And that is where dramatic poetry flows, from suspense to heartbreak and the warm sweat of crying a hedonist like Yumeji who collapses into the decline of the poetry of the bodies whose banquet had been urgent as impossible, until now, to deprive himself.

A caricature of himself, Yumeji saw the multiplicity of his "I" shot up in the foolish personalities that soon displaced him.

What sublime scenes in the Wakiya mansion; first, the demon Matsu, prowling him, then his indomitable muse or model, Tomoyo the self-sacrificing wife who, despite her stubborn reluctance to the intruder, ends up giving him not one but both sleeves of the marriage kimono; inside, the secrets: a Mr. Wakiya hunter who gives up and with a code reminiscent of samurai prefers suicide by failing to kill him; a jealous husband more disappeared than truly dead; a refined aesthetic of kitsch-peppered suspense where the Colts of the western and the unusual feminine background exhaust the cameo pursued by the game of gazes along with the mysterious soundtrack, the humiliating slowdown of the painter as precious her indifference, ah! And the expectant crow.

Narrative at times elevated and surreal as in a David Lynch story, and then the theatrical baroque of a well-crafted farce.

Along with Kagero-za AKA Heat shimmer theater, one of my Suzuki favorites.