Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. Today we are returning to the sun-speckled foothills of a rural Japanese village, whose community seems to be suffering under a sprawling yet largely undetectable curse, a malaise that announces itself first as suspicion and then paranoia, before its victims are consumed by their fear entirely. Do not look at the creatures in the woods, do not think of the flesh beneath the surface, for these are all avenues to complicity, understanding, and eventual destruction. “Mix with that too much and you won’t be human anymore,” Yoshiki’s neighbor warns him. But is being human such a laudable thing?
Yes, it is time for The Summer Hikaru Died, offering a rich stew of folk horror, rural surveillance, and queer awakening. The food is delicious, but do not ask how it’s made; that metallic tinge in the pallet, that sweetness that feels a little too familiar, these are all questions with no comforting answer. The production is situated at a classic, fertile intersection of horror and character drama, presenting occult ritual as just another manifestation of conservative cultural hegemony, and “monstrousness” as the vital rebellion of youth against such forces. And beyond this sturdy metaphor, it’s also simply an aesthetically rewarding experience, with Ryōhei Takeshita’s adaptation cleverly capturing the paranoia of Yoshiki’s town and ambiguity of the hills beyond. Let’s get back to the woods!