Editorials
Finding Radical Queer Pride in ‘Tetsuo: The Iron Man’ (1989)
What if I told you Tetsuo: The Iron Man is one of the most evocative examples of “queer awakening” ever put on screen? Okay, that’s a tad hyperbolic, and such queer assertions about beloved media are often met with resistance, but in the case of Tetsuo, queerness isn’t just a supposition or mere subtext — it’s a hard-earned revelation.
That’s not to say Tetsuo is a coming-out story. At a film festival appearance in 2016, Director Shinya Tsukamoto expressed his motivation for making films around the time of Tetsuo as one of “exploring the link between cities and men and the relationship between society and humanity.” With Tetsuo, he emphasizes the dehumanizing impact of industrialized landscapes through the erotic fusion of metal and flesh. But the intimate scale of his production, limited cast, and use of settings largely in passing reveal a metamorphosis of a more personal sort through the shifting dynamics of its character relationships.
The demolition of the central character’s straight ego sends a salaryman (Tomorowo Taguchi) on a spiritual pilgrimage through emotions associated with grief (e.g., denial, anger, bargaining) before he embraces his inescapable truth. This arc is one that many closeted or once-closeted folks can relate to and perhaps sympathize with the internalized feelings this journey evokes — not unlike experiencing a death of the Self.
The most important casualty in Tetsuo is the version of himself that was shaped to fit society’s expectations of the norm. Only after letting go of this Self does he arrive at a hilarious yet hopeful conclusion: a steeling of his sensitivity against the pressures of others, and a militant acceptance of a queer mode of being.
Enter the Salaryman
Queering the norm comes easily when you start with the generic baseline of an office worker, as Tsukamoto does. The salaryman as a concept is a bastion of normality — one who is stably (though often nebulously) employed. Someone who slots right into the corporate machine, meets the minimum expectations as a productive member of society, and doesn’t challenge the status quo. But when Tsukamoto introduces his salaryman, the character is already in a state of torment and distress. He writhes and flails in a spotlight, flinging sweat as the movie’s title card scrolls to heavy, industrial beats.
An office worker is a role one might expect to receive some disdain from a filmmaker who was branded a failure and forced out of his family home for dedicating himself to independent art over gainful employment.2 But Tsukamoto doesn’t torture his salaryman without purpose. He aims to help the character transcend his conventional origins, deprogram his insecurities, and become stronger and more self-assured when all is said and done.
Flashback: A Fateful Collision
While we’re never shown the true nature of the salaryman’s profession, we do learn that he begins his journey of self-discovery while he is in an active relationship with a woman (Kei Fujiwara). Through carefully planted flashbacks, we see that the overzealous expression of their sexual love is directly to blame for their unfortunate collision with a pedestrian in crisis: the “metal fetishist” (Tsukamoto) whose hysteria over his body’s rejection of dirty, DIY metal implants sent him barreling into the couple’s path.
The pair awkwardly emerges from their vehicle, adjusting their clothes after their motor-borne tryst to dump the injured man among the trees. They then finish their sexual gratification in voyeuristic view of their unusual yet undead victim. Throughout their exhibition, the salaryman notably keeps his gaze squarely on the body of the unfortunate man — never on his partner — an early sign of a shift in his attention.
The significance of their victim’s metal affinity feels innately queer in comparison to the couple’s organic bond. Tsukamoto emphasized the eroticism of its symbolism in an interview with AsianMoviePulse.com where he stated, “I chose metal as a kind of fetish, because the electric brain and the human body becoming one with the metal is more like the act of making love, it has a strong sexual connotation.”
An Unfamiliar Self
Soon after this harrowing encounter in which a man, rather than a woman, first commandeered the salaryman’s focus, he awakens at home and attempts to proceed with life as usual, beginning his day with a fresh shave. The moment he steps in front of his mirror, he notices something has changed. A metallic “zit” appears on his cheek, which he quickly pops and covers with a bandage. This marks the beginning of his slip into unfamiliarity with the person he once envisioned himself to be.
It would be easy to write off this identity crisis as stemming from guilt over the surmised manslaughter and cover-up of the pancaked pedestrian whose dying vision was the couple in lust, but this simplification fails to capture the full scope of the shift in the salaryman’s relationship dynamics that the movie continues to explore.
Denial: A Creeping Suspicion
After the salaryman begins to question things he once knew about himself, he is thrust into a world where he must confront how he relates to others as well. On the way to his nondescript office job, he sits beside a bookish woman who is suddenly gripped by a metallic parasite that grants her a grotesque, metal claw. She becomes monstrous in the salaryman’s eyes and even chases him when he runs.
The pursuer corners him in an auto mechanic’s workshop, clutches her breast until it bursts, and speaks with the voice of the metal fetishist who should otherwise be rotting in a ditch. The salaryman’s hapless hit-and-run victim lives on, either as an obsessive figment of his guilt or somehow supernaturally revived in his grimy lair from where he remotely controls the parasitic claw’s host. The salaryman snuffs out the possessed woman with a full-body vice grip, then hurries home as his own metallic corruption courses further throughout his body.
The fact that this stranger is a woman is an important detail in this queer reading of the film. It forces our salaryman to confront a shift in his relationship with the opposite sex, lending fuel to the interpretation of a queer awakening. Defeminized through her possession by the fetishist, perhaps it’s not her womanhood that the salaryman wants to escape but rather the growing allure of metallic masculinity.
A Deadly Repression
But what of the salaryman’s attachment to his girlfriend? Their attraction is shown as highly sexual, but Tsukamoto seems to have hinted at cracks in their foundation from the moment their relationship was introduced. In the awkward phone call after the salaryman pops his metal zit, the lovers volley “Hello?” back and forth with little else to add. The salaryman seems far more engrossed in the newspaper than their call. Is he searching defensively for news about their crime, or is he perhaps hoping for a sign that the mangled man was rescued?
After his encounter with the stalker in the train station, the salaryman races home and dreams vividly of his girlfriend sodomizing him with a serpentine strap-on. While their physical relationship has shown significant freedom from prudishness, this is the first time we see a break from gendered norms. One has to question what the fantasy means for the salaryman as he grapples with the persistent allure of the metal fetishist.
Waking in a sweat, the two engage in desperate sex until the spread of his metal-morphosis painfully interrupts their act. As the couple recoups over breakfast, the salaryman is simultaneously aroused and perturbed by the heightened sounds of teeth meeting the metal utensils. He begs his girlfriend to promise not to leave him as he reveals the nature of his recent struggles.
In this moment, what the salaryman appears to fear most is abandonment for revealing his new truth, but one last attempt to mask or repress his physical and sexual condition leads to the impalement and untimely death of the final link between him and his former (i.e., straight) identity.
A Wake-up Call
As the body of his former girlfriend rests in the bathtub, the phone begins to ring. The salaryman — now almost entirely cast in metal — picks up the receiver, and the fetishist on the other end announces that he knows the salaryman’s secret. This prompts our salaryman to recall the collision that started him on his path of self-discovery — this time from his victim’s perspective. Afraid of being outed, the salaryman shoves a knife into an electrical outlet, but the shock only amplifies his metal-morphosis and creates an electromagnetic attraction that draws the metal fetishist to him.
The fetishist co-opts the girlfriend’s body and reconstitutes it as his own, appearing before the salaryman with a bouquet in hand. “Soon even your brain will turn into metal,” he says, crawling on top of the salaryman. “Let me show you something wonderful… a new world!”
In this moment, the salaryman finally recognizes a possible future in metal — one where he is not alone because the fetishist shares his brand of metallic disposition. But admitting as much would rewire all that the salaryman has known, and he flees in a panic one last time.
Tsukamoto addressed his fascination with anti-heroic characters like the metal fetishist (whom he often embodies in his films) in an interview with Variety.com. “In the beginning, the main character struggles and tries to avoid the path he is being sent down,” he said. “But the stalker awakes another side to his personality and pushes him towards being someone else. It’s fascinating to see something that is hidden inside someone.”
Bargaining: The Final Resistance
The salaryman begins to synchronize and sympathize with the fetishist. As he runs, he experiences visions of the car accident and past traumas that influenced the fetishist’s metal affinity, all from the perspective of his pursuer. While the salaryman’s own reformation is shiny, untainted, and new, the fetishist’s metallic nature is rusted and impure, which could perhaps be attributed to the solitary, unsupported nature of the fetishist’s own path to self-discovery.
Their chase ends in a heap of metal. The salaryman’s new reality can no longer be denied. The fetishist decides to end the salaryman’s anguish, but the salaryman has come to terms with his new reality and refuses to enter his “new world” alone. With a deep, pelvic thrust, he assimilates the fetishist into his being — solitary trauma and all.
Radical Acceptance
The salaryman finally accepts his position outside the conditions that society once placed upon him, and now he does not have to live in fear of the future alone. Tsukamoto leaves no ambiguity to the nature of the salaryman and the fetishist’s intimacy with his image of the pair nude and joined at one hand with a metal cuff. Their bond is inseparable. In a flash, the two are transformed into a phallic tank, ready to make their vision of a “New World” a reality through radical, shared pride.
While this analysis examines one particular journey through identity, no journey of self-discovery is identical. For some, growing into a new identity is a slow burn. For others, it may be a sudden upheaval, as with the leap of a frenzied pedestrian into their life’s trajectory. Whether someone is gay, bisexual, or even a budding artist in a family of doctors, there’s something about the salaryman’s journey that can speak to anyone who has contended with the pressure of meeting the expectations of others before their own, and that’s precisely what I love about this gloriously weird movie.
May we all take pride in who we are and wreak our own brand of reconstructive havoc on an unjust world. As the metal fetishist so gleefully declares, “Our love can destroy this whole fucking world!” (Penis panzer optional.)
Editorials
Stop Pretending Like Jump Scares Are a Bad Thing
There are people who genuinely dislike jump scares for good reasons, both personal and philosophical. However, given how frequently the same talking points are regurgitated over and over when it comes to jump scares, a lot of people are imitating the opinions of others rather than investigating their own relationships to jump-scare-heavy movies. If you talk to enough horror fans, you get the sense that the general party line is that jump scares are a cheap, lazy way to frighten the audience and spice up an otherwise uninteresting B-movie. Ask anyone in the know about the differences between 1989’s The Woman in Black and the 2012 version if you want a real potent example.
Last September, I gave you a step-by-step guide on introducing a scaredy-cat to jump scares. But over the past year, I have continued to hear the same conversations from horror fans the world over. “That movie sucked, it was all jump scares.” “They couldn’t make it scary, so they just threw in a bunch of jump scares.” How cheap, how tawdry, and on and on and on. It turns out that teaching people how to endure jump scares is just half the battle. Teaching people how to respect jump scares is an entirely different prospect.
Beware Anti-Jump Scare Propaganda
There are people who genuinely dislike jump scares for good reasons, both personal and philosophical. However, given how frequently the same talking points are regurgitated over and over when it comes to jump scares, a lot of people are imitating the opinions of others rather than investigating their own relationships to jump-scare-heavy movies. If you talk to enough horror fans, you get the sense that the general party line is that jump scares are a cheap, lazy way to frighten the audience and spice up an otherwise uninteresting B-movie. Ask anyone in the know about the differences between 1989’s The Woman in Black and the 2012 version if you want a real potent example.
And sure, throughout horror history there are plenty of bad jump scares where you can practically see the production assistant’s hands tossing the black cat into frame in front of the woman in the diaphanous nightgown. However, at the same time, moments like the final scene of 1976’s Carrie or the big hospital scare sequence in The Exorcist III are generally hailed as masterpiece moments. This strikes me as hypocritical, for one very good reason. It is hypocritical.
Listen To Your Body
There’s a reason even anti-jump scare folks will praise some of the best examples of the form. Jump scares are servicing a different, but no less valuable, need for the horror fan than “elevated” horror material that is more atmospheric and dread-inducing. This is because they have a profound, direct impact on the body. Jump scares spike the adrenaline, cause the heart to race, and generally exhilarate the system. While this is something that general dread can accomplish too, jump scares provide a much more immediate rush, like taking a ride on a roller coaster. And who the hell ever got off a roller coaster and said, “I wish that was more intellectually stimulating?”
A dread-filled atmosphere is to a good, solid jump scare is what a filet mignon is to a handful of M&M’s. Presuming they align with one’s tastes in the first place, both experiences are satisfying in their own unique way, but there’s only one you’d post on Instagram about. The only major difference between them is how they are perceived by others rather than the way they are received by oneself. On top of that, not all jump scares are mindless carnival rides, anyway (even though there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being that in the first place).
Switch Your Brain On (If You Want)
Maybe the propaganda is right. Maybe jump scares are cheap. But the best ones are never, ever lazy. As if we needed proof that there’s more nuance to jump scares than people give them credit for, there are a wide selection of different varieties of jump scares in the horror genre. The two primary categories are slow burn horror scenes that culminate in a big scare (ie. the clapping scene in The Conjuring) and short sharp shocks that come out of nowhere during a seemingly calm scene (i.e. the end of the original Friday the 13th).
The former type are the ones that typically receive the complaint “I could see the scares coming from a mile away.” But here’s a little secret: That’s usually the point. Filmmakers working in the Conjuring slow-burn mode want you to know there’s a scare coming down the line. The trick is in not telling you when it’s going to come. These scenes harness the anticipation of a jack-in-the-box, prepping you for a random shock but still making you jump nevertheless. This type of active participation in a scene can be just as intellectually satisfying as dissecting the subtextual themes of a character’s dialogue, especially when the filmmakers have the prestidigitation skills to point your attention in one direction, only to have the scare come from a completely unexpected place.
Shed Your Shame
Ultimately, what I think people are doing when they complain about cheap jump scares is the same thing that one does when groaning after somebody tells a pun. That’s the reaction you’re expected to make to something perceived as “low culture.” But didn’t you secretly sort of enjoy that pun? Admitting you’ve enjoyed a bad joke has become taboo for whatever reason, but the “worst” puns are the ones that get repeated the most, because piss and moan all you want, you’re only human. Sometimes you need to act upon your more basic urges, even if they’re not as classy as the interests you probably want to be known for. Societal pressure is a tough nut to crack sometimes, but embracing both the high and low elements of the genre is simply allowing oneself to enjoy a fuller spectrum of horror movie moments.
My point is, don’t limit yourself. Eat those M&M’s. Laugh at your friend’s stupid puns. And jump into the scares.
Editorials
Why ‘Kilometer 31’ (2006) Is An Unconventional La Llorona Film
The Mexican horror film Kilometer 31 (KM 31), directed by Rigoberto Castañeda, takes the story of La Llorona and gives it a modern twist with its aesthetic approach. While it does follow the majority of the traits previously mentioned, its presentation is what garners its purpose for being unconventional compared to other La Llorona films. The film follows Catalina (Iliana Fox) as she attempts to uncover the mystery behind Ágata, her twin sister’s car crash outside of Mexico City. By her side, she has her boyfriend Nuño (Adrià Collado) and Ágata’s boyfriend Omar (Raúl Méndez).
The story of La Llorona has been within the Latin American zeitgeist since the first days of the Spanish and Portuguese conquest. In many, and the most common iteration of La Llorona, her character is tied to the real-life person, La Malinche. Her story, just as tragic, involves the slaughter of her people as she became the interpreter between the Indigenous people of Mesoamerica and Hernan Cortes. Outside of the direct connection between these two, La Llorona’s tale typically has specific details that make her story unique.
It’s a safe bet her story will include the infanticide of her children by drowning. The reasons vary drastically depending on the story. Another factor consists of the infamous white dress the mythical being wears. This is mainly seen as she’s wailing for her dead children to return. And lastly, there is usually an account of a man being lured by La Llorona’s presence. Of course, there are exceptions where a story will take liberty with the origins and other tropes within the narrative. However, there’s a horror film that takes the story into new territories while still rehashing some previous traits with La Llorona’s tale.
The Mexican horror film Kilometer 31 (KM 31), directed by Rigoberto Castañeda, takes the story of La Llorona and gives it a modern twist with its aesthetic approach. While it does follow the majority of the traits previously mentioned, its presentation is what garners its purpose for being unconventional compared to other La Llorona films. The film follows Catalina (Iliana Fox) as she attempts to uncover the mystery behind Ágata, her twin sister’s car crash outside of Mexico City. By her side, she has her boyfriend Nuño (Adrià Collado) and Ágata’s boyfriend Omar (Raúl Méndez).
When thinking of La Llorona films from Mexico, it’s expected to see plenty of scenes within nature. This is because her story revolves around the drowning of her children in a river. In some cases, it becomes a character on its own as her character breathes life into the environment. Her presence creates an eerie atmosphere, and she uses the forest to her advantage. KM 31, however, only has a handful of scenes within the forest. Instead, the film takes the setting into the concrete forest of Mexico City. Here we see a ghostly figure torment Catalina in the comfort of her home. The open wildlife scenery is swapped for religious artifacts, contemporary decorations, and enclosed rooms. This not only creates a suffocating atmosphere but also allows Castañeda to display his horror influence in full.
During the early Aughts, the horror community began to see a rise in Japanese horror films entering the mainstream. This was due to the remakes coming out of the United States with films such as The Grudge and The Ring. By 2006, the release of KM 31, J-Horror had left its mark. Filmmakers like Castañeda utilized the tropes and aesthetics of these films and used them for their own. KM31 is a Mexican horror film using Latin America’s famous folktale, yet its lens and approach come from a J-Horror perspective.
To start with the most evident influence, KM 31 uses a different kind of ghost as opposed to the woman in the white dress. In true J-Horror fashion, the main ghastly entity appearing to the protagonist is a boy. We see him appear after Ágata’s car crash. At first, his appearance feels like terrorizing tactics against Catalina throughout the first act of the film. His scenes are drenched in oppressive tension. In certain scenes, there are recreated scenarios that would fit perfectly with the J-Horror bill. One includes using a CRT television with a blue screen illuminating the enclosed apartment. After the initial shock of the boy’s ghost, he shows his intention isn’t filled with malice. He’s there to help solve the mystery behind the accident. The second act follows the same narrative style of the J-Horror films. It focuses on the mystery instead of the scares as Catalina uncovers more details about the supernatural occurrence at KM 31.
La Llorona’s story comes with aspects that can not be dismissed. One of these is the connection between herself and the river her children drowned in. Castañeda doesn’t forget this as his film includes plenty of scenes including water. However, it doesn’t follow the typical path you would see in a film about La Llorona. The flow of water from a natural stream is exchanged for the artificial piping in Mexico City. Throughout the film, there are constant frames of water flowing through pipes, which indicates its importance. A harrowing voice expels from sinks and bathtubs as water courses through. On top of that, there’s a clear relationship between water and the presence of the ghost boy. This could be overt such as the ghost appearing during the rainfall but it’s also more subtle such as a glass reflection recreating water ripples on the boy’s body.
In contemporary times, there have been cinematic iterations of La Llorona straying from the default. We see this with films such as Jayro Bustamante’s La Llorona and its inclusion of the Guatemalan silenced history. In the early 2000s, films taking a new approach to La Llorona weren’t as common. The only other account of a drastically different iteration includes The Curse of the Crying Woman from 1963. Even then, that film still felt distinctively Mexican with its direction, which is not a con at all by the way. But Castañeda’s KM 31 brings foreign influences to the story of La Llorona for the first time on the big screen. This makes the film feel completely different from any other La Llorona released to date.
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