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139
the truth and stop the chain of horror from proliferating. In the
Korean horror blockbusters Hayanbang (White Room, dir. Changjae Lim, 2002) and Yeogo goedam 3: Yeowoo gyedan (Wishing Stairs,
dir. Jae-yeon Yun, 2003), unbridled sexual desire and promiscuity
within a family context propel a tragic sequence of events that leads
to vengeance being exacted on the culprits by supernatural forces.
Perhaps this contemporary Asian horror evinces the same male
anxieties exemplified in the Western horror films of the 1980s,
through what Kaja Silverman calls the dominant fiction or conventional Oedipal desires and positionalities that pathologically
affirm conservative family values and chastise those who flout or
disobey the norms.6 The rest of this essay will demonstrate that the
current Asian horror film is ultimately conservative and functions
as a form of narrative containment, the modern purification ritual
that emphasizes the need for recuperation into the male order
of things.
The two films that I have singled out for discussion are Dark Water
(2002) and A Tale of Two Sisters (2003). Both have been phenomenally successful with national and international audiences and, as
mentioned earlier, have sold their remake rights to major Hollywood studios. Dark Water was the much-anticipated new work from
Hideo Nakata, the director of the groundbreaking Japanese horror film The Ring, who has collaborated yet again with the maestro
of Japanese horror fiction, Koji Suzuki. Apart from breaking boxoffice records in Japan, Dark Water garnered several international
film awards, including the Grand Prize and International Critics
Award at the 2002 Gerardner Film Festival, the Silver Raven at the
Brussels International Festival of Fantasy Film, and a Special Mention at the Catalonian International Film Festival in Sitges, Spain.
Likewise, A Tale of Two Sisters raked in $424,126 in its first weekend,
a figure equivalent to 500 million won, an unprecedented figure
by the Korean box office benchmark. The film subsequently won
best actress, best director, and best film accolades at the Fantasporto International Fantasy Films Festival, as well as netting both
the Grand Prize and Youth Jury Prize at the 2004 Gerardner Film
Festival. Interestingly, both films feature a male director even
though the protagonists are all female, and the films revolve
around mother-daughter relationships within a domestic context.
At a glance, one easily discerns that in both films similarly
dysfunctional domestic configurations testify to the nuclear family in a state of crisis. In A Tale of Two Sisters, a deconstruction of a
Korean folktale, the father (Kap-su Kim) is impotent to prevent the
internecine struggles between his current wife, Eun-joo (Jung-ah
Yum), and his two daughters, Su-mi (Su-jeong Lim) and Su-yeon
(Geun-yeong Mun), as a result of the guilt that he feels. This film
is heavy with suggestions that his late wifes (Su-mis biological
mother) suicide was provoked in part by his suspected affair with
her personal nurse. In Dark Water, the father remains largely absent
and is accused by his estranged wife of being a negligent parent
who forgets his daughters birthday. Instead of the tight, cohesive
units typical of Asian households, the families are fractured, with
either deceased or helpless mothers and latchkey children who are
dispatched to day-care centers or boarding schools. Yoshimi (Hitomi Karuki), the mother in Dark Water, has previously suffered
psychiatric problems after taking an editorial job proofreading
extremely graphic and sadistic horror novels. In the film, she
is depicted as teetering on the edge of sanity, since she is increasingly incapable of coping with what is happening around her.
Mitsuko (Mirei Oguchi), the missing child in the film, has been
abandoned by her mother, mirroring a similar fate endured by
Yoshimi decades earlier. The deceased mother in A Tale of Two Sisters
was manic-depressive before taking her own life, while the stepmother is portrayed as duplicitous and conniving, and possibly in
an adulterous liaison with the young uncle. Su-mi in the same film
is alleged to have spent time in a sanatorium. The majority of the
female characters in both films are therefore suffering from primal
bereavement and abandonment fears and anxieties involving mothers who have forfeited their nurturing roles, by choice or design, as
primary caregivers. Because patriarchal authority and bourgeois
family values have been undermined or jettisoned in these films,
abjection as a source of horror and disruption threatens the symbolic order, generating chaos and catastrophe, mayhem, madness,
and murder.
Hence, the female characters in these two films are constructed less as spectacle objects or exhibition objects than as horror objects on account of their abject status. In her insightful analysis of the monstrous-feminine in the horror cinema, Barbara Creed
outlines the application of Julia Kristevas concept of abjection in
three ways: first, in explicit images of abjection like blood and
putrefying flesh; second, in the idea of a particular border being
breached, transgressed, or threatened as a result of an encounter
between the symbolic order and that which destabilizes it; third,
and perhaps most significant, in the construction of the maternal
figure as abject.7 All three devices figure in these two films, and
they are associated unequivocally with the female characters. A
semiotic analysis of the cinema posters establishes the use of these
devices from the outset. The poster for Dark Water shows the ghostly
figure of a child hovering behind a bedraggled little girl, almost
like a kind of photographic superimposition, visually capturing
what Kristeva calls the corpsethe most sickening of wastesas
a border that has encroached upon everything, the nonhuman
doppelgnger threatening the borders of the human.8 The Tale of
Two Sisters poster subverts the typical family portrait. The family
is positioned as in a studio portrait, but the two girls wear bloodsplattered dresses, and ones head lolls at an angle that suggests
she is dead. The stepmother has her hands on the shoulders of
one girl, whereas the father is touching neither daughter. Rather,
he holds his head slightly averted in an aloof manner, underscoring his detachment from the abjection entwining stepmother and
daughters. The film itself also contains several scenes in which a
body in a sack (supposedly that of one of the daughters) is repeatedly bludgeoned and then dragged about, trailing pools of blood
in its wake, and Su-yeon, the younger sister, has recurrent visions
of her mother hanging in the closet.
In terms of borders and parameters being transgressed, the
films play on the fine line between sanity and madness, with the
blood flowing down the thighs of the specter but she is also subsequently seen asking her stepmother for tampons.
Although the abject has to be excluded in ensuring that the
subject takes up his or her proper place in relation to the symbolic,
it must still be tolerated because that which threatens life also ironically serves to define it. Kristeva sees the presemiotic realm of the
mother as continuing to exist in tandem with the symbolic order
of the father, in a dyadic relationship of simultaneous fascination
and repulsion. For even as the child struggles for self-constitution,
he or she is partly terrified of separating from his or her mother
and partly consumed by a desire to remain locked in an engulfing embrace with the maternal figure. Generally, the relationship
between mother and child is marked by conflict because the child
ultimately wants to break free, while the mother yearns to exert her
hold. These two films provide an alternative perspective in suggesting that the female child, long after its thetic break and acquisition of language, continues to seek the primacy of the mother and
her realm of plenitude.9
Such a longing to return to the mother is central to both
Dark Water and A Tale of Two Sisters. In Dark Water, the teenaged
Ikuko, now living with her father and aptly clad in a school uniform
to denote her socialization into the phallogocentric order, begs
to live with her mother and betrays a nostalgic longing for the
dreary building that signifies the latters abject world. In A Tale of
Two Sisters the bulk of the dramatic action unfolds in the deepest
recesses of Su-mis fecund mind, since she attempts to deal with
the death of her biological mother and sister through a repeated
reenvisioning of possible scenarios, where she alternately assumes
the roles of aggressor and victim. Su-mi seems unable to forge
an identity apart from her mother and sister. Dark Water subverts
both Lacans mirror-stage and Kristevas reconceptualization of it
by setting many scenes in the bathroom, including an extremely
crucial one in which the young Ikuko (Rio Kanno) gazes into the
bathwater in a mock narcissistic trance. Lacan considers the child
as developing the primordial notion of being an I when it identifies with the fictive unity it sees in the mirror. Kristeva departs from
Lacan in construing the mother as abject after the child acquires
sphincteral training and learns to map its clean and proper body.
Hence the reduction of an archaic parthenogenic mother like the
North American mythic Spider Woman to the Egyptian Sphinx
(from the back-formation sphingein, the same etymological root
as sphincter) of the Oedipus myth who loses her ground once her
riddle is solved.10 That the daughters seek to wallow in abjection
even after the alleged thetic breaks theorized by both Lacan and
Kristeva is rendered emphatic by these bathroom scenes.
Here is perhaps where the two films chart new ground and
address a discernable lack in Kristevas theory of abjection. When
Kristeva discusses the constitution of the subject, she pays insufficient attention to its gender, even though that is clearly of utmost
importance. The female childs experience of the chora, of the
mother as site and receptacle, is necessarily different from that of
a male child, who may find it less difficult to reject it for paternal
authority. Moreover, as the mother is already configured as a gendered subject within the patriarchal order, she will relate to her
sons and daughters in a different manner, perhaps to the one with
greater pride and pleasure, and to the other with closer affinity.
Hence the cinematic representation of the respective daughters
seeking abjection in the maternal figure serves as a useful hypothesis for the explication of patriarchal culture and its dependence
on the abjection of women, from whichever angle.
The association of maternity with the abject is also reinforced by the imagery of parturition in Dark Water and A Tale of
Two Sisters. Freud has suggested that the earliest attachment to the
mother is deeply repressed. In Totem and Taboo, he proposes
that human society develops through three stages from patriarchy
to matriarchy to patriarchy again. This last phase incorporates the
two fundamental taboos of totemismincest and murderinto
the reestablishment of the patriarchal order.11 Within this last
phase, the mother figure exists in a dyadic or triadic relationship,
either as the protective but suffocating mother of the pre-Oedipal
or as the object of sexual jealousy in the Oedipal configuration.
dark, smoldering eyes. They are often in league with the devil and
punished at the end: their subjectivity becomes undermined as it
parodies the male look.18
Moreover, the look of a woman in horror films often petrifies her and puts her at the mercy of the monster. Unlike the
male voyeurs gaze, which is afforded the safety of distance that
surmounts the potential threat of the (castrated) female body it
views, the womans look of horror holds her in a passive, trancelike
state that allows the monster to master her through her look. At the
same time, in such scenes the iconic center shifts from the woman
to the monster. In Dark Water, for instance, Yoshimis look of horror
freezes her sufficiently for the ghostly specter to clutch her in a suffocating embrace. Likewise, Ikuko as a child on several occasions is
the victim of a trancelike passivity that nearly proves her undoing.
In the game of hide-and-seek at the kindergarten, a game that
involves looking for, Ikuko is paralyzed by her encounter with the
ghost-child and falls into a faint. In another instance, she is nearly
asphyxiated when she is mesmerized by the rising bathwater only
to have her head pulled under by a ghostly pair of hands.
Therefore the woman must not look but becomes herself
absorbed on the side of the seen, seeing herself seeing herself,
Lacans femininity.19 In short, her look takes the form of not seeing
anything apart from the castration that she emblematizes for the
male. However, this Freudian notion has been challenged by Susan
Lurie, who sees the real trauma for the young male as not that his
mother is castrated but that she is not.20 The castrated woman
thus becomes a defensive shield, a male-fabricated fantasy against
the woman as the wielder of a different kind of power, a potent
threat to male power. This power may be likened to the perpetual
status of the semiotic chora and its capacity for disruption. Nevertheless, in these two films, the heroines gaze (or lack thereof) is
still held largely responsible for her own downfall. In Dark Water,
Yoshimis active investigating gaze indicates her desire to ferret
out the source of the dark water. The camera closes in on her gaze
at several pivotal moments in the text: her repeated encounters
with the red schoolbag; her recognition of the drawing by Mitsuko;
her arrowing in on the poster of Mitsuko declared missing. All
mentioned earlier in relation to the notion of loss, both are understood to be suffering from melancholia, the mourning for a lost
mother. In A Tale of Two Sisters, the stepmother regards the girls
as two halves of one entity. What Su-mi puts herself through in
her hallucinations is intended to duplicate what she imagines has
happened to her younger sister, Su-yeon, and, by extension, to her
late biological mother.
The notion of the gaze has implications for another offshoot of the horror genre, the phenomenon of the Final Girl.23
The strong self-preservation instinct of the female protagonist who
survives in the slasher flick has been seen as a positive adjustment
in gender representation since the heroine may cower before the
killer/monster, which renders her passive, but she is clearly active
in defending herself by seeking ways of survival. D. N. Rodowick
has gone so far as to assert that the structural complexity and
fluidity of spectatorial activity . . . may combine different mechanisms of defense (disavowal and repression) with intricate transactions between activity-passivity, sadism-masochism, and masculine
or feminine identifications in both men and women.24 In other
words, the sadistic male gaze might even adopt a victim-identified
point of view, affirming the existence of oscillating subjective positions in place of fixed gender prescriptions. However, even the figure of the Final Girl is given short shrift in these two films, if she
can be pinpointed at all. Ikuko survives the ordeal in Dark Water,
but she has no other option but to assimilate into the law of the
father. In A Tale of Two Sisters, Su-mi also submits to the clinical
ambience of the sanatorium run by male doctors, an environment
of sanitized orderliness (characterized by an opening montage of
white walls and washing hands as in a cleansing, purging ritual),
the exact opposite of the bloodshed and mayhem in the stifling
family house. As a result of the unexpected volte-face in the narrative, when events are suddenly revealed to be the feverish projections of Su-mis troubled psyche, the stepmother could have qualified as the Final Girl. However, even this possibility is undercut by
the supernatural denouement in which the stepmother returns to
the scene of the crime and gets her comeuppance from manifestly
preternatural forces.
be born a man in their next life. The survey, conducted every five
years since 1953, has testified to womens rising status, as well as to
their increasing propensity to put off marriage plans, thus contributing to changing patterns in family and society. From 1953 until
the 1970s, more than 60 percent of respondents felt that Japanese
society provided more enjoyment for men than women, while
only 20 percent believed the contrary. But since 1998, the gap
has narrowed significantly. While some have waxed positive about
the survey, others have seen it as a bleak prognosis about Japans
future, reports Mainichi Shimbun, which also quotes the institutes spokesman, Yoshiyuki Sakamoto, as saying that the results
may indicate a society with little for men to enjoy.25
It is also more than coincidental that the same issue of the
Straits Times carried a lengthy report about the surge of child abuse
in Japan. According to the latest figures from the Health Ministry,
there were 23,738 recorded cases of child abuse in the year leading
to March 2003, up from 1,101 in 1990. Experts have attributed the
alarming surge to the breakdown of the traditional nuclear family
and to the isolation of an increasing number of mothers. Families
economic problems and the situation in single-parent households
are the primary causes of abuse, reflected Masahide Terazaki, an
official at a child consultation center in Tokyo, while the French
psychologist Frances Beaumard, who has worked in Japan for over
thirty years, concurred that child abuse is directly linked to the
family unit, which is undergoing a radical shift in paradigm.26 By
the same token, films like Norang Meori (Yellow Hair, dir. Yu-min
Kim, 1999) from South Korea, which concerns two teenage runaway girls who are the aggressors in a protracted sexual tryst with a
middle-aged man old enough to be their father, serve as trenchant
social commentary about a similar state of gender relations and
dysfunctional family units in Japans immediate neighbor. Coupled
with an increasing number of female heads of state in Asia, it would
not be hasty to suggest the likelihood of male anxieties in the Asia
of the new millennium.
It may be appropriate to end with Kristeva, whose psychoanalytic theories have informed this essay. Kristeva contends that
religion has historically served to purify the abject. With the disin-
Notes
1. Barry Keith Grant, ed., The Dread of Difference: Gender and the
Horror Film (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996). I am
indebted to many ideas advanced by contributors to this
anthology.
2. Tony Williams, Trying to Survive on the Darker Side: 1980s
Family Horror, in Grant, The Dread of Difference, 166.
3. Vivian Sobchack, Bringing It All Back Home: Family Economy
and Generic Exchange, in Grant, The Dread of Difference, 144.
4. For a related study, see Dave Kehr, The New Male Melodrama,
American Film 8 (1983): 4247.
5. Carol J. Clover, Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film,
in Grant, The Dread of Difference, 8287.
6. Kaja Silverman, Male Subjectivity at the Margins (New York:
Routledge, 1992), 3940.
7.
The rarely analyzed Asian horror film, which has had great impact on
international film audiences recently as a result of Hollywood remakes, is
increasingly mired in the milieu of home and hearth, leading to a new Asian
variation of the domestic gothic. With specific reference to Japans Dark Water
(2002) and South Koreas A Tale of Two Sisters (2003), this essay proposes that the
current orientation evinces the anxieties of a patriarchal culture denied its
sovereignty as the result of a widening gulf between the mythology of the
bourgeois family and its actual social manifestations. The female protagonists in
these films are, accordingly, associated with Julia Kristevas notion of abjection
(in particular, the construction of the maternal figure as abject through the
imagery of parturition and the primal scene) and depicted in various guises as
the monstrous-feminine, a potent source of disruption that threatens the
symbolic realm. By charting the mother-daughter nexus and suggesting that
daughters continue to seek the semiotic chora even after the thetic break, these
films also address a discernable lack in Kristevas theory of abjection by paying
due attention to the implications of gender in the psychological constitution of
the subject. As a further extension into the cinematic representation of women,
the female usurpation of the gaze will also be dissected in terms of its adverse
consequences in these films. The essay therefore argues that the current Asian
horror film is ultimately conservative and functions as a form of narrative
containment, the modern purification ritual that emphasizes the need to be