The latest reimagining of a classic tokusatsu property arrives soon with Netflix’s upcoming limited series Human Vapor, a Japanese-South Korean co-production written by Yeon Sang-ho (Train to Busan) and Ryu Yong-jae (Parasyte: The Grey), and directed by Shinzo Katayama (Missing). Hence, it’s a fitting time to look back at the source material, Ishiro Honda’s The Human Vapor, also known as The First Gas Man. Released in 1960 and written by Takeshi Kimura, this project originated from Tomoyuki Tanaka’s desire to create a Japanese adaptation of a story by John Meredith Lucas while also drawing loose inspiration from H.G. Wells’s The Invisible Man and the famous James Whale movie adaptation of the same name. When developing the script, Kimura would draw inspiration from contemporary events, including post-war economic uncertainty, the Anpo Protests against the United States-Japan Security Treaty, and a surge in high-profile bank heists. The film was released to critical acclaim and served as the final entry in Toho’s Transforming Human Series, following The H-Man and The Secret of the Telegian.
Ishiro Honda is a distinctive filmmaker because his influence is undeniable, yet his body of work is uneven in quality. A frequent criticism of his films is that the production focus leans so heavily on Eiji Tsuburaya’s special effects that the storytelling feels like a secondary afterthought, even if the underlying messages and themes are well-meaning. Varan, Battle in Outer Space, Gorath, and Dogora come to mind. Films like Godzilla, Rodan, Mothra, and Matango succeed because, while their special effects are a major draw, strong storytelling is essential to their lasting impact. That said, though Honda may not have been consistently strong as a filmmaker, there’s no denying that when he made a great film, it deserved recognition. The Human Vapor is one such example. It’s a showcase of him being on his A-game as a director while working with an equally talented creative team.
A series of bank robberies sweeps across Japan, prompting Detective Okamoto to launch an extensive investigation to find the suspect with the help of his girlfriend, newspaper reporter Kyoko Kono. The evidence points to Fujichiyo Kasuga, a traditional Nihon Buyo dancer, who has been inactive for quite some time and is planning a return to the stage. Though she comes from a wealthy background, evidence suggests the funds she uses to rent a theater space are tied to the stolen money, and she is arrested along with her aging attendant, Jiya. The case takes an unexpected turn when the real culprit, a seemingly ordinary librarian named Mizuno, reveals himself as the criminal mastermind behind the robberies in an attempt to clear her name. Even more shocking, he possesses the power to turn himself into vapor following a failed scientific experiment, having murdered the doctor in retaliation, and now vows to kill anyone who stands in his way. As law enforcement scrambles to find a way to arrest him, his relationship with Fujichiyo proves far more personal, as the two are revealed to be lovers.
The Human Vapor is leisurely-paced, excelling in its buildup, eerie atmosphere, and grand payoff. Complementing this is the film’s structure, which initially follows Okamoto and Kyoko as the leads as they look into Fujichiyo and Mizuno, before gradually shifting focus to the latter two, who emerge as the story’s most complex figures. What helps is that even as the narrative’s focus shifts, they all remain active participants throughout.
A major source of the film’s appeal is its genre-bending, mixing otherworldly science fiction with a tragic crime drama and touches of romance. More importantly, these elements come together seamlessly without ever feeling awkwardly juxtaposed. What begins as a compelling mystery gradually unveils something beyond human comprehension, while the deeper emotional undercurrents reveal something far darker and downright heartbreaking. Like with many of Ishiro Honda’s films, The Human Vapor is layered with underlying themes. But with a stronger emphasis on writing here, the special effects serve as a tool in the story, allowing Honda greater creative freedom to showcase his humanistic approach to storytelling, a passion evident throughout the film.
Many of the real-world influences that inspired Takeshi Kimura’s writing are woven throughout in a manner that feels natural and believable, filtered through Honda’s nuanced direction. For context, the chaotic turmoil surrounding the Anpo Protests was pivotal. Though open to peaceful relations between Japan and the United States, the left-wing protest movement harbored strong anti-authoritarian and anti-militaristic sentiments, voicing fears of nuclear warfare, entanglement in future Cold War conflicts, erosion of sovereignty, and the replacement of postwar pacifism with renewed militarism, given the continued presence of American military bases in Japan. As these protests unfolded, Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi responded with a heavy police presence, deploying law enforcement on a massive scale that many viewed as contrary to the ideals of postwar peace. Moreover, despite Japan entering a postwar economic miracle, there remained a ton of financial and social inequalities among ordinary citizens, alongside a rise in crime, including several high-profile bank robberies.
Honda, a devoted pacifist, and Kimura, known for being outspokenly anti-establishment, subtly and effectively integrate these real-world anxieties and issues into The Human Vapor. Law enforcement is willing to compromise its morals to solve a case, yet becomes practically powerless when pitted against an adversary with inhuman abilities, ultimately turning to outside help. Journalism is portrayed as a double-edged sword, with news reporters who will take the initiative to uncover the truth while profiting off the sensationalism amid the public panic sparked by shocking events.
Okamoto and Kyoko are unique in that they directly contribute to the moral ambiguities surrounding their respective professions, though neither is portrayed as outright villainous. They are humanized enough that their motivations are understandable. Okamoto is a no-nonsense detective but genuinely believes in protecting the innocent and upholding justice. While the press winds up feeding into public hysteria, Kyoko values pursuing the truth over misinformation and even makes a sincere effort to reason with Fujichiyo and hear her side of the story. In many ways, they serve as an anchor of normalcy in an otherwise bizarre case. Even their playful professional rivalry, as they come to terms with their feelings for one another, helps further ground the film.
Although we never learn how Mizuno and Fujichiyo met, their love for one another is unmistakable and openly expressed. Yet, beneath their mutual affection is a darker side. Mizuno’s feelings evolve into an all-consuming obsession, driving him to commit his crimes as a means to financially support her career. He’s willing to do anything for her, even if it means killing someone. Tragically, Fujichiyo was innocent and completely unaware of what Mizuno had been doing to obtain the money or the superhuman monster he had become. Innocent of his crimes, she was made guilty only by association. She merely wanted to restore her family’s legacy, return to her artistic ambitions, and settle down with the man she loves. The revelations about his actions understandably break her heart and foreshadow the tragedy to come.
The attention to detail throughout the film enriches both the story and the characters. This is evident in numerous subtleties, from the detailed methods employed by law enforcement and the newspaper reporting team as they work together to bring the main antagonist to justice to the poetic symbolism of the Noh masks Fujichiyo wears during her final Nihon Boyu dance performance. One mask is feminine, and the other demonic, highlighting the dark path she has been tragically drawn into. There’s even major foreshadowing early in the film when we are introduced to Fujichiyo in her home practicing that very dance with those same masks.
Despite being a criminal, Mizuno is a deeply tragic figure. He appears to have been a once-decent human being, an ordinary man who enlisted in the Japanese Self-Defense Force (JSDF) as a pilot but, following a lung cancer diagnosis, took a job as a librarian, where he is frequently belittled. Yet the careless actions of medical director Dr. Sano, who was referred to by the JSDF to use Mizuno as his human test subject for a space pilot program, resulted in him becoming this gaseous being. After killing the doctor in a fit of rage, he becomes enamored with his newfound powers.
Mizuno’s mind crumbles as he believes himself to be untouchable and above the law, further isolating him from society than he already is. Fujichiyo ultimately serves as his last anchor to humanity, drawing out the remaining semblance of decency from a man who tragically succumbed to becoming monstrous. It’s also eerie that Mizuno’s circumstances chillingly mirror the human experimentation conducted by the Imperial Japanese Army during World War II, most infamously at Unit 731. Along with that, it’s clear Dr. Sano wasn’t trustworthy. The prominent burn marks on him raise questions about the safety and legitimacy of his experiments, as does his passive attitude toward something going wrong with a human life involved. It’s even more disturbing to think this isn’t the first time he has experimented on humans and may have already resulted in fatalities. Mizuno surviving was merely a happy accident.
The performances are top-notch. The standout is Yoshio Tsuchiya as Mizuno, who looks like he’s having fun emphasizing the character’s more villainous traits while still bringing out the lingering traces of humanity left in him. With Fujichiyo as the emotional heart of the film, Kaoru Yachigusa handles the heavier dramatic moments with grace, scenes that will surely tug at the audience’s heartstrings. Detective Okamoto and Kyoko Kono are a fun, charismatic contrast to the other two leads. Tatsuya Mihashi’s Okamoto tries to remain composed under so much pressure, while Keiko Sawai’s Kyoko brings a spunky yet grounded energy. Though a minor role, veteran performer Bokuzen Hidari is memorable as Fujichiyo’s caring attendant Jiya.
For 1960, Eiji Tsuburaya’s special effects are incredible. While they may appear primitive by today’s standards, there’s much to appreciate in the ambitious techniques used to depict a man who can transform into gas, and they remain enjoyable to watch. The film looks beautiful overall, with striking set design and lighting that lend it an eerie, noir feel alongside the atmosphere of a classic monster movie. Special praise must be given to cinematographers Hajime Koizumi and Sadamasa Arikawa. Kunio Miyauchi’s music score is appropriately foreboding yet melancholic, with some tracks later reused in Ultra Q and Ultraman.
The basic premise may sound outlandish, but make no mistake. The Human Vapor is a marvelous film, a genuinely clever fusion of science fiction and crime that is entertaining and surprisingly emotional.
