Kwaidan: Morality and Supernatural Justice

This is Part 3 of an essay about the movie Kwaidan. Read Part 2 here.

Issues of morality, justice, and punishment are common features of ghost stories. Familiar plots of ghosts avenging their deaths and others doomed to walk the Earth in penance for their crimes readily come to mind. Lafcadio Hearn's original Kwaidan stories often express Japanese folk morality, and in two of the stories Kobayashi adapts directly from Hearn--"Earless Hoichi" and "Snow Demon"--the punishments of lost ears and a lost wife remain the same. Even though he doesn't alter the plots or some of the dialogue, Kobayashi manages to enrich the exploration of justice such that he elevates them beyond the pat moralistic parables they could so easily have become.

In "Snow Demon," for example, Minokichi is placed in an impossible position. Does he break his promise to the snow demon--at risk of his life--or does he demonstrate trust in his wife (perhaps with an inkling of who she really is) by confiding in her. As we know, he betrays his oath only to have his life spared for the purported reason of concern for their children. But is that truly sufficient explanation for this powerful snow demon, with her demonstrated thirst for human blood, to spare his life? Since Kobayashi has successfully presented the internal struggle of each partner and their obvious love, it opens the possibility of another explanation: Minokichi's willingness to confide his deepest secret to Yuki validates the depth of their bond. Consequently, she cannot bring herself to follow through on the punishment that she swore upon during their first meeting. It is Minokichi's essential goodness that ensures that he will be the only character to emerge unscathed after a close encounter with the supernatural.

Given well established traditions of supernatural punishment, of what crime is Hoichi guilty that he deserves to lose his ears? At first glance, he appears blameless. He is a musician and he performs admirably when summoned. Unlike Minokichi, he never breaks his oath to keep silent about his performances. For what then, can he be faulted? A Japanese adage about art comes to mind “Perfection may invite envy of the gods.” In response to this tradition, it was customary for artists to intentionally incorporate a flaw into their designs as a sign of humility. With this cultural subtext in mind, I can’t help but wonder if Hoichi's sin is pride. He does not seem to exhibit pride overtly, but do not his unexplained absences during the night and sleep-filled days at the temple suggest a sense of entitlement due to his (acknowledged) mastery of the biwa?

There is a telling scene in which Hoichi is interrupted by two temple custodians and he scolds, “How dare you interrupt me in front of such an august assembly.” Of course, he really does believe this is the case, but I cannot believe he is solely concerned with the needs of said august assembly. Hoichi took a risk performing for a supernatural audience. Even though he was blind, he must have sensed something uncanny was going on around him. Yet, in his vanity, he believed that he could interact with powerful supernatural beings and end the association unharmed. The abbot is convinced they would have “torn him in pieces” eventually. That he escaped with only the painful loss of his ears may seem somewhat of a reprieve, but that it is a punishment remains undeniable. Hoichi's authentic sincerity shown after this encounter as evidenced by his deeper commitment to his art and his audience attest to the fact that a necessary lesson has been learned. At that, one far more significant than the importance of thoroughness when completing a task.

The episodes that bookend the movie add a curious psychological dimension to the movie’s exploration of morality and punishment via the symbol of the reflection. At the beginning of "In a Cup of Tea," an impatient samurai leaves his post to draw a cup of water. As he is about to drink, he notices the image of another man in the water looking at him. He throws the water away and pours a new cup a second and third time, but the man is still there. Impetuously, the samurai drinks the water anyway. It is for this action, drinking a man's soul, that he is later punished when he descends into madness. The samurai's fate is of less concern than that of the author constructing this hackneyed entertainment. It is remarkably telling that the author is cursed by being trapped in the jar of water in his own house. His frivolous treatment of the samurai drinking another man's soul suggests that he does not believe in the supernatural, nor in the concept of the soul. If he had, he would have given the subject a more serious treatment. The poetic justice of being trapped in the well water--literally becoming the reflection itself--is a reminder that if you betray yourself, the possibility of losing yourself becomes real.

The psychological dimension of Kwaidan is even more apparent in "Black Hair." Ghost stories and religious visions of heaven and hell have slowly but steadily lost their power to “scare people straight” in moral terms. If "Black Hair" is interpreted strictly as a ghost story, it would not give pause to any modern man considering leaving his partner to further his own material aims. If one, probably correctly, does not believe in vengeful ghosts, then what risk does a husband assume when leaving a wife?

Faced with the coldness of his marriage and the emptiness of his material success, the samurai is susceptible to the delusion that his wife is still alive. When he returns, the modern viewer must wonder, does he really see the ghost of his wife or is it a projection of his mind? "Black Hair" is ambiguous about the question in ways the other three stories are not in that each of the others involve at least one witness to confirm the supernatural encounter. When the samurai finally sees his reflection in the well, he is horrified by the self-knowledge, heretofore repressed, that he is responsible for his first wife's death. This vivid psychological dimension resurrects the moral power of the ghost story, forcing us to consider the consequences of moral transgression. We can not so easily distance ourselves from these apparently quaint morality tales by simple denying the existence of the supernatural. Kobayashi's ability to reconnect us with the significance of these old stories contributes to the film's chilling quality because he evokes deeper fears than one is used to finding in the genre.

Part 4: Literal Minded Samurai Lose It