I’ve always believed that storytelling has a strange power to both illuminate and obscure. But when I stumbled upon the story of a convicted cannibal’s manga in Tokyo, it forced me to confront a question I’ve been avoiding for years: How do we, as creators and consumers, navigate the line between confronting uncomfortable truths and exploiting them for profit? This isn’t just about a single book—it’s about the entire ecosystem of media that thrives on shock, trauma, and the grotesque.
Let me start with the most obvious: This manga is a grotesque relic of a man who committed unspeakable acts. But here’s what fascinates me—its existence isn’t just a footnote in true crime. It’s a mirror held up to our collective obsession with the macabre. I’ve seen this pattern before. Think about the way true crime podcasts thrive on the details of heinous crimes, or how war zones are reduced to clickbait headlines. We’re drawn to the horror, but what does that say about us? Personally, I think it reflects a deeper discomfort with our own fragility. We consume these stories not to understand suffering, but to feel superior to it. That’s a dangerous delusion.
The author of this manga, now a sort of infamous figure in Japan, didn’t just write about his crimes—he monetized them. He became a brand. His story was turned into adult films, documentaries, and even award-winning features. What makes this particularly fascinating is the lack of accountability. His victims’ families are rarely mentioned, and his crimes were technically erased from his record through legal loopholes. This isn’t just a failure of justice—it’s a systemic problem. When society allows monsters to profit from their own infamy, we send a message that horror is marketable. In my opinion, this is where the media industry stumbles. It’s not just about what we choose to cover, but how we choose to profit from it.
Here’s a detail that I find especially interesting: The bookseller who sold me the manga described it as a ‘slice of history.’ That phrase alone is chilling. It reduces human suffering to a curiosity, a historical artifact to be studied rather than mourned. I’ve seen this same mindset in coverage of war zones, where the faces of civilians are blurred, and the horror is sanitized for consumption. Shawn, the bookseller, admitted he’s become desensitized to such content over the years. If you’re looking at it constantly, it’s almost like you don’t even see humans in it anymore. It’s just content. This raises a deeper question: At what point does our obsession with the grotesque make us complicit in the very things we claim to condemn?
As I edited my film, I found myself grappling with the same numbness. I had to read through fan translations of the manga multiple times, and each time, I felt less disturbed. I even included more graphic images in my initial edit before pulling back. That’s the terrifying part—when we become desensitized, we stop questioning why we’re watching in the first place. What this really suggests is that the media’s hunger for attention is insatiable. We’re competing for dwindling attention spans, and the easiest way to grab them is with the darkest, most disturbing content. But is that truly constructive? Or are we just feeding a cycle of voyeurism?
I can’t help but think about the parallels with modern news coverage. The same way we consume this cannibal’s story, we reduce conflicts in Gaza, Ukraine, or Iran to hashtags and viral clips. We’re so focused on the spectacle that we forget the human cost. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about ethics—it’s about power. The media holds a mirror to society, but when that mirror is cracked, it reflects not the truth, but our own complicity. If you take a step back and think about it, the real horror isn’t the cannibal’s crimes—it’s the system that lets his story become a commodity. And that, my friends, is a far more insidious monster.
