Midori (1992)

Midori (1992) is the kind of film that feels less like “entertainment” and more like a feverish, hand-crafted artifact dug up from the darker corners of animation history—singular in style, uncompromising in mood, and impossible to mistake for anything else. Hiroshi Harada’s imagery turns the carnival into a grotesque storybook, where beauty and rot sit side by side, and the romance of a “magician’s promise” flickers like a match in a storm. It’s harrowing, yes, but its power comes from how earnestly it confronts trauma and exploitation without sanding down the edges, using animation to evoke dread and empathy in ways live action rarely dares. This is not for the squeamish—its content is severe and includes sexual violence—but for viewers drawn to extreme, challenging art that tests what the medium can express, Midori can feel like a brutal, unforgettable masterpiece.

Midori is trying to be an unflinching, taboo-shattering tragedy about exploitation and the false hope offered by “saviors,” wrapped in grim, underground animation. The problem is it doesn’t just depict cruelty—it wallows in it, with extreme sexual violence and degradation that many viewers will find more punishing than meaningful, and a narrative that can feel disjointed rather than deliberately surreal. If you’re looking for horror with catharsis, romance with tenderness, or even a coherent descent-into-darkness arc, this is likely to feel like endurance cinema. The only real redeeming angle is its raw, outsider-art audacity and willingness to go where most films won’t—but that’s exactly why it’s a hard pass for anyone sensitive to abuse content or who wants their time spent on something less relentlessly bleak.