Editorials
‘Battle Royale’ at 25: Why This Classic Still Defines Modern Horror
A landmark date in Japanese film history is approaching: December 16th, 2025, marks the official 25th anniversary of the theatrical release of Battle Royale. Its director, Kinji Fukasaku, was a media luminary that lit up the 70s cinema landscape with both war and crime films. He gained notoriety chiefly for his shocking yakuza exploitation films, the Battles Without Honor or Humanity series. But it was his final completed film, Battle Royale, that would be his most popular, and one of his most powerful in terms of the messaging of his films.
Celebrating 25 Years of Battle Royale
Battle Royale is, despite its wild ultraviolence and well-earned accusations of being an exploitation film in spirit, an incredibly moving film. When seen through the lens of Fukasaku’s directorial history and our contemporary troubles, it’s a perennial story of a struggle between generations. Of the subterfuge traditional power structures use to justify horrific actions, and of the people who see through it and rise above it. It’s, in Fukasaku’s words, a “fable” about “the restoration of trust” in the hearts of those who resist manufactured despair.
Battle Royale is the culmination of decades of a director’s frustration being processed and put to film. That brutal past Fukasaku wrestled with is transmuted into a bizarrely poignant and punctuated fairy tale of hope. There’s an emotional outpouring by its final reel, ending in a line of thought that has made the film age like fine wine: it’s up to the youth now. And if you ask Kinji Fukasaku, the kids might not be alright now, but they still can be.
A Director in Dialogue With Nationalism
In his lifetime, Kinji Fukasaku saw war. He was effectively on the front lines due to his perilous job in a munitions factory in Japan when he was 15. He had to witness firsthand the deaths of his friends and move the bodies of lost coworkers, killed in bombing runs on the factory by Allied forces. All of this only to see Japan then lose the war in the most horrific and inhumane way possible with the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The downward spiral the nation was sent into was visible to all, as a government focused on economic and material restoration left people to slip through the cracks. These images were indelibly etched into his mind, and then his art.
His musings on the senseless and wanton violence against the Japanese citizenry during World War II were reflected by a staunch anti-nationalist streak in his war films. Under the Flag of the Rising Sun is a film that ends on a note that is as frightening as it is contemplative, reminding us that the cost of war and human cruelty on a governmental level is as spiritual and moral as it is material. And the only ones who really pay that debt of blood and soul are its people, not its leaders, who decided the cost for them.
From Yakuza Cinema to Youth Violence Commentary
This trend would continue into his much more popular films, the aforementioned Battle Without series and its New Battle continuations. The immense levels of Verhoeven-esque violence and general cruelty of these films were a key feature, not a bug. Fukasaku’s presentation of violence would go on to define and be reinterpreted by Asian crime cinema at large after it. But the crassness of these films, against people from all walks of life, is more than meets the eye.
Fukasaku’s yakuza films have often been interpreted by film journalists and scholars like Will Robinson Sheff and David Hanley to be “harsh-lit exposés of postwar Japan’s demoralized spirit”, “[conveying] the chaotic nature of the period”. It’s in the title itself: they’re vignettes highlighting the transformation of humans into criminals as a borderline species metamorphosis. Notions of decency are discarded and minds eroded by baser, war-like mentalities. This would, of course go on to be a major source of the horror in Battle Royale, watching young people slip into this transformation, with the film’s primary antagonists having fully succumbed to it.
The Brutality of Battle Royale
Though he never fully left crime films behind, towards the end of his career Fukasaku would veer into period dramas, jidaigeki films highlighting Japan’s antiquity. But his final film was a curveball return to form, at least in terms of how brutal and overtly political it was.
The year 2000 would see his adaptation of the alternate history horror novel Battle Royale, by author Koushun Takami. The screenplay by Kenji’s son Kenta Fukasaku moves pieces and players around, but ultimately it retains the same plot and most of the same characters. The premise was simple, but dark: a fascist Japanese government has stagnated due to harsh recession and unemployment rates. Its solution to massive economic downturn is bloodsport involving its youngest citizens.
They pit a class of teenagers against each other in a death game involving explosive collars and random weapons, a game that can only have one winner. Isolated from civilization on an abandoned island, the personalities that defined their high school experience turn into deadly shades of their former selves. While a few students band together to escape, most are subsumed by the violence, with heartbreaking results.
Kinji’s Fearsome Magnum Opus
It was a subversive novel from the jump, one blackballed through awards snubs and publication problems due to its exceptional amount of violence. It was a perfect match for Fukasaku’s voice, a grit-filled mouth that spoke truth against unjust power structures and out of touch politicians.
And when Fukasaku’s adaptation came out, it was every bit as outlandish to the general public as the book. Casting actual teenagers and not pulling any punches with how grotesque the battle was drew ire from all around. The film was forced to bear an R-15+ rating, not just because of rating board Eirin’s judgement, but due to a spat with the legislative branch of Japan known as the National Diet. Politicians blamed the film directly for violent crime as fervor around the film rose. Fukasaku urging younger audiences to sneak into theatres to watch it definitely did not help quell the panic.
It’s largely agreed that the conflict between the artist and the government was the major impetus for the film becoming so popular, launching the notoriety of the movie to international audiences rapidly. But it always struck me as a disservice to how well made the film is, because at the end of the day, it’s hard to disagree with the notion that this is Fukasaku’s best film. Without the controversy, it would have always been a classic, just because of the rare form Fukasaku was in while directing it.
A Cast and Director Working in Unison
On a technical level, the film has incredibly tight editing and special effects that shouldn’t be ignored. There’s Kurosawa gold in these hills, replete with sprays of blood and squibs all over thanks to the variety of brutal ends our characters meet. But all these years later, it’s more difficult not to be stunned by how many runaway performances this film has that are just that good.
The crushing subdued emotion of Tatsuya Fujiwara’s performance as Shuya. The delightful evil of Chiaki Kuriyama’s yandere blueprint Chigusa (it’s obvious why this role got her the part of Gogo in Kill Bill). The sheer charismatic menace that is Masanobu Andô as Kiriyama! And of course, we have Takeshi Kitano in a truly legendary performance as former class teacher turned psychotic game host Kitano. Takeshi Kitano has never missed, and his perfectly dark humored performance and the confrontation it culminates in at the film’s climax is proof of that.
The Lighthouse Sequence and the Power of Fukasaku’s Direction
Not everyone is delivering phenomenal work; the film’s notoriously bloody lighthouse sequence is carried more by the gut punch of what happens there than by the cast’s acumen as young actors. But even then, these minor characters and their performers are strong. They demand your sympathy. Even the characters who die in comedically dark deaths demand a fraction of your sadness.
The directing of Kinji Fukasaku, and his son Kenta who wrote the screenplay as well as aided in directing the cast, is what makes the movie work so well. Even if its lighting wasn’t great, if its camera work wasn’t phenomenal, its effects more subdued, Battle Royale would still be a fantastic film because of the man behind the camera and the experiences he drew on to make such a strong film with such a strong voice.
A Perfect Social Satire That Still Works Today
Many years later, the concepts popularized by Battle Royale, including a whole subgenre of fiction and games with its namesake, are old hat. But none of the offspring pieces of media that rose from it are able to achieve the level of incredible social satire the original does.
Fukasaku never glorifies the evils of the battle royale for aesthetic points: the deaths here are bombastic, silly at points, but the way they die is never “cool”. There’s a quiet sadness, a pathetic nature that is just under the surface of the deaths here that reminds you these aren’t action movie heroes. They’re just kids. It’s horrifying still 25 years after the fact because the film never downplays that factor.
They’re subjected to senseless violence, and it’s a great mirror to the social violence levied against them. It’s an attempt to remedy problems they didn’t cause by making them pay a price they should never have had to pay. They’re left rudderless by a society that didn’t care about them as anything more than a scapegoat or an economic panacea. They’ve lost the trust of and trust in the adults in their life, a reflection of the aimlessness and fear that much of the younger generations still carry with them today.
A Timeless Fable of Hope
In my younger days, I had a very surface level appreciation of Battle Royale. One on par with most young viewers, watching for the sheer high impact ultraviolence the film became infamous for. It was the edge of it all that appealed, I suppose. But looking at it now with fresh, older eyes, the characters are evergreen in what they represent. Fukasaku often called the film a “fable” or a “fairy tale” about the next generation’s challenges, and its heroes do feel heroic in that sense; Shuya, Kawada, and Noriko, stand defiant against the tide of hopelessness in an iconic way. They’re the ones who resist the tyranny of the state, who bond together to regain the trust that is stripped from them by finding it in each other. They take back their dignity, and though it’s a slow climb back, one that might seem impossible, there is hope.
When trust is taken from you, you can choose to take it back and share it with those who do believe in you. When hope is taken back, no matter the circumstance, it can’t be stolen from you again. That timeless message, that hidden beauty of a film painted in such harsh brushstrokes, is the kind of special essence that makes Battle Royale a true classic. In bleak times, and worse political states, Battle Royale still stands as not just a fantastic film, but one that understands and sings of that inescapable and unkillable sense of hope.
This article contains spoilers for the film Green Room (2016)
In April, a 40 foot tall mural went up on the side of a building of a gay club in downtown Providence. It featured slain Ukrainian refugee Iryna Zarutska and was in the process of being installed by a local artist. The mural was part of an extensive “curation” project all across the United States, featuring this woman’s image, funded by alt-right leaders such as Elon Musk, Eoghan McCabe, and Andrew Tate. Suddenly, they do care about immigrants – if you’re the white kind.
Zarutska became a symbol for conservatives nationally when the video of her stabbing on public transportation in Charlotte, North Carolina, was released. Her assailant, Decarlos Brown Jr., who had a long criminal record and documented but untreated mental health issues, is a black man. Trump called for the immediate death penalty for him. Zarutska, as a result, became an opportunity for the far right to weaponize her tragedy, using her image as a racist dog whistle. Notably, North Carolina passed a law “in her honor” that shortens the timeline for capital punishment appeals and removes restrictions on the use of electrocution and lethal gas.
Providence, however, pushed back. Community members protested the mural. The club owners requested its removal. Mayor Brett Smiley condemned the project after its political backing became clear. In the end, it was decommissioned. The backlash, however, quickly attracted national attention and with it, right-wing outrage. Days later, a white nationalist group had a photo-op in front of the unfinished mural – in broad daylight. That’s right, this mural inspired neo-nazis to take selfies in front of a gay bar in Providence.
Why Green Room Feels More Relevant Than Ever
White supremacist movements have become increasingly visible and emboldened in the United States, encouraged by mainstream political rhetoric. These men infiltrate our communities and subcultures, using intimidation and spectacle to spread fear. Green Room confronts that reality head-on, portraying neo-Nazis not as caricatures, but as organized, violent, and disturbingly common. Nearly a decade later, Jeremy Saulnier’s claustrophobic thriller feels more relevant than ever, not only for its depiction of fascist violence, but for its understanding of how young men are drawn into these movements in the first place.
Green Room is a nail-biting, contained setting horror-thriller set in the Pacific Northwest. The Ain’t Rights, a small punk band played by Alia Shawkat, Joe Cole, Callum Turner, and the late, great Anton Yelchin, struggling to make even their gas money back while performing, are arranged to play a show, unknowingly, at a bar in the woods run by skinheads. They open for a neo-nazi band, taunting the crowd with a cover of the Dead Kennedys’ “Nazi Punks Fuck Off.” Tensions escalate even further, however, when Yelchin’s character sees a dead woman, stabbed to death in the green room by one of the skin-heads playing the venue. This leads to an all-night fight for survival for the band, as they try to make it out of the venue alive.
A majority of the film involves a siege between the band, barricaded in the green room, and the skinhead leader Darcy, played menacingly by Sir Patrick Stewart, outside it with his army of neo-Nazis. As the reality of the situation escalates, and the negotiations go awry with Darcy and co., the band slowly realizes there is no reasoning with these men; they cannot be trusted. Soon these punks must use whatever items they have in the green room as a means to fight off the well-armed skinheads.
Jeremy Saulnier’s Neo-Nazis Are Terrifyingly Real
What makes Green Room’s portrayal of these Neo-Nazis all the more grounded and terrifying is that Saulnier portrays the group as organized, calculated, and incredibly dangerous. He avoids creating caricatures; they aren’t seen marching, nor is their ideology discussed through a spoon-feeding Netflix algorithm type of way. Of course, there are hints of their bigotry through lines of dialogue, but their terror is shown rather than explained.
Sir Patrick Stewart depicts Darcy as an organized, even-keeled businessman, using violence as a necessary means to clean up the situation (aka dispose of all the band members and make it appear like a trespassing gone awry.) He is deliberate, calm, and premeditated, as he uses his dedicated and loyal soldiers to reach his goals and maintain control.
The History of Nazi Punk and Hate Core Music
Hate Core or Nazi Punk is a hateful and bigoted subgenre of punk music that emerged in the 1970s in the United Kingdom and eventually made its way over to the United States in the 1980s. While skin-heads originally began as an English working-class movement, it eventually segmented and became co-opted by white nationalists.
Early punk music often used symbols as shock value. Some would wear swastika arm-bands, and others might wear a hammer and sickle, using transgressive imagery to lean into the nihilism or anarchy of the music. By the 1980s, however, a division was apparent, and Nazi punks began using hardcore and punk music as a means to spread far-right ideologies and recruit listeners. While punk music thematically is predominantly anti-fascist, Hate Core uses the intensity, nihilism, and aggression of punk as a tool for fascist propaganda.
The contradiction is baffling. Nazi punks align themselves with music rife with anti-establishment themes, while also clinging to their conformity and blind obedience to their leaders. We see this in the film, as skinheads mosh to the Ain’t Rights in one scene, and obey Darcy’s every command in the next.
Green Room and the Recruitment of Young Men Into Extremism
Scholar Kevin Grether writes in “Heavy and Hateful: Growth of White Supremacy and Neo-Nazism in Skinhead Punk and Black Metal”: “Although [skin-head punk was not] explicitly political at its inception, fascist actors within them were able to take advantage of the social and economic situations of their peers in order to recruit them to their political cause. For skinheads, this was done primarily by Ian Stuart Donaldson and his connections with the National Front, who used their social and economic influence within the subculture (such as ownership of venues) to press party recruitment.”
Green Room does an exceptional job of demonstrating the recruitment of young men by these hate groups and their exploitation of them as a result. It is apparent that Darcy does not seem to care about the music that is played at his bar, but he understands it as a tool to lure more young men to his cause. (We later learn that the venue is a front for a heroin production lab.)
We witness two young recruits non-lethally stab one another and be detained in order to throw off the police from the current situation with the band. These young men do this without hesitation, sacrificing themselves in hopes of Darcy’s approval. Later, we witness two frightened young men, clumsily entering the green room as ordered by leadership to finish off whoever is left of the band.
At all costs, they want to please their leader, Darcy. In an interview from 2016, Saulnier notes, “you gotta ask, not only what are [they] fighting for but who are [they] fighting for? Because it seems to be that these young skinheads…aren’t really benefiting from this battle.”
The Modern Manosphere and the Appeal of Extremist Masculinity
Similar tactics of recruitment are currently prevalent in the new, rising “manosphere”, as more young men gravitate toward internet personas and politicians that espouse a kind of masculinity rooted in misogyny, racism, and homophobia. These men prey on the male loneliness epidemic, which is a sharp increase in reported isolation, lack of close friendships, and social disconnection among men in the United States. This manosphere normalizes gender-based violence, racism, and other extremist, bigoted ideologies, united under the belief that men are victims of social change.
These movements create a false sense of community for men, rooted in antagonism, that only really serves those in leadership (like the fictional Darcy or the very real Andrew Tate.) As a result, these movements create further division and danger for us all, while a few men at the top reap the benefits. As the language of these movements permeates mainstream culture and seeps into online forums and media, it is important for us to not only understand why they appeal to young men, but also how to intervene.
Green Room’s Ending and the Fragility of Fascist Power
At the end of Green Room, Yelchin’s character Pat has Darcy at gunpoint. He says to him, “It’s funny. You were so scary at night.” In an almost anti-climax, Darcy turns his back to Pat and power walks away in cowardice. Pat and other lone-survivor Amber shoot him in the back, killing him.
As I initially looked at the photo of the white nationalists posing in front of that unfinished mural in Providence, the image inspired the same fear Saulnier captures so well: organized hatred displayed openly and without shame. But then, I noticed the masks. I noticed how few of them there are. Like Darcy, their power depends on spectacle, numbers, and intimidation. Strip that away, and what remains are just frightened men desperately clinging to power.
That does not make them harmless; it makes them perceivable and interruptible. As Saulnier depicts the inner operations of a neo-Nazi group, he shows us how hatred can be furthered and codified. It is imperative that we remember that operation in order to undo it. If these movements recruit through isolation, fear, and false belonging, then resistance cannot rely solely on condemnation. It also requires intervention. Stronger community structures and programs that teach healthier models of masculinity, and spaces where young men can find identity without bigotry are critical.
Why Green Room Still Resonates 10 Years Later
On its 10 year anniversary, Green Room remains terrifying because it recognizes fascism not as parodically evil, but as something tragically ordinary. It also remains incredibly pertinent as we look at the current rise of alt-right and fascist movements and try to understand how such hatred can become so pervasive.
Things instantly got complicated when I sat down to think about the 10 scariest horror movie cars. When the topic comes up, a bunch of movies leap to mind. But what makes a car scary? Is it how it looks? What it does? What happens inside it? I already knew I wanted to limit the number of “killer car” movies. It wouldn’t be interesting if this was just a numbing list of obvious titles like Christine and The Car. However, as I sifted through horror history for the best examples, I realized I had to do something drastic.
Top 10 Scariest Horror Movie Cars
So this is actually more like two interwoven Top 5 lists. I’ll be swapping between two themes. The first is “Scary on the Inside,” AKA cars you wouldn’t want to be stuck in. Then there’s “Scary on the Outside.” You know, cars that you wouldn’t want to see pull up behind you in a dark parking lot. These are incredibly different, but equally vital vibes. Without any further ado, let’s put the pedal to the metal and get going.
#10 INSIDE: The Luxury SUV, Locked (2025)
Locked is the third international remake of the 2019 Argentinian film 4×4. Consider this entry a nod to all four movies, because woof. The story follows a luxury SUV becoming a battleground when a petty thief gets locked inside. And then subsequently tortured by an even pettier Jigsaw-esque sadist with a remote control and a score to settle. No fun! I mean, I have a hard enough time sitting through a car ride when the radio is too loud.
#9 OUTSIDE: The Grabber’s Van, The Black Phone (2022)
The ultimate nightmare for any suburban kid is the windowless white van. But the Grabber’s got a flair for aesthetically maxing out the creepiness of whatever he does. So this black, magician-themed van driven by a masked, behatted kidnapper in The Black Phone is somehow even worse.
#8 INSIDE: Amelia’s Car, The Babadook (2014)
The Babadook is famously a movie about how tough it is to deal with grief and single parenthood simultaneously. Never do those twin tasks feel more crushing than during Noah’s backseat meltdown. Screaming, crying, kicking, all while his mother is trying not to drive the car straight into a tree. I’d rather fling myself directly into the Babadook’s loving arms than be riding shotgun in that moment.
#7 OUTSIDE: The Highway Trucks, Pet Sematary (1989)
Those trucks constantly barreling down the highway that borders the Creed family’s lawn might be Stephen King’s most alarming creations.
#6 INSIDE: The Monster-Safe Car, Bird Box (2018)
I’ve gone on record about how Bird Box seems to affect me more than the average viewer. However, who could possibly bear having to drive down a street full of unknown obstacles with completely blacked-out windows? Knowing that if you break down, you’ll have to fumble blindfolded through those same obstacles to find safety? Those “see me and die” monsters sure make running errands inconvenient. And terrifying.
#5 OUTSIDE: The Truck, Duel (1971)
Of all the “killer car/driver” road thriller movies, Steven Spielberg’s Duel remains the high-water mark. Much of this is spurred by the design of the tanker truck chasing Dennis Weaver through the desert. It is impossibly large and bestial, with windows so grimy and opaque that you’re half certain it’s driving itself.
#4 INSIDE: The Cop Car, Scream 2 (1997)
The fact that the back doors of cop cars can’t be opened from the inside is sinister enough. Put a potentially-not-as-knocked-out-as-he-seems Ghostface in the front seat, and that’s one car I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
#3 OUTSIDE: The TSA Car, Get Out (2017)
Thankfully, Rod’s car at the end of Get Out is only scary at first. But I’ll never forget the audience’s collective held breath when those lights flashed on Chris’ face at the end. The thing that’s scary about this one is that it could have been a cop car. In Chris’ situation, the only thing worse than a Ghostface in the front seat would be an actual cop.
#2 INSIDE: Stuntman Mike’s Car, Death Proof (2007)
When you’re being targeted by a serial killer, you’re going to have a bad day no matter what. But there’s something even more potent and scary about Stuntman Mike’s M.O. Killing passengers by crashing his car (which is only safe for the driver) is violent in an especially reckless manner. It’s completely uncontrollable, and even more alarming for it. There’s nowhere to run, after all.
#1 OUTSIDE: The Log Truck, Final Destination 2 (2003)
This movie opens with minutes and minutes of outrageous, bloody highway pileup mayhem. However, whenever you bring up Final Destination 2, the first thing that springs to anyone’s mind is the log truck. The Final Destination franchise has always banked on getting under your skin by embracing relatable fears. It’s a cinematic phobia that taps into something undeniably real, and there ain’t nothing scarier than reality!
INSIDE Honorable Mentions: Spree (2020), Cujo (1983)
OUTSIDE Honorable Mentions: Joy Ride (2001), Maximum Overdrive (1986), The Hearse (1980), The Car (1977), Christine (1983)
