PUPARIA: embracing the subliminal

puparia – the hardened last larval skin which encloses the pupa in some insects, especially in higher dipteria – a hard barrel-shaped case enclosing the pupae of the housefly and other dipterious insects.

Now, speaking frankly – I have no real idea what any of the words above mean. But before searching up the word, I knew PUPARIA was the perfect title for Shingo Tamagawa’s short film. His first foray into indie animation is a lot of things – strange, seductive, alarming, confusing -but tying it all together is a fascination with the primal, the animal, the insect. In the film, the insect is the rawest, purest form of nature. The girls – or the unambiguously human figures – are put against a backdrop of natural imagery. Tamagawa’s art direction is striking as he contrasts their relatively simple designs against meticulous colour-pencil backgrounds. The use of colour-pencil itself, as opposed to paint or digital mediums, is meaningful – it adds to the rawness of images that assault the eyes. But the short is most fascinating when the different visual elements merge, when the lines between the human and the animal begin to blur.

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A seemingly infinite hallway, where a man – is he man? – stands at its door. From the darkness of the hall, a moth-like figure emerges. Whenever I watch this segment of the film, I’m always disturbed. The emphasis on eyes – the intense gazes of both non-human figures right at the camera- puts me on edge. I become strangely aware of watching in the same way these characters watch me. It’s a scene that both demands and repels understanding. The seemingly arbitrary details, like the man’s right eye, collide with the urgency of the creature that practically leaps out of the screen. What am I supposed to take from it? Is there even anything there, besides vague feelings of wrongness?

A film like PUPARIA challenges my ability to communicate meaning. What it means to me isn’t tangible – there’s no clear narrative to cling to and elucidate. It’s a deliberate piece of art that touches on subconscious images – images that we recognise on some subliminal level, but aren’t conscious of until it startles us with its sudden presence. Take the final scene – I don’t know if there’s symbolism and what that symbolism could mean. But I connect, on a fundamental level, with the images of the masses observing the alien figure. As Tamagawa draws out the individual faces from the collective, I’m drawn into that narrative itself. It reminds me of the times when I visit London. I step into the city, and lose myself in the crowds. But throughout the day, the crowds thin and disperse until I can recognise faces and find my place again – and it’s only when that happens that I feel like I’m truly part of the city. And being part of the city is being part of a complex web of nationalities, races, experiences that make London – being myself and not at the same time. It’s not a sensation I often think about, but it’s been drawn out of me by the simple image of a crowd – who might represent “civilization” – watching an alien other.

Talking about art can be (unnecessarily) convoluted. Since I started my degree (Comparative Literature, a degree that can’t even define itself), I’ve encountered the myriads of ways people find to communicate how they feel/interpret/connect with the art they love/hate. It’s been both enlightening and baffling. Every piece of criticism I’ve read has skirted this fine line between compelling critique and pretentious rambling. But watching PUPARIA, trying to sort out my feelings about this weird, random short, I’m starting to understand that in those contradictions is an earnest desire to unearth complex feelings about art, about society, about oneself and maybe, even about life. PUPARIA is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s a film that marries illustration and animation to convey an uncanny story about…something. I don’t know what that something is, and that’s the beauty of it.

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I really should’ve written about this film earlier, but honestly, the last quarter of 2020 was a lot. I’m not very good at talking about real-world affairs on this blog, but these last five months have been bizarre. It’s telling that my only reaction to PUPARIA at the time was “huh, that’s cool”, before shoving it to the back of my mind to focus on finishing my first term of uni in COVID conditions. The Sakuga Blog’s 2020 recap reminded me of just how amazing this short is. It’s the sort of art that I aspire to create one day, and I’d love to see more of Tamagawa’s work in the future.

Ashita no Ousama (1996)

 

Volumes: 10

Chapters: 53

Status: Finished

Published: 1996 to 2001

Genres: Josei

Authors: Yachi, Emiko (Story & Art)

Synopsis

A country girl in the big city, Yu doesn’t quite understand just how hard it is to make it big. So when she’s enraptured by a play, she immediately declares it her life’s mission to become a great actress. Unfortunately, she has no knowledge of the craft, no experience, and no skills aside from making good curry—not that that kind of thing would ever stop her.

Ashita no Ousama is the sort of manga that kind of…surprises you. You look at it and you don’t really expect much, but once you get into the swing of it, you start to realize how carefully and quietly this show subverts expectations to create a unique, if naive story about ambition and success in theatre.

Of course, my fondness for the manga was probably already sealed from the get go. I love it when one art form discusses another art form, even though theatre, being so complex in its action and staging, didn’t seem perfect for illustrative manga. Emiko Yachi takes a different approach- focusing intently on the behind-the-scenes of theatre, rather than actual performances. There’s a lot of research that’s been done into the technique of expression, and more importantly, the psychology of theatre. It’s so fascinating, seeing how actors and directors coexist and how each must go about embodying the persona they need for each play. I was so surprised to learn Yachi didn’t know anything about theatre before the manga, because she flexes and applies her research so well. The manga’s themes of ambition, rivalry, constant ‘levelling up’ reminded of a lot of sports anime/manga, and the rush of adrenaline I got whenever Yuu managed to execute a play was the same as watching Hinata perform a perfect spike in Haikyuu!. And a lot of the plays actually sound so interesting. Like, I would love to watch these in real life! The manga itself prefers to infer the performances via single splash pages, and the artstyle supports this. The lankiness of the character designs and the way the characters dance across the stage during performances reminded me of Art Nouveau posters for the Moulin Rouge, especially in the way they interact with other in these loose floating poses, seemingly free of all laws of gravity and perspective. As the manga progresses, Yachi becomes increasingly confident and her understanding of theatre starts to show as performances become longer and more elaborate. Yachi’s art is undeniably shoujo, but it’s shoujo grounded in strong drawing technique. Sometimes she relies too heavily on repetitive emoticons to represent emotion in her characters offstage, but it never got to the point of being distracting, and as an emotionally light story, it all came together well in the end.

 

Another aspect of the manga that appealed to my personal tastes was the premise. The idea of someone discovering something they love purely through coincidence, and then throwing themselves wholeheartedly into pursuing that love without fear is something that I admire- it appeals my silly sense of romance. It’s not too ridiculous about it – Sasaya Yuu’s initial attempts at theatre aren’t successful at all- but her determination to succeed in theatre against all odds was so admirable, even when she was clearly barking up the wrong tree. She’s this wonderful mixture of super-proactive/determined and all sweetness, meaning she could power the plot whilst keeping all the charm and good-heartedness of your typical shoujo protagonist. It was entertaining and refreshing to see a female lead who knew what she wanted and actually made strides to obtain it. It was also refreshing to have my expectations subverted in other characters like Touya, who was not the aloof ‘prize’ I thought he would be, but a genuinely nice person with his own struggles and insecurities despite his talent and skill. As Sasaya climbed up the ranks and gained power, Yachi took steps to bring Touya down from his seemingly unreachable pedestal to make his character more human. There’s romance too, but Yachi wisely assumes that we already know who is going to get together, and the strong cast chemistry meant that whenever the romance did briefly come into the foreground, it made perfect sense. The manga refuses to sink to pointless cliches and moves at lightening speed, as it strives to keep a drama-fee plot occupied by a cast of mature adults who handle conflict responsibly and don’t draw anything out unnecessarily.

However, conflict is necessary for a good story and Ashita no Ousama’s fast pace means that conflicts are not as well-developed as they should be, or get built up only to have a somewhat unconvincing resolution. It is justified mostly, because of the proactive nature of our protagonist and the manga’s insistence on everyone being rational adults, but sometimes I felt it could had more of an impact had it indulged more heavily in its drama side. Another side-effect of the pace is that the manga, as time goes, fails to make much of an impression. It’s very much an ‘in the moment’ piece of work, where it impresses there and then, but when you’re done and dusted, you realize you actually can’t remember much of what actually happened in the first place. I think the ending contributed a lot to that. It concludes things nicely, but it’s also incredibly rushed and lacks tension, because we knew what was going to be happen. It didn’t sour my experience, but I feel like it could have been better, especially considering how strong the rest of the manga was.

Nevertheless, Ashita no Ousama really is a beautiful, solid portrayal of theatre and a wonderful insight into the art form. It’s mature, funny and anchored by a lovable protagonist in Sasaya Yuu. If you’re looking for a relaxed, but solidly executed and intelligent story, this is the one for you.

 

Kakukaku Shikajika: Portrait of an Artist

This post contains mild spoilers for Akiko Higashimura’s autobiographical manga, Kakukaku Shikajika. It really relies on your knowledge of the manga, so I recommend you check it out before reading this post, which honestly doesn’t do the manga any justice. It’s really good 🙂

I discovered Kakukaku Shikajika through Manben, a documentary series produced by Naoki Urasawa with the aim of providing insight into the working habits of professional mangaka. Before that, the world of manga-making had been mystical, hidden behind the lie of effortless, untrained talent. Manben brought the artists down to something close to human, and Akiko Higashimura was the first artist to be featured. I was hesitant; I wasn’t a fan of Higashimura’s style. But, for whatever reason, that episode stuck by me. Akiko Higashimura draws like a master, her pen flying across the page at record speed. It was fascinating to experience an artist’s performance without even being a fan of the end product. I think, I was struck by her ability to just draw.

Drawing is the recurring theme of Kakukaku Shikajika. Obviously, since it is Higashimura’s autobiographical tale of how she got into manga, but the story takes drawing on a more personal, introspective level. I had never seen mangaka as being in love with art itself- I felt a strange emotional disconnect; the drawings were merely being printed out, secondary to the story. I know, it makes no sense! But that’s just the way it was. I carried that attitude into Kakukaku Shikajika and initially, it was no different. Akiko Higashimura paints her younger self as this grandiose, self-obsessed diva with an apocalyptic ego. Her head is so firmly in the clouds that it becomes clear her desire to become a mangaka isn’t one she treats with much weight.

That’s where Sensei comes in. Sensei: enigmatic, off-kilter, innocent, over-eager. His hardworking ethic and straightfaced, ridiculous seriousness form a sharp contrast to Akiko’s vapid uber-teenage behaviour, but it’s fun and funny. In those early chapters, Higashimura flexes her strengths in gag comedy to create nostalgic chaos, as we see Sensei bully his students into better art technique. However, it becomes clear that Sensei, for all his harsh words and acidic temperament, is in love with art. It’s a pure, childish love, the love of someone with complete faith. It’s total self-discipline. Akiko goes along with his regiment, but without true understanding of the gift he’s bestowing on her. She’s too young, pig-headed and naive. Years later, she will look back and think, “Ah, why didn’t I realise sooner?”

University happens. It’s Akiko’s dream, to study in an art university and debut her manga whilst in uni. There’s supplies, studios, beautiful models to be painted, professional tutors to mark your work, the atmosphere of being with other talented, driven art students. It’s perfect. It’s the breeding ground for growth and Akiko is ready. Or is she? The irony is that under stress, surrounded by schoolwork, being beaten by a crotchety art teacher, Akiko draws fine. But with all the resources in the world, Akiko just can’t draw. She thinking too much about it, being too impatient. She’s stuck.

There’s something Higashimura says as she looks back at this period of her life:

“Drawing means being covered in charcoal, reeking of paint, intently moving your hand, thing not going your way, struggling over the paper, and while continuing to struggle, whether unexpectedly or inevitable, every once in a while, there’s a moment when you find merely a single stroke you find satisfying. Bit by bit, you take that stroke and connect and build upon it, and just simply repeat it.”

Before you find that stroke, art is agonizing. You’re on edge, the marks you put on paper don’t make sense, and everything looks ugly. Staying patient in that period takes serious self-discipline, and when you’re stressed, depressed, nervous, tired, it’s hard to take a painting past that stage. Things have to look ugly before they can be beautiful. It’s nature, but it’s hard to remember when you’re trying out a new medium and you’re painfully aware of every stroke you make across the page.

So we watch as she slowly abandons painting for play, for good times. Her palette dries up and her brushes turn hard. And we watch her watch herself becoming apathetic to the medium, as art block and laziness turns her love for art sour. She forgets Sensei. The desire is still there (and the guilt, like a lump in her stomach) but she can’t help it. For the first time, Akiko can’t draw. She’s thinking too much, and thinking too little. I’ve been there, I thought, whilst reading this manga. I’ve been there and it hurts. I remembered my love for art, and I missed my love for art, but I wasn’t chasing it. I wasn’t running after it, clamouring it back. That hurt the most- that I had stopped chasing after something that I had loved so much. I had stopped caring.

For me that period lasted a handful of months, but for Akiko it lasts the four years she’s at university. She produces nothing of worth, wasting her parents’ hard earned cash to mess about with a bunch of similarly demotivated, slacker classmates. At the end of 4 years, she has nothing to show for it but unemployment, as Japan moves into the worst phases of its recession. She returns home a ‘vagrant’ and is forced to take up work in her father’s company to make up rent and food. In the meanwhile, Sensei employs her as a teacher to new students in his art group, who are now in her position of working towards art school. There’s a lot of emotion here: her exhaustion in her father’s company, her frustration in Sensei’s classes and it all comes to a head when at her breaking point, completely devoid of art, finally, finally picks up the pencil and starts to draw again. Ironic, but very human. She’s still got a long way to go, but it’s a start. And trust me, Akiko has not changed much. She’s still childish, selfish, insensitive. In her excitement, she repeats the same old mistakes. She forgets Sensei. Looking back at the age of 35, with hindsight and new maturity, she realises just how much she owes him. Just how much she’s always owed him. How he, without knowing, gave her so much strength and so much discipline, that later on, when life hits Higashimura again, she can still pick up that pencil and draw.

The love of drawing is embodied in Sensei. He’s hyperactive, annoyingly dedicated, with a simplistic view of the world. But he loves art. It’s his cure-all for every ailment. Feeling sick? Draw. Feeling mad? Draw. Feeling sad? Draw. Draw. Draw. His attitude can be double-edged sword (especially for the perpetually lazy and demotivated Akiko), but his earnestness is disarming. His love for art and his identity are so intertwined that, as the manga came to its heartrending finale, I could no longer tell the two apart. To whom had Higashimura dedicated this manga? Her sensei? Or to drawing? Where did one start and the other end? And proof of this man’s love for drawing lives on in Higashimura herself, who draws with alarming speed and accuracy and has crunched out a vast number of series in her lucrative 20 year career. I’m sure he’s proud.

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I stand on the edge of a precipice. Soon I will be thrown off the edge into the uncertainty of adulthood. For now, I’m clinging on, trying to enjoy the rest of my teenage-hood and not think of all the years I’ve wasted. I think about art a lot. I’m not like Akiko- our backgrounds are different, our cultures are different, our parents are different. I’m slowly edging into medicine, not because I like it, but because it’s what’s sensible and I never want to be unemployed. But I still dream of silly things, like becoming an animator or a screenwriter or even a director. I want to work in film and television. I want to revolutionise animation. I want people to say my name with awe. I want pretentious interviews and tons of Oscars. But…how? What time do I have? These next two years are going to be crucial for me as I work hard to get respectable grades, but also for art. Where will it fit into all this? Medicine isn’t my passion, but what if–what if it becomes my passion? What if, in 10 years’ time, I look at the me now and think, ‘Wow, so unrealistic, such an idiot’? I don’t want that to happen. Or what if, 10 years from now, I’m still craving art? I’m still becoming a doctor, headed firmly down that route, yet my dreams of success are smeared with paint and charcoal, hunched over an animator’s desk, bringing a character to life? Which is worse? Which is better?

Higashimura concludes that “all people who draw were born to do that”. Is that really true? I don’t know. But for now, for the me in this moment, I have to pick up that pencil. It’s all I can do. Just draw. Draw. Draw.