By Kazuo Umezu
Published by Viz
Rating: Older Teen (16+)

Kazuo Umezu’s writing defies easy categorization. His horror stories unfold in an almost haphazard fashion, seldom offering Western readers the kind of inevitable showdown between supernatural menace and righteous avenger that’s de rigeur in grindhouse flicks. In a less charitable frame of mind, I might suggest that Umezu was simply making it up as he went along, adding whatever Grand Guignol flourishes tickled his fancy; in a more critically responsible frame of mind, I’d argue that Umezu uses non-sequitors, heightened realism, and Freudian imagery to create a hallucinatory atmosphere that thumbs its nose at logic or teleology.

Artist Mizuho Hiroyama offers this pithy assessment of Umezu in the afterword to Cat-Eyed Boy:

But just what is this unforgettable bizarreness that lies at the core of Umezu’s world? Is it a child’s nightmare? I think that this probably the best way to describe it� It’s simply fear. The escalating fear and imagination of a child who is unable to fall asleep in a pitch-dark room late at night� thinking about the worst-case scenarios and wondering, “What would I do if this happened?”

I think Hiroyama is on to something here: as anyone who’s read The Drifting Classroom knows, that entire series reads like a child’s nightmare, filled with terrifying monsters, chase scenes, and irresponsible–or worse, evil–adults whose inability to save the day forces children to rely on themselves.

These same motifs recur throughout Umezu’s work, especially in Viz’s deluxe, two-volume edition of Cat-Eyed Boy. The collection encompasses eleven stories of varying length that are tied together by the presence of the titular character, a half-demon, half-human creature. As that description implies, Cat-Eyed Boy finds himself relegated to the periphery of both worlds, ostracized by demons and humans alike. His role varies from story to story; in some, he’s an active participant in events, while in others, he serves as a kind of J-horror Greek chorus, commenting on the action without playing a direct role in the outcome.

By far the strongest entry is “The Tsunami Summoners.” On one level, it’s an origin story, explaining where Cat-Eyed Boy came from, how he was exiled from the demon world, and why humans greet him with such suspicion, despite his frequent efforts to intervene on their behalf. On another, it’s a superb example of Umezu-style comeuppance theater, as a small coastal village is punished not only for mistreating one of their own members but for ignoring an ancient warning about a sea-borne menace. Everything about the story works beautifully: the crack pacing, the unforeseen plot twists, and the genuine pathos of Cat-Eyed Boy’s situation as he tries to protect the same villagers who tormented his sole human friend. The summoners are a particularly effective menace, as their initial appearance is relatively benign–they look like brain-shaped rocks, perfect for building walls and houses–allowing them to insinuate themselves into the story before we’re really aware of the danger they pose.

Other standouts include “The One-Legged Monster of Ondai,” a cautionary tale about the evils of lepidoptery; “The Thousand-Handed Demon,” a blood bath in which a evil spirit possesses a statue of the Buddhist deity Kwannon; and “The Stairs,” a story about a boy so eager to be see his late mother that he ignores all warnings about the perils of crossing between the lands of the living and the dead.

Several stories were simply too long or scattershot to leave much of an impression. The chief offender is “The Band of One Hundred Monsters,” a rambling tale in which a group of hideously deformed humans aspire to become demons. I thought it was going to be an extended riff on the creative process, as the story initially focuses on the interaction between the “monsters” and a manga-ka known for his bizarre horror tales. Instead, Umezu quickly dispatches the manga-ka and steers the narrative in a wholly unanticipated direction, with the Band of One Hundred going vigilante on pretty, soulless people. The net result is about as successful a union as peanut butter and gefilte fish: it’s never clear what the rationale is for combining these two storylines, as they don’t work together at all.

Viz presents Cat-Eyed Boy in two generously sized volumes, totaling almost 1,000 pages of story. Both are beautifully packaged, with French flaps, creamy paper stock, and color pages. I particularly liked the endpapers, which catalog the various demons found in both volumes. And what a rogue’s gallery it is–these monsters are considerably more grotesque than anything Umezu conjured for earlier series, sporting myriad eyes, warty skin, tentacles, and grossly misshapen bodies. Most of the stories aren’t terribly spooky or shocking by contemporary standards, but the sheer oddness of the character designs will get under your skin like images from a particularly vivid nightmare.

Volumes one and two of Cat-Eyed Boy are available now.