A true treat for true fans of any genre, Otaku no Video (“Fan’s Video”) is an outrageous mockumentary that combines the superb animation that made Gainax one of Japan’s best-loved animation studios with truly strange interviews with “real animation fans.” The result is a thinly fictionalized history of Gainax that segues into a truly strange SF adventure.
—AnimeNfo.Com
As seen in chapter 1, Gainax’s history is intimately connected with Otakuism—and hence with the very genesis of the otaku category, its evolution from the early 1980s to the present day, its shifting ideological and ethical connotations, its links with specific social circles and sectors of the entertainment industry, and its incremental appropriation by Western fans. Otaku no Video is a powerful testimony to those key components of Gainax’s development vis-à-vis a distinctive political and economic milieu. The OVA’s full plot unfolds over two installments, set in 1982 and 1985. Its protagonist is Kubo, an average Japanese college student, who initially belongs to a tennis club, is very popular with his classmates and has a gorgeous girlfriend by the name of Yoshiko. This seemingly perfect life acquires an utterly unprecedented turn when Kubo bumps into an old high school classmate named Tanaka and is drawn into the weird subculture to which his friend appears to belong: a parallel universe peopled by anime and manga fans, cosplayers, model makers, information geeks, weapon collectors, martial artists and army enthusiasts—in other words, the otaku subculture. Toying with otakudom for fun, as one might with an innocent after-school hobby, Kubo soon discovers that the lifestyle involved in being a dedicated fan is coming to dominate his whole existence. The protagonist’s personal trajectory thus fully corroborates the ominous warning voiced by one of Tanaka’s associates early in the story: once you enter otakuland, “you can NEVER get out.” Kubo thereafter channels all his time, energy and money into anime, allowing it to shape his entire routine, becomes estranged from his girlfriend (who never quite forgives him), loses his social reputation, and finds that even his health is beginning to deteriorate. Kubo may well choose to reject this exacting regime—but he may equally plausibly resolve to embrace it wholeheartedly and thus become the ultimate otaku: the Otaking.
The protagonist does succeed in creating his own anime, opening shops and even establishing a kind of Disneyland specifically designed for the benefit of otaku. However, his prosperity is abruptly brought to an end when a plucky competitor (who, ironically, also happens to be married to the disaffected Yoshiko) takes over the entire venture. Eventually, Kubo falls in love with the manga author Misuzu and, through the sheer energy unleashed by his enthusiastic otaku spirit, manages to overpower the grubby hard-nosedness of lucre-driven entrepreneurs and to assert his presence in the anime universe with the Magical-Girl show “Misty May.”
In the exploration of Otaku no Video’s cultural backdrop—a task on which any genuine Gainax fan will be eager to embark—Volker Grassmuck’s influential article “‘I’m alone, but not lonely’: Japanese Otaku-Kids colonize the Realm of Information and Media—A Tale of Sex and Crime from a Faraway Place” offers an especially useful source of contextual information. “The etymology of the word,” the critic explains, “is not without black holes.” At base, the term derives from
everyday language, and in the original sense means “your home,” then in a neo-confucian pars pro toto “your husband,” and more generally it is used as the personal pronoun “you” (since a Japanese individual cannot be thought of without his connection to his household).... [T]here are 48 ways to say “I” in Japanese, and just about as many to say “you.” ... Otaku is a polite way to address someone whose social position towards you you do not yet know, and it appears with a higher frequency in the women’s language. It keeps distance [Grassmuck].
The word gains more problematic connotations when it is employed among peers. On such occasions, it tends to convey a desire to keep one’s friends and colleagues at arm’s length, which can be interpreted as an assertion of superiority on the user’s part proclaimed ironically and even self-derisively rather than in earnest, or else as an inability to communicate openly due to a lack of adequately fostered interactive skills.
In a sense, otaku are a fairly logical outcome of a technology-driven and information-saturated society. Avidly consuming the products seen to embody their burning passions at the expense of intimate social interaction, with often irreverent disregard for fashionable dress (despite its being a veritable fetish among Japanese kids at large), and virtually no concern with either physical exercise or diet, otaku take refuge in the technological equipment that typically clutters their haunts. This grants them constant access to virtual images with which they can identify and which they can, by and by, assimilate as their own personal self-images.
Whether one embraces the idealistic quest for otakuism promulgated by Kubo, or else views the phenomenon as symptomatic of deeply dysfunctional facets of Japan’s youth culture, it would be hard to deny the existence of a connection between otaku’s social withdrawal and reclusiveness and a broader atmosphere of cultural malaise bred of atomization and disconnectedness, as well as the monumental pressures posed by the overarching imperatives to always do one’s best—and succeed. These pressures, ingrained in Japan’s philosophy and socioeconomic fabric since time immemorial, have not infrequently led to tragedy, as notoriously attested to by the country’s high suicide rates among teenagers failing to meet their academic targets in a veritably exam-obsessed culture. Self-destructive despair appears to be an endemic response to the apprehension of failure, anomie, insecurity, loneliness and the lack of a clear sense of purpose. This proposition has been recently confirmed by some troubling statistics. As David Samuels points out, “From 2003 through 2005, 180 people died in 61 reported cases of Internet-assisted suicide in Japan” (Samuels, p. 1). Intriguingly, although ritualized suicide has featured in Japanese history since at least samurai culture and the related ethos of bushido (“the way of the warrior”)—with kamikaze pilots later offering a baleful anticipation of contemporary suicide bombers—the “most spectacular manifestation of Japan’s exploding suicide culture, Internet group suicide, is unique in that it is rooted in the technologies of the computer age and has no meaningful precedent in traditional Japanese social behaviour” (p. 2).
Takeshi Mori—and Gainax generally—adopt a deliberately ambiguous stance to otakuism. On the one hand, they celebrate the joys of passionate fandom with unbridled glee. It is worth noting, in this regard, that Gainax cofounder Toshio Okada has actually founded an International Otaku University (as well as lectured in “Otakuology” at Tokyo University) as a conceptual space within which fans can interact and learn through their consumption of anime and manga, participation in conventions, festivals and clubs, and involvement in fan art, fan fiction and cosplay. On the other hand, Mori and his colleagues elliptically draw attention to the numbing solipsism to which rabid addiction is only too often conducive. Hence, the studio never unequivocally militates in favor of otaku pride.
The dreamland aspired to by Mori’s characters constitutes, at one level, a totally fantastic realm fuelled by sheer escapism—a space, as the character of Tanaka puts it, “where every day is like a school festival.” (Gainax’s proverbial aversion to the obligation to grow up resonates through Tanaka’s Pinocchio-like words.) At another level, the harsh realities of the actual world insistently infiltrate the otaku’s imaginary fairground. This is patently borne out by the OVA’s tendency to sprinkle references to serious news items across its footage, including the British invasion of the Falklands and countless local and international crimes, political scandals and natural calamities. A vivid mood of reportorial veracity is concisely evoked by the presentation of such items in the form of text typed over a black screen in a white, old-fashioned font.
Otaku no Video instantly announces itself as a formally adventurous project. A two-part OVA alluding to the early history of Studio Gainax itself, the production intersperses its animated portions with mockumentary extracts titled “A Portrait of an Otaku.” These offer a sample gallery showcasing otaku of all sorts (e.g., a garage-kit addict, a porno-video fan, an obsessed videogamer, cel thieves, and a cosplayer refusing to own up to his passion) in the form of live-action interviews. The baffling variety of fans included may surprise the casual viewer inclined to believe that otaku’s cravings are exclusively anime, manga and computer games. In fact, as the Liner Notes included in the AnimEigo release of the OVA explain, “In Japan, one can be an Otaku of any genre, as the ‘Portrait of an Otaku’ segments, and some of the specialties of the characters themselves, demonstrate. There is in fact a TV quiz show called ‘Cult Q’ which is basically a show for Otakus [sic] of all kinds—whether they are experts of tropical fish or ingredient labels of over-the-counter drugs!” (“Otaku no Video: Liner Notes”).
The animated segments and the “Portrait” interludes differ in tone to the extent that whereas the former tend to celebrate otaku’s positive enthusiasm, the latter are more inclined to throw into relief the negative implications of their rabidly all-consuming passions. The denigrating dimension is explicitly foregrounded by the reluctance of certain interviewees to express their opinions and admit to their addictions in public. The partially illicit nature of their pursuits (a corollary of the media’s demonization of otaku as perverts) is further highlighted by the incorporation of two strategies typical of the serious documentary style: the retention of the characters’ anonymity and the masking of their faces by means of filmic mosaic.
In both the anime and the mockumentary sequences, however, the OVA consistently evinces an ironically self-deprecating stance: even when the fans’ joyful fervor is brought to the fore, the latent absurdity of their activities and objectives is tersely underscored by the ludicrously bombastic, mock-epic tenor of the discourse in which they couch their ideals. Kanda Yoshimi’s lyrics for the show’s theme song, “Tatakae! Otaking” (“Fight! Otaking”), eloquently attest to this trait, as indicated by just the first couple of verses:
Over the endless wasteland
I run alone for all I am worth
embracing the hope
of an unseen world far away.
* * *
The only thing I believe in is glowing passion
I will be a raging inferno!
No one will be able to stop
my heart’s beat!
Moreover, as the Right Stuf review of the OVA points out, one senses throughout the 100 minutes of its duration that “This is Gainax having a good deal of fun at their own expense” (“Otaku no Video DVD”). Nevertheless, even though the studio was unquestionably keen on parodying otakuism, and, by implication, its own practices, it also sought to pay respect to the fan base that had made the company’s own establishment and meteoric rise to fame possible in the first place. It is thanks to this commodious disposition that Otaku no Video manages to remain good-humored and touching throughout despite its indictment of otaku’s least savory proclivities.
Not only does Otaku no Video mirror Gainax’s own inception and early stages, it is also commonly believed that all the characters included in the mockumentary sections were based on staff employed by the studio at the time of shooting. As explained in the Wikipedia entry for the OVA,
The first otaku interviewed bore a remarkable resemblance to Toshio Okada, a principal founder in Gainax, in both background and physical appearance. The gaijin otaku, Shon Hernandez, has been confirmed to have been Craig York, who with Shon Howell and Lea Hernandez ... were the main staff of General Products USA, an early Western branch of Gainax’s merchandising in the early 1990s.... At FanimeCon 2003, Hiroshi Sato, an animator and another Gainax member, mentioned that he had been one of the interviewees in Otaku no Video. It is speculated that Sato was the garage-kit otaku, who used a simple reversal of his name for the pseudonym “Sato Hiroshi” for the interview [Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopaedia—Otaku no Video].
Additionally, the OVA is rife with anime references of all sorts, mirroring a stylistic propensity already nascent in Gainax’s earlier works. As argued in the preceding chapters, Wings of Honneamise, Gunbuster and Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water all stand out as bold redefinitions of established genres: space opera, the mecha show, steampunk-inspired historical allegory. In this respect, those productions are inconceivable independently of an aesthetic foundation that brings together successively accreting strata of anime’s coral-reef structure. Neon Genesis Evangelion will further reconfigure the mecha formula while simultaneously taking anime’s penchant for serious psychodrama and ideological critique into the stratosphere. His and Her Circumstances, for its part, will radically reinvent the parameters of romantic anime by means of daring stylistic gestures and a resolutely unorthodox diegetic orchestration. With FLCL, the studio will embark on one of the most flamboyant experiments in brain-twisting anime underpinned by Bildungsroman motifs, whereas Mahoromatic—Automatic Maiden will give Gainax the opportunity to deconstruct both maid-based romantic comedy and intergalactic epic. Self-reflexive parody will reach its apotheosis with Magical Shopping Arcade Abenobashi—a veritable hymn to multigeneric and multimedia pastiche.
Providing a fully comprehensive list of the myriad productions alluded to in the course of Otaku no Video by means of action figures and manga volumes on display on the shelves, posters and costumes donned at festivals and conventions would barely be apposite in the present context. It must nonetheless be emphasized that several highly esteemed classics make an appearance. These include the following titles (here listed in alphabetical order for ease of filmographical reference):
• Future Boy Conan (animated TV series; dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1978)
• Gauche the Cellist (animated feature film; dir. Isao Takahata, 1982)
• Lupin III: The Castle of Cagliostro (animated feature film; dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1979) [also alluded to in FLCL]
• Maison Ikkoku (animated TV series; dir. Kazuo Yamazaki, 1986–1988)
• Mobile Suit Gundam (animated TV series; dir. Yoshiyuki Tomino, 1979–1980)
• Nausicaä of the Valley of Wind (animated feature film; dir. Hayao Miyazaki, 1984) [also alluded to in Gunbuster]
• Rose of Versailles (animated TV series; dirs. Tadao Nagahama and Osamu Dezaki, 1979–1980)
• Space Battleship Yamato (animated TV series; dir. Leiji Matsumoto, 1974)
• Super Dimensional Fortress Macross (animated TV series; dir. Noboru Ishiguro, 1982)
• Urusei Yatsura (animated TV series and feature films; dirs. Mamoru Oshii, Kazuo Yamazaki, Satoshi Dezaki and Katsuhisa Yamada, 1981–1991) [also alluded to in This Ugly Yet Beautiful World]
In-jokes centered on self -referential allusions to Gainax’s previous productions, including the groundbreaking Daicon 4 opening animation, Wings of Honneamise, Gunbuster and Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, serve to further reinforce the program’s zestfully intertextual nature. The finale renders direct homage to Gunbuster.
The DVD cover is itself a paean to self-reflexivity, featuring the character of Misty May as the central figure—modeled on the Bunny Girl from Daicon 4—surrounded by her non-magical incarnation, by Tanaka (who is based on Toshio Okada) and Kubo (Hiroyuki Yamaga’s avatar), and by a lion cub directly inspired by Nadia’s King. Furthermore, the company “Giant X” is Gainax itself in thin disguise, just as the ancillary merchandise manufacturing venture “Grand Prix” clearly echoes General Products. In addition, Otaku no Video regales the senses with legion allusions to anime conventions, festivals, fanzines (doujinshi), clubs, merchandising ventures and studios, as well as to celebrities in both the music and the cinema industries.
A worthy successor to Mori’s classic OVA is the 12-episode TV series Genshiken, directed by Takashi Ikehata and first aired in 2004. Genshiken constitutes a dispassionate, occasionally farcical but on the whole quietly amusing, dissection of an otaku club’s endless quest for geekery. Most of the humor emanates from the club members’ totally unself-critical magnification of its trivial goals as valiant missions. The gloriously overinflated episode titles used throughout the show, in particular, blatantly perpetuate the mock-heroic mood conjured up by Otaku no Video. The following examples seem especially deserving of citation in the present context:
• Episode 1—Study of the Modern Visually-Oriented Culture;
• Episode 2—Comparative Classification of the Modern Youth through Consumption and Entertainment;
• Episode 4—The Sublimating Effects of the Dissimulation Brought on through Makeup and Costume;
• Episode 6—Theory of the Individual Outside the Boundaries of the Subculture;
• Episode 7—Aspects of Behavioral Selection in Interpersonal Relationships.
As Chris Johnston observes, “The series provides a fantastic peek into anime/game/manga culture in Japan through Suioh University’s Genshiken—a club of dorkus maximus who live, sleep, eat and breathe all things geek. In addition to being informative ... it also holds the mirror up to our own fan culture and reveals some of the quirks of the more hardcore among us” (Johnston, p. 152). Glimpses into the subcultures of cosplay and model-making are also supplied, as are the rules and codes of conduct surrounding attendance at fan-driven conventions.1
Analogous themes to those addressed by Otaku no Video and Genshiken have been recently developed in the TV show Welcome to the N.H.K. (dir. Yusuke Yamamoto, 2006). The series pivots on Tatsuhiro Satou, a classic case of the societally dysfunctional type known as “hikikomori.” The term designates reclusive individuals inclined to lock themselves away for prolonged periods, to fill their days with long spells of sleep and to spend their nights surfing the Internet, playing video games or watching TV. This total withdrawal from social life generally induces hikikomori to take refuge in fantasy worlds akin to those favored by otaku, such as manga and anime. Satou is convinced that his condition is the result of a widespread conspiracy initiated by an organization eager to turn everybody into a social recluse. Much as he wishes to break free from his state, Satou is hindered by his sheer inability to face the outside world—until Misaki Nakahari enters his life and commits herself to curing the youth of his obsession.
Otaku no Video, Genshiken and Welcome to the N.H.K. exuberantly demonstrate, in their distinctive ways, that fandom is not by automatic definition tantamount to insular obsessiveness. At the same time, even as they adopt a predominantly jocular tone, they never quite lose sight of the darker cultural substratum underlying the phenomenon with which they so dispassionately engage. Accordingly, the viewer is regaled with plentiful opportunities to just have a good laugh; yet, he or she is also consistently reminded that otakuism is a cultural phenomenon inextricably intertwined with a profound sense of generational crisis, and is concurrently imbricated with the cognate phenomenon of information fetishism and with Japan’s proverbially torrid relationship with technology.