A few days ago, I watched Kairo (2001) by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. This video essay by Spikima, opening up with a list of horror movies, points toward the core of Kairo, that is, its unconventionality in creating fear. Spikima makes a strong case by focusing on one single scene. First, he plays the scene for the audience, making them feel, rather than explaining its effect. Then, he replays it, using slow motion and multi-screen to accompany his verbal analyses of the scene’s controlled lighting, the ghost’s unnatural movement, as well as the deadly quiet sound design and the still camera.
This video is particularly successful, I think, in its recreation of the scariness of the film itself. The texts on screen are not only concise, which resonate with the scene’s wordlessness, but interact with the visual. At 4:41, for example, the phrase “Uncanny Valley,” albeit legible, appears obstructed by the woman figure, a shadow with blurry edges. This way, Spikima simultaneously replicates the feeling of unknowingness which haunts the audience throughout the film, and emphasizes the existence of the woman, who serves as the core to the scene’s horror effect.
What’s more, Spikima keeps the original soundtrack as the background for his voice-over. It’s achievable because, as Spikima explains, this scene has a minimum of sounds: electricity flowing through circuits, plus inauspicious scores sung by a woman. Consequently, the video gains the roughly made appearance of the film, which far from discrediting it, adds to its sense of reality. Then, from that uncanny reality devoid of rationalization, horror arises.
Kairo: Anatomy of The Scariest Scene Ever
A few days ago, I watched Kairo (2001) by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. This video essay by Spikima, opening up with a list of horror movies, points toward the core of Kairo, that is, its unconventionality in creating fear. Spikima makes a strong case by focusing on one single scene. First, he plays the scene for the audience, making them feel, rather than explaining its effect. Then, he replays it, using slow motion and multi-screen to accompany his verbal analyses of the scene’s controlled lighting, the ghost’s unnatural movement, as well as the deadly quiet sound design and the still camera.
This video is particularly successful, I think, in its recreation of the scariness of the film itself. The texts on screen are not only concise, which resonate with the scene’s wordlessness, but interact with the visual. At 4:41, for example, the phrase “Uncanny Valley,” albeit legible, appears obstructed by the woman figure, a shadow with blurry edges. This way, Spikima simultaneously replicates the feeling of unknowingness which haunts the audience throughout the film, and emphasizes the existence of the woman, who serves as the core to the scene’s horror effect.
What’s more, Spikima keeps the original soundtrack as the background for his voice-over. It’s achievable because, as Spikima explains, this scene has a minimum of sounds: electricity flowing through circuits, plus inauspicious scores sung by a woman. Consequently, the video gains the roughly made appearance of the film, which far from discrediting it, adds to its sense of reality. Then, from that uncanny reality devoid of rationalization, horror arises.
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