There is no way anyone could consider Wakamatsu Koji’s anti-war, anti-military, anti-nationalist tirade subtle. The man cut his teeth and made his name in pink eiga, so chances are he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But that would belittle Wakamatsu’s cumulative knowledge — he has over four decades’ experience — and the fact that he left straight up soft-core porn behind long ago to use his considerable clout making ‘real’ films. Wakamatsu has never been into titillation for the sake of it, and in Caterpillar, he actually tones down the source material and makes several statements on several fronts, often linking them together.
Caterpillar fires a lot at the viewer in every single frame. Beginning with an old school opening credit roll over a combination of archival material and dramatic backstory, Wakamatsu sets up his thesis early and plainly by juxtaposing images of propagandist glory — troops marching into small towns, the Hinomaru being waved off by happy wives and families — against those of base conquest — soldiers on a terror mission of rape and pillage. The idea that the cost of victory was a staggering loss of humanity is like a shot across the bow (at least in Japan). Those kinds of connections are made throughout the film and Wakamatsu has no allusions to ambiguity. Make no mistake: that’s the tip of the metaphoric iceberg.
Kurokawa Kyuzo (Ohnishi Shima) comes home from fighting in China no more than a stump. He can’t speak, both arms and legs have been amputated and his face is irreparably scarred. But he’s welcomed back to the village as a War God and, believing his own hype, begins to treat his wife Shigeko (Silver Bear-winner Terajima Shinobu) exactly the way he did before he left. Problem is she’s not keen to revisit that time in her life, a feeling that stems from his previously abusive behaviour. At first Shigeko is horrified — at Kyuzo, at having to stay with him, at the expectations in the village that she’ll continue to play the perfect wife. Her burden becomes even heavier when Kyuzo starts demanding wifely attention; evidently his libido is undamaged. And yes, Wakamatsu goes there.
He also draws a line between traditional state sanctioned warfare and sexual politics that’s every bit as disturbing as it sounds, yet somehow it rolls off the screen effortlessly. Based on Edogawa Rampo’s 1929 short story that featured in the film anthology Rampo Noir, Wakamatsu has opted to make several key changes, one of them toning down Rampo’s sordid tendencies where sex is involved. Shigeko’s acquiescence to Kyuzo’s demands is simply a manifestation of her newfound power over him. She agrees to have sex with him, but does nothing to help him enjoy it. She feeds him, but does nothing to restore his dignity when he drops food all over himself. His initial joy at reliving his time as one of the nation’s finest sons (he gazes fondly at newspaper clippings) vanishes when she helps him do just that: Kyuzo is subjected to a daily walkabout with Shigeko toting him along behind her in a cart. Eventually his pleasure curdles into disdain and agony — so she keeps it up.
In another departure from the story, the Kurokawas are transplanted to the countryside, jettisoning the idea that the state war machine stoked the fires of nationalism exclusively among urban bourgeoisie. When she’s not tending to Kyuzo’s needs, Shigeko is seen tilling fields and weaving in a community that would have required a lot of time and effort to reach when spreading the Emperor’s word. It’s as if Wakamatsu (and writers Kurosawa Hisako and Adachi Masao) is saying no stone was left unturned and no citizen was lowly enough to be unworthy of basking in some nationalist fervour.
Which is not to say that there’s no consideration of the impact of an aggressive military and social campaign like that. As reprehensible as Kyuzo may be, he’s propped up (quite literally in one powerful shot) as the consequences of a dangerous endgame Japan played with its own people — and of drinking the Kool-Aid. His actions at home and overseas begin to meld together in his mind resulting in a guilty psychosis he has no outlet for. As Kyuzo Ohnishi turns in a broad performance that’s complemented perfectly by Terajima’s affecting study in understated grace. Short and to the (glaringly obvious) point, Caterpillar is some cinematic Brussels sprouts: good for you but not necessarily a good time. Though I must state for the record … I really like Brussels sprouts.