Sports Men

"I'm seeing Sundays / I could be apoplectic / The whole family gets in shape / Under the floodlights / People tell me I'm not strong / I can't seem to find the right charge" 

—Haruomi Hosono, "Sports Men"

How many years has it been since Detective Conan ushered in the 21st century with The High-Lows' "Mune ga Dokidoki"? Argue with me all you like—and I will still say that none of the opening theme songs in the Conan series are as upbeat as the very first one. Anyway ...

Funnily enough, my introduction to the world of teenage sports in Japan was through Detective Conan, and not through more focused titles such as Captain Tsubasa or Slam Dunk. With its youthful appeal, it was easy to be intoxicated by the combination of action, brains and brawn that these tales provided. In retrospect, what I had quite forgotten was how unironically hilarious and over-the-top these stories are.

"What do you mean I can't use karate on Shinichi the next time I see him?"

The "Pro Soccer Player Blackmail Case" (manga chapters: 68–71, anime episode: 10), for instance, is essentially a comic tale against the backdrop of a sports mystery. A girl arrives at the agency of detective Mouri Kogoro, introducing himself as the girlfriend of our protagonist, the elusive Shinichi Kudō who she wants to find and meet again. The problem? She does this in front of Shinichi's real girlfriend Mouri Ran, Ran's father Kogoro, and Edogawa Conan (that's Shinichi in his shrunken form)—all of whom express varying degrees of rage, cheeky amusement, and disbelief. Stepping into his double role-playing shoes, Shinichi (via Conan) shifts the scene of action to the girl's apartment where more shenanigans ensue. In many ways, the story gives viewers a taste of the kind of situational comedy and humour the series excels in—Ran searches for Shinichi, while Conan desperately seeks ways to keep Ran at bay, while trying to understand the client's real motive behind cooking up a false story. Even though the mystery itself is rather light, the layered approach shines through, thanks to proper foreshadowing and Conan's sleuthing. What unfolds is a kidnapping case where a football star is threatened to throw away the final match of a tournament in exchange for his brother's life. The way the kidnapping is carried out is actually quite interesting and age-appropriate—especially as it blends the worlds of real-life sports and video games. Not so much the way the culprit is captured because the 'rom-com of errors' approach overshadows the core mystery, with the clueless Ran indulging in some violence to literally knock down the perpetrator. But it is really the motive that cracks me up each time. I mean I understand the aim was to showcase professional rivalry and the emotions behind it, but all I can really think of is that for a three-month injury, the culprit could have simply waited and had his revenge at the first team scramble after recovering. That way, he could have avoided receiving another severe injury at the hands of Ran. All said and done, even in a seemingly minor case, the sheer tableaux (of comedy, emotions, situations, and layered narratives) that mangaka Gosho Aoyama presents is fascinating to behold.

The football star and the victim

Things take a more serious turn in "The Indiscriminate Stadium Threatening Case" (manga chapters: 189–191, anime episodes: 130 and 131). Conan and the Youth Detective Squad attend the finals of a football tournament when a ball goes out of play, suddenly deflates, and jumps awkwardly. The keen-eyed Conan who observed the ball do the funny jig jumps down from the stands immediately to find a bullet hole in the ball and the rubber surface around it. At the same time, the TV station van broadcasting the game from outside the station receives a call from someone threatening that they would randomly start shooting people if they were not paid 5 billion yen. A blackmail suddenly escalates into a hostage situation, with 56,000 people in the stadium being none the wiser. As the police arrive, Conan cleverly deduces that two people are involved in the plot. The police lay a trap, and captures one of the culprits inside the stadium, but the other proves to be a step ahead of the rest, ordering the police to release his partner and pay double the ransom. Even more puzzlingly, they seem to be aware of the positions of all the police personnel scattered around the stadium, and tells them to make their exit. The story unfolds as a cat-and-mouse chase, escalating from crescendo to crescendo, with a few false solutions, but given the choice of venue, the answer should have been evident pretty early on. The ridiculousness actually comes after the big reveal, when the second culprit's backstory is revealed. And, for a meticulous mastermind, one must admit they make some shockingly poor life choices. Sacrificing all of your savings of three years for a large payday from a single robbery you plan without any sort of backup? That too when you have someone dependent on you? No sir no—that's monumentally stupid no matter how much I try to justify it. Fun sidenote: The team that lost the final in the "Pro Soccer Player Blackmail Case" gets their win back this time around, against the same opponent. 

Upstaging the police

By now, the observant reader will have noticed Gosho's preference for dramatic blackmail/kidnapping and hostage-taking situations in the stories he sets in stadiums. The trend continues in "Holmes' Revelation" (manga chapters: 743–752, anime episodes: 616–621)—and, oh boy, where does one start with this? Overcoming a potential passport crisis (Shinichi has one, not Conan) with the help of an antidote to the poison that shrunk him, Shinichi, along with Ran, Kogoro, and Professor Agasa, travel to London on the invitation of a certain rich millionairess. (As the antidote only has a time-bound effect, Shinichi miraculously reverts to his Conan form at the Heathrow airport, after passing all checks no doubt). At the Sherlock Holmes Museum (duh!), Conan meets another kid frantically looking for Holmes (duh, duh!) because only he can stop something terrible from happening that may end up killing people. Conan—the 'disciple of Holmes'—is handed a cryptic code (duh, duh, duh!) that leads the merry gang to Sherlock-themed clues (duh, duh, duh, duh!) all over London. 

When in London, ask Holmes for directions—any kind 

In the midst of all this are character interactions at a dizzying level of coincidence. Cupid arrives, not with bows and arrows, but with a tennis racket, as a tennis champion meets Ran under a statue of Sherlock Holmes (not doing the duh! thing any longer, it's tiring) and gloomily instructs her that "love means zero; no matter how many zeros pile up, it amounts to the same thing." (Lady, that's simply cold! You have gone to Sherlock Holmes for clarity and guidance before your tennis match, not to broadcast Sherlock's detached observations on love to a fellow woman.) And then there's the 'rom-com of errors' routine where Ran realises that Shinichi is actually in London, tracks him down to a phone booth to tearfully complain about Shinichi's vanishing acts. Then, Shinichi has to chase after a crying Ran to issue his rejoinder to Minerva: "Love is zero? Don't make me laugh. Zero is where everything starts! You can't go anywhere or achieve anything if you don't start from zero." (Sheesh, Gosho! You could have just taken a chill pill.)

"Yeah, sure, love starts from zero, but more importantly, you are going the wrong way."

That's not all, because in this story, all roads and all plotting of points on maps ultimately leads to ... Wimbledon. And, don't you just love a emotionally-grieving and -deranged but fair-playing villain who for some reason bets on a tennis player to win the French Open to gather funds for the treatment of their terminally ill mother? Who, for some reason, sends out Sherlock-themed clues into the London ether as a way to challenge Scotland Yard and wannabe detectives to try and stop him? Who also plants a bomb in the teddy bear of said player's blind mother but, for some reason, does not choose to press the button till the match is over? But then, also wants record the moment of explosion and the sight of people screaming and dying on a camcorder, as an offering of revenge completed to his deceased mother? If your answer to all these questions is yes, then you clearly know Gosho too well.

And thus, for the first time, in the finals of Wimbledon, we have a villain threatening a women's tennis champion through a message slipped in their wristband. We have said champion issuing Braille-coded SOS messages for two sets of the match that can be deciphered only by observing the positions on the court where the ball lands. Never mind the fact that she nearly has them all killed by almost losing the second set. We have Conan appearing on TV announcing he is Holmes' apprentice to the world, and then enabling the champion to bust out more Braille messages till the last point. We have a throwback to the culprit from "The Indiscriminate Stadium Threatening Case" who had told Conan that since everyone's eyes were glued to the game, no one would notice him shooting a kid with a silencer gun. Here, Conan identifies the criminal by tracking the movements of the heads of the audience as they followed the ball and picking out the one whose head did not move at all, as they were too focused on their target—I must admit that was pretty cool though. And then, there's the climax—a tennis–football combination where we have the champion whacking a ball straight at the culprit's face several stands up, and then Conan kicking the same ball as it rebounded with his kick-enhancing shoes. Gosh—now that I think about it, what would I not give to see Gosho write the script for a Shaolin Soccer movie?

"And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren't for that pesky Holmes' apprentice ... " 

It is now somewhat clear that mangaka Gosho indulges in his most cartoonishly ridiculous instincts and excesses wherever sports is involved. Is there any other sports story in the Conan series that features a more moderate, middle-ground approach, I hear you say. I am glad you asked—and for this, may I direct you to "Miracle at Koshien Ball Park! The Defiants Face the Dark Demon" (manga chapters: 445–449, anime special episode: 383)? Conan's eternal rival Heiji Hattori prevails upon Conan, Ran, his own not-quite-girlfriend Kazuha, and Mouri, and convinces them to attend the finals of Japan's annual high school baseball tournament, the Kōshien. Playing in the final are two teams that have now faced each other three times in the finals of the very same tournament, but an evil spirit soon stalks this particular game. A spirit that comes equipped with a bomb (again—seriously, what is it with this series and bomb/shooting/blackmail threats in stadiums hosting finals?). And issues a direct threat to not one, but two great detectives.

That time when Japan's greatest detective solved a case by cracking a joke

This is a better-structured and -paced story than the other ones discussed here. One of the things I particularly like is that while the codes and clues the perpetrator gives to our detectives may not exactly be fair to those who do not know much about baseball and its larger lore, they all work in the context of a story set against the backdrop of the Kōshien finals. These clues are all baseball-themed, and therefore enjoy a thematic coherence with the sport that is happening at the same time. The narrative is also broken down into mini-games—with the evil spirit leaving location-based hints that the sleuths have to solve within designated time limits (such as the end of certain innings in the game). As a result, the story unfolds as a more urgent but less bombastic game of cat-and-mouse.

"End this game, please. And the episode as well—it's too long."

One of the reasons the episode is pretty sedate from a theatrics-and-action perspective is because this is a story where the unfolding game also exerts an emotional pull on the culprit. Besides, the perpetrator is portrayed in a far more grounded and less cartoonishly evil manner than the other stories mentioned here. A recent tragedy leads the culprit to harbour an abnormal hatred for the game and the audience at the Kōshien. However, the excellence of the game's quality unsettles the person, and the memories of his deceased son (who was a sensational player) further makes him doubt himself. As to the reason why the game affects him this way, the answer is revealed in the culprit's identity—one that is befitting of this story. And, for a change, the denouement is shorn of any bombast and happens in a humane way. The culprit's admission that they know that this is something they should not be doing, but at the time, they simply wanted people on whom they could pass on the blame (for their son's death) makes for a very sombre note on which to end this story.

"Yeah, that last deduction was a total fluke ... "

Of course, these stories only scratch the surface of sports-themed entries in the Conan series. Other stories in this more-than-11,00-chapter series introduce martial arts, shogi, swimming, gymnastics and much more, to the mix. But, rest assured, going through these chapters is a hefty task unto itself—particularly with Gosho exploring the limits of his plotting and expressionistic abilities. "Go for the sports, stay for the adventure, laughs and chaos" is what I would say, even if you find the mystery elements to be a bit muted and/or lacking.

Echoes

During a recent discussion on Yukito Ayatsuji's The Decagon House Murders, a friend made the following observation: "How come none of the mystery club members, for all their wisdom of classic crime fiction works, sensed that there could be something wrong with an invitation to an uninhabited island? Given their shared past, surely one of them would have thought of politely declining?"

It was, I felt, an argument that lends itself to works that tend to be self-aware and reflexive; so when the logic is reflected back on to the work itself, the deficiency seems to stand out that much more. In the case of The Decagon House Murders, the issue stems more from the lack of a proper 'trade-off' for the group to gather on the uninhabited island in the first place, given the surrounding context and history.

In mystery fiction works involving closed-circle situations, I have noticed readers (myself included) to be more generous with the rationale behind people gathering in the first place, than with the dynamics and mechanics of the way in which the situation plays itself out. The Decagon House Murders, otherwise an exemplar of the classical, logic-based school of mysteries, itself suffers from this shortcoming. However, Ayatsuji does improve on this aspect in a major way, with his third offering in the Yakata series: 1988's Meirokan no Satsujin (translated as The Labyrinth House Murders, 2024).

The setup is tantalising, and makes good use of a pitch-perfect casting. A few writers, an editor, a critic and a surprise guest gather at the residence of a famous author, each for their own reason. The editor to coax one last masterpiece out of the author; the writers to stay in the good graces of the author who was a mentor to them; the critic and the surprise guest attend the gathering for reasons that become evident once the party is underway. Missing from the party itself? The famous author, whose birthday is being celebrated in the remote Labyrinth House.

The initial scene-setting reminds me of the well-thought-out proceedings in the Detective Conan story, "The Holmes Freak Murder Case", where a bunch of Sherlock Holmes fanatics gather at a collector's place and take part in an exceptionally tough quiz to get their hands on the first edition of A Study in Scarlet. As the hidden motive behind the party is revealed—a writing competition to be judged by a panel of experts, with ownership of the Labyrinth House as the prize—along with the unforeseen death of the famous author, the similarities with the Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo story, "Russian Dolls Murder Case", become apparent. In that story too, a deceased author leaves behind his palatial house as his inheritance, and organises a competition among select participants to decide who gets to inherit it, thereby setting in motion a series of bloody murders. Things are no different in The Labyrinth House Murders—the competing authors are all killed in violent ways, with an added twist.

By this point, the nesting doll structure of the story is already established. The three translated stories in the Yakata series possess strong identities: The Decagon House Murders stands out as a reinvention of And Then There Were None, while The Mill House Murders has a fairytale-esque flavour to it. In The Labyrinth House Murders, Ayatsuji experiments with the structure of the novel itself, making it unfold in the form of 'a story within a story within a story'. The book opens with a certain Shimada receiving a copy of The Labyrinth House Murders by one Shishiya Kadomi, who had been present when the events mentioned in the book took place. We then enter the world of Kadomi's manuscript, surveying a meeting between the famous author and the editor a few months prior to the birthday party. There is a fair bit of foreshadowing and a subdued-but-clever introduction to the cast in the opening chapter itself.

The events of the party kick off in earnest with shenanigans that clue in to some character traits and authorial tendencies of the writers participating in the competition. Then comes the double shocker: the announcement of the death as well as the terms and conditions of the will that bequeaths the entire mansion to the winner of the competition, besides funding a mystery-writing competition in the author's name. The will and its conditions lay a solid groundwork for the mystery to unfold: no one except a secretary and a doctor to step outside the house for the duration of the competition; the author's suicide to be reported to the police after five days; the fifty-page story entries to be set in the Labyrinth House, featuring only people present in the house, and centred on a murder mystery; all stories to be typed out in typewriters provided in each of the authors' room. The tension is depicted well, and the competition forces the authors to face their own demons—and their greed for the mansion itself.

Not surprisingly, the authors meet ghastly ends. An invisible enemy targets them one by one, walking through and around the solid walls of the mansion, terrifying and befuddling the remaining characters. And this is where Ayatsuji accomplishes an inspired, audacious feat of plotting: each of the authors, barring one, are killed in ways that completely resemble the manners of death they outline in their own submissions for the competition.

The possibilities for the impossible occurrences expand, and the scope of the novel assumes a sprawl as broad and convoluted as the floorplan of the Labyrinth House. Modelled after the mythical labyrinth in the Palace of Knossos, while also resembling one of those 'get in and out of the maze' puzzles one sees in children's books, the house itself plays probably the most significant, involved role I have seen in the Yakata series so far. In doing so, Ayatsuji pays homage to the works of Seishi Yokomizo, another maestro from the past. It mentions Yokomizo's Akuryū-tō (The Island of Evil Spirits) in reference to a message left behind, but for me, the operations of the Labyrinth House are more reminiscent of the Western-style manor in Meiro-sō no sangeki (Tragedy at the Maze Manor), whose hidden passages, peepholes, and secret doors are depicted vividly, and which play such an important role in the adaptation starring Ikko Furuya. Even more serendipitously, both Yokomizo's and Ayatsuji's novels feature climactic sections that take place in caves.

What is perhaps another strange point of similarity is the fact that both The Labyrinth House Murders and Tragedy at the Maze Manor reveal 'hidden' culprits. But, while the adaptation of Yokomizo's work explores this in a straightforward way, Ayatsuji, in keeping with the multi-layered nature of the book, employs a fair amount of narrative trickery to keep the real culprit cloaked till the very end. And, while some may object to the way the novel utilises fair play in the post-manuscript revelation where all disguises are discarded, this is also Ayatsuji at his playful best. While I did perceive a lack of the characterisation one sees in The Mill House Murders, the conceit, structure, and trickery seen here, and the much-better rationale for the setup, more than make up for it. The Labyrinth House Murders witnesses an author at his self-assured best—exhibiting a level of imagination, control, and sportsmanship few can aspire to achieve. One wonders what further surprises lie in store in the Yakata series.

The End is the Beginning is the End

The legendary Japanese detective Kosuke Kindaichi meets his creator Seishi Yokomizo in the sitting room of the author's residence in Yoshino city in 1956. It is a moment worth preserving in a photo album; thankfully, for us, it is also the way in which Kon Ichikawa chooses to begin the last of his 1970s adaptations of Kosuke Kindaichi novels. The movie in question? 1979's The House of Hanging on Hospital Slope (Byoinzaka no Kubikukuri no Ie).

In Ichikawa's large directorial oeuvre, his films based on the Kindaichi novels occupy a special place in the hearts of mystery lovers. In the 1970s, he adapted five novels, a mix of top- and second-tier works of Yokomizo: Inugami-ke no ichizoku (1976), Akuma no temari-uta and Gokumontō (both 1977), Joōbachi (1978), and Byoinzaka no Kubikukuri no Ie (1979). Later, he would go on to film Yatsuhaka-mura (1996), and, in what turned out to be his last film, a remake of Inugami-ke no ichizoku (2006) with the original cast.

Ichikawa is widely credited for developing probably the first authentically Japanese iteration of Kindaichi for the big screen. Earlier movies—such as Gokumontō (1949), Yurei Otoko (1954), Kyuketsuga (1956), and even Honjin Satsujin Jiken (1975)—reimagined the persona of Kindaichi more along the lines of American sleuths, replete with western attire and, in the cases of Yurei Otoko and Kyuketsuga, a focus on more thriller-ish elements (gunshot exchanges and more). However, when Ichikawa debuted Kōji Ishizaka in the role of Kindaichi for Inugami-ke no ichizoku, the previous trappings were all discarded. Instead, Ichikawa brought to life the Kindaichi Yokomizo had characterised in The Inugami Curse: "mid-thirties, slightly built, with an unruly mop of hair, and wearing an unfashionable serge kimono and wide-legged, pleated hakama trousers, both very wrinkled and worn ..."

The appearance of the great detective: Kōji Ishizaka as Kosuke Kindaichi in Inugami-ke no ichizoku (1976)

The shift towards a more faithful visualisation and characterisation of Kindaichi clearly worked wonders, for a 'Yokomizo boom' soon followed. Ichikawa's Kindaichi films from the '70s are all beautiful productions—rich in atmosphere, full of shots that capture Japanese landscapes and scenes in telling but languid detail, and above all, narrating stories of crime and detection deeply embedded in Japanese culture, values, and lore. The formula was a winning one—and Yokomizo's willingness and flexibility in acceding to Ichikawa making subtle changes to his stories further add to the value of these films, helping them transcend the level of being merely faithful adaptations to becoming films that can be enjoyed on their own merits. It is to Yokomizo's and Ichikawa's credit that, barring a few exceptions, most Kindaichi adaptations for TV and the big screen ever since have retained Kindaichi's presentation with kimono and hakama trousers, while making alterations to the plots of the novels, resulting in innumerable permutations and combinations that still continue to feel fresh and instructive for new audiences.

The masked man in Ichikawa's Inugami-ke no ichizoku. The portrayal has become a mainstay in Japanese mystery fiction, endlessly replicated and parodied

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After a career spent solving some of the most convoluted, heart-rending cases in Japan, Kindaichi decides to go to USA once again. But, first he heads over to author Yokomizo's house to say his farewell. While conversing, he comes to know of the Honjo photography studio, which later becomes central to the events of the film. As he needs to have a passport, Kindaichi visits the studio to have his picture taken. Here, he learns about the abandoned premises of the erstwhile Hogen family  hospital and residence on the Hospital Hill—the location that becomes the site of the first horrific incident. 

A jazzy interlude follows, in which a band called The Angry Pirates perform in an American army base camp in the city. In the middle of the performance, however, the trumpeter and the drummer mysteriously disappear, with the latter returning with a bleeding wound on his eye. The trumpeter remains nowhere to be seen. The scene shifts back to the studio where Kindaichi takes on a case on the studio owner Tokubei's request. Apparently, someone had tried to drop large wind chimes (fūrin) on the owner, the chimes being hung on the ceiling of the large hall one entered as they stepped inside the burned-out building. As soon as Kindaichi leaves the studio after being asked to collect his photo in three days, in walks a young woman with a strange request. Paying money in advance, the woman asks Tokubei's son Naokichi to capture pictures for a wedding shoot at the abandoned Hogen building that night. At night, Naokichi meets none other than the trumpeter of The Angry Pirates—a bearded, boorish man now in traditional Japanese wedding attire—and heads over to the building with his pinhole camera and other apparatus. But, something seems to be off about the entire situation—the bride at the venue seems to be a dead match for the woman who requested the shoot, and seems drugged and zoned off—eyes glazed, the body swaying from side to side and supported by the man's arms. And, every time Naokichi tries to make changes to the setting—for instance, removing the wind chimes or fixing the crooked lapels on the bride's wedding kimono—he is soundly rebuked by the bridegroom. Thus concludes one of the strangest photoshoots in Naokichi's career.

Kosuke Kindaichi meets his creator, Seishi Yokomizo

Two days later, when the wedding photos are developed, old Tokubei mentions to his son that the bride in the picture completely resembles the Hogens' girl, Yukari. That evening, when Kindaichi visits the studio to collect his passport photo, Naokichi shows him the wedding photo and narrates the events of that night, also adding that all the festive arrangements and decorations were gone by the following morning. He also tells Kindaichi that the reason the building is called the House of Hanging is because a woman hanged herself in the house the year after World War II had ended. Just at that moment, the studio assistant Mokutarō answers a call from that mysterious client asking to deliver the photos at that abandoned building, and to also take photos of the wind chimes. Kindaichi, Naokichi, Tokubei and Mokutarō visit the building where they are met by a horrendous sight: the chimes that hung over the wedded couple the previous night are replaced by the severed head of the bridegroom, the bearded man himself. In the midst of this shocking discovery, Mokutarō gives chase to a figure lurking in the darkness who bolts out of the building, and restrains him after a physical battle to bring an end to the proceedings of the day.

Just like the vibrant jazz beats heard in The Angry Pirates' performance, the opening half hour of The House of Hanging on Hospital Hill is marked by a chaotic energy and pace. Things happen in rapid succession leaving one with barely any time to process all that's happening. And yet, there is a slapstick nature to all these events: Ichikawa clearly makes fun of the conventions of the same works he brought to life on the screen. For instance, when Yokomizo's on-screen niece Tae interrupts the conversation between the author and his creation, she says that she remembers a character from Yokomizo's books who, just like Kindaichi, disappears whenever a tough case comes calling. To this, Yokomizo says he does not remember including such a character in his works. These subtle and entertaining winks and nudges abound in the film, but there is also a lot of humour that is driven by the manners and actions of the characters. Early on, Mokutarō commits the cardinal sin of nearly dropping backdrop curtains on to Kindaichi's head, with the result that Naokichi berates Mokutarō as a baka (fool) whenever the latter tries to act clever. Similarly, the exaggerated expressions and actions of the police detective Todoriki (actually a long-time friend of Kindaichi in the books, who appears in this movie idly wondering whether he had heard of a famous detective like Kindaichi before) and his assistant Bando, whenever they are confronted by a puzzling situation, serve to add much levity to what turns out to be a very dark and tragic story. 

The infamous wedding photo

Like other Kindaichi offerings, World War II looms in the background of The House of Hanging on Hospital Slope. However, the way it is integrated in the plot is somewhat different to what we see in other works such as Gokumontō. In fact, the way in which the war is invoked has more in common with Akimitsu Takagi's depiction of the effects of the war in The Tattoo Murder Case: in both cases, characters ruminate on the illogical nature of the destruction wrought—with some buildings completely destroyed and others miraculously standing.

The investigation takes the detectives and viewers to some delightfully offbeat locations (such as a shed in an abandoned mine/quarry) that show tell-tale signs of the war, but the roots of the affair itself go back several generations prior to the war. Kindaichi tales are complicated affairs frequently featuring convoluted family trees, and this movie is no exception even though it apparently simplifies the book's plot to a large extent. Even untangling the relationship between the Yamauchis and the Hogens, the two major families portrayed in the family, is a laborious task. It helps that this is treated quite humorously to an extent—in one portion, Kindaichi, speaking for the audience, states that even he cannot make head or tail of the respective family histories, to which Mokutarō, who becomes sort of a sidekick to Kindaichi over the course of the film, shows a family tree he has drawn on a notebook.

The fulfilment of a complicated revenge

With its focus on family relationships and misguided revenge, The House of Hanging on Hospital Slope therefore feels familiar to other works in the Kindaichi oeuvre, and features a mish-mash of tropes (impersonation, mistaken identity, role reversal, and more) seen in this universe. The use of framing devices, however, feels quite fresh in this movie. Such devices are seen in previous stories as well—for instance, the nursery rhyme song in Akuma no temari-uta, or the haikus in Gokumontō—but here, two devices are used: one traditional, the other modern. On the one hand, we have the wind chimes (fūrin); on the other, we have photography itself. The use of the wind chime is somewhat akin to the use of the haikus in Gokumontō—they are portents both of happiness and doom. For the Yamauchis, the sound of the chimes once indicated a period of family bonding and contentment; for the Hogens, the same chimes unveil a long-buried secret that ultimately leads the family to completely fall apart. This secret is also preserved in another form: photographs. In fact, the way the act of photography is used in this film—to oppress and blackmail certain characters, and at the same time, to selfishly enable the perpetrators to dream of becoming rich by moving beyond the profession of photography—constitutes a running theme throughout the film. Ultimately, a matriarch's instinct to protect and preserve whatever remains ends up dismantling three structures that served as symbols and victims of the perverted, awful, terrifying, and morally debasing influence of patriarchy: the Hogens, the Yamauchis, and the Honjos. In the end, Kindaichi does break the curse wrought by photography on the Hogens and the Yamauchis by breaking the incriminating glass negatives—but only when it's too late.

It was probably inevitable, but the gravity of the narrative leads Kindaichi's solo investigation to be a sombre one. His retracing of a singular chime to its point of origin leads us through some beautiful landscape, and some vivid footage of the manual process of making chimes, but what we find at the end of the arduous journey defined by challenges (such as family records being destroyed in the war), makes for depressing viewing that even the great detective's genteel mannerisms cannot assuage. The whodunnit aspect is solved at this point, but what follows is more desperation on the part of the culprit, followed by a long, sappy denouement where the culprit themselves come to realise the full implications of the secret, and the truth about their role in a previous tragedy. In the end, the future and the past of the house of Hogen are entrusted to a 'newcomer' and a rickshaw-puller—a popular Yokomizo treatment that is also seen in works such as Gokumontō and Akuma ga kitarite fue o fuku. It is this part that makes for the toughest viewing, because Ichikawa completely strips the narrative of any semblance of humour, with even the bumbling police detectives showing some urgency without committing goof-ups. Even though the acting is captivating, with the actors showing the breadth of their repertoire, this tonal shift (replete with operatic music) to showcase a more humane aspect is a bit extreme—it makes the narrative overlong and deprives it of its snappiness.

Kindaichi after solving the wind chime murder case. This is probably the last time we see the great detective in Japan

As a swansong to the entire Kindaichi series, The House of Hanging on Hospital Slope is tinged with nostalgia, and reminds viewers of all the elements that made these stories special and engrossing. While superior examples are there, Ichikawa's adaptation of this work remains a melodious, beautiful production spotlighting, for one final time, Kindaichi in all his glory and vulnerability, while also portraying its female characters, most of whom go through untold misery and tragedy and have to fight for their redemption in their own ways, in a sympathetic, humane light, giving them agency and allowing them to find their own voices. 

In the epilogue, Mokutarō meets Yokomizo and Tae in the author's study, Kindaichi himself being absent. When Mokutarō wonders if Kindaichi will ever return, Tae informs him that Kindaichi has disappeared and gone away to San Francisco. It is wishful thinking, of course, but one expects that Kindaichi went to San Francisco in pursuit of some equally complicated cases, the chronicles of which remain unrecorded with Yokomizo's death in 1981. As Yokomizo tells Kindaichi in the beginning, "People are the same all over."