„The people of Japan always wanted to learn the way to win,
but never how to accept the way to lose, to accept defeat.”
- Ghost of Meiji from The Emperor's Night
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The Real Ghosts Left Behind
The Real Ghosts Left Behind
Due to SCAP’s policies, mentions about the Imperial Loyalists, or Formosa itself were heavily censored, however despite that, as early as late 1940s, urban legends and folk tales quickly emerged, especially in rural villages.
To this day, in the remote mountain regions of Nagano and Yamanashi, legends persist about ghost soldiers, described as phantom Loyalists rumored to have refused to surrender on the mainland in 1945. Tales speak of secret tunnels, hidden armories, and soldiers in ragged Imperial uniforms seen performing eerie night drills in forest clearings. Some associate the many disappearances in the Japanese mountains to this phenomenon.
Another urban legend, known mostly in the coastal communities, tells about ships that can be spotted sailing on the horizon during sunrise and sunset. This wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary, if it wasn’t for the fact the ships never move, and vanish as suddenly as they appeared. This led many to believe that those are ghosts of IJN ships that look for the mainland from the grave, but can never find it. A common joke told is that the only ship that managed to find its way home was the IJN Aoba, after the Formosan state-visit of 2005.
The most popular internationally, however, is the one about an anomaly in the entirety of Asia, known as Voices of Yamato, where travelers (allegedly) hear cryptic voices singing imperial battle songs after nightfall. The fact that through the years hikers still found (and still do) fresh markings left by teenagers and pranksters: 寧死不尋 (Death over Dishonor), carved into rocks and trees, fueled legends all over Japan. Over the years, many of these have embedded themselves into Japan’s culture and paranormal lore, inspiring various horror media, including the famous movie Blades in the Fog (1979)
Bushido Cinema
Bushido Cinema
In 1975, a few Smuggled Formosan reels (the origin is still unknown to this day) were smuggled into Japan. It was one of the only times where information escaped out of the mysterious island. Sparked by these movies, throughout the 1980s, a new politically-charged genre emerged, often touching on taboo topics and indirectly criticizing the Japanese government. In the west, it goes by the name of Bushido Cinema due to its heavy focus on the pre-war or war-inspired themes. One of the most popular ones, battling American productions in the box office, were Blades in the Fog (1979), The Emperor’s Night (1986), Ghosts on the Pacific (1987), and Last Son of Nippon (1988) that are now considered classics.
Blades in the Fog (1979)
Blades in the Fog (1979)
[To be written]
The Emperor's Night (1986)
The Emperor's Night (1986)
[To be written]
Ghosts on the Pacific (1987)
Ghosts on the Pacific (1987)
[To be written]
Last Son of Nippon (1988)
Last Son of Nippon (1988)
Last Son of Nippon, is a poignant drama that broke away from the usual, heavily hyperbolized portrayals of Imperial Holdouts as fanatical relics of the war. Directed by filmmaker Takuma Kajiwara, the film was loosely inspired by the real-life stories of men like Hiroo Onoda and Shoichi Yokoi, but rather than condemning and demonizing the main character outright, it sought to explore the profound loneliness, alienation, and moral confusion of those who emerged from the jungles years after the surrender.
The film follows Lieutenant Shōji Harada, a fictional Imperial Army officer discovered in the late 1975, a few months after the real-life “Last Holdout” - the infamous Hiroo Onoda. The first act depicts his life in the jungle of Guam, not as one of a fanatical soldier fighting for the empire, but as a slow, grinding existence defined by fear, habit, and deep loneliness. The tropical environment with no dialogue and long silences, broken only by sounds of movement, nature, and the distant roar of the ocean, reinforces the claustrophobic mental prison Harada has built for himself.
Once Harada is captured and returned to Japan, the second act shifts into a jarring portrayal of postwar society in the late Shōwa era. Neon-lit streets, television commercials, and English loanwords bombard him at every turn. His story attracts brief media attention, but public interest fades within weeks. He finds out his parents are dead, his brother died in 1945, and that his home burned down during the Tokyo Firebombing with a large apartment building standing in its place. Simultaneously, the government actively avoids offering him any meaningful support.
The script also serves as a critique of post-war society. Harada’s struggle to find work mirrors that of many former Japanese soldiers, not just the ones that refused to surrender, but ones that were ostracized from society and forced to work minimum-wage jobs, abandoned by the economic miracle. His trauma is unrecognized by the state, his sense of purpose is basically non-existent, and his attempts to connect with other people are met with awkwardness and unease. The film openly suggests that the Japanese government, eager to project an image of stability and modernity, had little interest in integrating such men into society beyond using them for symbolic headlines.
The final act offers no happy ending. Harada manages to find a job as a night guard, patrolling corridors in a local museum. Poetically, his life mirrors the one he lived until 1975. He guards something that belongs to history, while facing isolation and loneliness, just like he did all those years on Guam. In the final scene, he stands in front of the exhibit of various Japanese Uniforms from World War 2, and when he shines a flashlight on the glass, the viewer can see his reflection merge with the uniform. The camera lingers on his face, weathered, tired, while holding no trace of the soldier he once was.
Last Son of Nippon was praised for humanizing figures often reduced to a cautionary tale or a news headline. Critics called it a meditation on the price of loyalty, the cruelty of abandonment, and the dissonance between memory and modernity. It sparked debates in newspapers about the state’s responsibility to those it had once commanded to die for the Empire, and whether the economic boom had truly healed the wounds of the past, or simply buried them under steel and neon.
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