Night falls, and you feel something watching you. Its an uneasy feeling, exacerbated by the fact that each time you turn around, there’s nothing there. Just rolling darkness, maybe a chill on the breeze, and a lone streetlight, illuminating only shadows. It grows more unnerving with each passing second, and your ears strain to pick up muffled sounds. Any sound will do, from a scurrying of tiny paws, to a distant boom carried on the wind. And that tends to be enough. You hasten your pace- if not burst into a run outright- and are gone, the fear of what might be lurking there causing your mind to jump to all sorts of terrifying conclusions.

That, in its essence, is what yokai is all about- potent, powerful, and a rich creation of your mind confronted with the unknown.

Without going too far down a psychoanalytic path, this description of hidden and unseen dangers owes a lot to Freud’s idea of the “umheimlich,” the uncanny, which influences how we perceive and understand the world around us. What we can see, we can identify, and what we can identify we can classify and make familiar. Uncanny things, those which we cannot see or perceive by conventional means become powerful and scary, because they defy such attempts at classification. They remain eternally unfamiliar.

Yokai legends and ideas skirt this concept of the uncanny. Owing to the rich spiritual traditions found within Japanese folklore, objects and creatures can have both mundane and sacred characteristics, tying them between the physical and spiritual world. When balance between these worlds is upset, the spiritual worlds can “lash out,” giving formerly “normal” things strange powers- abilities that can only be classified as uncanny, because there exists no other real explanation. So foxes can lead humans astray using ghostly fire, small raccoon-like canines can assume alternate forms, and giant humanoid birds fly down from the mountains and abduct livestock. Because humanity could not explain, or even view, these things happening, the lore compensated by making them literally happen.

These legends illustrate a vast, potent “hidden world,” that lives just outside the borders of human perception, but can influence it both directly and indirectly. And as with any truly hidden ideas, human creativity and ingenuity managed to discover a way to transform them through story, poetry, and song. In addition to being a world of the unseen, an overlapping of physical and spirit realms, and a contextual reaction to objects we do not see, yokai lore also is an expression of local custom and flavor, enhancing the mundane and illuminating the mysterious. Storytelling on a grand scale, that reflects the culture that tells it, but also leaves plenty of room for variation and re-interpretation as time goes by.

So then the question becomes: is yokai a concept or a concrete thing? After all, Western audiences love to assign labels, and the popular label for yokai is monster. But does that really do justice to such a rich tradition of storytelling and collected influences? The answer here is much like the word itself: ambiguous and open to your own interpretation. Yokai is always transforming, not unlike the monsters themselves, and this century’s scary tales become the next’s allegories and historical lore. There are concrete, well-defined monsters that inhabit very vivid and grounded worlds. But there are also the weird, fluid legends that refuse to be pinned down, those which prefer to remain a mystery to even the modern world. Perhaps the answer then becomes not how to classify the concept, but how best to appreciate and enjoy it.

October 5, 2014 ◆ Charles Dunbar

My next lecture will be called “Yokai Nation:” From the Meiji period to today, Japanese monsters have fascinated audiences around the world with their unique critters, creepy stories, and elaborate artwork. This lecture explores the weird world of yokai from the 17th century to the modern world, and how yokai lore have changed with- and changed- Japan.

And here is the first article, on Kappa.

One of the most well known goblins in Japanese lore is the kappa. In a folk landscape where nothing is ever as it seems, and thousands of tricky creatures watch humans constantly, the kappa stands out at one of the more fanciful, and prevalent, of the folk monsters known as yokai.

Kappa are reputed to resemble turtles, though the similarities are few. Standing about the same size as a human child, the most versions of the kappa have long beaks, hard shells, webbed hands and feet, and a small dish or depression on top of their heads. Some are bipedal, while others use all their limbs to move about. Kappa tend to stay in or near the water, due to their slick, rubbery skin, but have the ability to leave it for a short time. And they have a powerful smell, usually likened to ammonia or other strong odors. It’s easy to tell when a kappa is around.

Aside from their foul odor and unique appearance, kappa are said to dwell in the waterways, rivers, and lakes of Japan. Living near the bottoms of these large bodies of water, they surface from time to time seeking food, or humans to play pranks on. But unlike the more playful folk creatures like the tanuki, the kappa has a mean streak that marks it more as predator than pet. These creatures are omnivores, eating many types of crop plants harvested by humans (cucumbers being a particular favorite), but will rarely shy away from the tender flesh of a child, or even a full grown adult, should the chance to devour one present itself.

Kappa are also one of the few yokai that are present all across Japan, showing a great deal of diversity in their forms and their habitats. Most, if not all, prefectures have their own version of the legend: from the crafty kawaero of Gifu, which can shapeshift into a monkey when out of the water; to the deep dwelling garappa of the southern Kyushu coast that possess longer and thinner limbs, and are supposedly able to poison or infect humans with disease when scared.

These two “kappa-forms” maintain the aquatic nature of the yokai, with slight variations in size of limbs and shells, indicative of keeping their homes in rivers and deep shoreline caves, respectively. But even away from the water, kappa-type creatures still prowl the night. These “cousin” kappa retain the diminutive size, love of harvest veggies, and cautious relationships with humanity that “traditional” kappa possess, but have adapted specially to different environments.

The flood plains of Japan play host to the Hyosube, a squat, bald humanoid covered with coarse hair. By day, these yokai live within the surrounding rivers, emerging only after dusk to rampage through eggplant crops. Further up the mountains, one finds the Yamawara, a type of cyclops that spends its time at the high altitudes until winters falls, at which point they retreat back to the waters at the base of their mountain homes, to wait out the cold. Both the Hyosube and Yamawara have frequent dealings with humans: the former has the same ability to curse and infect as the garappa, while the latter has been known to serve mankind in exchange for baubles, food, or respect.

Many of these “kappa forms” share traits with one another, despite different outward appearances, pointing to a possible “common ancestor” for all the different types. While such a creature hasn’t been identified by scholars (…yet), one potential candidate would have been the kawataro, or kawako, the famed “river child” found in Terajima Ryouan’s “Wakan Sansaizue” illustrated encyclopedia. Like the kappa, it’s head in concave, and capable of holding a handful of water. Like the Hyosube, it’s body is covered in coarse fur, and dwells in rivers by the day. Like all kappa-forms, it has prickly relations with humans, in this case stalking livestock to drag into the waters for exsanguination. And it is also fantastical, especially to audience of that age.

Whether or not this is yokai is related to the others might be up in the air, but the story was recorded down in 1713, just as yokai-fever was beginning to sweep Japan, and a general thirst for education was being satisfied by many tomes and manuals being published for eager audiences. A practice that continues to this very day.

In Bokusai, Shoko Kazama’s new exhibition, she blends the contrasting colors of black and white Japanese calligraphy with several famous otogi-zoshi tales from Japanese history. But what exactly are otogi-zoshi tales?

The term itself is derived from an anthology written during the Muromachi period that told stories related to lessons found within Buddhism, fantasy, “worldly concerns,” and satire. Though often aimed at children, some of these tales have had connotations also linking them to politics, themes of loyalty and honor, bravery, and the glory of the Emperor. Above all, these tales were meant to be entertaining, with the added lessons lessons and moral questions blended into the narratives themselves, not unlike western fables or folk tales. Indeed, the “companion” stories, as they were often referred to, were one of the many different methods of storytelling found within Japan throughout the past thousand years.

Some of the most famous otogi-zoshi tales contained a number of familiar aspects: a noble hero, a task to be accomplished (usually related to honoring the self or one’s lord), and an oni. The hero ranged from the “everyman,” to the noble samurai, to even the outcast trying to prove his worth despite some external, perceive flaw. The task would center on a journey, or around the protection of an august personage, or even some dangerous task that few would possibly attempt, usually ending up with the hero facing down a monstrous “ogre” that posed a challenge to authority, or threatened violence to the person under the hero’s guard.

Two of the tales in the Bokusai exhibit- Shuten-Doji and Issun-Boshi- are examples of this type of otogi-zoshi: a hero facing down a monstrous entity, and proving their worth through dispatching of the malignant force.

Issun-Boshi, or “Little One Inch” as it is often translated in the West, is a children’s story. A lonely couple prays at the local shrine for a child, and are granted one…who is “no larger than a grown man’s fingertip.” Despite the obvious challenges placed upon one so small, Issun-boshi wants nothing more than to seek fortune and honor in the big city. Outfitting himself with a sewing needle “sword,” and dressed in the garb of a samurai, the boy travels in a teacup across a wide river until he reached the local town, paddling a lone chopstick as his oar.

Upon arriving at the town, little Issun-boshi immediately locates the manor house of the lord and offers his services. Despite his tiny stature, his insistence to serve (and subsequent oath of service, offered in the palm on the lord’s hand) charms the lord into making him a retainer to his noble daughter. Issun-boshi and the girl grow close, he as her “protector” and loyal attendant.

One day on a trip to the shrine, the girl is set upon by monstrous oni wielding a large hammer. Little Issun-boshi leaps into service, challenging the brutes with his needle-sword. The oni, large an fierce beasts, snaps the little “samurai” up and swallows him. But even in the pits of the monster’s stomach, little Issun-boshi pokes and stabs at the oni until it spits him up. Issun-boshi them stabs the monster in the eyes, and the creatures flee, but not before dropping their hammer. Using its magic, the princess manages to grow Issun-boshi to full size, and they live happily ever after.

While the moral of this story is fairly obvious, and entertainingly conveyed, Issun-boshi is not the only samurai forced to deal with the oni. In the tale of Shuten-Doji, the oni in question is far more fierce, and deadly- proving that these are not all tales for children.

Rather than ambushing the young princess on the way to the shrine, Shuten-doji and his band of brigands are a group a chaotic, vicious blood-drinkers, angry at the reign of Tenno Ichijou, and willing to slake unnatural urges on the women of the court. Kidnapping females, slaughtering samurai, and challenging Ichijou every step of the way leads to a pronouncement: the oni must die. The chaotic actions and vicious appetites are a threat to all Japan.

Into this fray is thrown Minamoto-no-Yorimitsu, known as the hero Raiko. Gathering together his four noble guardians, they disguise themselves as yamabushi (mountain priests) and bluff their way into Shuten-Doji’s fortress on Oe-yama mountain. After witnessing horrible dances, and a feast of blood and flesh, Raiko and his men wait for Shuten-Doji and his grim comrades to sleep before seeking him out, slaying him in his bed, and cutting off his head while he laughs in defiance and anger at receiving Ichijou’s judgement.

Unlike the oni in Issun-boshi, which were comical villains the tiny boy scared off, Shuten-Doji and his men were a true threat to the safety and sovereignty of the government. Avatars of chaos and rage- not unlike the oni of mythology that hunted the mountains and punished wickedness in the underworld- they sought vengeance upon Ichijou’s citizens and only through guile and valor could they be defeated, and balance restored.

Two hero tales, two different lessons, but the same outcome: the valorous triumph, and wickedness falls. Keep this in mind as you explore Bokusai, with its rich contrast and vivid calligraphy.

As an American fan of anime and manga, I will admit for years that the sports genre eluded me. Brought into the fandom through Dragonball Z, Sailor Moon, and Pokemon, I only dabbled in the genre briefly, reading a few volumes of Prince of Tennis, and two chapters of Slam Dunk. As with many of my friends, I was enamored by science fiction battles, samurai stories, and the vast realms of the Japanese supernatural.

Coming off a Winter 2014 anime season that indulged all those previous interests, the Spring series offered not one, but two sports-based anime that I might have skipped, were it not for a bit of burnout with the former genres, and a definite interest in discovering something new. Neither of them feel the same as my previous forays into the genre, but offer interesting “takes” on theme, art, and character that enhance the experience.

First on display is Abarenbou Rikishi Matsutaro (Rowdy Sumo Wrestler Matsutaro), based on the 1973-1998 manga series “Notori Matsutaro” by Chiba Tetsuya. Right off the bat, it is clear that this is an unconventional series- part fighting show, part comedy- introducing the viewer to Matsutaro, an adult stuck in middle school, who has few morals and even fewer scruples. After getting the best of a respected ozeki during a local exhibition (which Matsutaro viewed as a fight for his personal honor), numerous schools pursue the reluctant, lazy man, who eventually agrees to move to the city and train…but only because of the proximity of his dojo to the female teacher he is madly infatuated with.

What succeeds about Matsutaro’s story is his comic character- all muscle-bound aggression and immaturity- and the way the show weaves traditional sumo culture into the narrative. Unlike other martial arts, the perception of sumo is very idealized (or misinformed), mostly thanks to games like Street Fighter, or American professional wrestling. Rowdy Sumo Matsutaro presents the lifestyle and experiences of professional sumo and its students in grounded terms, instructing on the history and culture of the event, while practically thrusting the viewer into Matsutaro’s shoes. As someone completely unversed in sumo as a sport, the series serves as a solid starting point, answering some questions while opening the door for others. The series is currently available for streaming on Crunchyroll.com

The second series is Ping Pong: The Animation, based on Matsumoto Taiyo’s 1996-97 manga of the same name. Like Rowdy Sumo Matsutaro, this series is built around strong characters. But unlike Matsutaro, who is so over-the-top that he stands out as a caricature of shonen fighting heroes, the twin protagonists of Ping Pong- arrogant Peco and introverted Smile- are all too real.

Ping Pong also melds together genre voices, this time shonen action and gekiga storytelling. The serious tone of the series is reinforced through stylized art, and a fantastic soundtrack practically drawn from a child’s sentai series. Peco is the upstart young talent, a boy who trash talks his opponents and lives on his glorious childhood of awards and table tennis dominance. Smile is his quiet companion- he can barely be considered a friend, given how Peco treats him like a lapdog and personal drilling dummy- a boy who’s latent abilities at the game far exceed Peco’s, but who downplays them because the game isn’t “his life.” During the course of the story, both boys- first year high school students- navigate the world of school clubs and teams, which often lead them into conflict with their fellow classmen, and the dedicated players from other schools.

What draws viewers in is the stark contrast between Peco and Smile. Viewers will love to hate the former and see him knocked down, while the latter is an archetypal reluctant hero and underdog, who viewers will likely cheer. While Smile is a boy of few words, we thankfully are given privy to his thoughts during the episodes, which range from a disgust for club life, to criticism of those around him (and eventually himself). The past plays out in short spurts, where the characters reminisce about past glories, and question the motives and instances that led them to their current station in life, their shortcomings, and how devotion to a single goal can go horribly awry.

While Ping Pong does eventually become a series about playing the game (and the politics behind team sports, plotting, and competition scenes on par with any fight series), the character’s stories and experiences are where it draws its power. Not typical of other sports shows, but nuanced, which will appeal to both casual viewers and appreciators of both game and genre. The series is currently available for streaming from Funimation.