yourself.”

Upon battling with his mother one final time when she appears to reclaim her arm from him,

Oyone is shown to silently weep as Hachi cries out to her repeatedly. Despite her son’s desperate

pleas, she does not respond. Having seen her physical form change before his eyes into a

bakeneko-like apparition that continues to reject him as her son, Hachi shifts from calling out to

Oyone as his mother and identifies her as a “monster” once and for all, condemning her as a
yōkai. Now fully a monster in the eyes of even her son, Oyone abandons all semblance of

humanity and fully embraces her transformation by flying up and vanishing into the night sky,

leaving her son to die in the remains of their burnt home.

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Fig. 76. Screenshots of Oyone flying (Left) and Hachi (Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

In terms of visual representation and enactment, even prior to Oyone’s complete

transformation into a monster at the end of the film, hints of the monster are indicated throughout

for both Oyone and Oshige. By utilizing imagery and movements evocative of a cat, the potential

power that comes with fully embracing their transformation is also implied. This is especially

expressed visually through the hair for both women, such as the ends of Oyone’s hair being

shown to flick like a cat’s tail, or Oshige’s arm being seen briefly covered with fur resembling a

cat’s. In terms of behavior, actions such as the avoiding of a puddle by leaping over it, or the

lapping of water from an open jar more subtly indicate that the two women are not altogether

human.

Fig. 77. Screenshots of “hair” from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

It is important to note, however, that these signs of transformation are transient and both

Oyone and Oshige are shown to oscillate between presenting as bakeneko-like monsters and

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human women. Furthermore, unlike most kaibyō films, the utilization of extensive makeup and

hair to represent the actor as a bakeneko figure is comparatively limited in Kuroneko. Glimpses

of Oyone fully transformed are so brief as to be virtually non-existent in the film, and for Oshige

no such effects are done to her image at all. As the audience watches these two very human-

presenting female onryō commit largely inhuman acts of violence, their viewing discomfort is

heightened. Lacking the clear, easily identifiable markers of the female onryō’s monstrous

quality, the viewer is given more the impression of the actual woman being inhumanly violent.

In many ways this parallels the monstrous acts of the samurai done to the two women graphically

shown at the beginning of the film. Additionally, the physical prowess both Oshige and Oyone

demonstrate in the film is beyond a human’s, let alone a female’s means, as both women are

shown capable of leaps so dramatic, they border on flight. The monster, or at the very least the

unnatural, is thus further associated with specifically having a woman’s image.

Fig. 78. Screenshots of Oyone and Oshige leaping, almost flying, from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

While it has been noted that both Oyone and Oshige appear to use their humanity as more

of a weapon to beguile and more easily prey on their samurai victims, it is also apparent that this

humanity they exhibit is not entirely a ruse. Both women are seen to genuinely struggle with

conflicting emotions over Hachi in the film, and the authenticity of passion that Oshige exhibits

towards her husband as she chooses to sacrifice herself to be with him is never disputed. Oyone’s

sorrow is also tangible as she dances while Oshige is making love to Hachi. Instead of a “dance

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of murder,” Oyone’s dance becomes one of death and grief, knowing that her daughter-in-law’s

fate is sealed. The transience in their respective transformations thus seems to suggest that

although they are onryō, they are still in a transitionary phase and are not yet past the point of no

return. Ultimately, Oshige turns back before she fully transforms, reclaiming her humanity. Once

Oshige has made the decision to break her vow, all signs indicating her supernatural nature, both

in terms of imagery and enactment, are no longer shown. This contrasts heavily with how she is

presented early in the film, where she is seen wildly thrashing in silhouette, her hair flying and

her back arched as if enraptured as she violently tears into her samurai victim.

Fig. 79. Screenshots of Oshige thrashing as she exacts vengeance (Left) and Oyone dancing in sorrow (Right) from
Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

In contrast, Oyone decides to abandon her humanity. This may explain why only Oyone

is shown in the makeup and hair that is typical of the bakeneko figures as found in a majority of

kaibyō films. However, her appearance in this form is limited to only two instances over the

course of the entire film. The first time is not even directly seen, but as a reflection in a puddle of

water, while Oyone is leading Hachi back to the house, ostensibly out of a desire to have prayers

read for her so she can be at peace. Seeing her “true” form revealed in the water, Hachi becomes

convinced that his mother is attempting to lead him into a trap and attacks her, cutting off her

arm. This encounter is what ultimately drives the film to its climactic battle, during which Oyone

appears before Hachi – if only for a few seconds – in the form of a bakeneko for the second time.

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Not only is this depiction brief, but it also appears comparatively late into the film, visually

suggesting how irrevocably Oyone’s character has changed.

Fig. 80. Screenshots of Oyone’s “true” form being reflected in water (Left) and during the climactic battle with
Hachi (Right) from Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko.

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 Chapter IV. The New Female Onryō
IV.1 BACKGROUND ON THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ

IV.1.1 Development of the Cinematic Horror Genre from Kaidan Films to J-Horror

Despite the popularity of the kaidan film in the 1950s and 1960s, the following decades

of Japanese cinema witnessed a significant decline in interest in the supernatural. Compared to

the proliferation of kaidan films prior to World War II, and in the kaidan boom, less than 20

films of the genre were made during the 1970s and 1980s.211 Japanese film scholar Donald

Richie points to an overall decreased interest in the country’s film industry, suggesting television

as a potential explanation, but this does not account for the increased interest in other genre films,

namely yakuza films, of the same time period (Richie 177). As is noted in Jennifer Coates’

article on the genre in The Japanese Cinema Book, “[b]etween 1960 and 1976, films featuring

[yakuza] characters consistently ranked among the top ten box-office earners and gradually

began to appear in critics’ and viewers’ lists of the best films of each year” (349). This indicates

a lack of interest in certain content rather than simply a matter of entertainment medium

preference.

It is perhaps this shift in interests on which the advent of television had the greatest effect.

According to Isolde Standish, as “[t]elevision became associated with the domestic and the

female, [and] genres such as the home drama and later the [historical drama] changed mediums,”

women gradually stopped attending the cinema as often as they had in the past (270-71). This is

largely in contrast to the kaidan boom period, where young women reportedly made up at least

half the audience for a given kaidan film. Consequently, the film industry sought to redefine its

target audiences and “sought to attract predominantly male audiences,” which ultimately gave

211
Based on records found in the Eiren Database run by the Motion Picture Producers Association of Japan, Inc.

and the Japanese Cinema Database run by the Japanese Government’s Agency of Cultural Affairs.
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rise to the development of “new action genres” such as the yakuza and samurai action films

(Standish 271).

The emergence of yakuza films initially coincided with the kaidan boom of the 1950s and

1960s. As film studios shifted towards genres thought to be more appealing to young male

audiences, male characterization underwent similar changes. Instead of the postwar kaidan film

that tended to portray men, especially samurai, as emasculated in some fashion due to the

influence of higaisha ishiki, the yakuza film presented male audiences with a heroic figure who

was both strong and aggressive but still stood for a moral good. The initial tendency to liken the

yakuza to an idealized image of the samurai is widely apparent, as is evident in these early

yakuza films being referred to as ninkyō eiga (任侠映画, “chivalry film”). As of the 1960s,

ninkyō eiga became the “leading action-film genre” in Japan, prominently featuring a

“chivalrous” figure who stressed values such as “loyalty, dedication and subservience” (Richie

209). These films featured a dichotomy between “good gangsters” who followed a traditional

code that resembled bushido, and the corrupt kind, who were only interested in material gain.

Typically the protagonist, of course one of the “good” yakuza, would be forced to choose

between the loyalties he owed to his gang and a fellow gangster comrade as part of the narrative.

This is regarded as a direct reflection of the giri-ninjō (義理人情, “duty versus passion”) conflict

that many a samurai or rōnin would be plagued with in a given historical drama kabuki play or
samurai action film, struggling to choose between his “duty” to his lord and human “emotions,”

such as those derived from family ties.

The concurrently developing samurai action film genre, referred to in Japanese as

chanbara (チャンバラ, “sword fighting”), was also highly influential on the yakuza film in

Japan. As the name implies, the chanbara film is distinguished from the historical drama in that

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dramatic “sword fighting” violence is a key, almost mandatory component.212 While Rachael

Hutchinson acknowledges that the presence of violence, be it samurai or otherwise, was not

exclusive to chanbara in film, the distinction lay in the approach to and utilization of bodily

violence. According to Hutchinson, during the Allied Occupation the depiction of “human

struggle” in film was welcomed, even encouraged, so long as the treatment was “thoughtful”:

The Allied censors welcomed thoughtful treatments of human struggle in film. Realistic

assessments of war, death, the impact of fighting and the consequences of violence were

seen as evidence that the Japanese were adapting to new circumstances and coming to a

new understanding of the meaning of violence and war. (141)

Although censorship policies under the Allied Occupation did not explicitly prohibit violence in

its regulations, materials that risked “incitement to violence or unrest” were strictly prohibited

(Hutchinson 140). The utilization of violence as an ideological vehicle was thus the primary

concern, which resulted in “Occupation-era films tend[ing] to critique violence or avoid it

altogether” (Hutchinson 140). This first started to change, however, with the dismantling of the

film censorship office and establishment of EIRIN to take its place in 1949, under which bodily

violence was normalized for film.

The establishment of the chanbara genre in film followed soon after and is largely

attributed to the works of Kurosawa Akira, and specifically to the 1950 film Rashōmon, which
notably challenged the established conventions of the historical drama genre. According to

Hutchinson, “Unlike anything that came before it, the film [Rashōmon] featured desperate,

realistic swordplay, murder and rape in the depths of the forest” (141). Despite this, the violence

portrayed in Kurosawa’s films was still considered to adhere to the “thoughtful treatment of

212
The word chanbara is not in fact a word at all, but an onomatopoeic sound for swords literally clashing together

(chan) and scraping apart (bara).

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human struggle” initially promoted by the Allied censors, which EIRIN continued to uphold. As

Hutchinson describes in her article on censorship and film violence:

Kurosawa was one of the first Japanese directors to show violent death realistically on

screen, in a critical appraisal of the impact of killing on the human soul. […He] was able

to express what Japanese war films could not – the terrible guilt at taking another

person’s life, the futility of war and the unsupportable nature of feudal values.

Kurosawa’s realism allowed the Japanese audience to confront death, and the emotional

outcome of perpetrating violence upon another human being. (141-42)

Stripped bare of the stylistic conventions or idealism that often obfuscate the act of killing,

through his “realistic” approach to violence, Kurosawa effectively brought his audience face-to-

face with death and its related horrors.

Filmmakers including Kurosawa were still limited in the extent to which they were

permitted to depict physical violence. This did not change until EIRIN revised its classifications

in 1959, under which “[r]egulations on sex and morals were expanded, but […] physical violence

was no longer covered by any particular category” (Hutchinson 143). Building off his earlier

films, Kurosawa applied his “realism” of violence to the body, bringing it fully into focus, and in

so doing helped establish the utilization of violence done to the body as catharsis in and of itself

for his audiences. Shortly after the change in EIRIN regulations, Kurosawa released Yōjinbō213
and its sequel Tsubaki Sanjūrō214 in 1961 and 1962 respectively. These films would not only

become seminal works for the chanbara film genre, but also “set new industry standards in Japan

and overseas” in terms of on-screen graphic violence (Hutchinson 143). The final fight scene of

Tsubaki Sanjūrō in particular is credited for singlehandedly changing these standards, in which

the villain’s chest suddenly bursts in a massive, literal geyser of blood after being cut by the

213
Also known as Yojimbo.
214
Also known as Sanjuro.
285
eponymous samurai hero. Although this effect was in fact an accident due to a broken hose

coupling,215 it would have an impact on not only later chanbara and yakuza films, but also on the

action film genre worldwide.

Fig. 81. Screenshot of the final fight and “hose accident” from chanbara film Tsubaki Sanjūrō.

The progression of such action film genres also speaks to Japanese audiences gradually

moving away from kaidan film-style narratives and being increasingly attracted to the “real.”

From the country’s first introduction to the medium of film and its adoption of female actresses,

there has been a steady progression towards realism in Japanese cinema overall as films

increasingly took on more of a photographic quality, meant to capture “real” life. Donald Richie
notes that following World War II, both filmmakers and audiences steadily gravitated more

towards films that captured the “harsher realities” rather than the ideal (116). This shift towards a

more violent, “harsh” reality coincides with a period of social unrest marked by violent

demonstrations and protests that first began in the early 1960s. The Anpo protests against the

215
As described by Nogami Teruyo (1927-), who served as Kurosawa’s script supervisor and assistant throughout

his career, from the making of Rashōmon until his death. For a detailed account on Nogami’s decades of work with

the director, see Waiting on the Weather: Making Movies with Akira Kurosawa.
286
United States-Japan Security Treaty, which came to a head in June of 1960 and spurred a new

wave of politically extreme activism and violence, are a notable example.

Richie does point out, however, that the concept of “reality” was and continues to be

fluid, as “reality is only that which can be made real to the senses” (116). Unfortunately for the

kaidan film genre, this emphasis on realism proved particularly problematic. Although ghosts

and the supernatural had initially been utilized to present the audience with different notions of

reality, their effectiveness in evoking fear and horror had dulled significantly. Starting from the

late 1960s and throughout the 1970s, kaidan filmmakers attempted to stave off this waning in

audience interest by providing more shocking, extreme techniques to produce horrific images on

screen, as initially implemented by Nakagawa Nobuo. Some even chose to break Edo gothic

conventions and set their films in the modern era, in an attempt to bring their supernatural

monsters closer to “reality” for their audiences. It was quickly apparent, however, that the minds

of the Japanese people, especially the young males who were becoming a predominant

demographic of movie audiences, were more attuned to the “reality” presented by action film

genres like ninkyō eiga.

Eventually, however, these yakuza films, too, fell out of fashion like the kaidan film, as

audiences became less and less attracted to this “chivalrous” and wholly “unrealistic” hero, and

more intrigued by the yakuza as the ruthless street thug. This change in views coincides with a
worldwide escalation of social conflict in 1968, during which protests against state militaries and

bureaucracies were rampant in numerous countries, including Japan and the United States. When

this movement reached Japan, it especially affected the country’s youth in the form of student

protests between 1968 and 1969.216

By the mid-1970s, ninkyō eiga gave way to a new subgenre within yakuza films, referred

to as jitsuroku eiga (実録映画, “actual record film”), which stressed narratives based on “real”

216
Known to have spurred a revival of the Anpo protests in 1970.
287
crime stories of the yakuza, the most seminal director and work of which being Fukasaku Kinji

(1930-2003) and his Jingi Naki Tatakai [仁義なき戦い; “Battles Without Honor and

Humanity”] film series.217 Inspired by a series of magazine articles covering the memoirs of

former yakuza Minō Kōzō (1926-2010) detailing the real-life yakuza gang turf wars in

Hiroshima Prefecture that took place between 1950 and 1972, Fukasaku’s films were

characterized by gritty violence in a “brutal and amoral present,” featuring a “lawless, nihilistic

hero” and filmed in a documentary style using a handheld camera to evoke a more “realistic,”

chaotic feel (Richie 179). Although both featured the use of bodily violence as a form of

audience catharsis, as inspired by Kurosawa Akira, the jitsuroku eiga contrasted heavily with the

earlier ninkyō eiga approach to violence. Most ninkyō eiga would culminate in a considerably

less “realistic” climax where the hero “good gangster” would singlehandedly take on an entire

gang of “bad” yakuza, often with nothing but a katana, or even just a wooden sword, while his

foes would be armed with guns.

Eventually, even the jitsuroku eiga lost its intrigue, resulting in an almost complete loss

of interest in seeing yakuza films at movie theaters in the 1980s. While interest in the yakuza

character, be he “chivalrous” or “realistic,” waned to the extent that yakuza films made were

almost strictly home release, the attraction to real violence persisted. In the wake of the jitsuroku

eiga, a new subgenre of yakuza film soon emerged in the Japanese home video market, taking
the form of low-budget works characterized by scenes of excessive sex and violence referred to

as gokudō (極道, “extreme or wicked path”).218 Soon after, the use of gritty, graphic violence

extended beyond the yakuza film to other genres, namely horror, and for a time – at least, until

217
Also known as The Yakuza Papers and widely regarded as “the Japanese Godfather,” the initial series comprised

of five films released between 1973 and 1974, all directed by Fukasaku Kinji. Between 1974 and 1976, Fukasaku
would direct an additional three standalone films as part of the series, referred to as Shin Jingi Naki Tatakai [新仁義

なき戦い; “New Battles Without Honor and Humanity”].

218
A word commonly used as synonymous with the actual yakuza.
288
the international release of Nakata Hideo’s Ringu – it was considered by overseas audiences to

be Japanese horror cinema’s “most distinguishing feature” (Crandol, “Horror” 307).

The connection between real violence, and by extension the yakuza film, and Japanese

horror is indicative in that several directors renowned for their yakuza films, especially those of

the gokudō subgenre, would also become known for their forays into Japanese horror. Most

notable in this regard are Kurosawa Kiyoshi (1955-) and Miike Takashi (1960-), both of whom

would later direct both major and highly formative films in the horror genre. Kurosawa, for

example, is noted for directing films such as the 1989 film Sweet Home219 that would provide the

basis for the contemporary haunted house trope in horror cinema for Japan, later made famous by

Shimizu Takashi’s Ju-On film series. Miike, known for his flair for the extreme, especially when

it comes to violence, has been highly regarded for directing the disturbingly “real” horror film,

Audition.220 Even Fukasaku Kinji, the “father” of the jitsuroku eiga, is known for having directed

the dystopian action horror film Battle Royale.221

In the case of Audition and Battle Royale, too, these films also reflect a departure from

kaidan films as both films present living humans and the potential “real” violent horrors they

pose as the sole threat. Crandol notes that as of the late 1980s and early 1990s, Japanese films

first officially came to be referred to as “horror.” With this distinction, he also observes an

evident shift in these films where “the horror [of the monster] lies not so much in its supernatural

219
The film Sweet Home was released alongside a video game of the same title, which in turn served as inspiration

for Biohazard, also known in English as Resident Evil, the zombie survival horror video game series created by

Capcom, the first installment of which was released in 1996.

220
Released in 1999, based on the novel by the same title written by Murakami Ryū (1952-), published in 1997.
221
Released in 2000, based on the novel by the same title written by Takami Kōshun (1969-), published in 1999.
The popularity of Fukasaku Kinji’s film adaptation spawned a sequel film, Battle Royale II: Requiem, released in

2003, for which Fukasaku directed one scene before passing away from prostate cancer. The film was completed by

his son, Fukasaku Kenta (1972-), as both his directorial debut and a tribute to his father.
289
origin – in fact the ‘monster’ […] is frequently human – but in graphically depicted excess of

physical deformity and violence” (Nightmares from the Past 255). This arguably achieves a

closeness between the audience and the human subjects of the film, both as “monster” and as

victim, which heightens viewer discomfort and increases the film’s effectiveness to induce fear.

In Audition, the female lead is fully capable of inflicting sadistic, incredibly graphic tortures

against grown men who have sexually wronged or misled her. In Battle Royale, middle-school

students are forced to brutally kill each other in a government-enforced survival game.222 In the

case of Battle Royale, audience discomfort was arguably heightened by the fact that Fukasaku

Kinji chose to cast actual middle school-aged actors to portray the students needing to kill one

another (Hutchinson 146-47).

Fig. 82. Screenshots from Audition (Left) and Battle Royale (Right).

The cinematic horror genre in Japan was also influenced by international sources. Japan

was first exposed to foreign cinema as early as 1915, following which Western films were

imported in large numbers, offering new perspectives to the Japanese moviegoer and filmmaker

(Richie 27). In terms of genre, however, American “splatter” horror films had considerable

influence as early as the mid to late 1970s. Films such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre223 and

222
The success of the first Battle Royale film is credited for popularizing the survival horror game genre in Japanese

entertainment, referred to as desu geemu (デスゲーム, “death game”).

223
The first film in the franchise, directed by Tobe Hooper in 1974.
290
Carrie,224 which were drastically different in style and content compared to earlier imported

kaiki films like Frankenstein or Dracula, are noted for being among some of the early films to

influence Japanese horror.225 The apparent influence of such films is indicated by many of the

1980s Japanese horror films increasing the featuring of scenes of explosive bloodshed, organs

spilling, and overall an increased excess in gory violence (Crandol, “Horror” 307).

This influence, combined with the sensationalism of contemporaneous actual incidents

of extreme violence within Japan, is considered to be what largely inspired interest in so-called

“slasher” and “torture” horror films in Japan. As Colette Balmain notes, “[u]nlike America,

Japan traditionally has had a low rate of violent crimes against the person,” which for the most

part continues to hold true even today (149).226 The 1980s and 1990s, however, were marked by

several particularly gruesome and disturbing serial killers coming to light in Japan. One notable

example is the child rapist and necrophile Miyazaki Tsutomu (1962-2008), referred to by the

Japanese media as the “Otaku Murderer” on account of his extensive collection of pornography

and horror videotapes.227 Between 1988 and 1989, Miyazaki abducted and murdered four young

girls before dismembering, molesting, as well as cannibalizing their corpses. With the rising

popularity of American splatter horror films and media coverage of real serial killings in Japan,

Japanese horror cinema in turn began to increasingly feature living humans, rather than the

supernatural, as the monsters. This took the form of not only cinematic dramatizations of real-life

224
Directed by Brian De Palma in 1976.
225
The 1980s also featured the import of both the Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street film franchises to

Japan.
226
In the 2018 report released by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC), Japan’s intentional

homicide rate was reported as 0.26 per 100,000 inhabitants, with a total count of 334 homicides for the year. This is
in stark contrast to the United States’ reported rate of 4.96, with a total count of 16,214 for 2018.
227
The appellation “Otaku Murderer” was given due to Miyazaki’s video collection being initially misrepresented as

mostly comprised of anime videotapes, which consequently triggered a moral panic around the subculture.
291
serial killers (the case of Miyazaki Tsutomu himself serving as the loose inspiration for at least

one known Japanese horror film), but also original slasher films (Balmain 154).

This fascination with real, graphic violence can also be extended to body horror within

the Japanese horror film genre. This is evident in the trend of torture horror films that also

marked the 1980s in Japanese cinema alongside the slasher film, which Jay McRoy describes as

films that were “in short, about bodies in crisis […full of] images of corporeal disintegration, and

the (on-screen) forces responsible for their methodical yet gory disassembly” (17). Some of these

films, namely those of the Guinea Pig series,228 were reportedly so graphic and realistic they

were suspected of being real snuff films by overseas viewers (McRoy 15-16). The most well-

known and recorded instance of this is American Hollywood star Charlie Sheen who, upon

viewing one of the Guinea Pig films, so strongly believed it depicted the actual killing and

dismemberment of a real woman that it prompted him to report the film to the authorities.229 This

interest in body horror was not exclusive to the torture horror subgenre within Japanese horror of

the 1980s, as even films that delved into the supernatural or, at least, unnatural, featured scenes

of graphic corporeal disintegration. Horror films Sweet Home and Tetsuo [鉄男; “Iron Man”],230

both released in 1989, are notable examples in which the bodies of monster and victim are made

almost unrecognizable as human.

228
A series of six films, the first of which directed by Ogura Satoru (1957-) in 1985. The series’ original concept

was envisioned by horror manga artist Hino Hideshi (1946-).

229
Within Japan, the Guinea Pig films themselves, though wildly successful upon their initial release, are notorious
now for reputedly inspiring at least in part the crimes of Miyazaki Tsutomu, who not only possessed a copy of the

series in his video collection, but also allegedly reenacted some of the scenes from one of the films.
230
Also known as Tetsuo: The Iron Man, directed by Tsukamoto Shinya (1960-).
292
Fig. 83. Film set photo from Tetsuo (Left) and screenshot from Sweet Home (Right).

In the 1990s, however, there was a visible change in Japanese horror cinema, often

attributed to the economic turmoil of the recession for Japan. With the collapse of Japan’s bubble

economy in 1991, the country entered a period “marked by a sense of millennial crisis, social

malaise, and economic stagnation,” a time referred to as the “Lost Decades” (Ambros 154).

Though the effects of real violence inspired by yakuza films and American splatter horror would

still be evident in the tendency towards graphic portrayal of violence, the methods of making

these films “were distinctly different from both Hollywood’s more expensive film productions

and the pre-1970s Japanese classical horror [kaidan] films” (Wada-Marciano 21). Initially

produced utilizing the low-budget strategies of independent filmmakers, these films emphasized

more of an atmospheric horror. Although this was originally due to financial constraints, films

produced with this effect sparked a renewed interest in what would later be referred to as the “J-

horror” film, a new aesthetic that would become representative of the entire cinematic genre to

overseas audiences. In the face of a crumbling economy and society in crisis, both audiences and

filmmakers developed a renewed attraction for ghosts, particularly the female onryō archetype.

Unlike its kaidan film predecessor, the J-horror film is noted for frequently capturing a

“uniquely urban sense of fear,” largely as a result of shooting on “real” location in Tokyo and its

surrounding locales (Wada-Marciano 18). Consequently, the kinds of contemporary fears

expressed in these J-horror films tended to reflect more urban concerns, such as the fracturing of

293
the nuclear household, or growing fears regarding the future such as the dangers of technology or

capitalism. In this vein, rather than a traditional narrative such as kabuki or kaidan texts, J-horror

films notably tend to make use of urban myths as their source material. The gravitation to urban

myths as inspiration may be interpreted as such tales being perceived as more relatable, real, and

thus frightening compared to the works utilized as inspiration for earlier kaidan films.

Furthermore, the age demographic of the typical J-horror film audience is presumed to be

predominantly younger and largely unfamiliar with kaidan narratives. This appeal of J-horror to

a younger demographic is evident not only in the apparent focus on urban myth, but also in the

characters in J-horror films often being depicted as in their twenties or early thirties, sometimes

even in their late teens.

Though the original kaidan narratives may have gone out of style, the methods of their

transmission have not. The practice of hyakumonogatari kaidankai, the oral storytelling pastime

that gained currency during the Edo period,231 still remains a popular summer evening activity

among high school and middle school students in Japan, as is apparent given how often it is

depicted in Japanese media, including J-horror films. These oral traditions are also popular

among aficionados of Japanese folklore, as indicated by the prevalence and wide variety of

kaidan storytelling events. The city of Matsue,232 the historic Japanese home of Lafcadio Hearn,

for example, has had a long-time tradition of “ghost tours” involving the atmospheric retelling of
local kaidan legends late at night during the summer months, and Japanese actor and radio

personality Inagawa Junji (1947-) has become widely known for his live “kaidan night”

performances which he has held from summer until winter annually since 1993.

Even before Nakata Hideo’s Ringu, attempts were made to reinvigorate Japanese horror

cinema through use of kaidan traditions. Most notable is director Tsuruta Norio (1960-), widely

231
Discussed in II.1.2 Performative & Narrative Origins in Portrayal of the Onryō.
232
Located in Shimane Prefecture.
294
regarded as a “J-horror pioneer,” whose hyakumonogatari kaidankai-styled independent films

Hontō ni Atta Kowai Hanashi [本当にあった怖い話; “Scary Stories That Truly Happened”]233

is credited for inspiring prominent J-horror directors, including Shimizu Takashi, the creator of

the Ju-On franchise. To this day the anthology film continues to be a favored format within J-

horror, many of which take direct inspiration from the oral storytelling tradition by having them

narrated.

In addition to simply being more real compared to kaidan, it is the “infectiousness” or

“viral” nature of an urban myth, and the fears surrounding its consequent power on the populace,

that are more the reason for the choice as source material for the J-horror film. Unlike kaidan

films, the “curse” of the featured onryō tends to be indiscriminate, even contagious, which is

similar to urban myths as they often lack explicit origins and thus are more difficult to

exterminate. This viral aspect also makes it far easier to create a series franchise, as numerous J-

horror filmmakers are wont to do. The supernatural taking on more of a viral threat to the living

is also reflected in a focus on technology in J-horror, indicated by many films also being referred

to as “techno-horror,” wherein electronics such as computer screens and cellphones are used as

conduits for the supernatural. In addition to their earlier contributions to Japanese horror, both

gokudō film directors Kurosawa Kiyoshi and Miike Takashi have notably also contributed to this

style of J-horror film, having created techno-horror films Kairo [回路; “Pulse”]234 and
Chakushin Ari [着信アリ; “One Missed Call”]235 respectively.

233
Also known in English as Scary True Stories, the initial series comprised of three films released from 1991 and

1992, all directed by Tsuruta. The series’ popularity led to the creation of a series of television specials that began
broadcasting in 1999 and continues to this day, produced by FujiTV.
234
Released in 2001.
235
Released in 2003, the first film in a series; however, Miike did not direct the subsequent films.
295
Fig. 84. Screenshots from “techno-horror” films Kairo (Left) and Chakushin Ari (Right).

IV.1.2 Emergence & Prevalence of the New Female Onryō

With a renewed attraction for the female onryō, the J-horror film experienced a “boom”

in popularity that extended beyond the 1990s and into the 2000s. These vengeful female figures

that emerged as part of the J-horror boom differed significantly from those of the kaidan boom,

however, and by extension the classic female onryō found in nō and kabuki. Unlike its kaidan

film predecessor, the J-horror film increasingly made use of both graphic displays of real

violence as well as body horror to isolate this “new” female onryō and invoke fear in its audience.

In contrast to the classic, when the new female haunts her victims, she behaves not unlike a serial

killer, and when she kills, the scene tends to be violent, sometimes graphic. This new female

onryō, considered to be first personified by the character Sadako in director Nakata Hideo’s

internationally successful Ringu, continues in Japanese horror cinema to this day, becoming a

central image of Japanese horror to audiences both domestic and international.

As the female onryō made her transition from stage to film, the prevalence and apparent

preference for her character over her male counterpart has remained consistent. Unlike her

portrayals in nō and kabuki, however, the female onryō of Japanese horror cinema has almost

completely overshadowed the male, to the extent that today hardly any films are made featuring

a male onryō as the sole or central antagonizing figure. This preference for the female over the

male is apparent from as early as the post-World War II kaidan films, with a ratio of 4.43 times

296
as many films featuring the cinematic classic female onryō as the sole or central antagonizing

figure compared to films featuring a male. This has only slightly increased with the J-horror film,

with a ratio of 4.53 times as many films featuring the “new” female.236
70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0
1950-1989 1990-Present
Female Male Both Other/Not Specified
Fig. 85. Chart of Japanese horror films comparing the gender of the sole or primary antagonist(s) from kaidan films
1950-1989 compared to J-horror films 1990 to the present. Data taken from Eiren Database, Motion Picture
Producers Association of Japan, Inc., and Japanese Cinema Database, Agency of Cultural Affairs, Government of
Japan.

With the return to depicting more supernatural horrors in J-horror, the fact that the female

onryō continues to be emphasized over the male like with the postwar kaidan films is important
to consider in terms of both audience demographic and societal views of gender. During the

1970s and 1980s, the film industry made concerted efforts to attract young male audiences

utilizing action genres such as the yakuza film, thereby increasing the presence of both

aggressive male characters and graphic violence. It is particularly interesting that despite this,

portrayals of a male supernatural antagonist have not significantly increased in J-horror films.

236
To be compared with Fig. 25 and Fig. 26, where the ratios of nō and kabuki performances featuring the classic

female onryō over the male onryō only reached as high as 1.47 and 3.38, respectively.
297
While Yanagi Masako’s research on kaidan film audiences demonstrates young women as the

predominant audience for kaidan and thus presents at least partial reasoning behind the

preference for female-centric narratives during the kaidan boom, the same does not necessarily

hold true for the J-horror boom. Although it should be acknowledged that compared to kaidan

films, considerably more works where both genders are present have been made as part of J-

horror, this is largely offset by the considerable decrease in male onryō-centered films. Even in

the case of J-horror films where both the female and male onryō are present, the extent of each

contributing to the antagonizing of human characters is rarely equal. Typically, one is portrayed

as secondary, if not subservient to the other, and in most cases that secondary figure is the

male.237 This in turn implies, at least compared to stage portrayals of the onryō, an overall

increased emphasis on conflating the feminine with the monstrous, with women being perceived

as more fear-inducing in J-horror. In fact, the term “J-horror” has come to be associated more

with an overall horror film aesthetic that almost requires the presence of the new female onryō.

Other countries, in turn, have taken to adapting this aesthetic for their own respective horror

cinemas, further propagating this image of the monstrous feminine.238

237
It should also be noted that approximately one third of films recorded as featuring both the new female and male

are anthology films, in which often there is only one onryō figure present for a given anecdote. In most if not all of
these films, more than half of the anecdotes featured a female supernatural antagonist.
238
Korean horror cinema notably experienced an explosive renewal in the late 1990s following the relaxation of

censorship laws by the South Korean government, taking inspiration from J-horror with films featuring similar

motifs and imagery. One notable example is A Tale of Two Sisters (2003), directed by Kim Jee-woon, which is as of

writing the highest-grossing Korean horror film. Hong Kong supernatural horror films became heavily focused on

female ghosts and producing atmospheric suspenseful horror in the early 2000s, of which The Eye (2002), directed
by the Pang Brothers, is a well-known example that spawned two sequels and three remakes. To this day, the female

vengeful ghost film Shutter (2004), directed by Banjong Pisanthanakun and Parkpoom Wongpoom is considered one

of the best-known horror movies from Thailand. It is believed to have taken considerable inspiration from the dead
298
 The fact that the most well-known urban myths still actively circulating in contemporary

Japan tend to revolve around a female apparition is indicative of a continued emphasis on the

monstrous feminine even outside of the cinematic horror genre. The most notable is that of the

kuchisake onna (口裂け女, “slit-mouth woman”), a highly popular urban legend surrounding the

existence of a mysterious “monstrous” woman whose mouth has been slashed open from ear to

ear. Those who encounter her run the risk of mutilation and murder depending on how they

answer the questions she poses to them regarding her appearance. First documented in late 1978,

within a few months, “there were reports [of the kuchisake onna] in every prefecture” (Foster,

Book of Yōkai 222-24).

Even urban myths that do not feature an explicitly female apparition tend to revolve

around feminine issues. A notable example in this regard is the urban myth that served as

inspiration for the J-horror film Shibuya Kaidan [渋谷怪談; “Shibuya Ghost Story”] and its

sequel.239 The films revolve around an urban myth regarding a certain yet entirely nondescript

coin locker in Shibuya, Tokyo, and how those who happen to use it are soon after haunted by a

child-like vengeful girl spirit and die rather gruesomely. While the specific legend regarding the

use of an ill-fated coin locker may be unique to the films, it is inspired by a slew of urban myths

revolving around the very real “coin locker baby” social problem, which first came to light in

Japan in the early to mid-1970s. From the reported initial discovery of the dead body of an infant
in 1971, numerous cases of infants either disposed of or left in coin lockers to die, referred to by

the term “coin locker babies” by 1975, were reported in major Japanese cities, specifically Tokyo

wet girl in J-horror but is also considered a seminal work for Asian horror cinema in its own right which spawned
four remakes.
239
Also known as The Locker, directed by Horie Kei (1978-), released in 2004. Horie also directed the sequel,

Shibuya Kaidan 2 [渋谷怪談; “Shibuya Ghost Story 2”], which was released in the same year.
299
and Osaka, in the years that followed.240 While the urban myths that were bred from this social

problem featured children ghosts who varied both in gender and temperament,241 one

commonality shared by all existing versions is a focus on the mother figure who abandoned them.

For the kuchisake onna and the “coin locker baby,” both are arguably utilized as vehicles

to express the anxieties towards and fears of women and their everchanging role in contemporary

Japanese society. Foster notes that the emergence of the kuchisake onna urban legend coincided

with the women’s liberation movement during the 1970s, which consequently might have been

meant to reflect related anxieties and fears of the potential detrimental effect women’s “changing

roles” might have on both the Japanese workforce and domestic household (Book of Yōkai 225).

In the case of the “coin locker baby,” it was widely accepted (although not fully substantiated

due to lack of evidence) that the majority of culprits behind “coin locker baby” cases were young,

unmarried women. Dissemination of the urban legend can be viewed as a similar reflection of

fears regarding Japan’s declining birthrate and women’s overall increased reluctancy to marry

and raise children.

Not only has the kuchisake onna become one of the most widespread urban myths across

the country, the kuchisake onna herself has become something of a cultural icon, having

continuously appeared in various Japanese media over the years, including J-horror. Just as the

urban myths of both the kuchisake onna and the “coin locker baby” have been utilized to evoke
horror and fear among the general urban populace, both have been depicted for similar effect in

J-horror films, making them both different yet significant examples of the new female onryō.

Like the image of the classic female onryō, the new female onryō of the J-horror film similarly

240
In the year 1973, 46 cases of “coin locker babies” were reported at the Osaka terminal station alone. Between the

years of 1980 and 1990, “coin locker baby” deaths amounted to an estimated six percent of all cases of infanticide in
Japan (Kouno and Johnson 28).
241
In the version of the “coin locker baby” urban myth actually located in Shibuya, the ghost of the abandoned

infant that appears is a boy (Harada 155-56).

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presents as a potential controlling image for audiences in terms of influencing behavior. This

effect is particularly accentuated in the case of J-horror, as in addition to the new female onryō,

female victims are also highly prevalent. Compared to her classic counterpart, however, how the

new female is utilized has changed significantly, reflecting changes in views towards women in

contemporary Japanese society, especially in terms of her expected role in the household and

workplace.

IV.2 DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ

IV.2.1 Elements of Narrative Style

IV.2.1.1 Characterization
The most significant defining characteristics of what constitutes the new female onryō

found in J-horror are embodied in the “official” appearance of the dead wet girl. Now more than

ever before, prior to her death or whatever events lead her to transform into the new female

onryō, her character is portrayed as a young, unmarried woman brimming with untapped

potential power. Rather than attaining power through her suffering as a victim and upon her

death, or due to actions or transgressions as a wife or lover, it is the “girl” herself from whom the

new female onryō predominantly emerges. As was seen with the portrayal of proto-dead wet girl

Okiku from Banshū Sarayashiki, eroticized in death by being made wet, “wetness” that is

evocative of sex, this potential of the dead wet girl can be interpreted as untapped, sexual power.
It is arguably out of fear of this potential power that the dead wet girl role type is persecuted. As

a girl – in other words, a young, unmarried woman – she is full of vitality, regularly made “wet”

through menstruation and thus ripe for pregnancy, but as of yet unfettered by social obligations,

namely marriage and motherhood. So long as she remains unfettered, the dead wet girl cannot be

controlled and is a threat to society.

The fears of the dead wet girl and the danger her unbridled (sexual) power poses can be

viewed as a reflection of the anxieties and fears of young women and their newfound economic

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and social freedom due to changing norms in contemporary Japanese society. Since the early

1990s, Japan’s low birthrate has come under intense public scrutiny, with changes in the

Japanese younger generations often attributed to be the cause. As Barbara Ambros writes in

Women in Japanese Religions:

Many young people postpone, or simply opt out of, marriage and parenthood. This trend

has been perceived as a major cause for the low birthrate and has caused much

consternation. […] Women in particular were faulted for staying single and enjoying

luxurious lifestyles rather than getting married and having children. (155-56)

This position on the discussion of Japan’s low birthrate continues to be a popular one in present

day,242 as women in Japan are frequently criticized for being “selfish” by choosing not to marry,

even well into their thirties, and opting to pursue a career. Although as Robin LeBlanc points out

not all critics agree on this point, even those who:

[…] decry the drop in marriage and fertility rates as signs that women have become

selfish or hardened by ridiculous attempts to compete in a man’s world see the drops in

the marriage and fertility rates as driven, at least in part, by women’s resistance to

heretofore widely accepted gender identities. (121)

LeBlanc refers to journalist Kikuchi Masanori, who is largely of the opinion that “men and

women are less likely to marry because women’s aspirations for adult life no longer fit the
‘traditional’ household division of labor” in contemporary Japan (121). According to LeBlanc,

over the course of Kikuchi’s interviews, conducted to investigate the decline in marriage rates, a

number of his informants reportedly expressed the opinion that women have become “strong”

due to the postwar democratic effects of education, resulting in fewer women seeing marriage as

242
According to the United Nations World Population Prospects, the total fertility rate for Japan in 2018 was

recorded at 1.37. Overall, Japan’s fertility rate has not been within the population replacement-level fertility rate of

2.1 since the 1970s.

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“essential to leading a good life” (120). In contrast, “facing the strictures of a tighter economy,

many men feel less able to compete as breadwinners for women’s attentions” (LeBlanc 121). As

women appear to need or depend on men less and less in contemporary society, the more

emasculated and consequently threatened by women’s rise in strength and power men have

become.

The power the dead wet girl possesses is often depicted as something innate to her sex,

which is extended to depictions of the new female onryō in J-horror films overall. Although still

considered a separate role type, the predominance of the dead wet girl has resulted in many

elements of her characterization to be conflated with the entire new female onryō archetype. This

is evident in that J-horror films tend to portray the female sex in of itself as supernaturally fatal,

due to some natural affinity rather than the nature of her motives. In the case of the dead wet girl,

her innate power and the danger it poses to society is often illustrated by her character

inexplicably possessing some form of preternatural powers. A notable example is the existence

of Kawakami Tomie, the titular figure of the J-horror film series243 based on the seminal work of

horror manga artist Itō Junji (1963-) entitled Tomie.244 Presenting as a beautiful young woman

with a mole under her left eye, Tomie inexplicably possesses the ability for limitless regeneration,

even from the most grotesque acts of dismemberment or mutilation. This proves quite useful as

she is also shown to be fatally irresistible, driving those who fall for her to a murderous madness,
and she ends up being brutally killed over and over across the entire franchise.245 This portrayal

contrasts with the classic female, who even in kaidan films still tends to gain her powers as part

of the narrative, fueled by feelings such as jealousy or resentment. In Shindō Kaneto’s Yabu no

243
The first film in the franchise, Tomie [富江], directed by Oikawa Ataru (1957-), released in 1998.
244
Tomie was Itō Junji’s first published work, which appeared as a serial in the manga magazine Monthly

Halloween from 1987 to 2000, published by Asahi Sonorama.

245
As of writing, the Tomie franchise is comprised of nine films.
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Naka no Kuroneko, for example, Oshige and Oyone are granted unnatural powers only after

swearing an “oath of vengeance” to the “netherworld.”

Fig. 86. Screenshots from Tomie.

It is often through this association with supernatural potential that the new female onryō,

especially the dead wet girl, is cast into the abject and made “other.” While women in Japan have

a history of being associated with a natural affinity for the supernatural, it is the public exhibition

of this affinity that is often discouraged within the narrative of the J-horror film, as characters

who do so are described as “creepy” or “strange” and even persecuted as a result, usually a cause

for later becoming the new female onryō. A key example of this can be found in the character

Yamamura Sadako of the Ringu series. In Sadako’s case, it is out of fear of her powers that she is

thrown down a well to die by her adoptive father, and her resentment of this act serves as the

impetus for her curse. Other film examples are more overtly expressive of views regarding the
public display of the powers of the female. In Chakushin Ari 2 [着信アリ２; “One Missed Call

2”],246 the young girl Li Li openly displays her ability to predict the deaths of several local

townspeople. Mistaking her precognitive powers for a curse, the residents hold her responsible

for the recent deaths and physically silence her by first sewing her mouth shut then burying her

alive in a coal mine.

246
Directed by Tsukamoto Renpei (1963-), released in 2005.
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Fig. 87. Screenshots of Li Li predicting death (Left) and being silenced (Right) from Chakushin Ari 2.

In keeping with the tendency to depict the dead wet girl in possession of supernatural

abilities, there is also the frequent presence of psychic, or at least supernaturally sensistive

female characters in J-horror films overall. Even normal female victims are shown in films to be

quite attuned to the supernatural, where they often receive some sort of vision, typically

revealing some truth regarding the new female onryō herself. Oftentimes, the female victim is

possessed by and even “contracts” her curse, transforming her into a monstrous vengeful spirit as

well. The early direct-to-video films that preceded the 2002 theatrical release version of Ju-

On,247 for example, notably featured the character Kyoko, whose extrasensory gifts allowed her

to sense the supernatural dangers that the Saeki house posed to possible tenants. In both films,

she attempts to warn people in order to protect them. Despite her abilities, however, Kyoko

inevitably is powerless to stop the new female onryō, Kayako, and is later possessed by her curse.

247
To better distinguish between the two, the direct-to-video films were titled Ju-On: The Curse and Ju-On: The

Curse 2, both released in 2000 and directed by Shimizu Takashi, who also later directed the theatrical version of the

film, titled Ju-On: The Grudge.

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Fig. 88. Screenshots of Kyoko from direct-to-video film Ju-On: The Curse 2.

The presence of such female characters and what ultimately befalls them implies a

capacity for all women to become monsters. This may account for the increased presence of

female victims, both psychic and normal, in J-horror films compared to kaidan films. The

comparatively uncommon presence of male psychic characters is also indicative of this, the

Ringu series male character Takayama Ryūji being a rare example. Additionally, the male victim

of J-horror is rarely if ever shown to be possessed by or made into a monster like the new female

onryō. What prevents most women from becoming the monstrous feminine, however, appears to

be the maintaining of her socialized self. By adhering to social norms and expectations,

effectively maintaining her image as a woman so that she can continue to participate in society,

she is able to assert her “humanity.” If one considers how the manifestation of preternatural

abilities is typically meant to represent the dead wet girl’s natural power, the open display of

these abilities can be interpreted as her fully embracing that power. In so doing, she becomes

something unfathomable and monstrous to society. In contrast, psychic female characters such as

Kyoko from the initial Ju-On films, are often shown to refrain from fully exhibiting their abilities,

keeping them largely a secret. By keeping her preternatural powers contained, she avoids

persecution and social ridicule. In so doing, however, she limits herself and her power as a

woman, as she is denying a part of her innate self to society. Consequently, by conforming to this

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socialized version of herself as a woman, she almost never is shown to possess power that rivals

that of the new female onryō who fully embraces and expresses herself as a “monster.”

As a further reflection of this lack or rejection of “humanity,” what is perhaps the most

distinctive in characterization of the new female onryō is that she often entirely lacks a clear

motive. This contrasts with cinematic classic portrayals in kaidan films, where even when the

vengeful spirit character has become more violent or indiscriminate in its vengeance, the motive

has still always been clear. This is true regardless of gender. Having a motive is the most

humanizing thing, and when characters within the narrative (or the audience, for that matter) can

understand why the onryō kills, it humanizes them to an extent. Much like a real-life serial killer,

when the new female onryō’s reasons for vengeance are not made clear or are simply

incomprehensible or unrelatable, the audience struggles to recognize her as human, let alone a

woman. She presents as a figure completely lacking emotions one can connect to, making the

violence she commits almost nonsensical. Tomie serves as a notable example of this as not only

is there a lack of reasoning behind her regenerative powers, but she also is devoid of any genuine

“human” feelings, such as love or anguish. As a result, she comes across more as an inhuman

monster whom the audience has little qualms about seeing destroyed over and over from film to

film. Rather than simply removing or distancing her from concepts of femininity, the new female

tends to be portrayed as a figure deprived of humanity in its entirety, truly transforming her into
a monstrous feminine.

Aside from the censure of the dead wet girl’s public exhibition of supernatural powers,

the focus within most J-horror films is almost entirely on the female’s role as a mother in

contemporary society. Although there is predominant focus on the dead wet girl role type, as was

first hinted at with changes in characterization of the cinematic classic female portrayal in kaidan

films, the monstrous wife role type has almost fully transformed into a monstrous mother in J-

horror. Though the monstrous wife is occasionally present in J-horror, the most renowned

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example of which being Saeki Kayako from the Ju-On series, there is an increased focus on

motherhood, pregnancy, as well as children in J-horror. In the first Kuchisake Onna film,248 for

example, the eponymous “slit-mouth woman” is seen to be appropriated as a figure of

“monstrous” motherhood, as she abducts, mutilates, and murders young children. Portrayals of

the monstrous mother, much like the dead wet girl, are often depicted as lacking a clear motive

or reasoning behind her vengeance. In Kuchisake Onna, the reasons for her onryō appearing and

mutilating or killing children so indiscriminately is never made explicit. Other than perhaps an

all-encompassing resentment for children, the audience is given little to no explanation, which

consequently heightens her fear-inducing capacity as a monster.

Fig. 89. Screenshots from Kuchisake Onna.

This shift in narrative focus potentially reflects growing concerns over the fracturing of

the nuclear household structure and its impact on contemporary society. As Chika Kinoshita
writes, “a casual survey of J-horror films is enough to fathom the depth of crisis in the normative

family life of the recessionary Japan; single parents, abused, abandoned, and/or murdered

children constitute most J-horror narratives” (107). The concerns over this “crisis,” however, are

largely focused on women and their specific role in the household that they are either failing to

uphold or are neglecting altogether. According to Merry White in her article on change in the

Japanese family:

248
Also known as Carved, the first of which was directed by Shiraishi Kōji (1973-), released in 2007.
308
 Women are seen to be selfishly rejecting their responsibilities […] and have become the

object of the official critical gaze. While most families continue to create useful,

productive, and emotionally satisfying lives for their members, some public figures view

families today as producing a national crisis of demography and morality simply by

having fewer or no babies. (130)

For those women who do end up having children, however, their role in childrearing has also

become a source for scrutiny. Since the 1970s, mothers have experienced intense pressure to help

their children secure their personal futures through academic achievement. In order to

successfully attain this future, the mother is expected to devote her full attention to her child.

According to White, this pressure was exacerbated by the fact that until fairly recently in Japan

“there has been a negative view of non-family caregivers for children because ‘only mother’ can

provide the sensitivity to a child and the program of home learning needed for good development

and future success” (134).

For the mother to divide her attention between childrearing and other pursuits was

viewed as irresponsible, even neglectful, no matter what the reasons might be, including the need

to work outside the home. For the working mother, because she “cannot be constantly present

and fully attuned” to her child, she “is seen as putting her young child at academic risk” (White

134). This is considered to be especially true for the single working mother. Despite the fact that
divorce rates have increased in Japan, single motherhood continues to be stigmatized.

This negative view of single mothers is evident in J-horror film narratives, as most often

the monstrous mother’s failure at motherhood, which brings about her emergence as the new

female onryō, is predicated on a failed marriage. In a number of cases, the new female onryō

may not be depicted as a monstrous single mother, but her emergence is brought on by one. Such

is the case in Miike Takashi’s techno-horror film Chakushin Ari, wherein the young girl Mimiko

is revealed to be violently abusive to her younger sister, Nanako. When their mother, Marie,

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discovers the truth behind Nanako’s past “accidents,” she abandons Mimiko to die from

suffocation due to an asthma attack. It is this monstrous act of both indirect child murder and

effectively choosing one child over the other that instigates Mimiko’s sadistic vengeful onslaught

as an onryō in the film.

Fig. 90. Screenshots of Marie holding Nanako (Left) and Mimiko left to die (Right) from Chakushin Ari.

To a lesser extent, in Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara [仄暗い水の底から; “From the

Depths of Dark Water”],249 the young girl Mitsuko becoming a new female onryō is brought

about by her living in a single parent household and dying as a result of her inattentive mother. It

is this resentment for being deprived of a “proper” mother figure in life that fuels her desire for

one as an onryō. This desire leads her to target Matsubara Yoshimi and her six-year-old daughter,

Ikuko, as a surrogate mother and as a rival for affections, respectively, when they come to live at

her apartment complex.

Similarly, the surrounding victims of the new female onryō are often associated with this

concept of “failed motherhood,” as many are seen to be single mothers or daughters who come

from “broken” families. The female protagonist in Kuchisake Onna, Kyōko, for example, is

forced to live apart from her own daughter, who lives with her ex-husband, because she had been

abusive towards her daughter in the past. This trend in J-horror arguably presents an overall

disapproving commentary on the crumbling nuclear household in Japan. Oftentimes, the

249
Also known as Dark Water, directed by Nakata Hideo, released in 2002.
310
circumstances that lead to characters becoming victims of the new female are largely due to the

presence of a single or working mother (and lack of a father figure). In Honogurai Mizu,

Yoshimi is a single, working mother in need of a new apartment and struggling in the midst of a

divorce settlement, making her and her daughter Ikuko prime targets for Mitsuko.

As is apparent in films like Honogurai Mizu, the focus of the films is on the woman’s

role as a mother more so than as a wife. This suggests social anxieties having more to do with the

domestic household or one’s progeny than the personal relations between a woman and her

husband. This may also explain the almost complete disappearance of the murderous lover role

type within J-horror, for as much as the new female onryō tends to lack clear motives, she also

often lacks personal feelings. To be a “lover” would require the new female to have deeper

connections to her humanity, and unlike the classic portrayals of kaidan films or nō and kabuki,

the new female often has virtually no personality to speak of. Consequently, supernatural female

characters exhibiting genuine passion, as was frequently found in kaidan films, is also extremely

rare in J-horror. More often, the monstrous feminine is portrayed solely as a form of sexual peril

to her victims, as is notably seen with Kawakami Tomie in every film in her series.

Due to there being considerably fewer appearances of male onryō as the sole or primary

antagonist in J-horror, it is difficult to make an analytical comparison between male and the new

female onryō, as was outlined in Chapter II for the classic onryō. Furthermore, as was first noted
in the cinematic classic female’s depiction in Chapter III,250 gender distinctions in motivation

between male onryō (when present) and the new female are even less apparent than in kaidan

films. It should be noted, however, that among J-horror films featuring male onryō, most portray

the males as just as violent, murderous, and dispassionate as their new female counterparts.

Consequently, the gendered distinction in propensity for violence in J-horror may not be as clear

as in stage portrayals of the classic onryō. Often, too, like the new female, little to no explanation

250
Discussed further in Chapter III. Beginning Transitions from the Classic to the New Female Onryō.
311
is given for the male’s extreme acts of violence, and even in the case when he does have a

motive, it hardly suffices as justification. In the film Rinne [輪廻; “Reincarnation”],251 the

supernatural events are set in motion by one Professor Ōmori who, out of a desperate desire to

understand reincarnation, films himself killing eleven people at a hotel, including his own

children, before committing suicide. In some cases, an attempt is made to evoke sympathy for

the male character. The acts of gruesome violence by the man known only as “Zero” in Akumu

Tantei [悪夢探偵; “Nightmare Detective”],252 are ultimately revealed to be driven by an empty

loneliness and a craving for connection as he enters the dreams of whoever calls his phone

number to kill them so that he can feed off their misery and lack of will to live. Regardless, the

sheer prevalence of the new female is in and of itself indicative of an increased focus on the fear

of the power of the female over the male, more so than with the classic female onryō.

Fig. 91. Screenshots of Professor Ōmori from Rinne (Left) and Zero from Akumu Tantei (Right).

Overall, the new female onryō, regardless of attributed role type, is associated with an

inhumanly strong propensity for violence. Additionally, the new female onryō is often

characterized by violence herself, even more so than her classic counterpart. In the

comparatively rare instances in J-horror where she is depicted as having a clear motive or

reasoning for revenge, most of these new female onryō are portrayed as having suffered abuse of

251
Directed by Shimizu Takashi, released in 2005.
252
Directed by Tsukamoto Shinya, released in 2007. The role of “Zero” was portrayed by the director himself.
312
some kind – frequently, though not exclusively, at the hands of a male character. Such is the case

with Saeki Kayako in the Ju-On film series, who is brutalized to death by her husband Takeo.

Despite being victims of abuse in life, the new female onryō are often seen to become “abusers”

themselves. Even when the characters she threatens turn out to be victims of abuse like herself, it

does not spare them from her onslaught. She does not pause, hesitate, or show mercy. In so doing,

she is inevitably reviled by the audience for being unfair and firmly branded as a villainous role.
IV.2.1.2 Plot
Given the heightened emphasis on violence in J-horror, it may come as little surprise that

unlike the classic, that might transform into an oni or snake or, in the case of the kaidan film, a

bakeneko, the new female’s transformation into an onryō is almost exclusively through some

scene of violence. Furthermore, with the overall attraction to the “real,” the violence during

which the female character undergoes some destruction of her image in J-horror is often far more

explicit, graphic, even excessive, compared to kaidan films or kabuki. In Kuchisake Onna 2 [口

裂け女 2; “Slit-Mouth Woman 2”],253 which is presented more as a prequel of sorts than a

sequel, teenage Mayumi’s face is horrifically marred when her oldest sister’s resentful ex-

boyfriend mistakenly douses her with sulfuric acid. The opening credit scene for the film depicts

Mayumi being rushed into surgery, with graphic focus on the damage done to her melted skin

and bone as the doctors attempt to stitch the left side of her mouth back together.

Furthermore, as was first noted with changes in narrative portrayal in kaidan films, the

acts of violence that bring about the new female onryō’s transformation have become

increasingly gendered, with a number of J-horror films featuring scenes such as rape and forced

abortion. In some cases, especially when the new female onryō is portrayed as a child, her

transformation is seen to be more of a byproduct of this gendered violence rather than directly

caused by it. In Shibuya Kaidan, for example, Sachiko is the onryō of an unborn baby whose

253
Directed by Terauchi Kōtarō (1975-), released in 2008.
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mother is revealed to have been violently raped. Upon realizing she was pregnant, she forcibly

aborted Sachiko by cutting open her womb, then throwing the baby’s body away by locking it up

in a nondescript coin locker in Shibuya, Tokyo. Although Sachiko’s mother has the potential to

be cast as a monstrous mother due to the violence she suffered, it is not the mother who is

transformed into the new female onryō but Sachiko, whose face and body are covered in the

knife cuts inflicted by her mother.

Although still a crucial element of the new female onryō’s narrative, it is important to

note that the scene of her transformation from woman into monster may not play a prominent

part in the actual J-horror film itself. More often, a given film is set after the events that led to

her transformation, the victims’ first encounter with the new female onryō thus being as her

monstrous self. Occasionally the scene of incurred violence and consequent transformation is

revealed as a flashback, often in the form of some sort of psychic vision experienced by a

(female) victim. This is how the truth about Sachiko is revealed to the female protagonist, Rieka,

in the climax of Shibuya Kaidan.

Rarely does a J-horror film make the actual story of the new female onryō the plot. One

exception is Kuchisake Onna 2, which closely follows Mayumi’s slow progression into an onryō,

as she suffers from depression and plummets in self-confidence after surviving the violence done

to her face. As she suffers constant humiliation, being bullied at school and losing all of her
friends, the audience serves as witness to Mayumi’s fall into madness. Not only does she

violently butcher her two supposed best friends who cut all ties with her, but she also eviscerates

the young man she had had a crush on for years after he reveals he is in a relationship. Upon

discovering proof of her crimes, her oldest sister, Sachiko, the one who was the cause for

Mayumi’s destruction of image in the first place, decides to poison Mayumi rather than go to the

police. Joined by the middle sister, Yukie, the two women clean up and dispose of Mayumi’s

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body to prevent her crimes from negatively affecting their futures. Mayumi’s fully transformed

image as the “slit-mouth woman” is not revealed until the final minutes of the film.

In most J-horror films, however, the audience is given little if any opportunity to see the

new female prior to her transformed state, which is a critical distinction from most depictions of

the classic female onryō. By observing the changes the female character undergoes as part of the

narrative, her transformation highlights the monster she has become but also reminds the

(female) viewer of the woman she used to be, allowing them to recognize her as a human and

sympathize with her as a (fellow) woman. In the J-horror film Teke Teke [テケテケ],254 for

example, the new female’s existence is already established as the monstrous ghost of a woman

who was cut in half. Based on the Japanese urban legend of the same title, the word “teke teke” is

derived from the onomatopoeic sound she makes while stalking her victims due to having to

move on her hands as she lacks legs. Teke teke is also the name given to the woman’s spirit in

the urban legend. Within the film, the violent circumstances that led to her transformation are

inquired about, but ultimately the truth of what caused her to emerge as an onryō and her reasons

for being are left obscured.

Similar to the narrative of the classic female onryō, there is an apparent focus on the

power of sight, especially in revealing or affirming the “real,” within J-horror cinema. In the case

of J-horror, this sense of sight is also seen to extend beyond the real world, as characters are
shown experiencing psychic visions or the like which reveal truths about the new female.

Regardless of being physical or psychic in nature, the act of “seeing” is deemed necessary in

affirming the existence of the supernatural. Only upon seeing the new female onryō is she truly

made “real,” for both the characters in the film and the observing audience.

The manner in which the new female onryō curses and subsequently attacks her victims

tends to also depend on sight. In Teke Teke, for example, victims come under attack, being

254
Directed by Shiraishi Kōji, released in 2009.
315
chased and torn in half, only after they turn around to see what is behind them upon hearing the

“teke teke” sounds she makes while stalking them. Technology and media are also utilized in J-

horror in a similar manner. In the Ringu series, Sadako’s use of the videotape to curse and kill

those who watch it is the most notable example. Channeling in many ways the concept of spirit

photography, characters frequently are seen to rely on technology, such as a camera or

microphone, to reveal what the naked eye or ear cannot perceive.

More prominent, however, is the overall tendency to use technology as a new conduit for

the supernatural in J-horror. In place of or in addition to water, the new female onryō is often

portrayed as able to traverse anoyo into konoyo by means of video or computer screens, even

cellphones. Technology itself is not unlike water, as electromagnetic waves carry signals across

an invisible spectrum to connect electronic devices with one another, crossing borders of both

time and space. In a world where virtually everyone is connected via technology, this “invisible

world” is often depicted as a literal metaphor for the anoyo itself. Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s Kairo, for

example, features “ghosts” who are able to lay siege to the living and invade konoyo via the

internet. As contemporary society has grown increasingly connected, at the same time people

have grown equally isolated by technology. This is a sentiment that is echoed by several

characters in the film, most notably Harue, a post-graduate computer lab assistant, who compares

the solitary lives of those in contemporary society to the “lives” of the ghosts that supposedly
threaten them. The ghosts are shown to take advantage of the feelings of isolation and loneliness

their victims struggle with, forming connections for their own selfish purposes so that they can

permanently stay in konoyo, effectively taking the place of their victims in the modern world. In

the case of the Chakushin Ari film series, the vengeful female spirits directly make connections

to their victims through the cellphone. Upon first receiving a call and then a voicemail or

message on a cellphone foretelling their demise, the victim receives the new female onryō’s

curse.

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Fig. 92. Screenshots of Harue lamenting human isolation (Left) and a ghost stalking a victim (Right) from Kairo.

Despite this new emphasis on technology, the new female onryō continues to be

associated with water like in classic portrayals where it is often used as a site for the vengeful

ghost’s haunting or death. Although perhaps not made as explicit as through direct reference to

Buddhist or Shinto properties of water such as the sanzu no kawa or unasaka, the emphasis on

still bodies of water being especially ripe for supernatural activity nonetheless persists in J-horror.

Sadako from the Ringu film series is perhaps the most well-known instance of this, as she dies in

a well much like Okiku from Banshū Sarayashiki. Water (like technology) can also be seen

utilized as a general conduit for the supernatural. In Shikoku [死国; “Land of the Dead”],255 for

example, not only is Sayori the spirit of a young woman who drowned in a river, but her

priestess mother, Teruko, also makes use of water in a forbidden ritual to access the anoyo and

physically bring her daughter back from the dead. In Ringu, newspaper journalist Asakawa

Reiko attempts to put an end to the new female onryō’s curse and save both herself and her son

by recovering Sadako’s corpse, thereby freeing her from being trapped in konoyo via the still,

polluted waters of the well she died in. Even in J-horror, the traditional concept of bodies of

water serving as fluid boundaries between konoyo and anoyo continues to thrive.

255
Directed by Nagasaki Shunichi (1956-), released in 1999.
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Fig. 93. Screenshots of Reiko searching for Sadako in the well from Ringu (Left) and Teruko resurrecting Sayori
from Shikoku (Right).

Of all the J-horror films made to date, few compare to the film Honogurai Mizu no Soko

Kara in its use of water. Utilized both as a site for the new female onryō’s haunting and as a

conduit for her supernatural vengeance, water – or, to be more specific, “dark water” polluted by

death – plays an essential role. Not only is the onryō Mitsuko revealed to be the spirit of a child

who drowned in her apartment building’s water tank, but it is through water that she attempts to

make contact with konoyo by spreading as dark stains and leaks throughout Yoshimi and Ikuko’s

apartment. In the end, she is able to break through by using water as a conduit between konoyo

and anoyo, emerging as her rotted corpse to attack Ikuko and claim Yoshimi as a mother for

herself.

Fig. 94. Screenshots of Yoshimi and daughter Ikuko being threatened by “dark water” from Honogurai Mizu no
Soko Kara.

Furthermore, the water that appears in a given J-horror film is often associated with an

explicit place, which reflects an overall emphasis on place and physical setting within the genre.
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This is reminiscent of the earlier kaidan literary tradition, in which most narratives cited a

specific, named location where the supernatural events took place. The film Shibuya Kaidan is a

notable example of this, as its very title emphasizes the specific Shibuya district of Tokyo. Even

for films based on existent urban legends, which are often ubiquitous in nature, this emphasis on

physical setting is apparent. Both Kuchisake Onna films, for example, are set in towns located in

Gifu Prefecture, which is considered to be the actual origin for the “slit-mouth woman” urban

legend. Furthermore, in contrast to earlier kaidan films, often the supernatural events that

transpire are caused by entering a given physical space, such as a haunted house or apartment

complex. Films in the Ju-On series are perhaps the best-known example of this, for not only is

the haunted Saeki house explicitly located in the Nerima ward of Tokyo,256 but Kayako’s curse is

also situated within the walls of a physical home.

In a similar vein, when characters are seen investigating the new female onryō in a J-

horror film, they are often focused largely on discerning her physical place of origin. In her

article on J-horror, Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano observes that frequently this place of origin is a

rural location, which “gives the film a sense of spatial and temporal reality as well as a mythical

undercurrent related to the remnants of pre-modern culture lurking in [such] rural locales” (18-

19). As much as she is something “new,” the new female onryō is still closely connected with the

old, sometimes even primordial, which may account for her strength of power and why she is so
often portrayed as impossible to overcome.

Much like how a computer runs the risk of contracting a virus via accessing the internet,

the curse of the new female onryō is shown to take on more of an equally “viral” threat to the

living. In most J-horror films, victims unwittingly fall prey to the new female’s curse and can

256
The actual house that was used in Shimizu’s Ju-On films is located in Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture. While

the Japanese films (both direct-to-video and theatrical release) were all shot on location, the American remake The

Grudge, also directed by Shimizu and released in 2004, was filmed using sets built on a soundstage.
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even pass the curse along. This is in stark contrast to the classic female, who is typically driven

to seek vengeance on an explicit target. In the case of Chakushin Ari, after a victim dies

according to the events foretold in the voicemail or message left on their phone, the next target is

called, chosen at random from the last victim’s contact list.

This “viral,” even contagious nature of her curse can also sometimes result in victims

being transformed into new female onryō, regardless of whether the targeted female character

shares similar circumstances or not. In the first Kuchisake Onna film, the “slit-mouth woman” is

revealed to not be a single corporeal entity, but effectively a ubiquitous spirit that can infect and

possess virtually any mother figure within her vicinity. As her spirit jumps from woman to

woman, transforming each time into the same vengeful spirit, it becomes apparent that any

mother is susceptible to her possession, regardless of whether or not she is a monstrous mother

herself. Some of the women are shown to be abusive or at least resentful towards their children,

which may explain why they easily succumbed. For some of the mother characters, however,

there is little indication that they harbor resentments and even appear to have an altogether

positive relationship with their children. Despite this, as the kuchisake onna they are later seen to

target those very same children they supposedly loved. The female protagonist, Kyōko, though

guilty of abuse towards her daughter in the past, is clearly seen doing whatever she can to make

amends and restore her relationship with her child. In the closing scene of the film, Kyōko finally
manages to reconcile with her daughter only to transform into the kuchisake onna moments later.

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Fig. 95. Screenshots of Kyōko with her daughter (Left) and having transformed into the new female onryō after
reconciling (Right) from Kuchisake Onna.

Consequently, this overall viral nature of the new female onryō in J-horror tends to result

in a lack of the same degree of resolution found in kaidan films. Compared to her cinematic

classic counterpart who is mostly driven by outrage over some clear iniquity she has suffered and

seeks justice as much as she does vengeance, the new female presents as an altogether unjust,

even immoral figure. Often her victims are portrayed as wholly innocent, as they are not seen to

have committed any real wrong against the new female – barring perhaps walking into the wrong

house – or transgression of any kind. This contrasts significantly with the victims of the

cinematic classic found in the typical kaidan film who are more often portrayed as

incontrovertible villains, thereby leaving the audience with a sense of assurance that their

punishment was well-deserved. Additionally, the discomfort the J-horror film audience

experiences is heightened by the fact that the new female onryō’s thirst for violence and

vengeance appears to be insatiable, as she is almost never shown to be at peace or even remotely

pacified at the conclusion of her narrative.

Furthermore, as her victims often lack any significant connection to the new female,

many J-horror films feature characters who are less preoccupied with finding a way to put a stop

to the new female’s curse once and for all, or saving her twisted soul, and more focused on

saving themselves or those close to them. Even the characters who do try to reach out to her and

empathize are almost never shown to be spared her wrath. In both Shibuya Kaidan and

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Chakushin Ari 2, which each features a wronged, especially young new female onryō, the female

protagonist attempts to appeal to the new female’s humanity by showing her sympathy and

unconditional, almost motherly affection. In Shibuya Kaidan, this display of empathy by Rieka,

who assures Sachiko that “no baby is ever born unwanted” as she embraces her, appears to

appease the child onryō, but only temporarily. Shortly after, the child not only claims Rieka’s life

but also uses her body to pass on her coin locker’s key to another so that she can carry on her

cursing of others. In the case of Chakushin Ari 2, the new female onryō Li Li’s suffering

especially invokes the sympathies of the female protagonist, Kyōko, a preschool teacher aiming

to become a child therapist. Despite this, Li Li is not shown to be even the least deterred from

inflicting sadistic violence on both Kyōko and her boyfriend, Naoto. Ultimately, it is not

Kyōko’s capacity to sympathize with the new female onryō, but Naoto’s self-sacrifice that spares

her, as he offers himself in place of Kyōko as Li Li’s victim. Witnessing the efforts of characters’

sympathy for naught furthers the impression that the new female onryō is truly a monstrous

feminine, more of a monster compared to her classic counterpart of the kaidan film, even less of

a human than those that appear in nō and kabuki, and one perhaps beyond saving.

IV.2.2 Elements of Visual Representation

The key visual traits of the new female onryō share strong similarities with those

associated with portrayal of the classic, and like the classic, many of these elements are drawn
from or show close connection to her characterization and narrative portrayal. However, there is

a significant distinction in the way these elements are utilized, especially regarding the female

character’s image. In both the case of the classic and the new, the purpose of removing her from

femininity by transforming her image remains more or less the same. Free from having to

maintain her image as a woman in Japanese society, she can act far more openly and

aggressively. Unlike with the classic portrayal, however, where in some cases the destruction or

distortion of her image may be figurative or stylized, the new female onryō’s image is altered

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almost exclusively through literal, physical disfigurement reminiscent or demonstrative of

incurred violence. Kuchisake Onna and Teke Teke, for example, feature vengeful female

characters whose images have been violently altered. In Kuchisake Onna, the title character’s

face is a gaping wound, carved wide open by a pair of shears, while in Teke Teke the female

onryō has been torn completely in half. With the influence of “real” violence on J-horror, the

degree to which they are removed or distanced from femininity, however, is far more extensive

than in visual depictions of the classic. While transformed or physically disfigured, some

vestiges of femininity still remain that are at least evocative of the woman the classic female

onryō used to be. In contrast, the new female’s destruction or distortion of image is so extensive

that it is difficult for the audience to recognize her as human, let alone a woman.

Fig. 96. Screenshots from Kuchisake Onna (Left) and Teke Teke (Right).

Furthermore, the disfigurement that destroyed the new female’s image is not only

portrayed as more graphic but also permanent, in comparison with the classic. Depending on the

circumstances that led to her transformation as an onryō, a number of kaidan films as well as

some nō plays and premodern literary works, at least hint at the potential for some kind of

positive resolution for the classic female, such as pacification or spiritual salvation, as

demonstrated in Aoi no Ue and Nakagawa Nobuo’s Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan. This is evident in

kaidan films by visually portraying her state of gruesome disfigurement as something transient,

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or at least not eternally damning. In contrast, the new female is rarely if ever shown to be

restored to her original feminine image, not even fleetingly, over the course of the film.

Although perhaps not as relevant as prior comparisons with the classic portrayal, given

the rare exclusive appearance of a male onryō as the primary or sole antagonist, it is significant

that the tendency to not subject the male to the same level of transformation or physical

disfigurement continues even in J-horror film portrayals. Despite the increased overall emphasis

on real or graphic violence, there continues to be virtually no change in appearance between how

the male onryō manifests compared to when he was alive. A notable example of this is Kayako’s

husband Takeo, of the Ju-On franchise, who after being killed by Kayako in revenge for her own

murder at his hands in Ju-On: The Curse, emerges as an onryō himself in the cinematic release,

Ju-On: The Grudge. Aside from bloody smears on his face and clothes, blood that is not even his

own but the blood of Kayako and other victims of his violence while alive, there is little visual

indication given that he is an onryō.

Fig. 97 Screenshots of Takeo from Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-On: The Grudge (Right).

The destruction or at least distortion of the new female onryō’s image through physical

disfigurement to distance and isolate her from the audience is apparent in the sight of her being

obscured altogether. Rarely if ever is her entire person clearly perceived, often being obscured by

shadows or the frame of the camera itself. Even in cases where her body might be clearly visible,

some part of the new female onryō is still obstructed, one of the most notable examples being

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Sadako from Ringu, whose whole face is never shown to the audience throughout the film. At

most a single eye is revealed, with the rest covered by her long black hair. But a single eye does

not make a face (Fig. 98, right). Takahashi Hiroshi (1959-), who is not only a renowned J-horror

screenwriter, including writing for Nakata Hideo’s Ringu films, but has also written at length on

cinematic techniques for producing horror and inducing fear. Of the six “techniques” Takahashi

discusses that exist to effectively portray a ghost in J-horror, the first and foremost is: “Don’t

show the face. Show only a fragment of the body or clothes. Or, put it in a long shot so that the

details of its face are blurred.”257 Through the obstruction of her image, not only is she never

seen whole, but parts of the new female onryō are also rendered unknowable, and the audience is

effectively left in the dark regarding her true or full power. Thus, by depriving the audience of

their “sight,” the mystery, suspense, and fear regarding the new female onryō is heightened

within the film.

Fig. 98. Screenshots of Sadako from Ringu.

This obstruction of her image is sometimes taken a step further by utilizing physical traits,

notably her hair, divorced from her body entirely. While still distinctly a feminine trait as was

seen with the visual portrayal of the classic female onryō, the hair of the new female defies the

more erotic associations, and is instead used almost exclusively to generate horror. Within J-

257
As quoted in Kinoshita Chika, “The Mummy Complex” 115. For the original Japanese text, see Takahashi

Hiroshi Eiga no Ma 27-28.

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horror films, scenes of sudden bursts of hair inexplicably appearing are often relied on to suggest

the (feminine) supernatural as well as to heighten the sense of eeriness or discomfort for the

audience. In the climax of the first Shibuya Kaidan film, for example, when Rieka and her

boyfriend Ryōhei go back to the coin locker to confront Sachiko, seemingly endless lengths of

hair creep out from the opening as the new female onryō draws ever closer until she finally

crawls out of the locker. In Chakushin Ari, the curse and penetrating power of the onryō Mimiko

is predominantly punctuated by the sound of her ringtone inexplicably playing on her victim’s

cellphone to mark their time of death. When she physically emerges to kill Yumi’s friend

Natsumi, however, Mimiko’s appearance is presaged by masses of her long hair bursting from

the floor to wrap around Natsumi’s feet as if trying to ensnare her.

Fig. 99. Screenshots of hair from Shibuya Kaidan (Left) and Chakushin Ari (Right).

While frequently the presence of the new female onryō’s hair is used to hint at her

presence among her victims and foreshadow her actual bodied appearance, she is also effectively

embodied in the hair itself, and is thus entirely deprived of any semblance of a face for the

audience. In some J-horror films, the new female onryō’s hair is a direct implement of her will,

rather than simply a passive sign of her presence. Hair is increasingly seen to be used as a

weapon with which the new female can haunt, ensnare, and even outright kill her victims. A

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particularly striking example of this is the film Exte [エクステ],258 wherein the body of an

unnamed young girl, despite having had all of her organs unwillingly harvested by illegal

traffickers, inexplicably continues to grow voluminous black hair out of virtually every orifice.

Infatuated, Yamazaki, the morgue’s nightwatchman and a trichophile, steals her body and then

proceeds to harvest her hair to make hair extensions to sell to local salons. Bound to konoyo out

of the resentment towards the organ traffickers who murdered her but unable to exact vengeance

on those she truly desires to kill, her onryō lashes out by killing all those whom she can. Using

the one part of her body that remains of her, she controls and kills the wearers of her hair by

suffocating, strangling, even cutting her victims to pieces. Throughout the film her hair is shown

to fully embody her vengeful spirit as the victims are also shown to become possessed and relive

her final memories on the operating table, to the extent that the actual discovery of her physical

body during the climax of the film is inconsequential – it is in her hair that the new female onryō

resides.

Fig. 100. Screenshots from Exte.

Without a face, however, the new female is deprived a sense of clear identity, her image

thereby rendered not just obstructed but invisible and voiceless. Although the viewer may be

aware of the onryō’s presence controlling her hair, it is often seen completely disembodied,

258
Directed by Sono Shion (1961-), released in 2007, the title derived from the Japanese slang for the English word

“extension,” namely hair extensions.

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visually giving more of the impression that the hair is in control of itself. All the audience sees

on the screen is hair moving, seemingly of its own accord, even attacking and killing others.

Furthermore, unlike a face, hair is visually nondescript, barring general traits such as length,

color, and texture. Especially in a (relatively) homogenous society like Japan, this disembodied

hair of the new female onryō can easily be seen as belonging to any female body. The hair of the

new female onryō can thus be conflated with all women’s hair, and result in the feeling of

discomfort, even horror, being extended to any woman with (long, dark, and freely flowing) hair,

potentially abjectifying the physical trait altogether.

Although not a physical trait directly associated with the new female’s body or image,

water is frequently utilized to similar effect as hair in J-horror films, that is, to represent the

overall presence of the supernatural. Atmospheric scenes of rain, the ocean, or simply dripping

pools of water are as ubiquitous as scenes of hair (at least in the case of the female onryō),

sometimes regardless of whether water holds any narrative significance. The techno-horror film

Kairo, for example, opens with the sound of dial-up internet tones that blends into ocean sounds

as a woman looks out aboard a ship rocked by waves beneath a grey sky. In the closing of

Kuchisake Onna 2, after killing the last of her traitorous family, Mayumi’s complete

transformation into the eponymous legend of the so-called “slit-mouth woman” is preceded by

the sudden pouring of rain. This usage of water in Kuchisake Onna 2 is particularly compelling,
as it speaks to an evident audience predilection for seeing the monstrous, namely the monstrous

feminine, not only bloody and disfigured but drenched.

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Fig. 101. Screenshots of Mayumi’s final scene in the rain from Kuchisake Onna 2.

As has been noted in the use of water to visually represent the supernatural in kabuki,

although water was not explicitly associated with the feminine or female at first, it has become

increasingly the case in cinematic portrayals of onryō both in kaidan and J-horror films. The

female sex in and of itself has been consistently portrayed as highly attuned to water, or at least

the state of “wetness,” her body often made wet through sex. In J-horror, however, there is

comparatively less use of the woman made wet for solely erotic portrayal. As indicated by the

“dead wet girl” appellation, the new female onryō’s “wetness” as a girl ripe with sexual vitality

is more often presented and then juxtaposed with her “wetness” as a corpse. While still evocative

to some degree of her female power, seeing her wet, dead body concurrently gives the audience

the impression of her ongoing decay.

In some cases, she is seen to almost transcend those boundaries entirely. Nakata Hideo’s

Honogurai Mizu is a notable example of water being used to wholly embody the new female

onryō, as Mitsuko is not physically seen until the climax of the film. Instead, Mitsuko’s emotions

are expressed in the water as she tries to encroach on Yoshimi and her daughter Ikuko’s lives by

seeping in through the walls, and through the eerily darkening stains on the ceiling of their

apartment (see Fig. 94). This remains true until her rage grows to such extremes that the water

floods the building. Essentially, Mitsuko is the water, her death having infected the entire

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complex. In the end, she emerges as her wet, rotted corpse to attack Ikuko and claim Yoshimi as

a mother for herself.

Fig. 102. Screenshots of Mitsuko attacking through water from Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara.

As has been seen in both kabuki and kaidan film portrayals, in addition to sex, women

have been closely associated with motherhood, and the act of pregnancy has been closely

connected to “water.” Menstrual blood is a recurrent aspect of the sexually mature woman’s

daily life, and upon pregnancy her womb is essentially filled with “water.” It is perhaps because

of this that the visual imagery of the ubume ghost, combined with its longstanding influence on

classic female onryō portrayal, has persisted in J-horror. It is significant to note, however, that

despite supposedly taking inspiration from the ubume, in many films the new female onryō,

particularly the dead wet girl, is portrayed as the ghost of a young woman rather than a mother

who had died during pregnancy or childbirth. More often she is depicted as a pale ghost with

long black hair drenched with either water or blood, sometimes both, regardless of whether the

female character herself is befitting the tradition of the ubume in terms of its Buddhist

associations with motherhood. Sadako of the Ringu franchise, the first to be referred to as a

“dead wet girl,” is a notable example of this.

Considering the sharp decline in birthrate in Japan since the 1970s, the continued

utilization of the ubume in J-horror, at least in terms of visual imagery, is particularly intriguing.

During the Edo period, fears of the ubume were sourced in the very real possibility of women

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dying in childbirth, which made it highly effective to induce fear of the classic female onryō in

kabuki. In modern Japan, however, not only is this sort of death considerably less likely to occur,

but women themselves appear to be less inclined towards marriage and motherhood overall.

Despite this, the new female onryō is consistently presented in this form, indicating that more so

than the actual tradition of the ubume, it is solely her visual image that has propagated since her

conflation with the appearance of the female onryō.

This historical context of the ubume, however, even if no longer being consciously

evoked in J-horror, cannot be completely separated from her image. The continued utilization of

the ubume’s image to represent the female onryō thereby implicates the spirit of the woman who

died in childbirth, as well as her capacity for giving birth, as something monstrous, rendering it

as a source for “horror.” Combined with the narrative shift in the monstrous wife role type

becoming more of a monstrous mother, this may account for why, despite the lack of emphasis

on motherhood in a majority of female onryō depictions, themes of pregnancy and birthing and

its related “horrors,” continue to be prevalent in J-horror. Oftentimes this manifests as giving

birth to the new female onryō herself, effectively bringing the monstrous feminine into konoyo as

a fully corporeal entity.

IV.2.3 Elements of Enactment Style

The full impact of the new female onryō, however, is not complete without an
otherworldliness conveyed through enactment, creating distance between the supernatural

presence and the audience, and highlighting her lack of humanity. This is most apparent in the

prescribed movements and special effects associated with these characters. Much as in the kabuki

theatre and later kaidan films, the use of special effects to create a sense of spectacle, even shock,

is also found in J-horror, as the new female onryō is often shown capable of actions that are

largely impossible for a living human, such as suddenly appearing and disappearing, or being

able to crawl on the walls or ceiling.

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 What is perhaps more distinctive in the enactment of the new female, the utilization of

bodily movement that one would not expect, thus unnerving the audience. Of the six “existing

techniques” presented by Takahashi Hiroshi for portraying ghosts in J-horror, half concern

movement and body position:

2) Make the standing position or behavior unnatural.

Human beings have a specifically human sense of space and distance between themselves.

Position someone in such a way to defy this sense subtly. […]

3) Make its movement non-human.

Make its movement unrelated to the natural motility of human muscles. […]

4) Put it [a body part] in an impossible position.259

Many J-horror film directors have been noted to have taken inspiration from the dance form butō

(舞踏)260 for kinetic enactment to achieve the effects Takahashi describes. An avant-garde dance

theatre form that emerged in the 1950s, butō performers sought to “expand the possibilities of the

body, while reflecting on its limitations and constraints – physical ones, as well as those imposed

by society and culture” (Esposito and Kasai 257). As described by one of its founders Hijikata

Tatsumi (1928-86), butō is “a corpse standing desperately upright,”261 intending to be a direct

assault on the pre-conceived notions and socially accepted standards for Japanese aesthetics and

refinement. The movements, “characterized as an uncomfortable and deeply unsettling array of

painful bodily contortions, […are] a literal embodiment of trauma that rails against Japan’s

postwar progressive time consciousness” (Balanzategui 199).

259
As quoted in Kinoshita Chika, “The Mummy Complex” 115. For the original Japanese text, see Takahashi

Hiroshi Eiga no Ma 27-28.

260
Originally known as ankoku butō (暗黒舞踏, “dance of darkness”).
261
For a detailed account of Hijikata’s thoughts on this concept, see Fraleigh and Nakamura, “The Words of Hijikata

and Ohno: Being a corpse,” Chapter 2 of Hijikata Tatsumi and Ohno Kazuo.
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 Such movement effectively dehumanizes the body, or at least deconstructs the socialized

body, which may explain its appeal to J-horror film directors, most notably Shimizu Takashi and

Nakata Hideo. Shimizu Takashi’s utilization is perhaps better known, as he took more direct

visual inspiration from butō by basing the appearances of his onryō in his Ju-On films on the

traditional white body makeup of its performers. Nakata Hideo is noted for taking more subtle

inspiration by choosing to cast a (then active) butō dancer in the role of Sadako for his Ringu

films.262 Even if not explicitly utilizing the dance form, J-horror filmmakers sought to create the

uncanniness of butō by juxtaposing human with “non-human” movements. Kurosawa Kiyoshi is

especially noted to have been conceptually inspired by butō for his techno-horror film Kairo,

wherein the ghosts are seen to vacillate between natural and unnatural movements. In what is

perhaps one of the most memorable, even disturbing, scenes of the film, the ghost starts by

standing perfectly still, her back against the wall, barely visible in the shadows. When she finally

does move, her gait is surprisingly like that of a graceful, well-bred woman wearing high heels,

inducing doubt in the audience as to whether she is in fact a ghost at all. In this moment of

uncertainty, she shifts, contorting into shapes that read as completely unnatural for her body

structure. Then suddenly, she returns to her human gait as she closes in on her victim. Using such

movements, the character’s inhuman qualities are emphasized, which in turn isolates the viewer

and makes them keenly aware of how “other” the new female onryō is from themselves.

262
Inō Rie (1967-), who portrayed Sadako’s onryō for both Ringu and Ringu 2, is currently an active performer for

the experimental theatre troupe Engeki-Jikkenshitsu ◎ Banyu Inryoku [演劇実験室◎万有引力; “Theatre

Laboratory ◎ Universal Gravitation”], founded by composer J.A. Seazer (1948-) in 1983.

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Fig. 103. Screenshots of the ghost’s walk from Kairo.

The use of dehumanizing sounds to underscore enactment accentuates this effect.

Deprived of virtually any opportunity to speak, the new female onryō must rely almost entirely

on actions to express any grievances she may have. This contrasts considerably from the classic

portrayal, especially in nō, where even if her words go largely unheard by the target of her

resentment, the classic female still often is granted the freedom to voice her frustrations.

Although one might argue that the actions of the new female are more than sufficient to express

her resentment, sympathy or empathy from the audience is virtually impossible without proper

understanding of her story in her own words.

Lacking a voice, too, heightens the uncanniness of her character, further distancing her

from the audience and removing her humanity. In the rare occasion where she is shown capable

of speech, her voice is often distorted somehow, producing an inhuman quality. The closest

resemblance to a “voice” she is given is often more sounds that she makes rather than words, the

best example of this perhaps being Saeki Kayako from the Ju-On film series. Her body

brutalized and neck literally broken by her husband and thus incapable of speech, Kayako’s

death rattle today has just as much impact in Japan as the Jaws soundtrack has in America,

perhaps even more so.

This tendency to make use of sound effects, or “soundscaping” to represent the new

female onryō’s resentment and presence rather than a soundtrack to underscore the female

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onryō’s presence, is both a prevalent and distinguishing feature of “J-horror” films overall

compared to horror cinema overseas. While music can certainly generate suspense and tension,

there is a certain level of comfort in being able to foresee moments of horror or “jump scares” in

a given horror film by judging from the crescendo or sudden spells of silence. In contrast, not

only are sounds much more difficult to predict, but sounds like the groans or death rattle of

Kayako, or even just the sound of bodies squelching fully embody the presence of the new

female in a way that music cannot. A notable example of this is in the Teke Teke films, as the

title literally embodies this concept being not a word, but an onomatopoeic sound. Forced to

move about on her hands as she lacks legs, it is the sound of her “hand-steps” coming up from

behind that first signifies the onryō’s presence in the film as she stalks and hunts down her

victims. The ultimate effect being that through such dehumanized movement and sound, the new

female onryō is kept at arm’s length and the audience has no trouble believing in and fearing her

menacing power.

IV.3 ANALYZING FILM PORTRAYALS OF THE NEW FEMALE ONRYŌ

IV.3.1 In J-Horror Boom Films

IV.3.1.1 The Ju-On Films: Ju-On: The Curse & The Curse 2 (2000) | Ju-On: The Grudge
(2002) | Ju-On: The Grudge 2 (2003)
Saeki Kayako, the new female onryō of director Shimizu Takashi’s Ju-On films, is for

many as iconic to J-horror as Oiwa of Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan is to the classic female onryō in

both kabuki and kaidan films. Beginning with the release of two direct-to-video films, which

became widely successful due to word of mouth, Shimizu received acclaim for his minimalist

approach in both directing and storytelling, as well as for his highly “original” choices in

portrayal of ghosts for the genre. How Kayako presents over the course of these films, however,

from Shimizu’s initial Ju-On: The Curse and its sequel in 2000 until Ju-On: The Grudge 2 in

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2003, has altered her overall impression as both a monstrous wife (or mother) and a new female

onryō over the years.

One crucial element of the Ju-On film franchise that has affected her depiction is the

nonlinear narrative structure utilized in each film. All of the Ju-On films, including those made

direct-to-video, are comprised of anecdotes, each centering on a particular character, whose

name serves as the title of that given anecdote. The anecdotes of a given Ju-On film in turn are

relayed to the audience in a completely nonlinear order. Some are set in a previous (or future)

time to one another, some of them overlap. Consequently, the impact Kayako’s narrative as a

new female onryō has on the audience is different compared to other J-horror films.

Ju-On: The Curse and Ju-On: The Curse 2 feature Saeki Kayako the most prominently in

the entire franchise, as the events of both films take place immediately following, or shortly after

her death. In Ju-On: The Curse, elementary school teacher Kobayashi Shunsuke pays a visit to

the residence of one of his students who has not attended school for some time. The boy, Toshio,

is the son of Saeki Kayako, with whom Kobayashi has a history, having gone to university with

her. Upon visiting the house, he discovers that Kayako’s husband, Takeo, suspecting his wife of

having an affair with Kobayashi, killed Kayako in a fit of rage. Shortly after discovering

Kayako’s body, Kobayashi learns that his own wife, Manami, has also been murdered by Takeo

out of revenge. Moments later, Kayako emerges as an onryō to kill both Kobayashi and Takeo,
and the curse of the Ju-On films begins.

Ju-On arguably takes considerable inspiration from Yotsuya Kaidan. Like Oiwa, Kayako

is a wife transformed into her vengeful form through wrongful violence at the hands of her

husband. Compared to earlier portrayals of the monstrous wife role type, however, Kayako’s role

as a wife in Ju-On: The Curse is significantly less emphasized. This is largely because the

audience is not given much of an opportunity to view her character while alive. While suspected

infidelity serves as the impetus for Takeo lashing out at her, there is little shown to affirm that

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she is either innocent or guilty of such an act. Through Kobayashi’s reading of her journal that he

finds at the house, the audience is made aware that Kayako was perhaps not in her right mind,

obsessively stalking and fantasizing over him since college. At the same time, it is unclear that

all is pure fantasy, as the audience is not made privy to the details of Kobayashi’s relationship

with Kayako. Although Kobayashi recalls Kayako, both from their days at college and when she

approached him on the first day of school for her son, he is largely deterred from talking about

her to Manami, who seems to have an unfavorable opinion of their fellow university colleague:

MANAMI. なんか気持ち悪い子だったよね。

“She was kind of an unpleasant girl, wasn’t she?”

Consequently, the audience does not get to hear Kobayashi’s own thoughts on Kayako. His

discomfort, however, is tangible, thereby implying some degree of responsibility on his part for

Kayako’s infatuations. This is supported by the fact that he does not seem too disturbed or

visibly upset by Kayako’s writings about him, nor does he audibly deny being in a relationship

with her to Takeo when he calls him on the phone – not even when the man implies that Toshio

is Kobayashi’s son. Based on Toshio’s student profile papers seen earlier in the film, the

audience can deduce that Kayako was pregnant with Toshio while still a college student. This

suggests the possibility of there being some truth to Takeo’s suspicions, and that they were not

simply unfounded, paranoid delusions.

Fig. 104. Screenshots of Kayako’s journal from Ju-On: The Curse.

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 Takeo’s violent fixations over Kayako’s supposed betrayal, however, seem to have less to

do with romantic attachments and more to do with her perceived failures as a wife to provide

him with progeny. Convinced that Toshio is not in fact his son and that he has been lied to all

these years, he brutally murders both Kayako and Toshio, even mutilates Toshio’s pet cat. The

violence he commits against Kayako herself, however, is not explicitly seen in the film, only the

aftermath when Kobayashi discovers her bloody corpse in the attic. In contrast, the violence,

both physical and psychological, Takeo inflicts upon Kobayashi and his family is vividly

portrayed. After murdering Kayako and Toshio, Takeo goes to his apartment and eviscerates

Manami, who is heavily pregnant, whereupon he calls Kobayashi, who is still in the house:

TAKEO. もう伽椰子には会いましたか? 今日から、俊雄の面倒はよろしくお願い

します。

“Have you already met with Kayako? From today, I leave Toshio in your care.”

KOBAYASHI. 何を言ってるんだ。

“What are you saying?”

TAKEO. 今まで、私が先生の代わりに育ててきたんだ。そろそろ交代です。[…]

そうだ、先生。赤ちゃん生まれましたよ。

“I’ve been raising him in your place until now. It’s about time we switch. […] Oh,

right. Your baby was born.”

KOBAYASHI. 生まれた？

“Born?”

TAKEO. これ、女の子ですね。

“Looks like it’s a girl.”

As he stands in the phonebooth, covered in blood and holding the dead fetus, still encased in

placenta, Takeo is seen to visibly relish torturing Kobayashi over the death of his child and wife.

Although the audience can infer that Kayako suffered a similar, horrific death, because it is not

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shown on-screen, not even in a flashback, whereas Manami’s death at his hands is seen in Ju-On:

The Curse 2, Takeo appears to be more fixated on punishing Kobayashi than Kayako. Rather

than stealing his wife from him, Takeo resents Kobayashi more for depriving him of his legacy.

His contempt is evident as he is later seen further brutalizing Kobayashi’s baby by bashing it

wrapped in a bag against nearby railings and the ground as he thrashes about in the street.

Although nothing is explicitly shown or stated to affirm that Kayako had in fact

committed any wrongdoing or subterfuge against her husband, at the same time, she is not

clearly portrayed as innocent. Given the extent of her writings about Kobayashi in her journal, it

can at the very least be presumed that her marriage to Takeo is an unhappy one. As she

fantasizes about her college crush that has reentered her life as her son’s elementary school

teacher, Kayako is able to find some escape from her miserable circumstances. By being so

immersed in her infatuations with Kobayashi, however, it is unlikely that Kayako is fully seeing

to the needs of her son. Furthermore, as Takeo becomes convinced of both his wife’s infidelity

and his son’s lineage upon reading her journal detailing all her obsessions, it is ultimately

Kayako who causes the death of her own son, making her as much a “monstrous” mother as she

is a wife. The resulting ambiguity over Kayako’s potential guilt consequently affects the

impression given by her later vengeful actions. This contrasts with Oiwa of Yotsuya Kaidan,

where both kabuki and kaidan film versions prominently feature her character prior to her death,
leaving the audience more comfortably assured about her rightful pursuit of vengeance as an

onryō. Kayako, on the other hand, takes on more of a sinister air for the audience in death, which

is tangible from the moment her onryō emerges to attack Kobayashi in the house. This is

heightened by the fact that despite achieving what she presumably desires, which is to exact

revenge on Takeo and claim Kobayashi for herself, she is not seen to be even remotely appeased.

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Fig. 105. Screenshots of Kayako’s onryō first appearing in the house from Ju-On: The Curse.

After killing Kobayashi, for the rest of the film and the majority of its sequel, Ju-On: The

Curse 2, Kayako proceeds to target all those who get involved with the house she died in. The

Murakami family, who are the first to move into the house after Kayako’s murder, the police

detectives who investigate what happens to the Murakami family, as well as the realtor, who

later sells the house to another couple, and his family, all are seen to fall prey to her onryō one

after the other. Not only does she become wholly indiscriminate in her acts of vengeance, but she

is also shown to be manipulative, even calculating. In Ju-On: The Curse 2, for example, she

sends her journal to Hiromi, the wife currently living in the house, upon which the woman

becomes possessed and kills her own husband by bashing his head in with a frypan. It is not

made explicitly clear whether it is Kayako herself possessing Hiromi and making her kill, or it is

simply Kayako allowing Hiromi to act on repressed vexations over her marriage. In other cases,

Kayako uses possession as a means to inflict her curse on others who have not even physically
entered the house. Most notable in this case is the realtor’s psychic sister Kyōko, whose parents

bring her in her possessed state (see Fig. 88, right) back to their family home, whereupon

Kayako proceeds to drive both of them to madness and death.

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Fig. 106. Screenshots of Hiromi receiving Kayako’s journal (Left) and killing her husband (Right) from Ju-On: The
Curse 2.

The explanation given for Kayako’s continued onslaught is indicated in the on-screen text

displayed at the opening of each Ju-On film, including Ju-On: The Curse and Ju-On: The Curse

2, where director Shimizu Takashi defines the namesake Ju-On:

強い怨念を抱いたまま死んだモノの呪い。それは死んだモノが生前に接していた

場所に蓄積され,「業」となる。その呪いに触れたモノは命を失い、新たな呪い

が生まれる。

“The curse of someone who dies while harboring a strong, deep-seated grudge. It

builds up in the places the deceased was in contact with while alive and becomes ‘karma.’

Those who are touched by that curse lose their life, and a new curse is born.”

Even after her spirit has arguably achieved retribution and (at least by classic female onryō

standards) should be appeased, her resentment has taken on a life of its own, infecting the place

of her death. Although there is more of a focus on Kayako in the original direct-to-video films,

overall, the Ju-On series is narratively characterized as being more focused on her victims who

get caught up in the “curse,” rather than the woman herself. The events of both Ju-On: The

Grudge and its sequel film thus circulate almost entirely around those who end up for one reason

or other in contact with the house.

In Ju-On: The Grudge, the events that transpire largely concern an aspiring welfare nurse,

Rika, and her involvement with the house. Rika first pays a visit to the Saeki house, now owned

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by the Tokunaga family, as a favor for the welfare center she volunteers at, to check in on the

husband’s mother, Sachie. While there, she discovers a boy named Toshio shut up in a closet,

who she assumes to be the Tokunaga family’s son. Soon after, a dark phantom descends on

Sachie, scaring her to death, and Rika collapses. The police detectives, Nakagawa and Igarashi,

that are called in later discover the husband, Katsuya, and his wife, Kazumi, dead in the attic.

Katsuya’s sister, Hitomi, has also disappeared from inside her apartment. As Nakagawa and

Igarashi investigate further, they discover that the Tokunaga family is only the most recent

casualty in a long history of mysterious deaths and disappearances, all of which seem to have

started with the murder of one Saeki Kayako by her husband in the same house five years ago.

As all those who come in contact with the house fall victim to its “curse” one after the other, in

the end Rika returns to the house in an attempt to save her friend Mariko, a newly made

elementary school teacher who unwittingly enters what she thinks to be her student’s house,

from meeting the same fate. There, it is revealed that not only Kayako and her son Toshio, but

Takeo himself is also haunting the house as an onryō in his own right.

Considering Takeo’s inclusion as an onryō, which is a development unique to the

theatrical film, it is worth noting that details of Kayako’s murder are not made as explicitly clear

in Ju-On: The Grudge as they were in the direct-to-video version. The film opens with a vivid

depiction of Takeo inflicting violence on Kayako in the house, mutilating her image in the form
of photos as well as her physical body; however the motive behind his actions is not made clear.

According to Nakagawa and Igarashi, the official records of the incident have Takeo’s motive

listed as “unknown.” Rika herself does not even learn that a murder took place in the house, let

alone who died and why. Hitomi has a brief encounter with Takeo while possessing her brother,

Katsuya. However, she is unaware that it is his spirit speaking when Katsuya starts muttering

under his breath: “She had another man. […] That’s not my child. That’s not my child. That’s

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not my child…” Unlike in Ju-On: The Curse, neither Kayako’s journal detailing her obsessions,

nor her supposed partner in her suspected affair ever makes an appearance.

The choice to omit these details has an undeniable effect on how Kayako presents to the

audience as an onryō in Ju-On: The Grudge. By providing such a limited account of the events,

Takeo’s violence inflicted on Kayako not only becomes the sole focus of the film, but also

comes across as both disproportionate in intensity and largely unwarranted. The heightened

focus on his spousal violence also recontextualizes Kayako as a victim of domestic abuse, both

in life and death, which is at best only hinted at in Ju-On: The Curse. Furthermore, the inclusion

of Takeo as an onryō and not as a purely human, living antagonist like he is in the direct-to-video

film, alters Kayako’s own portrayal as a vengeful spirit in the theatrical film. Rather than as a

purely malevolent entity, she presents more as a continued victim of masculine violence. This is

emphasized by the fact that she is not clearly seen by the audience until after Takeo’s spirit

appears in the film. Although technically the film opens with the “Rika” anecdote, in which she

encounters both Toshio and a black, amorphous phantom that causes the death of Sachie, the

subsequent “Katsuya” anecdote narratively takes place prior to the “Rika” anecdote. In “Katsuya,”

the fates of both Tokunaga Katsuya and his wife are implied to be caused by Takeo’s spirit.

When Katsuya finds Kazumi, she appears paralyzed and unable to speak, almost as if her neck

has been broken. Although Takeo is not physically seen, given that Kazumi’s state resembles the
way he killed Kayako, by breaking her neck with his bare hands, it is implied that he is

responsible. This is supported by the fact that almost immediately after Kazumi dies, Katsuya

becomes possessed by Takeo sitting right beside her, adopting his mannerisms and attitude.

It is not until after Takeo, still possessing Katsuya, comes stalking up the stairs, returning

to the room where he mutilated his wife, that Kayako herself first appears in the film. Some film

critics have argued that the black amorphous ghost in the opening “Rika” anecdote is also

Kayako, her actual image withheld to generate suspense. Given how she is openly seen in her

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pale white onryō form in the subsequent anecdote, however, undermines this argument. Both

figures are even seen in quick succession, which further suggests that the black ghost and

Kayako, though related to one another, are two separate entities. Thus, having Kayako’s

appearance tied to that of her husband suggests that even in death, she is still trapped to an extent

in the same marriage power dynamics she was in life.

Fig. 107. Screenshots of Katsuya possessed by Takeo (Left) and Kayako first appearing (Right) from Ju-On: The
Grudge.

This portrayal contrasts significantly from the Curse films, where Kayako is seen to

freely appear, speak, manipulate, possess, and kill. Not only is she portrayed as the primary

supernatural antagonist of the direct-to-video films, but she is also depicted as capable of

extreme, inhuman violence. Though none of the violence being inflicted is explicitly shown on

screen, the daughter of the Murakami family is later shown to have been torn to shreds, her lower

jaw ripped clean off. When the body of her school friend who was with her is discovered and
examined by the coroner, he describes what has been done to her to the investigating police

detectives:

CORONER. 第三者が関わった形跡は何も出てきていません。まるで自然の力で

捩じ上げられて、千切られたような。[…] 初めてですよ、こんな死体。

“There is no evidence to indicate the presence of a third party. It’s almost as if it [the

body] was twisted and torn to pieces by some spontaneous force. […] This is a first for

me, a body like this.”

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As the only supernatural antagonist present in the Curse films, it can be assumed that Kayako’s

onryō is the culprit behind this extreme violence. In contrast, her power in the theatrical film is

considerably tempered, even diminished, by Takeo’s presence, as she lacks even the ability to

fully punish the husband who brutalized her. Although Takeo’s “mysterious” death is presumed

to have been caused by Kayako in Ju-On: The Grudge, the audience is not given any visual

affirmation of this. This is quite unlike the direct-to-video films, where she is explicitly shown to

be the culprit of her husband’s demise in Ju-On: The Curse.

This is not to say, however, that Kayako does not present as a threat to characters in Ju-

On: The Grudge. Following her encounter with the black ghost at the beginning of the film, Rika

is repeatedly haunted by both Kayako and Toshio’s spirits. Kayako’s onryō is also seen openly

attacking several female characters, including Katsuya’s sister, Hitomi, while inside her

apartment. As she suddenly appears from places like under the bed covers or inside a Buddhist

family altar, Kayako seizes her victims and drags them back with her, never to be seen again.

Fig. 108. Screenshots of Kayako and Toshio haunting Rika (Left) and seizing female victims (Right) from Ju-On:
The Grudge.

With the heavily suggested context of domestic violence, Kayako’s onslaught as an onryō

in Ju-On: The Grudge can be viewed more as her venting resentments over society turning a

blind eye to her suffering. Not only is her story not fully told or known, but she continues to be

tormented by Takeo, even in death. In many ways, Kayako’s continued suffering is comparable

to the very real agonies incurred by domestic abuse victims. Nobody sees, hears, or is even

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aware, and in their obliviousness are to some extent thought complicit in the violence being done

unto her. The anger Kayako consequently harbors towards the ignorant living is tangible,

especially when she comes crawling down the stairs, dragging her crushed body, towards Rika in

the climax of the film. This anger gives way, however, if only momentarily, to a desperate silent

plea for help as she reaches for Rika, struggling to speak, tears welling up in her eyes. Despite

how little is revealed of her character compared to the direct-to-video films, Kayako’s portrayal

in Ju-On: The Grudge is potentially the most sympathetic for the viewer as they are given the

impression that she continues to suffer, endlessly being torn apart by her husband, who remains

in the house as the one in power.

Fig. 109. Screenshots of Kayako’s onryō appearing before Rika from Ju-On: The Grudge.

Ultimately, Rika is unable to do anything for Kayako, as she lacks even the power to save

herself. The ending of the film suggests, however, a different fate for Rika compared to the other
victims, and that perhaps Kayako may not have been as indiscriminate in her acts of aggression

as initially indicated. Unlike the characters affected by Takeo, whose bodies are found in the

same attic where he hid his wife’s body after killing her, the women taken by Kayako are never

found. In the “Izumi” anecdote, however, which chronologically takes place at least ten years

after the climax, it is revealed in a news broadcast that Rika’s body had been discovered in the

attic of the house, suggesting Takeo to be the culprit of her demise, not Kayako. This is visually

reinforced in the film’s climactic scene, as Takeo emerges in his physical form for the first time

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to attack Rika. Unlike Takeo’s other victims, however, namely Kazumi and Katsuya, Rika is the

only one made in Kayako’s image – body brutalized and bloodied, wrapped in plastic in the attic.

As he looms over her, with Toshio watching from above, Rika is made to fully re-enact the

manner in which Kayako died. This suggests that Rika is serving as more than just another

victim, perhaps even as a surrogate for Kayako. Her persistent haunting of Rika throughout the

film hints early on at this possible agenda. This is further supported in the climax, as Rika sees

Kayako’s image reflected back at her in a mirror while attempting to flee the house. Even before

Takeo’s bodied appearance, Rika is literally made to see herself as Kayako. By redirecting her

husband’s violence away from herself and onto another, the new female onryō seeks escape from

the vicious cycle she is trapped in.

Fig. 110. Screenshots of Rika murdered by Takeo and made in Kayako’s image from Ju-On: The Grudge.

While Kayako’s part in the deaths that occur in Ju-On: The Grudge is more ambiguous,

this changes almost entirely in the sequel film. Set some time after the first film, long enough for
the house to have become an urban legend as a haunted house, the events of Ju-On: The Grudge

2 revolve around the members of a television crew for a popular horror program, who enter the

house for a filming. Most notable is Harase Kyoko, an actress and “horror queen,” who is invited

as a guest on the show. As she and her fiancé, Masashi, are driving home, they end up in a

terrible car accident, caused by Toshio’s ghost, that results in Masashi falling into a coma and

Kyoko miscarrying their baby. At the hospital, Kyoko is visited by Toshio yet again, who

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touches her stomach before disappearing. The very night and time of Kyoko’s accident, other

crew members are seen to fall prey to Kayako’s onryō, namely the program host, Tomoka, and

the hair stylist, Megumi. Sometime after Kyoko has recovered from her accident, she is shocked

to learn from her doctor that she is pregnant again. She is revisited by Toshio while at home,

whereupon her mother mysteriously dies in her sleep. Kyoko is then visited by the television

program director, Keisuke, who reveals that aside from her and himself, the entire crew that

entered the house have either died or disappeared. In an attempt to investigate further, Kyoko

goes back to the house, but begins to have contractions as soon as she is inside. When Keisuke

brings Kyoko to the hospital, it is revealed that she has been pregnant with none other than the

new female onryō Kayako herself, who emerges from Kyoko’s womb in the operating room,

fully freed from the confines of the house.

The most significant change in onryō depiction in Ju-On: The Grudge 2, compared to the

first theatrical film, is the removal of Takeo from the Saeki house’s curse. Beyond Ju-On: The

Grudge, his onryō does not make an appearance in any subsequent film of the series. In Takeo’s

absence, Kayako wholly takes on the role as the aggressor and is explicitly shown to kill people,

most notably Tomoka and her boyfriend, Noritaka, by strangling and hanging them in her

apartment. When Kyoko gives birth to Kayako in the film’s climax, her onryō is shown to kill all

the doctors and medical staff in the operating room, as well as Keisuke, who comes in to check
on Kyoko. This strength in her malevolence is more reminiscent of the power her onryō

exhibited in the original direct-to-video films, as she also appears able to possess people, namely

the somewhat psychically attuned Megumi, who reappears as a spirit of sorts that does Kayako’s

bidding, notably delivering her journal to Keisuke.

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Fig. 111. Screenshots of Kayako killing Tomoka and Noritaka from Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

What is perhaps distinctive of Kayako’s onryō in Ju-On: The Grudge 2 is her power over

her son Toshio. In both Curse films and Ju-On: The Grudge, Toshio presents as more of a

harbinger rather than an agent of the curse that afflicts those who come in contact with the Saeki

house. This contrasts with his portrayal in Ju-On: The Grudge 2, where from the very opening of

the film, he is visibly shown responsible for Kyoko and Masashi’s car accident that causes

Kyoko to lose her baby and her fiancé to fall into a coma. Later, after Kyoko discovers that she is

still pregnant, his ghost is seen in Kyoko’s house hovering over her mother, heavily implying

that he has brought about her mysterious death. It becomes clear, however, that Toshio’s acts of

violence are more an extension of Kayako’s will rather than conscious actions on his part, as

they all appear to serve her needs and desires. Toshio’s existence as an onryō is intrinsically

linked to his mother. Outside of these acts of direct violence, Toshio exhibits little to no agency
and is mostly the same as he is in earlier films. By using her son in this manner, effectively

making him kill for her, Kayako continues to be seen as a monstrous mother.

At the same time, while Kayako’s acts of overt violence and manipulation of her son

heighten her presence as a more aggressive, powerful antagonist, her onryō is still trapped by the

house. Consequently, her actions in Ju-On: The Grudge 2 are more pointed from the very

beginning of the film, and largely driven by a desire to escape and break free. Kayako is clearly

focused on Kyoko from the moment she enters the Saeki house. Seeking that Kyoko is pregnant,

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Kayako seizes the opportunity to orchestrate her own rebirth. After having her son Toshio cause

an accident that eliminates both the unborn fetus as well as Kyoko’s fiancé as a potential obstacle,

she reimpregnates Kyoko with herself. Once Kyoko is made aware that she is pregnant again,

Kayako has her mother killed before Kyoko can say anything to her and alert her to the

incongruity. Ultimately, by using perhaps the most integral symbol of the female sex, Kayako

finally breaks free of the house that confined her through masculine violence.

Although there is some degree of poetic justice in Kayako effectively using female power

incarnate to free herself, this is largely overshadowed by the odious fact that she abuses the

womb of a fellow woman to achieve her rebirth. Consequently, the audience derives no

satisfaction from seeing Kayako liberated, only apprehension. This is accentuated in the final

scene of the film where Kayako, now a child, is seen killing her “mother” Kyoko by pushing her

down the stairs of a train overpass. Kayako’s sudden murder of Kyoko is not just shocking, it is

unsettling, as there is little apparent reason or cause. Freed from her past trauma and having

erased virtually all memory of her marriage with Takeo, one might argue that the Kayako of the

earlier Ju-On films no longer exists, as she effectively reinvents herself as a form of dead wet

girl. This “new” Kayako thus presents as an altogether different figure, one that is

incomprehensible and wholly unsympathetic. As she continues to commit horrific, almost

senseless, acts of violence, now as a small, living child, viewers are left with the unsettling
awareness that they have no idea what drives her anymore.

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Fig. 112. Screenshots of Kyoko holding Kayako as her “baby” (Left) and Kayako having killed Kyoko (Right) from
Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

In terms of visual representation and enactment, Kayako is a particularly notable

portrayal of the new female onryō because her face is fully shown. This is contrary to what

Takahashi Hiroshi describes as the ideal “techniques” to effectively portray ghosts in J-horror,

which explicitly stress not showing the face or leaving it at least blurred or obscured. While her

character is certainly transformed through severe violence, Shimizu Takashi chose to subvert

audience expectations in the depiction of ghosts in his films, taking visual inspiration from the

butō performers that had terrified him as a child. At a point when viewers had come to expect a

shadowed onryō figure, or one whose face was covered with hair in J-horror films, Kayako’s

wide-eyed, bloodied visage had a startling and highly disconcerting effect. This is not to say that

Kayako does not undergo any destruction or distortion of image, however. As part of the

violence he inflicts upon his wife, Takeo is seen to further destroy her image by not only

mutilating her physical body, but also any and all photos of her, cutting her face out of each one
as if trying to obliterate not just her image, but her very memory.

The image that is perhaps the most obscured, to which Hirohashi’s cited “techniques” are

applied, is that of Kayako’s living image. Though rare, in all instances where Kayako is seen

while still alive across the Ju-On films, she is filmed in either a long shot where it is too far to

make out her face, or her features are purposefully blurred. In the original Ju-On: The Curse, this

is apparent as Kobayashi recalls Kayako approaching him on the first day of school for Toshio.

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Even as she draws close to the camera, the audience cannot make out her features. Even after

Kayako is reborn and returns to konoyo at the conclusion of Ju-On: The Grudge 2, her living

image still lacks a face; the most that is ever seen is a single wide eye and a face covered in hair.

By having Kayako’s living image be the one that is distorted, however, implies that her image as

an onryō is in fact her “true” self, making it virtually impossible for the audience to recognize

her as anything other than the monstrous feminine.

Fig. 113. Screenshots of Kayako’s living image from Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-On: The Grudge 2 (Right).

Not only was Shimizu Takashi noted for subverting audience expectations for

contemporary depictions of onryō, but his Ju-On films were also acknowledged for firmly

establishing the haunted house trope for Japanese horror cinema.263 Starting from Ju-On: The

Curse through Ju-On: The Grudge 2, there is a strong, tangible emphasis on place in each film.

This is largely due to all of the films being shot on location within the physical confines of an

actual house (Dixon 157). As Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano notes, the tendency of shooting on

location, though initially motivated by budget constraints, has since become a distinctive

characteristic of J-horror that lends many films their sense of atmosphere. In the case of Ju-On,

“[a] sense of claustrophobia is created by the use of an actual house, with the camera work

dictated by the tight dimensions of a typical Japanese residence” (Wada-Marciano 19).

263
The film most often credited for first introducing the theme to Japan is Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s Sweet Home,

released in 1989.
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 By utilizing the physical location, director Shimizu Takashi is able to further illustrate the

onryō figures that appear in his films. In each film the boy Toshio, for example, is seen to

emerge from multiple places within the house, most notably the room closet where he tried to

hide from Takeo and the bathroom where he was presumably killed. Throughout the first

theatrical film, Toshio behaves not unlike a poltergeist, running about, knocking things over and

making a mess. In the case of Kayako, however, her being seems almost exclusively tied, even

confined, to the room where she suffered brutal violence. This is evident given how often her

ghost is seen looking out from the inner (see Fig. 107, right) and outer windows of that specific

room. It is from this room, where Takeo mutilated her and accessed the attic to conceal her body,

that her onryō is first seen physically in each Ju-On film. When she attacks victims within the

house, she is strictly seen (or heard) emerging from either the room itself, or from the attic

directly above. Even in Ju-On: The Grudge 2 where her onryō exhibits significant aggressive

power, Kayako’s appearance is still seen to be physically restricted by the same, specific space.

Fig. 114. Screenshots of Kayako looking out from the outside window in Ju-On: The Curse (Left) and Ju-On: The
Grudge 2.

Aside from physically framing the onryō figures that emerge, the house itself is shown to

be affected by the curse that has infected its walls. In both theatrical release films, the Saeki

house presents as a warped space of temporal reality, showing different realities or flows of time

in the same space. In the climax of Ju-On: The Grudge, this distortion of reality is what results in

Rika’s friend Mariko, who is a newly made elementary school teacher, not being able to perceive

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that the student’s house she is visiting is in fact uninhabited with police tape across the front gate

and floors covered with dust. In the case of the sequel film, different times, both past and future,

are shown to be taking place within the house alongside the present. One notable instance is

when Kyoko first visits the house with the television crew near the beginning of the film. As

Kyoko sits contemplating her pregnancy, the space behind her changes to when Kayako and

Toshio were alive and living in the house. Having absorbed the “strong, deep-seated grudge” of

Kayako into its very walls, the house visually embodies the trauma and its lasting effects on the

woman.

Fig. 115. Screenshots of Kyoko at the house from Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

As an onryō, although Kayako’s face is clearly seen and she is not subjected to the same

extent of image obstruction as noted in other films, there are other physical attributes, namely

hair, that are utilized to embody her presence and power. This is especially apparent in Ju-On:
The Grudge 2, where Kayako uses her hair as a noose to wrap around the necks of Tomoka and

her boyfriend, Noritaka, and string them up in Tomoka’s apartment. The final image of their

anecdote is the two of them dangling, the ceiling covered with Kayako’s hair as a tangled mass

stretched across like a web (see Fig. 111, right). Unlike with the classic female onryō, both in

stage and film depictions, there is little semblance of the same femininity attributed to Kayako’s

hair. In Megumi’s anecdote, it is not even her actual hair, but the artificial hair of a wig which is

utilized to embody her presence. As if using the wig’s hair as a conduit, Kayako’s onryō is seen

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to effectively possess the wig, as indicated by the hair length suddenly changing. To Megumi’s

horror, she watches as Kayako emerges from the wig, its hair becoming the onryō’s own hair, to

attack her.

Fig. 116. Screenshots of Kayako’s hair strangling Tomoka (Left) and possessing a wig, changing its length (Right)
from Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

Although Kayako is not a dead wet girl herself, at least not until perhaps the end of Ju-

On: The Grudge 2, the attribute of “wetness” is heavily utilized to embody her presence. This

state of wetness is heightened in the sequel film, as her presence is seen represented both inside

and outside the house as a dark stain. As it reappears before several characters in different places,

namely Megumi and Kyoko, the stain is seen to grow in size, and even appears to be still wet at

times. Through a vision shortly before she dies, Megumi realizes that it is the blood stain

Kayako’s body made as she lay in the room still alive and bleeding but paralyzed due to her

broken neck.

Fig. 117. Screenshots of Kayako as a “wet” stain (Left) and in Megumi’s vision (Right) from Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

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 In Ju-On: The Grudge 2, especially, this bloody wetness takes on new meaning at the end

of the film. As she emerges from Kyoko’s womb in the operating room and crawls towards

Keisuke, she still appears in her adult onryō form. No longer evidence of past traumas, however,

the blood Kayako is now soaked in is not her own, but Kyoko’s, having successfully achieved

her own rebirth. In this sense, rather than as a source for pollution, blood serves as a means to

cleanse the new female onryō of her past identity. Only after she has killed Keisuke, the last one

alive who has any connection to the house (save for Kyoko) does she appear truly reborn as an

infant (see Fig. 112, left).

Fig. 118. Screenshots of Kayako reborn and attacking Keisuke (Left) compared to how she appears earlier attacking
Megumi (Right) from Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

Although Kayako’s unnatural bodily movements have a significant visual impact on the

audience, what is the most distinctive in her depiction is her inability to communicate. Physically

prevented from being able to speak for herself, her throat mangled by Takeo’s rage, the most
Kayako is capable of are inhuman sounds in the form of a hair-raising death rattle. However, she

is shown capable of speech in the original Ju-On: The Curse and its sequel, both as her onryō

self and while possessing other living characters. Consequently, her character as she appears in

the Curse films is attributed a heightened sense of agency and power. Takeo’s non-appearance as

an onryō after being killed by Kayako in the Curse films further implies her superiority to him in

death.

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 Though increasingly bold and direct in actions in the later theatrical release films, the

silencing of Kayako makes it impossible for the audience to fully relate or empathize with her.

Even in Ju-On: The Grudge 2, where Kayako’s journal repeatedly makes an appearance, it is

never read so that the audience is given the opportunity to hear her voice. By being unable to

speak for herself or share her own story, she can easily be misunderstood. As a victim, there is

something almost cathartic in being able to verbalize incurred trauma. Being deprived of this

ability makes it possible to ignore or misconstrue the female onryō’s actions for something else

entirely. In other words, her actions can be considered as solely those of an inhuman “monster”

rather than an embittered “victim.”

IV.3.1.2 The Ringu Films: Ringu (1998) | Ringu 2 (1999)
Aside from Kayako of Ju-On, the new female onryō Yamamura Sadako, attributed as the

official progenitor of the dead wet girl, is perhaps the best-known figure of J-horror, both within

Japan and overseas. The success of Nakata Hideo’s first Ringu film is often credited with

popularizing the genre internationally, as well as with inspiring an entire trend of remaking J-

horror films for Western audiences.264 Even those who have never seen a Ringu film recognize

Sadako’s image, often conflating her appearance with the entire J-horror genre. Loosely based on

the 1991 novel written by Suzuki Kōji, Sadako of the Ringu films continues to this day to be the

strongest example of the dead wet girl role type. Not only are her unfathomable powers depicted

as innate to her very being, but her character is also inextricably associated with water in

multiple forms.

The first Ringu film opens with female newspaper journalist, Asakawa Reiko, as she

investigates the mysterious circumstances of her niece Tomoko’s death, which seem to revolve

264
In addition to Gore Verbinski’s American remake, The Ring, released in 2002, Shimizu Takashi directed two
American remakes of his own Ju-On films, titled The Grudge (2004) and The Grudge 2 (2006). Nakata Hideo’s

Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara was remade as Dark Water (2005), directed by Walter Salles, as was Miike

Takashi’s Chakushin Ari, titled One Missed Call (2008) and directed by Eric Valette.
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around a supposedly cursed videotape. As she retraces Tomoko and her friends’ steps back to a

rental cabin in Izu, Reiko discovers and ends up watching the same videotape, resulting in her

being cursed to die exactly seven days after watching the tape, just like her niece. She enlists the

help of her ex-husband, Takayama Ryūji, who is both a professor and a psychic, to try and put a

stop to the curse not just for their own sakes, but also for their son, Yōichi, who ends up

watching the videotape as well. Their investigation leads them to locate the family home of

female psychic, Yamamura Shizuko, on the island of Ōshima.265 There, they learn that a certain

doctor by the name of Ikuma Heihachiro had Shizuko demonstrate her psychic abilities in an

attempt to prove the existence of extrasensory perception. During the demonstration, one of the

attending reporters denounced Shizuko as a fraud, inciting his colleagues to join in on the

ridicule, and was subsequently killed psychokinetically by Sadako, Shizuko’s daughter. As Ryūji

concludes that the videotape is Sadako’s doing, an embodiment of her intense hatred, the two

seek to pacify Sadako’s spirit before Reiko’s time runs out.

Aside from Sadako, the Ringu film series is characterized by the presence of female

characters in possession of significant preternatural power, most notably Sadako’s mother,

Shizuko. As part of their investigation, Ryūji and Reiko learn of Shizuko’s extraordinary

clairvoyant abilities, which allowed her to accurately predict the eruption of Mount Mihara.266

As a result of this rather public incident, she gained considerable repute, catching Ikuma’s
attention, which in turn led to the fateful psychic demonstration. By making her powers publicly

known, however, Shizuko is seen as a threat to male power and consequently becomes the

subject of ridicule. At the demonstration, she becomes a woman put on display before a room

full of men. As she gets each answer correct one after the other, it becomes apparent to the men

265
An inhabited volcanic island that is part of the Izu archipelago in the Philippine Sea, located east of the Izu

Peninsula.
266
An active volcano on Izu Ōshima.
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watching that she might be in possession of power and knowledge beyond their comprehension.

Rather than accept this, they accuse her of subterfuge:

REPORTER 1. 如何様だ！これは手品だ, しかも低級な手品だな。俺は騙されんぞ。

“This is a hoax! This is a magic trick, and a cheap one at that. I won’t be deceived.”

REPORTER 2. 伊熊博士、あんた騙されてんだよ!

“Professor Ikuma, you are being deceived!”

Despite the fact that the demonstration was Ikuma’s idea, it is Shizuko who is solely the subject

of ridicule, who is accused of “deceiving” men. All she had ever done was tell the truth, and yet

as a woman she is persecuted for doing so.

Fig. 119. Screenshots of Shizuko and Sadako at Ikuma’s psychic demonstration from Ringu.

In this sense, Sadako’s act of killing the first reporter, who had both directly insulted

Shizuko and incited the others to rebuke her, can be viewed as the act of a child defending her

mother. Considering this, a particularly intriguing reading of Sadako’s name as “righteous child”

(貞子) conveys the strong conviction of one who rectifies wrongs, be they real or imagined,

which may account for both the intensity of Sadako’s resentment as well as her desire for

vengeance. Despite this, her actions instill nothing but horror in those around her, including

Shizuko, who commits suicide by throwing herself into the volcanic Mount Mihara. Like

Shizuko, Sadako makes her powers known and is punished for doing so. Ultimately, Ikuma,

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growing ever fearful of the girl’s potential power as she fully matures, kills his adoptive daughter

by throwing her down a well and sealing her inside.

This attitude contrasts significantly with how Takayama Ryūji is viewed as a male

character shown to possess psychic abilities. Given what minimal emphasis there is on his role as

a father figure in the film, it is arguably because of his gifts that Reiko turns to him for help in

dealing with Sadako’s curse. Reiko for the most part presents as a capable woman who is not

seen particularly struggling to maintain both her work and her single parent household. It is only

after Yōichi ends up watching the tape and the time for her curse draws near that she starts to

despair:

REIKO. あたしが死ぬ時、一緒にいて。

“When I die, stay with me.”

RYŪJI. 止せよ。

“Stop it.”

REIKO. ね？ね？それで、それで切開方が分かったら陽一を–

“Okay? Okay? And then, and then when you figure out how it works you can save

Yōichi-”

RYŪJI. 止せって。智子と一緒にいた子気が触れちまったんだろう？ 俺だってど

うなるか分からない。
“Stop, I said. The girl who was with Tomoko ended up losing her mind, right? We

don’t know what will happen to me.”

REIKO. 竜司さんなら大丈夫よ！

“It’ll be fine if it’s you!”

RYŪJI. 俺がまともじゃないからか？

“Because I’m not normal, is that it?”

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Although it is likely that one of the reasons for their divorce was due to Reiko learning about

Ryūji’s powers, this is not explicitly stated. Furthermore, unlike Shizuko or Sadako, he is not

regarded with fear or called a “monster” (化け物) by those around him. Rather, Reiko has

complete faith in him because of his “not normal” abilities that he will find a way to save their

son, if not herself.

The lack of fear in Ryūji’s powers may also have to do with the fact that his powers are

not as formidable as Sadako’s, in reference to the long-established belief in women having a

natural affinity for the supernatural. Even for a female, however, Sadako’s powers are depicted

as especially unnatural, so much so it is heavily implied that she is not entirely human. Even

Ryūji is stunned to learn of her powers “to kill people just by willing it,” which are unreal even

to him as a fellow psychic. As far as Yamamura Takashi, Shizuko’s cousin, is concerned, Sadako

was born as a result of Shizuko, herself considered to be “creepy” ever since she was a child, and

her abnormal connection to the ocean. He describes his cousin to Ryūji while sitting on the

shores staring out at the crashing waves: “She [Shizuko] was a strange one. She used to sit here

all day long. She’d just stare at the sea every single day. All the fishermen hated her. The sea is

ominous for us. Every year it swallows some of us. And she’d just stare out at it.” By devoting

an inordinate amount of attention to something so “ominous” as the sea, which inherently has

such close ties with anoyo, Shizuko invited something monstrous. This is encapsulated in the
provincial saying both overheard in the cursed videotape and referred to repeatedly throughout

the film, translated as “frolic in brine, goblins be thine,” which further implies Sadako’s less than

human origins. When Takashi agrees to help Ryūji and Reiko by taking them across the sea

despite the storm, he shares his suspicions about Shizuko being involved with something

monstrous at sea:

TAKASHI. 志津子は海と喋ってた。[…] 俺は隠れて聞いてたことがある。人間の

言葉じゃなかった。

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 “Shizuko used to talk to the sea. […] I hid and listened once. It wasn’t a human

language.”

Upon learning this, Ryūji later wonders if perhaps Sadako’s father might have been some sort of

sea wraith or “goblin.” The presumption of Sadako’s monstrousness casts her character into the

abject based solely on her supposed unnatural birth before she has even done anything or

transformed into an onryō.

Given Sadako’s apparent connection to the ocean, the significance of her being thrown

down a well to die is especially heightened. As Reiko realizes that the rented cabin in Izu, where

the cursed videotape was first found, must be built on what was formerly Ikuma’s home, the two

go back to the cabin to try and find Sadako. Beneath the cabin, they find the well, sealed with a

concrete lid. The sight of torn, bloody nails sticking out of the well’s inner stone walls, however,

reveal that Sadako was not in fact dead when she was thrown inside by Ikuma. The strength of

her hatred, combined with being cut off from the ocean, from the unasaka and its connection to

anoyo and thus incapable of moving on even if she wanted to, her onryō has been left to fester in

the well’s waters for years. By the time Reiko and Ryūji find the well to try and recover

Sadako’s corpse, she is long since beyond any form of spiritual pacification, which may explain

her indiscriminate desire to inflict suffering in the form of the cursed videotape. As Reiko

embraces Sadako’s body and the time limit passes with her unscathed, the curse appears to have
been lifted. The next day, however, Reiko is horrified to find out that Ryūji has been killed by

Sadako’s curse. With the help of Ryūji’s ghost, Reiko realizes that what actually saved her is that

she showed the videotape to her ex-husband and made a copy, effectively aiding Sadako in the

dissemination of her curse, and therefore the only way to save Yōichi is to have him do the same.

With a heavy heart, Reiko contacts her father to ask him to do a “favor” for his grandson.

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Fig. 120. Screenshots of Reiko finding Sadako’s body in the well (Left) and Ryūji’s spirit helping Reiko realize
what she must do to save Yōichi (Right) from Ringu.

As the film closes with Reiko making the phone call, it is unclear to the audience if she

intends to be honest with her father or to resort to deception in order to save Yōichi. In Ringu 2,

however, it is revealed that he willingly sacrificed himself for his grandson. This sense of

selflessness is also exhibited by Ryūji. At the end of Ringu, Ryūji realizes the truth behind

Sadako’s curse, but is unable to communicate this to Reiko in time. After his death, he returns to

konoyo not out of resentment over dying, but because of the desire to help save their son. Despite

his understated role as a father in the film, Ryūji, like Reiko’s father, is ultimately depicted as a

noble patriarchal figure.

This characterization of Ryūji is one major point of distinction between the Ringu films

and Suzuki Kōji’s novels on which the franchise is loosely based. Although it is beyond the

scope of this dissertation to discuss the entire Ring novel and compare it to the first Ringu film
in-depth, some differences do need to be mentioned. For instance, instead of single working

mother Asakawa Reiko, the main character of the first novel is a male journalist named Asakawa

Kazuyuki with a wife and daughter. Consequently, Ryūji does not have the same relationship

with Asakawa as he does in the film. Furthermore, although Ryūji as a spirit does give Asakawa

a hint in both mediums, the motivation behind this gesture appears to be more self-serving in the

books. Instead of a selfless act to help his friend save his family, Ryūji is revealed in the sequel

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novel Spiral267 to have been working with Sadako to ensure her resurrection so that he can be

spared and revived by her powers. This was the initial intended direction of the Ringu film series,

and a film adaptation of Spiral was released under the same name, referred to in Japanese as

Rasen [らせん; “Spiral”].268 However, the revelation of Ryūji as more of a selfish character who

willingly allies himself with the new female onryō and even manipulates others for her did not

resonate with film audiences, as indicated by the poor reception of Rasen, resulting in the release

of Ringu 2 the following year, and Rasen becoming a “forgotten sequel.”

In Ringu 2, the sequel picks up from where the first film ended, revolving primarily

around Takano Mai, a former assistant for Takayama Ryūji, as she tries to investigate his sudden

death. At the same time, the police are also investigating Ryūji’s death and how his ex-wife

Reiko might be involved, especially after her father dies under virtually identical circumstances a

week later. Mai seeks out Reiko at her workplace for answers, only to learn that both she and her

son have suddenly disappeared. Together with Reiko’s work colleague Okazaki, who is

attempting to finish her story on the cursed videotape, they end up meeting with Kawajiri, a

paranormal researcher not unlike Ikuma who studied Sadako’s mother. It is revealed that

Kawajiri has been treating and experimenting on Masami, who was witness to her friend

Tomoko’s supernatural death and became subsequently affected by Sadako’s presence. Mai, who

possesses similar psychic abilities to her mentor Ryūji, manages to find Yōichi, whose own
powers have intensified since his experience watching the videotape and his father and

grandfather’s deaths. Despite having bonded with Yōichi, after narrowly escaping Sadako’s

curse and being coerced by the police, Mai divulges where he and his mother have been hiding,

which ultimately results in Reiko’s death. In search for a way to help Yōichi, who, like Masami,

is afflicted by Sadako’s energy, Mai brings him with her to Ōshima, where Sadako was born.

267
Released in 1995.
268
Directed by Iida Jōji (1959-) and released in 1998.
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There, Kawajiri attempts an experiment to exorcise Sadako’s energy from Yōichi and eliminate

her once and for all.

As an original sequel film to Ringu, it is in Ringu 2 where Sadako’s origins are affirmed

as incontrovertibly non-human. This is made clear from the very opening of the film, when

Yamamura Takashi is brought into the morgue to formally identify Sadako’s body that had been

retrieved from the well. There, the police detective Omuta reveals to Takashi that according to

their forensics, Sadako had only died less than two years ago, meaning that she had been trapped

alive in that well for about thirty years. Her tenacity to stay alive attests to not only the intensity

of her resentment, but also her unnatural power borne from her innate connection to the ocean

due to her “birth” by Shizuko at sea. As Takashi shares with Mai after she brings Yōichi with her

to Ōshima:

TAKASHI. あいつはたった一人で貞子を産んだんだ。腹を凹ませて帰ってきて、

海へ流したって。だが次の日には、抱いて帰ってきた。

“She [Shizuko] gave birth to Sadako all by herself. She just came home with her

stomach sunken in, saying that she set it [the baby] adrift into the sea. But then the next

day, she came back with her [Sadako] in her arms.”

Although Takashi describes Shizuko as having given birth to Sadako, his words imply more that

she may have had an abortion. This is apparent given the phrasing and use of the verb nagasu
(流す) in Japanese, which roughly translates as “to let flow or set adrift,” but is also used as a

euphemism for aborting a fetus. Shortly after, he leads Mai to where he claims Sadako was

“born,” a sea cave referred to by the locals as the sai no kawara, in reference to the Buddhist

concept of a “children’s limbo,” where the souls of deceased children are caught between konoyo

and anoyo. According to Takashi, it gained its name due to being a known place for people to

abandon unwanted offspring:

TAKASHI. 潮が満ちれば、都合の悪いものを全部海に持ってくれる。

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 “With the rising of the tide, it would carry any and all things inconvenient away to the

sea.”

Given Takashi’s earlier anecdotes shared in Ringu regarding Shizuko’s abnormal relationship

with the ocean, it can be presumed that her act of abortion was not likely due to unwanted

pregnancy, especially since she brought Sadako back with her the following day. Rather, she

answered the call of the ocean and willingly gave her unborn baby to it so that she could receive

its child in return.

Although the identity of Sadako’s father is not explicitly affirmed in either Ringu film, it

is made clear in Ringu 2 that at the very least Sadako herself was never a normal being of konoyo,

not even from her “birth.” It is for this reason that when Sadako’s body is given to Takashi as her

sole remaining family, he returns her to the sea by throwing her coffin into the water. This

proves to be ineffective, however, as her coffin later re-emerges at the bottom of the pool being

used for Kawajiri’s experiment to cleanse Yōichi of Sadako’s resentful energy that had been

transmitted to him upon watching the cursed videotape. Through her power as an onryō, Sadako

is able to connect the pool with anoyo and return to konoyo once again, killing both Takashi and

Kawajiri by driving the two of them to suicide.

Fig. 121. Screenshots of Sadako’s coffin being returned to the sea (Left) and Takashi and Mai in the sai no kawara
sea cave (Right) from Ringu 2.

As a sequel to Ringu, the depiction of Mai, who is also present in the novels but primarily

as Ryūji’s lover, as a fellow female psychic provides interesting comparisons to both Sadako’s

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and Shizuko’s portrayals in the films. While she is not given much opportunity in the film to

exhibit the full extent of her powers, it is hinted that she possesses abilities perhaps more

comparable to Sadako, as she is shown capable of more aggressive acts than Ryūji, namely

destroying a mirror through psychokinesis. Additionally, Mai demonstrates the capacity for

empathy with multiple characters, including Reiko, Masami and even the spirit of Shizuko, when

she appears in Takashi’s home. This is what also allows her to establish a connection with

Yōichi. When Reiko dies, Mai assumes the role of almost a mother to Yōichi, determined to take

care of him and save him from Sadako.

It is her assumption of this role, combined with her conforming to society, that sets her

the most apart from Sadako, and is arguably what saves her from persecution. Unlike Sadako,

Mai is never seen to be open about her powers, and only admits them to Kawajiri near the end of

the film so that she would be allowed to help with the experiment to save Yōichi. This choice to

conceal her abilities, however, may be largely influenced by the advice given by Ryūji as her

mentor when she first approached him about also being in possession of psychic power:

RYŪJI. 誰にも言わない方がいい。そんな力、何の役にも立たない。

“You best not tell anyone. That sort of power, won’t be of any use [to anyone].”

Ultimately, it is neither Mai’s powers, nor Kawajiri’s science, not even his mother that saves

Yōichi, but his father. After the experiment goes awry and both Mai and Yōichi become trapped
in anoyo by Sadako, Ryūji reappears, once again as a spirit, to succeed where both Reiko and

Kawajiri had failed by absorbing all of Sadako’s negative energy from his son. Finally, he

entrusts Yōichi into Mai’s care and helps the two of them escape from Sadako before

disappearing forever. Unlike in Ringu, Ryūji is seen to take more of a direct hand in saving

Yōichi. Furthermore, as there is little indication in the film that Ryūji and Mai share the same

sort of relationship as they do in the novels, Ryūji’s actions in saving her are not seen to be

romantically motivated. Rather, it is arguably Mai’s assumption of a parental role for Yōichi in

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place of his now both deceased parents that drives him to also ensure his son’s future under her

care. Thus, Ryūji presents as even more of a noble, self-sacrificing parental figure than he does

in Ringu.

Fig. 122. Screenshots of Ryūji saving Yōichi in anoyo from Ringu 2.

While Ryūji’s characterization is a key point of difference between the Ringu films and

Suzuki’s novel series, what is perhaps the most critical distinction is the characterization of

Sadako herself. In the Ring novel, Sadako is in possession of psychic powers; however, they pale

in comparison to what she demonstrates in the films. Consequently, it is not the public exhibition

of her powers to kill simply by willing it, an ability that she notably does not possess in the novel,

that results in her death and subsequent curse. Rather, she is murdered and thrown down the well

after being brutally raped by one Doctor Nagao, who had been obsessed with her beauty. Perhaps

the most important difference in characterization is that in Suzuki Kōji’s novels, Sadako is

revealed to not be the true source of the curse that afflicts Asakawa and Ryūji. When Nagao

assaulted her, she contracted the smallpox virus from him through blood contact before he

murdered her. As Sadako’s dying resentment and psychic powers bonded with the smallpox, it

mutated into a conscious virus able to spread and infect others through psychic means. Referred

to as the “Ring Virus,” it is this virus that poses as the true “villain” and continues to plague

characters throughout the rest of the novel series. Known for disliking supernatural content and

horror, Suzuki Kōji’s choice to make the “curse” of his books more of a pseudo-scientific threat

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reflects his personal preferences. Nakata Hideo’s explicit choice to alter Sadako’s portrayal for

the Ringu films and cast her as the villain instead highlights the influence of the monstrous

feminine on Japanese horror cinema.

In keeping with this focus on the feminine in Japanese horror, another key element of

Sadako’s characterization in the novel that is notably absent in the first film is the revelation of

her being intersex. As translated by Robert G. Rohmer and Glynne Walley, Nagao discovers this

only after raping her, which he recounts to both Asakawa and Ryūji when they visit his clinic to

confront him about Sadako:

[…] I looked at her body again. I thought my eyes had deceived me. Her wrinkled gray

skirt had bunched up around her waist, and she made no move to cover her breasts as she

backed up. A ray of sunlight fell on the point where her thighs converged, clearly

illuminating a small, blackish lump. I raised my eyes to her chest – beautifully-shaped

breasts. Then I looked down again. Within her pubic mound, covered with hair, was a

pair of perfectly developed testicles.

[…] Sadako was still staring at me. I was probably the first person outside her family

to discover the secret of her body. Needless to say, she had been a virgin up until a few

minutes previous. It had been a necessary trial if she were going to go on living as a

woman. I was trying to rationalize my actions. (Suzuki 223-24)

This revelation is strongly juxtaposed with Nagao’s description only moments before of Sadako

as essentially the epitome of feminine beauty: “I gazed at her [Sadako’s] face. I felt what I

always felt, a sense of wonder that a woman with such perfect features should exist in the world”

(Suzuki 222). Being intersex, however, Sadako lacks what is effectively the most representative

trait of the female sex, which is the ability to bear children. While Nagao claims self-

preservation as his primary motivation for killing Sadako, it is more likely his struggling to

reconcile her sexual identity with his earlier infatuations and subsequent actions that served as

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the impetus for her murder. His conflicted feelings about inflicting further violence upon Sadako

after throwing her body into the well is indicative of this:

The well was dark, and from where I stood at the top I couldn’t see the bottom […] I

stared into the well until my eyes got used to the dark, but I still couldn’t see her curled

up down there. Even so, I couldn’t shake my uneasiness. I flung rocks and dirt into the

well, trying to hide her body forever. […] The rocks hit her body, making a dull thud at

the bottom of the well and stimulating my imagination. When I thought of that sickly

beautiful body being broken by those stones, I couldn’t go through with it. […] On the

one hand I desired the destruction of her body, but on the other hand I didn’t want her

body to be marred. (Suzuki 225)

Given the emphasis on the monstrous feminine in Japanese horror, it can be presumed that this

choice was made so as not to obscure her identity as the supernatural antagonist. By casting

Sadako as a dead wet girl, who is a monster simply by being a “girl,” and removing her identity

as intersex, any possible attribute of masculinity to her actions is removed, and her

monstrousness is connected only with the female sex.

Although visually Sadako is seen to be more or less intact and does not appear to have

suffered as vivid a form of physical disfigurement compared to other J-horror examples of the

new female onryō, physical signifiers of the violence done to her person are still evident. In both
films, on more than one occasion the audience is shown Sadako’s fingers with the nails torn out

of their nailbeds, embodying her resentment over being sealed in the well by Ikuma while still

alive. What is perhaps more distinctive, however, is how much her image, namely her face, is

thoroughly obstructed. Even when Reiko is shown visions of the past in Ringu, Sadako’s living

face is never shown, as her hair completely covers her features. The same holds true for her body

when found by Reiko in the depths of the well. As Reiko feels about in the waters in search of

Sadako, the first thing she finds is tangled masses of hair. As Sadako’s head emerges, her hair

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completely covers her face like a thick veil. When Reiko moves to brush her hair aside, instead

the gesture peels the flesh away revealing only the skull beneath, giving the impression that there

was no face to reveal to begin with. The most that is ever seen of her onryō’s face is a single eye

when she crawls out of the Ryūji’s television to claim his life (see Fig. 98).

Fig. 123. Screenshots of Sadako’s torn nailbeds (Left) and obstructed image (Right) from Ringu.

In the climax of Ringu 2, as Sadako pursues Mai to prevent her from escaping, even

confronts her directly, a semblance of a face is shown to the audience. However, this, too, is not

her real face but the artificial facial reconstruction done earlier by the police as part of the formal

identification of her body. Her resulting artificial image, therefore, produces the same sense of

alienation in the audience as if she did not have a face at all. In fact, she is seen to not have much

of an identity overall. Much of her origins and life is as equally obscured as her image. Her name

is not even known by Reiko or Ryūji until more than an hour into the first Ringu film, and to

Yōichi she is simply the “one with long hair” (髪の毛の長い人).

Fig. 124. Screenshots of Sadako’s facial reconstruction (Left) and her “face” (Right) from Ringu 2.
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 Given the narrative significance of water to Sadako’s identity as a dead wet girl, it is

perhaps little surprise how often such imagery figures into both films. This is made clear from

the opening credits, which are displayed over dark roiling ocean waves, and how often shots of

the ocean are included in both films. In the first Ringu, this water is seen to take on more of a

sense of pollution, specifically pollution by Sadako’s death. In the climax of the film, Reiko and

Ryūji attempt to put a stop to the curse by emptying the well in search of Sadako’s body,

dumping bucket after bucket of filthy, practically black, water. When Reiko finally finds Sadako,

and her skull is revealed, not only are Sadako’s remains seen to be wet, but they appear to be

oozing a viscous sort of wetness that further evokes death and decay. Rather than be evocative of

the feminine or be imbued with any form of erotic allure, Sadako’s wetness evokes more

revulsion in the audience.

Fig. 125. Screenshots of the water from Sadako’s well (Left) and Sadako’s skull (Right) from Ringu.

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 Chapter V. Conclusion
V.1 SUMMARY

Although earnest belief may not be as prevalent today, fear of the onryō has been both

pervasive and entrenched in Japanese society from ancient through medieval and premodern

times, and potentially explains the archetype’s continued prevalence in media. The

predominance of the female onryō as well as the supernatural female speaks to early fears

regarding the potential threat of female power in undermining patriarchal society. By stressing

concepts of female pollution and sin, women’s position in society has been restricted, at times

even vilified, thereby reinforcing the position of the patriarchal figure, namely the husband or

father.

Narratives featuring the female onryō reflect as much these fears of the potential threat of

female power as they do the measures of social control placed on women regarding their social

behaviors and expectations. Depictions in nō serve more as a moral lesson for the audience due

to the heavy Buddhist undertones found in the plays. This is apparent given how many of the

female characters that later become onryō are clearly depicted as human first, prior to their

revelation as monsters. While seeing such a stark contrast in appearance and behavior in these

women characters on stage is certainly a horror-inducing spectacle, the potential effect on the

audience is intensified by witnessing such a dramatic change firsthand. Spectators, especially for
the women in the audience, are given an opportunity to relate to the female character while she

still presents as human, only to then witness the horrific consequences of her choosing not to

abide in silence and instead act out. In the case of kabuki portrayals, although increasingly

secular and intended as popular entertainment, the female character’s transformation from human

to monster before the audience is still a prominent feature. As in nō, the kabuki kaidan-mono is

focused as much on the woman prior to her transformation, as it is on her vengeful actions once

she has become an onryō.

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 At the same time, while these women in both nō and kabuki are shown to tap into

formidable power to exact vengeance, they are rarely if ever championed for this choice. Often

the woman’s vengeance is portrayed as coming at great cost to herself. This lack of approbation

for her actions is further emphasized through visual representation and enactment, where the

female onryō’s “otherness” is highlighted. This is accomplished mostly by perverting highly

feminine traits into icons of horror and the grotesque. Furthermore, the female characters behave

and move contrary to what is expected of a woman, or even a human, thereby creating

apprehension of the monstrous feminine.

The effect of this emphasis on the female character’s “humanity” in stage depictions of

the female onryō, even as monsters, is that vestiges of the woman she was before becoming an

onryō still tend to remain. This archetype then made a transition from stage to film, and the

degree of femininity, or even humanity in the archetype changed considerably over time. With

the kaidan film, this change was largely influenced by the aftermath of World War II, when

filmmakers often sought to heighten the onryō character’s status as a victim, in keeping with the

pervasive higaisha ishiki sentiment. Rather than acting out, the vengeful figure is depicted as

more reactive to persecution, and thus granted the freedom to use aggression to right the

injustices suffered. As such, the human living characters are more often portrayed as immoral,

incontrovertible villains, with the female onryō attacking them almost never shown to fail in
exacting her vengeance.

The vengeful figures seen in kaidan films can thus be viewed as agents of positive

change in society, as they both enforce and restore order. At the same time, however, as with

earlier stage depictions of the female onryō, the female onryō of kaidan films often exacts

vengeance at the expense of herself. She is no longer able to reintegrate into society after doing

so because she has either actively chosen or suffered a destruction of (at the very least her

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socialized) self. By being both dead and made monstrous, she has little other recourse but to

vanish as if she never existed.

Over time, the impression of the female onryō’s “humanity” in cinematic depictions has

lessened, to the point that it has been all but removed completely in the J-horror film. From the

passion-driven or righteous female, she has become an incomprehensible monster who has

neither face nor voice. In fact, with the advent of the J-horror film, the narrative stops being truly

the female onryō’s story, as in most cases her story has already happened. Aside from the

occasional prequel film in a series franchise, she is hardly ever featured or framed in such a way

as to acknowledge or elucidate what exactly has contributed to her monstrous change.

Consequently, she is seen as more of an inhuman villain who has little to no motive for her

seeming indiscriminate acts of excessive violence.

Being depicted as “monstrous” across both time and media, as onryō these women can

escape the controls and confines of patriarchal society. For female viewers who feel powerless,

oppressed, and abused like these characters, the female onryō may serve as an image of

empowerment or release from pressures and frustrations they experience in real life. This means

of empowerment or release, however, requires these characters to destroy, or at least distort,

themselves beyond recognition. Only by becoming monsters can they break free from the

limitations of Japanese society and exact revenge. The behavior they exhibit, however, both
preceding and following their emergence as onryō, is depicted as socially unacceptable for

women, resulting in their being cast into the abject and made “other.” Thus, while women in the

audience may feel vicarious vindication, seeing the physical, sociocultural, and spiritual

consequences of such vengeful actions played out by what effectively become emotional

surrogates, they may be more reluctant to act on their own stifled desires out of a self-conscious

fear of being treated or viewed the same way. The woman spectator is still encouraged to reject

rather than emulate the female onryō.

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 This consequently turns the female onryō into more of a potential controlling image for

female members of the audience. As J-horror films have continued to be produced and developed,

new trends in onryō depiction unique to the genre have emerged. Although the power inherently

possessed by the female continues to be predominantly expressed through the dead wet girl,

interestingly there are observable changes to this character role. The most significant of these

changes is an apparent shift towards more of a “dead wet child” in recent J-horror films. A

discussion of this, however, is beyond the scope of this dissertation, and an important topic to be

pursued at a future date.

V.2. FURTHER DISCUSSION
Considering the effect and influence of the female onryō begs the question of what her

image truly represents for her audiences, both then and now, male and female. Is she a reflection

of traditional views and attitudes towards women through the eyes of male writers? Or perhaps

she embodies the fears of men regarding women altogether? Other than some rare exceptions,

such as the Lady Rokujō in Murasaki Shikibu’s Genji Monogatari, depictions of the female

onryō archetype in premodern literature and traditional theatre have been historically transcribed

by the male perspective. The same arguably holds true for Japanese horror cinema, as

contemporary directors are still predominantly male.

Although there are new developments indicating change and progress away from this

controlling image of the female onryō, films and stage productions that utilize it persist. The

image of the female onryō, both classic and new, is rooted in pre-modern views, an archaic

representation which should arguably no longer be relevant or necessary today. One might argue

that because the historical context is too distant and removed from that of contemporary viewers,

the significance of continued utilization of such an archaic image in current media is irrelevant.

This disregards, however, the significant impact media in all forms has on a given society in

shaping its values, as well as the historical conditions which resulted in the promotion of such

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values. As Patricia Hill Collins writes, “Even when the initial conditions that foster controlling

images disappear, such images prove remarkably tenacious because they not only subjugate […]

women but are key in maintaining intersecting oppressions” (69).

Furthermore, it is still pertinent to consider past ideologies, as they have permeated the

social structure to such an extent that they have come to be seen as almost natural. As Jill Dolan

writes, however, in The Feminist Spectator as Critic, “gender is not innate. Rather, it is dictated

through enculturation, as gender divisions are placed at the service of the dominant culture’s

ideology” (10). In the case of horror cinema, as Barbara Creed asserts in The Monstrous-

Feminine:

Woman is not, by her very nature, an abject being. Her representation in popular

discourses as monstrous is a function of the ideological project of the horror film – a

project designed to perpetuate the belief that woman’s monstrous nature is inextricably

bound up with her difference as man’s sexual other. (83)

The J-horror film is no exception to this. Precisely because the J-horror film is seen purely as

popular entertainment, special attention should be paid to the depictions of female characters

within a given film. Acknowledging these ideological influences when choosing to continue

utilizing these controlling images is crucial, for “[r]egardless of any individual woman’s

subjective reality, this is the system of ideas that she encounters. Because controlling images are
hegemonic and taken for granted, they become virtually impossible to escape” (Collins 90).

While Collins acknowledges that not all women will respond to controlling images in the

same way – some might react in defiance, others might seek to deconstruct or reshape these

images – the concern is that women will “internalize the controlling images and come to believe

that they are the stereotypes” (27). As far as Mary Anne Doane is concerned, this is perhaps the

most likely outcome as “[f]or the female spectator there is a certain overpresence of the image –

she is the image. Given the closeness of this relationship […] the female look demands a

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becoming” (22). In the case of horror, however, this identification with the film subject is more

complicated, as Creed notes:

The subject positions with which the horror film most frequently encourages the spectator

to identify oscillate between those of victim and monster but with great emphasis on the

former. […] When the spectator is encouraged to identify with the victim, an extreme

form of masochistic looking is invoked […] the female spectator might feel

empowerment from identifying with […the monstrous feminine, however she] does not

actively encourage spectator identification […nor does she] encourage sympathetic

identification – particularly when her victims are female. (154-55)

For J-horror, this emphasis on identification with the victim rather than the monster is especially

apparent of late. Not only have films increasingly de-emphasized the new female onryō’s

personal narrative and humanity, making it virtually impossible to sympathize with her, more

films featuring young female victims of a similar age demographic to that of the expected

audiences have been made over the past decade. Additionally, the actresses selected to portray

these victim roles have predominantly been female idols, further encouraging at least spectator,

if not sympathetic, identification with the victim.

V.3. REFLECTIONS & THOUGHTS

In fall of 2017, I embarked on my field research through Ritsumeikan University in

Kyoto. Within the first few weeks, I had an opportunity to meet a fellow Japanese theatre scholar.

Though our respective backgrounds were different, him being native Japanese and an older man

compared to my being American and a woman, it still seemed we shared some common ground

and views, at least when it came to traditional Japanese theatre. Upon describing my doctoral

dissertation topic to him, however, about how I was attempting to explore the reasons behind the

prevalence of the female onryō archetype in Japanese theatre and cinema, his response was

simple, even dismissive:

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 女は怖い、それは当然でしょう？

“Women are scary, isn’t that obvious?”

While a bit jarring, the total confidence in and complete acceptance of this baseline assumption,

almost as if it were a given fact, only further supports my argument. As women have been

continuously utilized to evoke fear and horror in both male and female audiences, for centuries,

the perception of female characters has inevitably been affected. This concept of women as

“scary” has consequently become so embedded into the fabric of Japanese society that it is

accepted as a given, as something “obvious.”

Regrettably, I was unsuccessful in pointing out to this man the complete lack of self-

awareness or reflection as to what he stated so matter-of-factly, is not a fact. With this

dissertation, I have sought to highlight and stress that without comprehension, or at least

acknowledgement, of this historical context, the continued propagation of this image in

contemporary media, both stage and film, could potentially be harmful to the self-image

perception of women. Not only can it potentially influence female audiences, but also future

creators of Japanese horror, who might end up perpetuating without realizing this accepted “fact”

that “women are scary.” Even female filmmakers, who have started to make their forays into the

horror genre, are not immune to the implicit pressures to create a particular narrative.

This is evident given the tendency in J-horror to de-emphasize the new female onryō’s
humanity, heighten her incomprehensibly monstrous presence as a spectacle in which victims,

both male and female alike, are often seen to die horribly. Tragedy emerges and therefore

sympathy when the audience witnesses a character making decisions or choices – even when

they are viewed as the wrong decisions or choices. Removing this part of the narrative for the

female onryō eliminates her choice to defy or continue to suffer and abide. Only the monstrous

feminine remains. To focus purely on the latter denies to an extent there was any choice at all. It

implies that such things were always bound to happen, because of the “fact” that “women are

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scary.” We see the monster, but not the true horror, which is what has been done to the woman to

make her this way.

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 Appendix A: Japanese Literary Titles Referenced
Audition [オーディション]. Novel, written by Murakami Ryū, 1997.

Battle Royale [バトルロワイアル]. Novel, written by Takami Kōshun, 1999.

Dōjōji Engi Emaki [道成寺縁起絵巻; “Picture Scroll of the Founding of Dōjōji”]. Two-scroll

illustrated work, author unknown, late Muromachi period. Considered the first expression

of the Dōjōji legend in illustrated narrative form.

Fuji no Hitoana Sōshi [富士の人穴草子; “The Tale of Fuji Cave”]. Medieval tale written in

early sixteenth century.

Gazu Hyakki Yagyō [画図百鬼夜行; “Illustrated Night Parade of a Hundred Demons”].

Encyclopedia of yōkai, written and illustrated by Toriyama Sekien, published between

1776-1784.

Genji Monogatari [源氏物語; “The Tale of Genji”] Novel, written by Murasaki Shikibu, dated

1008.

Goshūi Wakashū [後拾遺和歌集; “Later Collection of Gleanings of Japanese Poems”]. Imperial

anthology of poetry, compiled by Fujiwara no Michitoshi, 1087. Contains 1,220 poems, a

comparatively large contingent of which written by women.

Gukanshō [愚管抄; “Jottings of a Fool”]. Seven-volume historical and literary collection on

history of Japan, written by Jien, 1219.

Heike Monogatari [平家物語; “The Tale of the Heike”]. War epic, compiled in 1330. Compiled

from a collection of oral tales performed by biwa hōshi recounting the rise and fall of the

Taira (also referred to as the Heike) samurai clan in the Genpei War (1180-85 CE).

Heike Tsurugi no Maki [平家剣巻; “Heike Sword Scroll”]. Auxiliary chapter to the Heike

Monogatari.

Kaidan Zensho [怪談全書; “Complete Works of Supernatural Tales”]. Five-volume collection of

kaidan, translated, written and compiled by Hayashi Razan, 1627.

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Kankyo no Tomo [閑居友; “A Companion in Solitude”]. Collection of setsuwa, written by Keisei,

early Kamakura period.

Kīzō Tanshū [奇異雑談集; “Collection of Strange Miscellaneous Tales”]. Kaidan-shū, author

unknown, published in 1687.

Kokin Wakashū [古今和歌集; “Collection of Japanese Poems of Ancient and Modern Times”].

Imperial anthology of poetry, compiled in 914. Commonly abbreviated as Kokinshū.

Konjaku Monogatari-shū [今昔物語集; “Anthology of Tales from the Past”]. Collection of

stories, believed to be written and compiled in the late Heian period, specific date of

compilation unknown. A collection of over one thousand stories from India, China and

Japan.

Manyōshū [万葉集; “Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves”]. Oldest extant collection of Japanese

poetry, believed to be compiled by Ōtomo no Yakamochi, circa 759. Contains more than

4,500 poems, divided into three genres, one of which being chinkonka.

Mayu Kakushi no Rei [眉隠しの霊; “The Eyebrow-Hiding Spirit”]. Short story, written by

Izumi Kyōka, 1924.

Murasaki Shikibu-shū [紫式部集; “The Murasaki Shikibu Collection”] Anthology of poetry

written by Murasaki Shikbu, compiled in 1019.

Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku [日本三大実録; “The True History of Three Reigns of Japan”].
Officially commissioned Japanese history text, 901. Contains records of the first official

goryō shinkō services.

Okyōgen Gakuya no Honsetsu [御狂言楽屋本説; “Backstage Stories of Kabuki”]. Two-volume

work on kabuki stage effects, written by Santei Shunba, from 1858 to 1859.

Otogi Bōko [御伽婢子; “Hand Puppets”]. Japanese adaptation of fourteenth century Ming

Chinese collection of ghost stories, written by Asai Ryōi, 1666. Title refers to the dolls

(bōko) traditionally kept by children’s bedsides to ward off harmful spirits.

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Rasen [らせん; “Spiral”]. Novel, written by Suzuki Kōji, 1995.

Ringu [リング; “Ring”]. Novel, written by Suzuki Kōji, 1991.

Sakurahime Zenden Akebonozōshi [桜姫全伝曙草紙; “Book of Dawn: The Uncut Tale of

Princess Sakura”]. Edo period novel, written by Santō Kyōden, 1805.

Ugetsu Monogatari [雨月物語; “Tales of Moonlight and Rain”]. Collection of kaidan written by

Ueda Akinari, first published as a kaidan-shū in 1776.

Uji Shūi Monogatari [宇治拾遺物語; “Gleanings of Tales from Uji”]. Collection of setsuwa,

compiled in 1221.

Tsuchigumo Sōshi [土蜘蛛草紙; “Picture Scroll of an Earth Spider”]. Illustrated scroll, early

fourteenth century. One of the earliest, if not the first portrayals of the tsuchigumo as a

female yōkai.

Yabu no Naka [藪の中; “In a Grove”]. Short story, written by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, 1922.

Yakusha Rongo [役者論語; “The Actors’ Analects”]. Kabuki treatise, compiled in the

seventeenth and early eighteenth century. Contains the section Ayamegusa [あやめ草;

“The Words of Ayame”].

Zenaku Mukuibanashi [善悪報ばなし; “Stories of Good, Evil and Retribution”]. Kaidan-shū,

early Edo period, specific date of compilation and publication unknown.

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 Appendix B: Japanese Stage Works Referenced
Aoi no Ue [葵上; “Lady Aoi”]. Nō, most often attributed to Zeami. Features Classic Female

Onryō: Lady Rokujō

Adachigahara [安達原; “The Fields of Adachi”]. Nō, author unknown, sometimes attributed to

Zeami. Credited for the nationwide dissemination of the onibaba legend. Also referred to

by the title Kurozuka [黒塚; “Black Mound”]. The title Adachigahara is used for

performances within the Kanze school.

Atsumori [敦盛; “Atsumori”]. Nō, attributed to Zeami.

Aya no Tsuzumi [綾野鼓; “Damask Drum”]. Nō, author unknown, sometimes attributed to Zeami

due to him having written a revised version of the play titled Koi no Omoni [恋重荷;

“Love’s Heavy Burden”].

Banshū Sarayashiki [播州皿屋敷, “Dish Mansion at Banshū”]. Kabuki, notable adaptations by

Nagawa Harusuke I, 1824 and by Segawa Jokō III, 1850 (titled Minoriyoshi Kogane no

Kikuzuki [実成金菊月]). Features Classic Female Onryō: Okiku

Banchō Sarayashiki [番町皿屋敷; The Dish Mansion at Banchō”]. Shin kabuki, modern version

of Banshū Sarayashiki written by Okamoto Kidō, 1916.

Dōjōji [道成寺; “Dōjōji Temple”]. Nō, author unknown, tentatively attributed to Kanze Kojirō

Nobumitsu. Features Classic Female Onryō: Kiyohime

Fujito [藤戸; “Fujito”]. Nō, author unknown.

Funa Benkei [船弁慶; “Benkei in a Boat”]. Nō, attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu.

Hana no Sagano Nekomata Zōshi [花嵯峨野猫魔碑史; “Legend of the Cat-Demon of Saga”].

Kabuki, written by Segawa Jokō III, 1853.

Higashiyama Sakura no Zōshi [東山桜荘子; “The Higashiyama Story Book”]. Kabuki, written

by Segawa Jokō III, first staged in 1851.

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Iro Moyō Chotto Karimame [色彩間課苅豆; “Sensual Colors, Going to Cut Beans”]. Kabuki,

first performed as a dance drama piece in 1849. Originally a part of Kesakake Matsu

Narita no Riken. Features Classic Female Onryō: Kasane

Kagamiyama Kokyō no Nishiki-e [加賀見山旧錦絵; “Mirror Mountain: A Women’s Treasury of

Loyalty”]. Kabuki, written by Yō Yōtai, 1783. Originally written and performed for

ningyō jōruri in 1782.

Kaidan Botan Dōrō [怪談牡丹燈籠, “Ghost Story of the Peony Lantern]. Kabuki, first written

by Kawatake Shinshichi III, 1892; modern version written by Ōnishi Nobuyuki, 1974.

Features Classic Female Onryō: Otsuyu & Oyone / Omine

Kanawa [鉄輪; “Iron Trivet”]. Nō, author unknown, sometimes attributed to Zeami. Features

Classic Female Onryō: Hashihime

Keisei Asama ga Take [傾城浅間嶽, “The Courtesan of Mount Asama”]. Kabuki, author

unknown, 1698. Features earliest if not first female onryō to appear on the kabuki stage.

Kesakake Matsu Narita no Riken [法懸松成田利剣; “Surplice-Hanging Pine and the Sharp

Sword of Narita”]. Kabuki, written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV, first performed in 1823.

Features Classic Female Onryō: Kasane

Kinuta [砧; “The Fulling Block”]. Nō, attributed to Zeami.

Kiritarō Tengu Sakamori [霧太郎天狗酒醼; “Mountain Goblin Kiritarō’s Drinking Party”].

Kabuki, written by Namiki Shōza, 1761.

Matsukaze [松風; “Pining Wind”]. Nō, original text attributed to Kan’ami Kiyotsugu, but

considered to be heavily revised by Zeami.

Momijigari [紅葉狩; “Maple Viewing”]. Nō, attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu. Based on

the kijo legend of Mount Togakushi.

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Musume Dōjōji [娘道成寺; “Maiden at Dōjōji Temple”]. Kabuki, first performed in 1753.

Considered the oldest surviving nō adaptation within kabuki dance drama repertoire.

Features Classic Female Onryō: Kiyohime

Natsu Matsuri Naniwa Kagami [夏祭浪花鑑; “Summer Festival: Mirror of Osaka”]. Kabuki,

written by Namiki Sōsuke, first performed in 1745.

Ninin Dōjōji [二人道成寺; “Two People at Dōjōji Temple]. Kabuki, first performed in 1835. A

version of Musume Dōjōji which features two leading dancers instead of one.

Nishiki Sarakumai Yakata [錦皿九枚館; “The Nishiki Mansion of Nine Plates”]. Kabuki, author

unknown. Features Classic Female Onryō: Okiku

Nue [鵺; “Nue”]. Nō, attributed to Zeami.

Raiden [雷電; “The God of Thunder and Lightning”]. Nō, author unknown. Features Sugawara

no Michizane as an onryō.

Sesshōseki [殺生石; “The Killing Stone”]. Nō, author unknown. Features kitsune Tamamo no

Mae.

Tenjiku Tokubei Ikoku Banashi [天竺徳兵衛韓噺; “Tokubei of India Tales of Strange Lands”].

Kabuki, written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV, 1804. A rewrite of a play written by

Chikamatsu Hanji.

Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan [東海道四谷怪談; “Ghost Story of Yotsuya in Tōkaidō”]. Kabuki,

written by Tsuruya Nanboku IV, 1825. Features Classic Female Onryō: Oiwa

Tomoe [巴; “Tomoe”]. Nō, author unknown.

Uneme [采女; “Lady-in-Waiting”]. Nō, most often attributed to Zeami.

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 Appendix C: Japanese Personages Referenced
Abe no Seimei 安倍晴明 (921-1005). Onmyōji. Considered to be the greatest “magician” of

Japanese folklore.

Akutagawa Ryūnosuke 芥川龍之介 (1892-1927). Author. Notable works: Yabu no Naka

Asai Ryōi 浅井了意 (1612-91). Author. Notable works: Otogi Bōko.

Asano Shirō 浅野四郎 (1877-1955). Film director and photographer.

Chikamatsu Hanji 近松 半二 (1725-83). Playwright for the ningyō jōruri theatre.

Emperor Kanmu 桓武天皇 (735-806). 50th emperor of Japan, according to the traditional order

of succession.

Emperor Konoe 近衛天皇 (1139-55). 76th emperor of Japan, according to the traditional order

of succession.

Emperor Sutoku 崇徳院 (1119-64). 75th emperor of Japan, according to the traditional order of

succession. Considered one of the “three great onryō.”

Emperor Toba 鳥羽天皇 (1103-56). 74th emperor of Japan, according to the traditional order of

succession.

Empress Jingū 神功皇后 (c. 169-269). Believed to have had ritual powers.

Fujiwara no Toshiyuki 藤原敏行 (Unknown-907). Poet. Member of the Thirty-Six Medieval

Poetry Immortals.
Fukasaku Kenta 深作健太 (1972-). Film director and screenwriter. Notable works: Battle Royale

& Battle Royale II: Requiem. Son of Fukasaku Kinji.

Fukasaku Kinji 深作欣二 (1930-2003). Film director. Notable works: Jingi Naki Tatakai, Shin

Jingi Naki Tatakai, Battle Royale.

Hayashi Razan 林羅山 (1583-1657). Confucian scholar, Edo period. Notable works: Kaidan

Zensho. Credited for coining the term kaidan.

387
Hino Hideshi 日野日出志 (1946-). Manga artist. Known for envisioning the original concept for

the Guinea Pig film series.

Horie Kei 堀江慶 (1978-). Film director. Notable works: Shibuya Kaidan & Shibuya Kaidan 2.

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX 九代目 市川 團十郎 (1838-1903). Kabuki actor.

Ichimura Kakitsu VI 六代目 市村家橘 (1874-1945). Kabuki actor. The name held by Uzaemon

XV from 1893 to 1903.

Iida Jōji 飯田譲治 (1959-). Film director. Notable works: Rasen.

Inagawa Junji 稲川淳二 (1947-). Japanese actor and radio personality. Known for his annual

live “kaidan night” performances.

Irie Takako 入江たか子 (1911-95). Film actress. Known as a bakeneko actress. Notable works:

Kaidan Saga Yashiki & Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji

Ishikawa Yoshihiro 石川義寛 (1925-). Film director. Notable works: Kaibyō Noroi no Numa

Itō Junji 伊藤潤二 (1963-). Manga artist. Notable works: Tomie.

Izumi Kyōka 泉鏡花 (1873-1939). Author. Notable works: Mayu kakushi no rei

Izumi Shikibu 和泉式部 (976-Unknown). Poet. Member of the Thirty-Six Medieval Poetry

Immortals.

Jien 慈円 (1155-1225). Tendai Buddhist priest. Notable works: Gukanshō.

Kan’ami Kiyotsugu 観阿弥清次 (1333-84). Nō performer and playwright. Notable works:

Matsukaze (original text).

Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu 観世小次郎信光 (1435-1516). Nō performer and playwright. Notable

works: Dōjōji (tentatively), Momijigari, & Funa Benkei.

Kato Bin 加戸敏 (1907-82). Film director. Notable works: Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji.

Kawatake Shinshichi III 三代目 河竹新七 (1842-1901). Kabuki playwright. Notable works:

Kaidan Botan Dōrō (initial kabuki version).

Keisei 慶政 (1189-1268). Buddhist priest.

388
Kobayashi Masaki 小林正樹 (1916-96). Film director. Notable works: Kaidan.

Kōno Toshikazu 河野寿一 (1921-84). Film director. Notable works: Kaidan Banchō Sarayashiki

(film).

Kurosawa Akira 黒澤明 (1910-98). Film director. Notable works: Rashōmon, Yōjinbō, &

Tsubaki Sanjūrō.

Kurosawa Kiyoshi 黒沢清 (1955-). Film director. Notable works: Sweet Home & Kairo.

Miike Takashi 三池崇史 (1960-). Film director. Notable works: Chakushin Ari & Audition.

Minamoto no Raikō 源頼光 (948-1021). Legendary samurai. Also known as Minamoto no

Yorimitsu.

Minamoto no Yorimasa 源頼政 (1106-80). Legendary samurai. Is featured in Nue and Heike

Monogatari.

Minamoto no Yoshinaka 源義仲 (1154-84). Samurai general for the Genji (Minamoto) clan

during the Genpei War (1180-85).

Minamoto no Yoshitsune 源義経 (1159-89). Legendary samurai. Most instrumental in the defeat

of the Taira clan during the Genpei War (1180-85).

Minō Kōzō 美能幸三 (1926-2010). Former yakuza whose memoirs that were covered in a series

of magazine articles served as inspiration for Fukasaku Kinji’s Jingi Naki Tatakai.

Miyazaki Tsutomu 宮崎勤 (1962-2008). Child rapist and necrophile serial killer active between
1988 and 1989, referred to by the Japanese media as the “Otaku Murderer.”

Mizoguchi Kenji 溝口健二 (1898-1956). Film director. Notable works: Ugetsu Mongatari.

Mōri Ikuko 毛利郁子 (1933-). Film actress. Known as a “snake actress.”

Murasaki Shikibu 紫式部 (978-1014). Author and poet. Notable works: Genji Monogatari.

Nagasaki Shunichi 長崎俊一 (1956-). Film director. Notable works: Shikoku.

Nagawa Harusuke I 初代目 奈河晴助 (1782-1826). Kabuki playwright. Notable works: Banshū

Sarayashiki (kabuki version).

389
Nakagawa Nobuo 中川信夫 (1905-84). Kaidan film director. Notable works: Tōkaidō Yotsuya

Kaidan (film) & Kaidan Kasanegafuchi.

Nakata Hideo 中田秀夫 (1961-). J-horror film director. Notable works: Ringu, Ringu 2 &

Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara.

Namiki Shōza 並木正三 (1730-73). Kabuki playwright. Notable works: Kiritarō Tengu

Sakamori.

Namiki Sōsuke 並木宗輔 (1695-1751). Kabuki and ningyō jōruri playwright. Notable works:

Natsu Matsuri Naniwa Kagami.

Nogami Teruyo 野上照代 (1927-). Served as Kurosawa Akira’s script supervisor and assistant

throughout his career.

Ogura Satoru 小椋悟 (1957-). Film producer and director. Notable works: Guinea Pig film

series.

Oikawa Ataru 及川中 (1957-). Film director. Notable works: Tomie (film)

Okamoto Kidō 岡本綺堂 (1872-1939). Author and playwright. Notable works: Banchō

Sarayashiki (shin kabuki version).

Ōnishi Nobuyuki 大西信行 (1929-2016). Playwright. Notable works: Kaidan Botan Dōrō

(modern version)

Onoe Baikō VI 六代目 尾上梅幸 (1870-1934). Kabuki actor. Best known as an onnagata.
Onoe Eizaburō V 五代目 尾上栄三郎 (1870-1934). Kabuki actor. The name held by Baikō VI

from 1891 to 1903. Best known as an onnagata.

Onoe Kikugorō III 三代目 尾上菊五郎 (1784-1849). Kabuki actor. Known as the first and

among the most famous kaneru yakusha.

Onoe Kikugorō V 五代目 尾上菊五郎 (1844-1903). Kabuki actor. Best known as a kaneru

yakusha.

390
Onoe Matsusuke I 初代目 尾上松助 (1744-1815). Kabuki actor. The name held by Shōroku I

from 1764 to 1809. Originally an onnagata but became known for performances as a

tachiyaku from 1770.

Otowa Nobuko 音羽信子 (1924-94). Film actress. Notable works: Onibaba & Yabu no Naka no

Kuroneko.

Santei Shunba 三亭春馬 (Unknown-1852). Author. Notable works: Okyōgen Gakuya no

Honsetsu.

Santō Kyōden 山東京伝 (1761-1816). Author and poet. Notable works: Sakurahime Zenden

Akebonozōshi.

San’yūtei Enchō 三遊亭円朝 (1839-1900). Rakugo performer and author. Notable works:

Kaidan Botan Dōrō (rakugo).

Segawa Jokō III 三代目 瀬川如皐 (1806-81). Kabuki playwright. Notable works: Minoriyoshi

Kogane no Kikuzuki (kabuki revision of Banshū Sarayashiki).

Shibata Tsunekichi 柴田常吉 (1850-1929). Film director and photographer. Notable works:

Momijigari (film).

Shimizu Takashi 清水崇 (1972-). J-horror film director. Notable works: Ju-On: The Grudge &

Ju-On: The Grudge 2.

Shindō Kaneto 新藤兼人 (1912-2012). Film director. Notable works: Yabu no Naka no
Kuroneko & Onibaba.

Shiraishi Kōji 白石晃士 (1973-). Film director. Notable works: Kuchisake Onna & Teke Teke.

Sono Shion 園子温 (1961-). Film director. Notable works: Exte.

Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真 (845-903). Scholar politician. Considered one of the “three

great onryō.”

Suzuki Kōji 鈴木光司 (1957-). Author. Notable works: Ringu & Rasen.

Suzuki Sumiko 鈴木澄子 (1904-85). Film actress. Known as a bakeneko actress.

391
Taichi Kiwako 太地喜和子 (1943-1992). Film actress. Notable works: Yabu no Naka no

Kuroneko.

Taira no Koremochi 平維茂 (1158-84). Legendary samurai. Is featured in Momijigari.

Taira no Masakado 平将門 (903-40). Considered one of the “three great onryō.”

Taira no Tomomori 平知盛 (1152-89). Samurai general for the Heike (Taira) clan during the

Genpei War (1180-85).

Terauchi Kōtarō 寺内康太郎 (1975-). Film director. Notable works: Kuchisake Onna 2

Tomoe Gozen 巴御前 (1157-1247). One of the greatest examples of a female warrior in

Japanese history. Known for serving under Minamoto no Yoshinaka during the Genpei

War (1180-85).

Toriyama Sekien (1712-88). Artist. Notable works: Gazu Hyakki Yagyō.

Tsukamoto Renpei 塚本連平 (1963-). Film director. Notable works: Chakushin Ari 2.

Tsukamoto Shinya 塚本晋也 (1960-). Film director. Notable works: Tetsuo & Akumu Tantei.

Tsuruta Norio 鶴田法男 (1960-). Film director. Notable works: Hontō ni Atta Kowai Hanashi.

Tsuruya Nanboku IV 四代目 鶴屋南北 (1755-1829). Kabuki playwright. Notable works:

Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan.

Ueda Akinari 上田秋成 (1734-1809). Author. Notable works: Ugetsu Monogatari.

Watanabe no Tsuna 渡邊綱 (953-1025). Legendary samurai. Is featured in Heike Monogatari

Tsurugi no Maki.

Yamamoto Satsuo 山本薩夫 (1910-83). Film director. Notable works: Botan Dōrō (film).

Yanagita Kunio 柳田国男 (1875-1962). Japanese folklorist.

Yoshizawa Ayame I 初代目 吉沢彩芽 (1673-1729). Kabuki actor. Known as one of the most

celebrated onnagata in the history of kabuki theatre.

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Zeami Motokiyo 世阿弥元清 (1363-1443). Nō performer and playwright. Notable works: Aoi no

Ue, Atsumori, Kinuta, Nue, Uneme, & Matsukaze (revised text). Sometimes also credited

as the writer of Adachigahara (Kurozuka), Aya no Tsuzumi, & Kanawa.

393
 Appendix D: Japanese Films Referenced
Akumu Tantei [悪夢探偵; “Nightmare Detective”]. J-horror film, directed by Tsukamoto Shinya,

2007.

Audition [オーディション]. Japanese horror film, directed by Miike Takashi, 1999. Based on

the novel by the same title written by Murakami Ryū.

Battle Royale [バトルロワイアル]. Dystopian action horror film, directed by Fukasaku Kinji,

2000. Based on the novel by the same title written by Takami Kōshun.

Battle Royale II: Requiem [バトル・ロワイアル II 鎮魂歌]. Dystopian action horror film,

directed by Fukasaku Kinji & Fukasaku Kenta, 2003.

Bōrei Kaibyō Yashiki [亡霊怪描屋敷; “Mansion of the Ghost Cat”]. Also known as Black Cat

Mansion. Kaidan (kaibyō) film, directed by Nakagawa Nobuo, 1958.

Botan Dōrō [牡丹燈籠; “Peony Lantern”]. Also known as Bride from Hades. Kaidan film,

directed by Yamamoto Satsuo, 1968. Features Cinematic Classic Female Onryō: Otsuyu

& Oyone

Chakushin Ari [着信アリ; “One Missed Call”]. J-horror film, directed by Miike Takashi, 2003.

Features New Female Onryō: Mimiko

Chakushin Ari 2 [着信アリ２; “One Missed Call 2”]. J-horror film, directed by Tsukamoto

Renpei, 2005. Features New Female Onryō: Li Li

Exte [エクステ]. J-horror film, directed by Sono Shion, 2007.

Honogurai Mizu no Soko Kara [仄暗い水の底から; “From the Depths of Dark Water”]. Also

known as Dark Water. J-horror film, directed by Nakata Hideo, 2002. Features New

Female Onryō: Mitsuko

Hontō ni Atta Kowai Hanashi [本当にあった怖い話; “Scary Stories That Truly Happened”].

Also known as Scary True Stories. Japanese horror film series, directed by Tsuruta Norio,

three films from 1991 and 1992.

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Jingi Naki Tatakai [仁義なき戦い; “Battles Without Honor and Humanity”]. Also known as

The Yakuza Papers. Yakuza (jitsuroku eiga) film series, directed by Fukasaku Kinji, five

films between 1973 and 1974.

Ju-On: The Curse & Ju-On: The Curse 2 [呪怨; “The Grudge”]. J-horror films, directed by

Shimizu Takashi, 2000. Direct-to-video film release. Features New Female Onryō: Saeki

Kayako

Ju-On: The Grudge [呪怨; “The Grudge”]. J-horror film, directed by Shimizu Takashi, 2002.

Cinematic theatrical release of Ju-On: The Curse & Ju-On: The Curse 2. Features New

Female Onryō: Saeki Kayako

Ju-On: The Grudge 2 [呪怨 2; “The Grudge 2”]. J-horror film, directed by Shimizu Takashi,

2003. Features New Female Onryō: Saeki Kayako

Kaibyō Noroi no Numa [怪描呪いの沼; “Ghost Cat of the Cursed Swamp”]. Also known as

Bakeneko: A Vengeful Spirit. Kaidan (kaibyō) film, directed by Ishikawa Yoshihiro, 1968.

Kaibyō Ōma ga Tsuji [怪猫逢魔が辻; “Ghost Cat of Ōma Crossing”]. Kaidan (kaibyō) film,

directed by Kato Bin, 1954. Features Cinematic Classic Female Onryō: Senjo

Kaibyō Otamagaike [怪描お玉が池; “Ghost Cat of Otama Pond”]. Kaidan (kaibyō) film,

directed by Ishikawa Yoshihiro, 1960.

Kaidan [怪談; “Strange Tales”]. Also known as Kwaidan. Kaidan film, directed by Kobayashi
Masaki, 1965. Features episodes Kurokami [黒髪; “Black Hair”], Miminashi Hōichi no

Hanashi [耳なし芳一の話; “The Story of Hōichi the Earless”], and Yuki-Onna [雪女;

“Snow Woman”].

Kaidan Banchō Sarayashiki [怪談番町皿屋敷; “Ghost Story of Dish Mansion at Banchō”]. Also

known as Ghost in the Well. Kaidan film, directed by Kōno Toshikazu, 1957. Features

Cinematic Classic Female Onryō: Okiku

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Kaidan Hebi-Onna [怪談蛇女; “Ghost Story of the Snake Woman”]. Also known as Snake

Woman’s Curse. Kaidan film, directed by Nakagawa Nobuo, 1968.

Kaidan Kasanegafuchi [怪談累ヶ淵; “Ghost Story of Kasane Swamp”]. Also known as The

Depths. Kaidan film, directed by Nakagawa Nobuo, 1957. Features Cinematic Classic

Female Onryō: Rui (Kasane)

Kairo [回路; “Pulse”]. J-horror film, directed by Kurosawa Kiyoshi, 2001.

Kuchisake Onna [口裂け女; “Slit-Mouth Woman”]. Also known as Carved. J-horror film,

directed by Shiraishi Kōji, 2007.

Kuchisake Onna 2 [口裂け女２; “Slit-Mouth Woman 2”]. Also known as Carved 2. J-horror

film, directed by Terauchi Kōtarō, 2008.

Momijigari [紅葉狩, “Maple Viewing”]. Directed by Shibata Tsunekichi, 1899. Starring kabuki

actors Ichikawa Danjūrō IX and Onoe Kikugorō V.

Ninin Dōjōji [二人道成寺; “Two People at Dōjōji Temple]. Directed by Shibata Tsunekichi,

1899. Starring kabuki actors Onoe Eizaburō V and Ichimura Kakitsu VI.

Onibaba [鬼婆; “Demon Hag”]. Kaidan film, directed by Shindō Kaneto, 1964.

Rasen [らせん; “Spiral”]. J-horror film, directed by Iida Jōji, 1998. Considered a “forgotten

sequel” of Ringu. Features New Female Onryō: Yamamura Sadako

Rashōmon [羅生門; “Rashōmon”]. Directed by Kurosawa Akira, 1950.

Ringu [リング; “The Ring”]. J-horror film, directed by Nakata Hideo, 1998. Based on the novel

by the same title written by Suzuki Kōji. Features New Female Onryō: Yamamura

Sadako

Ringu 2 [リング 2; “The Ring 2”]. J-horror film, directed by Nakata Hideo, 1999. Features New

Female Onryō: Yamamura Sadako

Rinne [輪廻; “Reincarnation”]. J-horror film, directed by Shimizu Takashi, 2005.

396
Shibuya Kaidan & Shibuya Kaidan 2 [渋谷怪談; “Shibuya Ghost Story”]. Also known as The

Locker. J-horror films, directed by Horie Kei, 2004. Features New Female Onryō:

Sachiko

Shikoku [死国; “Land of the Dead”]. J-horror film, directed by Nagasaki Shunichi, 1999.

Features New Female Onryō: Sayori

Shin Jingi Naki Tatakai [新仁義なき戦い; “New Battles Without Honor and Humanity”].

Yakuza (jitsuroku eiga) films, directed by Fukasaku Kinji, three films between 1974 and

1976.

Sweet Home [スイートホーム]. Japanese horror film, directed by Kurosawa Kiyoshi, 1989.

Teke Teke [テケテケ]. J-horror film, directed by Shiraishi Kōji, 2009.

Tetsuo [鉄男; “Iron Man”]. Also known as Tetsuo: The Iron Man. Japanese horror film, directed

Tsukamoto Shinya, 1989.

Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan [東海道四谷怪談; “Ghost Story of Yotsuya in Tōkaidō”]. Kaidan film,

directed by Nakagawa Nobuo, 1959. Features Cinematic Classic Female Onryō: Oiwa

Tomie [富江; “Tomie”]. J-horror film, directed by Oikawa Ataru, 1998.

Tsubaki Sanjūrō [椿三十郎; “Tsubaki Sanjūrō”]. Also known as Sanjuro. Chanbara film,

directed by Kurosawa Akira, 1962.

Ugetsu Monogatari [雨月物語; “Tales of Moonlight and Rain”]. Also known as Ugetsu. Kaidan
film, directed by Mizoguchi Kenji, 1953.

Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko [藪の中の黒猫; “A Black Cat in a Bamboo Grove”]. Also known as

Kuroneko. Kaidan film, directed by Shindō Kaneto, 1968. Features Cinematic Classic

Female Onryō: Oyone & Oshige

Yōjinbō [用心棒; “The Bodyguard”]. Also known as Yojimbo. Chanbara film, directed by

Kurosawa Akira, 1961.

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398
 Glossary of Japanese Terms
anoyo (あの世, “that world”) – the colloquial term for the world of the dead

ayakashi (怪士, “apparition warrior”) – the nō mask used in shura-mono such as Funa Benkei to

represent the shite as a male vengeful spirit

bakemono (化け物 “monster”) – literally translates as “thing that changes”

bakeneko (化け猫, “monster or ghost cat”) – a type of animal-based yōkai

biwa (琵琶, “Japanese lute”) – the musical instrument considered efficacious in establishing

contact with anoyo and the spiritual

biwa hōshi (琵琶法師, “lute priest”) – the blind priests who told stories to the accompaniment of

the biwa

bushi (武士, “warrior”) – another word used for the samurai

butō (舞踏) – the avant-garde dance form that emerged in the 1950s, originally known as ankoku

butō (暗黒舞踏, “dance of darkness”)

chanbara (チャンバラ, “samurai fighting”) – the samurai action film genre

chi no ike jigoku (血の池地獄, “blood pool hell”) – the Buddhist belief in a female-specific hell

where women are punished for polluting the soil with blood produced during childbirth

or menstruation

chinkon (鎮魂, “sinking of the soul”) – often translated as “spirit pacification” or “repose of the
soul”

chinkonka (鎮魂歌, “poems or songs for spirit placation”) – the long tradition of songs or poems

that were composed and sung to appease the souls of the dead

chōzuya (手水舎, “hand water hut”) – the purification fountains which visitors are required to

use to perform a smaller scale form of misogi before entering the sacred grounds of a

Shinto shrine and sometimes a Buddhist temple. Also pronounced as temizuya.

chūnori (宙乗り, “mid-air flying”) – the stage effect in the kabuki theatre

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deigan (泥眼, “muddy eye”) – the nō mask frequently used in the first half of kijo-mono such as

Aoi no Ue to express a woman whose eyes have been clouded with madness

desu geemu (デスゲーム, “death game”) – used to refer to the survival horror game genre in

Japanese entertainment

dōjōji-mono (道成寺物, “Dōjōji plays”) – the category within the kabuki dance drama repertoire

where the plays all take inspiration in some way from the nō play Dōjōji

ehon-banzuke (絵本番付, “illustrated program”) – literally translates as “picture book theatre

program”

futakuchi-onna (二口女, “two-mouthed woman”) – a type of female-specific yōkai with a second

mouth on the back of her head

futame jigoku (両婦地獄, “two wives hell”) – the Buddhist belief in a female-specific hell where

jealous women are turned into serpentine monsters and tormented for being such

gagaku (雅楽, “elegant music”) – the classical music and dance of the imperial court

giri-ninjō (義理人情, “duty versus passion”) – the conflict that often afflicts a samurai or rōnin

figure in a given kabuki historical drama play or samurai action film, the struggle of

choosing between one’s “duty” to their lord and human “emotions” such as those derived

from family ties

gokudō (極道, “extreme or wicked path”) – a subgenre within yakuza films, used to refer to low-
budget, strictly home release works characterized by scenes of excessive sex and violence.

Is also a word commonly used as synonymous with the actual yakuza

goryō (御霊, “honorable ghost) – an onryō from the aristocratic classes

goryō shinkō (御霊信仰, “religion of ghosts”) – a “religion” dedicated to placating onryō (more

often called goryō during the Heian period); sometimes referred to as “vengeful spirit

cults”

haku (箔, “foil; leaf”) – the inner robe in nō costumes

400
hannya (般若) – the nō mask used in the second half of kijo-mono such as Aoi no Ue and Dōjōji,

to express a human woman overwhelmed by resentment and transformed into a demon

hashihime (橋姫, “princess of the bridge”) – the nō mask sometimes used by the shite to perform

in Kanawa, in reference to the “Hashihime” anecdote from the Heike Tsurugi no Maki

that served as inspiration for the nō play

hebi-onna (蛇女 “snake woman”) – a subgenre within kaidan films

higaisha ishiki (被害者意識, “victim consciousness”) – used to refer to the hyper-rationalization

of Japan’s position as the victim rather than as the aggressor following World War II

honmizu (本水, “real water”) – the stage effect in the kabuki theatre that made use of actual

water on stage

hyakumonogatari kaidankai (百物語怪談会, “gathering of a hundred supernatural tales”) –the

popular pastime of oral telling of kaidan

ikiryō (生霊, “living ghost”)

iroaku (色悪, “sexy villain”) – the handsome villain male character type found in the kabuki

theatre

jatai (蛇帯, “snake obi”) – the obi of a woman transformed into a poisonous snake by her

jealousy

jigoku (地獄, “hell”) – the concept of hell for condemned human souls in Japanese Buddhism
jitsuroku eiga (実録映画, “actual record film”) – a subgenre within yakuza films which stressed

narratives based on “real” crime stories of the yakuza

jo-ha-kyū (序破急, “beginning, break, rapid”) – the overriding principle of the nō theatre which

refers to the categorization and pacing of a given play as well as movement overall

jorōgumo (絡新婦, “entangling bride”) – a type of female-specific spider yōkai, originally

written using the kanji for “prostitute spider” (女郎蜘蛛)

kaibyō (怪描, “strange cat”) – a major subgenre within kaidan films

401
kaidan (怪談, “strange tales”) – Japanese ghost stories, traditional as well as some modern

kaidan-mono (怪談物, “ghost story plays”) – the genre within the kabuki theatre

kaidan-shū (怪談集, “supernatural tale collections”) – the print published collections of kaidan

kaiki (怪奇, “strange, grotesque”) – used interchangeably with kaidan to refer to the film genre,

but was also used to refer to foreign imported films of the “horror” genre

kaimami (垣間見, “peeping”) – the Heian practice of voyeurism of women among male

aristocracy

kamigata (上方, “upper side”) – used to collectively refer to the Kyoto and Osaka region.

kamisuki (髪梳き, “hair combing”) – a passionate scene in which a woman combs out the

tangles in her lover’s hair in the kabuki theatre

kaneru yakusha (兼ねる役者, “combining actor”) – the “all-around” actor capable of playing

multiple role types in the kabuki theatre

kasane-mono (累物, “Kasane plays”) – a sekai for kaidan-mono within the kabuki theatre play

repertoire

kegare (穢れ, “uncleanliness, defilement”) –the concept of pollution in Shinto belief, the two

principal sources being blood and death

kejōrō (毛倡妓, “hairy harlot”) – a female-specific yōkai whose face and body is completely

covered with or entirely consists of hair

keisei (傾城, “castle toppler”) – the top-class courtesan

kijo (鬼女, “demon woman”)

kijo-mono (鬼女物, “demon-woman plays”) – the genre within the nō theatre

kimon (鬼門, “demon or oni’s gate”) – the northeastern direction, from which it was believed oni

as well as other forms of evil spirits or energies such as the onryō could enter

kitsune (狐, “fox”) – a type of animal-based yōkai

konoyo (この世, “this world”) – the colloquial term for the world of the living

402
kuchisake onna (口裂け女, “slit-mouth woman”) – a highly popular urban legend about a

woman whose mouth has been slashed open from ear to ear

maneki-neko (招き猫, “beckoning cat”) – a symbol associated with inviting good fortune

mawaributai (回り舞台, “revolving stage”) – the stage mechanism in the kabuki theatre, the

invention of which is credited to Namiki Shōza

me-gatakiuchi (婦敵討, “wife-revenge”) – the practice or right exercised by a samurai husband

punishing his wife for adultery or illicit sexual relations by murdering both her and her

lover.

misogi (禊, “ritual ablutions”) – the practice of ritual purification using water in Shinto belief

mizuko (水子, “water child”) – an aborted, stillborn or miscarried fetus

mugen no kane (無間の鐘, “Bell of Hell”) – the legend which revolved around the belief that

whoever struck the ill-fated bell would attain immense riches for their life in konoyo but

would suffer eternally in hell upon their death

nagare-kanjō (流れ灌頂, “flowing consecration”) – the Japanese Buddhist ritual using running

water to purify the spirits of women believed to be suffering in chi no ike jigoku

namanari (生成, “becoming bestial”) – the nō mask primarily used by the shite to perform in

Kanawa, to express a woman about to become a demon

neko jarashi (猫じゃらし, “cat toying”) – used to refer to the feline supernatural act featured in
kaibyō films where the bakeneko figure “toys” with its victims like a cat plays with a

mouse

ningyō jōruri (人形浄瑠璃, “puppet theatre”)

ninkyō eiga (任侠映画, “chivalry film”) – used to refer to early yakuza films

nureba (濡場, “love scenes”) – literally translates as “wet scene,” used to refer to sensual scenes

with implied sexual intercourse in the kabuki theatre

403
ohaguro (お歯黒, “tooth blackening”) –the Edo practice of married women blackening their

teeth

oni (鬼, “demon, ogre”)

onibaba (鬼婆, “demon hag”) – also referred to as the yamauba

onmyōdō (陰陽道, “the way of yin and yang”) – the popular belief introduced to Japan from

China in the seventh century; its roots are found in Chinese esoteric cosmology, largely

centered on the duality of yin and yang

onmyōji (陰陽師, “yin yang specialist or master”) – the practitioner(s) of onmyōdō

onmyōryō (陰陽寮, “Bureau of Yin and Yang”) – the department where onmyōji served as

members in the imperial capital Heian-kyō and thus were in the employ of the Ministry

of Central Affairs

onnagata (女形, “woman role”) – the female-role specializing actor in the kabuki theatre

onryō (怨霊, “vengeful ghost”)

rakugo (落語, “fallen words”) – an oral storytelling performance tradition

sai no kawara (賽の河原, “dry riverbed of Sai”) – often translated as the “children’s limbo,”

used to refer to where it is believed in Japanese Buddhism children who have died too

young end up caught between konoyo and anoyo

sangaku (散楽, “miscellaneous music or arts”) – the circus-like ancient Chinese entertainment
considered to be the roots for nō and kyogen theatre forms

sanzu no kawa (三途の川, “river of three crossings) – the way by which the dead cross over to

anoyo in Japanese Buddhist belief, so named for the three points at which one can make

their crossing after death

sekai (世界, “world”) – an established dramatic setting utilized by playwrights in the writing of

kabuki plays

404
semeba (攻め場, “torture scenes”) – literally translates as “scenes of pressure,” used to refer to

scenes of violence or torture, both physical and psychological, at the climax of a given

kabuki play

setsuwa (説話, “spoken story”) – medieval narratives typically featuring the supernatural and

imbued with Buddhist values, most often considered the direct precursor to kaidan

shikigami (式神, “ceremonial spirit”) – a belief sourced in onmyōdō, used to refer to the servant

spirits used by onmyōji in rituals for various purposes

shin kabuki (新歌舞伎, “new kabuki”) – plays composed for the kabuki stage during and

following the mid to late Meiji period by playwrights and writers outside of the kabuki

theatre world

shinpa (新派, “new school”) – a new form of theatre that emerged in the late 1880s as an early

attempt to modernize Japanese theatrical performance, generally based on stories of

contemporary domestic life which made use of colloquial language

shirabyōshi (白拍子, “dancer”) – female entertainers in the Heian and Kamakura periods who

would traditionally dress as male courtiers and perform for the nobility

shite (シテ, “principal actor or character”) – the principal masked performer or character being

portrayed in a given nō play

shura-mono (修羅物, “warrior ghost plays”) – one category of plays within the nō theatre
tachiyaku (立役, “standing role”) – the male-role specializing actor in the kabuki theatre

tsuchigumo (土蜘蛛, “earth spider”) – a type of spider yōkai

tsumadoi (妻問, “wife visiting”) – the most common form of marriage residence among the

Heian aristocracy, where both husband and wife lived separate from one another and the

husband paid her visits

tsuno-kakushi (角隠し, “horn hiding”) – the headdress worn by the bride that became common

practice in Shinto weddings beginning in the late Edo period

405
ubume (産女, “birthing woman”) – the ghosts of women who died during pregnancy or

childbirth, closely associated with the Buddhist concept of chi no ike jigoku

uchizue (打ち杖, “hitting cane”) – the stage prop commonly associated with demonic or

aggressive deity characters in the nō theatre

ukiyo-e (浮世絵, “wood block print”) – literally translates as “pictures of the floating world”

unasaka (海坂, “slope of the sea”) – the Shinto-based belief in a primary access point between

konoyo and anoyo

urami (恨み, “resentment or hatred”)

uroko (鱗, “scales”) – the checkered triangular pattern strongly associated with and used to

denote the supernatural or at least “mad” feminine in nō costumes

ushi no koku mairi (丑の刻参り, “shrine visit at the hour of the ox”) – the cursing ritual, so

named due to being performed during the spiritually potent hour of the ox, believed to

have become popular practice as early as the Muromachi period. Also referred to as ushi

no toki mairi (丑の時参り, “shrine visit at the time of the ox”).

ushitora (丑寅, “ox-tiger”) – another way to refer to the kimon due to the assignment of the

twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac to the cardinal directions and hours

waki (ワキ, “supporting actor or character”) – the supporting performer or character being

portrayed in a given nō play who is typically unmasked

yamauba (山姥, “mountain hag or crone”) – sometimes pronounced as yamanba, also referred to

as the onibaba

yōkai (妖怪, “apparition”) – apparitions, sometimes monsters or demons, also referred to as

ayakashi (妖) or mononoke (物の怪) throughout Japanese folklore history

406
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