I’ve seen Orwell comparisons frequently mentioned but unless I’m missing something really subtly woven in to the structure or prose, Murakami hasn’t gone down the homage or pastiche route here. Beyond a couple of passing references to the date in which the events take place, there isn’t much in this novel that’s Orwellian at all; although it’s been a number of years since I read Nineteen Eighty-Four this is just another Murakami novel as far as I can tell.

I’m not suggesting it’s necessarily overrated. ‘Just another Murakami novel’ is still a very special event, but this was given a build-up that had me wondering if it’s his magnum opus like some replacement for The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. Interestingly, the English language editions of book 1/2 and book 3 were released closer together than those of the Japanese ones so I was spared from waiting a whole year to read its conclusion (employing a different translators for each seemed like a bit of a strange decision to me though, and I still wonder why it happened that way).

The shift in pace and emphasis between the second and third volumes doesn’t really lend itself well to a long intermission anyway, so I reckon it would’ve been harder to pick the threads back up if I had to wait longer than I did. Book 3 tells the story from three viewpoints rather than just two but even so, there’s a lot of introspection and waiting around on the part of the characters.

Murakami’s writing style usually seems immune from feeling like a waste of time to me, but this was one of the rare occasions when I wished his editor had been a bit more firm and trimmed down certain segments. The meandering prose and painstaking attention to fleshing out even the incidental details normally enhances the experience but I have to admit that the later chapters started to try my patience. Murakami is a very ‘atmospheric’ writer who aims to immerse the reader in his worldview, and I think he intentionally places the storyline second in importance to his quirky characters and settings.

A stumbling block for me with 1Q84 was that the link holding the entire affair together – namely that of the bond between Aomame and Tengo – was so tenuous. When they do finally meet it’s perfectly convincing, but it’s a bit of a stretch when they’re completely separated for the majority of their lives. Their bond seems to be the result of the cold metaphysical mechanics of fate rather than something warmer and more sentimental that existed between them so there wasn’t really enough for me to work with.

The supporting characters on the other hand are excellent: even Ushikawa, who starts off being memorable for all the wrong reasons but by the end begs for sympathy. When a character is painted as ugly, shifty and repulsive on every level, it’s true talent as a writer that makes that character relateable and human…and in this case Murakami has done it.

One fascinating aspect of Murakami’s character building is the way he presents the female ones (as an aside, it’s worth noting that Aomame is, as far as I can recall, the first female protagonist in his full-length novels): the star of the show here is the original Air Chrysalis novella’s writer, Fuka-Eri. Murakami has a knack of dreaming up some very odd and oddly fascinating female supporting characters – I’ve admitted my weakeness for them before – but damn…he’s excelled himself.

I have to say that the maza and dohta technobabble was interesting (considering how they sound like romanji for mother and daughter, I could speculate for ages about the terminology and symbolism in 1Q84‘s universe) but I’m convinced – or is that hopeful? – that Fuka-Eri isn’t  strange for strangeness’ sake. Her peculiar mannerisms hint at a broken psyche but the scattering of clues throughout the novel made me want to believe that she’s a broken character who can be mended.

The main reason why I was glad to learn of the possibility that 1Q84 may someday be given a side-story or sequel is not just because a lot of the technobabble is unexplained – long-standing Murakami fans must be used to that by now! – but because someone as mesmerising as Fuka-Eri simply walks out of the picture to allow the resolution of the plot thread involving the two leads. Considering how not only Aomame and Tengo but Tengo’s father and poor old Ushikawa are given some sort of send-off, I actually felt a bit short-changed.

Maybe my sense of priorities or storytelling focus is off, but I felt quite disappointed that she was relegated to the status of mere plot device. I suppose you could argue that, because of the intervention of the Little People (if I understand the sequence of events correctly), she really is a character who is simply a vessel or channel but still…I suppose it’s a selfish wish on my part that the strange parallel world of 1Q84 had been a bit kinder to her.

When you’re dealing with a writer who is so unusual in how he or she conveys his or her ideas, perhaps it’s all too easy to get caught up in trivial aspects and miss the important ones. 1Q84 works on a number of levels I think: it’s a parallel universe-orientated mystery, social commentary (it delves deep into the issue of violence against women, and returns to the topic of religious cults of his non-fiction work Underground) and a romance…although the romantic aspect didn’t hit me as hard as it probably ought to have done.

Mindful of Murakami’s individual foibles and writing techniques, I still felt that 1Q84 contained more filler than was necessary and went a little too far in leaving loose plot threads unresolved. It’s a bit of a grey area in that I’m not sure whether it’s sloppy writing or my failure to grasp what it’s trying to say, but I do know that I’d appreciate a follow-up that rounds off or builds on the existing story. Until then, I’m feeling like I’ve been left hanging around in an unfamiliar place, feeling a little lost. Just like being in the Town of Cats.

Note: the original full-size version of the haunting Fuka-Eri fanart above is on Pixiv.

I would hardly dare to argue

Granted, she doesn’t appear much in the middle portion of the series, but trying to make sense of the Senjougahara Fascination phenomenon became a bit more important when I found myself a part of it. What the hell is this? Am I developing a 2D complex? Well, yes. And no. Idle thoughts coming up.

I don’t think less of someone for being a hardcore gamer, a yaoi fan, a furry, a figure collector or lolicon (apart from the last one. Those guys really are weird). I just don’t really get any of it. I don’t understand them because I don’t share their interest; conversely, I doubt everyone can relate to going weak at the knees over the Shinkai and Kon movies, vintage guitar gear or anything Type Moon or Macross-related. I raise a defiant Brofist to those who share my weaknesses for them though.

I certainly thought I was immune to the 2D complex: after all, I’d sooner seek real-life interaction with a female human being than a fictional representation of one, right? We all exhibit an attachment to certain shows and characters to some degree or other though. Rest assured I won’t condemn you for sitting alone in your basement fapping to the product of some overseas comic artist’s pencil and I don’t want those who do to take offence, but I don’t share your penchant for it.

I don’t experience the same empathy and affection for anime characters as I do for real people but I can’t escape the fact that I can still be on the edge of my seat or the verge of Manly Tears when a really emotional moment happens. Some characters stick in my memory: Nausicäa (from the Miyazaki manga), Shiki Ryougi and Saber (from Kara no Kyoukai and Fate/Stay Night respectively) share a special place in my mind, as do Noriko in Battle Royale, Lee Geum-ja in Lady Vengeance or Vivian Sternwood in The Big Sleep. Hitagi Senjougahara is another memorable female lead for me.

Hitagi’s appeal ought to be obvious: her personality is both a knowing take on the tsundere archetype and a source of entertaining one-liners. Placing her character alonside others that are represented by real, flesh-and-blood people rather than animated pictures in their respective stories might be an unfair comparison, but attachment to anime characters and those from live-action movies and books isn’t so different, to me at least.

You do have to think about what makes them appealing though: in my case I happen to consider Aki Maeda to be cute and Lauren Bacall was quite a knockout back in 1946. Personally however it’s not the fact that the image of an anime character is physically attractive: the resulting image of a real person in my imagination is memorable and appealing. This is easier for me to explain in, for example, Vivian Sternwood’s portrayal in Chandler’s novel, or other written, rather than drawn or filmed, characters.

Just as alluring in print? I can’t wait to find out

The circumstances are different but I found myself fascinated by Senjougahara in the same way that I was by Haruki Murakami’s character Sumire in his Sputnik Sweetheart novel. It’s not his best work in my view for reasons I don’t have time to set out here but one thing that stuck in my head was Sumire’s character. Being a novel with no televised or cinematic adaptation I don’t even have a screencap to explain why she’s awesome. A mere description of her is however enough to bring her character to life:

“I can’t cook or clean the house. My room’s a mess and I’m always losing things. I love music, but can’t sing a note. I’m clumsy and can barely sew a stitch. My sense of direction is the pits, and can’t tell right from left half the time…I’m bashful for no reason, and have hardly any friends to speak of.”

Sputnik Sweeheart, © Haruki Murakami, 1999, 2001

What the reader or viewer experiences when they encounter a memorable character is build up a profile, visual or otherwise, and find themselves thinking, how cool would it be if this person really existed? This is Sumire describing herself early on in the novel, and aside from the narrator’s own description of her that’s probably the best indicator of her character. The thing was that after reading this, a vivid and affecting image of a complex and fascinating individual popped into my head and I had a new favourite literary heroine.

Elsewhere Sumire is painted in an unflattering light as far as looks are concerned: even the narrator, who is deeply in love with her, admits she’s skinny, clumsy and not attractive in the conventional sense. She’s just a really unpredictable person, a departure from the usual type of fictional heroine or romantic lead, who shows her unique attractiveness in an unusual way, just like Hitagi does.

So then, if it’s possible to get sentimentally attached to a character who amounts to little more than words on a page, am I really playing devil’s advocate in defending otakus who go misty-eyed over 2D girls? A 2D complex in which the hapless fan dismisses the appeal of real humans in favour of pictures, animated or otherwise, isn’t something I’d call healthy but it’s an extension of the very commonplace experience of empathising with fictional characters. The degree to which this affects their interaction with real people should be the real cause for concern.

Writers do after all intend to create fictional characters that stick in readers’ and viewers’ minds, and more often than not we can identify with them to some degree and muse over how fun and rewarding it would be if we met someone like them. If I were in my local coffee bar or bookshop I’d certainly find it tempting to say hi to the young lady in an ill-fitting coat eyeing up the Kafka paperbacks, even if I was risking getting a stapler shoved in my face. I’m sure it’s a familiar feeling, so if you have some personal not-at-all-real heroines or heroes of your own, ‘fess up in the reply form below.

The visuals do at least show how the events would look without overdramatising things, which is a particular benefit for those of us who have never actually witnessed a major earthquake for ourselves. I have to say there are some nailbiting moments here, mainly because the order of the day is preventing the drama being at the expense of being true-to-life. In the posts I’ve read so far it’s surprising how so many bloggers have found more to say on the drama side of things rather than the documentary aspect…and I can see why.

The symbolism in the fall of Tokyo Tower probably means the most to Tokyo-dwellers but the general message of a national landmark disappearing in front of their eyes is clear enough. Maybe it’s still hard-hitting for me because it wasn’t long ago that I was walking those same streets: the montage of the OP sequence includes places I’ve seen and visited myself, Tokyo Tower and the 1964 Olympic Stadium included.

The trouble with most efforts of this type is that they’re often in the impersonal disaster-movie style: the writers might make a half-arsed attempt in the usual character stereotypes and some hackneyed romance subplot but greater emphasis is on the spectacle of the special effects. In cases like those you get a vague ‘ground shakes, stuff falls over, people die’ impression but don’t get a feel for what it actually means.

So then, the personal trials and dramas of Mirai, Yuuki and Mari are an effective way of grasping the significance of an 8.0 earthquake in meaningful terms. I thought the premise was superb in that it shows a family dynamic that’s not quite the ideal but truthfully that’s how many families are in this day and age. Little details like the subjects of the arguments between Mirai and Yuuki, such as the shape of their mother’s birthday cake, neatly set things up before sending them crashing down.

That sense of change and transformation isn’t compelling just on the “Ooh, familiar landmarks are falling down!” sense but on the emotional journey these two kids are embarking on. Yuuki is too young, really, to show a vast amount of development outwardly it broadens his life experience quite considerably; some of the more shocking moments involve poor Yuuki having to grow up fast. In some ways it’s even more all-encompassing to him because at his age one city is all the world he knows.

Mirai is older and therefore goes through a more complex range of emotions; the variation in fan reactions to her character was interesting too. Again, her brattiness is in keeping with the realism of the show as a whole: her behaviour is of the type that few would approve of but many would understand…a twenty-first century teenager really. It’s a transitional period where you want to act like an adult but don’t know how to; a time of shifting emotions inside and shifting expectations from others. Aside from the usual dramas that we see her go through in the first episode or two, she also has to contend with the fact that not even the ground beneath her feet stands still any more.

What Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 does so wonderfully is show the emotional aftershocks after the initial devastation is over. The school that Mirai attends looks recognisable from the outside but the ‘quake has taken the rug from under her here too: a beautiful stained glass window now forms a backdrop to dead and dying earthquake victims. One of those grieving is a classmate of hers, at which point Mirai realises she cannot find words of comfort to offer.

This is my favourite part of Mirai’s character development so far: she sees this then learns of the background behind the elderly couple who stay in the school grounds as volunteers. The tears she sheds are not born from some selfish tantrum or even directly from a personal loss: she feels empathy for others’ tragedies and cannot cope with that very adult realisation. It’s a very different cause for upset next to the trivial having-a-bad-day variety she faced before.

Mirai’s eyes are opened to a lot of things, many of which are unpleasant and painful. Seeing her classmate and the old couple in their own states of mourning does, I think, also stem a little from guilt; or at the very least, a sense of helplessness that extends beyond the expected adolescent frustration. She feels she ought to help, but can’t. Unexpected events such as this stir up feelings that in more mundane circumstances would seem irrational: Mari’s concern for her own mother and daughter manifest themselves as a brave resolve to hope for the best while at the back of her mind she’s fearing the worst.

Mirai’s frustration at the world in general doesn’t stop her showing concern and responsibility for Yuuki but her declaration as the ‘quake struck was particularly poignant. “The world can just break!” is the typical childish retort spoke without comprehending the ramifications but what if the world DID suddenly break, at that moment? Whether Mirai has yet been taught the theory of plate techtonics in geography class I’m not sure, but if you think rationally there’s no way a juvenile wish could have caused it to occur. Nevertheless, the shock she felt at that point can’t be reined in by thinking rationally.

That moment reminded me of another excellent, albeit stylistically different, dramatic examination of the effects of a major earthquake on the general population. The compilation of short stories that Haruki Murakami wrote after the 1995 ‘quake that hit Kobe is like a literary concept album with All God’s Children Can Dance as its title track; internationally it’s available under the collective title after the quake (non-capitalisation intentional). The story Thailand shows a similar situation in which the heroine wishes misfortune on a certain person in her life, but despite being intelligent and of a scientific background she wonders if the earthquake is a physical manifestation of this selfish desire.

Murakami’s tales in this compilation are not actually concerned with people near the epicentre; it’s instead a portrayal of how even the tiniest ripples of causality affect people many miles away. Although much of Mirai’s, Yuuki’s and Mari’s story is one of survival in the immediate aftermath, both after the quake and Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 provide a more interesting commentary on how a literally earth-shattering event affects us on several deeper and more far-reaching levels.

This post is partly inspired by Bateszi’s observation of how little those of us in the English-speaking world hear of drama- and realistic fiction-style Japanese cinema, and partly because a review for the movie adaptation of Haruki Murakami’s short story Tony Takitani is long overdue. The original story, by the way, is currently available in the Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman compilation of his short stories; another book on my ‘To Review’ pile.

The man of the film’s title is a graphical artist with a solitary life and an unconventional childhood. His mother died when he was born and his often-absent father is a travelling jazz musician; a man “as unsuited to being a father as Tony was to being a son,”. Tony Takitani is skilled and successful professionally but despite an agreeable personality and lucrative career he is something of an introvert. This life of solitude changes when he marries a woman with a passion for clothes and understands the true meaning of loneliness.

Murakami’s writings, both full novels and shorts, are more often than not quite surreal pieces but this particular story is a very realistic tale free from supernatural goings-on and metaphysics, which makes its transition from print to screen almost effortless. With a passive observer-style narration, the cinematography makes the camera view glide from scene to scene like the pages of a book turning; it almost feels as if the chapters of Tony’s life are being read out aloud as we drift in and out and through moments of his life.

The quirkiness of Murakami’s prose, a large part of his appeal that is so difficult to pin down, is effectively captured here. There are occasional moments of dry humour but it has a restful, introspective and melancholic atmosphere; the pace is unhurried, allowing the viewer’s attention to linger on the small details and the nuances of the characters’ reactions and expressions. The way in which they occasionally finish the narrator’s lines out loud gently knocks on the fourth wall and prevents the viewer becoming detached from the events on-screen.

Interestingly, the continuity of solitude passed down from father to son is maintained by deliberately casting stage actor Issei Ogata in the roles of both the adult Tony and his father Shozaburo; similarly his wife and the woman who he meets later on are both played by Rie Miyazawa, linking the tragedy of their married life and his search for solace that follows. In a understated film such as this, the cast have room to shine: Ogata’s experience in theatre is perfectly suited to the minimalistic style of the film and Miyazawa lends that air of elegance and poise that left me so impressed by her turn in The Twilight Samurai.

All this conveys some of the most profound and meaningful themes that are prevalent in Murakami’s work: namely feelings of isolation in today’s crowded world, the emotional price of a materialistic society, and the ironic distance that exists between us and those we’re closest to. In a way, both Tony and his father lived solitary lives but the way in which that isolation is handed down is truly affecting. Similarly Tony wished his wife happiness but her inexplicable compulsion to buy clothes and shoes proved to be her undoing – once again it’s an odd topic and one that rarely appears in cinema, but is no less believable.

The central theme of the story is of course that Tony never feels lonely until he experiences true love and companionship, followed by the pain that results when he returns to a life on his own. This is undeniably a downbeat film but rather than melodramatics or clumsy tearjerking, Tony Takitani presents the story’s themes in a matter-of-fact and mature way which makes its impact all the more considerable. Ryuichi Sakamoto’s subtle piano melodies are used sparingly yet wisely too, providing the icing on a cake that deserves to be sampled by a far wider audience. As someone who is both curious in regards to world cinema and an avid Murakami fan into the bargain, I found this to be a hidden gem.

I’ve always wondered how (if at all) Murakami’s writing could make it to the screen, especially when the screenplay is so faithful to the source material, but with this film in mind I wish it happened more often. The casting, the cinematography, the atmosphere are all picture-perfect: I find it hard to find fault in it at all. If this is to set the course of Ichikawa’s career, he is a film maker who deserves worldwide recognition.