Saturday, August 16, 2014

Kaze tachinu (The Wind Rises)

Ghibli's had a productive couple of years, and now they're taking a little break, I read.  We're still catching up.  Kaze tachinu (The Wind Rises) came out just after we left Japan last summer, and I hadn't seen it in the States.  I've been looking forward to seeing it with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

The dread came as soon as I learned what it's about:  the early life of Horikoshi Jirō, the guy who designed the Zero fighter plane for Mitsubishi, the one that became so notorious during WWII.  I'll note here that I'm not at all familiar with Horikoshi's life story;  but the theme alone made me worry that in his old age (he's announced that this is his last film, but didn't he say that about Ponyo? I'm not actually too sure he's totally retiring) Miyazaki was going to turn to nationalism.  Under the Abe administration Japan has been swerving to the right to a worrisome degree, and a rightward, nostalgic turn in old age is a known issue with Japanese artists, so I half expected this;  but Miyazaki has always had such a multicultural, all-embracing aesthetic that I particularly didn't want to see him go in that direction.


On that score, the film isn't nearly as bad as I'd expected.  It makes Horikoshi into practically a saint in his personal life:  impossibly virtuous, in a Traditional Values sort of way, which is a typical strategy for rehabilitating right wing nasties ("but he loved dogs and cherry blossoms, so how could he be evil?").  But the movie resolutely avoids the political issues surrounding the war.  It's not an apology for Japan's actions.  It doesn't condemn them either, and that's a problem if you're looking for one. 

But it seems that what Miyazaki's aiming for is a portrait of a guy who's essentially apolitical, who just wants to make airplanes, and not think about what they'll be used for.  Jiro in the film is actually disturbed by the knowledge that his planes will be used for war (which is a certainty, given that his company is working on military contracts).  This comes up a couple of times.  I wish it had come up more.  That's the theme this film could have centered on:  the conscience of an artist or inventor who can't control the uses to which his work will be put.  Or who can control them, but only at the expense of the work itself.  There's a deep ethical issue there, but Miyazaki raises it only to essentially shrug it off.  So while the film isn't the nationalist thing I was afraid it would be, it does mostly dodge the moral issues raised by its subject matter.

On the other hand, it's not as good as I'd expected either.  It's a film about airplanes, about flying, intended (ostensibly) as a final statement by an animator who has made fantastic films about flying in the past.  Think of how integral the imagination of flight is to Nausicaa, Laputa, Spirited Away.  Think of Porco Rosso (my favorite Miyazaki film of all), which isn't just about flight but, like The Wind Rises, about airplanes as machines.  Think of all that flying and you're bound to expect this film to be, if nothing else, a triumph of glorious visuals.  But it's not.  It's pretty enough, and there are certainly some wonderful moments.  But really nothing we haven't seen Miyazaki do before, and often better. 

Friday, August 15, 2014

Shibasaki Tomoka: Haru no niwa (2014)


The 151st Akutagawa Prize, for early 2014, went to Shibasaki Tomoka 柴崎友香, for “Haru no niwa 春の庭” (Spring gardens). 

Shibasaki was born in 1973, and debuted as a writer in 1999;  this was her fourth time as a finalist for the A-Prize, and the first time was in 2006.  In other words, she’s not a new writer, not by a long shot.  She already has quite a following, so as with Kashimada Maki, this is a case of the Prize machinery recognizing an established writer rather than launching a new one.

It’s a longish story, 140 pages in book form, long enough that the book doesn’t need a bonus story to fill it out.  It’s told mostly in the third person, and mostly from the point of view of a thirty-something guy named Tarō.  For long stretches, though, we’re actually inhabiting the point of view of his neighbor, Nishi, as she narrates episodes from her life with minimal interruption from Tarō.  Then, at the end, Tarō’s elder sister comes in and starts narrating in the first person, so smoothly that it makes you wonder if we are supposed to understand everything that went before as being the sister’s account of Tarō’s life.  But then Tarō, we’re made to understand, doesn’t say much, and there’s no indication that he tells his sister most of what we learn through the narrative.  So what’s really happening is that the narrative point of view is shifting without warning.  And retrospectively that encourages us to think of Nishi’s stories not as reported speech (they’re not set off in quotation marks) so much as just another shift in point of view.  The novel is experimental in that sense, but not in a confusing way.  The reader is never lost in personlessness.

Tarō lives in an old, tiny apartment in a wealthy section of Setagaya-ku, Tokyo;  his building is surrounded by large old houses, many built in a Western style.  Tarō’s building is going to be torn down soon – his lease is almost up, and he won’t be allowed to renew it, and one by one the other tenants are leaving, and their units are left empty.  It’s a picture of a neighborhood in constant renewal, in a city that’s in constant renewal – there’s always something being torn down, always something new being put up.  Everything’s temporary, and therefore everything’s superficial, including relationships.

Tarō is divorced and living in a very detached manner.  His interactions with his coworkers and neighbors are kept at the level of good manners, meaning arm’s length.  He’s constantly exchanging gifts with them, but on his part at least they’re never particularly heartfelt;  they’re usually regiftings.  He’s been divorced for three years, and it’s clear that he still has the scars;  his father, meanwhile, died ten years ago, and he’s plainly still grieving.  He keeps the mortar and pestle, with which he ceremonially ground his father’s bones at the funeral, in his kitchen cupboard. 

Tarō gets to know two of his neighbors.  One is Nishi, a single woman the age of Tarō’s older sister who lives on the second floor of his building.  The other is known only as “Mi” or Snake – the units in this building aren’t numbered, they’re labelled according to the Chinese zodiac, a hint at the depersonalization that city living brings.  (Nishi is “Dragon” and Tarō is “Boar.”)  Mi is the age Tarō’s father would have been, so Tarō, who’s from Osaka, is in Tokyo surrounded by surrogate family members.  Who he keeps at arm’s length.

Nishi is the source of most of the action in the story.  She’s a mangaka and book illustrator, and has a sort of mischievous side to her.  She’s obsessed, it turns out, with a large Western-style house that she can see from her veranda.  It’s a typical Setagaya mansion (in the English sense, not the Japanese) from the postwar years:  wrought iron gates, stained glass windows, all the pretenses at Western-style fine living.  Of course it’s a glaring contrast to the tiny rooms she and Tarō live in, but it’s more than that to her.  We gradually learn that she has been aware of this house since her high school years in Nagoya, because it was once inhabited by a famous director of TV commercials and his stage-actress wife, who published a coffee-table book of photos of the house and themselves.  When Nishi moved to Tokyo she ran across the house listed on a real-estate site, and while of course she couldn’t afford to buy it she managed to find an apartment overlooking it. 

That’s stage one of her obsession.  Stage two is creepier.  A young family moves in, parents and two small kids, and Nishi finds the daughter in the street one day crying.  She returns the kid to the house, and uses that as an opportunity to make friends with the family.  The mom is from Sapporo and doesn’t know anybody in the city, so she’s happy to meet Nishi, but Nishi is really only interested in exploring the house.  But of course she doesn’t tell them this – she only tells Tarō, over long drinking sessions at a local bar.  He limits himself to one, she has seven or eight at a time.

To say she’s stalkerish is fair, although she never does anything particularly dangerous.  She’s just a little creepy about it.  Tarō doesn’t call her out on it, and in fact even allows himself to be dragged along in her obsession, visiting the family for dinner one night with her.  And at the end of the story, when Nishi has moved out of the condemned apartment building and the family in the Western house have suddenly been transferred to Kyushu, Tarō sneaks into the backyard and buries his father’s mortar and pestle in the garden…

Set out like this, a few clear themes emerge.  First is Tarō’s wounded state.  His divorce has left him damaged enough that when Nishi makes a clear offer of friendship (and perhaps more), he hardly pursues it, but then again can’t be bothered to reject her.  And his grief over his father’s death – well, it really only manifests itself in his reminiscences of his father, but then he goes and buries the mortar and pestle, and we realize that all this time maybe he’s been looking for closure.  …This theme is clear, but it’s presented in a very muted way.  We get Tarō’s thoughts, but never his feelings.  And that, of course, is a tried and true literary technique, but it works best when the power of the unspoken feelings is transferred onto something else, as in Kawabata’s work.  Poetry, scenery, something.  That doesn’t really happen here.  There’s no outlet for Tarō’s emotions, and no back access to them for the reader.  Maybe that’s the point.  But it means that this work, which could have great emotional depth, stays mostly at the surface.  I think of it as iyashi-kei in a way:  it’s clearly dealing with wounds, but not in such a way as to disturb the reader’s placidity.  It’s calming.

Another theme is the transiency and anonymity of life in Tokyo.  Especially for the non-wealthy.  I read Tarō’s choice to bury his father’s mortar and pestle in the garden of the Western house as being a way for him to give his father a little bit of permanence (that house won’t be torn down), as well as a little bit of glamor and beauty that would otherwise be unattainable for him.  Meanwhile Tarō himself remains as anonymous as his name, and the little community of Snake, Boar, and Dragon is totally dispersed at the end of the book.  But this theme, too, is handled with such calmness that it leaves the surface of the reader’s emotions wholly undisturbed.  We’re not encouraged to be angry about this, or even particularly saddened – anonymity and transience might be precisely what Tarō wants and needs in life.

I found it a bit of a puzzling book.  I’m not sure what level it’s supposed to work on.  It doesn’t seem to connect to any contemporary social issues.  Its portrait of urban anomie is hardly new, and not particularly powerful.  Its treatment of grief is determined, but not particularly eloquent.  The book reads as assured, the work of an author who knows what she wants to do;  but it didn’t really move me.  Your mileage may vary.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Tezuka Osamu: Message To Adolf

The last of my summer Tezuka reading, I think.  Another one I read in English, because we had it around in English, because Mrs. Sgt. T taught it.

I'm trying to think deep thoughts about this stuff, trying to give it the intellectual attention it deserves, when really I know, deep down inside, that Tezuka isn't holding my interest.  Message to Adolf was better than most, though.  It's really his best argument to be taken seriously.  If you only read one Tezuka, make it Atom;  if you read two, this should be the second.

*

Mrs. Sgt. T likes to compare Tezuka to Steven Spielberg.  The first time she said this I felt a light go on.  It's a great comparison. 

Both are artists who started out in fields that got no critical respect:  they were purely popular art forms.  Already there are problems with the comparison, because Tezuka's field as a whole (manga) got no respect when he started, while Spielberg's field as a whole (movies) already got a lot of respect;  but he was working in the most popular end of that field, so I think the comparison holds up if you don't get too nitpicky about it.

And both proved to be extraordinarily gifted in those fields:  innovative craftsmen, inspired storytellers, raising what they were doing as close to the level of art as it could get, within the constraints of a totally popular art form.  Tezuka's influence on every genre of manga (and anime) is legendary, while Spielberg is usually said to have essentially invented the summer blockbuster action movie.

And then they wanted to be taken more seriously, so they started changing their art, making art for grown-ups. Tezuka started drawing things like Ayako, Buddha, and Adolf;  Spielberg made The Color Purple, Schindler's List, Munich.  And that's where the trouble began, because it's never been clear that either has all that much to say.  They can bring tremendous craft (art in the sense of skilled work) to bear on their subjects, and through that they can make work of great emotional power, but the ideas behind that work are often simple and/or a bit confused.  And so in spite of all their aspirations to be taken truly seriously, they'll always be remembered best for their lighthearted early work.  (And, the missus notes, it's a coincidence but also maybe inevitable that in their bids for seriosity they both turned to WWII/Holocaust themes - loading the dice, really.)

They're both tremendous entertainers, maybe the best ever at that.  And many of us have no problem calling that art.  But they had this itch to please more demanding critics than I usually am, and they weren't as successful at that.  Although, to be fair, I seem to be in a very small minority in thinking that about Tezuka.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Tezuka Osamu: Princess Knight

So, more Tezuka.  This too I read in English because it was around.  Princess Knight (Ribon no kishi リボンの騎士) is one of the classics - and as hard as I am on Tezuka, I should note that I'm really glad that so much of his work is being published in translation.  It's important that this stuff is made available, so fans and scholars can start to understand the history of manga, not just the contemporary stuff. 

This is entertaining, but to a fault.  It's one of those patented Tezuka frenetic plots, with a new twist on every page.  That keeps it moving, but curiously it doesn't exactly keep it from getting static.  Stasis is boring, and constant movement is just as static as constant stillness.  The plot twists are exhausting.  Sometimes the reader might wish to be a little less entertained.  But that's Tezuka.  I've come to expect this.

But chances are you don't read this today for pure entertainment.  You read it for its tremendous influence on girls' comics in Japan.  You read it for its still daring, still hard to completely process gender-bending.  You read it for the deliriously girly art - it's like a constant sugar rush.  There's so much that's important and interesting here on a conceptual level, in terms of influence and significance, that it's almost churlish to criticize it for not working better on the pure reading level.  It's an essential manga.  How can one ask for more?

The Takarazuka-style androgyny and critique of gender roles is the best-appreciated aspect of this work.  Certainly the most important aspect of it.  To that I'd add that it's also a great example of Japanese Occidentalism.

It's Occidentalist in the sense that it's appropriating its story materials entirely from the Western fairy-tale tradition.  Mostly (and this is particularly obvious in the art) from Western fairy-tales as popularized by Walt Disney, of course.  But it's not just a pastiche of Disney, because it goes places Disney would never go;  not just the gender thing, but also Tezuka's decision to include both God and the Devil as characters.  Right alongside Greco-Roman deities.  Theologically it's a mess, and that's a perfect example of Occidentalism:  to Tezuka, the Christian god and devil are on the same level as Sleeping Beauty and Snow White.  They're colorful, exotic myths, and he uses them to colorize and exoticize his story, just like Western writers will appropriate Eastern religious imagery with little sense of the weight of meaning and association attached to it.  Those of us who care about such things are sensitized - have tried to become sensitized, and rightly so - to Orientalism by Western artists.  But there's an equivalent Occidentalism in Japan that doesn't get talked about quite as much.  The power differential being so different both within and without Japan, it's not fair to say that Occidentalism is an equal and opposite thing to Orientalism, and they certainly don't cancel each other out.  But Occidentalism is a definite thing.  And Princess Knight is a perfect demonstration of it.

Which makes it kind of a strange read.  Because for long stretches it's so Western looking and feeling that it's easy to forget that it's Japanese in origin.  But then Satan will pop in with his curly mustache, and he'll turn out not to be a scenery-chewing villain but rather a Father Knows Best kind of paterfamilias, and you remember, oh yeah.  This isn't Disney.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Matsuura Hisaki: Hana kutashi (2000)


Matsuura Hisaki松浦寿輝’s story Hana kutashi 花腐し (“Flowers Fade,” perhaps; the grammar is old, since it’s a quote from an ancient poem) shared the 123rd Akutagawa Prize, for early 2000, with Machida Kō. 
This is more like it.  The main character, Kutani, is a middle-aged guy who runs a small  He’s been asked, by a shady creditor, to do an odd job as a jiageya, a kind of small-time thug employed by landlords to scare off recalcitrant tenants so the landlords can redevelop the property.  (Itami Jūzō lampooned the species memorably in Minbō no onna.)  The story takes place in a seedy back street of Kabukichō, where he supposed to lean on a guy named Iseki, the last tenant in an apartment building.
design firm that’s on the edge of bankruptcy because his partner and friend cheated him and then ran off.
Iseki resists, and there’s a shoving match, but then things go a different direction.  They end up having a drink, and then basically they spend the rest of the story talking – over beers in Iseki’s apartment, over whiskey at a bar, while walking the mean streets of Shinjuku in the rain.  Iseki’s a wonderfully dicey character – we meet him, at night, an old guy lounging around his apartment in a track suit and sunglasses, and while supposedly the phone service and utilities have been cut off for the whole building, he’s got electricity, water, and internet.  Kutani eventually figures out that he’s growing psychedelic mushrooms in the apartment and selling them on-line;  in fact, there’s a local Kabukichō prostitute in the next room, tripping. 
What follows is a little Murakami Haruki and a little Hunter Thompson.  Kutani is having a midlife crisis – not only has his friend betrayed him and his business slipped out from under him, but he’s suddenly being assailed by memories of a girl he used to live with, who betrayed him (with his friend and business partner) and then drowned.  He’s down on his luck and crowded by bad memories.  And Matsuura is careful to make all this resonate with the national situation at the turn of the century:  Kutani’s situation is held up as symbolic of an economy, a nation, that has never recovered from the bursting of the bubble. 
Iseki, meanwhile, is a total cynic, whose prescription is essentially turn on and drop out.  Friendship, business, striving, straight society:  it’s all a mug’s game, a waste of energy.  Why not take a little mental vacation?  Psilocybin is what Japan needs right now, he says.
This story boils down, then, to the seeker-guru pattern.  Kutani’s got a problem, Iseki’s got a solution.  Not just drugs – in fact Kutani never trips, he just rapes the girl who is tripping (bummer) – but more than that his bracingly nihilistic take on contemporary Japan.  As committee member Kōno Taeko observed, though, this makes the story feel about thirty years old – like a post-Ampo college student’s dorm-room rap.  In terms of message, then, the reader’s take on this story will depend on how well the reader feels a 1967 solution fits a 1999 problem.  (Some things never change, says I…)
As a narrative it’s somewhat redeemed, though, by good writing and decent plotting.  Kutani’s a pretty passive character (shades of Murakami) but his reminiscences of his dead girlfriend are well written, with nice detail.  And the way Matsuura parcels out information gives the story more suspense than it should have – at first we just think Kutani’s a jiageya, and it takes a while for us to realize it’s his first assignment, and that he’s not really a punk.  He’s just trying to get by.
The omake story is Hitahita to ひたひたと (“Pitter-Patter,” as of little feet).  It’s more experimental.  Hana kutashi is told in the third person, while this one switches back and forth between third and first.  In fact, the indeterminability of the protagonist goes beyond that:  it’s a middle-aged guy named Enokida, but he slips around between various stages in his life.  The story is set in a dilapidated old part of Tokyo called Susaki, which once housed a famous pleasure district;  the protagonist is now wandering around the neighborhood, which it seems he has a life connection with.  At some points he’s a man in late middle age, reflecting back on everything, but at other times he’s a young boy living there with his father and a bunch of caged birds, at other times he’s a young man living there with a prostitute girlfriend, and at other times he’s a man in early middle age, revisiting the area as a photojournalist.  It’s not even clear if these are all the same guy, or if any of this really happened, because as the story is presented, these aren’t memories, but actual things happening now.  The protagonist is actually slipping back and forth between these moments/selves in real time.
Like Hana kutashi, there’s a prolix side to this, wherein Matsuura spells out his message pretty clearly.  Here it’s the idea that time doesn’t flow, doesn’t go by, but is actually omnipresent:  our past is always there to be seen and re-experienced, if we just notice it.  But as with the other story, he’s a cagey enough writer that he only says this – only makes it clear that these are all the experiences of a single character, reliving various stages of his life in a kind of kaleidoscopic sentimental journey – near the end, after we’ve already been intrigued by the postmodern decenteredness of his individual consciousness.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Machida Kō: Kiregire


Machida Kō 町田康.  Kiregire きれぎれ.  2000.  Co-winner of the 123rdA-Prize, for early 2000.  The title story was the winner.  The title could be translated as “Fragments,” and rarely was a story more aptly titled.  Kind of painfully obvious, actually.  Not the only thing painful about this story.
             
This is one that, I think, makes best sense in terms of authorial biography.  The author, in 2000, was already a celebrity:  an ex-punk rocker who had gone solo and branched out into acting (TV, film, commercials) and then writing.  He published a couple of books of poems before turning to literary fiction.  He wasn’t necessarily a youth-culture figure in 2000 – he was 38 – but he was already a cult figure, and his prose was, evidently, building up something of a buzz.  And now’s the time to confess that I never noticed any of this personally:  with my spotty-at-best knowledge of Japanese rock history, I never heard of him, and never read him until my A-Prize spelunking took me back to early 2000. 
              
 It’s cynical to say that giving the prize to him was an attempt by the Prize committee to stay relevant.  So I’m not going to state that categorically.  But I will say that this is the only way I can wrap my head around it.  Because (echoing what some of the committee members themselves said) I can’t see the attraction of this story otherwise.
               
Yes, it’s fragmented.  Plot summary is not going to be real helpful here, but it basically seems to be about a failed/failing painter and the mess that is his personal life.  Poverty, unhappy marriage, dissolution, rivalry.  It’s hard to make sense of it all on a plot level, though, because it’s narrated (by the painter) in such a, well, fragmented, stream-of-consciousness way.  Not in and of itself a bad thing, or a good thing, just a thing.  It’s all in what you do with it.
               
 What Machida does with it is, essentially, indulge his fondness for wordplay.  “Wordplay” seems to promise too much, though.  He’s amusing himself with words, surely;  but as a reader (one who normally delights in wordplay, I assure you!), I seldom felt much joy in it, much sense of play.  I wasn’t amused, dammit.  It’s all very clever, smart, whatever, but the reading experience – hacking through this writer’s digressive, distractable, attention-grabbing style to try to get a handle on what the hell he’s actually trying to say – was dreary where it should have been fun.
               
Maybe it didn’t have to be fun.  Wordplay isn’t always about pleasure, of course.  Kuroda Natsuko gave me similar headaches through her relentlessly inventive/destructive use of language.  But as hard as I found it to admire Kuroda I could at least see, or imagine, what she was aiming at.  I could recognize something worthwhile there, and occasionally appreciate some of her more baroque constructions.  (I’ve taught her, in small doses, a few times since writing my review, and I’ve mellowed on her considerably in the process.)
              
 I don’t see anything like that with Machida.  He’s not fun, but neither does all his language-twisting seem to be aiming at some radically new mode of expression, so that he can get out something that needs to be gotten out.  The loser failed artist who makes life miserable for himself and those around him is a pretty hackneyed literary trope, after all – a Naturalist chestnut, really, but he doesn’t seem interested in any of the edifying excoriation of self that they brought to the idea.  The impression is of a bored narrator playing with the reader’s head for no reason other than because he can.
              
 Reading that makes it all sound very punk, right?  But no:  it’s far too self-indulgent for that.  “Self-indulgent” is a word I try not to throw around lightly:  I believe most art is profound self-indulgence, and that’s a good thing, since the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, etc.  But self-indulgence was one of the critical terms that punk (and its champions) used to define itself against the stuff that had come before.  ‘70s classic rock was about excess, about self-exploration, about drama, while punk was supposed to be a return to basics.  Discipline was at the heart of it, even at its most corrosively antisocial:  attitude as a weapon, musical fun subordinated to power of statement.  But I don’t get that here:  no big artistic statement, no rebellion against society.  Just boredom, and wanking.  Punk is supposed to be anti-wanking.

Anyway.  I don’t get this story. 
              
 I don’t get the other one in the volume, either:  Jinsei no hijiri 人生の聖 (“Saint of Life”).  There’s no point in summarizing.  It’s more of the same, essentially.  This one revolves more around worklife;  at some points the narrator seems to be working, or remembering working, as a salaryman, while at other points he’s a janitor, and then sometimes he’s begging.  But like the first story it displays a combination of wilful pointlessness and resolute tediousness:  it’s literary nonsense, but with none of the delight that term promises.  Your mileage may vary, as they say.


Friday, July 11, 2014

Tezuka Osamu: Ayako

I've been reading some more Tezuka.  I teach him, he's major, and I should read more of his stuff.  I always feel that way, even though by this point I've probably read more by him than any other mangaka:  I've read Phoenix, Buddha, Jungle taitei Leo, Dororo, Shin Takarajima, all complete, plus several volumes of Black Jack and Mighty Atom.  That's enough to know more or less what I think of him, but of course there's always more, and since I teach him (in small doses), I should know it.  So, more Tezuka.

Ayako 奇子 was serialized in 1972-1973, and was, like Dororo, part of Tezuka's response to the more mature, adult-oriented manga that had appeared over the course of the '60s.  Even more than Dororo this one tries to escape the kiddie-comic ghetto that Tezuka had owned for so long.  This one's even more ambitious:  Dororo was working in established manga genres, while Ayako is a bid for comics-as-literature.  I.e., no samurai, no spaceships, no monsters;  a few gangsters, but mostly this is an attempt at realism.  Multi-generational family drama, set against the historical backdrop of postwar Japan.

Dirty realism, or naturalism in the sense of dealing with humanity in a state of nature, unreconstructed, filthy and mean.  He's telling the story of a wealthy rural family in northern Japan that's resisting postwar land reform, and all kinds of democratic reform, by becoming more and more insular and inbred.  Literally.  It's a family at war with itself - we get murder, incest, rape, all sorts of nasty stuff.  All of this Tezuka ties to larger political things - not only the question of rural landownership, but also Occupation politics, spying, political corruption, and the Economic Miracle.  Whew.

I kind of wanted to love it.  I love the ambition.  But I didn't feel like Tezuka's heart was in it.  I know he loved the Russian novelists, and that this is supposed to have their grand scale, but the particulars of the story are largely drawn from contemporary Japanese film and/or fiction - Kurosawa's The Idiot and The Bad Sleep Well come to mind, along with Yokomizu Seishi's Inugami-ke no ichizoku.  And the lurid details of the family's degradation feel tossed in just for cheap thrills.  It all hangs together plot-wise, and Tezuka's smart enough that it's all nicely integrated in terms of subtext, but the nihilism feels unearned, adopted from early '70s underground manga because that's what the revolutionaries liked. 

*

I read this in English.  I almost never read manga in translation, because, well, I can read them in the original.  But we happened to have this in English lying around, and I had a bout of insomnia, and I read it straight through in a day.  Interesting experience.  I read manga in Japanese, but not as fast as a native reader of Japanese can, which means that while I may be getting the same verbal experience, I'm not getting the same visual-verbal experience.  That is, I'm not apprehending the visual-verbal synergy at the pace at which it's designed to be apprehended.  That picture-and-text-at-a-glance thing that, really, comics as a medium is all about, I'm just a step too slow to really get when I'm reading in Japanese.  So it was interesting to read Ayako in English.  I kept wanting to check the original for language, of course, but meanwhile I felt like I was getting a more direct take on the comicsness of the thing than I sometimes do...