Akira, as an anime and manga series, is arguably better known for being a groundbreaking work than for the story it tells (variable as that may be, depending on the medium). From presentation to content to technology and themes, Akira has earned a place in the cultural discourse of not only Japan but the rest of the world as well.
As I mentioned on my nerd culture podcast, I have come to Katsuhiro Otomo‘s manga after having seen the anime, which I’m sure is the course most westerners took since the movie was such a significant event, especially in the nerd world. Even when I was only three volumes into the story, I already saw a significant diversion in narrative between the manga and anime, to the point that the movie feels less like an adaptation and like a new story using the same players. This difference intrigued me to the point that I found myself down the hole of an academic database search for any criticism about Akira.
Not surprisingly, the discourse around both the anime and manga nearly unanimously focuses around its use of imagery related to nuclear weapons and Japan’s historical tie to them. While not wrong nor an insignificant approach to the work, I feel that using a small lens on such a large work misses out on a lot of fantastic critical angles. Also, when conversations around Akira happen in person (with friends or fellow fans) and the group wants to take it to serious territory, it seems the only road to travel is the one that leads to nuclear warfare and its relation to Japanese history as well.
Japanese illustrator Yoshitaka Amano has had a subdued but constant presence on this site, but I don’t think I could ever downplay his importance on me. If his style hasn’t exactly been as influential on mine, his ethic and persona have been. In every interview I’ve read (albeit translated) from him, I have always been impressed by how grounded and practical Amano is in light of being a painter of fantasy with such an ethereal and imaginative style.
I know him––and most nerds probably know him––from his work on the Final Fantasy franchise of video games. He is the only member of the production who has been involved in every single iteration since the beginning, though how integral he was to development has varied over the years. Needless to say, he has become the spine of the book that is everything Final Fantasy, and as we approach, surprisingly, the 20th anniversary of the release of Final Fantasy VII––arguably the first game where he moved from the artistic front seat to the back, ironically––he is being celebrated along with everybody else that worked on the game.
The video game news website, Polygon, has put together a rather wonderful oral history of Final Fantasy VII, and included among the contributors is Amano himself, along with a video of him drawing as he talks about his input on the game. Its’ an amusing video for a few reasons. Again, it was the first game in the series that he wasn’t the primary character designer on (for a variety of reasons), so his involvement is a bit more understated than other members of the staff. Second, what really comes through is how much of a job this was.
“Matataki (An Instant)” by Yoshitaka Amano for Final Fantasy VII
Final Fantasy VII was the launchpad that took the series from being the jewel in the crown of home video game console role-playing games (specifically, Japanese Role-Playing Games, or JRPGs) and made it into an industry-wide sensation. But even then, what’s clear is that for most of those who worked on this game, like most games, was more a work of pure effort and talent than the artistic expression that we tend to want to attach to nostalgia.
I first saw this dissonance between art and artists when cartoons from the 1980s were becoming popular again as those who were children then became adults with disposable income (I raise my hand here). Documentaries about The Transformers, let’s say, were included on DVD boxed sets of seasons with interviews with the writers and voice actors and when asked questions akin to “What were you thinking when you worked on this cartoon from thirty years ago? What were you trying to say?” the answers are always the same, “It was a paycheck and I had rent to pay.”
They had no idea how important these cartoons would eventually be to the children who were watching and I’m sure, especially for the Japanese game development industry, many who worked on the games of our youths feel much the same way. I’m so pleased that most of those involved with things I loved as a kid are around to receive the adulations and praise they so very much deserve, because it’s safe to say that people like Yoshitaka Amano and his colleagues are responsible for those making great work today.
Going back to before the comic started, I made it clear that much of my own aesthetic influence comes from Japanese cinema. Specifically, it comes from a few of the Akira Kurosawa films I had seen––I’m not a connoisseur of the Japanese film industry by any means. Kurosawa is kind of the Orson Welles, Steven Spielberg/George Lucas, and Martin Scorsese of his country all rolled up into a single guy who single-handedly changed the Japanese cinematic landscape.
The Scorsese comparison is interesting if only because, like Scorsese, he had a tendency to glom onto an actor and work with him (or her) prodigiously until, for some reason or other, that time came to an end. Scorsese had turns with Robert DeNiro and, later, Leonardo DiCaprio. For Kurosawa, his career is inextricably linked to the career of Toshiro Mifune, an actor with little competition. Such a connection was the bane and bounty of Kurosawa’s career, and as rocky as their relationship got (his descriptions of Mifune in his autobiography relay that tension), it’s clear that he respected his ability and benefited from it.
Akira Kurosawa (left) and Toshiro Mifune (right) in Venice. Source: akirakurosawa.info
Mifune’s presence and attitude left an indelible mark on me when I first saw him. It was 1961’s Yojimbo and watching that movie changed my entire life. As hyperbolic as that statement can seem, I remember seeing it for the first time, being about 13 years old and being the first black-and-white movie I didn’t fall asleep to, not to mention that it was a subtitled flick about a culture I had no reference to. So, it was an uphill battle.
But Mifune’s swagger and confidence amid his avowed loner status really spoke to me. As a kid that didn’t have many friends, as a kid who was left alone and was happier for it, Mifune showed me that being a loner didn’t have to be a self-pitying goth type of existence. Mifune’s Sanjuro Kuwabatake (his character’s “name” from Yojimbo) was just content with who he was and damn anyone who had a problem with him. There was no cynicism, just pragmatism, and that was a persona I could get behind. I did so with gusto.
Mifune died when I was a senior high school––December 1997––and I clipped out his obituary that was printed in Entertainment Weekly or Us Weekly (my mom subscribed to one of those) and pinned it to my wall until I moved out.
With that in mind, I only recently came across the trailer for a documentary about Toshiro Mifune’s life, and I only hope it gets released stateside in some form or other. If anything, it shows that Mifune kind of acted as he lived. Sure, he had problems but he was a pragmatist with a hint of idealism, which I would hope describes me closely as well. I owe a lot to the art this man made.
Mifune and Steven Okazaki’s Mifune: The Last Samurai
Blade of the Immortal
Because of Yojimbo, I’m quite open to historical samurai stories. To be honest, they’re basically westerns but with cool swords instead of cool guns, complete with a code of honor that, in the case of samurai, has actual historical precedent. I think the furthest I tested the boundary of my samurai-fiction taste was with Hiroaki Samura’s manga, Blade of the Immortal.
I admittedly took a circuitous road to Blade of the Immortal, but that road was more of a consequence of the time rather than rejection. My first exposure to Samura’s epic was a poster I saw at my local comic book shop. It was a few years before the book came out stateside and the poster was only in Japanese, but I loved the imagery: a battle-worn samurai protecting an innocent girl (I was a teenager). I asked if they were selling the poster and, with a bit of finagling, I was able to take it off their hands. It was the centerpiece of my room for a long while and I was proud of it even though I had no idea what it was for or about.
The poster image from the poster I bought, though the original poster had a bunch of Japanese written all over it.
When I was initially phasing out regular comics reading from my life, I drifted away from superheroes and toward imported comics. Manga was a new thing, spurred on mostly by Dark Horse Comics and Viz. When I saw the first issue for a comic called Blade of the Immortal, I stopped in my tracks. The character on the cover looked very familiar, but I didn’t connect the dots. It wasn’t for a few issues when the cover was the same image as the poster on my wall that I figured it out (I was a teenager) and became utterly devoted to it. I interpreted the coincidence as fate and it became a very important comic for me (as I’ve written about before).
My introduction to manga. Art by Hiroaki Samura.
An anime series was made based on the comic, but I found it horribly dull, possibly because it was too faithful to the source material. It couldn’t capture the frenetic talent and passion and creativity Samura’s art vibrated with in every panel, every page.
Apparently, a live action movie is getting made and it looks interesting and faithful as well. Being live action, though, I think it has the possibility of being more interesting than a straight anime adaptation. The very interesting change seen already in the short teaser trailer that’s been released has been in the costuming of the main character, Manji, himself.
In the comic, on the back of Manji’s robe is a huge swastika. Being a comic set in pre-World War II Japan, however, it’s clear it’s not a symbol of Nazi Germany or (obviously) white nationalism. In every issue Dark Horse Comics published, there was a frontispiece that explained the swastika symbology and how it related to Buddhism and its history in Japan. Ultimately, it’s a symbol called “manji” which is the protagonist’s name. It’s the equivalent of Superman’s “S” shield on his chest.
Dark Horse’s explanation of the main character’s swastika costume. Click for bigger, legible version.
But the trailer clearly shows a not-swastika on the back of Manji’s robe. It’s not that I’m upset by it, far from it. If anything, it was the first thing I thought of when I learned of the adaptation––how were they going to deal with the swastika. I don’t speak nor read Japanese, so I have no idea what’s being said in the trailer, nor do I know what is actually written on the back of Manji’s robe, but I’m sure it makes sense and will get the haughty fanboys all riled up.
Definitely not a swastika. Screen-grabbed from the trailer.
