If you’re reading this blog at all you ought to be able to understand where Chain Mail is coming from with this. After finding it tucked away virtually unseen in the manga section of my local Waterstone’s and buying on impulse, I suspect the only people I know who’d appreciate its innovative ‘multiple viewpoint’ storytelling as I did are those I converse with online. The ‘net and the artificial realities it provides attract us all for very personal reasons but the overall promises of diversion and communication are the same.

In the case of Chain Mail three high schoolers receive an e-mail from someone calling herself Yukari who offers them the opportunity to collaborate in a mystery-thriller story with each ‘author’ taking on the role of one of the tale’s four protagonists. None of these girls know each other in real life but each has her own motive for writing a piece of fiction with complete strangers: Mai is a music fan feeling cut off from the superficial local scene after studying abroad; Sawako is a shy introvert suffering from school bullies and the loss of her mother; Mayumi is dedicated to helping her best friend succeed at badminton but is forever in her shadow.

Since empathising with the characters of this novel relies on your tolerance for the insecurities and neuroses of the average Japanese high school girl, I suspect mileage may vary. That said, it’s not hard to understand how these ordinary kids are fed up with the way their lives are heading and why they’re so keen to create their own fantasy world to escape from it. I felt for all of them to some degree since we see both their personalities’ strengths and flaws during the course of the novel, not to mention the way in which the narrative effectively sets up their circumstances and points of view.

The crime thriller aspect is interesting in itself because it’s never clear who Yukari is, and the dividing line between the girls’ lives and the fiction they are creating blurs with such frequency the general experience is that in which you’re constantly trying to guess ahead and work out what the hell is going on. The intellectual aspect, as it were, is balanced well with the slice of life and dramatic ones as you see why the girls get involved and how the experience affects them.

After the four girls begin this story of a student, her tutor, her stalker and the investigating detective in between the trials and dramas of their own lives, the novel gets really interesting. Another common plot device is that of the art imitating life; in this case real events and feelings the girls experience bleed into the plot twists of the Chain Mail story, and soon it works in the opposite direction. Without spoiling too much, a genuine kidnapping is reported in the news as one of the Chain Mail authors mysteriously stops posting and the others begin to feel an eerie sense of being watched as they update their own contributions from their mobile phones.

One asks herself if the compulsion to check for updates and write more (something I can relate to as a compulsive writer, internet addict and one who knows the meaning of “a watched inbox never fills”) is akin to a drug addict holding out for their next fix: she’s consciously aware that the Chain Mail project is her crutch for supporting the burden that student life has placed on her. Another finds it prompts her to re-evaluate her own priorities and interests; there is also a keen sense that it’s something private, precious and therefore must be kept hidden from outsiders at all costs.

The chapters are cryptically introduced with quotes from famous philosophers such as Friedrich Nietzsche. Initially I thought “Nietzsche in a Japanese light novel about high schoolers? What gives?” but the connection is an important plot point, rather than pretentious name-dropping it seems at first. Resolutions to these phychological mystery stories often require some suspension of disbelief and this is no exception: the explanation is a bit far-fetched but I’ve seen and read a lot worse (yes, Satoshi Kon, I’m even looking at you). The resolution is realistic enough though and made me smile at the bittersweet yet appropriate way in which it wrapped the intertwining threads up.

The translation is always something that has me frustrated: unable to read kana or kanji with any fluency yet irritated by clumsy adaptations, I admit I’m hard to please at times. I’ve read one or two that are wonderful while some are downright awful but Chain Mail comes out on the more natural and readable end of the spectrum, which is a pleasant surprise considering how Tokyopop have been met with mixed reviews of their text novels in the past. It’s intended (I think) for a teenage readership, its protagonists are adolescents and the story-within-a-story needs to reflect that too; the prose is straightforward but doesn’t feel stilted or awkward.

As an aside, I found the story to be particularly immersive because the events all unfold in the bustling, cosmopolitan cityscape of central Tokyo. The little details like place names and even brands of drinks in the vending machines gave me a sensation of familiarity. Granted, a foreign tourist won’t feel exactly the same way as an introverted teenage resident but reading the descriptions of their surroundings took me right back to the crowded capital and reminded me that, even in a place such as this, it’s still easy to feel disorientated and alone.

I know Tokyopop’s manga titles are largely well-known ones and are stocked in most places but their text novels often receive less publicity and are harder to find. I hadn’t heard or read a thing about this one and merely skimmed over the synopsis on the back cover while looking for other things, so it was pure chance that I picked it up at all. In the space of a few days I was utterly hooked and looked forward to my next coffee- or lunch break to see where the story would go next. Although it’s squarely in the light novel/young adult bracket the “Ohshitohshit I was supposed to be back at work ten minutes ago but I’m still reading!” effect it had on me ought to indicate that it does its job well. It’s a shame then that it’s been so overlooked for an easily digestible page-turner.

Since this is a text novel there aren’t any screencaps or scans. The cover art looked a bit nondescript so I turned to Danbooru and my holiday photos for breaking up the wall of text. Yes, this is Shibuya, and some of the landmarks are mentioned by name in the novel…the last photo especially.

Before launching into the post proper I must admit I found the film more enjoyable than the novel, even putting my love of Kon’s style into account. A story that melds dreams and reality works better for me on screen and I found Kon’s take on the plot (as condensed as it was) to be a bit more cohesive. It captured the spectacle of dreams more effectively, and the mystery of the antagonist(s) was held out longer. That said, Tsutsui’s version is still worth a read whether you’ve seen the film or not.

My advice would be to try both. I love what Kon did with the story but the novel, perhaps inevitably since it’s too long for a scene-for-scene cinematic adaptation, has more explanations regarding the backgrounds to the characters. The translation is a bit clumsy and stilted in places but I prefer the less Americanised style that Andrew Driver writes in. I’m not sure of his nationality but he opted for British rather than American English; since most of, say, the two Murakamis have been handled by stateside translators this was a refreshing change for me. It flows quite well overall, and I feel grateful to Driver for doing his bit in bringing this novel to an international readership.

The novel features a slightly larger cast but the most obvious difference is the way in which the link between Chiba and Paprika is emphasised. Again, I find Kon’s portrayal of this to be slightly more in keeping with the mental weirdness of the story because I think Paprika is more convincing as an inner alter-ego rather than her alias in a literal sense. What Tsutsui does very well though is push the ethical aspect forward more prominently.

The subplot of Chiba and Tokita being in the running for a Nobel Prize for their work in dream-orientated psychological therapy is unique to the novel, and gives a fascinating slant to the proceedings. It holds a larger question mark over the moral implications of what their invention is capable of, not to mention how it adds more weight to the villains’ actions. Rather than being a whiter-than-white heroine of the piece, Chiba’s moral stance is less clear-cut, Tokita is even more naïve and the message about considering the costs of scientific advances comes across more clearly.

It also boosts the office politics and infighting; something that sits well alongside the side-story relating to the character of Mr Noda. It would’ve been enough to have him as a patient of Paprika on his anxiety condition alone, but his circumstances are dealt with in such detail they have some worthy messages of their own. There’s certainly a lot of satire and social commentary here which I really appreciate, but sadly some of that trademark black humour of Tsutsui’s that I’ve heard so much about was lost in translation for me.

What I didn’t expect was the amount of sexual tension running through the entire narrative: given the way in which the environment of dreams plays around with our thoughts, feelings and inhibitions maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised at this. Even so, the Institute for Psychiatric research comes across as a hotbed of simmering passions and sexual deviancy; a scenario that I find hard to believe based on my own experiences in scientific establishments! But eh, it’s an interesting concept when you think about it: considering how they are working with people who have serious mental problems, how do these particular research methods increase the risk of patients’ symptoms rubbing off on their doctors?

Again, it’s questioning the ethics of Chiba’s work when Paprika’s existence is supposedly secret but she is still popular with her patients. As much as Tokita is ridiculed as being irresponsible to the point of being inadvertantly dangerous, Paprika is celebrated by those who know her but they overlook the way in which she doesn’t follow anyone’s rules either. The odd coupling of Chiba and Tokita says a lot about public perceptions too, showing the latter to be relatively honourable next to the physically attractive but rotten-to-the-core Osanai and Inui.

The science is a bit shaky in regards to the dream monitoring technology but I daresay the same could be said for the psychology; specialists in the field could no doubt find some plot holes but the technobabble is able to hold the narrative together, at least in Paprika‘s whacked-out universe. It may not stand up to scrutiny up close but the terminology is fun and convincing enough for the task at hand: namely immersing the reader in a vivid dreamworld.

So then, if you’ve already watched the film there are just enough surprises and interesting asides to make it worth your time (it made me appreciate what the movie accomplishes even more, actually), but if you haven’t I recommend you pick up the novel then check out how it’s brought to life by Kon’s vision afterwards. Someday I might actually be able to blog about one of his other movies again…

The story follows Kenji, a young freelance Tokyo tour guide who takes an American businessman called Frank around town on a ‘sex tour’ of the city’s nightlife during the lead-up to New Year’s Eve. There are one or two things that seem amiss with Kenji’s new customer from the start but Kenji rejects the alternative of a quiet time with his girlfriend in favour of some much-needed work. He soon begins to regret his decision to accept this lucrative offer when a darker and more dangerous side to Frank begins to emerge.

The impersonal labyrinth of crowded streets and shady establishments provides a great backdrop to the events of the novel, and needless to say provide an excellent atmosphere of unease and foreboding. Murakami’s prose is excellent at whipping up the tension with a clear and no-nonsense style that gets straight to the point and makes it a real page-turner during its relatively short length; the concise, clear language fits the youth and cynicism of the narrator and the first-person viewpoint draws you into the vibrant yet seedy world he lives in.

The reason why I don’t think it likely that In the Miso Soup will make the transition to film very easily, for all its David Fincher-esque overtones, is that the most visceral and shocking moment occurs partway through and the narrative proceeds to fall back into simmering tension and introspection afterwards. The Hitchcock-style climatic scene that marked the end of Audition is instead replaced by its return to focus on cultural and personal issues, which makes the initial impression of it being a gory nailbiter a bit misleading.

This is a psychological thriller in some respects but it feels more like a social commentary piece trying to pass itself off as a psycho-thriller: it tosses in an episode of graphic violence that fits in with the course of the events but that event feels excessive in its brutality to the point of being gratuitous. I don’t feel like I’m giving a massive spoiler in pointing out to you that the guy who calls himself Frank is indeed very weird and potentially very dangerous; it’s highlighted very early on so doesn’t give as much of a twist as, say, Audition‘s Asami Yamazaki.

As a purely suspenseful piece In the Miso Soup is a bit of an anticlimax because its real intentions aren’t so much shock and tension; rather, it gives frequent insights into both Kenji’s and Frank’s heads during their journeys through the city and makes some pot shots at contemporary Japanese culture along the way. Kenji is in an unsavoury job, as many people he knows are, in order to escape: in his case he wants to move to the US. And yet, it’s also easy to argue that these people drifted into the situations they’re in; the big question is of course how voluntarily their decisions were.

I’m not convinced that modern Japan is a culture coming apart at the seams but I’m noticing a higher profile of the outspoken writers such as the two Murakamis in recent years, which suggests to me that the issues they address are more universal and far-reaching than just modern Japan and the problems it faces. Many of the people and situations seen in this novel – overworked salarymen, bored teenagers, seedy nightclubs, enjo kousai and so on – are more associated with Japan than anywhere else but the significance of the pervading themes of isolation and loneliness in today’s world goes without saying.

The sense of isolation shared by many of the characters is the cause and driving force of many events in the novel, so it’s appropriate that the story unfolds at the most lonely time of year: it’s when In The Miso Soup goes into introspection mode that it comes into its own. After the hair-raising middle portion I gave up on mentally preparing myself for more terrors and turned my attention to this instead, which turned out to be the correct course I think. After the unsettling feelings subsided I was left musing over a lot of things that I never expected a novel such as this to concentrate so keenly on.

Kenji and Frank, or more specifically the peculiar friendship that develops says a lot about how Japanese and Americans perceive one another; the culture gap exploration yields some interesting questions that are more rewarding when interpreted your own way rather than have me give my own, probably inaccurate, conclusions.

When the novel is as realistically gritty and as analytical as this, a considerable suspension of disbelief is unfortunately required because there’s a lot about Frank’s character that is at odds with this realism: basically a lot of him simply doesn’t add up. Even after discarding the façade of lies and make-believe it’s still hard to believe that someone like Frank can continue to live in the real world, let alone get by undetected and wander around in a foreign country. Given how true-to-life everything else around him seems, the fact that he’s a caricature rather than a character is a little jarring.

It’s common to leave antagonists’ backgrounds partially in the shadows to maintain their mystique and there are some lengthy explanations given for the way Frank is. Even so, it’s unsatisfying to be presented with someone so larger-than-life and unnatural with only their own childhood reminiscences to go on. Maybe I’m missing the point there in that Frank is supposed to be seen as a metaphor as many of the issues and situations examined here are, but he still feels out-of-place in the wrong ways as well as the right ones. I’d be interested to hear your take on it.

Takashi Miike’s feature film adaptation of Audition acquired a cult following, which to my shame still sits on my ‘to watch’ list. On the flipside, reading the original novel first sits well with my personal preference for experiencing the original before any adaption, so I now feel even more eager to see Miike’s take on the story. RM’s novel is the tale of Aoyama, a man who has lived several years as a single parent following the death of his wife Ryoko. His son Shige suggests he should remarry so with the help of his friend Yoshikawa he looks for a suitable candidate under the pretext of a bogus film audition; a ruse that introduces him to the enigmatic Asami Yamazaki.

Granted, I’d heard of this novel through the reputation of the film and after seeing a hardback edition in my local Waterstones with a couple of lengthy night shifts ahead of me I decided to take the plunge. It’s not a particularly long novel, and the pace is pitched perfectly to give a brisk yet satisfying read. I never know whether I’m praising the original writer or the translator when highlighting the quality of the prose in a foreign-language novel like this but it’s lively and vivid, without coming across as clumsy or contrived.

Aoyama is interestingly portrayed as a decent yet flawed character, who is shown to have overcome the grief of losing his wife and is raising his son as an independent and respectable young man. Aoyama was not completely faithful to his late wife however, and we learn early on that he had more than one extra-marital affair before her death. The loss had some subtle effects on the husband and son though, who have a realistically awkward relationship and whose respective outlooks on life changed after her passing. The attention to detail in the backgrounds for Aoyama and Shige aren’t necessarily relevant to the content that follows, but give the reader a good grasp on their personalities and offer some telling observations on modern society by the author.

This is a psycho-thriller after all, which is why I was so pleased to see the tension handled so well. There are some subtle bits of foreshadowing tossed in, producing cracks in the flawless image of the new woman in Aoyama’s life, but needless to say he’s the last person to notice. If there’s one thing I’d mark against the novel it’s the amount of development that’s given to Asami Yamazaki’s character: she is portrayed as the harmless, fragile individual at first and a merciless, twisted one later on with no middle ground. The information about the nature and origins of her character are also shown in a detached way that doesn’t allow the reader to see things from her own point of view too clearly.

This didn’t work well me but I suspect it’s intentional that we see her from quite a significant emotional distance: interestingly she is almost always referred to by her full name throughout the novel. Only once is she called ‘Asami-chan’ and even then it’s not in a serious context; she’s never referred to in the text as ‘Ms Yamazaki’ either. The mystique surrounding her prevented me empathising with her as much as I would have liked, but along with the sketchy details she gives about her early life it keeps her motives and feelings concealed, making her seem all the more mysterious and ultimately more dangerous.

The middle portion of the novel plays out like a typical romance story but those moments of foreshadowing cast a dark cloud and make it obvious that things are going to go very wrong. The idea of a fake audition seemed like a dishonest and dubious basis for a romance to me anyway but can an honest relationship be based on a lie? That is an interesting question but is sadly set aside for another, albeit more shocking and interesting revelation. Asami Yamazaki is indeed too good to be true as Yoshikawa fears but the end result is worse than he, or the unsuspecting reader, could imagine…

The finale of the story was a surprise to me, and a brilliantly gruesome and suspenseful one at that. At times like this the quality of the writer’s (and translator’s) prose is paramount, and fortunately didn’t disappoint here. The steady build-up is followed by a brutal and quite abrupt conclusion: I’m not surprised in the slightest that it was given the cinematic treatment because the storytelling and atmosphere carry the same feelings of tension, menace and edge-of-your seat suspense that you’d expect from the best in the thriller genre.

It reminded me a lot of Hitchock actually – I know that’s quite a bold statement but the portrayal of hidden identities, the danger lurking just out of the view of the protagonist, not to mention terrifying situation that marks the end of the story, reminded me a lot of the seminal movies such as Rear Window. The trade-off between consistent characterisation and sheer nailbiting atmospherics is unavoidable really, but in this case it pays off.

Summary

The brevity and pitch of Audition makes for a hard-hitting and exciting read, albeit at the expense of some minor details. Is this a cynical and misogynistic exploitation of the femme fatale archetype to give some cheap kicks? I don’t know much about Ryu Murakami the writer, but at least here I’d not be giving him enough credit if I were to dismiss it so easily. It’s enjoyable as a psychological thriller, but also feels gleefully subversive in that the villain of the piece is on a twisted path of revenge in a society that made her into the monster she is. The moral questioning and social commentary are a fascinating aside but the visceral and gripping prose is first and foremost what I’d recommend it for.