Death by Hanging

"Death by Hanging," a 1968 fiction-film by the defiant Japanese director Nagisa Oshima, begins with a title card that announces its subject: The use of the death penalty in the judicial system.

What follows is a sequence that's almost anthropological in nature. Oshima's camera watches, detached from any individual perspective, as the last motions are made in preparation for one man's hanging. (We'll later learn that his name is R.) We see the last meal, the last rites, the procession of handcuffs and shackles, the litany of public officials and police employees who must be present, the seats used to host the various spectators. Even the hallways that lead to the noose are meticulously logged and documented. It takes us right up to the execution, documenting what is said to be an entirely typical instance of capital punishment. At that point, something atypical happens: R doesn't die.

After the standard 12 or 13 minutes elapses (the amount of time usually necessary for the condemned to expire from their asphyxiation), R remains conscious. This is a beguiling situation for all involved: For the police (who hastily wish to re-execute the now-incapacitated R), for the incumbent priest (who's convinced R's soul has indeed left his body, even if a heartbeat has not), for R himself (who quickly comes to consciousness, and engages in all sorts of logical reasoning to defend his right to continue living), and even for the highest-ranking public official (who's bound to a role as an observer, and cannot influence the decision of the ad-hoc execution council).

In an effort to untangle the already-incomprehensible standards of a so-called moral execution, they all begin to reenact much of R's life and crimes, because if the condemned man comes to acknowledge his crimes (which include rape and murder), then they'll all feel comfortable putting him to death. R, all the while, merely stares blankly at the wall. He's either been rendered an amnesiac by the cruel structures of the initial hanging, or he's gamely realized how this particular contest is played.

Criterion's Blu-ray release of the film features an exceptionally textured video transfer of the monochromatic film, alongside two primary extra features that consider its director's storied career. For starters, there is a short film made by Oshima in 1965, titled "Diary of Yunbogi." The piece, which follows a young Japanese boy who faces intense and surprising prejudices upon return from Korea, is preoccupied with many of the same logical and moral flights and fallacies that are considered within "Hanging" itself. The second feature is a half-hour interview with the historically-minded critic Tony Rayns, who profiles Oshima before speaking in specifics about his relationship-personal and political-with his own nation, and also with Korea.

The reenactments of R's home life, led by the Japanese officials who wish to execute the man, lay bare the relationship between those two nations. After one such scene, a police captain -- essentially filling the role of a director -- begins to bark criticisms at the actors playing the parts. His complaint is that they played their Korean roles far too normally. "Act more Korean," he admonishes them, "more over the top." Oshima, taking the cue, goes right over: The film soon shifts from a discussion of judicial dialectics (during which the logical fallacies of capital punishment are deconstructed) into a more sociopolitical arena (R's crimes are later discussed in the context of his heritage -- he's a Japanese-born Korean man -- which brings out all the prejudices that were previously hinted at.)

That concern eventually beckons a spiritual presence, who intervenes on R's behalf (positioning his crimes as the result of Japanese imperialism), which confuses the existential conundrum even further. The otherworldly spirit inflames everyone's furies and insecurities. Philosophies criss-cross until they're incomprehensible. A tragedy becomes a farce. Anthropology, absurdity -- what's the difference?

"Death by Hanging"
Blu-ray
$39.95
Criterion.com