Anime Impact. Chris Stuckmann
Читать онлайн книгу.
which one I’m talking about if you’ve already seen Wings of Honnêamise. If you haven’t, then let me warn you that there’s a scene midway through the film where Shirotsugh attempts to force himself on the virtuous Riquinni. It’s a neck-breaker of a tonal shift, completely out of the blue … and appropriate to instill the film’s harsh message, I would argue.
Yes, I know this view isn’t in line with many who’ve seen Wings of Honnêamise, and yes, I understand that any depiction of rape—even a failed rape—constitutes a nonstarter for plenty of people. That’s fair. But I disagree with the notion that this scene has no place in an otherwise masterful film. Instead, I would argue that it’s the ultimate confirmation of what Wings of Honnêamise has been preaching to us from the start: You’re gonna ef it up, son. I gave you something pure and good, and you can’t help but ef it up. It’s a brutal means of delivery, but the message is certainly on point.
And Riquinni’s reaction to Shirotsugh the next day is also on point. Rather than cast him out or fly at him with fists clenched—actions she’d be entirely justified in taking—she apologizes to Shirotsugh for hitting him. You read that right: Riquinni apologizes to her would-be rapist! Is this some sick joke?
Not at all. It’s the other side of Wings of Honnêamise’s thematic coin. Yes, humanity’s history is one of mucking up the good and the pure. But if there’s hope for us, then it lies in our willingness to turn the other cheek, even when we’re rightfully aggrieved. Because if we’re not working hand in hand to craft a better future for ourselves, we’re doomed to continue our perpetual cycle of build/ruin/rinse/repeat.
Space Force’s new rocket ultimately provokes an all-out invasion by the Republic. Of course it does. That’s partly what technology represents in Wings of Honnêamise: an excuse to give into our worst impulses. Yet Space Force’s rocket also represents a dream of a brighter future. That rocket just might lead humanity to the stars. And once you’ve made it there, who says you’re bound to the ugly cycles of history? Who says you can’t start anew?
So much of the technology we interact with daily insulates rather than inspires. It has us looking down instead of up. That’s a shame, because up is the direction where, just maybe, we’d catch a glimpse of the divine. Not that you need buy into that to take something from Wings of Honnêamise. Not at all. You just need to want to do your part to get people looking forward instead of back. And perhaps to be willing to forgive when your fellow man invariably ef’s up your pure and good designs.
Because he will. We are, after all, the worst. But maybe we don’t have to be forever.
John Rodriguez is a personal trainer whose devotion to physical fitness is exceeded only by his fervor for all things film and literature. John is currently finishing his first novel—a fantasy that’s sparked fantasies of a challenging new career.
— John Rodriguez —
And with these simple words—
“Neo-Tokyo is about to explode!”
—an anime fan is born.
I’d never been to the then-newish Cleveland Cinematheque before and didn’t know that I wanted to go, given its distance from my suburban haunt. But that one-sheet … that was something, huh? Just that boy—I didn’t yet know him as Kaneda—holding that preposterous rifle over a background of black, broken buildings. Who was this badass boy with the grim-set face? Was he this story’s eponymous hero? Those five block letters at his feet—the ones screaming AKIRA in bloody, bullshit-less red—surely suggested so. Would he wind up the harbinger of Neo-Tokyo’s imminent explosion, or perhaps serve as the city’s salvation? Suddenly, a thirty-minute drive into the city seemed less a burden than a necessary fact-finding mission.
And so I learned. I learned of Kaneda and the Capsules, that gang of young misfit motorcyclists. Of Tetsuo, the Capsules’ runt of the litter, chaffing at Kaneda’s smothering protectiveness. Of the espers, the wizened little psychics who presage the dangerous psychic powers growing within Tetsuo, and of Colonel Shikishima, the espers’ custodian and the hard case plotting to assassinate a boy in order to save a city. And, of course, of Akira, the doom and/or salvation buried under Neo-Tokyo’s Olympic Stadium.
Akira certainly wasn’t the first anime to leave a cultural footprint on America—those of us raised on Robotech, that bastard spawn of three unrelated series, know that well. Yet Akira was undoubtedly the tipping point, the keystone for myriad western anime fandom. So the question becomes: Why? Why this film, which didn’t even receive US distribution until eighteen months after its release in Japan?
Let’s start by looking at the competition. That trip of mine to the Cleveland Cinematheque took place during the summer of 1990. What kind of sci-fi fare could I have enjoyed had I chosen to stick closer to home? Well, Total Recall had just hit theaters. If that wasn’t my thing, I could have hitched my train to the final Back to the Future sequel. And hey, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was still karate-chopping its way to a $202 million worldwide gross in the local second-run theater. Cowabunga!
Is this to suggest that Akira’s western success is owed to a lack of viable competition? “Hardly,” says this Total Recall apologist. But while I enjoyed getting my ass to Mars as much as the next guy, I’d never hail Total Recall as heady cinema. Same goes for Back to the Future III and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: You can argue they’re fun, but you can’t argue they’re thinkers. If you think I’m cherry-picking, I invite you to scan down the list of 1990s top-grossing films. Spoiler alert: They don’t get any brainier.
Where, then, is the burgeoning intellectual science fiction fan to turn?
Enter Akira. Here’s a film with something to say! You take one look at Neo-Tokyo—that crowding vertical skyline, that sea of pinprick lights, each one a window on some anonymous life—and instantly understand why Kaneda and his Capsules simply must stake their claim to their scanty strip of street. Youth cries to be noticed. It rages against the notion that it must ultimately be consumed, must become one of “The Many” who shuffle through their daily routine, fuel for the machine. Kaneda’s Capsules call bullshit on that demand. And though we watch their little rebellion from cinema screens or televisions 7,000 miles away from their fictional exploits, we disillusioned young raise a cheer.
Then there’s Tetsuo. The boy with all the gifts, Tetsuo’s bubbling cauldron of rage and resentment is instantly recognizable to any teen. True, what’s fighting to burst from most teens is different than what Tetsuo’s bottling—not psychic energy but rather social angst and sexual frustration—but the principle remains the same. Of course, Tetsuo’s powers destroy him in the end, not to mention his girlfriend (R.I.P., Kaori: we hardly knew ye) and a goodly chunk of Neo-Tokyo. So, perhaps Akira can be read as a parable on the need for youth to reign itself in. Yet Tetsuo also transcends to something greater: a whole universe born of his personal Big Bang. Tetsuo the boy dies; Tetsuo the legend will live on until the last star in his new universe goes dark. That, friends, is a legacy. Who wouldn’t want that?
And though Akira is often dark in the extreme, there’s a fundamentally hopeful sentiment here. Akira’s old Tokyo wasn’t much to write home about before being leveled by the explosion that triggered World War III. Yet the city that rose from the rubble became more prosperous in just thirty years than its predecessor had ever been. Tetsuo couldn’t contain his powers—he literally burst apart at the seams. Yet during the film’s climax, the espers intone that Tetsuo’s evolution represent humanity’s future. This isn’t some nihilistic prophecy: it’s a suggestion that we as a species are growing, that through our strife and our selfishness—perhaps because of it, indeed—we stand on the precipice of Great Things.
There’s been a lot of hand-wringing over the notion of a westernized Akira, and that’s understandable. Akira is in many ways intrinsically tied to its roots—note in particular the notion of “rebuilding after the bomb,” a gargantuan task the Japanese understand all too well—and some of those root themes aren’t going to translate.