Woman of the Photographs (2020)
Horror as a genre can be tremendously versatile when experimented with correctly, especially if a director knows where to push the edges of normality. By nature, the genre is meant to disturb, and Takeshi Kushida's Woman of the Photographs does just that, audiovisually. It's deeply unsettling at face value, and every instance of interaction and expression contains an underlying sense of unease. There are a handful of things you could attribute this apprehension to, namely editing and shot selection. Although, on a more fundamental level, it is simply the directing choice to linger in certain scenes to effectively frame Kai, a man running, previously his father's photography studio, while retouching client photos. He's a silent man, wary of women, unable to interact with them in a social setting. Until he meets an injured Kyoko in the woods, a social media influencer looking to post daily images for her "brand". For starters, Kai's presence in the film is implicit and predominantly a catalyst in the growth of Kyoko's vanity. He never actually changes throughout the story, and any noticeable difference in his personality is essentially Kyoko's influence on his suppressed desires.
The real star of the show, however, is Kyoko. Following her descent into internet validation is the subject of exploration, raising dynamic facets of the constant discussion around the cons of dissociating from reality through social media. Kushida's handling of the material is impressive for a debut feature, avoiding falling into typical traps of heavy-handed preaching. The narrative can be separated into two major areas: addiction to reassurance and subconsciously leaning into false images of oneself. There's a scene early on that depicts this in excellent fashion, doubling as a portrayal of the tedious nature of photo editing. A female client wants her matchmaking photo "retouched," although her idea of the act is enhancing or borderline recreating her features to appeal to beauty standards. As she constantly asks for new changes and returns another day with annotations on a printed version, we witness the paranoia for perfection. It's relevant in Japan given the impatience that comes with aging without prospective marriage partners, but it also applies universally to how unrealistic beauty ideals are glorified in modern media.
Kyoko's character initiates a lot of the film's conversation as well as becoming the source of its respective horror elements, using body dysmorphia as a driving factor for the narrative's picture of prevalent mental illnesses. She's under immense pressure to maintain her image on social media for sponsorship deals, so with the declining engagement on her posts compared to a successful past as a dancer, the self-deprecation piles on. It is only when she encounters Kai with a gaping wound on her chest that she realizes the other end of the social media spectrum: momentary realism from temporary changes in one's life. The internet likes to see candid snapshots of accepting oneself, and for Kyoko, that's continuing her daily posts without hiding her injury. Injuries heal, only leaving scars—not the same as a vividly raw appearance. When faced with this dilemma, Woman of the Photographs leverages the skin-crawling sensations of autosadism and hones in on cross-cutting between the current mood and praying mantises eating ASMR. I jest, but that is indeed a major theme as well as recurring imagery, gesturing the entomological phenomenon of females devouring males, symbolizing the inherent narcissism humans thrive upon.
That brings us to the sparks of romance budding between Kai and Kyoko, albeit the relationship is strange from a conventional standpoint. Perhaps their only connection is that he takes her photos, reimagining the angles and environment for her through his camera. Initially, it may have been parasitic as Kai let her freeload, but soon they developed a mutual bond, and the realization that she doesn't need to appease her followers and can be herself emerged. Woman of the Photographs isn't purely criticism against photo editing, as there's one character that regularly stops by the studio to edit photos of the deceased to dress them professionally. There are benefits to the convenience of modern technology, even if it's to make a single person momentarily happy. Kushida's directorial arsenal isn't fully polished yet, and there are aspects of the ubiquitous atmosphere that are either rightfully disturbing or inscrutably disjointed. Nevertheless, it all meshes together into a cohesive reflection on immediate socioethical issues. It addresses who we want to be while cascading between surrealism, fantasy, and the real world.