The Grotesque Comedy of Junji Ito's 'Uzumaki'

 Unsettling. That's the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of one of Ito's brilliant masterpieces of horror. But the question we ask ourselves is why? Why does it feel so unsettling? Why does it make us feel uneasy and chill us to our bones? That is what I attempt to answer in this review and critique of 'Uzumaki', which is both my favourite work of Ito's and, in my opinion, one of his personal bests in his vast discography.

Grotesque is rather easy to explain. An isolated town, Kurozu-cho afflicted by a never-ending curse, wherein the townsfolk are lured one by one and entrapped in the inescapable spiral. From beginning to end, it is only two characters who seem to notice the harm that the curse of the spiral is inflicting on their town. Yet, much like the other villagers, they remain absurdly nonchalant, even in the aftermath of the tragedies that have struck their own homes. They recognise the devastation that the seemingly mind-controlling (and sometimes body as well) spirals have. Still, there is no outward display of emotion or breakdown, at least not in the beginning.

However, it is this very same nonchalance that lends it comedy. 

Consider this. Two protagonists, high schoolers no less. A boy and a girl, dating, going about their lives together, much like any other two characters in any number of school rom-com manga. But that is where the similarities end. Because one must keep in mind that the point of any of Ito's works is not to dive into the inner lives of these characters, it is to propagate the nauseating terror through the eyes of these characters. In short, Ito's characters are not even characters. They are simply vehicles for the horror to take over. The plot does not and will never revolve around any of them. 

The dark humour explored in this manga comes from the lack of well-fleshed-out characters. They do not react to the downright terrifying things happening around and to them, making it easier for the situation to be perceived as light-hearted and funny when it is actually the furthest from that. The deadpan delivery of lines in the form of singular statements at the end of each chapter lends a certain sense of normalcy, which eventually deteriorates as the manga continues. 

Ito's pacing is slow and deliberate. The focus on each character starts the same, with minimalism and detachment from detail. With the continuation of the panels and with the rising climax of each chapter, the lineart and shading slowly get more and more detailed until one can almost feel the obsession taking root in them. With the crescendo of the conclusion, the body horror deepens until the effect of spirals on the human psyche is clear in a lasciviously monstrous outcome. The body remains no longer a body, but a twisted, gnarled, distorted version of what it used to be. Such is the price of obsession. 

Each chapter is a foray into further danger. They are episodic in nature and can be read as standalones. At first glance, they all seem inconsequential to the greater story, merely another tale of how yet one more character was driven mad by the curse of Kurozu-cho. But what brings the horror to another level is the widening scope of the spiral. Not only does it affect the townsfolk (even our protagonists, who were thankfully not protected by some miraculous plot armour), but also the town itself. Each blade of grass, each winding street, each swirling eddy in the water is affected. Soon, the town becomes the greatest character. Spirals consume everything in their path. Escape is not an option. Perhaps, deep down, the residents of Kurozu-cho know that they are doomed. Perhaps that is why they do not bat an eye at the situation that will soon lead to their destruction. They have given up hope, and in a completely twisted way, their nonchalance serves as comic relief for the reader. 

Another reason why it is so terrifying in an extremely weird sort of way is because of the antagonist. Unlike most horror manga, the antagonist, who takes the physical form of an undead vampire, werewolf, mummy, miscellaneous undead and supernatural paraphernalia, or just a good old-fashioned psychopath, the antagonist here is completely unknown at first. Once the reader realises that it is, in fact, nothing but a spiral, the reader might feel more than a justifiable amount of confusion. Why would a spiral be scary?

But the ambiguity is what lends it a chilling thrill. 

Over and over again, the events repeat themselves. Chapter after chapter, people succumb, consuming, twisting, obsessing, and being possessed by the spiral. As the reader continues on, they slowly get trained to associate the motif of the spiral with a sense of looming dread. It is not a jump scare in a camp film. It is, instead, the signal that something is coming. Something much bigger and more dangerous than what one has already witnessed.

That is why Junji Ito is a master of the genre. He has managed to tap into the universal fear of all humankind. 

Why do little children eye the sliver of space beneath their beds with a wary gaze? Why does a girl, preparing for her final exams late at night, shiver when the wind (or maybe not) knocks a branch against her window? Why does a man fumble with the torchlight, smacking it and muttering under his breath when he enters a dark room? Why does humankind conjure up possibilities of murderous ghouls and soul-sucking monsters in the deepest darkest recesses of their brain?

The fear of the unknown. 

This beautifully disturbing work serves to remind one of the inconsequentiality of human life and the propagation of worldwide suffering through the series of connected tales. Ito's forte is horror, be it cosmic, supernatural, paranormal, or liminal; something so undeniable that one can simply stop and stare, unable to fight back and let it consume one wholly.