{"id":93630,"date":"2022-03-28T10:51:19","date_gmt":"2022-03-28T01:51:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/voyapon.com\/?p=93630"},"modified":"2024-11-25T22:07:25","modified_gmt":"2024-11-25T13:07:25","slug":"art-beauty-and-tragedy-the-legacy-of-isao-takahata","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/voyapon.com\/art-beauty-and-tragedy-the-legacy-of-isao-takahata\/","title":{"rendered":"Art, Beauty, and Tragedy: The Legacy of Isao Takahata"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The year is 1952. The revolution that will radically transform Japanese animation into what we know today is taking place ten thousand kilometers away, in France. French poet Jacques Pr\u00e9vert has written the screenplay for the influential surrealist animated film La Berg\u00e8re et le Ramoneur<\/em> (The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep), directed by Paul Grimault, arguably one of the most important figures in the history of European animation. A few years later, on the other side of the world, a young French literature university student can\u2019t believe his eyes and is astonished by the possibilities of the animated medium after watching said film. At the end of his studies, this young man, who still didn\u2019t know how to draw, decided to put his nose to the grindstone in order to devote himself professionally to animation. That young man\u2019s name was Isao Takahata (1935-2018), and over the following decades, he\u2019d dedicate himself to turning the animation world upside down, come what may.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over, and over again.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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La Berg\u00e8re et le Ramoneur<\/em>, which is currently in the public domain<\/a>, <\/em>was originally released unfinished in 1952 due to pressure from producers and didn\u2019t see a completed version to its director\u2019s liking until 1980, re-titled Le Roi et l\u2019Oiseau<\/em> (The King and the Bird). Despite this, its original version is still considered a turning point in the history of world animation. Not only did Takahata fall at its feet, but Hayao Miyazaki also had this film as an aesthetic reference in various scenes<\/a> of his directorial debut in The Castle of Cagliostro<\/em> (1979).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Worldwide fame<\/strong> came to him with the harrowing Grave of the Fireflies<\/em> (Hotaru no haka<\/em>, 1988) and more recently, the sublime and extraordinary The Tale of the Princess Kaguya<\/em> (Kaguya hime no monogatari<\/em>, 2013). Respectively, his first and last film with Studio Ghibli, the animation studio<\/a> he co-founded with director Hayao Miyazaki and producer Toshio Suzuki. For much of the general audience, Miyazaki remains synonymous with the legendary studio, in addition to his unforgettable filmography and worldwide commercial success. But none of this would have been possible<\/strong> without Takahata\u2019s artistic genius. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Isao Takahata\u2019s legacy in current animation <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Morally ambiguous characters and adult narratives departing from black-and-white stories are some of the features that set anime apart from its western counterpart, still mostly constrained by the allergy to shades of grey and limited to child audiences. Japanese paradigm would have followed a similar path if in 1968 a young and rebellious Takahata hadn\u2019t disrupted the playing field with his directorial debut at Toei Animation for The Adventures of Horus, Prince of the Sun<\/em>. A fresh and daring tale, inspired by Ainu folk tales,<\/a> about a hero\u2019s struggle against a demon that threatens the destruction of his village. Behind this seemingly simple premise was a complex (anti)heroine and a strong social message in keeping with the political turbulence<\/a> of the time, as well as bold cinematography in various action sequences. Boldness that Toei, only interested in children\u2019s products at the time, was punished with a premature withdrawal of the film less than two weeks after its premiere. The ensuing commercial failure was only compensated by a roaring critical acclaim and subsequent consensus<\/a> on the seminal character that this film would have on later generations of animators.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Hilda, at times Horus\u2019 ally or antagonist, is the initial template that inspires the strong female characters that have always characterized Takahata and Miyazaki\u2019s work, even before Ghibli. Credit: Studio Ghibli <\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

If we consider Osamu Tezuka (1928-1989) the father of Japanese animation, we would as well consider Takahata the mentor who pushed it to maturity and elevated it to art status<\/strong>. In Grave of the Fireflies<\/em>, the filmmaker in 1988 once again turned existing conventions on their head, presenting, in the words of noted film critic Roger Ebert<\/a>, \u201can emotional experience so powerful that it forces a rethinking of animation.\u201d Around the world, audiences were enthralled by the animated adaptation of writer Akiyuki Nosaka\u2019s (1930-2015) semi-autobiographical novel, centered on the horrors experienced by two siblings in Kobe during World War II\u2019s final months. A kind of film that, until then, very few would have been able to conceive within the field of animation for its psychological depth and aesthetic complexity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The beautiful but cruel story that captivates and emotionally destroys the audience is still one of the greatest samples of anti-war cinema, although Takahata often denies this intention, preferring to focus on the universality of human nature that drags the siblings to their tragic end.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Many people asked why I started this project. “No one would see the film,” they reasoned, and I understood what they meant. However, I thought it was meaningful. I believed this type of project had a place in the animated genre. And people actually believed in it. I feel I had broadened the horizon of animated films<\/strong>, and in this sense, it’s one of the most important works I’ve done.<\/em><\/p>Werenko, Tim, director. Isao Takahata on “Grave of the Fireflies”<\/em>. Central Park Media Corporation, 2002<\/cite><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Not content with that, three years later Takahata made history again with Only Yesterday <\/em>(Omoide poro poro, <\/em>1991), a serene and intimate drama about the tribulations of a young Tokyo office worker who dreams of changing the course of her life and leaving the city for rural life in Yamagata Prefecture. A project that fell into his hands after Miyazaki didn\u2019t know what to do with it. Based on the homonymous manga by Hotaru Okamoto and Yuko Tone, the original material consisted of a series of vignettes showing brushstroke fragments of the protagonist\u2019s life in the 1960s. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A disjointed material with a narrative difficult to weave, Takahata enriched it by inventing the figure of that same protagonist as an adult and placing the narrative fragments as melancholic remembrances of a bittersweet past. The resulting film was a smash hit at the box office<\/strong>, demonstrating once again the animated medium\u2019s ability to portray deeply introspective, adult drama that can only be understood from the experience of maturity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The tale of a personal crisis is told in two parallel stories that interweave the protagonist\u2019s adult and childhood life. Credit: Studio Ghibli<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Pampered and carefully crafted unruly and strong female characters, a Studio Ghibli trademark, was already a constant in his work as a director since before the studio founding. The unforgettable series Heidi, The Girl From The Alps<\/em><\/a> <\/em>(1974), inspired by Johanna Spyri\u2019s novel, presented us with a sweet protagonist determined not to be intimidated by the difficulties of adapting to a rigid environment after being uprooted from her bucolic mountain village. Anne of Green Gables<\/em><\/a> (1979), a faithful adaptation of Lucy M. Montgomery\u2019s novel, follows the adventures and misadventures of a young orphan adopted by mistake who manages to conquer everyone\u2019s hearts around her without giving up her own nature. Chie The Brat<\/em><\/a> (1981) displays a mischievous and cunning street heroine starring in a lighthearted tribute to the underclass, based on Etsumi Haruki\u2019s manga.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The influence of the avant-garde and European cinema<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

In Takahata\u2019s innovative and iconoclastic tendencies, it\u2019s impossible to ignore the defining traits of Italian Neorealism or the Nouvelle Vague<\/em> through their realistic themes with a strong component of social protest, as we have observed in all the aforementioned titles. His degree in French Literature from the University of Tokyo, completely unrelated to the animation discipline, is one of the reasons he and his entourage used to cite when explaining his originality when approaching the methodology of the animation process. He never drew anything beyond initial sketches for storyboards.<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was his studies that exposed him to the intellectual and artistic currents in France and Europe at the time, intellectual values \u200b\u200bthat would continue to dictate his wild creative drive and political views throughout his career. After all, the film that lit the fuse told the story of a popular uprising against the authoritarian rule of a cross-eyed and despotic king. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Isao Takahata\u2019s experimentation with the expressive limits of the animated medium<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Each of his productions is a small revolution in itself. Grave of the Fireflies<\/em> not only cemented the possibilities of an adult narrative, but it also did so with unprecedented aesthetic refinement<\/strong>. The potential of the animated medium to fuse the real and the metaphorical manages to create forms of expression that transcend the possibilities of the physical. The careful aesthetic composition of terrifying scenes such as the city bombing or the brief idyllic moments shared by the siblings is the animation vehicle to represent the subjective and emotional perception of the person. The plasticity of expressions or the space-time manipulation to emphasize key moments are resources that wouldn\u2019t work in the same way in real settings with flesh and blood actors.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Aesthetic and emotional magic works by appealing to memory or imagination. Credit: Studio Ghibli.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

With Only Yesterday<\/em>, the capacity to stir emotions with the simplicity of everyday life is also manifested in the representation of reality compared to memory. Contemporary scenes are vibrant and exquisitely detailed while flashbacks are rendered in a desaturated color palette with sketchy backgrounds, depicting the contrast between our current reality and our often vague and fuzzy memories. We thus have a window to the protagonist\u2019s inner world<\/strong>, who at 27 years of age meditates in solitude about an existential emptiness that can\u2019t be defined with words, while we observe the snippets of the childhood of a rebellious soul that knows itself to be different and unable to adapt to a corseted society\u2019s expectations. And what we see shakes us to our core: Takahata mercilessly forces us to be uncomfortable of how the protagonist has been broken little by little from the inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The search and reconnection with the lost identity, the duality between reality and memories are also presented in the contrast between the rural and urban environment. The simplicity of life in the mountains becomes the protagonist\u2019s safe haven. Credit: Studio Ghibli<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

On the other hand, Pompoko <\/em>(Heisei Tanuki Gassen Ponpoko, <\/em>1994) resorts to the fantastic and seemingly innocent to convey a bitter environmentalist plea. A tanuki tribe, Japanese folklore\u2019s adorable and popular supernatural creatures<\/a>, fight tooth and nail against the irreparable destruction of the mountains and forests that they call home. The humorous scenes and the illusionist tricks of the furry protagonists are red herrings to disguise as a light comedy a tragic tale about vulnerability, the pain of loss, and the impossibility of avoiding change. Takahata catches us off guard and forces us in front of the mirror to depict us, humans, as the greatest antagonists in history, architects of uncontrolled destruction under the guise of urban progress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The tanuki\u2019s supernatural powers and their anthropomorphic depiction allow for a multitude of amusing visual gags. Any clueless person going by the film\u2019s poster alone might think it\u2019s a gentle children\u2019s comedy but would find instead a heartbreaking tale about the irresponsible destruction of the natural environment. Credit: Studio Ghibli<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The power of the extraordinary in the mundane<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

In My Neighbors the Yamadas <\/em>(1999) he broke the mold again, this time at his own studio. He made a completely digital animated film where the paradigm of hand-drawn animation had reigned supreme up to that point. Ironically, it was the one film that seemed the most artisanal to date, with freestyle brush strokes and a minimalist look more typical of a sketch. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a narrative style reminiscent of Only Yesterday<\/em>, he opens a window into the daily trials of a typical Japanese family, through a series of vignettes that talk about the ups and downs of marriage, school vicissitudes, and the challenges of moving from childhood to youth and maturity. An equally tender, serious, and lighthearted portrait from which profound reflections on daily life can be derived. Metaphors, visual jokes, and groundbreaking aesthetics didn\u2019t spare it from commercial failure, despite absolute critical acclaim. But it was the necessary prelude to what would be his masterpiece. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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A newlywed couple jumping aboard a bobsleigh. A relaxed family moment aboard a giant snail pulled by the father on a bicycle. The opening sequences are filled with witty and eloquent allegories of family life. Credit: Studio Ghibli.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

With The Tale of Princess Kaguya<\/em>, Takahata catapulted animated language\u2019s artistic level to its zenith. The techniques used in his previous work served to synthesize his diverse aesthetic references with styles inspired by ancient scrolls or illustrations. Minimalist backgrounds with delicate strokes in watercolor tones, irregular lines more typical of a sketch than a finished illustration, those elements stimulate the audience to flee from uniformity and enrich their own experience through imagination. The story is adapted from The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter<\/em> (Taketori Monogatari<\/em>), a late 9th or early 10th-century Japanese folktale about an elderly couple blessed by a celestial princess whom they raise as their own daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Kazuko Fujiyama<\/a> (The Japanese Fairy Book, 1908)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
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Credit: Studio Ghibli<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The exaltation of beauty in everyday life is depicted through the touching story of this sacred creature who experiences for the first time in her flesh the joys and sorrows of mortal and earthly life. And in every scene, we accompany the protagonist in her delight in the majesty of the landscape, the flora and fauna, and the changing seasons, which are depicted in such a way that practically every frame is worthy of being framed and hung in our walls. In parallel, the direct critique of traditional social structures in Takahata\u2019s adaptation overlaps with the exploration of a vast inner world of emotions and lost longings. The film gives Ghiblinesque <\/em>overtones to the heroine: a young woman who rejects what is expected of her, for whom palace luxuries are nothing compared to the freedom and simple happiness of her family life in her mountain cabin amidst bamboo forests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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