HAUNTED BY CHROME/ The Spectral Borderlands of Wicked City

Gothic horror and erotic violence in a cuber-city alley

Having existed on the internet almost from its beginning, I was one of those kids lost in its vastness from early on. Especially YouTube. In a crazy summer night, I so wanted to look for a song in this hub of videos and, after some spiraling, I ended up here. A trailer for the Wicked City, the 1987 anime B-movie masterpiece. The film itself is a study in liminality.

As the 20th century sputters to a close, Wicked City paints a hauntingly beautiful portrait of a world fractured. Beneath the gleaming veneer of a hyper-capitalist boom lies a grim secret: a spectral borderland where humanity and a hidden demon world co-exist in uneasy alliance. The Black Guard, a clandestine police force shrouded in shadows, safeguards this fragile peace, forever teetering on the precipice of oblivion.

Bordering the neon-drenched tropes of the genre, an accumulation of gothic horror elements and unsettling erotic syntheses are crafted in front of your eyes. It's a product of Japan's "bubble economy" period, a time of dizzying economic growth and hidden anxieties. The film reflects these anxieties, plunging us into a world where the line between progress and perversion blurs. But, also, it’s a product of MADHOUSE studios, this legendary studio that gave us so many hidden for some animated gems. You know it to be good.

A mesmerizing exploration of a decaying future through the lens of liminal aesthetics, starts from the first seconds of this movie. These in-between spaces, neither here nor there, create a profound sense of "betwixt and between." We see it in the sprawling cityscapes. Towering, chrome-plated skyscrapers pierce the polluted sky, casting long, ominous shadows on the dilapidated industrial zones below. These zones, once symbols of industrial might, are now skeletal reminders of a glorious past, slowly being swallowed by the encroaching neon jungle. This juxtaposition of decaying structures and the city's vibrant, artificial glow creates a disorienting effect. We are both fascinated and repelled by this urban sprawl, unsure of its true purpose. The city as a greenhouse of human activity, soul identity and choosing a “side”.

Color, in Wicked City, becomes a weapon of disorientation. Wicked City's color palette is as crucial to its liminal aesthetic as its architecture. The harsh, polluted blues and greens of the cityscapes are a constant reminder of a world clinging to the vestiges of life. Those tonal blues and greens of the cityscapes, reminiscent of a decaying world or a trope like color code for advancement, are constantly punctuated by the blinding neon glow of advertisements and entertainment districts. This jarring contrast disorients the viewer: Is this a vibrant city or a decaying hellhole? Perhaps it's both, simultaneously. The truth lies in the oppositional elements. Warm, yellow hues associated with comfort and familiarity appear fleetingly in scenes within bars or apartments, offering a temporary sense of refuge. However, these moments are brutally ripped away, plunging us back into the cold, unforgiving reality of the city.

The film transports us to a space-time so shrouded in uncertainty, your viewing experience and your couch cannot be guaranteed anymore. We see this feeling sprawl across the desolate industrial zones that bleed into the city's neon underbelly. These decaying landscapes are the ghosts of a bygone industrial era, their skeletal frames casting long shadows across the city's insatiable hunger for light. This juxtaposition – the cold, industrial blues and greens punctuated by the feverish glow of advertisements – disorients us. We are both drawn to and repelled by this urban sprawl, unsure of its true purpose, its soul, if it ever had one.

The narrative itself becomes a participant in this haunting. Scenes unfold with a dreamlike quality, lingering on seemingly mundane details. Time seems to dilate, stretching and contracting, mirroring the characters' own sense of being trapped in a never-ending cycle. This deliberate pacing allows the oppressive weight of the city and the characters' internal struggles to seep into our bones. The film jolts us out of this dreamy state with sudden bursts of graphic violence. These moments are shocking, but not gratuitous. They underscore the brutality of this dystopian future, where survival is a constant, gnawing imperative. The violence becomes another specter, an unwelcome reminder of the cost of existing in peripheries.

Wicked City's brilliance lies not just in its aesthetics, but in its ability to confront us with the ghosts we carry within ourselves. The characters, trapped in their liminal spaces, become unsettling reflections of anxieties about the future. Is the line between human and machine irrevocably blurred? But in that sense, Wicked City isn't cyberpunk. It transcends the neon-soaked tropes of the genre, burrowing instead into a spectral borderland, a haunted space where past and future bleed into a grimy, uncertain present. Here, the gleaming chrome of cybernetic enhancements isn't a symbol of progress, but a constant reminder of a fractured humanity, a chilling premonition of where our own path might lead. Highlighting a world teetering on the brink, where the past casts long shadows and the future is shrouded in uncertainty. It's a haunting masterpiece that lingers long after the credits roll, prompting us to question not just the characters' fate, but our own place in an increasingly liminal world, falling on the edge.