The Snow Woman
One of the things that particularly grabbed me while watching Tokuzō Tanaka's Kaidan Yukijorō (lit. Ghost Story of the Snow Woman) (1968) was how faithful of a translation of the legend of the yuki-onna it is. Specifically, it is based on the Lafcadio Hearn Kwaidan recollection of the myth, wherein the beautiful ghost intermarries with an unknowing human man she once spared and made promise to never speak of her, inevitably anticipating a betrayal, but in the meantime childrearing with him, having a loving, human relationship, and ultimately sparing him based on that familiarity and warmth. The Snow Woman does essentially nothing to change the bones of this story, instead fleshing it out in the characterization of the titular yuki-onna, and in the context surrounding the man she loves. Here, Yuki, the conspicuously named human guise of the ghost, is mined for the inherent tragedy of her character, caught between the mortal world she has anchored herself to on the beauty of a man, and nearly constantly abused or ostracized by the community they find themselves in. A near rape by a local bailiff marks the first true return of her spectral form, a climax to the literal years of abuse endured by her and her husband at the hands of petty powerful men. She, of course, freezes him, killing him and his men easily. Gendered violence is a sub-theme to Yuki's character, but the human tragedy of her relationship with her husband is the more pressing matter to the film. It's a star-crossed love, her happiness and the precarity of that promise always competing.
The husband, Yosaku, is a pious and serious man, whose beauty she immediately notes. I love that choice of description for him. His profession is a carver, an apprentice to a master slain by Yuki at the beginning of the film. The A-plot, so to speak, entails his taking up the mantle of his master, and attempting to carve a statue for a temple nearby. His relationship of Yuki is in part what spurns the jealous degradation on part of the bailiff and his men, but he never truly buckles under that pressure. He is not quite singular, though; despite the the seriousness of his demeanor and of his devotion to his craft, his love for Yuki is never a question. If anything, the two parts of him are entwined, and it is only in her as muse that he finds the drive and passion to create that perfect carving, recognizing a kindness and divinity in her.
Carving Thy Faith