Treasure Island

I have an unusually soft spot for mysteries and murders set in islands, and have been fortunate enough to have read and watched some of the best on offer—Shetland (based on Ann Cleeves' Jimmy Pérez books) and Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None come to mind. Japanese authors, in particular, have mastered the art of delivering pitch-perfect island mysteries that utilise the unique environs to perfection—Yukito Ayatsuji's Jukkakukan no Shinsou Kaiteiban (translated into English as The Decagon House Murders), Seishi Yokomizo's Gokumon-tō (Prison Gate Island) or any of the several Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo tales set on isles are only a few that promise a rollicking good time.

Ayatsuji's 1987 novel The Decagon House Murders, a wonderfully original take on the Christie classic And Then There Were None, was a watershed moment in the annals of crime fiction writing in Japan. In it, Ayatsuji lays the foundations of what would later come to be known as the shin honkaku (new orthodox) school of mystery writing—a sub-genre that would, soon enough, lure amateur writers away from crafting social mysteries and later earn a legion of devoted fans whose admiration remains unsullied to this day. Early on in this book, one of the characters articulates what would essentially become a clarion call to future writers of this school. It is worth quoting in its entirety, especially as it aptly describes what the shin honkaku school stands for:

"In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual puzzle. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.

So enough gritty social realism please. A female office worker is murdered in a one-bedroom apartment and, after wearing out the soles of his shoes through a painstaking investigation, the police detective finally arrests the victim's boss, who turns out to be her illicit lover. No more of that! No more of the corruption and secret dealings of the political world, no more tragedies brought forth by the stress of modern society and suchlike. What mystery novels need are—some might call me old-fashioned—a great detective, a mansion, a shady cast of residents, bloody murders, impossible crimes and never-before-seen tricks played by the murderer. Call it my castle in the sky, but I'm happy as long as I can enjoy such a world. But always in an intellectual manner."

In ways both good and bad, the essence of this lengthy, almost Queensian declaration is rendered faithfully in Alice Arisugawa's 1989 work, Kotō Pazuru (literally, Koto Puzzle, translated into English in 2016 with the title of The Moai Island Puzzle). Just like its predecessor (The Decagon House Murders), The Moai Island Puzzle also has a university club of mystery fiction aficionados visiting a remote island that is soon cut off from the mainland by a raging storm, just as the island's residents start getting knocked off one by one. Three members of the Eito University Mystery Club—the narrator Alice, the sleuth Jirō Egami and the club's only female recruit Maria Arima—visit Kashikijima on Maria's invitation to indulge in treasure hunting. Kashikijima is a strange island—not only is it unusually shaped (it looks like a horseshoe magnet), it also has some 25 ominous moai statues looming large over the landscape. These statues also happen to be the focal point of the mysterious treasure—Maria's grandfather hid a large cache of diamonds worth a fortune somewhere on the island with the only hint being the statues and the directions they faced. It is this seemingly unsolved mystery that Jirō and his friends wish to crack now.

There exist only two residences on Kakushijima, one each on the two poles of this horseshoe magnet island. The larger one, Panorama Villa, is hosting a gathering of Maria's extended family members at the time of the mystery club's arrival, while the smaller Happy Fish Villa is home to a moderately successful artist (also one of Maria's relatives) who visits it from time to time. To travel from one to the other, one either needs to take a boat across the bay separating the two, or cover the distance on foot or bicycle courtesy of a road that takes one through the long arc of the island. Both villas soon witness impossible crimes in the midst of a storm. Will  Jirō and his friends be able to solve the puzzle of the treasure as well as that of the three murders that seem to have links with Maria's past and one of her now deceased relatives?

At first glance, this synopsis seems very attractive, but I'll start with the negatives here. The mystery surrounding the treasure, which lends itself to the title, is overlong and clearly overstays its welcome. Excessively laborious in its execution, one plods through this portion in weary anticipation of what they will find at the end of it all. Unfortunately, the puzzle of the statues 'evolves' too much for its own good—one definitely needs to be aware of a certain stream of knowledge to solve this puzzle, and even then, it's quite a stretch to reach the correct conclusion. Perhaps, even more damningly, the payoff is too little for all the struggle one undergoes, making for an extremely poor adventure trip—[SPOILER ALERT] turns out the mystery has already been solved before the arrival of our protagonists, and then, the puzzle and the developments surrounding them essentially become a footnote in the motive behind the cases. Not fair at all, one would say, considering that nearly a 100 pages are devoted to this puzzle and its unravelling!

The first murder also happens pretty late into the novel, but it is the conversations between the (mostly dislikeable) characters preceding it and the way they are portrayed that proceeds to suck all the life away here. There is too much unnatural stiffness in the nature of the dialogue in this section—as though the characters too are eagerly waiting for something to happen to them and that they can't wait any longer to reach the heart of the text. The plot and the puzzles demand that the characters act in certain ways—and they do so, regardless of how unnatural, forced and even unrealistic it may all seem. While such a treatment on Arisugawa's part clearly establishes the primacy of the plot and the puzzles over characterisation, a more competent balancing act would have gone a long way in making it palatable without leaving an unpleasant aftertaste.

The novel really starts shining once the murders are committed. The Moai Island Puzzle is, at its best, a tribute to Queensian and Holmesian aesthetics in the mystery novel—and thankfully, the work provides many instances to showcase both. The Holmesian trait of eliminating all that's impossible and positing whatever remains as the truth is evident in the many discussions between Jirō and his friends where hypotheses are presented and possibilities discounted by all three members of the Eito University Mystery Club, with Jirō acting as the most perceptive and discerning of the lot. And as Sōji Shimada astutely points out in his introduction to the novel, Jirō graduates from being a disinterested, bland, Queensian puzzle maniac to a more proactive Holmes-like figure who definitely acts heroically in a certain aspect towards the end of the novel. If only such a nuanced treatment could have been meted out to the rest of the characters ...

Anyway, the novel does one better when doffing its hat to Ellery Queen. Chains of deduction are built upon minutely detailed timetables drawn by the investigators and very singular observations of particular items and events—[SPOILER ALERT] a boat rown across the bay at a particular time, a light travelling between the two villas at the dead of night, a cycle tyre-mark and a piece of cloth found at particular parts of the island, among others—and linking them all into a linear, cohesive and definitive narrative. The novel is a perfect lesson in crafting chains of logical reasoning on singular observations, clues and items of evidence and also demonstrates why the author needn't 'deceive' readers with a gamut of randomly scattered, possibly relevant clues and/or too many red herrings. It plays it very straight with the dying message too, which just requires one to understand what's 'not present' to properly interpret it.

For those deeply vested in the world of Japanese crime novels, The Moai Island Puzzle can be considered to be mandatory reading. Personally, I find it a most instructive work that provides a fascinating glimpse into the highs and lows of shin honkaku plotting within the space of some 250-odd pages (notwithstanding the fact that it would have benefitted a lot if its length had been reduced by a third). Two different kinds of puzzles are presented in the work with conflicting treatments—one that the authors should aspire to, another they should avoid if they do not want to leave readers feeling short-changed. This, in itself, makes for a very strange balancing act—but one that should perhaps not be attempted at all. 

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: How a Japanese island mystery novel replicated the Ellery Queen and Sherlock Holmes brand of mystery)

Everyone Knows Who Killed Roger Ackroyd

When Agatha Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was published in 1926, it featured a twist so sensational for its time that it shocked even the most seasoned readers. If ever there was a work that, at face value, so blatantly upended one of the cardinal rules of crime fiction back then, it is this one.

Roger Ackroyd appears: The first UK edition

Today, the trope of the unreliable narrator is one of the most clichéd in fiction—a device you can spot coming a mile off, whenever there's reasonable doubt to suspect that it's been introduced. However, for authors, it is a far trickier prospect to execute successfully than many may be led to believe initially. In particular, Christie's treatment of the trope in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, is all about subtlety. After all, this is not a case of a central character simply spouting outrageous lies and later getting exposed. The genius of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd lies in the culprit's expertise in managing and controlling the flow and revelation of information as he deems fit—he may be reticent and picky about what strands of information he chooses to expose judiciously and cunningly, but never does he lie outright.

How, then, does one adapt a work whose virtues have become all too familiar to the audience and still keep it fresh? It's not an easy task, as is evidenced by the failure of David Suchet's Poirot (2000) in doing justice to The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. In its quest to present something new to the viewers and mark itself as something very different from Christie's work, this particular TV episode does away with all the key features that made the novel such a landmark one in the first place. Character roles are changed drastically, events are inexcusably altered, and to cap it all off, the conclusion fails to pack the desired punch.

However, Japanese author, screenwriter and director Kōki Mitani's adaptation of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, titled Kuroido Goroshi (2018), succeeds where Suchet's fails. Among literary circles, Mitani is popular and much beloved for his mystery and comedy works, one of which is the excellent TV series, Furuhata Ninzaburō (1994–2006)—in many ways, the Japanese version of Richard Levinson and William Link's legendary inverted mystery series, Columbo. All of his trademarks are also present, in varying degrees, in Kuroido Goroshi—a TV special that offers some clues on how to adapt a tricky work such as The Murder of Roger Ackroyd correctly and proficiently.

As is the case with Furuhata Ninzaburō, one can sense Mitani's love and respect for the source material in Kuroido Goroshi. Instead of 1920s countryside England, one is transported to the picturesque village of Tonosato in 1952 Japan—a setting that most reminds me of fictional Midsomer (in Midsomer Murders) with its gossipy villagers and sleepy manors and cottages sheltering dark secrets. The adaptation is very faithful to the novel and the events that transpire henceforth should therefore be familiar to most readers who are acquainted with Christie's book. Additionally, Mitani gives a few distinctive touches—strengthening the portrayal of characters, making the motives behind their actions meatier and making it more difficult to guess whodunnit, making subtle changes to the timeline of events, more foreshadowing, introducing characters that would make sense in a Japanese setting, among others—that significantly contribute to the lasting legacy of the work.

The film opens with an interaction between Takeru Suguro (the Hercule Poirot equivalent) and Dr Heisuke Shiba (Dr Sheppard's character) in Tonosato village (similar to King's Abbot). Heisuke happens to be the only practicing doctor in the village who, on the side, has been writing a manuscript investigating the circumstances of the death of Rokusuke Kuroido, one of the notable personages in the village and a close acquaintance of Heisuke. It is through the pages of Heisuke's manuscript (that is handed over to Takeru in the opening few minutes of the film) that we see the film's narrative unfold as well. This narrative-within-a-narrative treatment, along with the help of a clever shifting timeline, allows Mitani to portray one of the most difficult aspects fairly well (but not flawlessly—things get a wee bit muddled towards the end).   

Rokusuke's murder happened in mysterious circumstances after a family dinner to which Dr Shiba had also been invited. Later, Takeru is called in to solve the mystery by Rokusuke's niece Hanako, while Heisuke, who was completely unaware of Takeru's reputation as a meitantei (great detective) at this time, becomes his Watson. The TV special reconstructs the events of the novel without skipping on too many details—Heisuke being invited to Rokusuke's study for a secret conversation with the secret remaining unsaid, a lot of curious incidents involving the other occupants of the house around the estimated time of murder, a rather small but strange change in the arrangement of a particular piece of furniture at the site of crime (Rokusuke's study) which is then reverted to normal, a mysterious phone call to the doctor's house that leads to the corpse's discovery in the first place and the suspicion ultimately falling on Rokusuke's stepson Haruo are exact replicas of what happens in the book. 

Roger Ackroyd dies again, this time as Rokusuke Kuroido

All of this sounds rather heavy and foreboding. Moreover, there are too many innocuous, inconsequential distractions all cluttered roughly around the same time as the murder that threaten to take one's attention away from the central plot. But, in Mitani's hands, these turn out to be the perfect spots to bring in comic relief. No doubt, the comedy and parodic elements are sometimes laid on a bit too thick for my taste, but segments such as the absconding Haruo's reappearance in the village before the shocked sister of Haruo, the childish tantrums of Rokusuke's spoilt sister, the village police inspector indulging in a bit of fanboyish admiration of the famous ex-detective Takeru and Rokusuke's overeager secretary completing every sentence and observation of the inspector (before the latter has the chance to do so) much to his annoyance genuinely strive to put a smile on one's face. The revelations are also done in a lighthearted manner, resulting in a special that competently balances a serious investigation with comic storytelling, barring some excesses. 

Still, Mitani shines brightest when he puts sombre touches on his portrayal of events and characters. This becomes all too evident during the conclusion when, despite all his eccentric mannerisms, Takeru is finally dispel all the chicanery and the facades to reveal the true nature of the case. We are then left with the culprit all to himself contemplating suicide, his thoughts serving as an epilogue to the episode and the manuscript with which it opens. The extra-layered motive behind the culprit's necessary actions lends Mitani's adaptation a human quality easy to empathise with, which is completely absent in Christie's original. The final fates of the doctor and, especially, his ebullient, gossipy sister leave one in a reflective, poignant, even mournful, mood in sharp contrast to all the humour and adrenaline-pumping fun experienced during Takeru's deductions.

The way the story unfolds also lends itself to a comparison with another manor mystery (an adaptation of another book, by the way) I had watched and reviewed some months ago—Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku. This Kosuke Kindaichi mystery unravels in real time (barring a few flashbacks), with the telltale clues, conversations observations and the reasoning leading to the deductions all laid bare before the reader, before the grand deduction leads the detective to reveal the even deeper mystery of 'what really happened' which even the culprit wasn't aware of. There's little by way of distractions and the focus on the core mystery is really intense leaving little else to the imagination. Kuroido Goroshi, on the other hand, transitions from the past to the present within the pages of a manuscript presenting a mix of limited first-person and third-person perspectives. Side plots abound in plenty, most of which are tied to the main storyline with the flimsiest of threads, but which, at times, threaten to steal all the limelight for themselves. The main trick is a neat one, involving a nice bit of deception involving [SPOILERS AHEAD] a dictaphone, a telephone call, and a strategically placed chair and pile of books, the combined effect of all these evidences successfully leading the investigators to wrongfully estimate the time of death. 

But, the real charm of Kuroido Goroshi lies in its depiction of the battle of wits between the culprit and the meitantei. Unlike Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku, Kuroido Goroshi does not exactly show the ace detective's thinking (or rather, his little grey cells in action). Even though the clues leading to said thoughts are all presented in order, there's a jump between their presentation and the accurate inference during the deduction scene. Like many of the audience members, one is surprised and left to wonder how Takeru chanced upon the exact interpretation of said clues to deliver a remarkably correct inference. Seen in isolation, it can be quite frustrating and seen as not quite fair to the reader. But, when one keeps in mind the overarching theme of the novel and this adaptation, this treatment makes sense and is, in fact, deliberate. As mentioned previously, the main theme of both the novel and this adaptation is that of deceiving readers and viewers through cleverly concealing information, revealing the bare minimum, and never by outright lying. And since the excessively modest culprit chooses to be courteously evasive throughout and reveals only bits and pieces about his participation in the events and his thoughts on the investigation, so does Takeru. Takeru needs to beat the culprit at his own game—and so, he never reveals his ways of thinking and reasoning to even his closest associates or the viewers. Not surprisingly, this explains the jump between observation and deduction (which mostly happens off-screen) as not even the author of the manuscript is privy to these details in the first place. It is a very effective ploy befitting of the master detective, which goes on to surprise and draw the real culprit out of his shell who finally 'confesses' to his wrongdoing and his underestimation of Takeru in the end.

Takeru Suguro: Japan's Hercule Poirot

Kuroido Goroshi is not the only TV special where Mitani has showcased his brilliance in adapting the Dame's works. Prior to this, he adapted Murder on the Orient Express (in 2015) as a two-episode TV drama special featuring Takeru Suguro. While the first episode shows the events of the novel unchanged, the second is a splendid imagination and portrayal of how the perpetrators were going about their lives and daily duties in the lead-up to the murder on the train—a completely new perspective and behind-the-scenes look entirely absent in the novel. And after Kuroido Goroshi, he has also adapted Appointment with Death (Shi to no Yakusoku, 2021) which I am yet to see. Seen as a tribute to one of Christie's iconic works or as a standalone TV special in its own right, Kuroido Goroshi is deserving of several rewatches. One hopes that the same is true of the rest of Mitani's Christie-based output. Whatever may be the case, based on my fervid enjoyment of Kuroido Goroshi and my currently skyrocketing expectations, I plan to write more on Mitani's works, as and when I come across them.

Back to School

"Who killed Cock Robin?

I, said the Sparrow ... "

—Yoichi Takato quoting the English nursery rhyme "Who Killed Cock Robin" in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken"

Among longtime fans, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" (Prison Prep School Murder Case) is considered to be one of the best (if not the best) offerings from the Kindaichi series. There are several worthy reasons for this preference—a devilish performance by the sleuth's nemesis, tricks that are simple in their foundation but sophisticated in their execution, the thematic nature of the serial killings and the slow, deliberate build-up to the settings that make each of the events possible. But perhaps, the most significantly unique quality is that this majestic story arc—in a series reputed for repeatedly setting up impossible/quasi-impossible crimes and locked room murders—does not feature a single incident that can be considered (technically) to belong to either of the two categories aforementioned.

The story, the brainchild of the writer–artist duo of Seimaru Amagi and Fumiya Satō, was faithfully adapted as episodes 10–14 of the first season of Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo Returns (2014). After another disastrous performance in his school examinations, Hajime Kindaichi is forced by his 'childhood friend' Miyuki Nanase to come to Gokumon Juku, a prep school as famous for the results it produces as it is notorious for its excessively stringent regulations—the reason why it is also called Hell's Gate Prep School. Right on cue, the cruel machinations of Kindaichi's eternal nemesis, Yoichi Takato, are laid bare early on, when an examinee is killed in the school as soon as Kindaichi and his friends step into its halls to enroll—a crafty piece of business involving something called the magician's select (or the magician's choice). A tense standoff ensues between the mastermind and the detectives when Takato appears before Kindaichi, Nanase, police superintendent Kengo Akechi and police inspector Isamu Kenmochi to dramatically throw down the gauntlet and dare them to prevent his plot from succeeding. It is against this backdrop that Kindaichi and Nanase (with Takato and Akechi, both disguised as teachers, in tow) decide to attend the prep camp that the school is organising in prison-like facilities deep within forested mountains.

The first victim

The importance of the first two, slowly-paced episodes cannot be understated. They lay down the rules by which this game is to be played. The strict and extremely specific rules concerning the diet of the students, their study schedules, the class schedules, the limited paraphernalia of things students can carry with them during the trip and norms governing the conduct of examinations may seem to be excessive and comical, but all of these specifications are used to devastating effect by the perpetrators later on in the story. There's also a fair amount of foreshadowing and clueing in these episodes—for instance, the part which shows a bus travelling in a tunnel under neon light en route to the prep camp location is an important clue that goes on to solve a vital and wonderful bit of misdirection in the last episode. Above all, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" shines best when it sets up this atmosphere of extreme unease when you are aware that terrible things are afoot but you don't have the slightest idea what exactly they are. The second episode in particular, where not a single murder happens, excels in creating this heavy, brooding and disconcerting atmosphere of perpetual unease. Against the backdrop of seemingly normal classes in session, a number of students mysteriously vanish, but the viewers aren't exactly shown what happens; instead, the scene simply segues into another ordinary classroom scene where the seeds of some other disturbing occurrence are being laid—all cogs in the wheel of a monstrous plot hatched by the dastardly Takato.

As the main antagonist of the series, Takato's moniker of "The Puppeteer from Hell" is well deserved and closely resembles the criminal organisation Pluto, the main villain of Tantei Gakuen Q (Detective School Q), another series on which Amagi and Satō worked. Takato's role is that of a criminal consultant extraordinaire—manipulating the feelings of impressionable people who are looking to seek revenge, organising intricate criminal plans, providing people with the requisite blueprints and tools for the plan's success and then disposing of any loose links should the plan be thwarted. In this story, the blueprint and tools Takato provides his two co-conspirators are for themed murders (mitate satsujin), the most well-known example of which is probably Agatha Christie's The A. B. C. Murders. In "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", the murders in the study camp are made to mirror the topics of discussion during classes and examinations. One of the student's is found burnt, thereby replicating a chemistry class lecture on spontaneous combustion; another is found dead in a bamboo thicket, associating itself with a literature class on the Japanese folktale, The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter; a third student is wrapped up in a double-helix spiral after her death—a throwback to an examination on the topic of DNA which she had completed; the fourth casualty is hanged to death, much like the protagonist of Fyodor Dostoevsky's Demons, the subject of another assessment where the student murdered was accused of cheating. And much like The A. B. C. Murders, the purpose of resorting to themed murders is to hide and disguise. But unlike The A. B. C. Murders, where the alphabetical killings were orchestrated to hide the actual target of the whole spree, in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", mitate satsujin is used for a far more damning purpose: to shield and hide a vital, glaring flaw in the execution of the perpetrators from prying eyes—something that ultimately costs one of them their life.

The double helix claims a victim

After the sinister build-up in the entirety of the second episode and the first half of the third episode, the body count (a total of eight, if one counts the one in the past and the post-denouement casualty) suddenly ratchets up from the second half of the third episode onwards. The conundrums presented are simple ones—how can so many murders have occurred in the two buildings of the study camp (the Sunlight Mansion and the Moonlight Mansion) at a time when classes and/or lunch hours were in session in both locations separated by miles of forests, a tough-to-navigate road with only a rapidly flowing stream connecting the two? And how come these bodies are surfacing, hours after their death, in such rapid succession? The answers to both questions lead one to marvel at the intricate groundwork laid in the previous episodes and the ample visual foreshadowing employed. There are numerous factors at play here, many of which hark back to the 'rules of the game' introduced before—the architecture of both buildings including the 'sealed-off' portions of one of them and how their floor plans 'fit together like pieces of a puzzle', the complicated but effective scheduling and division of classes and eating/recreation hours in both locations, the true purpose of the extremely limited but 'healthy' food items, the real motive behind limiting the things students can keep during to a bare minimum, two very daring, rope-led nighttime walks through a dense forest that 'mislead' students and teachers alike to a different location only to take them back to where they started after the second walk (after all the mischief has been done) and lastly, an optical phenomena that tricks the people and compliments the misdirection employed during the nighttime walk exceedingly well. What's even more surprising is the number of flaws and holes in this seemingly perfect, multilayered plan that are revealed by Akechi and Kindaichi in the denouement. Going by the variety of tricks employed and the level of deception achieved, too many cooks indeed spoil the broth—just not in the way you would usually expect.

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is not without its share of flaws, however. The sustained focus on the brilliant howdunnit angle results in the motive fading into the background. One of the faults with revealing the motive through flashbacks here is that you will not be able to figure out whodunnit by approaching the case from the motive alone. Even though one gets to know that another student of Gokumon Juku had died in the past, the hints linking it to the present case and the parties concerned are too vague for one to concretely identify the people who were most affected by the past incident. Even the whodunnit reveal leaves something to be desired. One of the students is forcibly made the scapegoat in a unsubtle, heavy-handed way only for them to pointlessly 'commit suicide'. And while one of the actual co-conspirators is revealed through a rigorous chain of logic and deduction, the second culprit is mainly unmasked through a somewhat unsatisfactory method of 'filling the dots' where it is found that one of the victims is revealed to have died unbelievably just before he was able to finish the stroke that would have led him to complete a dying message that would have directly named said culprit. Games of luck and chance in a story of logic and reasoning? Nah, not my cup of tea.

Possessed by Dostoevsky's Demons

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is an amusing case-study for me in some ways. Its sheer brilliance in a few specific aspects threatens to run away with it all, until the flaws surface and weigh it down. Ironically, the genius nature of the plot and the mechanics shines a starker, uglier light on the weaknesses in the execution of the whodunnit and the motive-related revelations, making the comparative imbalance seem more glaring and apparent than it would in a mediocre, by-the-numbers story. None of these drawbacks, however, takes anything away from the majestic and ambitious nature and scope of the groundwork and build-up the story employs, which are, frankly speaking, simply unparalleled.