Created by Naoko Takeuchi.
Translated by William Flanagan.
Anyone coming to Codename: Sailor V from Sailor Moon is going to experience a certain degree of déjà vu. After all, the latter began by cannibalizing its predecessor for ideas, then simply proceeded to annex it wholeheartedly. Sailor V went into hiatus, returned after a prolonged absence, and completed its arc after Sailor Moon had already concluded. So this manga is both the defacto starting point of the Sailor Moon saga and its prequel. The reader can spot when this change occurs by the obligatory Usagi Tsukino cameo. And the rest of the inner senshi drop by at various points in their civilian identities, as the Sailor V timeline takes place well before Usagi had assumed the Sailor Moon mantle. Since all the truly epic stuff will only take place in her manga, nothing of great consequence to the cast can happen here.
This does free Sailor V to be its own thing. And what a goofy thing it is. The two manga's respective casts have often been compared to each other given that Sailor Moon recycles much of Sailor V’s character designs. Naoko Takeuchi was not the most inventive cartoonist in that regard, and it’s hard not to notice the close resemblance of everyone's faces, especially the supporting males who function primarily as interchangeable bishonen. Even the heroes Usagi and Minako Aino posses a “siblings separated at birth” similarity to them when placed side by side. On a metatextual level, that actually makes sense. Minako is the cooler, tougher, more physically capable, boisterous, and overbearing older creation who’s used to getting her own way. Even after the animal familiar Artemis unlocks Minako's mysterious superpowers and instructs her on their noble purpose, she feels just as entitled exploiting them for petty gain as she does for fighting crime. But it’s played for comic effect, so the reader simply laughs it off when Minako ignores Artemis’ admonitions by using her magic items to cheat on school homework.
Speaking of which, those two have a pretty adversarial relationship due to Minako’s total lack of interest in taking her mission seriously. Sailor Moon fans will of course be aware of the high stakes at play in the future. But at this stage, Artemis is either unable or unwilling to reveal too much to Minako outside of telling her to kick evil's butt whenever it appears. The manga hews closer in mood to the early Sailor Moon anime episodes with its monster-of-the-week structure and the arch villain still only a vague threat. Heck, the second antagonist Minako confronts is an obnoxious otaku who can’t stand that girls now hang out at his favourite video gaming spot. Wow. Nice to know that the “fake geek girl” complaint isn’t actually that recent an invention.
Two recurring plot elements are used to emphasize the action-comedy nature of the manga. The first is Minako wielding her magic to assume different disguises before revealing her Sailor V identity. It’s a trope popularized by past magical girls from Cutey Honey onward, and Minako uses it to similar effect here. Usagi dropped this tactic as Sailor Moon became more serious, but Minako simply can’t resist the desire to keep changing her appearance. Each transformation sequence works as crucial story beat. And gratuitous as that sounds, Takeuchi’s art comes alive when she’s showcasing her characters in various outfits.
These pinups are also signposts of Takeuchi’s artistic evolution. I have complained in the past about the busy page compositions of Sailor Moon, but they’re positively claustrophobic in Sailor V. Takeuchi sticks to more grid-like layouts here, and her figures have a slightly blockier look to them. It’s as Takeuchi fears the negative space. The overall effect is frenetic, and perhaps a little inelegant. It’s only in the later chapters where she gradually drops the number of panels and gives her transformations space to breathe on the page.
The second is Minako’s propensity to keep falling in love with the wrong guy. The opening chapter has her crushing on the BMOC, who naturally turns out to be evil. She keeps fantasizing about every cute boy she meets, only for her hopes to be dashed at very turn, usually because the boy has his eye on someone else. Minako's bumbling efforts to land a beau even get lampshaded by the supporting cast. But midway through the manga her latest failed attempt ends on a more melancholic note when she helps reunite two star-crossed lovers. This prophetic incident is followed by an encounter with a masked hero named Phantom Ace. Fans will recognize him as a variant of Tuxedo Mask who prefers to toss playing cards instead of roses. Most of the remaining chapters have Minako and Ace teaming up to fight the bad guys. So does this mean she'll find true love?
Given how Minako Aino was introduced in Sailor Moon, the answer is a definite “no.” What awaits her in the final chapter instead is an unexpected escalation of hostilities. The art for the climactic showdown provokes the most drastic stylistic shift found in the entire series. Its participants begin to unleash enormous waves of energy more characteristic of Sailor Moon's world-shaking battles, which succeeds in finally warping the panels of the traditional grid. This precipitates Minako's ultimate, and excruciating transformation. But she emerges from her ordeal as a more mature Sailor Venus.
It’s a majestic scene overflowing with self-awareness, but also a peculiar downer of an ending for such a bubbly shojo adventure. Minako may have started out a typical magical girl protagonist, but during the manga’s run, she became destined to be the supporting character in someone else's love story. A happy, romantic resolution to her manga was no longer in the cards.
|The Militarization of Officer Joe|
The militarised response to protests over the police killing of unarmed African-American teenager Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri has provoked outrage among many in the comics community. Brett Shenker collects a sampling of their tweets.
On the other hand, Casey Johnston notes how Facebook's tendency to filter for uncontroversial feel-good content makes it more difficult to discover Ferguson-related posts.
Everyone else is linking to this Jon Kudelka cartoon.
Mike Dawson muses on the Kajieme Powell police shooting.
Sean Howe's profile of Frank Miller, who's currently in the spotlight for Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, is the best comics-centric summary of his career so far. His portrait of the man paints the rise, fall, and possible redemption of one of the industry's most influential, not to mention outspoken, figures from the last 30 years.
According to Alan David Doane, the accompanying photos taken by Richard Burbridge have generated speculation about Miller's health. Bill Sienkiewicz quashes the rumours. I really admire how Miller has successfully retained his firebrand persona. It's something that animates everything he draws. But my one takeaway from these articles is how much he's weathered as a person and as an artist. 9/11 galvanised Miller in a thoroughly unpleasant way. His divisive rant on the Occupy Wall Street movement exhibits no empathy towards the concerns of people half his age. And that's a little disheartening for even a curmudgeon like me.
Milo Manara's alternate cover to Spider-Woman #1 has sparked outrage for its suggestive pose, dredging up the usual issues of female representation and the industry's systematic failure to attract a larger female audience. Manara's own confused response did him no favours by ranging from the "women are naturally sexy" excuse to mentioning Ferguson, the current Ebola crisis, and Islamic fundamentalism. Meanwhile Tom Brevoort defends the publication of the cover. Tom Spurgeon and Amy Reeder each give a more nuanced response.
The marriage of Manara's sensibilities to American superheroes is actually rather atypical. The resulting image is erotic, but in a freakish rather than a seductive way. I'm not sure if I like it. But if Manara was trying to emphasise the inherent weirdness of superheroes, I think he might have succeeded.
Yale Stewart has put his webcomic JL8 on hiatus after admitting to sending unsolicited photos (NSFW) of himself fondling his privates to two women with whom he was involved. Before that, Stewart was threatened over the phone. He has since apologised for his gross behaviour.
What's interesting is the indirect manner in which the social media firestorm arose in the first place. Ulises Farinas initially accused Stewart of cynically capitalising on tragic events as a means to self-promotion, most recently the selling of his Ferguson desktop wallpaper. This prompted references to the existence of various "dick pics." Now, sending erotically-tinged messages isn't odd in this day and age, but the practice turns ugly when its unasked for. Stewart's actions can't be condoned, but neither should the making of threatening phone calls. Turns out the Web is still a very clumsy tool when wielded as a means to mete out justice. Who'd have thunk?
Only Stewart knows what was on his mind when he fashioned the Ferguson wallpaper, so I'll give him the benefit of doubt. But given the circumstances, employing the military-style Green Lantern Corps to call for unity might not have been the best choice.
Chris Sims on the splendid mess that is "Crisis on Infinite Earths." Even I could tell back then that the motive behind the series was editorial's desire to mold its diverse properties into a much more homogeneous unit. In retrospect, that it didn't succeed wasn't all that surprising. Not that it stops DC from continuing to shoehorn Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman into the same milieu.
I contribute to Twitter Nation.
Playboy magazine has been around for so long that its boudoir-inspired aesthetic has practically become the very definition of kitsch. And yet, it’s arguably due to the publication’s historic success that the tale found in a high school memoir like The Playboy isn’t really all that remarkable for the countless number of adolescent males growing up in the suburbs. Sure, the multimillion-dollar publishing empire has dwindled away over the decades. But its legacy continues in the constant stream of moderately titillating, slickly produced, and slightly pretentious imagery of half-naked women now ubiquitous in pretty much all visual media, despite the objections coming from both the more puritanical and the more progressive. It wouldn’t be surprising if this larger societal conflict informed the experiences of a young Chester Brown as he goes through the typical cycle of lust, attraction, anticipation, satiation, emptiness, guilt, paranoia, self-loathing, loneliness, only to circle back to lust. But Brown carves out a small niche for himself by navigating between the more familiar territories of self-flagellation, the blatantly pornographic, the polemical, or the farcical. Brown’s approach is to crystallise the inner turmoil he felt as he recalls his oft-repeated encounters with Playboy during the mid-70s. Everything else recedes into the background.
What’s at first striking after reading TP is what’s being left out of the main narrative. Brown’s minimalist self-portrait effectively converts him into a blank slate, which allows readers to project their own anxieties on to him. They won’t delve too deeply into his religion or politics. His family or friends. Or his love life. But they will be able to gaze at some of his favourite centerfolds. Observe his odd masturbation technique. And identify with his frantic attempts to hide/get rid of his magazine collection. The terse narrative inadvertently functions as a kind of Rorschach test. Some readers might see in it a tacit condemnation of all pornography. Or a confessional about a youthful addiction Brown eventually outgrew. Or a cautionary tale of how Playboy might have irreparably damaged his ability to form healthy relationships with flesh-and-blood women. Some might even remark on how he never makes the transition to more hardcore material.
For my part, I detect no real moral disapprobation. Brown uses an interesting narrative device where his older self from the 90s visits his teenage self in the 70s as a tiny bat-winged figure. The daemonic avatar enlivens what is otherwise a visually monotonous and lonely pursuit. The supernatural appearance works in conjunction with Playboy being viewed at the time as forbidden fruit, but the interaction is entirely one-way. The older Brown doesn’t tempt his younger self but merely provides commentary on his actions while the latter remains completely oblivious to his presence. Older Brown might express occasional frustration with himself, but never any remorse for having possessed multiple copies of the magazine in the first place. And who knows what other forms of pornography he's gone on to consume since he outgrew this obsession? The book only focuses on Brown's relationship with Playboy during a very limited time period. Unsurprisingly, this provoked speculation about his sex life since TP's 90s publication. Brown has tried to address some of them in the 2013 revised edition through copious additional endnotes. This adds another layer of commentary, which complicates the book's overall impact. But this tactic is preferable to making significant revisions to the original comic itself (though he does make several minor changes), as that would have altered its rigorous structure.
The other thing that made an impression on me are the visual juxtapositions. Brown doesn’t come from the realist school of cartooning, and TP is representative of his earlier deconstructed style were the pages contained only a few panels in order to let the negative space dominate the composition. In contrast, he’s remarkably literal when reproducing the magazine's pictorials. The June 1975 issue in particular becomes an important motif as he goes through the act of buying, then throwing away his own copy, only to purchase another on a later date. As a medium, photography takes advantage of the sensuous qualities of light, colour and atmosphere. But when Brown translates the original glossy magazine images into black and white inks with his own awkward style, what ends up mostly coming across isn't the glamour but the artificiality of the poses and facial expressions. Yet when these conscientiously hand-drawn copies are placed next to Brown’s less detailed, wispier, big-headed characters within the book, they transform into something both more static and larger-than-life. After almost 40 years, it's evident that they still have some totemic power over the artist.
It’s been said before that 1984 was a really amazing year for the kind of movies that would go on to play an indispensable role in contemporary pop culture. So to celebrate this 30th anniversary, I’m going to ramble on about my personal favourite from that list, The Karate Kid, a movie that has helped forge my individual nerd identity and awareness of how Asia is portrayed in the West.
I was still a kid living half a world away from Hollywood back then, and one of the first things my peers commented on after seeing it was that the karate sucked. A lot of it was blamed on the character of Daniel LaRusso (Ralph Macchio), who starts out as the proverbial 90 lb. weakling, but happens to know a few karate moves, and ends up as a 90 lb. weakling with a few more karate moves under his belt. None of the main cast looked particularly impressive by the standards of traditional martial arts cinema. And yet those awkwardly executed techniques shorn of accompanying acrobatics and complicated stunt work were a curious revelation. TKK debuted during the tail end of the “kung fu” craze and the crest of the even wackier ninja craze. But whether portrayed by Hong Kong or Hollywood, Asian martial arts were still largely set within a pseudo-fantasy world. They had to be taught in monasteries or small villages hidden high within remote mountaintops as far as the movies were concerned (and still are). And they were usually performed by larger-than-life action hero types. But when high school bully Johnny Lawrence (William Zabka) threw an unremarkable front kick at new kid Daniel, causing the latter to keel over in extreme pain, the raw violence drew attention to the fact that many perfectly ordinary teenagers were already practicing martial arts up and down the country and were using those same skills on each other, whether through tournaments such as the one seen in the movie, in the dojo, or on the streets. TKK presented a far more mundane portrait for the Asian martial arts, making it impossible to dismiss them as mere bunk that could only happen in the movies. It wasn't necessary be a f*%#in' Bruce Lee or Sho Kosugi since any dweeb could mosey on down to the nearest class and learn how to "Keith Nash" someone in the nuts.
TKK did still draw from its fair share of classic martial arts tropes, which I quickly picked up on in the style-vs-style clash between the Cobra Kai karate dojo and Keisuke Miyagi (Noriyuki Morita). The former is an analog of Japanese karate, or perhaps more accurately an Americanized freestyle version of it, which emphasizes speed, power, athleticism and forceful movements. On the other hand, Miyagi's surname is a shout out to the Okinawan founder of goju-ryu karate Chōjun Miyagi. In the movie, the students of Cobra Kai were training to execute fast and hard-hitting punching combos with military precision ("Strike first, strike hard, no mercy, sir!") while Daniel was being taught a series of gentle, flowing parries that resembled a bird flapping its wings by carrying out a succession of dull household chores. Just in case anyone watching missed the point, the movie’s signature move is called the “crane technique”, a reference to the White Crane school of Chinese boxing (kung fu), believed to have strongly influenced the local karate traditions the real-life Miyagi studied. This animal symbolism is kind of a big deal to martial artists. For example, the famous sifu Ip Man was probably borrowing from White Crane and Taijiquan folklore when he penned the story of how the legendary figure Ng Moy invented Wing Chun boxing after witnessing a crane taking on a snake. So when puny Daniel mopped the floor with the beefy Cobra Kai members at the “All-Valley KarateTournament”, it’s meant to be a slight dig at modern karate’s extravagance. By practising the older, more "authentic" Okinawan art, Daniel had access to a store of wisdom that emphasized ideas like softness conquering hardness, technique overcoming raw power, and gentleness diffusing aggression. Now, if you could have at the very least told me all of this at the top of your head and still can't wait to tell me more, then congratulations! You're probably a martial arts otaku, or maybe you just had a strict sensei.
I was less able to recognize the geopolitical components since my Asian upbringing left me largely unfamiliar with American history. I wasn’t yet aware that the Vietnam War was a national tragedy for the United States. It would be two years before Oliver Stone’s Platoon taught me how America saw Southeast Asia during the Cold War as some kind of quagmire. And it didn’t occur to me that Cobra Kai head instructor John Kreese's (Martin Kove) “no mercy” philosophy, boot camp style training, mischaracterization of Miyagi’s peace offering as a challenge, and underhanded tactics could be blamed on him being a “Crazy Vietnam Veteran”. If Kreese were a real person alive today, he’d probably blame TKK for contributing to the pussification of America. As for his opposite Miyagi, his membership to the all-Japanese 442nd Regimental Combat Battalion was the first I ever heard of the unit. So it took a bit longer for me to grasp that Kreese vs Miyagi embodied another message: “Vietnam War bad, World War II good.”
Later viewings would impress on me just how much the movie’s subtext comments on Reagan-era America. Behind a superpower bullish of its military prowess (this was the decade when he-man types like Chuck Norris, Stallone and Schwarzenegger would occasionally stomp around the jungles of hapless third world countries) were nagging doubts about the negative impact of US exceptionalism abroad (sometimes manifested in the era's ambivalent media representations of the Vietnam War). And there was a growing suspicion that the country’s prestige would eventually lose to the increasing economic clout of the Far East, especially former enemy Japan, the very country that was turning their kids on to the benefits of fuel-efficient cars and martial arts.
Things have changed a lot since then. While Japanese pop culture has become a staple component for American youth, karate and other forms of budo have lost some of their luster, and Japan itself is downplayed as a threat to American self-interests. The 2010 version recognized China's ascension as the new center of power combined with the growing suspicion that America's best days may already be firmly behind it. So Dre and Sherry Parker would leave the Motor City behind for the rapidly expanding megacity called Beijing in search for a better life.*
But back in 1984, sunny California was still the land of opportunity. So Daniel and his mom Lucille (Randee Heller) uproot themselves from the rustbelt state of New Jersey to seek out new opportunities in San Fernando Valley. Daniel feels immediately out-of-place as if they had moved to Paris, France. Even the more enthusiastic Lucille thinks they’ve alighted on the land of the blondes, confirmed when Daniel catches the eye of the pretty Ali Mills (Elisabeth Shue), then gets into a fight with the equally Aryan-looking Johnny. There’s classism mixed with personal jealousy with an undertow of ethnic rivalry. Both Ali and Johnny come from wealthy families, and there’s no way Johnny is going to lose his ex-girlfriend to some working class, greasy-haired, soccer playing, Italian interloper sporting a thick Joisey accent.**
What has often been described by critics as a coming-of-age tale acquires the features of an assimilationist fantasy when Daniel and Miyagi bond over bonsai trees, and later over karate. Given the murder of Vincent Chin two years earlier, the Miyagi character is a carefully assembled collection of personality traits designed to counter the era’s anti-Japanese xenophobia. The movie takes great pains to point out that he’s more Okinawan than Japanese. He’s a decorated soldier who fought for the Allies while his wife and unborn child were sent to the infamous Manzanar prison camp. And he doesn’t drive a Honda, he owns a fleet of classic cars made in Detroit. “Wax on, wax off” isn’t just good karate training, it’s a patriotic act when used on the proper vehicle. Miyagi is a model citizen who contributes his knowledge to society, in the process Americanizing the Okinawan martial art, through teaching Daniel.
And I’m certainly not the first to point out that Miyagi is basically Yoda - an orientalist image of the exotic-looking, pidgin-speaking, balding, ageing martial arts master counciling his impatient young padawan through the use of pithy (and eminently quotable) statements not to give in to fear, anger and hate.*** If the increasingly ruthless Kreese preaches “Mercy is for the weak. Here, in the streets, in competition. A man confronts you, he is the enemy. An enemy deserves no mercy…” Miyagi instructs Daniel on how karate can be applied to life: “First learn balance. Balance good, karate good, everything good. Balance bad, might as well pack up, go home.” Miyagi symbolically heals the racial rift, first during his youth by serving as a valiant soldier, then later serving as a mentor to the Caucasian Daniel, who then goes on to kick the crap out of his tormentors.
If that last part sounds implausible, that’s because it is. A plot in which a rank amateur learns to beat the experts after training for under 2 months using some very unusual methods of approximation? A comically over-the-top arch villain? The eccentric sensei that embodies every trope of the genre? The old-fashioned notion that you can earn the bully’s respect by beating him up? It’s just as hokey in 2014 as it was back in 1984. And yet, it still kind of works. The movie’s interactions still sound fresh and genuine, and the generally excellent cast inhabits their characters with utter conviction. Miyagi in particular could have been a dud, but Morita’s nuanced performance keeps the character from turning into another dull stereotype. Instead, what comes across is the warmth and humour from an actual person. That scene where Miyagi drunkenly re-enacts his own shocked reaction to the news of how his wife and child died during childbirth is surprisingly gut-wrenching even after 30 years. Macchio and Morita have an undeniable onscreen camaraderie that emotionally anchors the movie, but even the supporting characters come off pretty well despite being given little screen time (Needless to say, the story doesn't pass the Bechdel Test). What I particularly liked when I viewed TKK for this post were the scenes between Macchio and Heller, as they have the kind of relaxed verbal exchanges expected from a single mother and her teenage son.
If any character threatens to unbalance the movie, it’s the hissing, sneering, swaggering Kreese. His all-consuming hatred for everything weak doesn’t rise above the level of classic pulp villainy. When he instructs one of his students to put Daniel “out of commission”, I could practically see him twirl a virtual moustache. The character feels like he stepped out from the kind of movie which would have featured a s#@tload of guns and the requisite zombie horde. But then again, Kove also plays him as such an amusingly detestable human being that he raises the stakes and energizes every scene he’s in. So if Miyagi is Yoda, then I guess this makes Kreese a sandy-haired, musclebound Emperor Palpatine.
Taking advantage of its gorgeous backdrops, TKK is a delightful visual treat. It also helps that 80s Southern California looks positively wholesome and innocent from the perspective of a 30 year gap. The same could be said about the cinematography. In contrast to the frenetic pacing and busy camerawork of today’s movies, TKK’s pacing is leisurely, especially the iconic middle section where Daniel and Miyagi hunker down to train. It’s all about the journey as Daniel learns to wax the cars, sand the floor, and paint the house. I found myself still taken in by the surrounding natural beauty of Leo Carillo Beach where Daniel tries to master the crane technique, even though the smart-ass within me is irked that all he’s doing is clumsily attempting a stylized jumping front kick. On the other hand, the climactic tournament scenes are surprisingly brisk by today’s standards. The famous fight montage set to the corny youth anthem “You’re the Best” by Joe Esposito is a marvel of simplicity that efficiently conveys the necessary information. The final freeze frame of Miyagi smiling at the camera might seem almost too abrupt. Wouldn’t a Michael Bay have shown Daniel and Ali sharing a passionate kiss while the enraptured crowd swells around the two, accompanied by an exploding fireworks display in the background synchronised to a booming power chord progression played on an electric guitar, and Kreese being arrested for paederasty to the jeers of his now former students? God, how I hate the Transformers.
Like many youth-oriented movies from the 80s, TKK is sincere with its message, lacking in irony, and devoid of any self-aware winking at the audience or clever metatextual devices. It's unlikely that this movie would have been shot today, unless you count the 2010 remake. And its producers felt compelled to lower the age of its characters from teenage adolescents to tweens in order to make the story more plausible to current fans. TKK quickly spawned a bunch of Hollywood imitators using similar plot devices: The persecuted and inept White hero, the Oriental master, the training montage, the tournament as showdown. But none of them could follow the original’s advice and find the delicate balance between the hokier elements and the human drama. When Bloodsport came out 4 years later, the genre had already moved away from the adventures of an affable pipsqueak. The cheesy fantasy and the strongmen had made their way back, although in truth they never really left. This was still the 80s, after all. Come to think of it, the closest thing I've recently watched on television which reminded me of the spirit of TKK was Dodgeball. "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball" is so "Paint the fence".
One thing that stands out after 30 years is how much the movie encapsulates a shift in the East-West exchange. Karate and other martial arts had traditionally been associated with the counterculture in the West, along with a host of other Asian cultural imports. But by the 80s these "traditions" were being co-opted by the mainstream. With that, the mystique surrounding them, as well as the belief in their authenticity, was perhaps irretrievably lost. By the end of the decade the orientalist image of the little Asian master was being forced to share face time with the CEO quoting from The Book of Five Rings and The Art of War. The sensei running the average dojo was more likely to resemble John Kreese than Mr. Miyagi. Dojos had to be run smartly, just as any other successful business. And its members would ineluctably include more well-heeled yuppies made from the same mould as Johnny Lawrence and Ali Mills. Martial arts had progressed from being underground knowledge to just another consumer good sold on the open market. The promise of personal liberation fetishized and reshaped to better fit into the economic system. When Daniel LaRusso rejected the expensive, efficiently run, but inhumane Cobra Kai dojo only to form a tightly knit teacher-student bond with Miyagi, TKK was applying no more than the mildest social critique against this trend. That the martial arts could mirror the broader friction between mainstream and marginal might actually have been the movie's most prescient insight. But within our present media landscape where Asian culture is more ubiquitous, commodified, and fragmented than ever before, and where the most prevalent modes of martial art displays have morphed into the public spectacles of hyper-real combat sports, TKK's gentle admonitions are just as likely to evoke nostalgia from the general audience.
Oh well. I'll just finish this post with a panel of the original Karate Kid taking down a slithery Superboy, because Val Armorr is the boss!
*The Chinese title for the 2010 Karate Kid translates as Kung Fu Dream, a much more literal description since Japanese and Okinawan culture plays no significant role in the movie.
**While I wasn’t initially impressed with the 2010 remake, I did like how the casting of Jaden Smith is a nod to how Asian martial arts have played a huge role in African-American life. The dearth of African-Americans (and other people of color) in the 1984 original is a much bigger omission when watched in 2014. How would the movie have turned out if Daniel LaRusso were cast as Black?
*** Interestingly, the stylistic clash between the Sith-controlled Galactic Empire and the Jedi-inspired Rebel Alliance in the Star Wars film series has been described as an allegory of the Vietnam War.
Late 19th century China experienced numerous outbursts of anti-foreign and anti-Christian violence. But it was the incidents in Shendong province that would set the stage for the "Yihequan," (Wade–Giles: I Ho Ch’uan) - sometimes translated into English as "Boxers United in Righteousness” (or alternately “Righteous and Harmonious Fists”). This grassroots organisation would inspire, and lend its name to, the mass movement now known in the West as the Boxer Rebellion or Boxer Uprising (1898-1900). After spreading throughout northern China, the Boxers would converge on Beijing and lay siege to the city’s Legation Quarter with the aid of the Imperial Army. This was where foreign expatriates and native converts to Christianity from all over the country sought refuge from the growing violence. But the Boxers would not succeed in ridding China of its foreign presence. Troops from eight nations finally arrived in Beijing, protected the Legations, defeated the Chinese forces, plundered the city and the surrounding countryside, and summarily executed any suspected Boxer. While the immediate repercussions of the Boxer Rebellion were a great calamity, in the long-term their actions would help radically transform the face of China.
What some contemporary Western observers noted about the Yihequan was their unusual method of calisthenics (popularly labelled today as “kung fu”). On the one hand they claimed that they could strengthen their bodies to become immune to the effects of conventional weapons. But the Yihequan also believed that they could channel the gods of legend and popular opera and acquire their mythical powers and abilities in the heat of battle. This kind of magic thinking is rarely taught nowadays to martial arts students. It might even be a source of embarrassment if ever bought up. But it’s the one aspect of the Boxers Gene Luen Yang latches on to as a way to get into their heads. In his latest graphic novel Boxers & Saints, Yihequan magic becomes an all-consuming religious experience equal in power to the mysticism of the Catholic Saints. It’s an idiosyncratic approach that allows him to conveniently sidestep some of the historical complexities while touching on themes of great personal significance.
The comic itself could be described as a comparative study of two kinds of spiritual journeys, mirrored by the two-volume structure. While they could be read separately, they're really meant to complement one another. The first and larger volume focuses on Little Bao, a peasant boy from a small village in Shan-tung province (Yang uses Wade-Giles throughout the comic). Yang simplifies and streamlines the complicated tangle of events that occurred during the Uprising by making the fictional Bao the center of Boxer activity. Unhappy with how foreigners disparage local customs and throw their weight around without fear of reprisal, Bao studies martial arts under itinerant folk hero Red Lantern Chu, learns the magic ritual of spirit possession from an eccentric mountain sage, inspires the youth of his village and others to take up arms against the “foreign devils”, and establishes the “Society of the Righteous and Harmonious Fist.” In the beginning, Bao’s goal is as clear and simple as it is honorable. But as with so many crusaders, things quickly become muddled the closer he gets to achieving those goals.
The second volume tells the story of an unnamed girl who grew up in an adjacent village, but is treated as an outcast by her own family due to the circumstances of her birth corresponding to the numerically-based superstition that Four is Death. After being labeled a “devil” by her own grandfather, she becomes fascinated with a visiting Christian missionary, as foreigners are often called devils by the locals. Deciding that she has more in common with them than her own family, she attends catechism classes, begins to experience visions of the life of Joan of Arc, converts to Roman Catholicism, and takes the name Vibiana. When she is physically abused for her religious conversion, Vibiana runs away from home. This takes place a few years before Bao instigates the Boxer Rebellion. But as the Rebellion heats up, their two paths eventually intersect.
Of the two, Bao starts out as the more relatable character. He only wants to defend his poor community from those overbearing outsiders. The first act of his story can even be described as an origin tale. His father is attacked by villains, which motivates Bao to seek both revenge and justice. He then acquires a superpower after going through a few trials to prove that he is worthy. Yang’s economic cartooning style keeps everything pretty assessable. When Bao uses spirit possession for the first time, the sky is filled by the presence of various gods dressed in colourful opera regalia, then he himself embodies one of the gods. It’s reminiscent of Billy Batson transforming into Captain Marvel. As coloured by Lark Pien, this transformation provides a stark contrast between the impoverished countryside and the gaudily dressed opera characters.
The problems for Bao begin when he expands his mission from protecting the weak to defending all of China. As the mountain of bodies of not just soldiers and missionaries but also women and children begin to accumulate, Bao is goaded on by the god Ch’in Shih-huang, first emperor of China. Ch’in’s an Old Testament kind of guy, and his message to Bao is unambiguous - He has to be completely ruthless in his war against the foreign devils. But Bao is presented with a paradox. He’s being led on to fight for China by a story. But the longer the war lasts, the more he’s forced to ignore other equally important tales that emphasise compassion and mercy. As he’s reminded during the burning of an ancient library, “…What is China but a people and their stories?” Bao is torn between his patriotism and his humanism, and B&S offers no answer on to how to resolve his internal conflict and fashion a more effective synthesis. The political and personal remain irreconcilable domains, and the Boxers' quest to save China is doomed to failure.
Vibiana’s attraction to Christianity may have been based on less than honourable motives, but this makes her a more well-rounded character. Her lifelong struggles with her adopted faith are in fact perfectly in line with a long tradition of doubting Thomas figures found in Roman Catholicism. Her supporting cast is also largely composed of people struggling with faith each in their own unique way. While Bao’s visions are unambiguous, if terrifying, Vibiana is constantly being led astray by her spiritual communions with Joan. Vibiana speaks to Joan directly, but is often left more confused than enlightened. At one point, she even considers joining the Boxer Uprising since the Boxers seem to parallel Joan’s own military career. Towards the end, Yang weighs the two lives in favour of Vibiana’s more introspective quest over Bao’s more outward expression of belligerence. Faith should never be confused with absolute certainty. And judging from the act of self-sacrifice she performs to help Bao, Vibiana would have probably been at the very least recognised as a martyr by the Church had she existed at the time.
And thanks to that Catholicism, Yang can’t help but engage in the heavy-handed ecumenical tendency to mould the followers of other faiths into Anonymous Christians. In American Born Chinese, he inserted the character of Tze-Yo-Tzuh into the story of the Monkey King as a thinly-disguised Christian analog. In B&S he links the bodhisattva Guan Yin to Jesus Christ. Thankfully, he isn't as emphatic in conveying the message, though the practice can still strike a discordant and not entirely convincing note.
B&S is Yang's most ambitious and complex work to date reflecting his particular worldview. Due to Yang’s peculiar passion for exploring the dimensions of his faith, the comic can often feel like a tangential investigation of the Boxer Uprising and of China itself. Let’s ignore/downplay whatever socio-economic factors contributed to widespread discontent and the rise of the Yihequan, and just imagine that it was an exclusively religious conflict. And who cares that infighting within the Imperial Court and Army hastened the demise of the Boxers. The final panel of B&S is a mournful portrait of Beijing (Peking) being burned to the ground as it's being sacked by foreigners. But as tragic as that all sounds, the war did have the effect of limiting the scope of Western colonialism within the country, and the modern China that would emerge after 1900 has noticeably gone down a far more secular path.
|via Godzilla Movies|
Gojira (Godzilla) created by Tomoyuki Tanaka, Ishiro Honda, Eiji Tsubaraya
(obligatory spoiler alert)
This was a surprise. I mistakenly assumed that Hollywood’s second attempt at Godzilla would be a remake of the 1954 original, like the 1998 misstep, based on watching trailers showing a very cranky Bryan Cranston screaming about humanity being sent back to the Stone Age, or a mournful Ken Watanabe mentioning a creature that couldn’t be killed from way back in 1954. While this is still an origin tale of sorts, the titular character is closer to the King of the Monsters of the 60s and 70s - Defender of the Earth from the truly nasty kaiju out there to get us. And that’s good news for those of us who want Godzilla not to be a villain that has to be vanquished at the end, but a hero who can come back to face new foes.
There are a few things you have to accept to enjoy this type of Godzilla film. For one, the people don’t matter so much. They might occasionally lend assistance, or be a nuisance. But mostly, they’re there to bear witness to the awesomeness that is the kaiju showdown. Those aforementioned trailers put Cranston front and center to sell the film to the public. His tragic relationship with Juliette Binoche during the first act of the story does provide emotional ballast, but with his death the human interest falls on the steadfast but dull Aaron Taylor-Johnson. This turns out to be a smart move. Did anyone in their right mind really think that Walter White taking on Godzilla was a good idea? The conflict between Cranston and Taylor-Johnson is mercifully settled by the time the kaiju first lock horns. More importantly, the totally perfunctory depiction of Taylor-Johnson’s family troubles mostly avoids the kind of mawkishness that’s always put front and center in effects-laden Hollywood blockbusters. So we’re not really forced to care about whether he’s ever reunited with his wife and kid.
Having said that, I am a little disappointed that Watanabe is simply used as the film's resident Asian. Some of the early scenes are set in East Asia, namely the Philippines and Japan. Yet the people in charge are mainly Caucasians. Even in San Francisco where much of the story takes place, people of color are pushed to the margins. At least Watanabe doesn’t die in the first 20 minutes, so that’s progress. On a side-note, why does the military keep calling Godzilla by that name when Watanabe first refers to him (or her) as Gojira?
Another important feature is that the military has to be pretty useless against the kaiju. It’s a relief that the film doesn’t resort to the usual jingoistic recruiting message about joining a band of brothers, despite the Taylor-Johnson character being a naval bomb disposal expert. He does his job with a minimum of wisecracks, and he’s so devoid of personality that the role could have been split into different officers for every other scene. The film also avoids the opposite cliche of portraying the military as incompetent jack-booted thugs. They’ve been ordered to do whatever it takes to stop the kaiju, but they’re at best bothersome pests, except at the end when Taylor-Johnson conveniently does something heroic. The act does slightly undercut Watanabe’s oft repeated pronouncements that it’s hubris for Man to think he can control nature.
A major stumbling block is the sparsity of kaiju action. This is another peculiarity of the series. Godzilla doesn’t appear until halfway through the film. And director Gareth Edwards adopts an understated approach that some critics have declared “boring.” Quite a few times the camera pans upward from ground-level to reveal an impending kaiju beatdown, only to cut-off at a crucial moment. We’re not allowed to have a really good look at Godzilla until the climactic battle. Personally, I can understand how this could be a huge problem given the dearth of compelling human drama. But I also don’t mind the restraint. One of the challenges of Pacific Rim was holding audience attention, largely accomplished by staging increasingly complex fight scenes with correspondingly higher stakes. Nevertheless, the dog-piling of action scenes could become tiresome at times. By keeping most of the kaiju action offstage, the moment when Godzilla gets the upper hand feels a lot more satisfying. And it helps that this film has some of the most gorgeous cinematography found in a 2014 summer blockbuster.
Ultimately, Godzilla is an incomprehensible protagonist/walking deus ex machina. Watanabe is convinced that Godzilla's there to restore balance, but never gives solid evidence to back it up. Why would a 350 foot tall prehistoric creature who looks like a cross between a dragon and an angry bipedal crocodile even notice, let alone care about the lives of millions of tiny San Franciscans? Is that even a meaningful question to ask of such a film?