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Aug 22, 2024
My grandparents had a summer home in the Appalachian Mountains when I was younger – a place my family visited nearly every year. One of my clearest memories of it came from a summer when I was probably nine years old. I had just reached an age where I was a small enough handful that my grandparents could watch me for two whole weeks. Even more exciting, I was going to be allowed to stay in the guest room upstairs – a haven previously reserved for only my parents, while my brother and I slept in the basement. One night, after struggling to fall asleep
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in the still-twilight (it’s not even dark yet, Grandma!), I went to the window and looked out to see what I could see. A thick forest lay straight ahead and in the periphery, but there were two small pockets where the trees were short enough to see over: on the left, another mountain rose, far higher than the one we lived on, with many small-looking houses interrupting its own trees. I used to imagine that the two red houses on the hill were the eyes of a monster I’d read about in a book, and occasionally even scared myself with my own imagination. On the right, there was nothing so close, but through a long corridor of leaves and branches, just visible above the shorter treetops, one lonely mountain could be spied on the very far off horizon. This view filled me with wonder, and birthed my great and enduring love of mountains. If I’d owned a camera, or been old enough to appreciate the view I had been given, I might have preserved this memory. Alas that I did not.
Many years later, in what we all felt might be the last year there – my grandparents, nearly 80, felt that their beautiful three-story house was becoming too difficult to maintain – I went up to that same guest room, recalling my childhood memory and hoping to relive it one final time. The left was nearly unchanged; the houses were all still there, and besides the unfortunate victims of the emerald ash borer, the trees remained green. But as I turned to the right, I was dismayed. In the twelve years since the memory was made, the trees had grown! The mountain I could see as a child no longer revealed itself to me. At the time, there wasn’t any tangible thing I could point to as a reason – it was only a mountain, after all – but a tremendous sadness came over me, and without fully understanding why, I felt tears well up. And while I have learned what it is that I felt in the years since, it wasn’t until now that I discovered something that so perfectly encapsulated it. That elusive emotion is nostalgia, and Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou is, in my mind, the ultimate distillation of it.
Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou, or “Yokohama Shopping Log” in English, is a story that takes place in civilization’s twilight. In its own words, “the world was like a festival, but now it’s winding down.” Our only evidence of disaster is ever-rising sea levels, but a cause is never given. Is it global warming, or some natural cause? Neither we nor the characters seem to know, and there is a certain acceptance of these conditions; precious little attention is given to stopping the sea, and while occasional mention is made of a town being submerged or a nearby cliff collapsing, it’s all taken in stride. Law and lawlessness both seem absent; all that’s left are those who just want to keep truckin’ on. It is by far the gentlest post-apocalypse I’ve ever seen. Realism, as you might have already guessed, is not a priority for this story. Story is technically the correct term, but even that feels too strong a word for what this manga is about. If you’ll indulge me in a brief history lesson, this manga belongs to the genre “Iyashikei,” or “healing” in English. The genre has its roots in the 1970’s with Isao Takahata’s TV adaptations of Anne of Green Gables and Heidi, Girl of the Alps, but didn’t fully become established until this manga began serialization in the mid-90’s. The genre has evolved and expanded since then, but its general focus has remained on maintaining a sense of calm relaxation, maybe for stress relief after a long workday. The hallmark of the genre’s best entries is a myriad of events that seem meandering and maybe even pointless, then a wave of emotions at the most unexpected times; often at events that would ordinarily seem, well, ordinary.
The protagonist undergoing this story’s ordinary events is Alpha, a green-haired android running a small café left to her by her owner. Bright and cheerful, but more than a little awkward around humans, she goes through life with an almost lackadaisical lack of urgency; after all, as an android destined to last far longer than the humans who created her, she has infinite time as far as she’s concerned. She meets an old man running a gas station, his grandson, an elderly doctor, a fellow android, all with the same cheerful aimlessness she has likely had for her whole prior existence. They are her friends, so to speak, and she enjoys her time with them, but there is a level of attachment missing from their relationships at the beginning. Alpha undergoes a few arcs during our time with her, but her most fundamental one is the valuing of these relationships and the memories associated with them; she may not change appreciably with the years, but the little boy she befriended has suddenly gotten a job far away and left the community; the doctor who repaired her after a lightning strike is nearing the end; even her small café changes with weather and natural disasters. Thus, her outlook is forced to change. She slowly realizes that she really does care about the people in her life, and her life becomes more intentional – she goes out travelling, she spends more time with her community, and her conversations become more meaningful – in a sense, her arc mirrors the coming-of-age stories of the children she befriends. She becomes focused on the time quickly passing her by and how it is affecting both her and her community – sometimes tearfully so.
Alpha’s increased focus mirrors the manga’s own, but while she has multiple priorities, the manga is singularly focused on the passage of time, from its post-apocalyptic setting to its lovable characters – the slow decay of human civilization, its reclamation by the sea and the flora, the growth of the children in the community, and the sadness left with the people they leave. There are no subplots to pull focus, because everything is a subplot, much like in real life. However, unlike in real life, a sense of calm pervades all of these events. The art is integral to this – it’s not as detailed or epic as some of the medium’s other classics, but it is precisely perfect at providing impressions – it encouraged me to sit, look for a while, and let my mind fill in the gaps on the page and absorb the quiet tone of the scene. That is not to say that every event is relaxing – a lightning storm or a collapsing cliffside are hardly events to be taken in stride – but the story’s focus is not on conflict or melodrama. Some people will inherently, and perhaps understandably, be turned off by the lack of action or a focused plot with clear goals, but I think that misses the point; it is the unfocused plot that allows for such a strong focus on the setting and theme. I mentioned earlier that this genre is famous for inducing emotion at seemingly ordinary events – Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou is full of such moments. In a city consumed by the waves, streetlights still flicker beneath the water’s surface. Two androids huddle under a blanket to watch a meteor shower. Alpha and the old man reminisce about the time they have left together, and the children who have grown up so fast. This conversation moved Alpha to tears, and I dare not deny that my own eyes watered up as well – the first time a manga has ever moved me that way. This manga’s greatest strength is its indulgence in the small moments, not unlike the best of the Studio Ghibli films.
As I made my way through Alpha’s life, I realized that this story’s powerful emotion came from nostalgia. Not the predictable, corporatized, artistically bankrupt variety that goads us into believing a sequel will live up to its predecessor – that version only serves to remind us of the things you loved without requiring introspection. Nostalgia, at its most potent, is more than just sentimental longing; to be sure, the memory of lost time is its best-known and most marketable component, but its complexity comes from pain: the pain of knowing and accepting that those times will not come back, making those memories all the more important to treasure. When I saw that the mountain from my childhood was now hidden, I did not cry for the mountain; at a subconscious level, I had realized that the days of my childhood were gone, never to return. But tearful reminiscing is not enough either: nostalgia should urge us to value our time in the moment; Alpha learns to live her life intentionally and cherish the memories of the people she meets, and her story also urged me to cherish the small moments of my own life. I have a young niece and nephew who are bigger and older each time I see them. Of the two grandparents who lived in the house which gave me that memory, one has already passed on. How long before all the moments from the present fade into memory? If nothing else, this story urges me to value the present, be intentional with those you care about, and, in time, cherish the memories they leave.
10/10
(Originally written on 8/22/2024)
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Aug 4, 2024
I have always enjoyed, and probably always will enjoy films more as stories than as metaphors. Stories are founded in knowable things: plot, characters, world, theme, etc. The engineer in me dislikes uncertainty; metaphors, which are so dependent upon the intent of both creator and consumer, lack the concreteness that appeals to me. In fact, I can only think of two movies I’ve ever seen that are questionable as stories, but evoked an incredible emotional response as metaphors. The first was Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, whose mythical atmosphere and overwhelming sense of awe trivialized, or perhaps were even enhanced by, any complaints about plot progression. The
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second was Hayao Miyazaki’s The Boy and the Heron, though it took two viewings to reach that point.
The film opens on Mahito, our protagonist, in a World War II-torn Japan. He loses his mother in the firebombings in a scene very evocative of Grave of the Fireflies’ opening, and his father marries her younger sister a few years later. After moving to the countryside, the new house Mahito lives in begins to feel . . . off, somehow. This strangeness is embodied in a mischievous grey heron who takes a peculiar interest in Mahito. This first hour or so is where the film is at its best structurally; Miyazaki imbues these scenes with an incredible tension that is only as effective as it is because of Hisaishi’s surprisingly minimalist score. The tension finally breaks when Mahito enters a spirit world in search of his adoptive (and partially his real) mother, who has disappeared.
What follows is a disjointed amalgamation of scenes that feel very much out of a Ghibli “Greatest Hits” collection. I never would have expected an easter egg hunt from Miyazaki, but I counted callbacks to nearly fifteen previous works from both him and his Ghibli collaborators. Each one is gorgeous – the animators seemed to be in a constant state of one-upping the previous scenes – but there is very little in the world connecting them. Miyazaki is often unjustly accused of disjointedness in his stories, but it cannot be denied here. Even in his previous fantastical works, there was nearly always something that grounded the world into something that felt “real”; the bathhouse in Spirited Away, the toxic jungle/sea of decay in Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, and Iron Town in Princess Mononoke come to mind. These locales brought a sense of familiarity to the fantastical, and kept the films cohesive while the worldbuilding was allowed to run wild. There is no such location here. As a result, I had a very difficult time, especially on first viewing, becoming invested in the world or its inhabitants – a first for Miyazaki’s catalogue.
Those inhabitants, despite lacking intrigue as characters in a film, became quite interesting when viewed as stand-ins for real people. Broadly, the film is often so busy jumping from scene to scene that I found it difficult to become emotionally invested – also a first for Miyazaki. Mahito is very plainly a stand-in for the director himself, and his struggle to move past the loss of his mother felt very personal. Himi, a girl who appears in the spirit world, is his mother. Interestingly, the film does not dwell on this point; they both seem to understand quickly what their relationship is, and only at the end do they let their emotions show. The film’s most interesting character is the old granduncle, the master of the spirit world. In an interview, producer Toshio Suzuki said he was a representation of Isao Takahata, Miyazaki’s mentor, colleague, and fellow master of the medium, who passed away early in the film’s development. The relationship between Mahito and the old man certainly feels reminiscent of a master and student in many ways, but a remark from Miyazaki brings to mind another parallel; the director said that he made the film as something to leave behind for his grandson before he passed on, and this relationship also feels poignantly relevant to the characters. Even the abundant Ghibli reminiscing feels in place here; it’s as if Miyazaki is saying, in a moment of rare humility, “Here is my life’s work. You may keep it or reject it if you wish.” All in all, the characters themselves left much to be desired within the confines of the film, but I couldn’t help but become invested in the metaphorical stories they represented.
What is decidedly unmetaphorical, and decidedly excellent, is every technical aspect of the film. Joe Hisaishi’s aforementioned score is brilliant, of course, but he is not the only one shining. My first viewing was in 35mm IMAX, and the art, animation, and soundscape were simply sublime, to the point I was disappointed on my second viewing in a traditional theater. Ghibli veterans Youji Takeshige and Kouji Kasamatsu returned as art director and sound director respectively, while Takeshi Honda of Evangelion fame joined as the animation director. The voice acting in both English and Japanese was phenomenal; I may even prefer the English dub. On every conceivable technical level, the film is masterful, which helped to alleviate my dissatisfaction at the story aspects.
On my first viewing, every flaw outlined earlier stuck out. And to be honest, as much as I’d like to say that my complaints were alleviated on second viewing, that would be a lie. Knowing what to expect made them easier to digest, but the film still lacks cohesion, and the characters still lack compelling personalities. And yet, as the old man’s kingdom of dreams and madness came crashing down at the end, I felt tears well up. In spite of my relative disinterest in the actual film, the metaphorical film reached home – a first for me. Did I merely convince myself to enjoy the potentially final film of my favorite director? It’s certainly possible. But even if that were true, I still would not be able to deny the impact that it had on me.
The film’s Japanese title translates to How Do You Live? The book of the same name was a childhood favorite of Miyazaki’s, and I also enjoyed it a great deal after reading it last year. While the film’s plot has little to do with the novel outside of a brief cameo, it remains an evocative question. Given the relationships portrayed between Mahito and Himi, Mahito and his great-granduncle, Miyazaki and his mother, Miyazaki and Takahata, and Miyazaki and his grandson, a thought struck me upon my second viewing. How do you live without those who came before; those who you idolized; those who mentored you; those who raised you; those who thrust their dreams upon you? Perhaps Miyazaki is saying that you simply must; each person has to decide how they will overcome their loss.
8/10
(Originally written on 12/9/2023)
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Aug 4, 2024
Empathy for the nihilist. That’s how I’d describe The Sky Crawlers. From the very first scene referencing the famous Albert Camus novel The Stranger, it is very clear that the film will mirror that famously nihilistic book in that the setting will be bleak and its characters bleaker. Nihilism is largely predicated on the idea that life is meaningless, and that few ways exist for humans to cope: religion, giving life purpose; escapism, shutting life out; or death, ending life, and therefore the suffering, forever. To be honest, I find nihilism to be a very useless ideology in the real world, for reasons anyone who
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knows me should find easy to understand. Therefore, any film (or book, I wasn’t particularly interested in The Stranger myself) entertaining, much less espousing the philosophy, will struggle to impress me. My almost overwhelming investment in The Sky Crawlers, then, probably speaks more to its strengths than almost any other film I’ve seen.
The Sky Crawlers’ basic premise portrays child fighter pilots who never age, and cannot die unless killed in battle. The film gives little explanation for this phenomenon, but doesn’t really need to; in fact, the world they live in is given very little depth. Normally I would consider this a problem, but it fits with the themes of the film; nearly all the pilots are precisely replaceable, able to be instantly and identically filled as soon as one dies. They are given a few false memories and therefore little personality, but this means their investment in their world would also be minimal. The dogfighting is merely “a job, like any other,” our main character says. Rote, boring, and ultimately meaningless. When a fellow pilot dies, there are no tears, no drama; everyone knows a perfectly identical replica, down to the minute mannerisms, is coming, different in name only.
Three names embody the ideals of the film: Yuuichi Kannami, the protagonist; Suito Kusanagi, his commanding officer and somewhat-romantic interest; and Naofumi Tokino, his roommate. Naofumi is the escapist; I get the feeling that he has accepted how bad his life is, and has decided to make the best of it. His indulgence in booze, women, and other vices gives a stark contrast to Yuuichi, who can’t seem to find satisfaction in any of these things. Yuuichi is the most quintessentially nihilist of the three; he drifts through his life without strong emotion, even when those around him have rare moments of vulnerability, much like Muersault in The Stranger. Suito has been struggling against suicide for years uncounted; a good enough pilot that she survived to a higher, non-combative rank, but now cannot end. She has a daughter who is nearly as old physically as she is, but she herself is stuck, eternally young and unable to end it all for herself, much as she’d welcome the sweet release. One more character reveals the tragedy: Midori Mitsuya, who has only just discovered the truth of her existence and therefore expendability, and tearfully struggles to deny it. Remember, this film is bleakly anti-war in its nihilism.
When it comes to the aesthetic, bleak is once again, predictably, the operative word; even the sunlight feels cold. The film boasts nearly photorealistic backgrounds courtesy of art director Kazuo Nagai, alongside incredibly detailed CGI planes for the aerial combat. I make no secret of my usual disdain for CG in animation, but it genuinely does fit here. Everything in the film, from the planes, to the buildings, to the characters, feels sterile. The character designs are very minimalist, which is unusual for an Oshii production. The faces are very round with barely any definition; eyes, a mouth, and a nose are all most of the children get. While these choices of photorealistic sterility and character simplicity individually serve to emphasize the themes already established, I must admit that they clash very harshly when put side by side; the visuals were a major reason the film struggled to invest me for so long. Luckily the soundtrack is there to pick up the slack; Kenji Kawai’s operatic score is mesmerizing without feeling too epic for the film’s ideals.
Following in the proud tradition of Grave of the Fireflies, Blade Runner, and Gunslinger Girl, this film adamantly refuses to indulge in its violence or its vices. Many lesser works would portray Yuuichi’s exploits as triumphant or at least satisfying. Here, while animation director Tetsuya Nishio makes sure that they are remarkably well-animated, they only ever feel rote and sterile. They never even feel tragic. The violence has little blood; the brothel has no nudity or sensuality; the only visualized destruction is of the airplane. There is no concrete goal; there is only the dogfight. The film does not debase itself by cutting away to sneering government executives; its focus is only on the pilots. While this is a trait shared by many antiwar films – 1931’s All Quiet on the Western Front, most notably – it also emphasizes the meaninglessness that Yuuichi sees in his predicament. Yuuichi’s description of his work as “just a job” also feels like a jab at Japanese work culture. Oshii has often been critical of the inhuman hours his peers in the industry have both worked and forced their subordinates to work; Japan’s high suicide rates speak for themselves. Nihilism, I imagine, is a popular sentiment in many professional fields. The violence in the film is just as boring as the long, mostly-meaningless days sitting at a desk in the real world.
Many people have called the film boring for these reasons, among others; I empathize with the sentiment, since it took me a full hour – half the film’s runtime – to become invested in either the story or its characters. As I said earlier, most of the characters not named Suito lack deep personalities. This is deliberate. Deep personality would be unrealistic in their setting, as they almost never grow old and are replaced often. The commentary on soldiers in war is explicit: soldiers are expendable; one dies, and is easily replaced. Another falls, and another with a personality dictated by his trainers takes his place. Even if they do survive, they do not grow old. They’re trapped in an endless loop where little hope remains of rehabilitation. One pilot is the exception to the rule. He is called The Teacher, and he is an adult, as well as the best pilot in the film. All we ever see of him is his airplane; the protagonists are on the opposing side from him, and he serves as their antithesis. Some see him as an unstoppable force, others as their only chance at release. Perhaps he is someone who found purpose, or maybe he represents an unreachable god; one who is unconcerned with the lives of those under him, but will welcome those who seek him to their final rest when their time has come. Mamoru Oshii has made mention of his fascination with religion, after all; especially Christianity, though he claims to be agnostic himself.
Ultimately, the film seriously enthralled me. As it wore on (and it does wear slowly), my investment in the story increased, my attachment to the characters became deeper, and my understanding of Oshii’s message became fuller. Antiwar films are hardly a new idea, especially in anime. This is the industry that Osamu Tezuka and Hayao Miyazaki helped establish, after all. The pairing with an almost aggressive banality is what makes this film so interesting. This film unapologetically pities the soldier, and unswervingly portrays his and her plight as inescapable, but rarely feels like a tragedy. Yuuichi implores Suito to keep living until she can find a way to change things, but his own mind is already made up; he goes to find The Teacher soon after. Why bother valuing your own life, either in war or in professional life, when you can and will be instantly and perfectly replaced? While the film’s ideology is one I cannot and will not ever espouse, I cannot deny the film’s incredible impact. Its success at forcing my empathy towards its worldview is undeniable. Perhaps Oshii himself is aware of the immaturity I (and probably others) see in nihilism when applied too broadly; but then again, as Yuuichi says, “Do people who might die tomorrow have any need to grow up?”
10/10
(Originally written on 2/12/2024)
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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