Horror Review: Visitor Q (dir. Miike Takashi)

Posted on October 8, 2025 by Arleigh

Miike Takashi’s 2001 film Visitor Q (called Bizita Q in Japan) is definitely one of the most bizarre and disturbing movies out there. It often gets compared to the work of Quentin Tarantino, but that comparison really doesn’t do Miike justice. Tarantino’s style is all about showing violence in a flashy, stylized way that sometimes feels more like entertainment or homage than outright shock. Miike, on the other hand, takes a very different approach—his films are much more raw, unfiltered, and transgressive. Where Tarantino’s violence can almost feel like a performance, Miike’s hits you in a way that’s meant to provoke and unsettle on a deeper level.

Visitor Q is a wild, surreal ride that dives headfirst into the messy mix of violence and sex that’s so common in today’s media, with a cheeky nod toward reality TV culture. The film came out of Japan at a really interesting time, when the culture was pretty conflicted about Western influences. Japan often points fingers at the West for “decadence” and moral decline, but at the same time, it produces some of the most intense and boundary-pushing entertainment around—like anime and manga filled with everything from weirdly sexualized creatures (yes, tentacles, lots of tentacles) to ultra-violent stories that Western media would blush at.

The plot itself is maybe the simplest part of the whole thing. It’s about a down-on-his-luck former TV reporter named Q Takahashi who’s trying to support his dysfunctional family by filming a documentary about how violence and sex in media affects young people today. From there, the story quickly spins into something much darker and more uncomfortable, focusing on his family’s raw problems: drug abuse, emotional numbness, incest, necrophilia, and other twisted stuff that’s hard to even put into words.

What really makes Visitor Q stand out is how Miike doesn’t hold anything back. This film isn’t trying to make you comfortable or distract you with flashy effects. Instead, it confronts you with some very real, very uncomfortable issues. Miike has a fearless way of showing violence and sex that feels totally unfiltered and even brutal, forcing you to face parts of human nature and society that most movies would shy away from or sugarcoat.

It’s easy to see how this movie channels the spirit of the Marquis de Sade, that infamous figure known for embracing taboo and shock to criticize societal hypocrisy. Miike takes this spirit and uses it to spotlight the way media—and especially the voyeuristic culture of reality TV—turns personal pain and dysfunction into public spectacle. The movie asks us to think about how watching violence and sex over and over might warp not just society’s values, but how people actually relate to one another.

One thing Visitor Q pokes at pretty hard is voyeurism, the idea of watching other people’s lives like it’s entertainment. The former TV reporter filming his family for the documentary is both an observer and a participant, and the film forces viewers to question the ethics of watching intimate, often tragic moments unfold just for the sake of entertainment. It’s a powerful reminder of what media voyeurism can do to real lives.

Another theme that hits home is how desensitized people have become to violence and sex. The family in the movie often reacts to brutal, horrible things with complete indifference—almost like they’re numb from being exposed to this stuff all the time. Miike seems to be saying that when we see violence and sex as everyday entertainment, it dulls our emotions and disconnects us from the human suffering behind those images. This is especially relevant for young people growing up in a media-saturated world, which is exactly what the film’s documentary narrator is trying to get at.

Some of the film’s more extreme themes, like incest and necrophilia, are obviously shocking, but Miike uses them to highlight just how broken the family is. These aren’t just there for shock value—they’re symbols of how far relationships can fall apart when love, respect, and communication break down entirely. The film uses these taboos as metaphors for emotional neglect and societal decay, asking us to look hard at the dark corners of family life and human nature that most media avoids.

Watching Visitor Q is definitely not an easy ride. At first, most people find themselves looking away or flinching because the content is so wild and graphic. But it’s interesting how, over time, viewers start watching the movie without turning away, even if what they see is still deeply disturbing. The film somehow pulls you in with its surreal style and brutal honesty, making you confront just how far you’re willing to go in understanding these messed-up family dynamics and cultural critiques.

Stylistically, the film bounces between stark realism and surreal, almost absurd imagery. This gives it a rollercoaster tone that keeps you off balance—one moment it’s brutally raw, the next it’s almost darkly comedic or bizarre. This mix mirrors the instability of the family and the unpredictable nature of their world. Miike really embraces both the artistic and the extreme exploitation sides of filmmaking here, unapologetically pushing boundaries with each scene.

Despite all the shocking stuff, the film comes with a clear message about the relationship between media, sex, and violence. It’s not just reflecting society’s problems; it’s suggesting that media actually shapes how we think, feel, and behave—especially for kids. The film also takes a swipe at reality TV, highlighting how people get a twisted sense of pleasure from watching others’ suffering and humiliation. This is even more relevant today with social media and constant livestreams making all aspects of life a public show.

Miike’s gritty and unfiltered take makes it clear he isn’t just copying Western transgressive directors—he’s got his own voice and style that’s as challenging as it is unique. Where Tarantino’s films entertain and provoke with wit and style, Miike’s work disturbs and pushes, asking viewers to get uncomfortable and reflect. Comparisons to Pasolini, the Italian filmmaker known for his raw and provocative films, fit well here. Like Pasolini, Miike straddles the line between art and exploitation, using shock to force deeper questions about society.

In the end, Visitor Q isn’t a movie for casual watching or easy enjoyment. It’s intense, often repugnant, and demands a tough kind of attention. But for those willing to dive into its messy, surreal, and disturbing world, it offers a powerful look at how media influences family, society, and morality. Miike Takashi is definitely not Japan’s Tarantino—he’s a far more transgressive filmmaker who dares to challenge audiences by taking them into the most uncomfortable and raw parts of human experience. If one has the courage and curiosity, Visitor Q is an unforgettable, provocative film that forces us to think hard about voyeurism, media excess, and just how dark and strange life can get behind closed doors.

Anime You Should Be Watching (Horror Edition): Shiki (dir. by Tetsurō Amino)

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Arleigh

The anime adaptation of Shiki, based on Fuyumi Ono’s acclaimed horror novel and directed by Tetsurō Amino, stands as a rare specimen in the horror genre. Rather than relying on quick shocks, excessive gore, or typical jump scares, Shiki unsettles its audience through atmosphere, moral erosion, and the slow, relentless unraveling of human conscience. Premiering in 2010, the series unfolds at a measured, almost meditative pace, transforming what could have been a simple vampire tale into a profound meditation on survival, faith, fear, and the delicate boundary between life and death when everything is pushed to the brink.

The story is set in Sotoba, a small, isolated village nestled precariously near a larger modern metropolis. The residents of Sotoba live tightly woven lives, their routines and social bonds preserved with careful attention over generations. This fragile peace shatters when a mysterious wave of deaths begins sweeping through the population. At first, these fatalities are dismissed as consequences of the harsh local climate—heatstroke, seasonal illnesses, and the inevitable toll of old age. Yet, as the body count rises, the truth reveals itself to be much darker: the deceased are rising as vampires, known locally as “shiki” or “corpse demons,” creatures that survive by feeding on the living.

What distinguishes Shiki from many other vampire narratives is its refusal to paint the conflict in stark black-and-white terms of good versus evil. The shiki are portrayed not as mindless monsters but as tormented souls, burdened by memories, emotions, and guilt over what they have become and the horrors they must commit to survive. Conversely, the human villagers—once caring and close-knit neighbors—succumb to suspicion, fear, and eventually cold-hearted survival instincts. The real horror emerges as morality frays and the line between human and monster becomes irrevocably blurred.

Unlike classic horror tales set in small towns—such as Stephen King’s ’Salem’s Lot, where a seemingly idyllic village hides sinister supernatural forces—Shiki offers a nuanced inward gaze. For instance, the novel They Thirst situates vampirism within a sprawling urban landscape, where anonymity accelerates chaos and alienation. In contrast, Shiki uses the microcosm of Sotoba to emphasize intimate, communal decay. The focus is not just on the physical threat, but on the erosion of social bonds and moral fabric, revealing how fragile human civility truly is under stress.

While ’Salem’s Lot depicts vampires as a pure evil contaminating a tight-knit community—highlighting themes of moral corruption and contamination—Shiki explores moral ambiguity with far greater depth. The vampires, including the enigmatic Sunako Kirishiki, retain their memories, emotions, and even remorse. Both vampires and humans carry guilt and anguish, complicating simplistic notions of villainy. The villagers—their friends, family, and neighbors—begin to see the suffering of the vampires while realizing their own brutal deeds. The narrative challenges viewers to question whether survival excuses the loss of morality or if it is possible to retain one’s spirit even amid brutal chaos.

At the heart of the series are characters who embody competing moral philosophies. Natsuno Yuki, a cynical teenager newly transplanted to Sotoba from the city, provides both an insider and outsider’s perspective. His disillusioned view highlights how fear, suspicion, and grief can unravel even the most intimate relationships. Natsuno serves as a rational voice within a community unraveling into paranoia and despair, offering a reflection of the audience’s own struggle to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Dr. Toshio Ozaki exemplifies the desperate human desire for order amid chaos. Initially, he seeks to explain away the deaths with rational, scientific explanations grounded in medicine. However, when superstition and supernatural realities intrude, Ozaki is compelled to confront truths beyond his understanding. His leadership in trying to save Sotoba begins with scientific resolve but soon descends into moral compromise. As hysteria spreads, the villagers’ collective violence explodes into ruthless slaughter, justified as necessary to preserve survival. Ozaki’s internal conflict—balancing ethical convictions against brutal necessity—reflects the series’ central question: at what point does the will to survive erode the soul?

Set against this turmoil is Sunako Kirishiki, the quiet yet profoundly troubled leader among the shiki. Though she has lived for centuries and suffers deeply from a sense of divine rejection—believing God has forsaken her—Sunako retains a core spirituality that anchors her sense of morality. Even as she is forced to kill in order to survive, she wrestles with guilt and her faltering faith. Her belief that divine rejection is not synonymous with divine abandonment acts as a form of moral defiance, preserving her fragile humanity amid brutal circumstances.

This spiritual resilience is deepened through her relationship with Seishin Muroi, a local junior monk and published author. Muroi, gentle and introspective, offers a unique perspective on the tragedy unfolding in Sotoba. His dual roles as a religious figure and a thoughtful writer allow him to interpret the crisis with spiritual depth and philosophical insight. His literary works—admired by the Kirishiki family, especially Sunako—explore mortality, suffering, and the search for meaning beyond pain. As a monk, Muroi embodies faith and compassion; as an author, he grapples with existential ambiguities, granting him a rare wisdom in navigating the village’s descent.

Muroi’s role makes him both observer and actor in Sotoba’s unraveling. His spiritual duties compel him to provide comfort and guidance, while his writings deepen his understanding of human and supernatural suffering. This duality shapes his interactions with Sunako and others, serving as a pathway for faith and empathy to endure amid horror and despair.

Sunako’s friendship with Muroi becomes central to her moral endurance. In contrast to Tatsumi, the Kirishiki family’s pragmatic and ruthless jinrō guardian who views survival through a cold, utilitarian lens, Muroi offers a moral counterpoint grounded in mercy and hope. Through his compassionate presence and reflective insights, Sunako finds a way to renew her faith. Although she feels forsaken, Muroi’s influence rekindles the fragile spark of belief in her that prevents her humanity from being swallowed by despair.

The thematic contrast between Muroi and Tatsumi becomes a fulcrum for Shiki: survival devoid of soul versus survival with spirit. Muroi’s continuing faith—soft, tentative, but persistent—demonstrates that even in the bleakest conditions, moral conviction need not fade entirely. His dual lens as monk and author enriches the narrative, bridging theology and philosophy while threading through the story’s core existential dilemmas.

Amino’s direction amplifies these themes through patient pacing and subtle storytelling. The mounting tension grows slowly through quiet, contemplative moments and lingering visuals—the hum of cicadas, shifting light through leaves, the barely audible footsteps in the dark. Ryu Fujisaki’s stylized character designs convey unease with elongated features and a surreal sheen, while Yasuharu Takanashi’s sparse, mournful score melds choral lamentations with haunting silences. Together, these elements create an immersive atmosphere steeped in dread and melancholy.

By the series’ climax, the distinction between human and shiki dissolves into near indistinguishability. Both sides bear the scars of survival—physical, psychological, and spiritual. The violence ceases, but the damage lingers, leaving survivors hollow, burdened by guilt and loss. Yet amidst the ruins of a shattered community, Sunako’s renewed faith, forged under Muroi’s guidance, flickers faintly—an emblem of hope that refuses to be extinguished.

The final scene distills this weighty truth without grandiosity or closure. There are no victors, no absolutes—only profound loneliness in survival. The living bear wounds deeper than any inflicted by fang or bullet. But in this quiet aftermath, Sunako’s fragile faith, buoyed by Muroi’s steadfast compassion, pulses as the last vestige of what it means to remain human: choosing faith and empathy even when everything else seems lost.

Shiki closes not with resolution but with a haunting reminder: survival is incomplete without humanity, and faith—however delicate—is the courage to hold onto that humanity when all else has fallen away.

Horror Review: Ichi the Killer (dir. by Miike Takashi)

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Arleigh

Filmmaking in Japan has always thrived on extremes—but not in one uniform direction. On one end lies the haunting, gothic atmosphere of horror steeped in shadows, ritual, and psychological dread; on the other lies the explosion of ultra-violence, pushed to grotesque and sometimes cartoonish heights. This duality mirrors the country’s broader cultural and artistic history, from the impressionistic ritualism of Noh theater and kabuki to the stark contrasts found in ukiyo-e prints. It was inevitable that such traditions would shape Japanese cinema, inspiring films that swing between meditative stillness and overwhelming sensory assault. Few modern filmmakers embody this radical spectrum more vividly than Miike Takashi, the ever-provocative and unapologetically eclectic mad genius of Japanese film.

Trying to find a Western counterpart to Miike often feels impossible. He refuses to be pinned down, leaping from genre to genre with the same restless energy as a filmmaker like Steven Soderbergh, but with far darker, more transgressive tendencies. Yet even in his eclecticism, Miike tends to operate at the polar extremes of Japanese genre filmmaking. One year he delivers chillingly restrained, gothic atmosphere—as seen in Audition or One Missed Call, both sustained by mood, dread, and psychological unease. The next, he unleashes pure ultra-violence, as in Dead or Alive or Ichi the Killer, films that seem designed to push cinematic violence far beyond socially tolerable thresholds. He’s made yakuza dramas, samurai fantasies, children’s stories, westerns, thrillers, and even musicals. To watch Miike is to surrender to unpredictability—but always to expect extremity.

And nowhere is Miike’s fascination with the violent pole more vividly captured than in his infamous 2001 adaptation of Hideo Yamamoto’s manga Ichi the Killer (Koroshiya 1 in Japan). The film remains one of his boldest and most grotesque provocations: hallucinatory, hyper-violent, and defiantly sadomasochistic. If Audition showed Miike at his gothic and restrained, building terror through silence and stillness, then Ichi the Killer does the opposite—it blasts the viewer with sensory chaos, arterial spray, and sadomasochistic spectacle. The result pushes beyond gore into nightmare surrealism, so extreme it resembles Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch refracted through a carnival mirror.

On its surface, the narrative is deceptively straightforward: at its core lies the hunt between two men. Ichi, an emotionally fragile vigilante manipulated into becoming a weapon of destruction, and Kakihara, a flamboyant, sadistic yakuza enforcer who thrives on pain both given and received. While Miike alters aspects of the manga, he retains the dual narrative thread of these two figures spiraling toward an inevitable rooftop showdown high above Tokyo’s neon chaos. Yet to describe the plot too literally is pointless. Miike warps Yamamoto’s crime saga into something closer to a fever dream, a delirious collage of violence and grotesquerie where linear logic is slowly dissolved, leaving behind only sensation.

Where Ichi the Killer separates itself is in its layered subtext of body horror and sadomasochism. Miike is not content with gore alone; he explores the intimate psychology of pain and pleasure, showing their fusion in ways that unsettle. This is established from the film’s beginning, in one of its most infamous moments, when Ichi—lonely, voyeuristic, and lost in disturbing fantasies—masturbates while watching a prostitute being assaulted, climaxing onto a balcony railing. The explicitness shocks, but more importantly, it plants the film’s thematic flag: eroticism polluted by brutality, desire inseparable from cruelty. Miike ensures the audience feels implicated, not just as witnesses but as voyeurs who cannot look away.

Kakihara embodies the other side of this sadomasochistic spectrum. He lives for violence, both inflicting and enduring it. His Glasgow smile—cut into his cheeks years before Ledger’s Joker canonized the image—is carved symbol of his philosophy: rebellion scarred into flesh, grotesque yet strangely glamorous. Much of this impact rests on Tadanobu Asano’s performance. Watching him in this role today, it’s startling to compare Kakihara to his later mainstream work in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (Thor films) or the prestige Shōgun remake. The actor who once played measured dignity and stoicism there is here unchained, flamboyant, and feral. His Kakihara is rockstar-like, charismatic, terrifying, and magnetic; the performance feels like a primal howl that stands in stark contrast to his more restrained global roles. By the finale, one could argue Kakihara comes closer to the film’s “hero” than Ichi himself, embodying violence not merely as cruelty but as pure identity.

The film unfolds as a series of violent tableaux, each more outrageous than the last, somewhere between grotesque cartoon and waking nightmare. Bodies are mangled, organs splatter, arterial spray bursts like abstract expressionist brushstrokes. Miike pushes the imagery so far it sometimes tips into slapstick, calling to mind Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive. It’s violence past the point of horror, collapsing into absurdist comedy: as if Tom and Jerry were redrawn with box cutters and razor wire. Tarantino’s famous “House of Blue Leaves” sequence in Kill Bill clearly draws inspiration from Miike’s operatic bloodletting.

And yet Ichi the Killer is not mere shock and gore. Beyond its chaotic excess, the film probes violence as spectacle—something audiences recoil from but also consume with fascination. Miike refuses to let the audience off the hook. He doesn’t desensitize; he implicates. Watching Ichi means simultaneously condemning its cruelty and acknowledging our own morbid curiosity. That tension—between gothic atmospheres of dread and gaudy ultra-violence—is where Miike thrives.

This duality makes Ichi the Killer one of the most notorious entries in modern cult cinema. It isn’t for everyone, and was never intended to be. Some audiences will find it unwatchable, others mesmerizing. But what is undeniable is its extremity, one end of the spectrum of Japanese genre filmmaking stretched to breaking point. If Audition embodies Miike’s gothic restraint, Ichi represents his carnival of brutality. Together, they capture the twin poles of his artistry and of Japanese extremity itself. Violence here is more than gore—it is body horror, sadomasochism, and spectacle fused together, a dark carnival Miike dares us to enter and dares us not to look away.

Anime You Should Be Watching (Horror Edition): Perfect Blue (dir. by Satoshi Kon)

Posted on October 6, 2025 by Arleigh

Satoshi Kon’s 1998 psychological thriller Perfect Blue remains a striking and influential work nearly three decades after its release. Despite being an animated film, it evokes the unsettling style and tension found in the classic Italian giallo thrillers of the 1970s and ’80s—films by directors like Dario Argento and Mario Bava—and melds them admirably with elements of 1970s Eurotrash exploitation and arthouse psychological thriller reminiscent of Brian De Palma. Kon’s debut feature is a haunting exploration of fractured identity, blending show-business satire, Hitchcockian suspense, and surreal nightmare imagery into a profoundly relevant story in today’s age of parasocial fandom and digital voyeurism.

The film centers on Mima Kirigoe, a member of the bubblegum J-Pop group “CHAM!” who decides to leave the idol world to pursue a career in serious acting. This choice, rooted in her desire for personal growth and artistic expression, sets off devastating consequences. For her managers and many fans, Mima’s break from the manufactured idol persona is viewed as betrayal—a dissolution of a carefully crafted image designed for maximum market appeal. The pristine, innocent figure worshipped by fans begins to crumble, replaced by the complicated reality of adulthood and the harsh glare of fame.

To fully grasp the horror underpinning Perfect Blue, it’s important to understand the nature of Japanese idol culture. These idols are not merely singers or performers—they are highly managed brands. Every lyric, outfit, choreographed move, and public appearance is tightly controlled to project purity and accessibility. This system bears close resemblance to the meticulously produced Western pop acts of the late 1990s and early 2000s like Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. Both rely on constructing polished, artificial personas that maximize commercial appeal, often at the expense of genuine selfhood. When an idol deviates from this script, it frequently provokes obsession, confusion, and even violent reactions from a subset of fans unable to reconcile the constructed image with evolving reality.

Mima’s transition from ingénue pop star to serious actress thrusts her into an intense psychological crucible. Her first major acting role requires her to perform a deeply disturbing rape scene, one that blurs lines between professional obligation and personal violation. Kon lingers on Mima’s shocked expression—a powerful mask of confusion and repressed trauma. This sequence sets the tone for the film: a world where performance, identity, and exploitation intertwine irrevocably, creating a landscape where self and roles imposed by society become indistinguishable.

As Mima’s public persona shifts, darker forces emerge. An eerie fan website titled “Mima’s Room” chronicles her life with disturbing accuracy but is clearly authored by an unknown party. Even more threatening is an obsessed fan fixated on the idol version of Mima, stalking her and insisting that the “real” Mima no longer exists. This duality—between reality and imitation, self and construct—becomes the film’s thematic centerpiece. The narrative loops and fractures, cutting between dreams, televised drama, and supposed reality until neither Mima nor the viewer can be sure what is authentic. This masterful ambiguity immerses us in the protagonist’s psychological collapse.

The horror in Perfect Blue operates on two deeply intertwined levels. First, it is a psychological portrait of a young woman’s unraveling, echoing themes explored in Roman Polanski’s Repulsion and Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan—films focused on fragile female psyches under immense pressure. While Aronofsky has publicly denied that Black Swan was directly inspired by Perfect Blue, the similarities in theme and specific visual motifs suggest otherwise. Both films explore the disintegration of identity in a young woman caught between innocence and adult roles, with dreamlike, unsettling sequences blurring reality and hallucination. The parallels in their portrayal of psychological breakdown, stalking, and the pressure of performance are striking, though Aronofsky’s work is set in the world of ballet rather than pop music and acting.

Second, Perfect Blue channels the lush, stylized dread characteristic of giallo cinema. Kon borrows Argento’s fascination with voyeuristic camera angles, saturated color palettes, and the interplay of beauty and violence. Like Argento’s heroines trapped in a hall of mirrors, Mima finds herself caught in a labyrinth where surreal horror becomes tangible and murder might be just another staged act in a disturbing performance.

Yet unlike Suspiria’s occult grotesques, Kon’s horror resides not in supernatural forces but within the mind and media itself. Animation becomes a revelatory choice—rather than softening violence, it frees Kon from physical constraints, allowing reality to fracture visually with startling fluidity. Identities shift from frame to frame, reflections move independently of their sources, and timelines collapse and fragment like psychic glitches. The medium’s flexibility intensifies the film’s psychological disorientation, blurring fact and fantasy in ways live-action cinema would struggle to capture so viscerally.

Kon’s prescient understanding of media obsession resonates more strongly than ever today. Long before social media reshaped how identity is constructed and perceived, Perfect Blue envisioned the internet as a distorting mirror that erases the line between self and performance. The “Mima’s Room” website serves both as diary and prison—a disturbing precursor to the carefully curated digital personas that dominate social media platforms now. As Mima reads falsified diary entries that resemble her life more “truthfully” than her own memory, she grows alienated from reality. The omnipresent gaze of fans, stalkers, and producers merges into an oppressive force she cannot escape.

This taps into a modern phenomenon: parasocial relationships. These one-sided emotional bonds fans develop with celebrities or fictional characters foster a dangerous illusion of intimacy and knowledge, often masking boundaries between admiration and entitlement. In Perfect Blue, the deranged fan believes he “knows” Mima in a way that justifies controlling her, even committing violence to preserve the image he idolizes. This mirrors the darker side of parasocial dynamics today, where fans demand absolute authenticity or control over public figures’ identities, sometimes leading to harassment or stalking. Kon’s film foreshadows how internet culture can exacerbate these fragile boundaries, blurring realities and fueling destructive obsession.

The film’s editing amplifies this psychological suffocation. Kon intercuts scenes from Mima’s TV drama—ironically titled Double Bind—with moments from her “real” life until one blurs imperceptibly into the other. Viewers are drawn deeper into uncertainty: are we witnessing actual events, staged fiction, or yet another deceptive layer? This deliberate manipulation creates unease without relying on cheap jump scares or graphic violence. The horror is existential—losing trust not only in others but in one’s own mind.

This theme has become exponentially more relevant with the rise of social media influencers and online streaming personalities. Today, countless individuals cultivate personal brands that blend their private lives with public personas online, often with blurred or deliberately ambiguous boundaries. The intense fan interaction, constant scrutiny, and expectation of accessibility echo the pressures Mima faces. As social media blurs the line between “real” self and online performance, the risks of losing grip on one’s identity—as Mima does—feel more immediate and widespread than ever.

It is extraordinary that Perfect Blue was Kon’s first feature film. His command of cinematic language is masterful—harnessing animation as a means to probe psychological depths rather than as mere escapism. His subsequent works—Millennium Actress, Tokyo Godfathers, Paprika—build on themes of identity, memory, and the fluid borders of reality, but Perfect Blue remains his rawest and most unsettling contribution. His untimely death from pancreatic cancer in 2010 at just 46 left the film community mourning a visionary whose full promise was tragically unfulfilled.

One of Perfect Blue’s greatest achievements is rejecting outsider stereotypes about anime. It is neither childish fantasy nor gratuitous erotica, though it fearlessly explores sexual anxiety, trauma, and performance under intense scrutiny. Kon’s film proves that animation can tackle mature themes—mental illness, societal pressure, gender identity—with subtlety and emotional gravitas usually reserved for live-action cinema. It challenges the misinformed Western association of adult anime with “hentai,” affirming animation’s capacity as a serious art form.

Kon’s film also critiques fandom’s darker impulses, asking difficult questions about ownership and identity. How much of a celebrity’s life belongs to the public? How much of one’s self must be sacrificed under the weight of expectation? In today’s hyperconnected online world, Kon’s portrayal of obsessive fans demanding idealized idols is uncannily relevant and urgent.

Ultimately, Perfect Blue transcends genre and era. It is not merely a psychological thriller or celebrity critique but a mirror held to an increasingly performative world. Long before social media dissolved the lines between private and public selves, Kon foresaw how image can consume reality. The result is a masterful fusion of paranoia, empathy, and stunning visual style—a giallo-inspired fever dream painted in blood-red and neon blue. For animation, it remains a landmark in artistic maturity; for cinema as a whole, it stands as one of the most chilling and insightful portraits of fame’s corrosive gaze and the dark side of parasocial obsession.

Horror Review: Horror Express (dir. Eugenio Martin)

Posted on October 6, 2025 by Arleigh

There was one film I saw when I was very young that absolutely terrified me, and even now, decades later, it still has the power to unsettle me and rob me of sleep. That film is Horror Express, a 1972 Spanish-British horror/science fiction hybrid directed by Eugenio Martín. It brought together two titans of gothic horror cinema, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing—icons of the Hammer Films era—while also featuring Telly Savalas in a sadistic, scene-stealing turn as a volatile Cossack captain.

When Horror Express was released, the horror genre was at a fascinating crossroads. The gothic traditions popularized by Hammer Studios throughout the 1960s were beginning to fade, overtaken by the grittier, bloodier styles of filmmakers like Herschell Gordon Lewis and George A. Romero. By 1968, Romero’s Night of the Living Dead had already shifted the genre toward a darker, more nihilistic tone, paving the way for the grislier excesses that would dominate the 1970s. Martín’s film stood out precisely because it clung to the elegance and atmosphere of Hammer’s gothic aesthetic while incorporating moments of shocking violence and morbid detail. It occupied an unusual in-between space: refined in look and tone yet unnerving in its thematic brutality. Its blend of period atmosphere, science fiction paranoia, and restrained gore made it a fascinating transitional work in horror history.

The premise is simple but chilling. Aboard the Trans-Siberian Express, a British anthropologist (Christopher Lee’s Professor Saxton) transports a recently unearthed specimen—an ape-like, fossilized creature. His colleague, Peter Cushing’s Dr. Wells, becomes reluctantly entangled in the unfolding mystery. Predictably, the specimen is not what it seems; it revives and begins unleashing a series of violent attacks on the passengers. Soon it is revealed to harbor a far more terrifying, alien intelligence capable of killing and inhabiting its victims. This leads to one of the film’s most haunting sequences: the white-eyed, zombie-like corpses, drained of memories and humanity, shambling through the train corridors under the entity’s control. At eight years old, these images struck me as some of the most horrifying I had ever seen, and even today their uncanny blend of gothic atmosphere and science fiction body horror still lingers.

Viewed in retrospect, Horror Express bears a striking resemblance to John W. Campbell’s novella Who Goes There?—the basis for Howard Hawks’ The Thing from Another World and John Carpenter’s The Thing in 1982. Like those stories, it is steeped in paranoia, playing with the idea of an alien intelligence that can absorb knowledge and animate the dead. While it never attains the precision of Carpenter’s later masterpiece, it foreshadows that same blend of claustrophobia, distrust, and escalating dread.

What makes Horror Express unforgettable is its restraint. Rather than leaning on gore, it generates fear through suggestion, atmosphere, and disturbing imagery. The snowy isolation of the Trans-Siberian route reinforces the cold sterility of its alien invader, while the confined train cars become a claustrophobic prison of escalating terror. Over time, the film has slipped into the public domain, making it widely available on streaming platforms and budget DVDs. Though often overlooked in surveys of 1970s horror, it deserves recognition as one of the last great gothic horror films before the torch passed to Craven, Carpenter, and Hooper.

For me, Horror Express remains not just a childhood scare but a cinematic touchstone: a rare piece of science fiction horror bridging two eras, one that manages to terrify without relying on excess gore. It disturbed me at age eight, and even now, watching the blank-eyed corpses lurch through the dim train cars still triggers that same visceral shiver.

Horror Review: The Sadness (dir. by Rob Jabbaz)

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Arleigh

Zombie and infection films have long been a proving ground for aspiring horror filmmakers. The subgenre is relatively inexpensive to produce, often relying on claustrophobic settings, survival scenarios, and plentiful blood-and-makeup effects. Because of this, it’s become an enticing entry point for directors looking to make their mark. But while horror can be a forgiving sandbox for experimentation, creating a film that is not just watchable but truly memorable is another matter entirely.

That’s why Rob Jabbaz’s 2021 debut feature The Sadness feels like both a breath of fresh air and a brutal gut-punch. In a cinematic landscape oversaturated with lifeless zombie rehashes, The Sadness stands out as one of the rare gems in the rough: an uncompromising, unfiltered vision that twists infection horror into grotesque new extremes.

The film’s timing alone heightens its impact. Premiering in 2021 as the world was still reeling from COVID-19, The Sadness unfolded against a backdrop of real-world uncertainty and fear. Set in Taipei, it follows a young couple, Jim (Berant Zhu) and Kat (Regina Lei), as they struggle to reunite while a viral outbreak ravages the city. But this isn’t a traditional zombie plague. Those infected don’t stumble through streets in mindless hunger—instead, they shed every shred of empathy and morality, indulging instead in the darkest, most depraved impulses imaginable.

What makes this outbreak particularly disturbing is not the survivalist violence we expect from zombie cinema, but the sadistic cruelty with which the infected embrace their new instincts. They don’t just kill. They torment, torture, and mutilate with gleeful abandon. And yet, in one of the film’s most haunting touches, many of the infected appear to be crying as they carry out these atrocities. Buried deep in the recesses of their corrupted minds is an awareness of the horror of their actions, a recognition that what they are doing is monstrous and wrong. But the virus strips them of the ability to stop themselves, forcing them to participate in their own cruelty even as they mourn it. This paradox of weeping while committing acts of unthinkable violence underlines the film’s title: The Sadness is not simply about gore or shock, but about the profound tragedy of human beings imprisoned within impulses they are horrified to enact.

On its surface, the film invites comparisons to Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later—especially in its depiction of a city descending into viral chaos. But where Boyle’s rage virus unleashed primal anger, Jabbaz’s strain of infection is even more terrifying: it revels in cruelty, poisoning not just the body but the soul. The Sadness also recalls Garth Ennis’ infamous Crossed comic series—widely deemed unfilmable due to its extremes. That connection is impossible to ignore, both in subject matter and in its deliberate transgressiveness.

As writer, editor, and director, Jabbaz approaches the material with unnerving precision. The first act foreshadows the viral threat in subtle ways—background chatter on TV screens, fleeting moments of sudden aggression—before Taipei collapses into anarchy almost overnight. The narrative remains lean and purposeful, stripping away filler in favor of pacing that escalates terror with brutal efficiency.

Shot in just 28 days, the film nevertheless carries an impressive polish. Cinematographer Jie-Li Bai and production designer Liu Chin-Fu infuse the movie with a grounded sense of place: crowded subways, sterile hospitals, bustling street corners. Each environment feels authentically lived-in before they transform, piece by piece, into blood-soaked arenas of carnage. Practical gore effects are prioritized over CGI, and the result is viscerally effective—sickening yet strangely mesmerizing, almost operatic in their execution. Like the best extreme horror, it locates a twisted beauty in its spectacle of destruction.

The Sadness is more than just gore for gore’s sake. Released during the height of a global pandemic, the film functions as a thematic mirror, reflecting society’s fractures under pressure—our denial of crisis, government missteps, selfish impulses, and the darkness that emerges when rules and trust collapse. Whether or not Jabbaz meant the film as a direct allegory is almost irrelevant; in its execution, it feels pandemic-era, uncannily timely, and raw.

Unsurprisingly, the horror community quickly drew parallels to Ennis’ Crossed. The comparison resonated so strongly that Jabbaz himself has since been attached to direct a live-action Crossed adaptation. If The Sadness is any indication, he may be the rare filmmaker with both the vision and the audacity to bring such an “unfilmable” work to life.

From its deceptively calm beginning to its bleak and nihilistic finale, The Sadness never loosens its grip. It is not a film for everyone—many will find it too transgressive, too nihilistic, or simply too traumatic to endure. But for horror fans who crave extremity, who embrace the genre as a place where boundaries should be tested, The Sadness is more than another zombie flick. It is a tragedy as much as it is a nightmare, and the sight of its infected monsters weeping as they commit atrocities lingers long after the credits roll. That image embodies the very essence of the title: a work that confronts not only our capacity for violence, but the unbearable sorrow of being aware of it, powerless, and consumed.

It is a defining statement in 21st-century horror: brutal, relentless, grotesque, and timely. Rob Jabbaz’s debut doesn’t just enter the infection canon—it tears through it, leaving behind a benchmark of modern extreme cinema.

Horror Song of the Day: Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima (by Krzysztof Penderecki)

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Arleigh

Have you ever heard Penderecki’s Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima? It’s definitely not your typical kind of music. When I first listened to it, I wasn’t really sure what was happening—it’s loud, chaotic, and incredibly intense. There’s no melody or rhythm that you can follow; instead, it feels like a massive wave of sound crashing over you, full of raw emotion and tension.

One of the things that makes it so striking is that Penderecki wrote it for 52 string instruments. Now, usually, when you think of that many strings playing together, you imagine something rich, smooth, and harmonious. But this is completely different. Those violins, violas, cellos, and basses don’t blend into a melody; instead, they create layers of dissonant sounds—like dozens of voices crying out all at once. It’s less about making “music” in the traditional sense and more about creating an intense atmosphere you can almost feel physically.

What’s really interesting is that Penderecki wasn’t initially trying to compose a tribute. The piece was simply titled 8 minutes and 37 seconds, just the length of the piece. But when he heard it performed, he realized something powerful was happening. The sound conveyed devastation and sorrow in a way words couldn’t. That’s when he dedicated it to the victims of Hiroshima, giving all that chaotic noise a heartbreaking context.

Listening to Threnody is like being caught in a storm made of sound. It opens with a blast of high-pitched, almost screaming tones, then moves between moments of total chaos and eerie silence. Instead of a neat ending, the piece slowly fades away, leaving you with a heavy, unsettling quiet—like the echo of a tragedy that never really ends.

What’s especially notable is how much this piece challenges what we usually expect from music. It doesn’t have melodies, harmonies, or rhythms in the way most music does. Penderecki broke all those rules to focus purely on emotion through sound itself. That approach not only made Threnody groundbreaking in classical music but also opened the door for its huge influence on horror film music. Filmmakers recognized how those sharp, dissonant strings create tension and fear on a gut level. You can hear Penderecki’s influence in iconic horror scores like those in Kubrick’s The Shining or Lynch’s Twin Peaks. Those creepy, screeching string sounds that make your skin crawl? That’s Penderecki’s legacy.

For me, what makes Threnody unforgettable is how honest it feels. It doesn’t try to comfort or please the listener. Instead, it’s a raw cry of grief made real through fifty-two instruments playing together but refusing to blend smoothly. It’s a reminder that music doesn’t always have to be beautiful to be powerful and that sometimes the most intense emotions are best expressed through sound that challenges everything we think music should be. Once you’ve listened, it sticks with you—an echo of sorrow that doesn’t fade.

Horror Review: Men Behind the Sun (dir. by T.F. Mou)

Posted on October 4, 2025 by Arleigh

It was in 1988 that one of the darkest, least-discussed episodes of World War II history was thrust into public consciousness through the work of Chinese filmmaker T.F. Mou. The film in question is Men Behind the Sun, an infamous fusion of historical drama and horror that still provokes debate nearly forty years later. Unlike traditional war films that depict heroic battles, military strategy, or patriotic sacrifice, this film ventures deep into the murky shadows of wartime atrocity, unearthing the story of Unit 731—a chapter that had remained largely buried outside of East Asia.

The film is set during Japan’s occupation of Manchuria, beginning in the 1930s and stretching into the final years of the Pacific War. Mou frames much of the story through the perspective of a group of young Japanese boys who have been conscripted into service with the Imperial Army. These youths, filled with notions of loyalty and honor, find themselves assigned to Unit 731, a supposedly scientific research group whose true mission soon becomes horrifyingly clear. What they encounter—and what the audience is forced to witness—exposes both the capacity for cruelty and the terrifying ease with which human beings can normalize horror under the authority of war.

Unit 731 was not a fictional invention, but a very real military research facility overseen by General Shirō Ishii, a figure who still looms as one of World War II’s most notorious war criminals. Under the guise of developing defenses against epidemics and advancing medical knowledge, Ishii ran a program devoted to biological and chemical warfare research. The methods employed were monstrous: prisoners were intentionally infected with plague and anthrax, subjected to vivisections while still alive, had organs harvested for study, and were sealed within hypobaric chambers to measure the effects of barometric pressure. Others were exposed to grenades, chemical agents, or lethal extremes of cold and heat. The victims—callously referred to by their tormentors as “logs”—were largely drawn from the local Chinese population, though Russians, Koreans, and even children and pregnant women were subjected to the same fate. Official records suggest there were no survivors of these experiments.

In the film, the reaction of the Youth Corps to these atrocities provides the closest thing to a moral anchor. Initially repulsed, the boys attempt to adhere to the strict code of loyalty and duty impressed upon them by the Imperial Army. They are torn between horror at what they observe and fear of disobedience. But when a young Chinese boy whom they had befriended is selected as one of Unit 731’s subjects, the mask of discipline begins to crumble. Their attempt at resistance becomes both a moral turning point and a tragic acknowledgment of the futility of challenging the machinery of the Japanese war state.

What makes Men Behind the Sun stand out is its fragmented, almost documentary-like structure. Rather than weaving a straightforward dramatic narrative, Mou constructs the film as a series of stark vignettes, each showcasing one monstrous experiment after another. This disjointed quality mirrors the cold and methodical way Unit 731 carried out its work, giving the audience little comfort or space to detach. While the special effects often carry the look of late-1980s low-budget filmmaking, they remain powerfully effective in provoking revulsion. Time has not dulled their impact: the crude visual horror still conveys the visceral reality of suffering more effectively than polished stylization ever could.

To some, the film crosses too far into exploitation, presenting misery in a way that risks sensationalism. To others, it serves as a vital cultural reckoning, a way of exposing truths that were long suppressed not just in Japan but internationally. Men Behind the Sun may not offer the catharsis of traditional war cinema, but its unflinching confrontation with atrocity ensures it occupies a singular place in film history. Even more unsettling is the knowledge that outside the world of film, General Shirō Ishii himself escaped accountability. After Japan’s surrender, he cooperated with U.S. military authorities, trading his research findings for immunity from prosecution. As the Cold War escalated, his expertise in biological and chemical warfare was deemed too valuable to dismiss, and so the crimes of Unit 731 were quietly buried in exchange for data. This chilling epilogue—rooted not in cinema but in historical fact—ensures that the horror of Men Behind the Sun lingers long after the credits roll.

Brains, Laughs, and Decline: The Uneven Legacy of Return of the Living Dead

Posted on October 3, 2025 by Arleigh

Subverting the Zombie Canon: Satire, Genre-Bending, and Decay in the Return of the Living Dead Series

When talking about cult horror films, the Return of the Living Dead series holds a special place—not only as a spin-off from George A. Romero’s seminal Night of the Living Dead, but as a unique creative force in its own right. Thanks to a legal split between Romero and co-writer John Russo over rights to the “Living Dead” name, Russo and director Dan O’Bannon got to imagine a parallel zombie universe. This franchise quickly carved out its own identity, mixing horror, black comedy, and punk spirit in a way that both paid tribute to and upended zombie tropes.

Reinventing Zombie Lore with a Wink

The original Return of the Living Dead (1985) starts with a clever “what if” twist: what if Romero’s Night wasn’t just a movie, but a dramatized cover-up of a real government disaster? This meta idea instantly frames the film as self-referential and playful, setting a tone unlike anything out at the time.

Central to the film’s identity is the invention of 2-4-5 Trioxin, a fictional military chemical designed to clear marijuana crops which instead raises the dead—zombies with surprising new abilities. Unlike the slow, drooling zombies Romero popularized, these ghouls sprint, talk, and set traps. Their hunger is peculiar as well: they crave brains exclusively, as it eases the pain of being undead. And the old rules of zombie combat? Forget shooting them in the head. These zombies resist it, raising the stakes and scare factor.

This refreshing rewrite of zombie rules allowed the movie to be both frightening and fun. The zombies were smart but still monstrous, turning classic horror expectations on their head in a way that invited both laughter and fear—a tricky balance that few horror comedies manage.

Playing with Comedy, Panic, and Punk Rock

One of the greatest strengths of the original film is how it embraces horror-comedy so naturally. It doesn’t shy away from being funny while still delivering tension. James Karen and Thom Mathews excel as the main pair—Karen’s frantic, over-the-top panicked man paired with Mathews’ straight, slowly succumbing counterpart create a perfect comedic rhythm. Their slow transformation into zombies adds a tragic dimension to what could have been simple slapstick. Meanwhile, Don Calfa’s mortician character and Clu Gulager’s warehouse owner provide a grounded center amidst chaos.

The punk subculture flavor adds another unique texture. Linnea Quigley’s famous graveyard striptease encapsulates the 1980s’ blend of irreverence, sexuality, and horror obsession. The scene is shocking, hilarious, and iconic—one of those moments that encapsulates everything this film is about: having fun with taboos while not losing the darker undercurrents of mortality and decay.

Beyond laughs, there’s biting satire here. The film skewers the government and military’s hubris—scientists create a superweapon they can’t control, leading to chaos and destruction. This reflects 1980s American anxieties about bioweapons, government cover-ups, and nuclear fears. Horror and comedy collide to reflect cultural distrust and paranoia.

The Problem of the Sequel: Part II’s Familiar Ground

When Return of the Living Dead Part II came out in 1988, it felt like the franchise was stuck in a loop. With much of the original cast returning in near-identical roles, and lines and situations seemingly recycled, the film circles back to the same story. This self-copying invites a mix of amusement and disappointment: it seems the filmmakers didn’t believe they could improve on the original and decided to replicate it instead.

While it has its moments—good practical effects and a rollicking tone reminiscent of the first film—it leans harder into comedy, sometimes at the expense of the horror. The suburban setting and clearer military lockdown raise the action stakes, but the humor feels broader and less sharp, which can make the movie seem a bit cartoonish.

In a way, Part II comments on the pitfalls of horror franchises: once you’ve struck gold with an unexpected idea, sequels often struggle to regain that freshness. This installment is entertaining, but signals the beginning of the franchise’s creative plateau.

Much Darker Territory: Part III’s Horror and Romance

With Return of the Living Dead 3 in 1993, things take a major tonal shift. Brian Yuzna’s direction removes much of the comedy and replaces it with body horror, gore, and a genuinely tragic romance. The story centers on Curt and Julie, two teenagers tragically pulled into the military’s secret zombie experiments. After Julie is accidentally killed and resurrected, she becomes a zombie who feeds on brains but manages her hunger through extreme self-inflicted pain.

This grim take pushes the franchise into more serious, intense horror territory, with heavy themes of love, loss, and bodily autonomy threaded throughout. Julie’s tortured transformation is both tragic and unsettling, symbolizing not only the loss of life but also the torment of trying to hold onto humanity while losing it from within.

Yuzna’s effects are grisly in the finest tradition of ‘90s practical SFX. The film revives the franchise’s sense of danger and stakes by mixing romance with horror, delivering something emotionally resonant and viscerally impactful. While it diverges sharply from the earlier comedic tone, Part III proves the series’ flexibility and capacity for reinvention.

Creative Collapse: Parts IV and V’s Direct-to-Cable Downfall

Sadly, the wheels come off with Return of the Living Dead 4: Necropolis and 5: Rave to the Grave, both made in 2005 and directed by Ellory Elkayem. Shot back-to-back and released direct-to-cable, these films are pale shadows of the earlier entries.

They ditch the original’s clever mix of horror and humor entirely. Instead, we get generic corporate conspiracies, confusing Eastern European settings, weak scripts, and inconsistent zombie characterizations. The zombies lose their unique “brains only” horror and instead act like run-of-the-mill undead. Even the acting is amateurish, with only Peter Coyote standing out briefly as a sinister scientist.

Part 5 further muddies continuity by introducing Trioxin as a rave drug, leading to a chaotic rave/zombie apocalypse scenario that is both baffling and poorly paced. The low-budget effects and uneven pacing betray the exhaustion and lack of passion behind these entries.

These final two films underscore a common fate for franchises that outlive their creative spark—once inventive mythology becomes shallow cliché, and attempts to cash in feel uninspired. Instead of honoring their roots, they become muddled and forgettable.

Why the Series Matters

Despite its uneven legacy, Return of the Living Dead remains important for what it dared to do in horror cinema. The first film’s originality influenced countless horror comedies and redefined how zombies could be portrayed. Its self-awareness and invention paved the way for postmodern horror, where genre is as much about commentary as it is fear.

The third film’s daring shift to tragic body horror further demonstrated the potential for zombie films to explore complex emotional and societal themes beyond gore or giggles.

While the later sequels falter, their failure serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of diluting distinct voices and creative risks in franchise filmmaking.

Ultimately, Return of the Living Dead survives in cultural memory as a zombie series that captured the spirit of its time—punk rebellion, Cold War paranoia, and genre self-mockery—with flashes of brilliance that continue to entertain and inspire.

Horror Song of the Day: Damien (by DMX)

Posted on October 2, 2025 by Arleigh

It’s been a while, but I’ve always thought of October as the best month for Through the Shattered Lens. The site has always leaned into sci‑fi and horror at its core—and in the early days, it was especially heavy on the horror side of things. That was really the big common thread between Lisa Marie and me when we first got started here.

So, as part of easing my way back into being a little more active on a site I’ve watched grow for over 16 years, I wanted to spotlight something that’s stuck with me for decades: “Damien,” the ninth track off DMX’s 1998 debut album It’s Dark and Hell is Hot. That record catapulted DMX—Earl Simmons—into instant superstardom.

“Damien” has always been the track I kept coming back to, even years after the album first dropped. The album itself was pure fire: a mix of chest‑thumping, hyper‑aggressive tracks laced with one of the rawest and most distinctive voices hip‑hop had seen since the losses of Biggie and Tupac. At the time, some even saw DMX as their natural successor.

But “Damien” stood apart. The song oozes dark energy, hitting like lyrical possession from start to finish. Built around a haunting sample from Stanley Clarke’s “Slow Dance,” the beat sets the stage for DMX to pour out a narrative of bad breaks, self‑inflicted wounds, and a desperate search for a guardian angel—only to meet something else entirely. Instead of an angel, he finds Damien, a voice offering help but radiating malevolence.

When “D” first enters the track, he plays almost like a mischievous accomplice, a shadowy partner in crime. But as the verses build, that “help” morphs into something more toxic, more sinister—a presence that feeds off the chaos it creates.

DMX’s debut wasn’t just a hit album; it pushed horrorcore rap into the mainstream in a way few had managed before. With “Damien,” he delivered one of the most chilling, unforgettable examples of horror woven directly into hip‑hop—a track that feels just as unsettling now as it did back in ’98.

Damien

Uh, Def Jam
Uh, Ruff Ryders
Uh, my nigga TP, creep with me

Why is it every move I make turns out to be a bad one?
Where’s my guardian angel? Need one, wish I had one
I’m right here, shorty, and I’ma hold you down
You trying to fuck all these bitches? I’ma show you how
But who-? (Name’s D, like you, but my friends call me Damien)
And I’ma put you hip to something (uh-huh) about this game we in
You and me could take it there, and you’ll be
The hottest nigga ever living (that’s a given?) You’ll see
Hmm, that’s what I’ve been wanting all my life
Thinkin’ about my little man, so I call my wife
Well, your dada is about to make it happen
(What you mean, my nigga?) I’m about to make it rapping
Today I met this cat, he said his name was Damien
He thinks that we’re a lot alike and wants to be my friend
(You mean like Chuckie?) Ha ha, yeah, just like Chuckie
(Dada, looks like we both lucky) Yeah

The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?

Ay-yo, D (What up, D?) You’s a smooth nigga
I seen you when nobody knew who pulled the trigger
Yeah, you know, it’s always over dough
You sure? I could have swore it was over a hoe
Nah, nah, that ain’t my style (igga, you stay fronting)
But you’re still my man, and I ain’t gonna say nothin’
Got some weed? Go ‘head, smoke it (what?) Go ‘head, drink it (what?)
Go ‘head and fuck shorty, you know I can keep a secret (aight)
I’m about to have you driving, probably a Benz
But we gotta stay friends, blood out, blood in
Sounds good to me, fuck it, what I got to lose?
Hmm, nothin’ I can think of, any nigga would choose
Got me pushing the whips, takin’ trips across seas
Pockets stay laced, nigga, I floss Gs
For that nigga I would bleed, give him my right hand
Now that I think about it, yo, that’s my man!

You like how everything is going? You like what I gave ya?
You know if you was going down, I’d be the one to save ya
But yo, I need a favor, these cats across town hate me
Plus their behavior hasn’t been too good lately
What? Anything for you, dog, where them niggas at?
38th from Broadway (aight, let me get the gat)
Run up on ’em strapped, bust off caps in four niggas
Laid low for ’bout a month then killed two more niggas
Now I’m ready to chill, but you still want me to kill
Look at what I did for you! Dog, come on, keep it real!
Aight, fuck it, I’ma do it, who is it this time?
Ayy-yo, remember that kid Sean you used to be with in ’89?
Nah, that’s my man! (I thought I was your man?)
But yo, that’s my nigga (hey, who’s your biggest fan?)
Either do it or give me your right hand, that’s what you said
I see now, it ain’t nothing but trouble ahead (uh-huh)

In the fog, the fog, living in the fog
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
How you gon’ see him if you living in the fog?
The snake, the rat, the cat, the dog
To be continued, motherfuckers
Ah-hahahahaha