The artistic response to the devastation wrought by the Tohoku earthquake
and the ensuing tsunami and nuclear fallout at Fukushima over the past year has
been immense. The Yamagata International
Documentary festival was inundated
with documentaries addressing a wide range of responses to the events of
March 11, 2011. Some artists, such as TOCHKA
have become directly involved in the effort to restore a sense of normalcy to
the lives of the people of the region.
One of the most profound responses to the disaster is Isamu
Hirabayashi’s Noburo Ofuji Award winning animated short 663114 (2011). The environment and the problematic nature of
the relationship of human being to the environment has been a recurring theme
in Hirabayashi’s experimental films from the highly allusive piece A Story Constructed of 17 Pieces of Space
and 1 Maggot (2007) to the overtly political Conversations with Nature (2005).
The title looks like a code, but it is actually a collection of
significant numbers. The Fukushima
disaster occurred 66 years after the dropping of the atom bombs on Hiroshima
and Nagasaki. 3/11 marks the date of the
Tohoku earthquake and tsunami, and 4 are the number of reactors that were
damaged at Fukushima Daiichi.
On the surface, 663114, is
a simple, straightforward animation, but upon closer
examination one finds that it has as many layers as a tree has rings. An ancient cicada crawls slowly up a vertical
surface, which we learn through the first person narration is representative of
a tree. The tree’s surface is decorated
with inkan (印鑑), the familiar red stamps that are used in lieu of signatures in
Japan. The cicada tells us that he is 66
years old, born the film implies, at the time of the atom bomb.
In addition to being spoken aloud in a deep, guttural, masculine voice, the
narration also appears in shaky, black handwritten English:
Once every 66 years,
I emerge from the ground, leave offspring and die.
Before mating,
I shed my hard shell at the risk of my life.
Our ancestors have continued this cycle countless times.
The soil of this country is very fit for us to live in.
It is free of strong pesticides and there are no landmines.
The water is delicious so the sap is delicious as well.
I will climb as high as I can.
Aiming higher and higher.
It is our natural instinct.
To survive and leave offspring.
Since the moment of shedding skin is life risking.
We choose a tree that is tall, sturdy and won’t shake that much.
Our ancestors have continued this cycle countless times.
Through the various hardships.
Though slow, the cicada’s pace is steady and its movements repetitive. In contrast to the reassuring movements of
the cicada and its narration, the music and groaning voices of the soundtrack
create a growing sense of unease. Soon,
the cicada pauses and begins to moult. Just
when he is at his most vulnerable, moments after emerging from his skin, the
earthquake strikes. The vertical
surfaces representing the tree are thrown off kilter, and many of the red inkan stamps go flying.
The cicada, resilient creature that he is, has survived this initial
onslaught by clinging to his shed skin.
He says that he needs to stretch his wings as soon as possible, but
before he can do so the tsunami strikes.
Black waves resembling claws reach out towards the cicada and soon the
screen is awash with black undulating waves. The terror of the tsunami is expressed on the
soundtrack in guttural growls and the haunting cries of voices that are
suggestive of the thousands of innocent victims of this natural catastrophe.
The waves recede and the cicada, though injured, still clings on
with one remaining leg to the damaged husk of his shed skin. “I won’t die” the cicada declares, determined
to survive and leave offspring as his ancestors did before him. A buzzing sound announces the arrival of a
black, inky cloud signifying the radiation from the manmade nuclear
disaster.
Black rain and deep-voiced throat singing accompany the closing
credit sequence. When the rain has
passed and the credits are complete, the screen goes black and then reprises
the opening credit sequence. However this
time the inkan stamps are muddled
together and blurred, and the voice is no longer deep and masculine but
distorted and echoing. We hear the
approach of the cicada before we see him this time, and when he appears on
screen we see that he has been altered beyond all recognition by the nuclear
disaster.
I am a 66 year cicada.
Once every 66 years,
I emerge from the ground, leave
offspring and die.
66 years ago, when I was born
I’ve heard that there was a big
earthquake and a big tsunami.
There was also a big accident.
I will risk my life to shed this
hard shell before mating.
Our ancestors have continued this
cycle countless times.
The soil of this country is very fit
for us to live in.
I love this country.
It is significant that Hirabayashi chose a cicada to represent the
living creatures, human and otherwise, of Japan. Insects hold a special place in the hearts of
the Japanese, and the cicadas are one of the important signifiers of
summer. One cannot imagine a summer in
Japan without the song of the cicadas and children delight in discovering and
examining the skins of the cicadas when they moult. It is a symbol of reincarnation, appearing
metaphorically in many significant works of literature such as The Tale of Genji. Cicadas are also a symbol of longevity as
they are one of the longest living insects who spend much of their life cycle
underground (normally 2-5 years).
The film looks like a cutout film made of washi paper and ink, but Hirabayashi made it using images and
textures that he found on the internet. The
inkan stamps on the surface of the tree
are metaphorically significant in the film.
In Western culture, we do still use rubber stamps to make documents
official, and this tradition gave rise to the English idiom “to rubber stamp”
something, which is usually used to describe a bureaucrat approving something
automatically without proper consideration.
In Japan, the stamp culture runs even deeper with individuals, artists,
and corporations all using stamps as their signature.
When watching 663114 the
first time, I was reminded of the common hanko (判子) stamp that one
would use to sign for the post, or to sign into work, and I thought that each of the stamps stood for
individuals affected by the disaster.
But then I realized many of the red stamps were more complex than the kind used
by individuals so I contacted Hirabayashi to ask him about their
significance. Hirabayashi told me that
the inkan are a metaphor for
contracts [of the kind we would call “red tape” in English]. He went on to explain that after the war in
Japan contracts have been given preference over the feelings of people. In the aftermath of Fukushima, he feels that this bad
attitude has risen to the surface.
Therefore, the red stamps in 663114
represent the negative force of bureaucracy, the rules that govern a society,
in contrast to the enduring life force of the cicada, who struggles to survive
at any cost. It is a powerful film, and
although it addresses a very specific Japanese historical moment, the
universality of its message has not been lost on international festival
audiences. It received a warm reception
at last year’s Viennale and it also got a special mention in the Generation
Section at the Berlinale. The jury in
this division is made up of eleven children and seven teenagers. They said of 663114:
Visuals and sound melded together flawlessly to create a
philosophical and layered masterpiece. The director conveys his message, beyond
all conventions. Through a simple metaphor he portrays the survival of a
culture, even in the face of catastrophe. (source)
Hirabayashi used the platform to remind people around the world of
the seriousness of the crisis in Fukushima: "Children are being exposed to
dangerous radioactivity a year after the earthquake. It is our responsibility
as Japanese adults to protect the children."
The soundtrack of the film is an artwork all of its own. It was composed by Osaka-based sound producer
Takashi Watanabe. During the Viennale press conference for 663114, Watanabe explained that they
approached the soundtrack as if it would be an offering to a temple. He looked to Buddhism and Shintoism in his
desire to create a new kind of sacred music.
Keitarō Iijima (Studio 301),
the sound producer on 663114,
explained that they used Japanese food for making the soundtrack including
nattō (fermented soybeans), dried Japanese noodles and also cabbage. He echoed Watanabe’s sentiments about the
sacredness of the project for them, emphasizing that he tried to have a sense
of respect for the food that they used throughout the production.
Director: Isamu Hirabayashi
Music: Takashi Watanabe
Throat: Hideo Kusumi
Voice: Midori Kurata
Sound Mix: Yusuke Toyoura
Sound Design: Keitao Iijima
Foley Assistant: Momoko
Art Director: Ken Murakami
Animation Assistant: Mina Yonezawa
This review is part of Nishikata Film Review’s ongoing series on
Noburo Ofuji Award winners:
Film review by Catherine Munroe Hotes 2012
