After an insanely prolific career churning out increasingly audacious films at Nikkatsu, filmmaker Seijun Suzuki found himself in feature directing jail for a decade after his now-classic Branded to Kill ticked off his boss and led to considerable public and legal turmoil. Eventually he rebounded at Shochikiu with his only full-length feature of the decade, A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness, whose title in no way prepares you for the outrageous psychodrama that Suzuki splashes across the screen from a script by manga specialist Ikki Kajiwara. A sexy, violent, and savagely funny critique of pop culture, it's also a study in stalker psychology that serves as kind of a transition between the intimate Play Misty for Me and the more flamboyant The King of Comedy and The Fan.

Swarthy sports magazine editor Keisuke (Hunter in the Dark's Harada) has come up with an innovative new idea to woo the public: creating their own glamorous golf superstar. The perfect candidate is model Reiko (Shiraki), a capable golf player who undergoes training and turns out to far exceed expectations both on the golf course and with the masses. She and Keisuke also start a torrid affair, but trouble brews when a mentally ill housewife, Mrs. Semba (yakuza regular Enami), repeatedly attempts to insinuate herself in Reiko's life and stages a hit and run accident when the couple are out driving after a few drinks. Blackmail and a major power dynamic shift soon follow as Reiko and her delusional little brother, Jun (who lives in her stylized apartment and uses a rope ladder to leave his room), find the interloper taking over their entire lives.

About as close to a Harold Robbins novel as Suzuki could get, this really couldn't have been made by anyone else (there's even a cameo by Joe Shishido) with his trademark visual style well in evidence here all the way to the insane final shot of a TV set that could fuel an entire term paper by itself. While the entire cast here is fine, this is really Enami's show once she enters the scene and appropriately dominates everyone else around her. Suzuki also gets to indulge in some wild moments of stylization, such as the young boy's romantic visions of an imaginary companion, and the brutal punchline at the end has to be seen to be believed. Though it wasn't terribly successful, this remains a key and undervalue film that led to Suzuki's renaissance with the Taishō films and his eventual embracing by the international film community as a major cinematic voice.

One problem with this film is the fact that it was very difficult to see a really good version of it, with the American DVD from Cinema Epoch looking really awful thanks to a noisy, cropped transfer with laughably inept subtitles. The much-needed 2025 Blu-ray from Radiance Films is a huge upgrade all around; it's always worth singling out the rare labels who present their Japanese title with the correct black levels, and thankfully that's the case here with a very healthy and impressive presentation full of eye-searing colors and deep shadows. The LPCM 2.0 Japanese mono track sounds excellent and features the first truly good English subtitles the film has ever had. An audio commentary by Samm Deighan finds her very much in her wheelhouse with a strong and perceptive survey of Suzuki's career to that point, the tricky gender dynamics at play here, the role Japanese pop culture plays in influencing women, the pitfalls of bourgeois life, and tons more. A new, very cheerful interview with editor Kunihiko Ukai (19m54s) covers Suzuki's dismissal from Nikkatsu, the B-movie status of his work as support for star vehicles, the evolution of his style in the '60s that proved to be ahead of its time, his own desire to work with Suzuki since high school, the deliberately "chaotic" nature of the second half, the creation of the surreal sets, and his working relationship with the filmmaker. Finally you get a wild, subtitled theatrical trailer, and the limited edition package comes with an insert booklet featuring an appreciative essay by the always welcome Jasper Sharp (a longtime champion of this film) and an archival critical review.

Reviewed on April 22, 2025