This review may contain spoilers
Sunglasses After Dark
Whilst “Branded to Kill” can be seen as the most obvious breaking point in the relationship between Seijun Suzuki and the Nikkatsu production system, “Trapped in Lust” appears to sit within an even deeper, almost subterranean continuum, where that same rift resurfaces in other forms, adapting to a production context that has since changed.
It is no coincidence, after all, that behind the project we once again find Atsushi Yamatoya, who was already one of the writers of “Branded to Kill”, and who here - as well as playing the role of Takagawa- is involved in a reworking that feels more like a detour than a real remake.
In his compelling analysis, ‘Il Fiore e Il Serpente’ (2022), Beniamino Biondi devotes a section to Yamatoya, also mentioning three different screenplays that formed the basis for “Branded to Kill”, although, curiously, he merely touches upon “Trapped in Lust”.
We are in the midst of the pinku eiga and roman porno season – that cinematic realm where the body becomes the central element, both an exposed surface and a narrative device. Yet precisely where one might expect greater freedom of expression, the film immediately introduces a more ambiguous tension.
Sex, in fact, is never truly liberating. It is obviously ever-present, pervasive, almost obsessive — yet progressively stripped of meaning, as if, by inertia, it continued to exist even after having lost its purpose.
Hoshi, the main character played to perfection by Genjiro Arata, navigates this system as a figure already broken. A rising killer, driven by a desire for recognition that coincides with his climb to the top of the organisation, he soon finds himself caught up in a decidedly complex dynamic that ultimately overwhelms him.
The character of Mayuko (the voluptuous and alluring Moeko Ezawa) — an apparently faithful wife, but in reality a pawn of the organisation — introduces an element of structural ambiguity right from the start: there is no relationship that is not, to some extent, constructed, manipulated or prearranged.
His (apparent) elimination, however, does not result in what might be seen as a strengthening of the protagonist, but rather marks a rupture. It is as though, just at the moment when the body should (and could) re-establish itself as the centre of the action, something ends up breaking irrevocably.
The resulting impotence — made all the more evident in his encounter with Yumeko (Nozomi Yasuda), the young prostitute at the hotel — is not merely a narrative element, but a genuine deviation from the system: desire, stripped of his ‘object’ and, at the same time, of its mystery, is transformed into an automatic gesture, a function incapable of producing any meaning whatsoever.
It is no coincidence that Hoshi spends almost the entire film behind a pair of sunglasses, worn regardless of whether he is indoors or outdoors, or whether it is day or night: it is as though his gaze, filtered and obscured, ends up conveying an inevitably distorted view, a reflection of a cinema in which reality is no longer simply shown, but is constantly obscured, distorted and re-enacted.
As was already the case in "Branded to Kill", a recognisable structure is present here too: there is always an organisation, rules are followed, and a hierarchy is in place. But it is precisely in the relationship with these rules that the film finds one of its most significant turning points.
Hoshi’s fault lies not so much in the mistake itself, but in the return. In returning to the scene of the crime, in reopening what ought to remain closed. It is an act that disrupts the system’s internal balance — and lays it bare. From that moment on, the climb is no longer merely ambition, but a form of attraction towards the point where the mechanism seizes up, becomes visible, and turns inevitable.
It is in this context that some of the film’s most unsettling characters emerge.
The ruthless and sadistic killers Mario and Saigo form a dual, almost unreal, certainly hallucinatory presence: a seemingly fragile female doll juxtaposed with a rigid, armed, silent body. Only later does the apparatus reveal itself for what it is: a simulated identity and mechanical bodily artificiality, a sort of Cronenberg-esque hybridisation.
Even once revealed, the effect does not fade. A sense of unsettling continuity remains, as if the body could now be broken down, reassembled and manipulated without any stable point of reference. It is precisely through these figures that violence takes on a further dimension: no longer a source of tension, as is typical of noir, but a repeated, almost abstract function.
The deaths follow a pattern that borders on the grotesque — bodies frozen in baffling, ambiguous poses, even the act of defecation abruptly interrupted (a pure homage to Suzuki, worthy of the finest Abel Ferrara) — whilst the narrative seems to constantly veer away from a linear progression. Curious musical and choreographic interludes, featuring Crazy Horse-style dancers who are stripped down and seemingly out of context, do not interrupt the narrative, but rather throw it off balance.
In Hoshi’s journey, this gradual loss of coherence results in an ambiguous transformation. Having eliminated his opponents, though physically scarred — blind in one eye — the protagonist seems to regain a form of ‘vigor’, but this recovery does not amount to a genuine restoration. Rather, it is the final stage of a process: the body returning to function just as everything else has ceased to make sense.
The final confrontation takes place in a stunning, almost Stanley Kubrick-esque setting that is both a fortress and a stage: a concrete building, isolated and surrounded by vegetation, which gradually reveals itself for what it is.: A theatre. The boss offers no resistance. He sits, observes, waits. The gesture that concludes the confrontation is simple, direct, inevitable. And immediately afterwards, something cracks.
Hoshi bows. Not to anyone in particular — perhaps, hypothetically, to an invisible audience; is this, ideally, a breaking of the fourth wall!?
It is at this point that the film ends with a meta-cinematic short circuit: power reduced to the role of spectator, the killer to that of performer, violence to mere representation. There is no victory left. Here too, there is no conclusion, but only the realisation that what we have witnessed was nothing more than a visionary performance taken to the extreme.
Whilst “Branded to Kill” depicted a system that had ceased to function, “Trapped in Lust” portrays what happens when, in place of rules, only the body remains. And even that, inevitably, ends up breaking down.
8/10
It is no coincidence, after all, that behind the project we once again find Atsushi Yamatoya, who was already one of the writers of “Branded to Kill”, and who here - as well as playing the role of Takagawa- is involved in a reworking that feels more like a detour than a real remake.
In his compelling analysis, ‘Il Fiore e Il Serpente’ (2022), Beniamino Biondi devotes a section to Yamatoya, also mentioning three different screenplays that formed the basis for “Branded to Kill”, although, curiously, he merely touches upon “Trapped in Lust”.
We are in the midst of the pinku eiga and roman porno season – that cinematic realm where the body becomes the central element, both an exposed surface and a narrative device. Yet precisely where one might expect greater freedom of expression, the film immediately introduces a more ambiguous tension.
Sex, in fact, is never truly liberating. It is obviously ever-present, pervasive, almost obsessive — yet progressively stripped of meaning, as if, by inertia, it continued to exist even after having lost its purpose.
Hoshi, the main character played to perfection by Genjiro Arata, navigates this system as a figure already broken. A rising killer, driven by a desire for recognition that coincides with his climb to the top of the organisation, he soon finds himself caught up in a decidedly complex dynamic that ultimately overwhelms him.
The character of Mayuko (the voluptuous and alluring Moeko Ezawa) — an apparently faithful wife, but in reality a pawn of the organisation — introduces an element of structural ambiguity right from the start: there is no relationship that is not, to some extent, constructed, manipulated or prearranged.
His (apparent) elimination, however, does not result in what might be seen as a strengthening of the protagonist, but rather marks a rupture. It is as though, just at the moment when the body should (and could) re-establish itself as the centre of the action, something ends up breaking irrevocably.
The resulting impotence — made all the more evident in his encounter with Yumeko (Nozomi Yasuda), the young prostitute at the hotel — is not merely a narrative element, but a genuine deviation from the system: desire, stripped of his ‘object’ and, at the same time, of its mystery, is transformed into an automatic gesture, a function incapable of producing any meaning whatsoever.
It is no coincidence that Hoshi spends almost the entire film behind a pair of sunglasses, worn regardless of whether he is indoors or outdoors, or whether it is day or night: it is as though his gaze, filtered and obscured, ends up conveying an inevitably distorted view, a reflection of a cinema in which reality is no longer simply shown, but is constantly obscured, distorted and re-enacted.
As was already the case in "Branded to Kill", a recognisable structure is present here too: there is always an organisation, rules are followed, and a hierarchy is in place. But it is precisely in the relationship with these rules that the film finds one of its most significant turning points.
Hoshi’s fault lies not so much in the mistake itself, but in the return. In returning to the scene of the crime, in reopening what ought to remain closed. It is an act that disrupts the system’s internal balance — and lays it bare. From that moment on, the climb is no longer merely ambition, but a form of attraction towards the point where the mechanism seizes up, becomes visible, and turns inevitable.
It is in this context that some of the film’s most unsettling characters emerge.
The ruthless and sadistic killers Mario and Saigo form a dual, almost unreal, certainly hallucinatory presence: a seemingly fragile female doll juxtaposed with a rigid, armed, silent body. Only later does the apparatus reveal itself for what it is: a simulated identity and mechanical bodily artificiality, a sort of Cronenberg-esque hybridisation.
Even once revealed, the effect does not fade. A sense of unsettling continuity remains, as if the body could now be broken down, reassembled and manipulated without any stable point of reference. It is precisely through these figures that violence takes on a further dimension: no longer a source of tension, as is typical of noir, but a repeated, almost abstract function.
The deaths follow a pattern that borders on the grotesque — bodies frozen in baffling, ambiguous poses, even the act of defecation abruptly interrupted (a pure homage to Suzuki, worthy of the finest Abel Ferrara) — whilst the narrative seems to constantly veer away from a linear progression. Curious musical and choreographic interludes, featuring Crazy Horse-style dancers who are stripped down and seemingly out of context, do not interrupt the narrative, but rather throw it off balance.
In Hoshi’s journey, this gradual loss of coherence results in an ambiguous transformation. Having eliminated his opponents, though physically scarred — blind in one eye — the protagonist seems to regain a form of ‘vigor’, but this recovery does not amount to a genuine restoration. Rather, it is the final stage of a process: the body returning to function just as everything else has ceased to make sense.
The final confrontation takes place in a stunning, almost Stanley Kubrick-esque setting that is both a fortress and a stage: a concrete building, isolated and surrounded by vegetation, which gradually reveals itself for what it is.: A theatre. The boss offers no resistance. He sits, observes, waits. The gesture that concludes the confrontation is simple, direct, inevitable. And immediately afterwards, something cracks.
Hoshi bows. Not to anyone in particular — perhaps, hypothetically, to an invisible audience; is this, ideally, a breaking of the fourth wall!?
It is at this point that the film ends with a meta-cinematic short circuit: power reduced to the role of spectator, the killer to that of performer, violence to mere representation. There is no victory left. Here too, there is no conclusion, but only the realisation that what we have witnessed was nothing more than a visionary performance taken to the extreme.
Whilst “Branded to Kill” depicted a system that had ceased to function, “Trapped in Lust” portrays what happens when, in place of rules, only the body remains. And even that, inevitably, ends up breaking down.
8/10
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