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In the grim milieu of Japan’s post-economic bubble era, a surge of horror films released shaped their narratives around prevailing issues related to family, specifically between parent and child. Aside from Ring (1998), Nakata Hideo Dark Water (2002) is exemplarily here in that symbolic violence recalls itself through disrupting semiotics associated with water. Water as vital source of life signifies death. Motherhood is also symbolized similarly, acting as an inhibiting force toward female independence. This essay shall argue how maternity in Dark Water aligns with traditional values and that the protagonist’s acceptance of her role was an attempt at solving decaying family structures in Japan. An overview of the post-bubble era will describe how such issues arose. Later, water’s symbolism culturally specific to Japan will be discussed, tying it with the film’s supernatural events. To begin, Japan’s post economic bubble period after 1995 was marked by soaring debt, tax hikes and devastating class division that left the country in deep recession (Preyde, 2019: 34, 37, 40). Amidst the horrors of the Tokyo subway sarin attack, the Great Hanshin Earthquake, and the “otaku” child killer, reactionary widespread consumerism took momentum. As newer technologies were rapidly introduced, there began a “solitary absorption of electronic media, particularly electronic games or the Internet,” (Taylor, 2006: 168). With a grim reality surrounding them, Japanese people (particularly youth) sought out the fictional worlds digital media presented them. Yet, what of the older generation still bound by traditional values? How could parents adjust to a lost decade where promises of peace and stability were betrayed? Despite Japan’s drive for liberalism, gender roles during the era became far more exacerbated than before. The economic climate promoted more dependence on a working husband. Women’s responsibilities over full-time child-rearing became burdensome (Sugimoto, 2010: 160, 171). Housewives’ isolated lifestyle in metropolitan areas neglected by her husband combined with the turbulent, violent events conspiring daily caused a great deal of stress. Sugimoto notes that women then suffered from a “mother-pathogenic disease’” where her anxieties lead to neurotic behaviour which damaged the child’s mental health (2010: 184). For instance, mothers become over-protective, obsessing over the child’s school marks with them experiencing psychosomatic symptoms (stomach-aches), social anxiety (school phobia) or even autism as a result. Despite the father acting as the main income provider, his absence from home contributed to his dependents’ distress. The husband’s neglect of over child-rearing stemmed from a highly demanding lifetime employment system (Preyde, 2019: 44). Long work hours combined with a competitive salary where the threat of entrenchment loomed over his shoulders pressured the father to spend more time at work, in hopes of a promotion to a position with welfare benefits. Nevertheless, the salaryman’s job security was constantly at threat, his dedication to working over the family worsened household, with mother and child reaping the consequences. An eternal bond between them was present throughout history. Traditional gender roles defined women as primary caregivers, tying them to the household through religious obligation. Buddhism in Medieval Japan spread the belief that mother and child were conjoined entities, losing ownership over the child after they had grown. Women thus functioned as corporate value for noble families (Glassman, 2008). In other words, they were transactions. Childbirth then was life-threatening because the soon-to-be heir was a foetus in the womb. If women who aborted or killed the child, or they had died during pregnancy, society saw them as impure. Water’s link with motherhood became a violent tool that socially and biologically ostracized females who lost their child during birth. “The salvation offered women within the Sino-Buddhist cult of ancestors is salvation as mothers—that is, salvation by virtue of the very biological potential that would come to spell their doom,” (Glassman 2008: 177). Since female bodies were viewed as vessels, women who failed bearing children were sinners. Glassman notes that women who miscarried or aborted children in 16th century Japan were condemned to drowning in an underworld filled with lakes of menstrual blood (Glassman 2008). Additionally, The Ketsubonkyō (Blood-bowl Sutra) proposed liberation from hell was possible. After struggling to find his mother in tenkai (heaven) Buddha’s disciple Mokuren used his supernatural powers to descend into hell and rescue her. Suffering from eternal hunger with every attempt at feeding her futile, Mokuren turns to Buddha for advice. His advice is a festive celebration of food-offering now known as Obon ( Nichiren Shu Portal, n.d.). Nonetheless, Ketsubonkyō corrupts women and water for the sake of patriarchal beliefs. Water in Japanese horror cinema is associated with chaos and impurity (Balmain, 2008: 171). In Dark Water, shots of mould, rust, heavy rain, and flooding overwhelm recently divorced Yoshimi and her daughter Itsuko who have just moved in. To figure out the source of these strange occurrences happening around them, Yoshimi ventures upstairs, discovering that leak damaging her home is not on account of harsh weather but by a malevolent spirit. Davisson explains that yūrei are“spirits of the departed – both symbols of the past reaching a cold, dead, and often unwelcomed hand into the comfortable present,” (2015: 11). Yūrei disrupt everyday reality, often to the point where their last painful moments on earth playout. Mitsuko, who previously inhibited the unit a floor up from Yoshimi’s, was left unsupervised by her mother, spending time up on the rooftop. Her red bag fell into the water tower while playing, she reached in trying to retrieve it but drown as a result. Water therefore represents failed maternal responsibility over a child similarly to the Ketsubonkyō. Additionally, Mitsuko targets Yoshimi precisely because Yoshimi has left Itsuko unsupervised. Mitsuko befriends Itsuko whose closely resemble each other, from being socially isolated at school, fatherless to spending little time with their working mothers. Mitsuko later causes the various plumbing issues in the apartment, draws Ikuko toward the water tower she had drowned in, all to torment Yoshimi’s poor mothering. Until Yoshimi assumes better responsibility, Mitsuko will not cease disturbing them. According to Foster, yūrei arebound to the location where they had died (Foster 2015).

It’s not often you associate Vincent van Gogh — the tortured Dutch genius of Starry Night fame — with anime fans in Pikachu hoodies. But standing in front of Utagawa Hiroshige’s woodblock prints this weekend, I realised something: Van Gogh was, in many ways, the original weeb. In the 19th century, Japan had just re-opened to the West after over two centuries of isolation. Japanese woodblock prints — known as ukiyo-e — flooded Europe, captivating artists who were tired of rigid academic painting. Among the most enchanted was Van Gogh, who not only collected hundreds of prints but also integrated their style directly into his own work. Take his Flowering Plum Orchard (after Hiroshige), a near-direct copy of one of Hiroshige’s prints. Or The Bridge in the Rain (after Hiroshige), where Van Gogh even emulated the Japanese calligraphy with squiggled nonsense in the borders to mimic the original. This wasn’t casual inspiration — this was earnest, obsessive homage. In his letters to his brother Theo, Van Gogh wrote passionately about Japan as an artistic utopia. “All my work is based to some extent on Japanese art,” he declared, imagining Japanese artists as monks, spiritually attuned to nature, colour, and simplicity. He fantasised about going to Japan, believing it to be a land of light, harmony, and pure artistic expression. His mental image bore little resemblance to reality — but isn’t that true of many modern Japanophiles? Like today’s weebs romanticising Tokyo as a land of cherry blossoms and 24-hour vending machines, Van Gogh fell in love with an ideal. But his obsession bore fruit: the Japanese influence sharpened his colour palette, flattened his perspective, and helped break with Western tradition. Reflecting on his 1888 drawing The Countryside along the Shore of the Rhone Seen from Montmajour, Van Gogh wrote to Emile Bernard: “An immense flat expanse of country — seen in bird’s-eye view from the top of a hill… streaming away like the surface of a sea towards the horizon… It doesn’t look Japanese, and yet it’s the most Japanese thing I’ve ever made.” He may not have owned a body pillow or cosplayed at Comic Con, but Van Gogh’s immersion in Japanese aesthetics, his idealisation of Japanese life, and his fan-like devotion to its art mark him as a proto-weeb. Just swap Hiroshige for Hayao Miyazaki, and it’s not so different. So next time you see someone getting misty-eyed over Kyoto or buying a katana on Etsy, remember: Van Gogh walked so they could Naruto-run.

Anime remains the most popular content on streaming platforms worldwide. Valued at US$24 billion,1 anime makes up 45% of content viewed on premium video-on-demand services, with Japanese live-action only being 22%. 2 Audiences rarely view Japanese television shows, with niche titles such as Hibana: Spark (2016)and Alice in Borderland (2020) gaining attention. Older programs by local stations that differ vastly in quality are often neglected. This article argues that romantic dramas represent Japan better than anime by examining how its depiction of love as a thrilling, “magical” experience appealed to young audiences’ desires successfully through various production design choices and genre conventions throughout their brief history. Romance dramas emerged in two phases during the late 80s and early 90s. “Trendy” dramas that appeared in 1985 highlighted popular lifestyles of the bubble economy. Viewership declined due to mismatched preferences between producers and audiences. Kitazawa (2012) explains that youth’s interest for jidaigeki and Japanese history was poor, resulting in a generational gap between them and aging viewers who grow up fond of these heavily masculine genres. 3 Women in their 20s were eventually identified as a potential target audience that could increase ratings. Unfortunately, they discovered that instead of watching television, women spent their time in restaurants, bars, cafes, and hotels. Stations and sponsors later co-operated in creating love stories featuring lavish apartments, designer fashion, sports cars, all set in Tokyo. Furthermore, theme songs sung by iconic musicians of the time were part of a strategy to capture the hearts of these women, who often starred in lead roles. Trendy dramas placed more emphasis on character relationships, dialogue and performance with plots tending to be relatively straight forward, creating a light-hearted, artificial microcosm that avoided depicting troublesome familial and social dynamics. 4 In other words, trendy dramas avoided portraying the difficulties of love faithfully, placing less importance on realism than on romantic thrills. To illustrate, stories always had love triangles between a beautiful main heroine, an attractive supporting character, and a simple-minded hero who held affluent jobs in entertainment, news, arts, or sales. Suspense arose from who the hero would choose in the end. Heroines were either a friend, colleague, or past lover, who both try to get the male lead. The male support also stirs trouble; a womanizer who may get either heroine but eventually cheats on them with someone else. Depending on the show’s overall ratings across its three-month broadcast over a designated time slot varying per station (e.g. Monday 9PM for Fuji TV), the story could conclude with the hero marrying the heroine or sub-heroine. Another part of the “magic” were dramatic moments such as confessions, kisses, or breakups that utilized pop music to “magnify characters’ feelings and encourage identification.” 5 Idols in these scenes elevated the commercial viability for promotional campaigns. Sponsors also wanted more brand recognition. Costumes, makeup, and sets were stylish, glamorous, and overly decorative, paired with vibrant lighting and lush colours. Coupled with extreme wide shots of Tokyo’s various sightseeing spots and closeups of gorgeous stars, trendy dramas were no different from advertisements. Ultimately, these shows were successful only in an economically prosperous era. The bubble was soon to burst, and audiences grew tired of these highly consumerist depictions of modern life that they found superficial. In response, producers and writers turned their efforts toward genuine characters and a more realistic depiction of Tokyo. As Former Fuji TV producer Ōta Tōru (2010) states, “our strategy was to drive the audience to be deeply involved in the romance by making it look realistic and unattainable.” 6 After he released Tokyo Love Story (1991), thepure love boom began. Again, the attractive features trendy dramas had were kept but held less importance than the gradual development of the cast as they navigate complex relationships. Ōta aimed to “really make the audience sympathize with the character and weep for her,” abandoning happy endings for tragic ones because “the surprising fact is that a lot of the female viewers are living unhappily in real life. Somehow the viewers would feel disappointed when the drama heroine wins her love.” 7 The hero and heroine inpure love dramas rarely got together — a trip abroad, a marriage with another character, sickness or death separates them forever. “Magic” here is a painful, moving experience that speaks volumes about the various intricacies associated with falling in love. Tokyo Love Story’s writer Sakamoto Yuuji exemplifies this, while Kitagawa Eriko rather “privileges falling-in-love as… uncompromising, vital, and liberating.” 8 For female viewers, love is a transformative process of self-affirmation. Other noteworthy writers include Nojima Shinji and Okada Yoshikazu who all stylistically humanized characters on-screen through deeper explorations of romance. Unfortunately, pure love dramas could not persist any longer. Yamato Nadeshiko (2000) was marketed as the last trendy drama of the century years after the economic bubble burst. Broadcaster later had a newfound interest in darker, plot-heavy mysteries. The “magic” wore off. Nevertheless, romance dramas successfully appealed to younger female viewers with various storytelling devices, production choices and casting decisions. Love stories in the city where characters led glamorous lifestyles were at the forefront, but audiences found it too shallow. Pure love dramas arrived, which depicted romance earnestly, making viewers sympathize and identify with characters. These stories became sensations not just in Japan, but also in Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, South Korea, and Hong Kong. 9 Fortunately, romance dramas are now accessible outside of Asia. Although limited, popular romance dramas on Netflix are available in multiple languages as per a deal with Fuji TV. 10 Hopefully, this article encourages Japanese learners to turn away from anime momentarily, exposing themselves to a vital part of Japan’s creative economy. Moreover, dramas depict broader socio-cultural aspects of Japanese life in a way animation cannot readily portray. Lastly, romantic dramas prove that love is a universal language that transcends national borders, understood by us all. Pure Love Dramas available on Netflix: References: About Me: Holding a Bachelor of Arts in Motion Picture, film, television, mass media & popular culture are at