This accolade is never given lightly. Given its origin, it demands to be an award of the highest order as a recognition of epic courage, selflessness and sheer badassery; spoilers for Super Dimensional Fortress Macross are coming up, by the way.

In the Do You Remember Love? movie version of Macross, Roy Foker dies a heroic death in in battle so his comrades might live; in the TV series however, the events play out differently…and in some ways it’s even more powerful. It happens during a fairly fast-paced portion of the story immediately after a dream sequence-induced clip episode, so a lot of other stuff is already going on. The Macross has returned to Earth, but the occupants are not allowed to leave the ship; Hikaru is recovering from war wounds in hospital; Minmay is suffering from the pressures of new-found fame and as a result there’s a growing rift between them.

The build-up to Roy’s demise is really well done because there are numerous sleight-of-hand plot points to ramp up the tension and simultaneously foreshadow the event. Hikaru is unable to accompany his wingmen, resulting in a last-minute substitute; there’s a promise to see Claudia again with a carefree declaration of what he plans to do when he returns from his mission (as someone quipped in Scream, “when someone says ‘I’ll be right back,’ they’ll NEVER ‘be right back’.”); then the ground crew who inspect Roy’s plane afterwards make a grim discovery in the empty cockpit.

Roy’s final moments are a surprisingly poignant and moving piece of work on the part of the show’s writers: it’s very quiet and low-key. You might be able to put two and two together and say “I saw that coming,” but even so, the ordinary-ness catches you off balance. Most heroic deaths (his in DYRL? included) show the character going out in a blaze of glory but this time it was, let’s face it, how death often is in reality rather than how it often is in stories.

Part of the appeal of the Heroic Death as a plot device is the fact that it celebrates the act of dying with one’s boots on. The idea that someone meets his or her end while at work or doing something productive adds meaning to their final moments of life, and the numerous connotations and inferences are therefore mostly positive. It’s a sudden end that doesn’t occur due to natural causes; it’s a hero’s death.

The original Pineapple Salad scene is nevertheless different from, say, its DYRL? equivalent, and most deaths occuring while wearing boots for that matter. The gunfire is behind them, there’s no fighting or shouting; it’s a quiet, friendly domestic scene quite removed from the violence that preceded it.

It’s more than a man dying with his boots on. It’s a man who has fought the good fight, drawn enemy fire away from a comrade, brought his men safely home then kept his promise to the woman he loves despite being gravely injured…and we don’t even realise how injured he is until afterwards because he didn’t draw attention to his condition. Instead, he joined Claudia for dessert then finally keeled over with a guitar in his hand.

Let me reiterate that last point.

Roy Foker died. With. A. Guitar. In. His. Hand.

Now look me in the eye and tell me this isn’t a true hero.

It’s also important to remember how the series portrayed him. For some reason, I always thought of him as the arrogant, womanising fighter jock but in both this and his younger self’s appearance in Macross Zero he’s more than that, and I feel as though I haven’t been giving him enough credit for it.

Take the peaceful, cool-headed Bruno Global. He often looked out of his depth at first, like Captain Smith on the Titanic: a distinguished veteran offered a prestigious job before he retires, only to see events take a dramatic and unexpected turn. Global is a well-decorated officer with an illustrious career and as such is a good leader in a crisis, but it’s just as easy to imagine him living a peaceful life smoking his pipe by the fire at home.

Roy Foker in contrast is one of those people for whom it is hard to imagine doing anything other than flying a plane. During their time on the ground, the Roy Fokers of this world feel lost and without purpose; they often cause trouble for themselves and those around them because their role as a pilot is so integral to who they are. Hikaru drifted into the job but Roy was destined to fly a plane, live dangerously and do risky, heroic things.

For the most part I look upon the heavy drinking, womanising archetype with disapproval but Roy somehow gets away with it. This is I think partly because he does things most of us secretly want to do – namely drinking a lot, chasing the girls and putting yourself into dangerous situations to look cool – but wouldn’t dare do ourselves. He has the balls and we haven’t.

There’s actually an element of self-control to Roy’s excesses however, in that he can be the sober professional and skilled role model when the situation demands it. Unlike the ‘loose cannon’ type of fighter jock, his ability to behave appropriately when really necessary is as effortless as his ability to misbehave without showing a trace of remorse when he can get away with it.

When at play, Foker was a man of questionable morals but when the proverbial crap hit the fan and there was work to be done, his unwavering resolve to Do The Right Thing was anything but questionable. Although his reputation was that of a man who partied hard, thought monogamy is used to make furniture and relished a fight, it’s ironic to think that his final moments were in the peaceful company of a long-term girlfriend while waiting for a healthy dessert. The pineapple salad.

The plot synopsis is hard to summarise but at its core Love Exposure is a coming-of-age romantic comedy. Its intertwining plot threads feature graphic gore and manga-style violence, domestic strife, panty shots, teen angst, sexual and religious taboos and numerous awkward boners. To reiterate: not for the easily offended. It’s still bloody genius though.

The only film I’ve seen that even remotely resembles this one is Survive Style 5+, which was observed by one critic as “Pulp Fiction on steroids, and with better acting.” Both of these films share some stylistic similarities with Tarantino – such as unusual yet effective choices of music, Ravel’s Boléro being a good example in this case – but lack the self-indulgent glorification of sex, violence and other fetishes; Love Exposure does feature some shocking moments but at least doesn’t portray them in the same way that Tarantino does. Shock value – and fetishes – are key themes in this movie but I felt differently about them here…and even the awkwardness- and discomfort-based comedy of the coming-of-age aspect weren’t too offputting, as is often the case for me.

The length of the film is an important point, not least because I’m one of those viewers who’s guilty of the “…side characters and minor plot points cannot be fully addressed in the running time of a stand-alone feature…” criticism. Love Exposure seems to have realised this so takes the time to go off at tangents, stops to introduce and follow up on incidental people and events, and maintains a comfortable pace without letting boredom set in.

The price to be paid for this is four full hours of your life and if I were to be honest, would it be a much worse film if it were slightly shorter? No, not really. It takes longer than necessary in order to go where it needs to go but there are none of the resulting stodgy, languid moments or shaky acting you might expect. The fact that Sion Sono’s writing is able to sustain itself over such a duration is remarkable but the expansive screenplay also gives the characters the breathing-room they need to develop. Since pretty much everyone of any importance in the film is emotionally fucked up in some way or another, I can’t emphasise the importance of background and development enough.

As much as I could go on about how unpredictable the story gets at points, the larger-than-life characters really make this film and the performances, particularly from the younger members of the cast, are outstanding. Takahiro Nishijima pulls off the bemused, frustrated adolescent Yu Honda with both likeable goofiness and genuine pathos; Sakura Ando is gleefully ruthless as Aya Koike while holding the crucial element of sympathy for her shocking and tragic upbringing; and Hikari Mitsushima as Yoko Ozawa…yeah.

Most J-cinema geeks will remember Mitsushima as the sweet and innocent kid sister in the Death Note live-action efforts but I was floored by the realisation that this gal can act. My first impression actually was “Hot damn! She’s GORGEOUS…” but after reining that in I was amazed at how she stole scenes on professional talent alone. The humour is for the most part slapstick or pitch-black farce but when the drama kicks into overdrive the cast absolutely shine.

I’ve read that Sono is interested in the life story of Jesus but has no particular religious stance; although Chrisitanity takes a significant role in the story of Love Exposure it’s more a case of examining how individuals’ faith and beliefs shape them and those around them. I expect the religious aspect is controversial among the domestic audiences for different reasons: the Zero Church cult bears an uncanny resemblance to organisations such as the notorious Aum Shinrikyo that made headlines in the most shocking way possible in the 1990s (for more info on that incident, I recommend Underground: the Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami).

I don’t think that social commentary was on the agenda here though. A pivotal moment in the movie (and another dramatic high point for Mitsushima I might add) is a recital of a passage from Corinthians that lays the themes of faith, hope and love bare and manages to present the religious, superficial and more seriously romantic aspects of the meaning of “love” fully. It kick-starts the dramatic and blood-soaked finale as Yu realises the depth of his feelings for Yoko (as opposed to merely noticing how she gives him a tent-pole in his trousers) and resolves the other main subplots in a way that makes staggering sense.

The ‘extreme’ moments suggest that this film is an exercise in being as lively and firecracker-under-your-backside startling as possible so it’s a bit of a surprise to realise that its extensive plot and eccentric cast are all in the name of an in-depth and remarkably affecting character study. Perhaps because of the four-hour duration or perhaps because so much batshit insanity happens during the course of the movie, the ending is all the more jaw-dropping and satisfying.

The time I needed to physically watch the thing was the main reason I put it off for so long, but within minutes of Yura Yura Teikoku’s Kudo Desu finishing over the end credits I went straight to ordering my own copy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The striking storytelling and memorable characters made such an impression on me but I appreciate the fact that it’s so long, dark and twisted it’ll be more of a cult title than a mainstream hit. For all the importance placed on the importance of love, understanding and family I could never comfortably sit down and watch it with my own…

Ultimately it made me grin like a loon and gave me that rare ‘drained in a good way’ feeling and that of wanting to tell anyone who will listen about how it’s one of the best movies I’ve seen in months. And Hikari Mitsushima is still HAWT. ^_^

*And I might add more original screencaps when my retail copy arrives.*

It goes without saying that Godzilla is a cultural icon; the image of a giant lizard owning the streets of Tokyo is one of cinema’s most enduring images but out of the people who recognise the popular silhouette of this radioactive dinosaur, how many have seen its first silver screen outing? With the aid of my Lovefilm subscription I decided to conduct a little experiment in experiencing a piece of filmmaking that’s around the same age as my parents…and the results were surprising.

I was expecting a black-and-white movie whose storytelling and technical approach are clumsy and dated, but I didn’t expect its intended power and entertainment value to reach as far as a twenty-something UK viewer who’s been brought up on full-colour contemporary cinema. The common assumption that it looks like what it is – a stuntman in a rubber suit trampling on studio models – is impossible to refute but there’s one hell of a lot more to Godzilla than that.

It’s an historical curio in some ways, but it’s still surprisingly watchable and affecting. Even though the script is bogged down in its 1950s sensibilities and the acting is similarly a product of what I’m guessing was a relatively young and inexperienced industry there are still elements of tension and meaning. I was prepared for laughter at the primitive special effects and expected to feel bored for the rest of the time, but Godzilla is still fundamentally a gripping story.

Of course there are over five decades of cinematography evolution working against Godzilla: not only that, it was made with the A-bombs of WWII fresh in the memory and the opening scene of a Japanese fishing boat caught in the fallout of the atomic bomb test was inspired by a real-life event that had occurred shortly before filming began. These are all history to us now so the background to the movie is unlikely to resonate with audiences now as much as it did on its release. Nevertheless, atomic bomb tests (and the controversy that results) are still newsworthy and the general Dangers Of Science concept is still a movie script staple in some form or another.

Despite the fact that it’s a product of a bygone era, there’s still a definite sense of unease and foreboding as the main characters are introduced and the existence of the monster begins to be felt. In short, as a disaster movie it still works. I noticed little details such as a ‘wipe’ scene cut, which was a personal favourite editing technique of the aforementioned Kurosawa, which work to give a plot progression that’s actually quite natural and sophisticated.

The slow build-up is an example of the screenplay’s deliberate pacing in that the screen time of the monster itself is held until as late on in the story as possible; ample opportunity is devoted to constructing a mythos before it appears with villagers recounting local legends of a ‘Gojira’ out at sea and the scientists finding the first signs of radiation and *something* having found its way ashore.

Although the film was inspired by a combination of Japan’s then-recent wartime trauma and early ‘monster movies’ such as The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, it has all the ingredients of the disaster films we know and love today. Now some aspects are tired tropes and clichés but none of this is Godzilla’s fault: for its time I can only imagine how groundbreaking it was (the countless sequels and remakes back this up, surely?). It’s important to remember that we only think of them that way because Godzilla did them first. Any eye-rolling at, say, character archetypes or a misanthropic scientist’s breakthrough saving the day is due to the fact that they were over-used by films made after this one. They, not this film, are the reason why they’re clichés in the first place.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I was glued to the screen when the camera peeks over the hill to see the huge scaly head of the monster for the first time and that its roar still sounds alien and unsettling. What I want to say is, Godzilla should be enjoyed as a film and not watched purely for scholastic purposes; its messages are still relevant even though its technical execution detracts from them at points. When we film fans get all nostalgic, there has to be something noteworthy to get nostalgic about, and Godzilla has that in spades.

For instance: the monster is not painted as evil in itself; in some ways you feel a bit sorry for it by the end. The common preconception of a monster film is that the creature is an evil force that must be stopped at all costs, but I didn’t get that impression here. Some of the characters, such as the superstitious villagers, revere it as a god or force of nature; one of the scientists wants to capture it alive to study it. Even the other scientist, who ultimately provides the final plan, is reluctant to use such a desperate measure to destroy something that most experts agree was brought about by human intervention.

Perhaps that’s why Godzilla is so enduring as a character; it’s a subject of fear and awe but the true evil of the film is the ignorance and rashness of humanity and the monster is a victim, and manifestation, of those human failings. The destruction and loss of life is meant to be terrifying and jaw-dropping but in a way the people of this world brought this monster on themselves.

Unfortunately it’s impossible to ignore the fact that yes, it’s not in colour and the monster is just a bloke in a rubber monster suit but there are enough moments of real cinematic genius that still pack a punch. To put it into perspective: I’m now willing to buy my own copy of this on DVD, but all I can remember of my viewing of the 1998 remake is that it was made in 1998 and that Jamiroquai wrote a song for the soundtrack. I think I’ll stick with the rubber monster suit and cardboard Tokyo, thanks.

Another reason is that cyberpunk is a ‘comfort food’ genre for me in that every now and then I feel the need to come back to the William Gibson- and Blade Runner-style neo-noir futuristic thrillers. With a few little quirks and cultural peculiarities aside, this is one of the most intelligent and gripping examples of the genre I’ve had the pleasure to read.

For the benefit of the lucky few who saw the anime of The First Compression, it’s very faithful to the novel…right down to that abrupt cliff-hanger at the end of the movie. At that point it was pure cyberpunk thriller territory: shady dealings between the neon lights of a futuristic cityscape and its seedy underbelly, a heroine equipped with cybernetic technology, high-tech crime, plot twists and double-crosses…all with a healthy dose of comic book violence.

The action-orientated first volume seems to pay homage to anime and manga from the Akira and Ghost in the Shell tradition but bubbling under the surface, and coming to the fore in what follows, is more ideas- and character-driven. To my mind however, it’s more intelligent and much more interesting: the novel turns out to be a personal journey as opposed to a simple action thriller and for that reason really stays with you.

I daresay that Rune-Balot is one of the most memorable and downright awesome literary heroines I’ve encountered in ages. Her introduction paints her as a passive victim of her pitiless world but watching her personality grow and strengthen is a masterful piece of character development; the emergence of someone you can really admire and become attached to.

I don’t mean ‘admire’ in a sexual sense – given the age and background of her character there’s no way I could think of her that way – but in a more general appreciation of how she goes in search of answers and how that development is handled by Ubukata’s writing. The world-building, especially the legal system, is impressive and he even finds time for some philosophical chin-scratching in between the gunfights.

Even so, the characters are I think the main reason why this is so extraordinary. It’s not so much Balot’s rescue that’s so affecting but her long and difficult road to overcoming the trauma that blighted her early life – it’s a case of “don’t get mad; get even.” In addition to this, the bond between her and Oefcoque is something that’s pretty special in that they end up teaching each other the value of life. She needs support and understanding; his legal status requires him to show practical usefulness (yes, it’s italicised in the novel too) but that spills over to his personal feelings. Assuming an A.I. that takes the form of a talking mouse that can turn into any weapon of his handler’s choice has feelings, obviously.

This is one of those suspension-of-disbelief things that you simply have to just accept in order to get on with the business of appreciating the novel overall. Oefcoque comes across as a mixture of Stuart Little and T-1000 from Terminator 2…and if that wasn’t weird enough, the names of many of the characters are based on wordplays or references to certain recurring themes. Such as eggs.

There’s the initial idea that Balot’s mentally distressing background made her retreat into a metaphorical ‘shell’ and the egg puns take off from there. Ubukata is apparently a ‘polymath’ according to the commentary from the translator Edwin Hawkes so there’s a lot of eclectic elements that crop up here and there. He really does like his egg references though.

Along the same lines the narrative itself is a bit experimental: the second half of the second volume and the first half of the third are set in a casino and take a storytelling approach that’s very unusual to Western readers. In retrospect it’s easy to see how the slow and heavy-going nature of this portion of the story is so significant but after the straightforward and faster-paced opening act the shift in tone is quite jarring; it’s concerned with tactics and the psychology of the characters involved rather than any kinetic action or Cool Stuff Happening.

I initially thought that Ubukata was indulging in a personal appreciation of the mechanics of gambling and that his editor hadn’t made a sufficient effort to rein his enthusiasm in to streamline the progression of the storyline. The fact that it’s so drawn-out is apparently intentional though, so as to evoke the tedium and tension that the characters were feeling by making the reader feel similarly tired, impatient and a little disorientated. It’s a clever trick on the author’s part but readers who are impatient to find out where all this is leading may not thank him for it.

In fairness, Hawkes went to great lengths to make the English language experience as readable as possible, in the hope of keeping the spirit of the prose intact so we’d appreciate the author’s intent without losing interest. I’m confident in Ubukata’s knowledge of the games involved, but since I don’t have a head for figures nor the rules of, say, blackjack or roulette I skimmed over the numbers and concentrated on the human element instead.

My best explanation for this part of the novel is comparing it to Gambling Apocalypse Kaiji, in which the protagonist attempts to change the course of his life through increasingly tense and convoluted gambling matches. Understanding the rules of the games is helpful but ultimately the way in which the characters face the challenges, and how these events in turn affect them, are what matter.

Sure enough, the casino segment contains some important personal moments amongst the repetition and implied zawa zawas but my problem with it stemmed more from the fact that it’s so wildly different from the earlier portion with its grotesque comic book villains and edge-of-your seat moments of a very different nature. I can only recommend sticking with it and trusting the author’s judgement on where it’s going because the payoff is well worthwhile.

As a parting shot I feel like making some pun about revenge being best served cold while I prefer cyberpunk hard-boiled but quite frankly it’s best to leave Ubukata to that. I’d rather urge you all to read the damn thing and let it speak for itself, because I enjoyed it one hell of a lot.

Last weekend was a lot of fun though, and kicked me out of my little funk for a while. Ironically I watched more anime during the course of Sunday afternoon that I had during the past month…with the exception of finishing my childhood fave The Mysterious Cities of Gold. LIFF always has a lot of interesting things on offer but the anime line-up this year was impressive: I didn’t get time to see Gintama and One Piece isn’t my thing but I was able to make it to Mardock Scramble: The First Compression, Rebuild of Evangelion 2.0 and Redline.

Mardock Scramble: the First Compression

I’d been warned about how this ends abruptly and sure enough, it does. I’d like to think it’s an hour-long opening episode of a series, which makes the cliff-hanger in the final scene easier for me to swallow. A next-ep preview or even a “to be continued…” title card would’ve made things a bit clearer however, especially since the screening was so soon after the Japanese premiere that info on what the deal is with sequel(s) is so thin on the ground. Part of the confusion is I think down to the fact that the project was originally an OAV that was subsequently cancelled, then it surfaced suddenly as a theatrical remake.

I do know that the original novel is currently being prepared for English language release by Viz early in the new year, so if nothing else we’ll have the full story in print if not on the silver screen. Setting aside the issue of the ending and the standard of other fare on offer, I must confess that Mardock Scramble was my favourite of the day: the cyberpunk premise, mixing futuristic cityscapes reminiscent of William Gibson and Masumune Shirow, with the accompanying gothic-meets-industrial aesthetic clicked with me; the backstory of the protagonist meant it went further down the Nasu-esque line of the subjective nature of morality that I really appreciated too.

The violence and unsettling sexual abuse subplot isn’t for the squeamish though, and some of the villains of the movie were so comically grotesque they might have been more at home in an episode of Speed Grapher. It felt like a tribute to cyberpunk’s OAV-fuelled glory days of the 80s actually, only with up-to-date animation and artwork. It’s derivative in some ways but everything’s pulled off with such unflinching flair and with such tantalising undercurrents it endeared itself to me. I don’t think this will be the last time I’ll rave about it.

Evangelion 2.0: You Can (not) Advance

I’ve set out my thoughts on this movie already, and to be honest another viewing hasn’t changed my mind for the worse or for the better. It was just nice to see the thing on the big screen (even if the sound system seemed to be suffering a bit under the strain), and sharing views with friends was of course a lot of fun.

Not much to say about this then, apart from the fact that my respective criticisms and praises still stand. It does look spectacular in the format it was intended for (a cinema full of caffeined-up geeks) and I was in a state of fanboying bliss at another Maaya Sakamoto VA role. Re: the post-credits sequence and next-ep preview: Anno, you bastard. ^_^

Redline

I might take a bit of flak for this in saying I didn’t enjoy this *quite* as much as I expected. At this point the auditorium was getting pretty warm and the caffeine was starting to wear off, but I also think my flagging enthusiasm was because Redline is a victim of its own success. That is to say, the truth behind the rumours about it being a Gurren Lagann-esque visual and audio assault are right on the money, which is precisely the problem: the experience is so full-on that the breakneck pace and dazzling colour gave this viewer sensory overload.

Dat hair!

The artwork is exquisitely detailed so the sheer amount of time and effort invested in this film shines through with every frame. It doesn’t make any pretence, either: it’s a movie purely about larger-than-life characters driving implausible racing cars at implausible speeds; the kind of film that nay-sayers claim can’t be made any more, but every now and then someone has the balls to make one and we’re all grateful for it.

Surprisingly the characters aren’t buried under this adrenaline rush – they’re settled enough into the archetypes to make the plot progression smooth, yet enough is inferred about their personalities and motives to stand out amongst the visual noise. I heartily recommend this movie purely because it’s so good at what it does, but I suspect you’ve already decided to watch it anyway. So watch it.

This isn’t a family-friendly blockbuster adventure movie of course: as a piece of thought-provoking futuristic SF though, Ibis is one of the best books I’ve read in months. Part of its premise hinges on the nameless protagonist, a wandering storyteller and amateur historian, and his problematic search for the facts – or the truth? – behind historical events that chart humanity’s downfall at the hands of robots and A.I.. Enter Ibis, a beautiful android who wants to do nothing more than tell him stories.

The background is a commonly-used one but Yamamoto turns this to his advantage by using classic sci-fi literature and movies as a launchpad for his own ideas and in turn the worldview of the novel. I, Robot, the Matrix trilogy, The Day The Earth Stood Still, Jules Verne’s De la Terre à la Lune…the list of references and names dropped is impressive. This is all in aid of hammering home the status quo of humanity as being on the brink of a robotic apocalypse in the style of the well-known pieces of science fiction. The reality of Ibis’, and the Storyteller’s, world is however far more fascinating than either the old stories or the clichéd version of history the Storyteller is familiar with.

Much of the novel is comprised of several of Yamamoto’s earlier short stories (although the last two are previously unpublished and long enough to be stand-alone novellas), presented as tales Ibis tells to the Storyteller. She wants to reveal the reality of history to him but he refuses to hear anything but fictional stories because of his suspicions regarding her motives and those of other machines; as a result Ibis attempts to make him reconsider his opinions and break down his prejudices through her telling of these fictitious tales instead.

I’ve encountered stories-within-stories before, but it’s a clever idea to work existing pieces into a new one and present them as knowingly fictitious to enrich the new plot and throw in some philosophy about the power of fiction along the way. Philip Pullman’s The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ is another interesting example of how a writer takes documentation of supposedly real events to illustrate how stories can be even more meaningful and significant than the history that inspires them, but I digress.

Getting back to the distinction between facts and truth: Ibis knows the Storyteller will not accept the facts at face value for fear of being told misleading robot propaganda, so she offers to present the truths behind them as fictional stories and allow him to make up his own mind. This is one of several levels of meaning that Yamamoto’s prose works on, which is what left me so impressed; another level is the analogy of the relative merits of reality and fiction in general.

Fictional stories may not present cold, hard facts but they still convey meaningful truths that are equally valuable and worth remembering: several of the stories Ibis selects for her reluctant one-man audience deal with experiences of virtual reality environments, A.I., escaping from reality and other non-natural life forms and concioussnesses. For example, are online friendships as valid as real life ones? Is a happy virtual world preferable to an unhappy reality? Can a robotic companion feel compassion?

In my view at least, facts are the realm of the head and fiction is the realm of the heart. So then, why is a heartless machine concerned with telling stories to a human who has been brought up to despise her? Ibis shows an uncanny understanding of humans by selecting someone whose interests allow him to grasp the importance of storytelling, and also a shrewd understanding of how to earn the trust of that person, someone who has been brought up to be suspicious of her kind.

I strongly recommend you read each of the stories and accompanying intermission segments (the intermissions are usually comprised of Ibis and the Storyteller discussing what she has just recounted to him) and try to identify key concepts and themes before moving onto the next, because Yamamoto has selected them carefully for their relevance in the bigger picture. The first four were originally intended to be conventional stand-alone short stories, and they can be appreciated as such outside the context of this novel – I’m writing short Tumblr articles on them to that effect – but the way they enhance and guide the course of the novel is also fiendishly clever.

It has a wonderful twist towards the end so, as with what connects the component stories, I’m not going to spoil it for you. Mainly because you need to read it if you’re another one of those people who appreciate SF and dig writing that works on several levels at once. Telling a story about how androids were invented and how this relates to humanity’s declines has been done so many times, so it’s refreshing to read one that’s instead a critique our views on the subject and one that extrapolates those rather than just another author’s own vision of the future.

There are one or two dark moments but the overall tone is often optimistic, so it examines both the positive and negative effects of advances in A.I. and how those advances may affect us. Finishing this so soon after the feature-length incarnation of Eve no Jikan was a happy accident really, because both pieces touch on the everyday details associated with robots and related issues. It’s the kind of movie that Ibis would enjoy too I think.

The way it’s put together as a novel is unusual and clever but the content is ultimately what really makes a novel great. In this case the individual stories are of a generally high standard: one or two are a little derivative but Yamamoto has a knack for drawing out the emotional element to make them moving and memorable as romance or drama, as opposed to being original as speculative fiction. Another welcome feature that Eve no Jikan shares, incidentally.

The display of Yamamoto’s extensive knowledge of the genre makes this a celebration of SF in the written medium but it’s fundamentally an instrospective and often sentimental take on humanity surviving in a seemingly inhuman world. Not only that, it throws up a lot of philosophy, but since it presents that in the form of short fables, the Big Ideas are easy to digest. It’s also a celebration of the power of stories in general – and I love good SF stories. Because of this I loved this novel. Go read it, internet.

The best part of all is the fact that this is in full HD: the series was from the outset a cut above the made-for-TV fare in terms of details in the artwork and fluidity in the animation, so the big screen treatment is what it deserves. If much of the content itself is the same then seeing it all in such glorious resolution is in itself worth the experience…and of course the increased detail means you’re less likely to miss some subtle yet potentially important plot point.

My impression of this feature-length format is slightly different from that of the series however, so I’m reluctant to recommend one without the other. The series served the narrative’s ideas in bite-sized chunks; you were encouraged to think it over and savour every moment because the releases of each instalment were so sporadic. The film takes the viewer all the way through in one go which gives a more cohesive experience, but offers less time to pause for thought: there’s a clearer sense of the ‘big picture’ but the trade-off is that it gives you less opportunity to appreciate the details in its writing.

That’s not to say that it’s more poorly paced than its predecessor: most of the content is the ONA’s footage spliced together after all, except shown without breaks for OP/END credits and with a few ‘new bits’ added in. It still has that same sense of succinct storytelling that I loved about the series: every exchange of dialogue is meaningful and not a moment is wasted on filler. That distinctive simulated hand-held camera approach also fits the big screen format – it’s as though Studio Rikka wanted Eve no Jikan to end up here from the very beginning.

I can finally say I CAN HAS FULL SIZE

The first difference I noticed is a slight, yet thematically significant, shift in emphasis. Much of this is due to rearranging the order of some scenes so overall there isn’t much that wasn’t in what I remember of the ONA. Many of these are short and, I must confess, really sweet moments in which Rikuo’s houseroid Sammy reflects on the relationship she shares with the family she works for. Her character comes across as even more endearing, introspective and tellingly more human that in the series.

The more major changes are in the ‘big picture’ of the story, which was originally drip-fed during the course of the six episodes but here is introduced in the first scene. It’s also evident in the closing one so the real treat for fans of the ONA comes in these final moments and during the end credit segment, in case you’re tempted to look away early. It inevitably poses a whole host of questions that only fuels my desire for a sequel, but also addresses a few earlier questions that the series didn’t explore as fully.

The recent passing of Satoshi Kon prompted the question of how many other directors have a natural knack for making innovative works that bring fresh ideas and perspectives to familiar concepts: narratives with an effortless ‘flow’ and an ability to balance differing sentiments and moods from scene to scene, but not always following the conventions. Sadly there aren’t very many who can do this: Tensai Okamura, Makoto Shinkai, Hideaki Anno and Mamoru Hosoda are the only people in the field of animation that I can name off the top of my head, but Yoshiura is another rare talent who is able to smoothly guide the story between tear-jerking, intriguing and laugh-out-loud hilarious. The characters of this story – human and android alike – are expressive and full of life, and the familiar issues associated with AI in society still hold a lot of potential for further discussion.

The important thing is, Eve no Jikan never lays the philosophy on thickly enough to get in the way of appreciating the everyday ramifications of androids in everyday life; it brings up Asimov’s Three Laws and technical jargon only when relevant, and resists the temptation that’s common in CGI-rendered productions to go overboard in portraying the future as being so far advanced that it’s unfamiliar. Sometimes little details are more effective than grandiose cyberpunk cityscapes.

The icing on the cake for me is that the ending theme tune, I have a dream, works far better in this context than it does as the closing track of Kalafina’s last album. On its own it’s as close to underwhelming as Yuki Kajiura’s songwriting has gone for me, but I’ve now warmed to it far more than I expected. Toru Okada’s BGM is still too quirky and lo-fi to be taken seriously but it fits in well with the playful and light-hearted vibe of the movie – a production that takes on one of the most popular yet weighty themes in science fiction, yet is still enjoyable.

Sammy is adorable.</discussion>

This is the kind of movie that is crying out for exposure at film and SF festival screenings worldwide; not just as a visually impressive indie film but a shining example of how speculative fiction can be thoughtful, inventive and fun. Those of you who haven’t yet followed up my recommendations to watch the series might as well track this down instead. You really won’t regret it.

Is its reputation deserved? Old-school fans can be fiercely loyal to the stuff they hold dear after all, especially when it’s seen through the soft-focus rose tint of nostalgia. Some titles are popular for popularity’s sake but others, such as this one, are enduring simply because they’re good.

I always suspected that Yamaga and co are more comfortable when not held back by the TV serial constraints but never has it been so obvious as it is here. It wasn’t until I started freeze-framing to do the tedious job of choosing screencaps (which, by the way, don’t do its artwork justice) that I fully understood the amount of work that’s gone into this movie: the attention to detail is staggering. The world-building has its own geography, customs, currency, technology and even, if I’m not mistaken, languages. Although it draws inspiration from the US/USSR Space Race of the 1950s much of this is a flight through the imagination…as animated escapism should be really. The rocket designs are obviously true-to-life but some much else is, much to my amazement, built from scratch.

The ‘built from scratch’ point is one digression where I will nod to the film’s origins and bore the anime history experts by highlighting its own history. As a fledgling studio of hard-up yet enthusiastic geeks trying to make it on their own, a lot of love has been poured into the production but in that sense art imitates life: the heroes are a team of nobodies with dogged determination and a can-do attitude who have everything to lose and everything to prove. The parallels with what must have been Gainax’s own workplace atmosphere are I suspect intentional.

This is where the reputation/nostalgia problem comes in. It’s all well and good painting Wings of Honneamise as the real and fictitious triumph of the underdogs but let’s be honest here: we watch it to enjoy it, not merely to give ourselves a history lesson. My point is that the loving care, artistic innovation and financial risks speak for themselves: on its own merits as stand-alone film it’s still brilliant, and that’s what matters.

The background is alien but perhaps because the people and places portrayed are not those of our own world, the writers felt more confident in making the social commentary that little bit more forceful. The big ideas such as corruption and political machinations or the little ones like departmental funding and personal issues are no less relevant just because the nationalities are fictitious: they’re dressed up differently but still hit home. The difficulty in working at the mercy of myopic bureaucracy or the discomfort of unintended celebrity status translates well to a lot of real-life situations!

I really like the aesthetic of it all, not just because it’s different. With the exception of Planetes the humdrum, un-glamorous side of science fiction is rarely shown: this is giving a voice to the quiet geniuses and backroom risk-takers that make the rest of it possible. The technology is rendered with meticulous attention to detail but that technology is wonderfully quaint and primitive; this juxtaposition of historical and space-age gives a retro-futuristic feel like that of Xam’d Lost Memories in some ways. This isn’t just the story of how Gainax began: it’s a story of how space opera stories themselves begin.

The pacing of the film and perhaps the nonchalant hero, who has a pretty unpleasant moment of personal weakness at one point, may be off-putting for some. Whether it was to portray the long and drawn-out nature of our heroes’ struggle or just to give the worldview the screen time it deserves, it’s a long film; because the main character is so unhurried and indecisive in everything he does, it feels like a long film at times. He’s not always all that heroic so the realism might get the better of the entertainment value on occasion, but I find that unflinching, matter-of-fact frankness refreshing.

Since Gainax have churned out slapstick comedy/parody TV series with tired in-jokes and dollops of fan service it’s understandable that Wings of Honneamise, with its long-winded plot and mature storytelling style, might be a bit of a shock. Indeed, I constantly asked myself “why don’t they make films like this any more?” and have yet to formulate a satisfactory answer. Maybe a film of this scale, with no pre-written source material or tie-in merch to rely on, would be too much to ask for in the current financial climate. Reading around, the lukewarm reception upon its release is what can kill careers so we ought to be grateful to be given the opportunity to remember it at all.

The way in which a small group of people who aim higher than anyone while being looked down upon by their contemporaries, the way an everyman drifts through life before finding his muse and making history and the little coincidences, bits of luck and dashes of philosophy and spirituality to contrast the scientific endeavours are inspirational and make something greater than the sum of its parts.

This isn’t my excuse to rant about how Yamaga, Anno and their colleagues have never returned to the glory days of their first features, or how the Industry is allegedly choking under the black cloud of global recession or suffocating under the hug-pillow of moe. It isn’t even about how the movie is an historically significant one. It’s about good cinema as good cinema: that is, gorgeous cinematography, memorable characters and powerful storytelling that are just that, regardless of era. It’s a moving and stunning film and that’s why it deserves to be a appreciated. Go watch it.

The Brudenell Social Club in Leeds is a great small venue (around 300 capacity, give or take) so while the sound isn’t of stadium quality it’s cosy enough and gives a sense of close-ness, for want of a better word, that’s more intimate to me than those larger venues. In this case the support act were a local band called Glissando and the headliners worked to a set comprised of highlights from their latest album and some old favourites.

In the role of support Glissando made a pleasant yet inobtrusive job of warming up the audience for the main event; they’ve been likened to the Cocteau Twins but since I’m not familiar with their material I can’t vouch for that. Anyhow, Glissando are a haunting mix of tolling drums, echoing guitar riffs and otherworldly vocals that feels tender yet vaguely unsettling, in a good way I hasten to add. The convention, if there is such a thing, for ambient/post-rock bands is the lack of lyrical content but in Glissando’s case the vocals are part of the instrumentation and heighten the mood of the pieces. I don’t have an overwhelming urge to buy their records but their live act worked very well indeed.

I’ll admit right off that Mono are hands-down one of my favourite bands and their concerts have a legendary status so I had very high hopes for this. I’ll also admit that I was two pints of ale and a double whiskey for the worse when I walked into the venue and was at the front near the far right hand side of the stage so probably wasn’t in an ideal position for a hardcore audiophile. Nevetherless, the sound they can create is quite something: it veers from plaintive, chiming piano and clean guitars to the tinnitus-inducing wall of sound.

The set opened with Ashes In The Snow, complete with the same faint wailing and tender glockenspiel introduction as the studio version. The live rendition closely followed its recorded counterpart but the obvious appeal of the live experience is the frequency range, in the bass range particularly: stripped of the orchestral arrangement this and Burial At Sea felt more raw and immediate.

I didn’t recognise The Kidnapper Bell but it sat well with the rest of the set; less complex and layered than the more recent songs but in the live setting this isn’t such a bad thing. If nothing else it offered a pleasant surprise for those of us expecting performances of the newer songs and little else. The extra bottom end and presence also lent itself well to Pure As Snow (Trails of the Winter Storm), which started off in the vein of their more restful tunes but built up into an impressive crescendo; the pounding of the percussion gave way to borderline-atonal noise courtesy of guitarist Taka, as he coaxed a maelstrom of digital shrieks from his beat-up Jazzmaster and extensive pedalboard.

Sabbath, another old tune that made a surprise appearance, gave another change of pace with its atmosphere of serene reflection. The following number Yearning is one of the fan favourites and I can see why: the dynamic changes worked even better than they do on record because it allowed such marked shifts in mood. If there’s one limitation to their studio sound it’s the tendency to iron out these volume changes and mix the instrumentation down together; here, Tamaki’s basslines and Takada’s drumming pounded out louder and clearer than they ever did from my hi-fi speakers.

Follow The Map is a bit of a departure arrangement-wise, feeling almost like an intermission piece; even so, in its short (by Mono’s standards) duration this one still does a beautiful job of setting out its own narrative. It happens to be one of my personal favourites too: the joyous finale sounds great with orchestral backing but I was glad to hear the same strength of feeling with just Takada’ drums, Taka and Yoda on guitars and Tamaki on keyboard.

An inevitable yet stunning rendition of Halcyon (Beautiful Days) followed – from what I’ve read, they ALWAYS play Halcyon – and of course closing the set with the tearjerking Everlasting Light. Again, it’s credit to the band in that they can recreate all of this without session musicians or prerecorded samples: the orchestral part isn’t there but the spirit and impact comes across just as clearly. They played out almost exactly how I expected them to but with an extended intro here, a bit more FX pedal tweaking there and the physical expressiveness of the musicians’ performance.

If there were any interviews or signings I must have missed them but I was fortunate enough to briefly meet Taka and Yoda as they caught some air backstage afterwards. During the performance I had a vague sensation that, what with it being the end of the UK leg of the tour, the whole band were feeling a bit exhausted so I was reluctant to pester them with too many questions (I was still feeling overwhelmed TBH). Nevertheless they were happy to return my stammering thank-yous with some polite words and a couple of friendly handshakes – all in all then it was a very special evening.

Setlist

1. Ashes In The Snow
2. Burial At Sea
3. The Kidnapper Bell
4. Pure As Snow (Trails of the Winter Storm)
5. Sabbath*
6. Yearning
7. Follow The Map
8. Halcyon (Beautiful Days)
9. Everlasting Light

*I can’t be sure but I think this could just as easily have been Are You There?.

I can’t bring myself to say it’s ‘better’ or ‘worse’ than Tokikake because they’re quite different in themes and storytelling approach so I probably shouldn’t place much value on direct comparisons. And yeah, this is The Post I promised I’d write (thanks in no small part to the excellent pieces from Gaguri, Chaostangent and Ghostlightning); now the high-def version is online I hope there are finally enough people to share my thoughts with.

The film is very consciously intended to be the feelgood summer movie so its boundless enthusiasm, youthful energy and desire to have as broad an appeal as possible are very evident. One of the friends I watched it with on my first viewing commented on the online Oz community as being “how Second Life wished it was,” and warned me that we could be looking at the face of the Internet in ten years’ time. When I imagine Ebay and Facebook combined, I can see where he was coming from.

I actually found the rendering of Oz, and the suspension of disbelief required for the mechanics of how it all works, to be a little distracting. Don’t get me wrong, the CG is used effectively, the combat and other interactions are kinetic and full of fluidity but it seems to lean too heavily on Hosoda’s experience with the Superflat Monogram short. It looks awesome and all but it’s diverting attention away from the more subtle, meaningful and in my opinion more interesting stuff behind the pretty-shiny façade.

For me the online world of Summer Wars serves as a mirror held up against Real Life of the twenty-first century. Parallel to, and interacting with, this imaginative virtual environment is a good old-fashioned family film: the premise of a college kid staying with a his would-be crush to while away the school holidays is a fine excuse to examine how families interact in today’s world. We eventually learn that Kenji is so overwhelmed by Natsuki’s rowdy relatives because his own home life is of the all-too-common latchkey child/workaholic parents setup; her domestic situation on the other hand is of the more gregarious, traditional kind that their generation doesn’t experience very often any more.

One of the many issues depicted in Summer Wars is the celebration of the old-fashioned extended family in which relatives get together for special occasions in a big, comfortable country house with stories, jokes and traditional games. It’s set in Nagano (an area I saw at a distance from a moving bus window, and vowed to visit someday); if the idyllic small towns and sweeping shots of green hillsides look familiar to you, it’s also the region that Makoto Shinkai grew up in iirc so the same picturesque, nostalgia-inducing charms have overspilled into his work too.

The appeal to domestic audiences is pretty obvious then: it’s set in a well-known and popular area of the country and is a throwback to the traditional Japanese countryside holiday but the general summertime sentiment ought to be universal (I noticed a few scenes that reminded me of incidents in my own, Western, family). Just because it’s such boundless fun that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have much to say though: long after the rush of watching the story unfold had subsided, my mind was in overdrive in order to digest and appreciate the numerous underlying messages that accompanied it.

Summer Wars can still be enjoyed as ‘just’ a movie. Thanks to Hosoda’s eye for detail the narrative flows with his trademark playful humour and effortlessly gearshifts between the light and the more serious moments. I laughed one moment and fought back the tears the next but never felt as though it was forced and contrived; its sentimentality and sense of fun are refreshingly honest and unfold naturally. One particularly poignant scene is a long camera pan across the veranda with family members, Sakae’s favourite potted flowers and Kenji tentatively taking hold of Natsuki’s hand, showing his concern as best he can but unable to stop her tears. It’s one of the most moving and well-handled cinematic scenes I’ve seen in months.

Considering how the narrative uses a cast of varied and expressive personalities for their storytelling, Yoshiuyuki Sadamoto’s distinctive flair is perfect for the job of rendering the characters. Fans of his will spot his designs a mile off but I’m still amazed at how vibrant, likeable and full of life they are here; if there’s one misstep the film makes it’s the sheer number potrayed. I can understand why Hosoda went for such a large cast but is demanding a lot of the the storyboard writers to give them the attention they deserve and the viewers to keep track of them all.

If it overreaches itself on the character front it still manages to juggle a whole load of other themes and ideas with no problems at all. The juxtaposition of the traditional and the high-tech is one: the family are proud of their ancestors’ exploits but don’t hesitate to throw themselves at the challenge in the present. I’ve read of accusations at how it’s pushing some patriotic pro-Japanese/anti-American sentiment but personally I don’t think such things were on the writers’ agenda; it struck me as too innocuous for that.

Another recurring theme is that of communication: when Sakae orders everyone to get together and solve the problem there’s this wonderfully heartwarming and empowering sense that we’re all connected. Everyone has a part to play and has an opportunity to contribute their own individual talents, from the ageing matriach with her clear thinking and network of old friends to the outsider who’s drawn in through a misunderstanding but pitches in with the rest of them…just because it feels good to be among other people and be part of something that’s making a difference.

It’s easy to overlook these things at the time but when reflecting later on the big showdown, culminating in Natsuki’s online avatar going through a great send-up of the magical girl-style transformation and taking on the Love Machine with her family and millions of others behind her, Summer Wars has a lot of insight and intelligence that extends beyond giving what cinemagoers expect from a typical blockbuster movie. I got a suspicion that it’s not trying to glamorise the traditional, vanishing way of life; nor is it promoting or even condemning our reliance on technology.

The take-home messages are more complex yet simple at the same time. It shamelessly celebrates a way of life that many domestic audiences will see as escapism rather than realism, and portraying our love for electronic gadgetry as both a cause and solution for a lot of life’s problems. Fundamentally things are turned around by humans embracing the new, but simultaneously maintaining the age-old bonds that hold families and the big ‘family’ that is society as a whole together. While it lacks the personal focus of Tokikake and the longer moments of character study that accompany it, Summer Wars aims for bold and bright with warmth and relevance. And succeeds. When is the Blu-Ray out again?