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Conceptualizing the Academic Anime Review

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There’s been a lot written about how to write reviews. Of course I mean for anime and manga. Most of these essays focus on writing for your audience, or creating spoiler-free zones, or formulating objective positions, or avoiding plot summary blather. However, I feel like there’s one underutilized method of critical inquiry that can be adapted and adopted for reviews of any media, and of course that is the academic methodology.

But what do I mean by an “academic review”? Well, put most simply, the fundamental form of academic writing is the literature review, and the social tenet that holds academic published research together is the citation. If you don’t understand this latter point, hit up Google Scholar, throw in a search term, and you’ll see that the “most important academic works” are those with high “cited by” counts.

Anyway, so how can we provide an academic bent to review writing? Well, there are technically already “academic reviews” available: simply pick up a copy of Mechademia and flip to the back pages, where you’ll find a host of critically insightful reviews of anime and manga titles. These reviews provide references to and citations of other academic texts, but tend to avoid other reviews from professional reviewers, other academics, or whomever.

The idea I would like to put forth in this short article, though, is that there’s another type of “academic review” that is not really used: reviews that reference previously-written reviews, as if the networks of reviewers mirrored the networks of academics that make up contemporary academic research matrices.

Looking through some criticism about writing reviews for anime and manga, once in a while I see authors writing, “So-and-so has already said enough about this title, so I don’t really have much more to say.” But I want to criticize these stances, because a reviewing author should take into account what others view about a piece of media, at the very least to inform his or her own opinion in the review-to-be-written.

I’ve been meaning to add more reviews of anime and manga titles to this blog, but I’ve continually taken the approach of writing critical, exploratory essays about the titles rather than mere reviews. So starting soon, I’m going to attempt to publish a few academic reviews on this blog that reference reviews currently written in the blogosphere.

Of course, I perceive an interesting gap in the current anime/manga blogging phenomenon, which is that there’s not much written about what both the Japanese- and English-language spheres are saying about a particular work. In the hopes that this will help (read: force) me to translate more Japanese writing about anime and manga, particularly from notable — though probably random — Japanese bloggers, I’m going to start writing reviews that reference the current discourse on Japanese popular media. Because that’s what academic is all about: creating, interacting with, and maintaining critical discourse about topics.

I hope that this will help foster greater communication between, or at least appreciation and understanding of, the Japanese and English fandoms.

I’d love to hear what others have to say about this referential approach: please leave comments! And hopefully I’ll have a review up in the next week or so. I’ll be starting with Asano Inio‘s relatively-unknown manga, Goodnight Punpun (Oyasumi Punpun).

Anime Canon Project: Or, How To Crowdsource the Anime Community to Build a Better Future for the Fandom

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I’ve been thinking about The Canon for a while. And, no, I’m not a misspelling perv. But I am a recently-graduated English major that had a large amount of books to think about over the course of four years.

Regarding the concept of a canon, I define it as the fundamental works of a type of media (books, movies, etc.), but more specifically those fundamental works with which a reader (viewer, consumer, whatever) may grasp an elementary understanding of how the media (or a subset of the media) operates as media. For example, the Bible is a critical part of the Western canon of literature not just because it remains the leading text of more than one of the world’s major religions, but also because it has a rich history of dissemination around the world, on top of some of the best (and probably influential) narrative structure in world literature. Another example, for film, would be Orson Wells’ Citizen Kane. While not the most enjoyable movie, it remains one of the foundational films on which film students build their academic careers.

To transition bluntly, a canon for Japanese animation is difficult to generate. However, the anime fandom — or what we know of it in America — has obsessed over “the best” anime for decades, even if we have no idea what we’re really talking about. There have been books detailing “the major works” of the key Japanese directors and animators of anime — such as Patrick Drazen’s Anime Explosion: The What? Why? & Wow! of Japanese Animation (even though I’m not sure why Key: The Metal Idol was ever included) and, less so about the canon but still popular (why?!) amongst academics, Susan Napier’s Anime: From Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle. Even Lawrence Eng, our forefather of academic otaku studies in America, has written about the topic too, with “A Look at the Four Revolutions of Anime.”

I won’t go into much detail about how American fandom, at least contemporary fandom, is relatively ignorant of even the major cultural works of Japanese animation (eg., the hordes who have never watched the original Gundam, given its huge impact not only on otaku but Japanese culture in general — read: Odaiba Gundam; and I won’t even go into the influences that Astro Boy lent to modern robotics). The evidence for the (passive-aggressive?) statement is, of course, the popularity of panels at conventions such as GeekNights‘ Anime You Should See; or, maybe not the popularity, but the lack of hands that immediately fly into the air when Akira is flashed onto the projector screen.

Although I could call it a problem, the fact that many anime fans today (comprised, if you step offline, walk into a convention, and talk to a bunch of random kids, of people that probably saw something quickly online, or also as common, just watched Bleach or Naruto on broadcast television) haven’t seen many fundamental anime, or just anime in general is a product of ordinary Internet-age modes of media consumption. Of course, there are many other problems that contribute, such as the proliferation of the hardcore fandom online instead of dispersed amongst strong physical/geographical communities. But, while I point out that NQ-fans (“not quite fans”) aren’t watching enough anime, not watching anime isn’t the problem.

Instead, the real problem is that the original and pivotal goal of the early American anime fandom has succeeded too well. This goal, plain and simple, was to make anime available to everyone. In the hundreds of newsletters and correspondence that I read in the Fred Patten collection, the ideal of media ubiquity held strong and pushed the dissemination of early fansubs across the United States in the 1980s and 90s, eventually culminating in the creation of the contemporary American anime industry. And, luckily for all those fans that can’t speak Japanese, there’s A LOT of anime available for fans to purchase and view. On top of the industry side, the online fansubbing community has also made thousands of titles readily available for anyone to download and view in the comfort of both their own home and own schedule.

So, what’s the problem? It seems like the anime fandom is thriving, especially with all the rumors that con attendance has been steadily rising since the early 2000s. We have all this anime, so what’s wrong?

Well, frankly, there’s too much anime for any one fan to watch. Yes, where at the point where ubiquity has become a negative trait. The current overpopulated media environment for Japanese animation means that fans don’t know what to watch. Unless they’re particularly well-connected to other fans — which the majority of fans, I would say, are not — we’re facing a situation where people don’t know what constitutes “the good stuff.” The solution seems to be what I have already mentioned: panels, websites, and educated fans that can tell fellow viewers what’s good. But even these representatives of the larger fandom can’t possibly watching everything out there, unless they want to ruin their lives by pulling a Jason Thompson. And the problem isn’t even that there’s too much anime. If we focus solely on television series, anime is bounded by time: 25 minutes per episode (conversely compared to manga, which can be read at relative speeds). The fact that a fair number of series boast more than 50 episodes, or even in some cases more than 100 episodes, means that if we want to live up to the otaku namesake, we have to spend a lot of time indoors in front of a screen.

Talking about a canon for Japanese animation, I wish to avoid speaking about the content of the canon (specific titles that stand out) and instead wish to emphase the construction of the canon. How do we choose what fans need to watch?

From here on out, I must mention that I am stealing an idea. I’ve had a lot of ideas in the past that I’ve never pursued, and I feel like stealing an idea once in a while saves others from feeling guilty that they cannot pursue their own ideas. This idea, then, is credited to Carl Li, over at Ogiue Maniax. Previously, he wrote about A Comprehensive Guide to Essential Episodes, which I would like to borrow for this article to propose a utilitarian venture to save the future of the anime fandom from complete ignorance of anime (worst case scenario: no newer fans have watched anything!). Carl proposes “a guide to… long shows… pointing out the episodes which are considered, while perhaps not “necessary” to the viewing experience, to be the apex of the show. That way, anybody who just wants to sample the show but in a meaningful way (not just watch the first episode or two and be done with it) can do so and fully understand the reasons that show is called a classic.”

I will state right off the bat that my proposal does not solve the problem of fan ignorance (not having watched enough shows, or enough of a show, to talk about them/it critically). However, it approaches a solution to the degree of good enough. I wholeheartedly believe that the future of the fandom relies not on fans having completed X number of shows, but instead depends on current fans continuing conversation between fellow fans and with potential fans. The only way to continue that conversation, then, is to make sure that fans can talk about shows they’ve watched, even if they haven’t watched all of it. As Carl points out in his article, most shows (especially those with hundreds of episodes) are drowning in a sea of filler episodes that attempt to buttress the main narrative (especially when it begins to weaken — a common occurrence in anime).

So let’s get into technical and methodological details. The goal is to gather information by crowdsourcing the anime fan community. Whether this includes 5 or 500 members, I suppose ultimately it doesn’t matter. We could argue about levels of expertise, or attention to detail, or quality assurance; but, in the end, this project just needs to be completed one way or another.

Websites are simple and inexpensive — I can host a domain and FTP. But if we’re going to go beyond a simple Wiki, I’d also need someone (or a few people) with relatively-solid coding experience to whip up a site with user accounts, along the lines of My Anime List (without all of the egotistical wanking). One page per series, with a short (under 100 words) exposition per episode, with a voting module that ranks watchability: Required or Optional. Even if only one person ranks a 100-episode series, if other fans can understand the basics of the narrative and art direction for that series by watching only 15 episodes, then The Project has succeeded.

So, there’s now a Call for Help. Let’s build the Anime Canon Project. If you’re interested in working on this venture, or at least think it’s a good idea, leave a comment at the end of this article, or email me at alexleavitt @ gmail . com. I’ll see what I can do to gauge interest and pursue some sort of operational model.

ハチ約束の犬: The Story of Cross-Cultural Narrative

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I’ve written before about the incestuous cultural relationship Japan shares with America (for example, with Jero [here and here] and Monkey Majik [here]). This theme basically consumes my work (and might academically in the future, as I’m planning a potential track of research based around a comparison of cultural clash of consumer/popular culture for Meiji Japan and post-war Japan).

I’m glad to see a new development along these lines, especially one that I can discuss briefly.


Trailer for Japan.

If you haven’t had a chance to check it out, the trailer for Lasse Hallström’s new movie, Hachi: A Dog’s Tale, has recently been passed around the major OMG-Japan link sites (like Japanator).

If you don’t know the story behind Hachiko, you can read up on the most loyal dog in the history of forever at Wikipedia. The tale is simple: a dog waits for his owner, a professor at the University of Tokyo, every day near Shibuya’s train station. When the owner dies, the dog keeps waiting. The story of Hachiko is infamous in Japan — the result of an article published in a national newspaper by one of the professor’s former students — and might be equivalent to, say, the story of Paul Revere (for Americans), as a piece of cultural history in the minds of the Japanese. Hachiko has even become an idiom of sorts, known primarily as 忠犬ハチ公 (loyal dog Hachiko), and the dog has an annual ceremony dedicated to him, held at his statue in Shibuya Square.


Photographed in Shibuya, October 2008

Looking at this trailer, though, the film immediately caused a bit of confusion. It’s an English-language movie based on a real Japanese story marketed first to a Japanese audience (with a later release to an American audience) with a trailer in Japanese but requiring Japanese subtitles. I can work around the lingual barriers present here, but — c’mon — it’s a bit circuitous.

On top of the linguistic clash, there’s also the problem of the movie as produced. The qualifying prerequisite to explaining said problem is to understand that a movie was already made in Japan.


Clips from the original Japanese film, 1987.

Hollywood remakes movies a lot, and while there are critics of multiple versions of the same film, we can’t outright denounce this film based on an earlier (potentially better) Japanese counterpart. However, the fact that Hachiko is filmed in America with an American cast produces the problem: the story of Hachiko is placed into an American context.


Trailer for United States.

After watching the American trailer, I hope you can understand what I mean by “American context.” This second trailer disregards the origins of the story, and I am frankly surprised that it didn’t state something along the lines of “A real story based on the popular Japanese tale.” The movie was filmed in Connecticut, and it obviously ignores the Shibuya locale (replacing it with Bedridge Station), the name of the professor, etc. From the trailer, it seems that the film ignores the Japanese side of the story altogether. It’s a remake, and poetic license like this is never discouraged. However, I wonder how many members of the American audiences will question the name of the dog, Hachiko (or, here, Hachi). It’s very Japanese sounding, plain and simple. Would the Japanese association minus the Japanese context create a barrier for a non-Japanese viewer?

In comparison, the Japanese trailer presents a much different film. I especially want to highlight the song (with Japanese lyrics) that plays in the second half of the trailer. The first words we hear are 忘れないよ、忘れないよ (don’t forget, don’t forget), which parallel Hachiko’s thoughts of his owner, but also reflect and emphasize the historical context that underlies the film (Japanese people have not and will not forget about this dog and his story). I assume that Japan will receive an early release of this movie solely because Hachiko remains such a cultural figure there, and the producers are trying to bank on the story’s popularity. However, I also wonder if the English-language and American actors will distance Japanese viewers from connecting directly and emotionally with the movie.

Going back to America, I must question the retention of the Akita dog breed, at least when presented to the American audience. Bluntly, I laud the directors for not changing the breed. However, Akitas (and Shibas, since the puppy in the film is actually a 柴犬) are so rare to see in the States that I wonder if it even makes sense to import the Hachiko story with an American context, particularly when there’s already competition with Bolt, Homeward Bound, Milo & Otis, and especially Lassie (though Hachiko’s popularity preceded Lassie’s by at least 5 years). Perhaps pet-movie obsession has fizzled out by now though, maybe even provoked by What I guess I’m trying to say in this last point is that, in Japan, Shiba dogs are EVERYWHERE, so I think Japanese will take to the dog fairly easily, while there might be some hesitance on the part of Americans.

I don’t mean to demean the movie, and I certainly hope that more Americans will take the time to look up the story of Hachiko with the film’s release. However, I don’t want people to regard this film as “the next Airbud.”

Oh, and if you check out the film’s Japanese site (there’s no English one), Richard Gere from the side looks like an authentic おじいさん (old man).