Learning Taiwan

About a month ago I attended the East Asia Popular Culture Association conference in Taipei, Taiwan, which was actually my first ever academic conference. While I don't intend to go into particulars about what the EAPCA itself was like, I do want to say that I finally understand what my colleagues and supervisors mean when they say that conferences are a good place to get in contact with people working in the same areas. Long story short, the EAPCA was fun and informative.

What I really want to talk about is my own ignorance. Thanks to staying in Taipei and being around a great number of scholars who work on Taiwanese culture, I realized just how little I knew about Taiwan.

Prior to my trip, I had no idea the extent to which Taiwan's history was tied to Japan. I did not know that Taiwan was at one point a Japanese colony. I did not know that there was a generation of Taiwanese who were more literate in Japanese than Chinese (which caused enormous problems when China banned use of the Japanese language after Japan seceded). I knew that anime and manga were popular in Taiwan, but I was not aware that the dynamics of Japanese popular culture in Taiwan was so utterly complex.

It's a little difficult to wrap my head around. While the United States has its own history with Japan, and the popularity of anime and manga in the US has resulted in people speculating about the influence of the former onto the latter, it is nowhere near the same as the relationships in history and culture that exist between Taiwan and Japan.

As it's not my specialty though, I'll refrain for now from positing any hypotheses of my own. In the mean time, I'll be glad to read what other scholars have to say.

A Sushi Typhoon?

A few days ago I had the pleasure of listening to Sten-Kristian Saluveer from the Department of Asian Studies at Estonian Institute of Humanities (Tallinn University/Tokyo University), who presented his Monbukagakusho research project titled "Contemporary Japanese film in distribution: between imagination, globalization and gaze".
In recent years, Sten argues, Japanese cinema has become an increasingly global phenomenon, not only in the sense that A-movies have gained international popularity, but also with respect to an increasing number of B-class movies produced specifically for the international market. Arguing that both tendencies are strongly connected to discourses of exoticism, techno-orientalism, Japanization, or Asianization, and lastly Americanization not only via content, but also on the level of distribution, he hopes to work out a vocabulary to analyze and understand the international distribution of Japanese cinema in the age of globalization—a field which, according to Sten, has been widely neglected in (Western) research on Japanese cinema. Sten's project sounds very interesting and I'm eager to read the findings. In the meanwhile, I'd like to write about some thoughts that came up in a discussion we had afterwards, mostly concerning the label "Sushi Typhoon" (Nikkatsu) and "Japaneseness", in hope this may trigger further discussion.

Sushi Typhoon is, according to Sten, a film label exclusively launched less than two years ago with the aim of creating "Japanese" films for the overseas market. With excessively violent and "Japanese" films like "Yakuza Weapon" ("Machine gun arm. Rocket launcher leg. And a bad attitude to match. [...]"), "Alien vs Ninja", "Helldriver" ("Ash from space has divided Japan into two halves, and a schoolgirl with an artificial heart and chainsaw sword must travel to the zombie-infected north... to kill her undead mother."), or "Karate-Robo Zaborgar" ("A modern-day update of the classic Japanese sci-fi television show!"), Sushi Typhoon is dedicated to trash of a very specific, “Japanese” kind.
But what exactly does that mean? Looking at these descriptions, what interests me most is why and with what exactly Sushi Typhoon might, as their trailer promises, “blow your mind wide open”—nice phrase, by the way.

[If you have a few seconds, please watch the trailer for yourself.]

The self-recognition of Sushi Typhoon reads: "Connoisseurs of dangerous and wild Japanese cinema need look no further to satisfy their hunger for comedy, action, horror, splatter and raucous cult entertainment: The Sushi Typhoon is headed for America’s shores, ready to fill your belly with the raw entertainment you’ve been craving!" (http://www.sushi-typhoon.com/about-sushi-typhoon, emphasis mine)
My initial reaction was to label this as yet another example of (successfully) selling "Japaneseness" (or "Orientalism")—notice by the way who is targeted here—which, as far as I am concerned, would to some extent mean that they use the idea that there is something called "Japan", and it might also imply that the images of this "Japan" re-presented by Sushi Typhoon are somehow "wrong". However, refusing to believe that fans identify these images with something like a "real" Japan per se—not only because I don't believe such thing exists—I would like to think about how the notion of "Japan" or the exotism behind it works here, what kind of "Japan" is sold and consumed.

A first observation from the website of Sushi Typhoon is that, while something vaguely recognizable as "Japanese" (Ninja, Yakuza, etc.) is present here, it is present in a strongly twisted form that seems to generate a fictional world fairly distant from "reality". This does, however, not imply that the idea of "Japan" has nothing to do with this fiction and the popularity these films, according to Sten, enjoy since the label was launched. Rather, I would argue that it has everything to do with it, in the sense that this "Japan" in Sushi Typhoon films is the password to an "imaginary space", here understood with Phillip Wegner (2002: xvi-xvii) as a space that is nowhere (utopian) "precisely to the degree that [it makes] somewhere possible, offering a mechanism by which people will invent anew the communities as well as the places they inhabit."
This imaginary space of "Japan" is a symbolic space, stretched out by the symbolic traces of various images of Japan but reaching beyond them, is produced by fans and directors and functions as a cross-genre label and a space of expectation and expressive possibility beyond existing categories. Undeniably, this is only possible because of these traces of a "Japaneseness" (as a specific "Otherness"). But my feeling is that for the fans, this Japaneseness has its meaning not in its "information value" (in the sense that they would expect insights into any "real" Japan), but rather in its function as a distancing device that exoticizes the imaginary space named "Japan" and thus equips it with a sense of alternativeness to their own everyday life (e.g., the films they are used to). A space that makes you expect the unexpected.
Although, at this point, a closer look at the contents of the films is required (they are out and running since last weekend in Tokyo's cinemas), this could suggest that this imaginary space of "Japanese" B-class films has a deconstructive political potential. If this imaginary "Japan" is, in any way, related to what is thought to be the "real" Japan, this relation would be a disruptive one in the sense that "Japan" hosts alternatives to the common images of Japan. "Ninja-robots" and "machinegun-arms" instead of "sushi" could (intentionally or not) be, in a sense, a pretty radical engagement with the idea of a "Japanese reality" itself, thus making the title "sushi typhoon" and the advertisement-like message about blowing minds a quite adequate description. On the other side, one could argue that the fans are not interested in establishing a connection to (Japanese) reality at all. Maybe the attractiveness of Sushi Typhoon films rather origins in the collective engagement with this space of "Japan" and its "Othering" itself.

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Phillip Wegner (2002): Imaginary Communities. Berkley & Los Angeles: University of California Press.

Experimenting with “New Model Army”

Some time ago, I had the pleasure to listen to a vivid, passionate and very entertaining talk Adam Roberts gave on ignorance, giants, and democracy, at the Leiden University College in The Hague. In contemporary democracies, says Roberts, the basic structure is that representatives (the head) are performatively elected by the necessarily ignorant people (the body) to make informed decisions. While the latter are informed and thus can always turn out wrong, Roberts claims that performative statements are acts and thus cannot be right or wrong. From this starting point, his book “New Model Army” is an attempt to conceive of a “total” democracy within a “headless” army (the giant) based on performance.
The book itself tries to convey that such a democratic giant without a head is much more effective than state-bound, hierarchical armies that exist today, because it facilitates a truly democratic mode of knowledge aggregation and decision-making. Roberts' “playful collective headlessness” that is the democratic army “Pantegral” is hired by the Scottish government to fight for the liberation of Scotland against the English army.
While the book surely is mind-blowing and highly recommended, because it outlines a very radical and profound form of democracy in one of the most violent situations imaginable (maybe it is this combination, that makes the project so fascinating) it also threw up some questions concerning the central role of technology in Roberts' concept, which I would like to address here.
In order to facilitate the democratic distribution of knowledge and decision making, Roberts introduces a multifunctional online network consistent of a “wiki” and a “wifi”, which are used by the soldiers to communicate, find information, and to vote on strategic decisions. The wiki is updated constantly by all soldiers who have updates and everybody is heard—at least, if the majority of listeners think the comment is relevant. It is guarded against enemy attacks by semi-intelligent protection software and connects the soldiers without demanding for any physical presence. This communication network further influences the ways in which the army acts and moves, and enables it to gather its forces or disperse, to form units of variable size and with different objectives all at once, with decisions made by all soldiers via vote. It is also the wiki, which serves as a platform for all necessary information accessible to all soldiers any time and, for Roberts, it follows that specialization (like medics, etc.) is not necessary any more, since everybody takes care of their gear and body themselves, and may ask for help via the wiki any time.

The human vs. the machine
The idea of a headless democracy is very appealing and seems to me somehow “more democratic” than its alternative. But given the description above, I am wondering whether the computed network system Roberts army relies on, might not have to be considered as another kind of head, although not one that takes direct action by deciding, but rather in the sense that this system serves as the central organ—the nervous system, without which everything breaks dow–of the giant and is limited by the information it contains through its databases or its members. These members of the army, it might be added, at some point have to make more or less informed decisions, and my guess would be that, as a tendency, “better” decisions keep the individual soldier alive longer. Leaving this last point aside, the question I would like to ask is, whether the “wiki” system is not itself an organizational principle that dictates interpersonal relationships via rationality of algorithms. Doesn't this make the giant somewhat techno-democratic? Exaggerating a little, one could say that the soldiers submit their “humanity” to the dictum of measurability. The book itself, where it describes the formations of small units of soldiers, or the love the narrator feels for one of his comrades whose death disturbs him considerably may hint at this tension and even serve as a counterargument. But this implies that true equality (in love, friendship, work) on a personal level may only be achieved, if the “human factor” is first short-circuited with the machine. But even with such measures taken, I would argue that, as long as discussion and interaction relies on oral or written language, such equality can never be achieved—precisely because it does not abandon all human-human interaction.

Science Fantasy?
The second question is more concerned with the genre of Science Fiction itself. Roberts novel draws on (social, political, and computer) science in its imagination of a (future) society, and thus is rightly called Science Fiction. But at the same time, I couldn't help wondering how the “wired-up” soldiers can update the wiki, talk to their comrades, kill several enemies while bombed from above, and make decisions on votes more or less at once. While aware of the potential science fiction has precisely due to its fictional, not yet scientific character, I admittedly kept asking myself, how alien a technology has to seem in order to be perceived as “super-human” or “magic”. That is, if the gap between the present and the fictional world is expressed through one or several unknown elements or artifacts and their effects on a society or an individual, my question would be, whether the label of technology is enough to make something “science” fictional as opposed to “fantastic”. In his “Short History of Photography”, Walter Benjamin (2002: 303) claimed that photography, because it can show what was hitherto hidden from the view by means of slow-motion and zoom, reveals the difference between technology and magic as profoundly historical variable. Turned around, I would argue that in fictional works, this variable represents a gap to the present—some kind of simulation gap “between the rule-based representation of a source system and a user’s subjectivity”, as game scholar Ian Bogost (2006: 107) conceptualizes it—that always opens a space for imagination and may be interpreted differently, thus leaving the decision between science fiction and fantasy to the reader, who may either work it out cognitively, or simply solve this question performatively without having to stick to what the majority has decided.


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Benjamin, W. (2002). Kleine Geschichte der Photographie. In D. Schöttker (Ed.), Walter Benjamin - Medienästhetische Schriften(pp. 300-324). Frankfurt (Main): Suhrkamp.
Bogost, I. (2006). Unit operations: an approach to videogame criticism. Cambridge/London: The MIT Press.
Roberts, Adam (2010). New Model Army. Gollancz.

Final Fantasy: Advent Children & Character Camera

Final Fantasy: Advent Children is a sequel to the 1990s role-playing video game Final Fantasy VII, though it is less a sequel in the sense that it continues the story VII (which it does), and more that it is a return to a previous work, a film akin to the nostalgia of meeting up with an old friend. Final Fantasy VII was an enormously influential game. It showed off the power of the then-cutting-edge PlayStation video game console with its elaborate 3-D graphics, and through those visuals it was one of the first (if not the first) Role Playing Game to expand to a much wider audience. For many people, Final Fantasy VII was their first great game, the first to move them to tears, to engross them in its story, to make them fall in love with its characters. Having never played Final Fantasy VII for any extended period of time, I was not one of those people, but I knew quite a few who practically grew up on Final Fantasy VII. In many cases, they saw and still do see Final Fantasy VII as the epitome of not only the Final Fantasy franchise itself, but of storytelling in video games in general.

Still, despite my lack of personal experience with the original game, I had decided to watch Final Fantasy: Advent Children because just by being around so many people who played and loved Final Fantasy VII, I knew a lot about it. This viewing for the Vistas blog is not my first time seeing it either. But upon the second viewing of the film, I noticed a detail that had escaped me the last time around. As the film opened and the credits began to roll, I saw “Director: Tetsuya Nomura,” and upon being conscious of his enormous influence on this movie, I could not ignore it.


Tetsuya Nomura had worked on Final Fantasy VII, but it wasn’t in the capacity of director or producer. Nomura was the character designer, and Advent Children feels like a movie directed by a character designer. Not only are each of the characters themselves re-designed with greater attention to detail and updated fashions—compare the heroes of the story with the plain designs of the children around them—but the shots are framed in a way that glorifies some aspect of the characters in them. The movie often lingers on the characters for extended periods, most noticeably in the slow-motion sequences during action scenes, as if the overall shot itself is less important than the character in it, or perhaps, in terms of Advent Children, that the character is the shot.

I do not believe that Nomura could not have possibly done otherwise, or that all character designers-turned-directors will create the same type of movie. However, I do believe that Nomura’s past with Final Fantasy VII as a character designer influenced Advent Children’s visuals profoundly, and that he would have had to make a much more conscious effort to go against his artistic instincts. I think that Nomura had his own nostalgia for the characters, or that he understood well the number of people who saw Advent Children as a fated reunion. As someone who was not part of that nostalgia but knew its effects, perhaps this is how such a movie comes across for me.

Though I never did play it myself, Final Fantasy VII actually still did influence my life in a certain sense. I remember when the game first came out back in the late 1990s, when discussions about it raged across the video game-loving section of the internet, back when people used the term “Information Super-Highway” seriously. Some fans who self-identified as “gamers,” including those who had enthusiastically followed the Final Fantasy since the beginning, saw Final Fantasy VII as the advent of the “new school” of gamers, the end of the golden age, where the doors of the RPG kingdom and video games in general had been flung open. For years, this was my image of how Final Fantasy VII was perceived. Then one day, I saw a post on a video game forum decrying the state of the Final Fantasy franchise and the role-playing genre. In it, the poster wishes a return to the great, “old-school” RPGs like Final Fantasy VII. I had actually seen a video game go from new-fangled tool of the whippersnapper to a symbol of the old days. In that respect, Final Fantasy: Advent Children says a lot about where video games have gone in the years since.

Is Final Fantasy Fantasy or SF?

written by Mari Nakamura

Final Fantasy VII Advent Children (2005) is a Japanese computer-animated film. When I saw the film recently, I kept asking myself if it is a fantasy or science fiction (SF). It has both characteristics of fantasy and SF: magic and dragons appear, but advanced technologies also exist in the film. It reminds me of Fredric Jameson’s discussion over fantasy and SF.
In his Archaeologies of the Future(2005), Jameson points out that the structural differences between fantasy and SF. According to Jameson, fantasy has, as a genre, stronger medieval features such as the culture of the peasantry and a Christian nostalgia. It is also characterized by the ethical binary of good and evil, and the fundamental role to magic. Quoting Darko Suvin’s influential conception of SF as “cognitive estrangement,” which emphasizes the commitment of the SF text to scientific reason, Jameson suggests that SF has a long tradition of critical emphasis on verisimilitude from Aristotle on. Yet, he also argues that modern fantasy have some affinities with SF; fantasy have critical and even demystificatory power. He notes that in modern fantasy (e.g., Le Guin’s The Earthsea series) magic, a fundamental motif of fantasy, and its role “may be read, not as some facile plot device…but rather as a figure of the enlargement of human powers and their passage to the limit, their actualization of everything latent and virtual in the stunted human organism of the present” (Jameson 2005: 66).
Although Jameson does not mention any non-Western fantasy and SF in his book, it seems that we can also apply his arguments to Final Fantasy VII. Here, two readings are possible. Firstly, we can see the film as a fantasy: the story revolves around the antagonism between good and evil; some symbolic scenes have Christian characters. For instance, the protagonist Cloud lives in the ruined church; overcoming the sense of guilt, Cloud decides to fight against the evil to save his people; Cloud cures seriously infected children in the church in a climax after he defeats the enemy Sephiroth. Here, the magical feature, Lifestream, the planet’s life force, plays an important role. It can be both good and evil depending on who uses it: Sephiroth attempted to use Lifestream to control the planet, while Cloud use it as a cure. Secondly, we can read the film as SF if we see Lifestream as the novum*. People have been used Lifestream, the technological innovation, in gene engineering and energy generation from age to age; this innovation is surely different from our world. The story has critical element too. The power struggle over Lifestream, the disaster and mysterious disease caused by Lifestream make me think of dark side of technological developments we are facing today, such as energy war, danger and threat.
So is Final Fantasy VII fantasy or SF? Perhaps, it can be both and it depends on how we treat some features such as Lifestream as the magic or the novum. In any case, it has some critical elements.
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*Novum is “the primary element in a work of science fiction by which the work is shown to exist in a different world than that of the reader.” (Prucher 2007)

References:
Jameson, Fredric (2005), Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, Verso.
Prucher, Jeff (ed.) (2007), Brave New Words: The Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction, Oxford University Press.

A Final Fantasy

The anime film Final Fantasy VII Advent Children is a demonstration of what computer-animated imagery is capable of today. The detail of the animation, movement and gestures (ok, not all gestures) is astonishing. In a sense, Advent Children expresses the superhumanity of its characters through its speed (assuming that the scenes are still fluent and coherent if played in slow motion), where the movie The Matrix chose the opposite approach by introducing “bullet-time” (slow motion). To be honest, the action scenes were beyond my sensual capacities, making the attempt to grasp the details a pretty exhausting experience.
To this extent, Advent Children shares some commonality with what Walter Benjamin (1936) called “shock effect of the film” in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. He used the term to describe the interruption of any associative process due to mere speed of changing images in movies. Benjamin considered this shock effect to be an equivalent to the peril of his time, and even argued that it helps people to get used to the permanent and growing danger that surrounds them.
Couldn’t it be that movies like Advent Children demand a new kind of literacy from their audience? While for Benjamin, the movies of his time prevented the viewers from contemplating their content, Advent Children seems to suggest to abandon any hope of sensually perceiving its content fully in the first place. Maybe the experience is more relaxing if we don’t try to decode the fast movement. Instead, we might have to encode the complex action, meaning to perceive a high speed battle as singular algorithmic event and concentrate on its result, 0 or 1, win or loose and its connection to the next event or unit. In this sense, it resembles the genre of role-playing games, in which its model, Final Fantasy VII, is located. Even the development of the protagonist of the movie is expressed in terms of the character development in video games, namely increased fighting skills.
Such literacy would not only target the content, but also the visual representation of the movie. In this respect, Advent Children reminded me of my own experience and observations of the first-person-shooter Quake III Arena. Here, the player can configure and adjust her graphics in order to change the information sent to her screen. Referring to Retaux and Rouchier (2002), Jesper Juul (2005: 139-140) for example illustrates how the player can reduce graphical detail (see figure 1).

Figure 1: High (top) and low (bottom) graphical detail in Quake II Arena. Source: Juul 2005, p.140.

If my memory of the modification Quake III Rocket Arena isn’t mistaken, the players can further manipulate their camera to depict a wider angle, thereby increasing the range of vision. This leads to a distorted view that has something of a fisheye-lens, in exchange for more information on the screen. According to Juul, this is not only done in order to improve performance, but also shows that “[e]xperienced players shift their focus from the fictional world of the game to the game as a set of rules. […] Skilled players know that the textures on the wall are not relevant to the playing of the game.”
In a similar way, Advent Children seems to demand from its viewers to develop “functional viewing strategies” – including a new kind of configured visualization. Maybe it shows one (distant but possible) future of movie experience. Parallel to the individual configurations allowed in Quake III, a new kind of individualized movie could allow the viewer to decide, how much information she would like to get. Although still very much related to varying internet connection speed, video streaming often facilitates a choice of high and low quality (resolution). In a sense, this already is a first step in the direction of individualized visualization. Does Advent Children point in the direction of such a final fantasy of computer-aided viewing? Would we want it to?

Streaming for Profit: Crunchyroll vs. GOMtv.net

In the age of streaming media, entertainment companies of all varieties are wracking themselves trying to figure out ways to monetize internet video, or at least to recoup the expenses required to run a stream. While the most common method is to utilize some sort of ad system, some sites come out with paid subscriptions. The content is free, up to a certain point, but if you want more you have to shell out some cash. Among these sites are the anime/j-drama/k-drama resource, Crunchyroll, and the center of the Korean Starcraft II scene, GOMtv.net. Both sites use ads, and both sites have subscription services which can remove those ads, as well as give access to higher-quality video, but Crunchyroll and Gomtv.net take two very different, almost opposing approaches to their subscription services.

When you pay for a Crunchyroll subscription, you're paying for speed. Crunchyroll's game is simulcasting. Shows that air in Japan are on Crunchyroll mere hours later. However, in order to see the shows as soon as possible, you have to pay for it. The content eventually becomes available for the non-paying viewers, but it requires a 7-day wait, and for those who thrive on discussing the latest, greatest(?) anime with their friends, that waiting period can become a death sentence for their social life among fellow fans by forcing them out of the loop. Crunchyroll provides a service for those who can't simply can't wait for even fansubs to appear online, drawing power from the "I want it right here, right now" attitude common to anime fandom.

But when it comes to GOMtv.net, you're paying for flexibility. Showing primarily competitive Starcraft II with both English and Korean casts, the stream during the live broadcasts of matches are free. Anyone can tune in around the world, provided they've also downloaded the proprietary "GOM Player," which could be much more of a hassle if it weren't for the fact that the Gom Player is designed much like VLC to be an all-in-one media player. However, once the matches for the day are over, they now become paid content, aside from a handful of previews. GOMtv's subscription gives you the ability to view recordings of the matches after they've happened, which allows you to watch them at your own leisure, rather than having to watch its tournaments during their designated times, which due to varying time zones can be as bad as 4am in the morning or at 10am in the middle of a busy work day.

 

One area that I think is worth analyzing is the value of an instance of the product put out over time, that is, given a single unit, either an episode of a show or a full set between two players, what happens when someone sees it the day it's out, then a week later, then a month or year later, and so on. By value I don't necessarily mean monetary value, but just more generally, how willing are people to watch older instances of a product as more and more time passes? What I am about to present is just my own conjecture, so feel free to correct me if any actual information has proven me wrong.
While Crunchyroll and GOMtv.net differ in that the former provides a wide variety of entertainment choices (dozens of shows are available) and the latter has essentially one long-running show in the form of Starcraft II tournaments (or two, if you want to count the Team League as a separate thing), but to make comparison easier I'm going to say that there's a Single Entertainment Product X, which has the primary trait of being designed to go on for years and is a serial product, so the results of older "episodes" directly affect newer ones (which also creates the possibility of spoilers). For the sake of convenience you can think of it as either Naruto (which is by far the most popular show on Crunchyroll) or the Global Starcraft II League (GSL). I'm also going to simplify the Crunchyroll and GOMtv models to just "starts off costing money, becomes free later" and vice versa, and not deal with the nuanced differences between the fact that "new" in Crunchyroll terms means watching it the first week and for GOM it means watching it live as well as ignore the difference in actual cost of subscriptions.

 

So let's say that the very first episode of Product X has hit Crunchyroll, and that there's already a fanbase for it, due to whatever reason such as anticipation or hype. Crunchyroll banks on the fact that people want to see it as soon as possible and charges them money for it. The people who pay to watch it are essentially saying that Product X, brand new and delivered as quickly as possible, is valuable. Once the episode is over, it becomes background knowledge for the next new episode, which also carries the same viewership value. In time, for those who have already seen these episodes, any value in them would come from how much they are worth rewatching. But while Crunchyroll decides that money is to be had in being first, this concept of "rewatch value" appears to have more cache with the GOMtv.net system. By asking you nothing for the initial viewing but putting a price tag on subsequent viewings, GOMtv.net prioritizes not just convenience and flexibility to watch it at your own leisure, but that returning to past instances of the product is also very important.

But not everyone is already a fan. For people completely new to the product, it doesn't necessarily matter that Crunchyroll gets it faster than anyone else, and over time it matters less and less when exactly a given episode was made. There is nothing necessarily stopping someone from paying for the Crunchyroll subscription, but they would probably need a reason to do so, and while it is certainly possible to ignore the previous content, the fact that Product X builds upon past events means that it engenders a potential feeling of "missing out" unless one watches the back catalog. For Crunchyroll, because the entirety of this back catalog is free (ignoring instances where streaming rights fade), it becomes easier for someone who is not interested in watching to start watching. GOMtv.net and its free initial stream can attract people, but for those unfamiliar with the product being put out, it requires the idea that, while what happened in the past is important, it's not vital to enjoying it. At the same time, it does not offer much reason outright to subscribe to someone who isn't already a fan, and the preview it provides is rather sparse. If they do become a fan however, those older episodes may rise in value, as they help explain how the product arrived at its current, presumably enjoyable point. Here, GOMtv.net would have the edge, provided that accessing that history is considered worthwhile. However, deciding to watch the new material despite having not seen what came prior does not necessarily guarantee that the older episodes will be visited in retrospect, especially if the viewer prioritizes "what happened" over "how it happened."

Of course, despite the fact that I actively ignored the subtleties in each model to give a rough idea of how a product is handled, the difference between solvency and net loss or moderate and high success is probably in the details. Going back to the difference between "new" as defined by Crunchyroll and GOMtv.net, I think that GOMtv.net's model could be better served by having the live broadcast re-streamed two or three times that day or perhaps even re-run for 24 hours to compensate for the enormous time zone differences that can exist between Korea and the rest of the world. I also think GOM's system might be more attractive to old-fashioned companies who may feel afraid to just give the viewer total control of their entertainment product. In time, I think things will shift closer to the Crunchyroll model, but that method also makes it difficult to make a profit off of older material. While perhaps it gains value in becoming a free resource to entice new customers, it does leave the impression that these products are not inherently valuable but rather have value applied to them through their consumers.

Otaku-culture on public display

Last week, subculture made news in Japan, when an exhibition of subculture art at the Seibu department store in Shibuya (Tokyo) was suddenly cancelled in reaction to claims from customers. According to NHK and JCAST, several visitors found the displayed artworks to be improper for a department store. Although the organizers have not made the claims public, it seems that they were not related to any particular works. Since the problem could not be identified, Seibu decided to cancel the exhibition, which was originally scheduled to be on display until the 6th of February, on February 1st.
This seems odd, as Japanese subculture, especially the so-called otaku-culture, which is associated with the works displayed in the exhibition, is more popular than ever before. During the past years, Japanese manga, anime, videogames, etc. have gained increasing attention around the world and especially in Japan itself, where today, their global popularity attracts the economy, politicians, and academics.
According to Nihon University professor and subculture expert Nakagawa Hideki, who is quoted in the JCAST article, the otaku-culture is not a subculture any more, but rather part of the mainstream. He argues that the claims are motivated by an understanding of subculture, that is shaped by the experience of "anti-social elements" in the 1960s. This seems to suggest that it was not the content of the exhibition itself, that caused the problem, but a general caution against everything that is associated with subculture.
While acknowledging the strong impact the aftermath of 1968 had in Japan, I would still suggest that this is only part of the problem, the other part of which is hidden by the terms mainstream and subculture. I do not want to get into discussions about the various definitions of these concepts, but I think that the example above shows that the acceptance of art forms and contents is not only a question of popularity or economic success within a society (as mainstream vs. subculture might easily suggest). Rather, it might be helpful to think about the situation in the old-fashioned terms of high culture and low culture and their hierarchical relation in specific spaces. While the case of the Seibu exhibition indicates that the otaku-culture moves towards public awareness and maybe even partial acceptance, it also suggests that figures, cosplay fashion, and the wide variety of illustrations, amateur manga and other elements of the otaku-culture are still the "uncanny" in the sense of the German word "das Unheimliche" introduced by Freud, literaly meaning something that is not homely. In other words, I would argue that the reaction to the exhibition can be read as an indicator of the anxiety such artworks trigger in some people (with a certain power or status that allows them to speak up in this environment) due to their difference from the familiar in a particular environment, in this case a prestigious department store that has a long history as host for cultural exhibitions.
While the otaku-culture may be one mainstream or part of a certain mainstream in Japan (I have doubts about the analytic viability of these concepts today), it seems striking that, given the volume of this culture today, it’s display is still strongly confined to certain areas (like Akihabara and Ikebukuro, the private spaces at home, rental video stores, pachinko and slot machines) and temporal events. One might argue that this is partly the source of its attractiveness (individuality, temporal, non-binding engagements). But it also means that such “mainstream” culture can go unnoticed if one chooses to stay away, or at least be received very selectively - until it "goes public". It might be interesting to look at these processes of private and public selection and their effects more closely and to understand the power relations and evaluations at work in the case of manga, anime, and the otaku-culture in general.

“Tiger Mask” donation and Superhero Illusion

written by Mari Nakamura

A number of children’s homes in Japan have been receiving anonymous donations of school bags and other gifts since Christmas Day, under the name of manga hero “Tiger Mask” or “Naoto Date.” Tiger Mask is the ring name of a professional wrestler in a popular Japanese manga and anime in 1960s and 1970s. In the plot, the hero of the manga, Naoto Date, who grows up in an orphanage becomes a professional wrestler, donates his winnings to the orphanage to his childhood orphanage. Inspired by “Tiger Mask” donors, such benefactions to the children’s homes have become a nationwide phenomenon – the number of donations has reached 290 so far, according to a report in the Nikkei Shinbun. Not surprisingly, the mass media in Japan have covered this phenomenon as a heartwarming story.

Indeed, it is supposed to be welcoming news since it brings peoples’ attentions to children’s homes, in which more than 30,000 youngsters age 1 to 18 are living. They are often neglected by the Japanese society. Nevertheless, this phenomenon, to me, is not merely “a heartwarming story.”

We, perhaps, can see this phenomenon as a reflection of peoples’ illusion in the Freudian sense. For Freud, ‘An ‘illusion’ is a belief which may or may not be false, but which is held by the agent because it satisfies a wish.’ (Geuss 1981: 39)*. Becoming a hero is a belief which may or may not be false and one’s chance is rather slim but the reason one still believes that one will become a hero is that this belief satisfies some wish one has. In other words, the agent can fulfill their wish of being a hero via the “Tiger Mask” donation. Donation is a convenient means of fulfilling their wishes in this case. Making an anonymous donation in the name of manga hero is a process of wish fulfillment of the agent. This may appeal to some people with the illusion since this is more real and successful than other attempts to become a hero, i.e. playing video-games or cosplay (costume-play). One’s goodwill action as a hero is also acknowledged by the recipients, and the acknowledgements will be reinforced in the widespread reports of the mass media.

Of course, I do not want to criticise those donors and claim that all donors hold such illusions behind their goodwill. However, in some cases anonymous donations have reportedly been made under the name of other cartoon characters, such as Yabuki Jo, Laputa, Ayanami Rei, etc. If these donors simply want to make a donation they do not need to do it under the names of hero. They, more likely, want to fulfill their wishes becoming a hero.

If anonymous donations are driven by aforementioned illusion, it may be very interesting to think about the following questions: to what extent people’s external behaviors are driven by their illusions; what is the relationship between the reality (i.e. reading manga or making donations) and the illusion (becoming a hero)?

At any rate, the “Tiger Mask” donation is certainly more than "a heartwarming story."

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*Geuss, Raymond (1981) The Idea of a Critical Theory Habermas and the Frankfurt School, London: Cambridge University Press.

What Is That Funny S-Shape?

In the history of comics, one of the great success stories has to be Thomas Nast, whose political cartoons were key in removing the corrupt New York politician William “Boss” Tweed from office and crippling his established power base. One of the reasons Nast’s cartoons worked where other avenues met with less results was that they could be understood by the illiterate; one only needed to see the fat man with a sack of money for a head to connect 2 and 2 together.

Nast is certainly not the first instance of using images to circumvent illiteracy, but as literacy rates have improved drastically in the 130 years or so since Tweed, you don’t really see comics having to deal with a population of specifically illiterate adults. Yes, there are works for children that do so, but because they are aimed at the young you don’t really get the same effect. And yes, you still have political cartoons that are easily understood on the visual level (name your favorite politician and put a Hitler mustache and/or devil horns on their head), but they’re again created in an environment where literacy is assumed.


When I look at that drawing of Boss Tweed, or pictorial depictions of Biblical stories from the Middle Ages, I don’t see that as specifically Tweed and that it’s a statement of corruption or that this painting is indeed the story of Job. I feel as if I do not have the right context, too far-removed from those times, and that in addition to that limitation I am also in a way restricted by my ability to read. I cannot capture that circumstance; while I could easily pick up a current comic or cartoon meant for adults in a language I do not understand and would most assuredly succeed in not reading it, I would still have a work that was created and meant for an environment where the average adult can read, no matter how minimal the text might be, and I might not have the proper cultural context.
I of course am not encouraging or promoting illiteracy, but as the world has moved away from it, I have to wonder if we’ll lose that method of creating comics for an adult audience, a style that arose out of a particularly great limitation. I also am curious about Japan, where literacy rates have been remarkably high for a number of decade and where comics culture has also developed greatly during that period.