Ukiyo. Mizu shobai. The floating world. The name means something; the
entertainment industry of Japan constructs a simpler, more pleasurable world
separate from responsibility. Yet,
although the floating world seeks to escape greater Japan, its very existence comments
on the social structure; the need to escape implies flaws and imperfections. Capitalizing on this and the ubiquitous
nature of entertainment, many artists comment on social issues in their work,
often turning the mechanisms of the floating world upon itself.
Identity
is among most prevalent debates in art today, and this question, in turn, may
be broken in several parts. National
identity and self-identity are two such parts. In both cases, the artists ask how identity is affected by
technology and consumerism.
Although none deny the benefits of modernity—all of these artists are
working with computers and modern communications—many of them see a corrosive
influence as well, in which consumer culture and technology are overwriting
social and cultural interactions without meaningful replacement.
Japanese
artists often question how technology and consumerism form modern
self-identity, particularly a modern tendency to define a person using external
measures such as possessions and achievements. This question struck me during the Japan trip, when Takako-san
described “parasite singles” and post-retirement life. In the case of parasite singles,
children return home after completing their education and, in many cases,
either retreat from the world via technology or voraciously consume big-name
brand items. Nor is this tendency
unique to Japan; the song Gungdam Style,
for instance, refers to Korean women who structure their lives around buying
expensive drinks at the Gungdam Starbucks, and few nations are so addicted to
shopping as the U.S. of A. In a
sense, the ability to purchase these highly fashionable items defines the
person; men or women without these items appear less important than those with
them.
In a similar
vein, Takako-san’s description of Japanese businessmen indicates that these sarariiman define themselves according
to their work. For the sarariiman, work is life; it consumes so
much of each day that there is almost no time for hobbies or building a life
without the office. Come retirement,
these sarariimen do not know how to
live outside of work, so many either attach themselves to their wives or do
nothing at all.
As explained
above, in both the case of the single consumer and the sarariiman, external measures, such as possessions or work, become foundations
for self-identity. Although the
Japanese are not alone in this, their artists are some of the first to
seriously examine the consequences of this foundation. This question is asked in four ways:
When the external measure is removed, what remains? To what degree are these external measures replacing or
corrupting traditional, interior ones?
What are the consequences of diving too deep into these external, and
often illusory, measures of self?
For that matter, when these external, “illusory” measures become fundamental
parts of life, can we distinguish between what is “real” and what is “virtual”
anymore?
The classic
1990s anime Neon Genesis Evangelion
examines the first of these four questions. Although I will not attempt to summarize the plot or
character development in detail—I could easily write a paper on those subjects
alone—almost all of the main characters define themselves based on their
unusual ability to pilot the giant mechas known as EVA. Their role as EVA pilots, in short, became their
identities. Events soon challenge this
ability; the destructive power of EVA
shakes Shinji Ikari’s self-identification as a protector when he loses control,
and Shinji’s extraordinary skill as a pilot shatters Asuka Soryu’s self-esteem
when he surpasses her. Faced with
these challenges, these two characters fall into depression and retreat from
social interaction, unable to face the contradictions between their imagined
and real identities.
The internal
turmoil of these three pilots reaches a climax in the final two episodes, in
which they undergo internal dialogues and self-interrogations. During these interrogations, Shinji
admits that without EVA, he feels worthless. Indeed, when Shinji asks Genji Ikari, his father, why Genji
originally summoned Shinji to NERV, Genji replies “Because I have a use for
you.” The implication is clear: if
Shinji could not or would not pilot EVA,
his father wanted nothing to do with him.
The entire series, in a sense, becomes a tug-of-war between those who
value Shinji for his ability as a pilot and those who value him as a human
being. This conflict gives Shinji
the chance for self-identity, but finding that identity is not easy.
In similar
self-examinations, the other two pilots, Asuka Soryu and Ayanami Rei, confront
their lack of self-esteem in the final two episodes. By this time, Asuka’s ego is so deeply damaged by Shinji’s
superior skill as a pilot that she declares “I’m the junk…I’m worthless. No one needs a pilot who can’t control
her own EVA.” In order to recover an identity, Asuka
must confront the trauma that she has tried to hide using her achievements;
whether she overcomes this trauma is left unclear until the final few minutes
of the series.
The last pilot,
Ayanami Rei, arguably suffers the most severe emotional damage of all the
characters in the series.
Throughout Neon Genesis Evangelion,
she appears as a fundamentally egoless person; her identity revolves around her
role as an EVA pilot to such a degree that she has almost no other contact with
people. This begins to change when
Shinji and Asuka join her as pilots, for it is not until these other pilots
(particularly Shinji) display an attachment to her that she begins to see
herself as more than expendable. Her
self-interrogation shows this conflict; although she does not value herself,
Shinji’s attachment means that she is no longer expendable.
Through these
self-examinations, Neon Genesis
Evangelion shows that building an ego based on external achievements is
akin to building a castle on sand; such foundations easily crumble. Ultimately, these pilots overcome their
lack of identity, but in order to do so they must confront their personal
wounds and build an identity separate from their roles and achievements as
pilots. Doing so is not easy, and
requires painful truths, but ultimately the reward seems worth the pain.
With
regards to the second question, Hayao Miyazaki’s Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi searches for a Japanese social
identity in relation to globalization and consumerism. In this work, Miyazaki takes Chihiro, a
typical Japanese schoolgirl in a (presumably) normal Japanese family, and
places her in a fantastic, almost carnival world populated by Shinto-Buddhist
spirits. In this world, Chihiro
cannot depend on technology or possessions; she must work to survive and maintain
her identity based on personal strength and friendships. Notably, the characters that depend on
technology and consumption prove unable to survive intact in Miyazaki’s vision
of the Japanese carnival.
Throughout
Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi,
consumerism becomes a steadily less attractive lifestyle. Chihiro’s parents provide the first
example; their heavy dependence on money and technology first brings them to
the spirit realm, and then lets them forget etiquette in their desire to
eat. Their transformation into
pigs represents the ultimate consumer; they exist only to sleep and devour,
regardless of need.
Most
of the film occurs in the spirit bathhouse, which has a complex relationship
with consumer culture. On the one
hand, the bathhouse depends on consumption for its survival; greed motivates
most workers, and the guests pay (and presumably pay well) for the right to
bathe, eat, sleep, and purify. On
the other hand, the bathhouse exists to purify the guests, and there is a
constant suggestion that unbridled consumption might compromise the very
purpose of the bathhouse. Too much
consumption inevitably leads to waste, and waste is almost universally
considered impure. The
purification of the River God midway through the movie most dramatically
demonstrates this; the detritus of consumer culture has so contaminated the
river that he appears as a Stink God, which necessarily contaminates the place
of his cleansing.
By far the
strongest condemnation of consumer culture comes when Noh-Face enters the
bathhouse. He first seems almost
like a ghost, incapable of speech and apparently invisible to bathhouse
workers. In a powerful, albeit
short, scene, Noh-Face appears at the end of the River God’s purification,
observing a small handful of the gold that the River God paid. In his next appearance, he has clearly
learned the value of money; whereas he was literally invisible to the workers
without gold, they cater to his every desire when offered gold. Yet, in a striking parallel with the
modern consumer, Noh-Face is never sated no matter how much he buys. Further, although he knows the force of
money, he clearly desires a more personal interaction with Chihiro, the only
character to show him attention and kindness absent the promise of money. In a scene both pathetic and touching,
he attempts to literally buy Chihiro’s friendship. The resulting interaction shows that he cannot buy
friendship, and this revelation, in a way, causes him to reject all his empty
consumption (which also contaminates the source of that consumption).
The
last third of Sen to Chihiro no
kamikakushi argues that consumerism cannot provide a genuine sense of
identity and satisfaction. In this
part of the film, Chihiro and two icons of bathhouse consumerism, Noh-Face and
Yubaba’s extraordinarily fat baby, are lured from the bathhouse to Zeneba’s simple,
rustic, but unconditionally welcoming home. Notably, both Noh-Face and Yubaba’s spoiled infant not only
mature, but even seem content in this environment. Even more notably, their contentment does not arise from consumption—there
is little enough in Zeneba’s home to consume. Instead, they find purpose in work, specifically in weaving
a gift for a common friend (Chihiro).
This work—which, notably, provides no promise of reward—gives Noh-Face
and Yubaba’s child a sense of purpose and maturity that consumption never
did. The message is clear enough;
consumption cannot provide a person with maturity, purpose, and
self-identity. Friendship, work,
and generosity can.
In
summary, Neon Genesis Evangelion and Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi argue that
the Japanese people must build an identity separate from the consumerism and rewards
that society offers. Both shows
demonstrate the dangers of using external measures to support one’s ego or
identity, and both argue that Japan uses such measures to define itself. However, Neon Genesis Evangelion and Sen
to Chihiro no kamikakushi contain the possibility of redemption, for in
both shows the major characters ultimately confront their flaws and construct a
robust self-identity. People—and,
by extension, nations—can build a genuine identity, but often it is neither
easy nor pleasant.
Of
course, the difficulty of building a genuine self-identity implies the danger
of diving so deep into the floating world that the person can no longer
escape. The logical extreme is the
hikikomori, a class that has
retreated from society and immerse themselves completely in a floating
world. The rise of the hikikomori and its spread to North
America and Europe has prompted several artists examine to examine the dangers
of diving deeply into a floating world, for after a time it is difficult to say
where reality ends and the floating world begins.
Perhaps
the most direct exploration of an immersion in a floating world is the 2002
anime .hack//SIGN, which is set in a
MMORPG called The World. This series follows a user of The World,
Tsukasa, after he becomes trapped in the game. Although the series as a whole moves slowly, Tsukasa
demonstrates extreme introversion in the first episode; indeed, the episode
closes with his statement “This [being trapped in The World] isn’t so bad. After all, this way I don’t have to
return to that absurd world [reality].”
By
the end of the first episode, hikikomori
and ukiyo symbolism already runs
rampant. Tsukasa’s use of the game
to escape reality reflects the hikikomori,
as does his loss of the ability, desire, and even memory of living outside the
floating world. The game’s very
name, The World, indicates the game’s
role as a second reality, in which players can posses a different
identity. For many players, such
as Tsukasa, the game becomes more compelling than the real world.
The
first half of .hack//SIGN can be
crudely characterized as Tsukasa’s attempt to minimize contact with the
external world. This extends to
the point that Tsukasa refuses to meet with other players who are trying to
help him escape The World. Entire scenes consist of alone in a
private space; in this “world within a world,” Tsukasa can finally achieve his
desire of escaping all interactions that might make him face his internal scars. Yet, ironically, Tuskasa’s attempt to
guard against the hedgehog’s dilemma only deepens his depression, until even
painful interactions become preferable to no interaction at all.
In
the last two-thirds of .hack//SIGN, Tsukasa
slowly connects with a group of other players that seek to free him from The
World. Yet this, too, has several
implications, for it is only in The World, a fundamentally artificial
existence, that Tsukasa and the other characters meet, interact, and learn to
trust each other. Most of the
major characters in .hack//SIGN are
physically or emotionally crippled in some way, such that The World becomes
their only significant method of social interaction. In a sense, The World is their world, and physical existence
only a shadow realm; even the artwork reflects this, with The World’s vivid
colors contrasting with the choppy, grey scenes of “reality.” The watcher is left to wonder whether
The World has eclipsed the world, and if so, which is more “real.”
Ultimately,
Tsukasa and his newfound friends decide to meet in the world after escaping the
game. Tsukasa’s declaration that
he wishes to leave indicates a newfound maturity and personal strength that he lacked
at the show’s start. Tsukasa’s
interaction with others, though painful at times, forces him to confront his
emotional trauma and construct an ego that can withstand the burdens of
reality. This contrasts with the
goal of Tuskasa’s floating world, which offers only the promise of forgetting
his emotional pain rather than moving past it. Tsukasa matures only by interacting with other people; his
retreat from society is but an escape from his problems, not an answer to them.
Serial Experiments: Lain, although
dealing with similar subject matter as .hack//SIGN,
has a much darker and more dangerous tone. Whereas .hack//SIGN
opens with the scene somewhat reminiscent of birth, Serial Experiments: Lain begins with a suicide. Where .hack//SIGN begins with a problem and works towards a solution, Serial Experiements: Lain begins with
normality and descends into madness.
Most notably, whereas .hack//SIGN
ultimately affirms the supremacy of reality over The World, Serial Experiments: Lain questions the
relationship and the very existence of reality relative to the information and
representations in The Wired.
Serial Experiments: Lain follows the
immersion of a pre-adolescent girl, Lain, into the world of the Wired, which is
a larger and more powerful version of the Internet. Although the story is difficult to follow, the notions of
reality and ego are chipped away throughout the show. Indeed, in the first episode Lain receives emails from an
apparently dead classmate, who states, “I’m not dead. I’ve simply left my body. I still exist.
Here. In The Wired.”
Serial Experiments: Lain continually
questions the need for a physical existence—or, indeed, even the reality of a
physical existence separate from The Wired. The apparent existence of Lain’s classmate even after
suicide is only the beginning; it soon becomes apparent that information in The
Wired reflects reality to such a degree that editing the information in The
Wired literally edits reality. For instance, as Lain becomes more
powerful in The Wired, she gains the ability to edit “real,” non-electronic
information. So complete is this ability
that she overwrites a disturbing rumor in her classmates’ memory; their
physical, mental memory, not their computers. This instantly calls into question what is “real” and what
is “virtual”; after all, what we perceive as “real” is ultimately only the
representation that our brain constructs from data inputs. This challenge grows stronger as the
series progresses, as “virtual” beings take on “real” forms and “virtual”
information overlaps with “reality.”
By the end of the series, the line between “real” and “virtual” has
blurred to such a degree that one cannot even say what constitutes a “real”
existence.
The
flip side of this coin is that, by midway through the series, one must ask
whether data in The Wired can fully describe a human being. Serial
Experiments: Lain strongly hints that it can; Lain’s classmate’s claim that
she still exists in The Wired requires that the data in the Wired represents
her ego completely. Similarly, as
Lain dives deeper into The Wired, her influence and existence become so tightly
linked to The Wired that she is able to directly upload data to and from
herself, to the point that it is suggested she is only a program with a
body. Yet ultimately, it seems
that The Wired cannot account for all the interactions and maturations that a
human ego must undergo. The Wired
cannot predict the effect that Lain’s closest friend has upon her, nor can data
in The Wired recreate a physical existence. In short, data cannot account for all the nuances of reality. A person may be able to abandon their
body to enter The Wired, once they have entered The Wired to that degree, they
cannot leave, nor can they change.
The last scene demonstrates this; several years after the events of Serial Experiments: Lain, Lain reappears
to her former friend in a body identical to that she possessed upon leaving the
world. She has not changed since
that time; reality, on the other hand, has moved on.
In
a strange twist, modernity has created a floating world so dramatic that it has
begun to intrude upon the “real” world.
As the floating world has grown in power and influence, it has begun to
question its own role in society; the very artists who use consumerism and
technology have begun to question how beneficial its effects are. Although the series mentioned here
generally declare the preeminence of reality over the floating world, the
questions that they raise remain relevant. How the modern world responds to these challenges thus
remains critically important. I
must wonder what changes will come as the floating world continues to grow.
