Outside The System: Isao Takahata, the lesser-known Studio Ghibli Co-founder

The most expensive movie ticket I have ever purchased, and I will ever purchase, was for a film directed by Studio Ghibli co-founder, Isao Takahata. The price of the movie ticket was around $275 dollars. Of course, I’ll explain this preposterous ordeal. No movie theatre would sell a ticket that high unless it was a black tie event featuring Takahata himself. The film was Takahata’s last, ​The Tale of the Princess Kaguya​, and for some unfortunate reason, it was not playing in Rochester, New York or the suburban vicinity. The closest theatre showing the film was the eclectically pleasant Cinemapolis in Ithaca, around one hour and forty-five minutes away. The only screening that day, the day before Thanksgiving, was around eight thirty. Such parameters required a high level of motivation, and being autumn, darkness came with an increased rapidity.

I was never going to let this opportunity pass, so I convinced my good friend to come along and we started heading to the city of gorges. Cold air zoomed by us and eventually snow spawned all around, flakes dancing the Brownian ballet. Soon a fresh coat of white topped the roofs of buildings, the farmland that flanked the back roads, and the road itself. What could be considered an environmental hazard was only a cosmetic change for me, as my giddiness to arrive at the destination as soon as possible (I began the journey earlier than needed out of habit) cancelled out the cautiousness I should have employed. Granted, I was not going that fast. In fact, I was at most five miles over the speed limit, which on average was 40-45 miles per hour.

And if that was the average, then an inarguable outlier would be Trumansburg’s town limits, which plummet the speed limit to thirty for obvious reasons. Being dark, cold, snowy, and untamed by plow trucks, Trumansburg was as desolate as it was oddly picturesque. Perhaps it was the combination of my excitement to get to Ithaca and the calm I felt looking upon a serene and empty town nestled in a wooded area that allowed me to completely and stupidly become oblivious towards the speed limit change. I hastily coasted down the main artery of Trumansburg, waxing pleasant conversation with my friend, and just as I was about to leave the town limits: those brilliantly colourful lights peered from around the bend behind us. Many know the feeling. Upon seeing a police’s lights, your insides sink down to your legs. Usually, the police drive by, looking for another inconsiderate driver, but this time they were looking for me. I was the only

one there.

I was pulled over, albeit a little confused, though I had the slight inclination that speed was a factor. The policeman was a nice individual, who gently let me know I was going seventeen miles per hour over the speed limit, of which I was shocked. I was a goody-two-shoes when it came to driving and would never drive ​that ​fast. Except, of course, if it was Takahata’s last film (he did announce ​Kaguya ​would be his last). The ticket was around $270. The monetary devastation gradually sank into my soul, and the poor, cheap, financially illiterate individual shifted into a sombre state for a while. My good friend, who was a (fast) car aficionado, reminisced about all the times he was pulled over, and all the times he was not. Thankfully, as we were descending upon Lake Seneca on which Ithaca rested, I began to remember that at the end of the proverbial tunnel waited a Japanese animation film I instinctively knew would be amazing. In addition,

we were on time despite the setback.

As I recall this silly yet memorable story, I would say, without hesitation, that ​The Tale of the Princess Kaguya ​was worth every dollar. It was worth getting pulled over and how many points were added to my license. The late screening time, the quaint, small screen, and the two-hour and twenty minute runtime all contributed to a most unique and beautiful cinema experience. Not only was I validated of my lofty presumptions about how this film would turn out, the film allowed me to transcend any doubt and enjoy one of the finest films I had seen in a very long time.

My perception of Isao Takahata was similar to many. His resonance wavered in the shadow of his colleague, Hayao Miyazaki. For many, Miyazaki was Ghibli and

arguably the greatest animator alive. And like many others, presumably, I was introduced to Takahata through his magnum opus and proclaimed “saddest film of all time,” ​Grave of the Fireflies​. At the risk of being over-encumbered by perpetual hype, the film succeeds in being a painful elegy of a war-torn past.

It is relentless in its struggle, the potential artifice of animated visuals obliterated by the realism of the character performances and the historical context that supports it. Fireflies also have a multi-layered connotation for me, personally, as they are animals constantly referred to by one of my favourite bands, the swamp-infested soul-rock of Mofro. They use ‘the firefly’ in a way that is quite similar, minus a war, in that the fleeting existence of a firefly resembles a similarly fleeting childhood. My reflection on the premature conclusion to my own childhood through an austere, bewildering divorce has left me floundering in an unintelligible slough of emotion and nostalgia. I will forever remember the film’s use of the red glow, a warning sign doubling as a sign of irreparable loss, and the gentle cityscape of a modern Japanese city, surrounded by the ghosts of a violent past.

Of course, ​Fireflies​ expanded the boundaries of my perception towards animation. An apt analogy would be that of the universe instantly expanding through the process of inflation—it was that substantial. ​Kaguya ​would be my second film of his, and ​Fireflies fuelled my blind anticipation of the film.  Yet, this second interaction clearly showed the unwavering ambition and versatility of Takahata. On the surface, I take note of the infinitely gorgeous visuals, the paint and charcoal-stroked lines filled in with watercolours. I have never seen such vibrancy and softness, it was as if I was looking through an extensive gradient into a narrative  structurally simple but profound in its feelings. Moreover, and this may have to do with my ignorance in animation, I had never seen such striking expression emitted by the physicality of the lines defining the characters.

The scene where the titular character breaks free from her imprisoning celebration in a nightmarish fit of rage utilises one of the most impressive presentations of visceral animation, the lines defining Kaguya rupture in a visual cacophony, originating from a soul decaying in glamorous bondage. Though she doesn’t scream, these raging lines do so without any sound. This may be the loudest scene in the whole film. At two hours and twenty minutes, ​Kaguya ​is in many ways non-traditional for animation, but it attains its status of an epic by fixing an intimate look into the life of a revered but incarcerated woman, hailed as a god, but locked away like a forgotten antique. Though not an urgent narrative about war and its costs, there is a sense of sadness so familiar in this film as there was in ​Fireflies​. It was clear to me that Takahata was brilliant. Both of these films had forced me into long episodes of pondering.

Yet, it was a sudden announcement of a rerelease of an early film of his, titled ​Only Yesterday​, that may have changed my life. Perhaps, though I won’t discount the risk of hyperbole, I will laden this memory in unchecked sentimentality—but it is hard to imagine my life without seeing this film. Twenty-five years after ​Only Yesterday ​was released in Japan, it finally saw a proper release in the US. I had managed to cross paths with this film briefly when I explored Takahata’s canon upon watching his other entries. Its simple premise intrigued me, particularly as I had been expanding my idea of cinema during my reign as an undergraduate in Film Studies.

A woman spends the summer in the countryside, reuniting with her memories of her

younger self.

Sparking unduly was my curiosity which raised the question of how effectively an animation could represent such a contemplative narrative?  It would take several years before that question would be answered. I saw ​Only Yesterday ​in 2016 in a packed theatre. It was a cold March, which is usual for Rochester.  And I remember walking out of the theatre at a brisk pace so that I could get to my car in a dark parking lot glazed with ice and rain. The numbness of my body prevented much thought, and for that night I sort of slipped out from the monumental experience. That is, until that Hungarian music, which hovers gracefully over many scenes, jolted my mind into riveting recollection. The scenes began to file up into my thoughts. Take this one: an extended moment where a young Taeko and her family sit at their table awaiting to try pineapple for the first time—lingers with me like a dulcet memory. Figuring out how to finally cut it open, Taeko’s mother hands everyone a piece. In synchronous  anticipation, they take a bite out of the fruit and for several beats we see the faces of  the family members tighten from the tartness, then relax in disappointment.

Taeko, who grandstanded the idea of trying the pineapple, forges on, unwilling to show any wavering in her pride, though the bizarre taste can be seen in her facial strain. While Kaguya​ exemplified one of the most beautifully animated scenes through its sheer physicality and chaotic motion, the pineapple scene in ​Only Yesterday ​may just be as triumphant through its perfectly envisioned subtle and calculating gestures. I never regarded individual lines and their exact placement on an animated face like I did with this scene. Every line, resembling a mouth, or an eye, or an eyebrow, is so effectively placed, moving so delicately in one direction and in the next, that the feelings exhibited by Taeko and her family are incredibly true to life. Only Yesterday ​upholds a remarkable level of naturalism, invoked in every aspect of its animation, especially the character design. The older Taeko is defined by her cheeks in ways that many other animated films never regard. Yet, its naturalism isn’t the only aesthetic at play, as it is married so well with a surrealism stemming from the fragmentation of memory, as well as the blissful emotions of childhood. It is a film that simultaneously allows a girl to take a flight of whimsy as she experiences an early instance of love, running up into the magenta and fuschia clouds in stratospheric ballet, while also lingering on a sunrise over low-lying mountains as the light blasts through the

trees, pinballing across the many dewdrops which rest on the leaves of the populating safflower. In lieu of these dazzling moments, ​Only Yesterday ​is not just about childhood, memory, or identity. It is also about organic farming, fractions, acting, periods, cartoon shows, love, modernity. By staying true to the fluctuating focus that real life embodies, the film is essentially about everything, without feeling like it is trying to present the audience with everything.

I could say more; my obsessive quality of tarrying on a topic that means so much to me enforces a blindness to how cumbersome my explanations can be. It is a searingly wonderful film. But there is something more about this film to talk about, one that should shower Takahata with serious commendation. Per Ghibli philosophy, and in the same way Miyazaki was able to make films like ​Nausicaa ​and ​Kiki’s Delivery Service​  appeal to young women and daughters, the mere existence of ​Only Yesterday ​should be a cause for celebration...maybe even more so now than in 1991.

Although the auteur theory can be prescribed to any director and their supposed authorship on a film, it is more historically rooted with male directors. It is an analytical framework used to describe the dominance and creative control male filmmakers exhibited in their content and stylistic approaches. Many tropes pervaded, including films that centred around men, usually middle-aged, nostalgic for a more youthful time. In these films, an exploration of life, love, and memory utilise devices like the spirited young woman as a way of elaborating on the male’s preoccupations. In many cases, the man falls in love with this woman, either accepted or denied this opportunity, but nonetheless creating an uneasy dichotomy between women and the privileges afforded to men, with some of these films being tone deaf or even outwardly misogynistic (I won’t name names as that will draw attention away from the individual I am praising).

Takahata goes in an entirely different direction with ​Only Yesterday​. Instead of lamenting within the aging-masculine realm, he imbues agency, desire, contemplation, and nuance into a twenty-seven year old woman who is content that she is single, though open to intimacy. If the bold artistic exclamation was not felt upon the film’s release, then, in this social climate, its power holds it up as an example of a film we should appreciate. It is a film that takes its time to create a story of a woman respectfully and elegantly. When I introduced this film to my film language class, I asked the students to think about how many films,  mainstream or popular in the US, trained their focus on a woman in their late twenties pondering on her youth and identity.

Indeed, when it came time to show this film to my class, I became overly emotional. Hearing the many reactions from the students was an unnecessary validation I always sought but never really deserved, but was at least a testament to what this film meant to me, and what it meant to share its experience with other people.  ‘Outside the system,’ is a phrase that can describe the characters of Takahata’s films and of Takahata himself.

Studio Ghibli, as pervasive in culture as it has become, is a playground for master storytellers to play outside the system.  From the two siblings in ​Grave of the Fireflies​ who reject the system of hierarchy that, in  a way, is responsible for the war in the first place, to Kaguya’s desire to free herself from  idolisation in flights of fancy, to even Taeko’s denial of traditional gender  roles, Takahata brings to life characters who see the world differently from others.

His films are visual embodiments of that idea, allowing viewers like me to experience these fresh perspectives, to understand the necessity, but also the challenges of living outside some system, whether social, political, or economic.  

These films I mentioned are the only three I have seen of his. Knowing that there are several more, I do not call myself an expert on Takahata and his work. Rather, I only focus on how these films influenced me; I know what I know. Takahata has given me so much knowledge through the expansiveness of his storytelling. He has also allowed me to proliferate tenderness in my characters, something I tend to forget amid common artistic endeavours hinging on the cynical. Tenderness, vulnerability, longing, many of these things are uncommon in popular culture, let alone popular discourse, but Takahata has been able to ruminate on these topics at length because he rejected a larger norm that may have made his work a restrictive tedium.