Introduction

With two successful collaborations under their belt – The Most Dangerous Game (1978) and The Killing Game (1978), it was a given that Toru Murakawa and Yusako Matsuda would return to create the third and final narrative in the Game-trilogy.  

While the two previous narratives had a similar structure and utilized the same dynamics to push the stories to their conclusion, it would be too formulaic and possibly too predictable for the spectator if the final piece of the trilogy does not shake things up more. Only by doing so, can The execution Game provide a fresh critical glance at the phantasmatic nature of the phallic fantasy of desirability that marks its main character, Shohei Narumi.    

[This film is part of the Game-Trilogy blu-ray box set by Arrow video]

Review

Not long after Shohei Narumi (Yusaku Matsuda) meets a mysterious but attractive woman called Naoko (Lily), he ends up being abducted. One day, after regaining consciousness, he succeeds in freeing himself with his knife and tries, armed with a gun, to escape the labyrinthian building. Yet, rather than finding the exit, he ends up in a room where a mysterious man, the one who ordered his seduction and abduction, forces him to take on a job: the assassination of a veteran killer called Okajima (Yoshiro Aoki).

The Execution Game does not start with a sketch of the narrative’s setting like in The Most Dangerous Game (1978) or a flashback like in The Killing Game (1978), but with a visually arresting sequence that introduces a riddle that pulls the spectator straight into the narrative. As the camera zooms in on the beaten body of Shohei Narumi, the spectator cannot but wonder how he ended up in this predicament; how he, who embodies the fantasy of male desirability, wound up in a situation that confronts him with his own castration, his own (p)fallibility.

This situation is even more puzzling if the spectator remembers the care Narumi takes, as beautifully illustrated in The Killing Game (1978), into avoiding the eye of the criminal and seductive other. Yet, the attentive spectator will also realize that the same sequence reveals Narumi’s weakness and the (p)fallibility integral to the act of clothing oneself with the image of the phallus, i.e. the thing women supposedly desire. The Execution Game illustrates, via various well-integrated flashbacks, that the suggestive and seductive interest of a female subject, by fleetingly satisfying Narumi’s need to feel desirable as man, can easily lead him to lower his guard. In other words, he who easily thinks with his member is ever in danger of being deceived by the female other and orchestrating his own ‘castrative’ downfall.

The easy by which he is romantically duped by the female other is highly ironical as Shohei Narumi knows very well that the weakness of a man lies in the object/subject that support his fantasy of phallic possession. Not only does he violently and methodically exploit this dynamic to provoke his male target like in The Most Dangerous Game (1978), but he also grasps that such relational dynamic is deceptive in nature, as highlighted by Katsuta’s ignorance of his mistress Misako Tsuyama’s troubled state in The Killing Game (1978).  

Yet, the flash-backs that plague Narumi imply that the encounter between him and the mysterious woman was not without subjective effect and that she, with her elegant body, lips, and raspy voice, truly ensnared Narumi’s desire. Despite being confronted with her deception acts and signifiers, his desire still aches for her erotic shadow.  

The figure of the mysterious lady is utilized to give concatenation of violent brawls, car-chases, and bloody shoot-outs a more mysterious flavour. Rather than Narumi becoming a plaything between two factions vying for more power, Narumi is haunted by a seductive presence of a women that escapes his understanding. Why does this woman suddenly appear in Okajima’s room? The spectator, just like Narumi, cannot grasp her ultimate aim nor decide whether everything she does is orchestrated by the organisation or driven by a desire of her own. By framing each of her seductive signifiers and acts as possibly deceptive, The Execution Game succeeds in echoing that what is most troublesome for a male subject marked by the phallic fantasy is a woman whose desire elegantly escapes its influence. Her avoidance of falling in the phallic trap – i.e. the image of desirability the man clothes himself with – that allows her to seductively exploit it and easily deceive the eager male subject (Narra-note 1, General-note 1).

The composition of The Execution Game is, just like the composition of two previous narratives, highly dynamic and littered with visually interesting moments. Within his composition, Murakawa’s heavily relies on dynamic shots to give his narrative a visual flow that keeps the spectator engaged. The visual pleasure of Murakawa’s composition, on the other hand, is function of the way he utilizes dynamism to create semi-static compositions and visually interesting compositional tensions. These visually appeasing tensions, moments of cool stylishness, are generally a result of the fruitful encounter between geometry (i.e. the way various visual elements are arranged within the frame) and the lightning and colour-design (i.e. the pleasant interplay between light and shadow, the contrast between darkish shadows and reddish or blueish lightning).

The hard-boiled roughness of the action-sequences is, once again, emphasized by theuse of documentary-like shaky framing. Just like in the two earlier narratives, the sense of realism generated by this stylish decoration also enhances the stylish coolness of Narumi’s precise acts of violence.  

In contrast to The Killing Game (1978), Yuji Ohno’s jazzy and moody tones are richly applied in The Execution Game (1979). As a result, the final narrative of the Game-trilogy oozes with noirish stylishness and hard-boiled coolness. The dynamic flow of musical moodiness and sultry sounds does not only enhance the compositional rhythm, but also makes many elegant visual compositions more striking,giving them the power to deliver moments of scopic pleasure and keep the on the edge of his seat.

Once again, Yusaku Matsuda’s steals the show. His detached facial-expressions and cold-blooded body movements are not simply cool, but are visual highlights that enflames the phantasmatic space of the male spectator. Many spectators will, after watching any of the three films, fleetingly fantasize themselves into Narumi’s place. In fact, the Game-trilogy allows the male spectator to taste the impossible-to-attain phallic fantasy – to feel like a sure-shot when it comes to one’s targets, be it women that need to be seduced or men to be liquidated.

The Execution Game delivers a satisfying and stylish conclusion to the Game-Trilogy. Not only does Murakawa’s final narrative deliver many captivating action-sequences, but it also succeeds in delineating the very flaw that marks the male fantasy of desirability. Of course, this critical note does not short-circuit the main dynamic by which the male spectator enjoys these films. The spectator has lots of opportunities to identify with Yusaku Matsuda and take, from one’s own lazy couch, possession of the impossible, non-existent, and most dangerous thing: the phallus, that what the Other desires.

Notes

Narra-note 1: Naoko’s final act might come as a surprise for many spectators, but it offers the definite answer to the question whether her time with Narumi was merely an act or if he, as phallic as he is, truly succeeded in ensnaring her desire.   

Moreover, this act corroborates a statement we made in our review of The Most Dangerous Game (1978): while the presence of the phallus is but an imaginary ghost, it nevertheless impacts subjects.  

General-note 1: Some spectators might argue that Narumi’s character changes in each narrative, but if one keeps his attachment to the phallic fantasy and the need to avoid having a weakness, i.e. a woman, that can be exploited Narumi acts fairly consistent throughout the trilogy.