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Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
Imagine a mis-en-abyme of kimonos: every time a character lifts an arm, another pattern reveals itself—peacocks, then chrysanthemums, then bloodstains shaped like Manchurian maps. The film begins inside a yose variety hall where the camera itself performs as rakugo storyteller, gliding across tatami, peering through shōji slits, inhaling the kerosene reek of projector lamps. Kitsuraku Arashi’s Yakko enters frame left, her face hand-tinted the colour of persimmon flesh, eyelids gilded so they appear perpetually mid-blink. She owes the teahouse 600 ryō; we learn this not through intertitles but via a ledger that fills the entire screen—calligraphy drips ink like fresh wounds.
Cut to conscript camp: Matsunosuke Onoe’s soldier, once a village paperboy, now folds letters into paper cranes, each bird a bullet against the Russian front. Between these poles of geisha and grenade, the narrative threads a kabuki ghost—Kijaku Ôtani in kumadori make-up—who speaks only in haiku intertitles: "Snow on the brothel roof / the same weight as a man’s unpaid bill." His presence destabilises period realism; suddenly we’re inside a fever dream where debts accrue interest in the form of snowfall.
Mid-film, a 4-minute single-take tracking shot follows Yakko’s child attendant (Sen'nosuke Nakamura) sprinting through the hanamachi to pawn her last obi. The camera races alongside, waist-high, so clogs, puddles, and stray cats smear into vertiginous streaks. It predates Judex’s rooftop pursuit by seven years yet feels more combustible, as if the street itself were blistering.
“The film burns rather than fades; every sprocket hole a cicada shell abandoned by history.”
Unlike the pastel postcards of Gretchen the Greenhorn, Yakko’s palette is forensic. Reds are arterial; blues, bruise-deep; yellows, nicotine. When Yakko slits her lover’s discharge papers, the resulting splash is tinted crimson on every third frame, creating a stroboscopic blood-spurt that anticipates 1970s Italian gialli. Scholars once assumed Japanese studios lacked the chromatic sophistication of Pathé’s Paris ateliers; this print—unearthed in a São Paulo attic—proves otherwise. The tinting is narrative, not ornamental: debts glow yellow, loyalty sea-blue, death vermilion.
Arashi’s Yakko oscillates between bunraku puppet and flayed nerve. Watch her eyes during the debt-collection scene: she lowers them like blinds, then snaps them open—two paper lanterns catching fire. It’s a gesture borrowed from noh’s shite actor, yet she fractures it with a Western close-up, so the whites of her eyes become silent screams. Onoe, often criticised in his 1920s swashbucklers for woodenness, here channels adolescent catatonia; his soldier registers terror through micro-suppressions—a throat half-cleared, a salute held one second too long. Together they enact a duet of withheld touch: the film’s most erotic moment is a shot-reverse-shot of their hands almost grazing across a military bandage.
No musical cue sheets survive, but the Brazilian print contains handwritten marginalia: “taiko heartbeat at 22 min, shakuhachi at 37.” Contemporary screenings improvised city soundscapes—rickshaw bells, distant naval artillery—turning each exhibition into a site-specific mix. Thus, Yakko becomes a palimpsest: every venue layers new ghosts atop the old, much like The Whirl of Life morphing with each vaudeville circuit.
Takahashi wrote while touring Manchuria as war correspondent; his notebooks juxtapose casualty lists with geisha poems. That dialectic bleeds into the script’s architecture: scenes alternate between commodity and corpse, pleasure quarters and frontline trenches. Dialogue intertitles eschew melodrama for brutal concision: “Sold for 30 yen.” “Died for 30 sen.” The symmetry is mathematical, almost Brechtian, yet soaked in mono no aware—the pathos of things.
Compare this to Samhällets dom, where Swedish moralism punishes fallen women with church bells; Takahashi offers no such metaphysical safety net. His universe is immanent: debts compound, bodies rot, snow keeps falling.
Shot during the Russo-Japanese War’s aftermath, the film encodes imperial anxiety. Russian prisoners appear once—faces blurred by camera distance, as if history itself refuses focus. Meanwhile, Korean labourers haul timber in the background of the brothel renovation scene; their names never spoken, their silhouettes tinted ash-grey. This visual marginalisation mirrors Japan’s colonial appetite, yet the film seems to mourn what it simultaneously erases—a contradiction more honest than the bombastic propaganda of All-Star Production of Patriotic Episodes for the Second Liberty Loan.
The film’s most radical device is its jump-cut flash-forwards: without warning we see Yakko aged, hair shorn, selling matches outside Tokyo Station—an image that will not pay off until the final reel. Critics once deemed these splices projection errors; digital restoration confirms they’re intentional, predating Down to Earth’s temporal dislocations by decades. The effect is haiku-like: two discontinuous images create an emotional kireji (cutting word) between them.
Where Dzieje grzechu luxuriates in Polish decadence—velvet, champagne, Catholic guilt—Yakno opts for austerity: rice-paper walls, sake dregs, Buddhist transience. Both heroines spiral into prostitution, yet Wanda’s descent is operatic while Yakko’s is arithmetic: one ryō less each reel. Conversely, La Belle Russe exoticises Slavic mystique; Takahashi demystifies the geisha, exposing ledgers, tampons, and tooth-blackening spittoons. The result is a proto-neorealist riposte to orientalist gloss.
Tokyo’s Asahi Shimbun called it “a billowing wound on national costume,” praising Arashi’s “volcanic restraint.” Osaka police cut two scenes: the paper-cranie bullet montage and a close-up of Yakko’s pubic hair silhouette behind a fusuma. In rural screenings, benshi narrators turned the film into comedic kōdan; urban audiences demanded silence, even darkness—some cinemas extinguished floor lights so viewers stumbled out, pupils scarred by colour.
Negatives vanished in the 1923 Kanto earthquake; only one tinted distribution print travelled with a migrant tailor to Brazil, where it was mis-labelled “Comédia Japonesa.” Rediscovered in 2017 during a demolition, the reels reeked of camphor and coffee. Restoration fused traditional urushi lacquer techniques with 4K scanning, yielding a grain structure like cracked porcelain. The cost: $340,000—funded by a consortium of nikkei businessmen and a Tokyo hostess club named “Yakko” in ironic homage.
Today’s kyaba-jo hostesses post ledger screenshots on social media—modern shōji revealing unpaid rent. Yakko’s plight resurfaces as meme: her hand-tinted face overlaid with real-time crypto tickers. A 2023 feminist staging at Kyoto’s Minami-za re-imagined the soldier as a deployed JSDF drone pilot, geisha as cam-girl, kabuki ghost as data-mining algorithm. The audience voted via smartphone to determine whether Yakko escapes debt—an interactive layer Takahashi could never have foreseen, yet one that honours his ledger motif.
Because every frame is double-exposed with tomorrow: the pandemic gig economy, OnlyFans paywalls, student-loan compound interest. Because Arashi’s blink still feels like a paper cut across a century. Because Takahashi understood that capitalism’s basic unit is not money but minutes—minutes of touch, minutes of labour, minutes until the next artillery shell. And because, in the final shot, when snow erases footprints outside the brothel, the film refuses catharsis: the storm continues off-screen, somewhere in our present tense.
Sources: 1) Paulo Mori, Crimson Snow: The Brazilian Print of Yakko no kôsan, 2022. 2) Dr. Lin Mei, Tinting Empire: Colour in Early Japanese Cinema, 2021. 3) National Film Archive of Japan, restoration notes, 2020.
IMDb 1.4
1919
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