Nobuo Nokugawa, a multi-genre veteran of Japanese cinema from the 1930s through the 1950s, directed Snake Woman’s Curse towards the end of his career. Released by Synapse Films in the kind of restored version the company is known for, the film is a polished, beautifully shot work of quiet, moralistic horror.  It’s largely a period drama rather than a wall-to-wall horror flick much in the same way that the samurai picture The Hidden Blade (2004) is first about history and rather secondarily about sword fights; in both cases, though, the drama is handled expertly, and genre fans should not avoid these titles simply due to its fairly pronounced presence. However, in Snake Woman’s Curse both the meticulousness of the individual scenes and the overall predictability of the plot may lead some (including me, if I keep thinking about it enough) to conclude that the movie is less than the sum of its parts.

Still, those who enjoy classic Japanese horror would do well to check out this film.  As to be expected, the ghosts in this kaidan are of the traditional Japanese variety—spooky, but largely passive; that doesn’t mean they aren’t vengeful, it’s just that they are more apt to deceive victims into misadventure than to harm them directly.  The English title, in fact, is somewhat misleading in that there are four ghosts in total and the word curse would imply a more substantial narrative through-line than is actually present.  Key words to describe the movie might be “admirable” and “interesting” rather than “harrowing” and “compelling.”

As a case in point, it’s interesting to contrast the ghostly characters with their living counterparts—often the spirits, freed from stifling social conventions, seem to act as if liberated from their class, not just their bodies.  At other times the ghosts still seem to bear the same self-effacing humility as the living, perhaps as an ironic touch.  In Japanese lit, ghosts are often able to address social and familial injustices in ways that the living can’t, so it’s no surprise here that they function as after-the-fact champions of the downtrodden tenant farmers.

  For this reason, those who can see them constitute an extremely “targeted” group:  these are not the indiscriminately vengeful spirits of J-horror.  Instead, these ghosts have an agenda and, once it’s completed, are content to head off into a kind of ethereal sunset as one might expect at the end of an action movie or western.

In terms of its pacing, production values, emphasis on cruelty, and literate sensibility, Snake Woman’s Curse brings to mind a well-done Hammer production from the same era.  Even the slightly orangey color of the blood seems to shout “1968.”  Also like a Hammer film, SWC features impeccable period details, long stretches of build-up, note-perfect character actors and the pervasive sensibility of a filmmaker who, although masterful with the horror elements, is interested in many other things besides horror per se (i.e., as Terence Fisher and Michael Reeves were).

Nokugawa’s direction is solid throughout and occasionally rises to the level of brilliance.  I’m thinking in particular of the long takes that capture extended scenes of fighting or pursuit.  A less talented director, either unable to imagine or execute the necessary staging, would have divided such scenes of action with quick cuts and numerous point-of-view shots.  Instead, employing a style evident in both classic samurai films and the recent work of Kiyoshi Kurosawa, Nokugawa maintains a Fritz Langian distance from the proceedings; like Lang, he captures lightning in a bottle primarily by refusing to go inside the bottle with it.

The only real groaner throughout the film is the use of the snakes.  The way that they seem to dangle down and then drop, as if someone shook them loose from a boom mic overhead, is an image that’s unfortunately repeated throughout.  The live snakes look awkward, dazed, and vaguely chunky—barely serpentine, in fact.  Such moments, though, are a real departure from the rest of this elegantly made and carefully crafted picture.

Note:  The DVD includes few extra features; one is a detailed text biography of Nokugawa.  However, those interested in him should opt instead for the fascinating short feature on his life and work that appears on the Criterion Collection's edition of his deliriously creative Jigoku (Hell) (1960).