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Writer's pictureRobin Syversen

JIGOKU (1960) REVIEW & ANALYSIS

Exploring the Cultural Ties of Nakagawa’s Vision of Hell


A man burning in Hell, inspired by the film Jigoku (1960)
Fanart © Japanese Cinema Archives

Director: Nobuo Nakagawa

Cast: Shigeru Amachi, Utako Mitsuya, Yôichi Numata, Hiroshi Hayashi, Jun Ôtomo

Related films: Tampopo, In the Realm of the Senses, Kwaidan, After Life

Studio: Shintoho

Year: 1960

Verdict: 3/6


Contents:




Introducing Jigoku | The Sinners of Hell


Watching Jigoku, it soon becomes clear that sometimes art and entertainment are as distant as heaven and hell. If you came for the art, this movie might be your little slice of heaven. If you sought entertainment, however, the film certainly lives up to its name.


In the opening minutes, Jigoku (which translates to "Hell" in Japanese) feels less like a movie and more like an art installation or a theatrical piece imbued with poetic narration. The story appears little more than a vehicle for artistic expression, bypassing any deeper connection with its audience, at least on the surface.


Though much of the film consists of straightforward storytelling, it’s the experimental visuals and dramatic bookends that capture—and rightfully deserve—the spotlight. The visual spectacle, primarily in the final act, is Jigoku’s saving grace, while the acting and plot feel like more of an afterthought.


From a film-theoretic perspective, it is undeniably intriguing—a must-watch for any student of cinematic experimentation. For the casual viewer, however, the storytelling and presentation might prove an exercise in concentration and patience.



A New Wave of Horror | Jigoku in the Japanese Film Canon


Jigoku is often grouped with the burgeoning Japanese New Wave of the early 1960s—an association as fitting as calling it a horror film. True, it has its horrific moments, but overall, it’s neither suspenseful nor frightening enough to satisfy cravings for cheap thrills or spine-tingling chills.


That said, there are a few moments gruesome enough to defend Jigoku’s infamy. At its release, the film was nothing short of outrageous. Even today, these moments are not for the faint of heart and do give some credence to the film's reputation—disembowelment, quartered torsos, hellish torture, and all.


Influenced by Hollywood cinema and Japanese theater, director Nakagawa crafted a hybrid that pulls from Russian Montage, German Expressionism, religious rituals, and Japanese ghost stories. To top off his eclectic mix, he added a dose of unconventional camerawork, resulting in distinctive cinematography in the context of Japanese cinema.


Art director Haruyasu Kurosawa brought the netherworld scenes to life, crafting stylized sets that blend traditional Japanese art with a modern twist. Paired with Chumei Watanabe’s eerie score, as well as innovative techniques like rotating sets and mirrored floors, the team conjured a hellish vision that’s quite unique.


Outside the intense closing scenes, the so-called frights in Jigoku lean toward the comical, thanks to low-budget effects and, at times, outrageous overacting. While the film intentionally embraces theatricality, its balance between storytelling and experimentation tilts too heavily toward the latter, making it tough to get invested in either the plot or the characters.



Jigoku Plot | The Road to Damnation


The story follows two young men who, in a literal wrong turn, run down a chinpira (a yakuza prospect) on the street. The driver is the eerily spoken and enigmatic Tamura, while our troubled protagonist - Shirô Shimizu - occupies the passenger seat.


Tamura has no qualms about leaving their victim dying on the curb, but Shirô is instantly haunted by remorse. Seeking relief from his guilty conscience, he confides in his fiancée, Yukiko, and decides to take a cab to the police station to confess. But before they arrive, their cab crashes, killing her and leaving him as the sole survivor.


Not long after, Shirô learns that his mother is gravely ill, prompting him to visit her at a retirement home. Here, he’s confronted on a rope bridge by Yoko—the chinpira's girlfriend—who he encountered at a strip bar following Yukiko's untimely death.


In a bizarre turn of events, both Yoko and Tamura suddenly fall off the bridge to their deaths, once again leaving Shirô as the last man standing.


At this point, the story has unraveled into absurdity, with a nonsensical chain of events that defies any sense of realism. The clumsy, almost laughable death scenes on the bridge add little to the plot, serving merely as a segue to Shirô’s murder and final descent into hell.


Once in the netherworld, Shirô’s torments intensify as he faces the consequences of his actions. To add another layer of tragedy, the fate of his unborn child is suddenly thrown into the mix—a thinly veiled attempt to tug at our heartstrings.


Ultimately, Shirô finds himself chasing after his lost child, drifting through the cesspools of the Eight Buddhist Hells. Whether intended as a fitting punishment for his sins or a glimmer of hope for the damned, it’s hard to feel any compassion for Shirô. The lifeless acting and unlikable characters work against the storytelling, eliciting little more than indifference.


A man burning in Buddhist Hell, inspired by the film Jigoku (1960)
Fanart © Japanese Cinema Archives

Japanese Cultural Ties | Diving into Buddhist Hell


In Jigoku, Hell doesn’t merely serve as a setting but a reflection of Japanese culture and spiritual beliefs. The story’s rhythm follows a distinctly Japanese horror narrative tradition. Many Japanese folk tales and supernatural stories spend a long time introducing the characters and their inevitable fates, only to plunge them suddenly into a single, chilling moment of horror. This rhythm leaves audiences lingering in the dread of what might come next.


Nakagawa honors this tradition at first but then diverges by showing us what actually happens after Shirô’s fateful descent—a move more akin to his Hollywood horror counterparts. Unlike the restrained terror in films like Onibaba, Jigoku takes us right to the heart of Buddhist Hell itself.


Then, there’s Tamura, Shirô’s ominous guide, bringing the likes of Mephistopheles in Faust to mind. Tamura isn’t just a man; he’s a dark mirror, a relentless shadow who follows Shirô at every turn.


Who or what Tamura is is never clearly explained—perhaps a projection of Shirô’s troubled conscience, as he seems to appear whenever guilt strikes. By giving Tamura this supernatural edge, Nakagawa turns him into something far more sinister: he symbolizes Shirô’s moral decay, a constant reminder of his mounting “sins.”


Alive with Traditional Japanese Horrors


As Shirô crosses into Hell, he first encounters the River Sanzu, a passage inspired by Buddhist teachings. Sinners must cross the river in one of three ways: the virtuous take a bridge, the moderately sinful wade through the shallows, and the gravest sinners are forced to swim its dark depths.


Waiting on the other side is Enma Dai-Oh, the Judge of Hell, who condemns each soul to a specific realm of torment. Nakagawa’s vision draws heavily from Ōjōyōshū, an ancient text by the monk Genshin, detailing the terrors of Hell in ways that align hauntingly with Nakagawa’s depiction.


The visual style of Hell in Jigoku also carries deep cultural roots. The eerie, flat colors and unsettling mists recall ukiyo-e art, particularly the ghostly, graphic works of Yoshitoshi, known for depicting Japan’s supernatural world in chilling, often grotesque detail.


In his final moments, Shirô reaches for his baby girl Harumi, who is bound to the Wheel of Law—a symbol of karma and fate in Buddhist teachings. Here, the wheel embodies the endless suffering caused by unredeemed sins, twisting and turning like an unyielding cycle.



Jigoku Analysis | The Decline of Eastern Civilization


Jigoku is an eclectic mess of influences, open to any number of interpretations. On the surface, the tormenting layers of Hell seem to mirror the characters’ inner suffering.


This implies that Hell is not just a metaphysical place but a state of mind—a psychological prison forged from our actions and guilt. While some might argue the entire depiction of Hell exists only in Shirô's mind, the visceral torment feels too tangible to be purely symbolic.


If this Hell is indeed a reflection of the characters’ internal struggles, it raises questions about fate, free will, and choice. Shirô’s involvement in the deaths surrounding him was indirect and never premeditated. Regret defines him far more than ego or ambition.


Yes, his choices were ill-advised, setting a grim domino effect into motion, but is that enough to damn him for eternity? Free will doesn’t excuse us from accountability, but in Shirô’s case, his efforts to do good are thwarted at every turn. So who—or what—is really to blame?


A demon looking at a man in ancient Japan, inspired by the film Jigoku (1960).
Fanart © Japanese Cinema Archives

The Western Devils of Corruption


In 1960, Japan was wrestling with the influx of Western ideologies that clashed with long-held traditions. Individualism and materialism disrupted the collective spirit and moral codes underpinning Japanese society.


As such, Tamura’s cynical worldview, disregard for ethical norms, and self-serving actions might be interpreted to reflect the darker side of Japan’s rapid modernization. If that is the case, then his pervasive influence over Shirô serves as a warning about how external forces can corrupt personal integrity and unravel societal cohesion.


Tamura’s corrupting presence gestures at the perils of moral decay, suggesting that even with good intentions, one can be dragged down by those they choose to keep close and the culture they embrace.


Given the era of Jigoku's release, the film seems to invite to critical reflection on the consequences of one's actions. It hints that reconnecting with traditional principles is essential to prevent a descent into moral and spiritual chaos.


It could be argued that Shirô is a victim of malignant forces beyond his control, yet he might have chosen his friends more wisely or heeded the advice of those who meant him well. Whether he deserved such a cruel punishment is, of course, up for debate—unless it was all just a figment of his imagination.



Final Verdict | Jigoku Review


It’s rarely a good sign when you have to pause a movie multiple times just to get through it in one sitting. Jigoku may require precisely that, but it still leaves a strong impression. Its darkness is undeniable, and even in 2024, its depiction of Hell remains genuinely disturbing.


At times, the story veers into melodrama, yet as an artistic expression, the film holds interest. Just don’t expect jump scares or edge-of-your-seat suspense; Jigoku is an entirely different beast.


If you’re here for cheap thrills or riveting storytelling, you'd best look elsewhere. Character development is sparse, the story arc feels contrived, and the acting is mediocre. But visually? Unforgettable.


In short, Nakagawa’s vision has its merits. The mood is relentlessly grim, with death lurking in every corner, casting a shadow that hangs like haunting artwork in a dimly lit gallery. The atmosphere is thick with gloom, and it draws you in, even if only on a visual level.


For this reason alone, Jigoku deserves a place on the watchlist of film scholars and Japanese cinema enthusiasts. Yet, let’s be clear: it’s highly pretentious and wildly overrated. It is an intriguing piece of Japanese film history, but frankly, Jigoku is Hell to sit through.




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