[The following review contains frank descriptions of sexually explicit material (albeit in a tasteful, artistic context); YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
Contrary to popular misconceptions that pervade certain dark corners of the internet, Japanese media tends to be—pardon the sweeping generalization—rather sex-negative. The relative popularity of some kinds of pornography—hentai manga, pinku eiga—endures precisely because they are considered taboo; even “hardcore” works are heavily censored, and many forgo intimacy and sensuality in favor of broad slapstick. Modern smut is just a guilty pleasure—indecent, obscene, vulgar.
What makes Junko Hirata’s Shunga: The Lost Japanese Erotica feel so radical and revolutionary is that it approaches its potentially lurid and sensationalistic subject matter as a legitimate art form. Adopting a frank, candid tone, the film thoroughly explores Edo-era lewd woodblock prints—from the genre’s meticulous, multidisciplinary craftsmanship to its surprising historical significance. Explicit—but never exploitative—the movie destigmatizes “graphic” imagery through exposure therapy, confronting the audience with exaggerated depictions of genitalia, intercourse, penetration, and ejaculation frequently and nonchalantly; any semblance of shame gradually evaporates as we become desensitized to the “mature content.”
In short, Shunga is a magnificent documentary, reinforcing the universal theme that people have always been so elegantly, beautifully human—regardless of time period, nationality, or social status.
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