Perfect Blue [Pāfekuto Burū] (1997)

Will The Real Mima Kirigoe Please Stand Up

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

While I hate to use a cliché, normie-tier phrase, Satoshi Kon’s animated psychological thriller Perfect Blue, the story of a pop singer who transitions to become an actress and loses her grip on reality in the process, is a film exceedingly more relevant now than when it was first released back in 1997, and scarily so. Fast forward to the current age of the content creator in which people who hold a dedicated online following but are not household names nor would get recognized in the street are a dime a dozen. This stands in contrast to the 1990s and prior when the status of being a low to med-level celebrity with a niche fanbase like Perfect Blue’s protagonist, Mima Kirigoe, was not so democratized – as the famous quote often misattributed to Andy Warhol states, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes”. The status of Mima Kirigoe is showcased during the film’s opening which cuts between an energetic live concert performance to Mima doing mundane activities such as buying groceries or riding the train before returning to her small, modest Tokyo apartment (itself a representation of the fascinating ecosphere that is the interior of tiny Japanese apartments in which every inch is in use). Perfect Blue features an early screen depiction of the internet from an age when web page design was at a very primitive and clunky stage (all the film is missing is that nostalgic dial-up connection sound). Likewise, the internet browser Mima uses is Netscape Navigator which at the time of the film’s production was the most popular internet browser on the planet, however, its popularity declined over the years and its development ceased in 2008. Mima is a total boomer when it comes to the internet and the dark side of fandom as seen through the web is something Mima is not prepared for. The majority of Mima’s fans throughout Perfect Blue are shown to be perfectly respectable, even standing up to the small minority of troublemakers at the opening concert and giving her friendly words of encouragement when she arrives at a TV studio. There is one fan however who gives Mima much more than she bargained for.

The fan in question is the creepy inbreed-looking stalker who is later given the name of Mr. Me-Mania – a terrifying figure with his crooked teeth, eyes so wide apart and even the build of Michael Myers. He is a counterbalance to the sweet and pleasant nature of Mima whose puppy dog eyes are larger than most other character’s in the film. Me-Mania is a man who cannot reconcile the image of Mima the wholesome pop-star with Mima the provocative actress – just observe the look of pure joy on his face during the performance of the song Alone But At Ease (even though this image occurs in a scene within Mima’s head and may not have actually occurred in reality, but more on that later). Me-Mania sets on getting revenge for having his perception of reality betrayed, murdering individuals involved in Mima’s transition to becoming an actress and (as he would see it) the perversion of her image, eventfully trying to take out Mima herself. There is one shot which tells the viewer everything about Me-Mania and how he views Mima – the point-of-view shot of him holding the image of Mima in his hand during the opening concert.

Within this early portrayal of the information superhighway, Perfect Blue explores the concept of the duality that exists between an individual and what would be referred to in years to come as an avatar, the image that comes to represent one’s carefully chiselled, romanticized image and personality – the image we present to the world as opposed to the lives we actually lead. Mima is informed of a website known as Mima’s Room in which someone (who is later revealed to be Me-Mania) is not only pretending to be Mima but is posting accurate information about her day-to-day life. The idea of not being in control of your image (whether online or off) as well as having no control over your own narrative is something Perfect Blue explores terrifying well and how it can lead to one losing their grip on reality. The image of the avatar is also metaphorically presented in the film by a ghostly image of Mima’s pop idol persona (with this metaphor doubly enforced by it appearing in the computer screen itself). This doppelganger acts as a sort of court jester with its bright colourful appearance as it bounces around like a near-weightless object and taunts Mima by telling her the (seemingly at the time) harsh truth that she has made the wrong career choice.

To return to the opening paragraph, only individuals of Mima’s status or higher would have been prone to becoming victims of this loss of control, but today any online content creator, online personality (or influencer to use that dreadfully narcissistic phrase) or even any random individual posting selfies on Instagram opens themselves as a target. Furthermore, most people can point to performers they were once a fan off but disliked a change of direction their image or career took – they didn’t fit the narrative we wanted or expected. Any sane person won’t dwell on this like an obsessive fan and go commit murder as a result; your average Joe has more important things in their life to worry about. Regardless, one lesson to take from Perfect Blue is that as a fan or consumer, one should not lose track of where a person starts and an avatar ends. As Satoshi Kon himself is quoted saying; “There’s a gap between the image people see of me and what I see myself. Perfect Blue is about the tragedy caused by that gap becoming too large”. A real-life example of when this did come to fruitarian was during the production of Perfect Blue itself in 1996, life would imitate art with the case of the Björk stalker Ricardo Lopez, whose extreme disillusionment in learning that Björk’s personal and romantic life didn’t align with his perception of who the artist was, culminated in him sending a bomb in the mail to the Icelandic singer (of which was intercepted by the police and no one was harmed), and proceeding to commit suicide himself believing the two of them would meet in the afterlife.

Satoshi Kon continued to explore the theme of fandom in his next film Millennium Actress, which is the yin to Perfect Blue’s yang, a film which explores the positive impact fandom can have. Perfect Blue also acts as an examination of the sacrifices and hardship one must endure for their art as well as the conflict between art and their personal life, with one of the most notable cinematic explorations of this theme being The Red Shoes (1948). In Perfect Blue, the later vision of Mima’s alter ego is seen wearing alongside a red dress, a pair of red shoes. Is there a connection or is my cinematic brain trying to draw strenuous ties that aren’t there? Furthermore, it’s well documented the influence Perfect Blue has had on Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem For A Dream and Black Swan, although two other films I can feel the influence from Perfect Blue would have to be One Hour Photo and Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue Of Ignorance). However, if I was to select one film predating Perfect Blue which explores similar themes, it would have to be The Swimmer (1968), which going back to the theme of the duality between the person and the avatar, tells the story of a man who projects an avatar onto the world as opposed to the reality of his life which is vastly different.

Prior to making the transition to become an actress, Mima was a pop-singer in a girl group known as CHAM!. More specifically, Mima is a certain type of Japanese pop-star known as an Idol. This form of Japanese pop-singer may come off as odd to the western viewer who is not initiated into Japanese popular culture with the sight of grown men at a concert watching three women dancing in titillating, pink maid outfits while singing to 90’s Euro Dance style songs. Yes, what a bunch of weirdoes. I myself am a man of more refined taste who is above such coomerish degeneracy…maybe. CHAM! has three songs featured in the film, two good uplifting jams (Angel Of Love and Alone But At Ease) and a solid ballad (Now Embraced By One’s Memories) when listened to in their full, uninterrupted versions rather than hearing brief snippets within the film intercut to the movie’s more unsettling content. Correspondingly, I was taken back on my first viewing of Perfect Blue by moments in the animation appearing that they wouldn’t look out of place in Clutch Cargo, although charm and character are derived from the film’s modest production values of a picture which is only 77 minutes in length (81 minutes with credits). Even with the film’s references to various 90’s-isms such as mini-disc players and outdated internet browsers, the film’s rich, saturated, film-noir-like colour scheme has a real 80’s, Blade Runner-esque vibe (throw a vaporwave soundtrack over the picture and it wouldn’t be out of place). Correspondingly, the piece titled Virtua Mima is the musical highlight of the film’s score, a piece which itself calls to the vocal-laden music in the Blade Runner score. However, the real musical mystery of Perfect Blue is that synth-pop song featuring a female vocal which plays during the strip club scene. The song is unlisted in the film’s credits and not included in any official or bootleg release of the soundtrack. The song is however used in the Japanese trailer in which a snippet can be heard in greater clarity than that edited into the film, however, the song’s title and the artist remain a mystery. Get on the case lost media sleuths!

For Mima’s acting debut she lands a supporting role in a TV series called Double Bind. A cliché, CSI-like show featuring a Mulder & Scully style duo as unrealistically glamorous people attempting to solve crimes (“Why do psycho thrillers made in Japan turn out that way?”). The name Double Bind could be interpreted as a metaphor for how the show reflects the events occurring in the film from the various murders to Mima’s loss of sanity and her duels with an alternative persona. The show also foreshadows the twist ending regarding Mima’s manager Rumi Hidaka and her Dissociative Identity Disorder. Yes, it is revealed near the film’s conclusion that Mima’s manager Rumi was collaborating with Mr Me-Mania to get revenge on not only Mima but those who facilitated her image change (I also have to ask is there any connection between these two characters having their eyes spaced so far apart?). Like Me-Mania, Rumi herself could not reconcile Mima’s image change but went one step further. Rumi herself is a failed pop idol and instead became a manager of celebrity agency and was living through Mima’s success but took this to a more literal level with Rumi coming to see herself as Mima, leading to the disturbing sight of an overweight Rumi wearing a red idol dress and believing she is Mima the pop idol. Rumi attempts to take Mima out herself in a final clash, which once again going back to Blade Runner, does remind me of the final showdown between Rick Decker and Roy Batty on the rooftops in the sci-fi classic. During this clash, Rumi is shown as Mima’s pop idol doppelganger in a red dress, and like Roy Batty, displays superhuman jumping abilities and a distinct stain of blood on her face. As is the case of life imitating art with the parallels between Me-Mania and Ricardo Lopez, there is the reverse of art imitating life with the case of the murder of Mexican pop singer Selena by the president of her fan club Yolanda Saldíva in 1995. The most striking similarity between this real-life case and the fiction presented within Perfect Blue is Yolanda Saldíva reportedly turned her apartment into a shrine for her idol, which Rumi does by creating a duplicate of Mima’s living space within her own apartment. Ironically for a movie about pop idols, idolatry itself is one of its major themes. Therefore, my dear friends, flee from idolatry.

On first viewing of Perfect Blue, it would appear Rumi’s reaction to the filming of a rape scene featuring Mima for an episode of Double Bind is simply out of her concern for protégé, but when watching the film again aware of the real context, the scene takes on a different meaning. It is this key moment with Mima’s agreement and subsequent filming of a rape scene in which she plays a stripper at a club who is held down by multiple men as one man proceeds to penetrate her which signifies the destruction of Mima’s innocence. Even though the actions are not real and are only performances for a TV show it’s no less uncomfortable to watch (the actor pretending to rape even apologizes to Mima between takes). Mima’s other agent Mr. Tadokoro attempts to reassure Mima by telling her “Jodie whatshername did it too!”. The film they are referring to is The Accused (1988) starring Jodie Foster, which has a similarly staged rape scene atop a pinball machine in a bar. One of the questions raised by the filming of such an act is whether or not the scene is exploitive – for one I don’t like the slimy look on the writer’s face when is talking about the idea over the phone. Whereas The Accused is a serious film on a serious subject matter, Double Bind appears to be a show of the more trashy kind. Following the filming of the scene, Mima has a breakdown and admits to herself that she didn’t want to do it but the destruction of her innocence is complete as afterwards she starts giving interviews in provocative outfits and even poses for a nude photoshoot. This phenomenon is repeated time and again in the real world with numerous instances of child stars (more than often employed by Disney) whom once reaching an older age attempt to shed their squeaky clean images with a daring, more provocative one.

The opening moments of Perfect Blue feature three Power Rangers-looking dudes known as the Powertrons fighting a stereotypical bad guy, throwing off the viewer and giving the impression you’ve started watching a different genre of film, foreshadowing the reality-breaking nature of the picture. I’m not alone when I say I was left confused after my first viewing of Perfect Blue with the film’s 2nd half, in particular, being hard to decipher and even thinking about it several viewings later it still makes my head spin. This sense of disorientation along with scenes rarely transitioning in a conventional manner places the viewer inside the deteriorating mind of Mima. There are several times in which the film deliberately gives a false impression such as when Mima believes the statement “a link to Mima’s Room” means cameras are peeping into her apartment or when Mr. Tadokoro meets Mima alone in the car without Rumi, it gives the impression he’s going to do something sinister but no such thing occurs and the moment is never referenced again. Questions I have found myself asking when watching Perfect Blue several times include but is not limited to:

-Questioning if Mr. Me-Mania is real or not?

-When is the image of Mima’s pop-star doppelganger just her mental projection or Rumi dressed up as Mima?

-When is Mima actually in her apartment as opposed to the duplicate apartment created by Rumi?

-Is Rumi dressed as the pizza boy murdering the photographer or is Mima dressed as the pizza boy in a dream?

-During the four instances when Mima wakes up does that mean the proceeding scenes actually occurred or were they her dreams?

My brain hurts. Nonetheless, Perfect Blue brings to mind films like The Thin ManThe Maltese Falcon or Clue, films in which it is extremely difficult to make heads or tails of the story but trying to make sense of it ends up being beside the point.

Much tension during Perfect Blue is derived from whether or not Mima has made a big mistake quitting CHAM!, since they have found increased success without her (reaching the pop-charts for the first time) whereas Mima is only getting a few lines per episode of Double Bind and is soon being taunted by the image of her pop-idol doppelganger that she has made the wrong decision. However, Mima’s career decision appears to be affirmed come the end but I don’t believe the film entirely dismisses Mima’s tenure as a pop-singer as Mima herself states when visiting Rumi at a mental asylum, “I know I’ll never see HER ever again. But, thanks to her I am who I am today”. I believe with this she is referring to both Rumi and her former alter ego (I also believe this is the same reason why Mima chooses to prevent Rumi from getting hit by the van during their final clash despite the fact Rumi was trying to stab her to death). The lyrics to the CHAM! song Alone But At Ease reflects the un-intellectual nature of their pop music (“from comics than difficult books and I want to stay the way I am forever”), although to quote C.S Lewis, “When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up”. Likewise, there is the key message as notably derived from Preston Struges’ film Sullivan’s Travels (1941), that you might not be creating high art, but the joy it brings to people’s lives is a more than worthy endeavour. The final moments of Perfect Blue show Mima is no longer only famous among a niche crowd but is known to normies as evidenced by the gossiping nurses who spot her leaving the asylum. There is a cheeky nature of the final shot as Mima does a semi-4th wall break, looking into the camera and cheerfully stating “No, I’m real!” (followed by the end credits featuring a song which is tonally at odds with much of the film but in a good, playful sort of way). Mima’s smile and comment are not only a play on the nurses but also solidifies the key point of the story – that she is now in control of her own identity.

Porco Rosso [Kurenai no ButaPorco] (1992)

Bringing Home The Bacon

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Combining elements from CasablancaOnly Angels Have Wings and A Matter Of Life And DeathPorco Rosso is Studio Ghibli’s romantic, swashbuckling cocktail. Porco Rosso (Italian for Red Pig), real name, Marco Pagot is an ex-Italian World War I fighter pilot turned bounty hunter in the Adriatic Sea. Porco is a Bogartian figure with his cool detachment, political apathy and romantic distance, but his most significant character trait is that derived from his physical appearance. Porco has had a curse put upon him turning him into, well, an anthropomorphic pig. Why is the film’s protagonist a pig? The two most apparent interpretations being firstly a reference to the saying “when pigs fly” and the cultural perception in the west (as well as in faiths such as Judaism and Islam) of pigs being dirty animals (keeping in mind the film is set in a western country). A common reading is that Porco put the spell upon himself out of survivor’s guilt when the rest of his comrades died in battle. He views himself as swine – self-loathing and unworthy of living. It’s only through the validation and the friendship he shares with the character of Fio that comes to cure him of this affliction. How someone possesses the supernatural ability to turn into an anthropomorphic animal is never explained nor does anyone in this world question why there is a walking-talking hog existing among humans. Still, the film has enough going for it to overcome this suspension of disbelief (Porco is even a hit with the ladies despite his appearance so I guess looks aren’t everything). The film’s ending indicates the curse may have been lifted but ultimately leaves the question unanswered. 

Porco Rosso is one of the few films directed by Hayao Miyazaki in which the historical and geographical setting is clearly defined and gives the director a chance to indulge in his Europhilia with the film’s picture postcard scenes of Italy and the Adriatic Sea. Academic Chris Wood states in his article “The European Fantasy Space and Identity Construction In Porco Rosso” that the film can be understood as a representation of wakon yōsai (Japanese spirit, western learning) – a tendency, since the Meiji period, for Japanese artists to paint Europe in a spectacular manner, while simultaneously maintaining the distance necessary to preserve a distinct sense of Japanese identity. Chris Wood states, “[In Porco Rosso] Europe is tamed, rendered as a charming site of pleasurable consumption, made distant and viewed through a tourist gaze“. So yes, Hayao Miyazaki is a European otaku. If there is a scene in the movie which captures this beautifully then it has to be the flashback to a young Porco (or Marco as he would have been known before his curse) and his longtime friend Gina lifting an early seaplane into the air in this display of pure unabashed nostalgia which captures the human desire to fly (thanks in large part of the enchanting music score by Joe Hisaishi). Likewise, one of the film’s most striking scenes has to be the flashback to Porco’s near-death experience and the origin of his curse. In this otherworldly sequence following a battle near the end of the war, Porco found himself in what the film describes as cloud prairie (I can’t find any reference to this term outside the movie), in which fighter planes from other nations rise above him into the sky as if there are entering heaven. The scene has similar vibes to the stairway to heaven from Powell & Pressburger’s A Matter of Life And Death while the use of synthesizers in the music score really makes it all the more captivating and eerie.

Porco Rosso is set during the final days of the roaring twenties and upon the onset of the Great Depression (“Farewell to the days of fun and freedom in the Adriatic”). The film’s setting also partakes in alternative history in which the wider Mediterranean Sea is beset with air pirates (albeit highly incompetent air pirates as reflected in their comical, circus-like theme music). From a romantic point of view it’s sad to say that air pirates are not real bar one incident in 1917 in which a civilian Norwegian schooner named Royal was boarded and captured by a party flying a German Zeppelin L23 – is the closest we’ve ever come to having steampunk fantasy become reality? As far as coinciding with actual history, Porco Rosso takes place during the days of Mussolini’s Italy as marchers in the street wave blue & green flags with bankers wearing the same design as armbands (this flag itself is fictional and was never an actual historical Italian flag). Porco is put under pressure from a former WWI comrade to join the state’s military to which he responds with the line “Better a pig than a fascist”. More sinister is the scene in which Porco pays off a loan at the bank and the teller asks him if he will invest in a patriot bond which of course, is only voluntary (wink wink). Despite its backdrop, Porco Rosso remains a largely apolitical film but if anything it shows that even under authoritarianism, life goes on.

The semi-love interest of Porco Rosso comes in the form of the pure feminine grace that is Madame Gina, of whom every flyer in the Adriatic is in love with as Fio claims. A longtime friend of Porco and his now deceased comrades, the film presents her as being “one of the guys” while not sacrificing any of her womanly demeanour. She will quickly run to a boat in a feminine stride but will make an epic and lengthy jump off the boat back onto the pier if required. Gina will dress to exemplance, even when in private and I do have to question if any particular Golden Age Hollywood actress is modeled after her? I am getting Mary Astor vibes myself. Gina occupies the island hotel known as the Hotel Adriano although it’s not made clear in the original Japanese version if she actually owns the establishment however, in the English dub, she refers to the place as “My restaurant” and the private garden as “my garden”. Regardless, the establishment is where all the hotshot flyboys of the Adriatic hang out where they kick back, relax and listen to Gina sing songs of lovers long lost. Like Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca, there is an unwritten truce between all men. In the clouds, you may be enemies but at Gina’s place, everyone is your buddy. In her introductory scene, Gina shows little emotion in relation to having been told the news earlier in the day that her third husband had died in a flying accident, which as seen in films like Only Angels With Wings, was the norm in the early days of aviation. Porco and Gina share a “beauty and the beast” romance in which they never verbalise their feelings towards each other but you can tell there is a deep affection between the two. The other major female presence in Porco Rosso is the young Fio Piccolo, the counterbalance to Porco’s bleakness (and whose grandfather appears to be related to Hans Moleman). Porco doesn’t trust her to design him a new plane due to her being young and a girl says she understands this and doesn’t take offence. Rather Fio is aware that she needs to prove herself to him instead of just dismissing him as a sexist, well, pig (“Forgive my sins of using women’s hands to build a warplane”). However, it is somewhat odd the film concludes with narration from Fio’s point of view when this never happened at any other point in the film.

Porco Rosso does have one of the better Studio Ghibli English dubs, especially with the casting of Michael Keaton as the titular swine whose voice talents perfectly capture the world-weary cynicism of the character. I also enjoy Brad Garrett as the dopey pirate Capo while the announcer aboard the cruise liner as its being attacked by pirates adds some great deadpan humour to the proceedings. The sound mix of the dub is inferior when compared to the original while the lack of any reverb on the voices during the flying sequences is slightly jarring. Gina’s cover of the French song Le Temps Des Cerises is also re-recorded although there was no need to do so and I do consider the vocal performance on the original to be superior. Be that as it may, it’s Cary Ellwes’ southern drawl for the Errol Flynn-esque Donald Curtis which really add extra character to the dubbed version (in the Japanese version he is from Alabama whereas in the dub it mentions he is from Texas). The quasi villain of the picture, Curtis is a Hollywood actor who on his down time like Frank Sinatra, appears to converse with outlaws, while his delusions of grandeur thinking he will become President Of The United States with Madame Gina as his First Lady does make him somewhat endearing. Curtis does attempt to kill Porco by taking out his plane only to later discover his attempt was unsuccessful, eventually leading to the picture’s finale in which the two men sort out their differences through some mono e mono (in which Porco doesn’t even remove his glasses). I understand the psychological aspect of men making amends and even becoming friends after engaging in hand-to-hand combat, but Curtis did literally try to murder Porco earlier in the film, but I digress. Porco Rosso is another breed of artistic excellence from Studio Ghibli, you uncultured swine.

From Up On Poppy Hill [Kokuriko-zaka Kara] (2011)

Close Knit Family

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Opening a film in which the protagonist is seen getting out of bed and going about their morning routine is one of the most cliché ways of beginning a story (i.e, every student film ever), but From Up On Poppy Hill is so utterly likeable that I don’t care. Set in Japan’s port city of Yokohama circa 1963, the romantic, seaside setting really amps the film’s likeability with the accompanying nostalgic soundtrack being a pure delight from the opening ragtime theme to the Nina Rota style compositions as well as the use of Kyu Sakamoto’s Ue o Muite Arukō (known in the US as Sukiyaki in which it charted at number 1 in 1963). With a script from Miyazaki Sr and directed by Miyazaki Jr, From Up On Poppy Hill is structured like a melodrama with its use of dramatic flashbacks and the common melodramatic trope of a maritime setting. At one point the picture even makes reference to its melodramatic state (“It’s like some cheap melodrama”).

Umi Matsuzaki is the eldest child in her family and has responsibility thrust upon her following her father’s death and her mother’s departure to study abroad resulting in her making everyone’s meals, keeping fiancés in check and raising maritime signal flags every morning. The selfless and humble nature of a character like this could easily come off as aggrandizing but rather the character of Umi does come off as somewhat inspirational with her ability to bring out the best in those around her, earning her the title of “Goddess of good luck”. Umi develops feelings for fellow student Shun Kazama, however, Shun ends up discovering as a result of post-war circumstances, that Umi is actually his sister (although this turns out not to be the case come the film’s end). The two are forced to continue as only friends although it’s evident they are trying to retrain their feelings for each other. This culminates in a scene by a bus stop in which Umi states “I’m in love with you Shun. Even if we’re related, even if you’re my brother, my feelings will never change” to which Shun responds “I feel the same about you”. There is historic precedence for this as From Up On Poppy Hill is set at the time following the war in which young couples in Japan couldn’t be too sure that they were not related in some way but it doesn’t change the fact that the scene is an absolutely jaw-dropping moment. The scene is played out to be romantic and perhaps the movie could have dealt with the subject matter in a different manner as opposed to upping the swoon factor over an incestuous relationship but I digress.

The other major plot point present in From Up On Poppy Hill regards the theme of traditionalism vs modernism as the students of the local high-school try to save their clubhouse known as The Latin Quarter which is set to be demolished and replaced with a new building ahead of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The Latin Quarter in its old state is a massive, creaky building with so much character contained within its walls in which every inch is in use – as a viewer I did become invested in its conservation. At a demolition meeting, Shun runs onto the stage like Elmer Gantry and declares “There’s no future for people who worship the future and forget the past”. Unintentionally prescient with this theme is that come the turn of the decade when From Up On Poppy Hill was released, the west had entirely done away with traditional animation on the big screen (bar a few pockets), whereas Japan has so far never let it go. Correspondingly, it is wholesome just how passionate these students are about learning (in particular the overly enthusiastic philosophy-loving giant) with The Latin Quarter having a club for just about every intellectual pursuit. Compare this to any American film set in a frat house where anarchy, mischief and mayhem are the name of the game. Alongside Umi and the responsibility thrust upon her, all these kids are more than ready for adulthood. I for one welcome our new oriental overlords.

Speaking of references to other pictures, in one of the film’s establishing shots, a single factory chimney is shown emitting Pink smoke whereas the others emit regular smoke. Anyone who has seen Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low will understand this possible reference, keeping in mind the Kurosawa picture is also set in Yokohama and was released in 1963 (so I can assume both these movies unofficially take place in the same universe). Likewise, when Umi sees her mother’s red slippers as an indication that she has returned home after months away, is this a nod to The Wizard Of Oz and its famous line “There’s no place like home”?

If there is one great standout supporting character in From Up On Poppy Hill has to be the high school’s chairman Chief Director Tokumaru, a total chad with his rough, gravely voice, larger-than-life figure, flawless posture and upbeat personality. He is not at all a typical, slimy bureaucrat and understands the kids on their level and is sympathetic to their cause. When the kids go to visit his office in Tokyo, he asks Umi in the past tense “what did your father do?”. There is no indication that he knew the kids beforehand and seems to instinctively know her father was dead. Having a figure like this in a position of power probably explains how the students were able to infiltrate the Ikiru level bureaucracy to save The Latin Quarter.  

Whisper Of The Heart [Mimi o Sumaseba] (1995)

I Don’t Think There’s Any Artist Of Any Value Who Doesn’t Doubt What They Are Doing

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Whisper Of The Heart is Studio Ghibli’s love letter to creatives and a picture which contains great insight into the uncertainty derived from growing up and the role of education in this nostalgic coming-of-age tale. Fourteen-year-old Shizuku Tsukishima is the cheerful and infectiously optimistic protagonist of the story. She manages to find the joy in the mundanity of everyday life from something as simple as the sun coming out to seeing a positive message on the side of a blimp. Just observe the pure joy she gets from finding a quirky antiques store in a suburb (perhaps a bit too much as she nearly gets hit by a car while running across the road and never realizes it). The eccentricity of Japan is even on subtle display from the fact that a pork pie hat can be worn in common parlance and a girl can pursue a chonky cat for quite some distance just for the fun of it. It’s this aspect of Whisper Of The Heart which really makes you want to cherish life’s little moments.

Whisper Of The Heart is set over the course of 1994 (as indicated by Shizuku’s calendar), with a number of subtle indications for the passing of time throughout the film. The most noticeable of these being the seasonal variation of Shizuku’s school uniform with a white top for spring/summer and a navy-blue alternative for fall/winter. The initial catalyst of the story is set into motion when Shizuku’s father informs her that the local library is going through a transition from the old-fashioned book card system to a barcode system, much to her disappointment (I can recall my local library still using book cards in the early 2010’s). Goddammit modernity, sometimes the old ways are just better! It’s this tradition which ignites the film’s romance as Shizuku notices someone by the name of Seiji Amasawa has been taking out all the same books as her in this variation on The Shop Around The Corner formula re-imagined for the 1990’s. Shizuku and Seiji themselves aren’t too dissimilar to Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan in Ernst Lubitsch’s 1940 romantic comedy with Seiji’s initially jerky behaviour and Shizuku’s bookworm personality (unfortunately, when I was off this age any expression of a desire to read was social suicide – sad but true). 

As is a common recurrence in Studio Ghibli’s films, Whisper Of The Heart is the story of a young, teenage girl forced into a position of maturity (it does make sense that the female sex tends to be the focus of these stories as research has shown that girls on average mature faster than boys). One major interlocked aspect of Whisper Of The Heart is the classic conflict of education vs. hands-on/real-world experience. Shizuku is attending middle school (aka junior high school) and is studying for her high-school entrance exams. Her love interest Seiji on-the-other-hand opts to attend a trade school in Cremona, Italy to further learn the craft of making violins rather than attend high school, much against his parent’s wishes (high school is not compulsory in Japan). This disapproval highlights the lack of respect one can entail for a practical hands-on profession over a more middle-class, so-called “real job”. Part of Shizuku’s impetus to embark on her writing of a novel comes from the insecurity that Seiji is far more developed in his own art form. Her focus on writing begins to affect her school grades, feeling that her need to write a first draft of her novel within two months before Seiji returns from Italy is more important than her school grades. Unlike Seiji, Shizuku doesn’t know what she wants to do with her future. She asks her older sister Shiho when she decided on her future, to which she responds with the dubious answer, “I’m at university finding that out”. This quote is particularly prevalent from a UK-centric point-of-view, when official figures state in the year 2017/18, 50.2 per cent of English 17-30-year-olds had participated in higher education, 20 years after the New Labour government set the target of having 50% of young people attend university (with these degrees often being of a useless nature and provide no stepping stone to a future career). From a personal point of view, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life when I was 14 and it’s self-evident very few people of that age either have any idea. Seiji’s oddball choice of profession as a violin maker is an appropriate one at the end of the day as his character is an outlier of a person in their teens who has a definitive idea of what they want to do with their life. The film doesn’t take a position on the question on the role of higher education but does raise many a thought-provoking point as to its effectiveness. Come the film’s end, Shizuku returns to studying for her entrance exams. I can however relate to Shizuku’s unwillingness and nervous disposition to tell the rest of her family about her writing project even though they are aware something is occupying her time, to which her understanding parents sympathize and don’t question her on it any further.

Seiji’s grandfather and owner of the antiques store Shiro explains how artists or writers develop and grow in their talents with a simple metaphor – “The rough stone is inside you. You have to find it and then polish it”. Shizuku holds intense self-doubt about her work, disagreeing with anyone when they praise her work. This intensely self-critical manner and strive for perfection overtakes her and leads to overpowering anxiety when she shows Shiro the first draft of her novel. To quote filmmaker Francis Ford Coppola, “I don’t think there’s any artist of any value who doesn’t doubt what they are doing.” – It’s this which really drives at the heart of Whisper Of The Heart. The picture showcases the highs and the lows that can be endured by creatives and parallels between the feeling of falling in love and the thrill that comes with creative pursuits. That scene in which a band has an impromptu performance of Country Roads as Shizuku sings her little heart out and gradually falls for Seiji (still unaware he is the boy on her book cards) combines these elements in a wonderfully corny scene. Whisper Of The Heart does hold parallels to fellow Ghibli film Kiki’s Delivery Service with protagonists succumbing to stress, burnout and depression (also is Shizuku’s older sister a recycled character model of Ursula?). Whisper Of The Heart is after all set in a country in which death by overwork is so tragically common that it even has a name – Karoshi (“You doctor yet? No Dad I’m 12. Talk to me when you doctor!”). The ultimate irony of this is that the Whisper Of The Heart’s director Yoshifumi Kondo would pass away 3 years following the film’s release from an aneurysm brought on by overwork. Whisper Of The Heart would be his only directorial feature, with Kondo joining the likes of Charles Laughton or Walter Murch as directors who have helmed only a single film, but what a film it would be.

My first viewing of Whisper Of The Heart was somewhat marred by the film’s misleading (albeit still beautiful) poster, giving me the false assumption that Whisper Of The Heart was going to be a fantasy film in the vein of a picture like Labyrinth. This lead me to wonder when this non-existent fantasy element was going to kick in during the film’s first third, only to then realize it wasn’t that kind of film. The fantasy sequence inside Shizuku’s head which inspired the poster in which Shizuku and an anthropomorphic cat known as The Baron fly Superman ’78 style is a beautiful combination of fantasy and reality as those giant pillars (which do remind me of the backgrounds in Super Mario World) raise high into the sky above the suburbs of Shizuku’s world of West Tokyo. It’s easy to sound like a broken record when talking about the aesthetics of Studio Ghibli’s films, but god, this film is just so beautiful to look at it puts a smile on my face from the eye-popping colour of suburban Tokyo to those urban night-time landscapes. Even the film’s more mundane subjects such as the apartment block in which the Tsukishima family resides would be ugly in real life but has a certain beauty to it in the animated form. Correspondingly, the music score by Yuji Nomi is one of great variety from the whimsical nature of A Hilly Town to the Aussie outback vibe from The Cat Chases and even medieval-themed compositions with the track Engelszimmer. These pieces of orchestrated beauty make for a welcome contrast with the film’s urban setting however the film does also provide some more in-tune accompaniments to the Tokyo landscape with its use of electronic sounds and synthesizers as heard in Taking The Train and Starry Night Sky. Furthermore, I can’t help but notice similarities between the track A Hilly Town and the piece In The Evening Midst from the oddball, Japanese horror movie House, while these two aforementioned pieces of music surely must have influenced Michael Giacchino’s piece Married Life from Pixar’s Up (is it just me or do these three pieces of music work extremely well when listened to in tandem?). Whisper Of The Heart is also a rare instance of Ghibli film to feature licensed music with its recurring use of variations with John Denver’s Country Roads, including a real humdinger of a cover during the film’s end credits in which it is given the city-pop treatment. Correspondingly, like many a Japanese film, the always reliable sound of cicadas increases the atmosphere of anything tenfold.

Whisper Of The Heart concludes with a very sudden marriage proposal from Seiji to Shizuku. In the original manga from which the film is adapted, Seiji only says “I love you” but the film’s screenwriter Hayao Miyazaki changed the line to “I can’t say how soon it’ll be, but would you marry me?“. To quote the big man himself in defending this position – “I wanted to make a conclusion, a definite sense of ending. Too many young people now are afraid of commitment, and stay on moratorium forever. I wanted these two to just commit to something, not just ‘well, we’ll see what will happen”. Putting aside the oddity of receiving and accepting a marriage proposal when neither are of legal marrying age, I do agree this sense of commitment coming from these characters gives the film’s conclusion greater emotional weight (although I will say the film ends very abruptly and could have done with a few seconds to let the viewer take it all in). The Japanese and English dubs have different lines of dialogue in this final scene. In the Japanese version, Seiji makes the aforementioned proposal to which Shizuku nods and Seiji asks if she’s sure to which she replies “That’s exactly what I wanted.” However, in the English dub, their discussion of marriage is more tenuous. Seiji asks, “Could you see us getting married someday?” to which Shizuku nods and they agree that his question was corny. It feels like those responsible for the picture’s English dub had a lack of faith in the source material and outright disrespected it with said changes. Regardless, I am a sucker for a good story of hopeless romantics and this impulsive love present in the original Japanese version of Whisper Of The Heart defiantly delivers on the desired level of swooning.

Castle In The Sky [Tenkū no Shiro Rapyuta/Laputa: Castle In The Sky] (1986)

Just The Two Of Us, Building Castles In The Sky

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Castle In The Sky is one of those films upon a first-time viewing, it’s easily apparent how much of its fingerprints are over so much media that proceeded it in this Jules Vernesque, steampunk adventure. The heroes’ journey, chase movie follows youthful protagonists Pazu & Sheeta as they embark on the search for Laputa, a floating Tower of Babel of which the surface has the appearance of a deserted Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Little information is given about the history of Laputa, with the viewer given the task of filling in the blanks.

Castle In The Sky is littered with moments of pure wonderment and melancholy from scenes such as a cave being turned into a makeshift planetarium with the use of the element volucite (a fictional element sadly) to the sense of awe upon the arrival to Laputa itself. There is something about the blue skies in Studio Ghibli’s films which is endlessly beautiful to look at while the lighting present in the animation provides much visual stimulus (although I would just say the contrast with Sheeta’s pirate outfit between light and dark is too drastic). The physicality and sense of space the animators are able to convey as well as the suspense created in the film’s action sequences through the medium really is a remarkable feat. Correspondingly, a Ghibli film ain’t a Ghibli film without a rich and melodious score, especially courtesy of Joe Hisaishi. The main theme of the picture itself balances a line between its dark, mischievous yet optimistic tone. Some of my favourite highlights include Morning In Slag Ravine which is the ideal accompaniment to any morning sunrise to that piece which plays as Sheeta slowly Ancient Aliens herself from the sky is one catchy ditty. Likewise, the Celtic-sounding Memories of Gondoa conjures visions of the rural landscape of the British Isles and appropriately is used as Sheeta tends to cattle resembling that of the Scottish highlands. 

Pazu resides and works in a fantasy version of a Welsh mining town and I do have to ask was John Ford’s How Green Was My Valley used as a visual pretext for the film? Hayao Miyazki visited a Welsh mining town a year prior to the film’s release and in he appears to pay tribute to them in the film when Pazu utters the line, “Miners aren’t exactly wimps”. Ah Pazu & Sheeta, one true pairing if there ever was one. It is remarkable how attached one becomes towards this duo and their shared chemistry which is able to be portrayed through the medium of animation (take a sip every time Pazu screams “Sheeeeeta!”). No full-on romance ever develops between the two nor do they ever kiss but small displays of affection are present in this young love. In the sweetest scene in the film, Pazu & Sheeta are atop the pirate’s airship at night as Pazu gives reassurances to Sheeta that all will be fine, all while the pirate captain Dola unintentionally hears their endearingly innocent conversation.

As is recurring in Miyazaki’s films, Castle In The Sky showcases the innocence of youth and having minors overcome obstacles which force them into maturity. Like In Kiki’s Delivery Service, the young protagonists are thrust into positions of adult reasonability. Pazu lives by himself and works a full-time job (literally a minor-miner) while Sheeta is left to run her parent’s estate after their passing and it’s later revealed she has the responsibility of being part of the Laputa royal family. Furthermore, during the sequence as the military base is going up in flames, the absolute trauma in the face and voice of Sheeta is intense (although the duo later show no fear walking and even celebrating on platforms with drops in which they could fall to their deaths). I do believe the medium of anime is the best at portraying this sense of innocence and vulnerability due to the hallmarks of anime character design with those big wide eyes, the almond face shapes and the head-to-body ratio. This is where the English dub by Disney really falls short, James Van Der Beek and Anna Paquin sound far too mature for Pazu & Sheeta. Not only do their voices not match their clearly pre-pubescent appearance, but it also takes always from their characters and doesn’t replace it with an alternative that has any merit on its own (as was the case with Jiji in the Disney dub of Kiki’s Delivery Service). This is a shame as Mark Hamill and Cloris Leachman are fantastic in their respective roles but the casting of the children makes this dub hard listening.

Castle In The Sky is a rare instance of Studio Ghibli film with an outright villain in the form of “that pencil pushing upstart” Colonel Muska. The man is one dapper gentleman but I never can brush off the creepy, groomer vibes when he tries to bribe Sheeta with fancy clothes. The other major foe in Castle In The Sky is none other than the government of this fictional land, and what better way to portray an overbearing, authoritarian government than by turning them into ze Germans of course, you vill eat ze boogs and vill like it! Furthermore, the appearance of firearms and ammunition in children’s animation is a shock to the western viewer rather than a fantasy Star Wars-style blaster. Once adjusted to this reality it is far more preferable rather than having them digitally altered into walkie-talkies. Then there are the bay guys turned good mid-film with the Marty Feldman look-a-like Dola and her band of pirates. The film doesn’t make it clear if Dola is the biological mother of her crew or mother in spirit but either way, their dynamic is like a more endearing version of Mom and her three sons from Futurama. Dola herself is really made an interesting character by her belief in traditional gender roles despite being a model of non-conformity herself. Despite wearing the pants, she insists Sheeta be ladylike and holds concern for Pazu’s lack of masculinity following his initial surrender when trying to rescue Sheeta.

I’ve read accounts that Castle In The Sky aired on UK television channel ITV 1 on Christmas Day 1989, with other accounts stating various surrounding dates including Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve of 1988. Either way, it’s remarkable that Castle In The Sky was able to make it to the west so quickly back then and odd by the way of a one-off TV airing. I’ve tried to find recordings or promotion material for this broadcast but have come up empty-handed – hopefully, someone can close a chapter on this lost media mystery.

Kiki’s Delivery Service [Majo no Takkyūbin] (1989)

Someone Left The Cake Out In The Rain

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

For a country which reportedly has one of the world’s highest stress rates (and perhaps as a result), Japan has produced some of the screen’s most tranquil and relaxing viewing experiences, whether it’s the works of Yasujirō Ozu or Studio Ghibli. Kiki’s Delivery Service tells the story of a trainee witch travelling to a city and using her flying skills to start her own delivery service. Set in the fictional city of Koriko (or Corico as some sources spell it), an urban dwelling inspired by Stockholm and the small Swedish town of Visby which is given no real-world area however the geographical layout of the city within the film feels incredibly well defined (bring on the Kiki’s Delivery Service open-world video game). Director Hayao Miyazaki is quoted as having said “Kokiro has one side on the shores of the Mediterranean, and the other on the Baltic Sea [laughs]”. Correspondingly, Miyazaki states Kiki’s Delivery Service takes place in an alternative 1950s Europe in which both world wars never happened and this rejection of modernity is a constant theme throughout Studio Ghibli’s output. It’s easy to lose yourself in the world within Kiki’s Delivery Service with its classical European architecture, cobblestone streets and houses equipped with traditional ovens. During the film’s opening, Kiki wants to leave her tiny village in the countryside for the city, yet to the viewer, this place is heaven on Earth with its green fields, bright blue skies and cosy cottages. The accompanying music score by Joe Hisaishi features many moments of joyful bliss with a mix of classical European, vaudevillian and ragtime music. On A Clear Day radiates that feeling of a sunny day while the piece which plays as Kiki arrives in her newfound hometown titled A Town With An Ocean View is dark yet optimistic. My favourite piece is that played over the unveiling of painting featuring Kiki titled An Unusual Paining in which the dreamlike, new-age mystic piece leaves one with a sense of wonder.

Kiki’s Delivery Service is one of the best films about entrepreneurialism and the entrepreneurial spirit. The world of Kiki’s Delivery Service appears to be a libertarian paradise, a world which appears to be devoid of any business regulation (“Oi mate, you got a loicense to deliver that cake?”) in which children are driving cars, flying permits are not required for amateur aircraft, a minor can own a business, there is no mention of child labour laws nor any mention of Kiki continuing or ever having attended a school and a place in which you can invent flying machines without any apparent regulations – what Ayn Rand would describe as “full, pure, uncontrolled laissez-faire capitalism”. This lack of regulation or government oversight extends to the fact that Kiki leaves her home to be independent while still a minor at the age of 13. Her mother does mention “nobody leaves home that young anymore”, but aside from this, no concern is raised for a 13-year-old going off to live by herself nor any form of social services is present to get involved. Is this form of libertarianism and capitalism presented here ultimately a fantasy that would not work in real life with the presence of predatory big business (or am I over-analyzing a film for subtext that’s not there)? Miyazaki once stated about capitalism: “During the time I was trying to conclude Nausicaä , I did what some might think is a turnabout. I totally forsook Marxism. I decided it was wrong, that historical materialism is also wrong, and that I shouldn’t see things with it.” Only a few years following the release of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Miyazaki would craft fictional benevolent capitalists like the ever so loving and joyful Osono, the owner of the bakery Gütiokipänjä and a compassionate, benevolent landlady who showcases the human side of business (likewise, there’s something comic about the mere presence of Osono’s unnamed husband, the tall, buff, stoic figure who utters little more than a grunt). Kiki’s Delivery Service is a film which conveys the value of money as Kiki has to carefully budget what money she has after arriving in town, forcing herself to live off pancakes and work for her money while other kids her age spend their time procrastinating and driving cars. It’s moments like her visit to the grocery store and her sticker shock over the price of items which really makes the film so down to Earth.

The overall sweet, wholesome nature of Kiki’s Delivery Service makes my inner valley girl wants to proclaim, “like omg, cutest movie ever!!”. Everything about the titular heroine is unbearably cute from her facial expressions to her over the top reactions to even the slightest bit of good news and her occasional hyperactive nature. Kiki is seen as modern by the standards of her village yet old fashioned by the standards of the city. She struggles to fit in with the city’s children yet is able to engage with two elderly ladies thanks in part to her knowledge of how devices such as how a wood-burning oven works. Kiki is repulsed by how rude the children in the city act from the overly-inquisitive girl hunter Tombo to the ungrateful girl who receives the herring pie from her grandmother. This theme of maturity extends to the relationship Kiki shares with her cat Jiji. After she loses her powers which include the ability to speak to Jiji, it remains the one power she does not regain at the film’s conclusion. I do find it somewhat heartbreaking that Kiki never regains this ability but then again, speaking to a cat as if they’re human is in itself a rather childish thing to do and thus a sign of Kiki’s newfound maturity as she gets older. It does raise the question if Jiji could actually speak to Kiki in the first place or was it just in her mind? Yet in the English dub, Kiki restores her ability to speak to Jiji at the end, regardless Phil Hartman’s sarcastic Jiji makes the English dub worth watching.

So by all accounts, Kiki’s Delivery Service sounds like the most based, conservative, red-pilled, right-wing movie ever made espousing the values of tradition, power of the individual and the pick yourself up from the bootstraps mentality? Well not quite. Kiki is after all practising pagan witchcraft rather than being a good God-fearing Christian. Although in all seriousness, God is actually mentioned in both the dubbed version and the English subtitles of the original Japanese version in which Ursula states – “The spirit of witches. The spirit of artists. The Spirit of bakers! I suppose it must be a power given by God. Sometimes you suffer for it”. Although this is not the line in the original script and is a creation of the English subtitles the film still contains the ever slight reference to religion with Kiki flying past a Christian church in the opening credits. It’s not difficult to buy into the fantasy premise in which witches with supernatural abilities openly co-exist in society, and can even marry non-witches such as Kiki’s father (are her powers genetically passed down from her mother?). However these are not witches in the traditional sense, there are no devils, pentagrams or virgin sacrifices present in the film (Kiki’s mother is introduced creating a potion using modern science equipment). There does appear to be one dark side presented about these witches in which Jiji remarks “Crows used to be witches’ servants” to which Kiki angrily responds “That was a long time go, okay?” – make of that what you will. Also, while it is odd to bring up, I am forced to mention as it does come off as peculiar for the western viewer is the inclusion of many up-skirt shots throughout the film. It’s not sexual but no doubt will cause some monocles to fall into champagne glasses. That said, Miyazaki actually has a reasoning for this. On page 138 in The Art Of Kiki’s Delivery Service, he is quoted saying “It’s a rite of passage for her to fly over the city with her underwear exposed” – make of that what you will.

Despite lacking a villain within the story, Kiki’s Delivery Service does manage to set up a finale with an action set piece and one which utilizes Miyazaki’s love of aviation. Likewise, I do enjoy how Studio Ghibli’s films make the end credits a part of the movie-watching experience, something I wish more films would do general (Kiki’s continued use of a bassline broom after the destruction of her traditional witches’ broom is a nice touch). The aforementioned subplot of Kiki losing her powers immediately reminded me of the similar subplots in Superman II and Spider-Man 2. In all three films, the loss of powers comes from stress, burnout, the descent into depression and the inability to lead a normal life (granted Superman choose to give his powers up voluntarily but the comparison still holds). Kiki’s Delivery Service can be read as an allegory for modern young creatives trying to make it on their own with Kiki’s magic being used as a metaphor for artistic expression whether it’s attempting to become a YouTuber or trying to run a successful movie review blog (wink, wink) and attempting to accompany this into a work-life balance. The other character who reflects the passion for a creative to turn their passion into a job is the painter Ursula. She speaks of how her pursuit of painting is what gets rid of her frustrations and her remedy for the loss of creativity involves “Take[ing] long walks, look at the scenery, doze off at noon. Don’t do a single thing” – and yes, on a personal level this I can relate to. Kiki’s Delivery Service is as fine a tribute to the creative and entrepreneurial spirit and regardless of your passion, “Sometimes you suffer for it”.

Ocean Waves [I Can Hear The Sea/Umi ga Kikoeru] (1993)

Youth Is Wasted On The Young

***This Review Contains Spoilers***

Ocean Waves is a real unsung gem of the Studio Ghibli library, with this made-for-TV film running at a very digestible and economical length of 72 minutes. Ocean Waves tells the story of Taku Morisaki (Nobuo Tobita), a high school student in a provincial town in the Kochi prefecture whose world is turned upside by a transfer student from Tokyo named Rikako Muto (Yōko Sakamoto). I’ve read many comments and reviews that express a strong dislike for this character usually reserved for the likes of Scarlet O’Hara and it’s not hard to see why – she is spoiled, manipulative, selfish and rude. The city girl thinks herself superior to the provincial folk in the town she has been incarcerated in and even says at one point she hates the area and guys who speak with a Kochi dialect. Rikako gives no acknowledgement for all the trouble she puts Taku through from lending her money, finding himself escorting her to Tokyo at the last minute and being forced to sleep in a hotel bathtub (some men will have the patience of a saint when it comes to a pretty girl). The will they/won’t they story becomes increasingly unlikely as the relationship between the two deteriorates so bad that they end up slapping each other in public, while in another incident soon afterwards Rikako gives Taku another powerful slap for no good reason in an excellent piece of animation as the beautiful young woman suddenly appears so unattractive. Yet as a viewer I can feel sorry for her as her parents are divorced and she has been forced to move with her mother (of whom she resents) to another town against her will (and being on her period as she declares doesn’t help matters). Although I can understand for other viewers she remains unredeemable.

Ocean Waves is also a love triangle story with Taku’s best friend Matsuno Yutaka (Toshihiko Seki) also being in the pursuit of Rikako. The film hints there may be a homosexual attraction between Taku and Matsuno. In the scene in which the two meet for the first time, Taku narrates “Since then, in my mind, Matsuno was different from the others” – a possible dog whistle that the two are friends of Dorothy not to mention the scene is very romantic in nature but it’s ultimately left ambiguous. Regardless their bromance serves as another great relationship dynamic. This slice of life anime is full of those relatable high-school moments which make you go “oh yeah, I remember going through a moment like that”.

The animation present in Ocean Waves is not to the quality of Ghibli’s theatrical films, but for a TV production, it still looks great despite a few technical issues. Several background characters appear as mannequins with no face but more significantly, the film does have some framing issues. I am unable to discover if Ocean Waves was created in the 4:3 or 16:9 aspect ratio. Being a made-for-TV production from the early 90’s I would imagine it was created in the former but I can only find copies presenting it in 16:9 of which the vast majority of the film looks perfectly fine however a number of shots do appear as if a 4:3 product has been zoomed in to fill a 16:9 screen with character’s heads being unnaturally cut off. Likewise, the film does contain some dodgy edits and several scenes have white borders running around the screen of which I fail to see their purpose. That said, such technical quirks are made up for the fact that Ocean Waves is a visually beautiful piece of work featuring many a lovely Ozu style pillow shot. Animation of real-life (for lack of a better term) is something rarely seen in the west (King Of The Hill being the most well-known example and yes, my favourite anime), a shame as it provides an opportunity to create a beautiful Technicolor-like look. Concurrently, the music score by Shigeru Nagata is an underrated work of melancholic wonder. With a main theme that is somewhat reminiscent of Dave Grusin’s score for On Golden Pond, the serene, nostalgic score is the kind that makes you want to reminiscence on days gone by (where music is absent the ever atmospheric sound of cicadas fills in).

At its heart, Ocean Waves is about the complexity of human relationships and the growing pains they endure. During their high school tenure, Taku and Matsuno violently fall out over Rikako but reunite post-graduation, showing how grievance during one’s school years becomes irrelevant later in life. During the reunion party, the characters speak of how everything seemed like a big deal in high school, but post-graduation they have come to realise they were getting upset over matters which were ultimately insignificant in the years to come.  They even speak of affection for Rikako who didn’t attend the reunion, despite how snobbish and stuck up she was. Taku even looks up at a castle in the night and remembers all the times Rikako complained and ranted to him with a smile on his face accompanied by the film’s beautiful score. Ocean Waves concludes with one of Cinema’s most enduring love story tropes, as the unlikely couple find themselves reunited by chance at a train station – an ending that encapsulates pure cathartic, romantic joy.