Mahatma Gandhi is—and always has been—many things to many people, but a sex symbol?
A pair of films by two of Japan’s most aesthetically radical cult directors have given me pause.
Its unsettling air lies in Sono and co-writer Yoshiki Takahashi’s unwillingness to attach Murata’s mania to a recognizable source.
The film has a queasy sensibility that has less to do with the gory remains than the twisted psychology on display.