In the opening scene of *Human Vapor*—the first collaboration between Netflix and the historic Japanese studio Toho—Korean showrunner Yeon Sang-ho and Japanese director Shinzo Katayama skillfully demonstrate how science fiction has evolved since 1960, the year the original film *The Human Vapor* was released.
We are introduced to Kyoko Kono (Yû Aoi), a dedicated yet harried reporter, as she interviews a scientist on live Japanese television about his new method of generating energy from biomass. Suddenly, a strange, sentient vapor infiltrates the studio, slipping beneath the scientist's clothes and entering his airways. Chaos erupts: the autonomous, aggressive vapor floods the man's body and lifts him into the air. His clothes strain and his legs thrash violently as the vapor forces its way up his throat, until he finally explodes, raining blood and viscera down upon the studio.
Stars: Shun Oguri, Uta Uchida, Yû Aoi
Rendered with vivid, visceral CGI, this sequence is a graphic and shocking moment of body horror. Viewers who know only the basics of the series—that it is based on an old Japanese sci-fi film—will quickly realize that this reboot does not adhere to the style or restraint of 1960s monster movies. (The fact that the vapor-induced combustion is broadcast live seems, in itself, a critique of the extreme content seen on television today.)
All this occurs before we even meet the titular "Human Vapor": a sinister man in a suit, capable of shifting between physical and gaseous forms, who is responsible for a mysterious string of murders. But how does the Netflix series expand upon the scope of the original film, directed by Ishirō Honda—who also directed the original *Godzilla*—and featuring special effects by pioneer Eiji Tsuburaya?
*The Human Vapor* is a *tokusatsu* film; the term literally translates to "special photography" and refers to Japanese film and television productions that make prominent use of practical special effects. Think monster costumes, miniature battlefields and cityscapes, masked superheroes, and giant robots (*mecha*). (It is well known that *Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers* came about by adapting footage from the *tokusatsu* series *Super Sentai* to create new stories aimed at Western audiences.)
In the West, Ishirō Honda is best known for cementing the *kaiju* genre and for directing *Godzilla* and seven of its sequels. Special effects director Tsuburaya is often considered the "father of *tokusatsu*"; his fascination with the evolution of Western special effects in the 1920s and 1930s drove him to push the boundaries of the genre while working for Toho—first on war films and later on *kaiju* monster movies like *Godzilla*. His work in *tokusatsu* transcended cinema to reach television, where he created the original *Ultraman* series.
*The Human Vapor* belongs to a specific category within the *tokusatsu* universe: Toho’s "Transformed Human Series." This consists of three films in which scientifically altered humans—whose transformations render them amoral or outright villainous—use their new supernatural powers to steal and kill, forging their own ethical codes while evading the authorities. In *The Human Vapor*, Mizuno (Yoshio Tsuchiya) is a librarian who, after being discharged from the air force due to health issues, takes part in an astronautics experiment that goes wrong (imagine a version of *The Invisible Man* for the Japanese nuclear age). The scientist becomes Mizuno’s first victim; free and lacking a father figure to guide his powerful new existence, the gaseous man commits several bank robberies to fund the performances of his beloved Fujichiyo (Kaoru Yachigusa), a dancer trained in *Noh* and *Kabuki* theater who is desperate to relaunch her career.
Honda and Tsuburaya delay the man's initial transformation into vapor, but these occurrences come in rapid succession during the film's second half, combining various techniques—such as dry ice, optical compositing, and wirework—within a single sequence to achieve a convincing effect. The mystery plot is simple yet effective at immersing us in key relationships: primarily the one between the stern, disciplined Detective Okamoto (Tatsuya Mihashi) and his spirited journalist girlfriend, Kyoko Kono (Keiko Sata). Both attempt to solve the bank robbery on their own and serve as a mirror to the tragic devotion shared by Mizuno and Fujichiyo.
*The Human Vapor* centers on Mizuno, and Yoshio Tsuchiya’s intense, controlled charisma effectively conveys the character's newfound, serene yet arrogant ambition. He turns himself in to the police solely to demonstrate how easily he can escape; later, he meets the press to reveal his complex personal history, eager to explain his new ideology. The film stands out for incorporating a socio-political dimension: the atomic forces that granted Mizuno his powers also instilled in him a new morality, and his sense of superiority over society proves just as unsettling to the authorities as his supernatural abilities. "I am no longer a human being," he declares. "Therefore, I am no longer subject to human laws."
In their biography *Ishiro Honda: A Life in Film, from Godzilla to Kurosawa*, authors Steve Ryfle and Ed Godziszewski argue that the screenplay directly reflects a period of crisis and transformation in Japan: the central romantic plot pairs a working-class librarian with a woman from a fallen upper-class family, thereby reversing their fortunes; meanwhile, the dynamic between the rebellious Human Vapor—who defies authority—and an incompetent police force mirrored Japan's recent era of social unrest, marked by mass protests and strikes. This human-centric approach likely appealed to Japanese critics; Ryfle and Godziszewski note that major domestic publications praised the film, eventually leading to its cult status.
There is no bank heist in *Human Vapor*; the story, unfolding over eight episodes, is entirely original and focuses on entertainment idols and the yakuza as the narrative demands. Nevertheless, as an homage to Honda’s film, the Netflix version retains several elements. The protagonists are Detective Kenji Okamoto (Shun Ogori) and Kyoko Kono, though they are not a romantic couple—or at least, they are no longer one. They met while working on a case, but just as Kenji was about to propose, Kyoko jeopardized one of his investigations by interviewing the prime suspect prematurely, resulting in Kenji’s suspension.
As in the original film, Kyoko often stays one step ahead of the police: she records an initial interview with the Human Vapor (played by the model UTA) before officers arrive to arrest him. A key difference is that the Human Vapor’s mission now has an explicitly political dimension. Dressed in an oversized blue suit and speaking in a deadpan tone, he demands that everyone involved with the "White Center" pay for their past crimes, thereby igniting a conspiracy that links politicians, corporate executives, and corrupt police officers.
However, the character is conceived in a completely different way. Mizuno, the original "Human Vapor," was articulate and rational—a flesh-and-blood man whose psyche was plausibly altered by power, yet who still retained his human emotions. The series' version is far more menacing, despite being a man of few words; when he does speak, his voice is deep and measured, and his gaze is piercing yet hollow. In contrast to Mizuno’s vibrant, controlled energy, this Human Vapor appears locked in a hypnotic trance; the series plays on the contrast between his human form—sinister and restrained—and the hyperactive visual effects of his lethal gaseous powers.
As Kyoko and Okamoto track the Human Vapor, a story of institutional abuse and social neglect begins to take shape: the White Center, ostensibly a charitable organization, offered shelter to vulnerable, destitute people, only to exploit them through forced labor in inhumane conditions behind closed doors. Once we discover that the White Center is linked to a 1999 meteorite impact, the malevolent spite of the Human Vapor ceases to be quite so enigmatic. This version reinforces, with even more macabre conviction, the critique of authority figures who irresponsibly toy with the lives of desperate people.
Yeon Sang-ho and co-writer Takeshi Kimura ensure that no corner of their world escapes disillusionment and corruption, not even in seemingly trivial details: in Kenji’s first scene, he intervenes to stop a restaurant owner from extorting an immigrant employee; Kyoko meets an alcoholic journalist ostracized for having thoroughly investigated the White Center; and a former director of the center, now senile, spends his twilight years in a coastal commune, consumed by guilt. Even a lighter subplot midway through the season—featuring two horror-loving streamers who discover an early appearance of the Human Vapor in a music video—is steeped in precarity and desperation.
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