Cultureist

The problem of the fantastic in Stranger Than Fiction

2009-06-29T14:29:00.001-04:00

My wife got the 2006 film Stranger Than Fiction from Netflix this weekend, and since she went with me to see giant robots pummeling each other I watched it with her.

(OMG SPOILERS AHEAD RUN!!!)

The premise of the narrative is that the protagonist, Harold Crick, one day begins hearing the voice of author Kay Eiffel in his head, narrating his life. He eventually figures out that he is a character in one of her books, and since she kills off all her characters, he must find a way to stop her from finishing her manuscript.

In the end, all parties, including Harold, decide that Eiffel's book is just so good that it needs to be finished, and therefore Harold must die. This is, of course, absurd, but I can suspend (just barely) my disbelief and imagine that the book was so moving Harold and everyone else found its completion more valuable than his mundane life.

The problem with the narrative is that Harold and Eiffel meet, and Eiffel becomes aware of what she is doing. At that point the conceit of the story ceases to be fantastic and becomes mechanistic.

In The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, Tzvetan Todorov defines the fantastic:

In a world which is indeed our world, the one we know, a world without devils, sylphides, or vampires, there occurs and event which cannot be explained by the laws of this same familiar world. The person who experiences this event must opt for one of two possible solutions: either he is the victim of an illusion of the senses, a product of the imagination – and the laws of the world remain what they are; or else the event has indeed taken place, it is an integral part of reality – but then this reality is controlled by laws unknown to us. Either the devil is an illusion, an imaginary being; or else he really exists, precisely like other living beings – with this reservation, that we encounter him infrequently.

The fantastic occupies the duration of this uncertainty. Once we choose one answer or the other, we leave the fantastic for a neighboring genre, the uncanny or the marvelous. The fantastic is a hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event. (25)

Once Harold meets Eiffel and they confirm to each other that they are each real, the phenomenon becomes a real phenomenon, and like all real phenomenon it is subject to rules, even if we don't understand those rules yet.

In other words, at this point in the narrative the phenomenon shifts from something fantastic happening to Harold to a super power that Eiffel possesses. As every comic book reader knows, super powers follow rules and have loopholes. And the film itself establishes some rules for her power: things only happen to Harold once Eiffel has typed them on her typewriter; writing with a pen won't do it. And they only fully take effect once she has typed the period at the end of the sentence.

So, once we've established that the phenomenon is real and follows rules, any sensible person would try to find out what the rules are and game them. Rather than choose between Harold's life and the greatest piece of literature of the decade, why not try to game the system so you can have both? Anyone faced with this dilemma would have tried to, for instance, change the main character's name to see if that would break the link between the manuscript and Harold. Or, since pen writing doesn't count, have someone else try typing her penned manuscript, to see if Eiffel personally typing is required for the power to be activated. Or she could write a happy ending, then throw out the last few pages and write the ending she wanted; presumably her power doesn't extend to changing the past.

Obviously, a story about Eiffel testing the rules and limits of her newfound super power is not the movie the writers wanted to make. But the fact that the characters don't act in a way that any sensible person would without any explanation is a glaring problem with the narrative.

Narrative Formation and Commercials

2009-04-09T14:30:00.001-04:00

How do commercials affect narrative formation? Commercials for a narrative product are seen months before the actual narrative is out. They are designed to create anticipation for the narrative product, and so they inevitably also create expectations for it as well. When consumers actually get the product, therefore, they have already formed an understanding of it that will color their interaction with the narrative.

On a superficial level, this can just mean that people will go into a movie saturated with media hype that the movie will be totally awesome, and will come out thinking that it was indeed pretty awesome, even if they would have hated it absent the hype. And, of course, commercials can totally misrepresent products, creating disappointment in a product that would have been good on its own but doesn't measure up to its own advertising.

But what happens when a commercial does something more subtle, like emphasize one element present in a narrative over others? Can it make consumers go into a narrative more attuned to that element than otherwise, in effect playing a part in constructing the narrative?

I think it's possible. I started thinking about this after going back over the excellently produced commercials for the Xbox360's flagship games, Halo 3 and Gears of War. First, the several Halo 3 commercials from its advertising campaign:

These commercials are brilliant. By setting them decades after the events in the game, as interviews with veterans decades after the battles in the game, they in effect become an afterward to the game. Although they are advertisements, they become part of the narrative. They actually create new narrative content. In addition, they create a new narrative emphasis for the game. The commercials construct an image of Master Chief as a hero that gives the marines hope, drawing them together and giving them the courage to fight on, a shining beacon in the dark hell of war. Decades later, that heroism and that hope is still etched indelibly in the hearts and minds of the veterans.

The game story itself is fast-paced action narrative, where Master Chief goes from crisis to crisis with hardly any moment to catch a breath. There is not a lot of room for character development. The narrative does feature some hints of the heroic image the marines have of the Chief; he is greeted with joy when he comes across a new group of them, and they rally around him. But this is certainly not the narrative's main focus, and it doesn't devote much time to developing the marines, the Chief's relationship with them or the image of the Chief in their popular imagination.

Do these commercials bring out that narrative element more strongly? I think its possible that they do. Every time a marine cries “It's the Chief!” players will probably think about the commercials, and how these marines, elated to see Master Chief, may decades later become the veterans who reminisce about how the Chief gave them the hope they needed to keep fighting. The marines' happiness at meeting Master Chief is an element present in the game, but I think the commercials bring it out much more strongly by linking it to the new narrative content they provide.

And then there's the Gears of War commercials:

Although not as involved as the Halo 3 commercials, this commercial still contributes to narrative formation. In the game story, again an action narrative that moves from one barely contained crisis to the next, Marcus Fenix is portrayed as a gruff, unflappable soldier who accepts that every battle will probably go FUBAR and turn into some fresh hell. A hell he is fully prepared to shoot and hack his way out of. Despite his soul patch, his character is not developed as the kind of person who would wander through the crumbled remains of a once-glorious city, examining broken statues and reflecting on what the world has lost.

This commercial adds that narrative element. Fenix barely comments on the ruined world around him, and is more concerned with using it as cover than pondering it. But as the narrative takes the player from demolished concrete buildings to astonishingly well-preserved beautiful structures that provide a glimpse into the glorious city that once was, players might well remember Fenix morosely examining the ruins of the city, reminding them that there might be another side to his character when he's not flung headlong into battle after battle.

So when commercials act more subtly than just hyping or misrepresenting a narrative, I think they can contribute significantly to narrative formation by emphasizing certain elements present in the narrative that might otherwise not have come out as strongly. And in some cases they can even add new narrative content, acting like an addendum to the main narratie.

Battlestar, we will miss you

2009-03-25T11:15:00.003-04:00

I'm glad Battlestar Galactica concluded, but sad that it's over. Or, more accurately, I'm sad that there's nothing else on TV that even approaches its caliber that I can watch now.

BSG is, I think, on the short list for best TV show ever. It is a serious attempt at a narrative that takes advantage of the television format to create a vast narrative scope. It has a movie's focus on a singe coherent narrative, but the long format creates a story that could never be told within the time limits of a movie.

It is definitely the best Science Fiction TV show ever made, and possibly the best visual SF narrative as well, right up there vying with Blade Runner and such. Unlike most science fictional narratives it:

Has real characters, with real flaws. They obsess, fail, get drunk, get depressed, act irrationally, marry, divorce, break down, etc. In most SF television shows characters only have superficial flaws (i.e., Worf is antisocial, Rodney McKay is arrogant), and only do anything seriously wrong when under the influence of an alien virus/transporter accident/mind control or when replaced by an evil version of themselves from another dimension.
Has a plot. As mentioned above, it has a single coherent plot that progresses from the first episode to the last. Although there are couple of episodes that focus more on character exposition than plot development, for the most part BSG avoids the planet-of-the-week trap that most SF shows fall in to. And because it is a TV narrative it can tell a more in-depth narrative than any short movie, no matter how brilliantly executed.
Rides the Science Fictional knife edge perfectly. There are two ways to go wrong with the science fictional element of a SF narrative. The first is to essentially ignore it, fiat that some technology exists that lets us do all of this stuff in space, and not try to engage with it. This is what happens in most SF anime; the science fictional element doesn't add anything to the narrative, and the war that is being fought in space might as well be fought as a naval war in Earth's oceans, except that giant robots probably wouldn't float so well. The second way to go wrong is overemphasis of the science fictional element, at the expense of the plot and characters. This happens mostly in SF novels, where an author is more excited about explaining his fictional technological development than creating a narrative. It also hurts shows like Star Trek, which use technological wizardry to solve any problem and save the characters from having to make any hard choices. BSG, however, has just enough science fiction. The science fictional elements are crucial to the plot and add significantly to the narrative (cylons, resurrection, the nature of FTL travel, etc), but the technology doesn't take center stage, and it doesn't save the characters from having to fight a bloody defensive war that engenders great loss.

Of course, the big thing that sets BSG apart is that it is just well written. It tackles big issues, and its themes are both timely and timeless. It investigates the morality of torture right alongside the nature of humanity. Characters are believable and mutable. The plot mysteries are layered, so that the mysteries presented at the beginning of the show are peeled back to reveal more mysteries underneath.

It is, overall, one amazing narrative, and it will be missed.

Most men internally refer to themselves as "ore"

2009-02-13T13:57:00.002-05:00

That from a discussion of the revisions to the list of Jōyō kanji over at No-sword. "Ore," the more aggressive, self-elevating male first person pronoun, is apparently in the official list of commonly used kanji this year.

I've always wondered about that. Although there are some hints in interior monologues in literature, often personal pronouns are left out altogether, making it difficult to pin down what pronoun characters would refer to themselves with in the absence of social considerations.

Some photos of architecture

2009-02-07T08:16:00.006-05:00

Here are a few photos of a new addition to the University of Virginia's Campbell Hall (appropriately, the architecture building). It really has a great modernist aesthetic, showing off the austere beauty of unadorned concrete, metal and glass. I really like it! It's especially nice in Charlottesville, where, for some reason, everything must pretend to be built with brick, even buildings that no one would ever really build with brick.

At the right is the old building it attaches to (brick, of course).

For some reason they felt the need to fill the framing holes with these plastic things. It just looks kind of cheap. Is this normal? I can't be sure, but I think in buildings I've seen before they've just been left open.

It's Intentional

2009-02-04T14:50:00.003-05:00

Great post from Acephalous on convincing people that comic imagery is worth analyzing:

As anyone who teaches funny books or films knows, the task of convincing students that the scene before them is anything other than incidental would try Job's patience....

I've designed an introduction to visual rhetoric assignment that forces students to understand that all comic and film images are obscenely overdetermined. On the first day of class, I'll present them with Alan Moore's script for the eighth panel on the first page of The Killing Joke:

NOW WE ARE LOOKING AT THE POLICE CAR SIDE-ON SO THAT WE SEE THE UNIFORMED OFFICER STANDING FACE-ON TO US OVER ON THE LEFT AS HE STANDS WITH HIS BACK TO THE CAR AND COMMISSIONER GORDON FACE-ON OVER TO THE RIGHT, LEANING AGAINST THE CAR AND DRINKING HIS STEAMING COFFEE, MAYBE LOOKING UP WITH A QUIZZICAL AND CONCERNED LOOK OVER THE RIM OF HIS CUP TOWARDS THE EXTREME LEFT OF THE FOREGROUND, WHERE WE CAN SEE THE BATMAN ENTERING THE PICTURE FROM THE LEFT, IN PROFILE. SINCE BATMAN IS (a) CLOSER TO US AND (b) TALLER THAN EITHER THE COMMISSIONER OR THE PATROLMAN IN THE BACKGROUND WE CANNOT SEE THE TOP OF HIS HEAD HERE ABOVE THE BOTTOM OF THE NOSE AS THE FRONT OF HIM ENTERS THE PANEL ON THE LEFT. HIS EYES AND UPPER HEAD ARE INVISIBLE BEYOND THE TOP PANEL BORDER AND ALL WE CAN REALLY SEE IS HIS MOUTH, WITH THE BIG AND DETERMINED SQUARE JAW AND THE GRIM AND DISAPPROVING SCOWL OF THE LIPS. THE BATMAN DOES NOT APPEAR FROM HIS POSTURE TO SO MUCH AS GLANCE AT EITHER GORDON OR THE PATROLMAN AS HE WALKS PAST THEM EVEN THOUGH BOTH OF THEM STEAL GLANCES AT HIM WITH DIFFERING LOOKS OF UNEASE. THE PATROLMAN LOOKS UNEASY JUST TO BE IN THE BATMAN'S PRESENCE, WHILE GORDON LOOKS MORE CONCERNED ABOUT THE BATMAN'S POSSIBLE STATE OF MIND. RAIN DRIPS FROM EVERYTHING, INCLUDING THE BATMAN'S JUTTING AND GRIZZLED CHIN. GORDON GIVES THE LARGELY-OFF-PANEL VIGILANTE A PENETRATING LOOK OVER HIS COFFEE CUP, AND THE BLUE LIGHT ATOP THE CAR WASHES OVER ALL OF THEM AS IT CIRCLES.

No Dialogue.

Then I'll ask them to draw it. After assuring them that I did indeed say draw it, I'll let them have about ten minutes to transform Moore's prose into stick-figure theater before showing them how Brian Bolland interpreted it.

Discussion will ensue. I'll show them the scripts to other panels—ask them why, for example, Moore insisted the receptionist at Arkham Asylum be reading Graham Greene's The Comedians—and if all goes well, I won't spend the next few months reading essays about how in this panel Alan Moore wanted Batman to punch someone in the face so he told Brian Bolland to draw a picture of Batman punching someone in the face.

Unlike photography or film, where things can enter a frame because they just happened to be behind the subject, everything in a comic frame is placed there intentionally. And since every additional element added to a frame increases the work required (and therefore the cost) to produce it, you can bet that authors/artists aren't chucking stuff in randomly. A comic panel is quite deliberate, and should be analyzed as part of the narrative. We have no compunction about picking apart, parsing and analyzing the minutiae of sentences in literature, and there's no reason narrative art shouldn't be subject to the same analysis.

The new I-novel?

2009-01-29T15:23:00.002-05:00

The New Yorker has a great article on cell phone novels (keitai shousetsu) (via Meta no Tame):

The cell-phone novel, or keitai shosetsu, is the first literary genre to emerge from the cellular age. For a new form, it is remarkably robust. Maho i-Land, which is the largest cell-phone-novel site, carries more than a million titles, most of them by amateurs writing under screen handles, and all available for free. According to the figures provided by the company, the site, which also offers templates for blogs and home pages, is visited three and a half billion times a month.
In the classic iteration, the novels, written by and for young women, purport to be autobiographical and revolve around true love, or, rather, the obstacles to it that have always stood at the core of romantic fiction: pregnancy, miscarriage, abortion, rape, rivals and triangles, incurable disease. The novels are set in the provinces—the undifferentiated swaths of rice fields, chain stores, and fast-food restaurants that are everywhere Tokyo is not—and the characters tend to be middle and lower middle class.

Read the whole thing. What's interesting to me is that keitai shousetsu seem to be a modern iteration of the I-Novel, (Watakushi-shousestu or Shi-shousetsu) a literary genre popular in Japan around the Taisho period. The I-novel is characterized by narratives that are both confessional and fictional. Part of the appeal of the I-novel was that authors would "confess" dark secrets from their own lives, but the novels were not autobiographical, and freely mixed in fictional characters or settings or events with the confessional elements of the story.

In the Taiso era these novels were mostly written by men, often confessing their affairs. The keitai shousetsu, however, seems to be a kind of new I-novel that is primarily produced by women. Like the I-novels of old, they freely mix fiction with the author's own true-life confessions.

However, the Taisho I-novels were written by famous novelists, and part of their attraction was learning about the sordid details of the lives of these famous cultural elites. Keitai shousetsu, on the other hand, are written by amateur authors, pecking away at their cell phones anonymously.* What's the appeal to consumers? Do they feel they can relate to the narratives? Does the amateur nature feel more honest? Is it refreshing to read literature in a format and language they are more comfortable with? I'd be very interested to find out.

I also like the interaction of media here. Authors publish theirs stories on websites, the best of which bubble up and are seized by print publishers. But simply printing the story isn't enough:

Printed, the books announce themselves as untraditional, with horizontal lines that read left to right, as on the phone. ... Other conventions established on the screen are faithfully replicated in print. Often, the ink is colored or gray; black text is thought to be too imposing. “Some publishers removed the returns, but those books don’t sell well,” a representative of Goma Books said. “You need to keep that flow.”

Does the horizontality, colored text and excessive line spacing create a feeling of intimacy between the reader and author? Does removing these conventions destroy the sense of amateur honesty, making it seem like a "professional" media production? This little interaction between different types of media is pretty fascinating.

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*Inputting Japanese on cell phones is easier than inputting English, but even so I can't imagine writing a whole novel on one! My poor thumbs!

Manga from the US Military

2008-06-27T11:05:00.001-04:00

Via Japan Probe, the U.S. Navy has created a manga to help foster cultural understanding on the eve of the arrival of the USS George Washington in Japan. There has been a spate of highly publicized crimes by US servicemen recently, as well as some local protests against having a nuclear vessel permanently stationed in Yokosuka. I guess the Navy felt something was necessary to ease tensions with its host country.

The manga, available in English as a PDF, follows a half Japanese sailor on his first assignment to the George Washington, and his first trip to Japan. It's well done, using humor and depictions of everyday life on board the carrier to humanize sailors. The characters have a deep respect for Japanese culture, and take classes to learn more about Japan. Towards the end the protagonist visits his Japanese grandparents for the first time, emphasizing the close cultural ties between the US and Japan.

I think it's a brilliant move. Not only does it embrace one of Japan's cultural institutions, but the manga format can convey a lot of information yet still be quickly consumed. And it's entertaining as well!

The run-on sentences of Suzumiya Haruhi

2008-05-28T11:49:00.001-04:00

As I was going through some boxes the other day, I came across my copy of the first 涼宮ハルヒの憂鬱 book (Suzimya Haruhi no Yuuutsu, or The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi). Most people probably know the very popular anime of the same name best.

Leafing through it, I was reminded how I love the book's narration style, especially the artful use of run-on sentences. The very first sentence of the books is:

サンタクロースをいつまで信じていたかなんてことはたわいもない世間話にもならないくらいのどうでもいいような話だが、それでも俺がいつまでサンタなどという想像上の赤服じーさんを信じていたかと言うとこれは確信を持って言えるが最初から信じてなどいながった。

A translation without adding any punctuation would be something like:

“How long did you believe in Santa Clause” is a trivial subject not even worthy of being the topic of idle chatter, but even so if I were to say how long I believed in an imaginary old man in red clothes like Santa I can say with confidence that I didn't believe in him from the beginning.

Whew! At least the author gives us one comma to take a breath. Because of word order differences this kind of narration is hard to translate into English. This wiki translation breaks that sentence up into three sentences. That's probably more natural for English speakers, but I think it looses some of the flavor of the original.

Superpowers old and new

2008-05-20T12:57:00.001-04:00

You know how in comic books or other superhero stories, there are many cases where the author must invent transparent reasons why the one superpower^* that would be extremely helpful in a particular situation can't be used? Well, that's been going on for hundreds of years. Take this excerpt from Journey to the West a story about a Chinese monk who travels west to bring back Buddhist scriptures, and is accompanied by a monkey and a pig with supernatural powers (From W.J.F. Jenner's translation, p. 511):

[Monkey said] “My somersault cloud can cover thirty-six thousand miles with a single bound. To do a mere two-thousand-mile return journey takes only a couple of nods and a bow – there's nothing to it.” “If it's so easy, brother,” said Pig, “you should carry the master on your back, take him across [the river] with just a couple of nods and a bow, and save us all the trouble of fighting the monster [in the river].” “You can ride clouds, can't you?” said Monkey. “Why don't you carry the master across?” “The master's mortal flesh and bones are heavier than Mount Tai,” said Pig, “So although I can ride clouds I could never lift him. Nothing but your somersault will do the trick.” “My somersault is the same as could-riding.” Monkey said, “except that it takes you further. I'm no more able to carry him than you are. As the old saying goes, 'Mount Tai is as easy to move as a mustard seed, but a mortal cannot be dragged away from the earthly dust.' ...Although our master cannot escape from the sea of suffering he wants to go to a foreign land, so he finds every inch of the way heavy-going. All we can do is escort him and see that he comes to no harm. We can't undergo all that suffering on his behalf, nor can we fetch the scriptures for him. Even if we went ahead to see the Buddha, he wouldn't give the scriptures to you or me.”

Apparently Ming dynasty readers, just like modern readers, wondered why Monkey and Pig didn't just use their super powers to solve the whole problem in a second and turn the 100 chapter story into a 20 chapter story. And just like today, the author had to explain why superpowers couldn't be used.

____________
* replace “superpower” with “technology,” and you have the premise of 80 percent of Star Trek episodes.

Comments on Ōkami

2008-05-15T09:44:00.001-04:00

Well, with the semester having ended I finally got a chance to finish playing Ōkami (Okami [Ookami], if your browser doesn't support the O-with-macron). There's a Wii version out now, but I've been playing the PS2 version.

I'm convinced the game started as a pun. You play as the sun goddess Amaterasu, incarnated as a wolf. Ōkami (大神), or “Great God” (part of Amaterasu's more formal name, Amaterasu no Ōkami) is homonymous with Ōkami (狼), or “wolf.” I imagine a couple Clover employees were in a bar one night after work, getting a little drunk. Their conversation became increasingly boisterous, and went something like:

Employee 1: Dude, wouldn't it be crazy if, like, an Ōkami were an Ōkami?
Embloyee 2: (Trying hard to process that) Uh, what?
Employee 1: You know, like if an Ōkami from the Kojiki or something were an Ōkami, like a dog.
Embloyee 2: Oh... yeah, that WOULD be crazy!

The next morning they were hung over and remembered nothing of the conversation, but in one of their pockets they found a crumpled napkin with the idea scrawled on it, and the game was born.

The game is a delightful romp (yes, I just wrote “delightful romp”) through the world of classical Japanese literature. In addition to the Kojiki, there are references to Issun Bōshi, Taketori Monogatari, Urashima Tarō, Shita-kiri_Suzume and Hakkenden. Even Benkei makes a cameo, as does Yoichi from Heike Monogatari. The capital city, Seian-kyō, is an obvious allusion to Heian-kyō, which is the centerpiece of the great body of Heian literature, including Genji Monogatari. I'm sure there are other references I didn't catch as well.

However, the most interesting aspect of the game is the main character. Amaterasu is generally the most revered deity in the Japanese pantheon, yet in the game she is depicted as a wolf, doing various things that are very recognizably canine; barking, growling, cocking her head, howling, curling up and napping, etc. She is accompanied throughout the game by Issun, who in addition to providing helpful explanations to the player also regularly berates Amaterasu for her slowness or misguidedness and addresses her by a pet name.

Because of this it is tempting to view Ōkami as an attempt to demystify Amaterasu. However, I think that would be ultimately incorrect. For one thing, Amaterasu does not speak, even to people who are able to understand animals. Lack of speech is, of course, very mystifying. Furthermore, she is portrayed as a weakened version of her true self. Throughout the game the player must strive to recover Amaterasu's thirteen “brush techniques,” which she uses to draw on the canvas of reality and create small miracles. At the end of the game, with the help of the prayers of all the people she has met, Amaterasu's true power is restored, and she becomes radiant and powerful. Naturally the player is only allowed to finish off the final boss battle with Amaterasu in this form, not perform any of the more mundane tasks that make up the staple of the game. So in the end the mystification of Amaterasu in her true form is maintained.

Most conspicuous, however, is the absence of Amaterasu's most prominent role: the ancestor of Japan's emperors. All Japan's emperors, including the current Akihito, can trace their lineage back to Amaterasu herself, thereby creating not only a divine right to rule but a personal divinity as well. In the game, there is no mention of this link at all. Amaterasu meets the emperor, but he does not show any signs of recognizing her as an ancestor, or even a goddess. In fact, the emperor is portrayed as an unremarkable, overweight, middle aged man more concerned with trading curio items than anything else.

Therefore it is clear that the game demystifies the emperor and de-links Amaterasu from him. At the same time it seems to maintain the mystification of Amaterasu herself. What can we make of this?

I think the game attempts to transform Amaterasu into a goddess suitable for the modern era. In the final stages of the game, Amaterasu regains her true power when all the people she has encountered throughout the game offer prayers to her. Significantly, she is portrayed as being accessible to everyone, not just the imperial clan. Worship of Amaterasu is not an exclusive imperial domain but appropriate for all people. Therefore, the game can be interpreted as an attempt to transform Amaterasu from an imperial deity into a national deity. Her worship (and, presumably, largess) sphere is shifted from a clan identity to a democratic, national identity.

How appropriate, then, that her “rising sun” brush technique, which the player can use to turn night into day, looks remarkably similar to the old Japanese flag, a powerful symbol of nationhood.

Tsurezuregusa and Yokohama

2008-04-17T21:12:00.001-04:00

I recently finished writing an essay about the Tsurezuregusa (徒然草) or Essays in Idleness (which I quoted here), and to take a break before writing my next essay I read a volume of Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou (ヨコハマ買い出し紀行) or, somewhat awkward in translation, “A Record of Going Shopping in Yokohama.” I was struck by how similar the two works are.

Certainly they have their differences. Tsurezuregusa was written in the fourteenth century by a reclusive Buddhist monk, and contains his reflections on many things: the proper way for a gentleman to behave; precedent and the correct form of court ritual; anecdotes and stories he heard and terse pieces of advice. Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou, on the other hand, is a twentieth/twenty-first century fictional manga that focuses on a very human-like robot named Alpha who runs a coffee shop (she occasionally goes to Yokohama to buy coffee beans, hence the name).

Tsurezuregusa is renowned for its description of a certain widespread (although not universal) Japanese aesthetic. Yoshida Kenkō, the author, describes the aesthetic value of things that are asymmetrical, incomplete and worn out. In one oft-quoted line he writes that “It is only after the silk wrapper has frayed at top and bottom, and the mother-of-pearl has fallen from the roller that a scroll looks beautiful.” (page 70 of Donald Keene's excellent translation), and again: “Are we to look at cherry blossoms only in full bloom, the moon only when cloudless? To long for the moon while looking on the rain, to lower the blinds and be unaware of the passing of the spring – these are even more deeply moving. Branches about to blossom or gardens strewn with faded flowers are worthier of our admiration.” (p. 115)

This aesthetic appreciation for the worn out or faded, often called sabi, is brilliantly portrayed in Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou. Alpha's coffee shop is located out in the lonely Japanese countryside in a world where the oceans have risen. She travels across highways that were great arteries in the past, but are now cracked and split, with sand blowing across them. In one of the more sublime scenes Alpha visits a former coastal town that is now submerged underwater. However, through (presumably) some oversight at the power company the streetlights are still hooked up. When night falls the lamps come on, and the pools of light reveal glimpses of the once great city that glitter up through the black water, turning the whole bay into an extraordinary, beautiful light show.

However it is not only the environment that expresses the aesthetic beauty of the worn out. In the series humanity itself seems older and more worn down. Yokohama still seems to be a bustling city, but outside of it there is none of the magnificent energy of human commerce. The roads are in disrepair and there are no trains hauling materials and products from place to place. Occasionally we see the remains of what seems to be an office building or hotel covered with weeds. Politically as well, the world seems but a dim reflection of its former greatness. The nation of Japan seems to no longer exist, at least as we know it, as small areas are referred to as countries and called by their old feudal names.

Other than the robots, human technological innovation seems to have halted. One volume introduces an old racing boat built by one of the characters, now an old woman, in her youth. Although it seems to have been a great accomplishment when she built it, now it is derelict and rusting, and as we are not shown any newer models, it seems that this reflects the general state of technological progress. Also Alpha is amazed when she sees a small, single engine airplane in flight, a far cry from the people of our day who barely notice great jets thundering above them.

But rather than depicting this human decline as some sort of apocalyptic dystopia (a theme that is a bit tired by now), the series basks in the aesthetic attractiveness of a world that offers but a glimpse of former human greatness. Alpha leads a very attractive life attending to her infrequent customers, taking pictures of old buildings, wondering what they were used for, and sipping coffee with her friends, watching the swaying pampas grass in the twilight of the human endeavor.

The two works are similar in other ways as well. Both posit themselves in a degenerate age that is but a pale reflection of the past. For Kenkō that past was the Heian era, the height of aristocratic refinement, which had been corrupted into the age of warrior power in which he lived. Tsurezuregusa is also a representative work of zuihitsu literature. Zuihitsu (随筆) literally means “following the brush,” and refers to a style of simply writing whatever comes to mind without restriction. Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou is not a zuihitsu work, since it is a work of fiction and must develop characters and events. However it is structured as a set of discrete episodes that, while they move forward in time, are often unrelated and do not build up dramatic tension within a structured plot, very similar to the zuihitsu style.

Kenkō was a Buddhist monk, and accordingly one of the themes of Tsurezuregusa is the Buddhist idea of mujō (無常), or impermanence; the idea that all phenomena are conditional and impermanent, and therefore attachment to them is the source of human suffering. Alpha is no Buddhist monk, and Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou is not didactic Buddhist literature. Nonetheless the work definitely conveys the idea of impermanence. Alpha is an unaging robot, and eventually all the people she has grown attached to go away. The children she plays with grow up and move away or move on, and she is conscious of the limited time left to the kindly old man who runs the nearby gas station. Everything she forms an attachment to will eventually leave her, including her original attachment; her distant, absent owner.

I think Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou brilliantly captures the themes and aesthetic sensibilities of Tsurezuregusa in an ambitious, futuristic, scifi-ish setting. I believe it belongs on the short list of manga deserving serious literary consideration.

Cao and Mao

2008-03-20T11:52:00.001-04:00

I've been reading The Romance of the Three Kingdoms recently, the translation by Moss Roberts. It is in need of some copyediting (it was published in Beijing), but Roberts has footnoteded the classic extremely well. He includes many comments from Mao Zonggang, the Qing dynasty editor of the story.

The below comment from Mao is about Cao Cao, the villain of most of the story, after he accidentally kills the entire family of his host for the night, purposely kills his host to prevent him from coming after him later, and utters the famous line “Better to wrong the world than have it wrong me!”:

No reader reaching this episode fails to revile [Cao Cao]... They fail to recognize that Cao excels here too [in saying “Better to wrong the world than have it wrong me”]. Who has not felt this way? Who dares give such feelings voice? The good Confucian gentlemen speak hypocritically when they say, “Better to be wronged than wrong another.” Not that it doesn't sound good, but when you examine their conduct every step they take is in secret imitation of Cao Cao's statement. Cao Cao is simply an ambitious and amoral man who said what was in his heart. Such frankness is most refreshing compared to the deceits spoken by the other type. In this sense Cao Cao excels. (p. 552)

I love Mao's admission (and universalization) of a secret desire to stick it to smarmy, hypocritical moralizers and look out for one's own best interests. That resonates strongly even today. Plus, he asserts that Cao and moral Confucian gentlemen essentially act the same, the only difference being Cao's frank admission of his motivations and the gentlemen's obfuscation of them. The implication is that morality is merely a facade that governs social presentation rather than actual action, although perhaps Mao would contrast the hypocritical gentlemen with an actual moral Confucian. Fascinating stuff.

Macross as allegory

2008-02-14T18:16:00.001-05:00

Matthew Alt has a fascinating article up on Néojaponisme that analyzes the classic Anime Macross as an allegory for Japan's WWII experience, arguing that its "creators... re-cast the narrative of Japan’s role in World War II within the context of their own comfortable modern consumer lifestyles." It posits the Macross as "a lone space-fortress, an island if you will, drift[ing] alone in the sea of space. Its inhabitants are outnumbered thousands to one by enemies from a completely alien culture." In the end, the Macross is saved by consumer culture, as Minmei's pop songs paralyze the enemy ships and accounts of consumerism brought back by spies seed dissent among their fleet. "Modern consumerism is venerated as the savior of all civilization, much as home electronics 'saved' Japan in the postwar era."

It's a very interesting argument, but I think I'd favor interpreting Macross as an allegory for the Cold War. Remember, the creator, Shōji Kawamori, wasn't born until 1960. WWII might have been something related by his parents, but the Cold War he knew personally. The series starts with a calamity and destruction, after which civilians must rebuild, just like the beginning of Japan's postwar period. Shortly after reconstructing, however, they are beset on all sides by a fearsome, expansionist alien race that is most notable for its total lack of culture. They have a strictly structured society that obviates any civilian culture or love (or indeed, contact with the opposite sex), and channels all energy into more war production, war-waging and expansion.

The day is saved, however, by capitalist consumerism. Away from the strict ideological indoctrination of their society, the Zentradi spies aboard the Macross quickly become enchanted with the many amazing things capitalism has to offer (as well as inter-gender relations), and bring stories and artifacts back to their fleet, eventually causing a wave of defection. We learn that this "protoculture," as the Zentradi call it, was something they used to have long ago, but lost in a series of utilitarian social changes.

The article argues that "The Zentradi aliens are... a mish-mash of old-school authority figures. Their obsession with war and willingness — even desire — to die in combat is stereotypically medieval or Imperial-era Japanese, while their utter cluelessness as to the 'protoculture' aboard the Macross is akin to that of American Occupation soldiers dropped in the midst of a society they only vaguely understood." However, I think a better parallel for America is the unreasonable, overbearing, stodgy Earth government, which refuses to let the Macross crew return home once they make it back to Earth, or even admit the ship's survival to the public. This reflects the sentiment that Japan, although it had come into its own in the postwar era and was ready to reemerge as an equal in the community of nations, was being held back by America for political reasons.

Incidentally, the Néojaponisme article criticizes Macross for positing a thriving pop culture in the middle of a warship plagued by weekly crisis. However I've always found that to be not only unproblematic (after all, what are a large number of civilians going to do for a year except create a civilian society?), but actually refreshing compared to other scifi works (I'm looking at you, Star Trek) that fiat a societal ideal, but then never actually portray that society because they can't figure out how it would work.

(The great image above is from an artist named Jason Park, apparently drawn on his DS!)

Mushanokoji: An excerpt

2007-09-20T19:44:00.001-04:00

Mushanokōji Saneatsu was a Japanese writer, painter and philosopher active during the Taishō and Shōwa periods. He was a believer in humanism and individualism, and he was one of Tolstoy's biggest fans. He also wrote a pro-war book during WWII, and was consequently exiled from government during the occupation period.

In the book "Mushanokōji Saneatsu, Author's Autobiography" there is this fascinating passage:

Regarding the book that was the cause of my being exiled after the war, I didn't write it after Japan had begun to fare poorly, but when things still seemed good. I thought that presenting my own thoughts in a book would be a way to cooperate with the national polity more befitting a literary man than going around to give addresses, being made to imitate reporters or being made into a war correspondent. I wrote it on nobody's request or recommendation, and I spoke to the publisher myself in order to get it published. Therefore I'm the one who bears sole responsibility for that book, but at the time there wasn't any problem with what I wrote, and among my books that's not one that didn't sell.　I thought one shouldn't do work one is not suited to. After the war when everyone's views were different and only that book was left behind to get noticed, it was only natural that what hadn't stood out before should have begun to stand out.

But it's not as if I changed my views; while the war was going on I didn't stop my work at Atarashiki Mura [a commune he founded in 1918] for even a moment, and I continued giving speeches at monthly meetings. Never for a moment did I stop wishing for a world in which all people could live out their lives and realize their individuality. It's just that as a Japanese I didn't want to lose. Accordingly, the fact is that I didn't want to lower the Japanese fighting spirit.

Part confession, part defense, part reaffirmation of ideals, I think it really captures the deep confliction of Japan's wartime intellectuals.

What is a cultureist?

2000-01-01T22:42:00.001-05:00

What is a cultureist anyway? Well, first and foremost it's a clumsy concatenation of "culutre" and the suffix "ist." Briefly, it describes a person who studies culture. Just like economists study the economy and ecologists study ecology, cultureists study culture.

Much like the economy, culture is an abstracted entity. Everyone agrees that it exists, but no one can say exactly where it is or what it looks like. "The economy" isn't merely the aggregate assets minus the aggregate liabilities of a given region, but a meta entity made up of the countless economic transactions that take place each second, and changes shape with each new transaction, defying attempts to pin it down for study. At the macro level, however, we can observe its organic behavior; expanding or shrinking, growing into new sectors while other sectors die out.

Similarly, culture is not merely the sum of all of the books in all of the libraries, but an abstract entity constructed by the countless cultural transactions that we continuously engage in. Cultural objects are produced, purchased, ignored, consumed, loved, hated, reviewed, commented on and parodied, all of which becomes part of the cultural landscape and is implicitly absorbed by other cultural objects. All of these individual transactions aggregate into a mysterious entity we call "culture." It behaves metabolically; consuming, growing and spreading in irregular and unpredictable ways.

People who study culture are often characterized as academics in an ivory tower, working in the unhelpfully named "humanities" field, writing papers about phallic symbols in Shakespeare's works. I have supplied the term "cultureist" here to reinvent that image. Cultureists are actively engaged in an attempt to understand the mysterious, dynamic entity that is loosely defined but universally recognized as "culture." It both reflects and impels our minds and imaginations. It can bind nations together or split them apart. It affects us all in profound ways, and cultureists struggle to illuminate glimpses of its inscrutable, organic movement. When they are successful they provide insights about its creators, humans, both as a group and as individuals.