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Demons poster

Demons

1971 · Toshio Matsumoto

For when you want to stare into the abyss — a demanding, punishing watch for a night when comfort is the last thing you're after and you want a film that leaves a bruise.

What it's about

A disgraced samurai in feudal Japan has scraped together the money to buy back his honor and join a famous vendetta — then a geisha he loves and her husband swindle him out of everything. What starts as a story of debt and devotion curdles into an obsessive, spiraling revenge, following one man as loss strips him down past honor, past reason, past humanity itself.

The experience

Pitch-black in every sense: slow-burning dread that tightens into genuinely harrowing cruelty, with dream logic that makes you doubt what you just saw. It replays moments and imagined outcomes until you feel trapped inside the man's fevered head — bleak, hypnotic, and hard to shake.

The craft

Matsumoto came from experimental film, and it shows: stark, inky black-and-white where night swallows the frame, scenes replayed and rehearsed as fantasy before they happen, kabuki-derived staging whose theatrical cruelty gets stripped of theatrical safety. The darkness of the images is a statement in itself — this rewards a dark room and full attention.

Why it matters

A cult landmark of the Art Theatre Guild era, Japan's home for radical independent cinema, and proof that its director's avant-garde instincts could detonate a classical genre from the inside. It stands among the blackest revisions of the samurai film ever made.

Reception & legacy: how Demons was received, argued over, and remembered →

After the delirious drag-world pop art of Funeral Parade of Roses, Toshio Matsumoto swerved into period drama and emerged with one of Japanese cinema's blackest visions. Shura — released in English as Demons or Pandemonium — follows Gengobe, a disgraced samurai saving to buy his way back into the famous vendetta of the forty-seven ronin, until a geisha and a swindle strip him of money, honor, and finally humanity. Adapted from a nineteenth-century kabuki play by Tsuruya Nanboku, the film keeps the theatre's cruelty while dismantling its distance: Matsumoto, a pioneering experimental filmmaker working under the Art Theatre Guild's radical umbrella, splinters the revenge plot with fantasy inserts, replayed scenes, and imagined outcomes, so that Gengobe's fevered mind keeps rehearsing violence before committing it. Made the same year as Kurosawa's humanist ebb, it plays like the genre's exorcism — a samurai film with no code left to betray. Most striking is the darkness itself: shot almost entirely at night, its blacks are so total that faces and blades surface like apparitions, the frame a void that swallows whatever honor was left.

Lines of influence

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