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Part II: Posthuman Bodies in the Animated Imaginary
The next set of essays are comprised of works which talk of the blurred boundaries between the organic and mechanical, both in the physical and metaphysical realm:


1. “Frankenstein and the Cyborg Metropolis: The evolution of Body and City in Science Fiction Narratives” by Sharalyn Orbaugh
2. “Animated Bodies and Cybernetic Selves: The Animatrix and the Question of Posthumanity” by Carl Silvio
3. “The Robots from Takkun’s Head: Cyborg Adolescence in FLCL” by Brian Ruh









When speaking of cybernetic technologies, the most immediate thought would be semantics around the definition of human and machine, with a following thought that would most likely be some dystopian society overrun by robots.

Orbaugh’s essay deals with cybernetics in science fiction as a whole, rather than anime specifically. However, it references Ghost in the Shell, Osamu Tezuka’s Metropolis, and various mecha and space opera anime while comparing them to American and European works of science fiction.

According to Orbaugh, the term “cyborg” was first created in 1960, describing some organic creature that purposely combines machine components into themselves in order to adapt to new environments. However, the concept of a creature born half-flesh and half-machine goes back to Mary Shelley’s 1818 Frankenstein – the now infamous monster borne of science. Over the course of many decades, cybernetics was something of an afterthought, but the introduction of machines into literature became a growing trend. In Japan too, there had been efforts throughout the Meiji period to modernize. When Jules Verne’s novel Around the World in Eighty Days was translated into Japanese in 1879, where the power of machines was emphasized, the Japanese fell in love with science fiction. Following this, six more of Verne’s novels were translated, including Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. This infatuation is reflected in the creation of such adventure/science fiction novels like Oshikawa Shinro’s Kaitei gunkan (The Seabed Warship), which featured a submarine boasting advanced technology.


In all these stories, themes of exploration, colonization, and glory featuring men of science were pervasive. Around the turn of the 20th century though, the Italian Futurism movement began, which brought forth feelings of speed, violence, youth, technology, and revolution. This movement is attributed to Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, whom gave Futurism its anarchist image through his writings and its Fascist stigma through his support of Benito Mussolini. This sparked an odd response in Japan, which occurred after Marinetti’s “Futurist Manifesto” was translated into Japanese in 1909. A Futurist movement began in Japan out of second-hand knowledge, “represented by writers such as Inagaki Taruho, and artists such as Kanbara Tai and Okada Tatsuo, whose work glorified machines and the technologies of urban space.”



Curiously, Osamu Tezuka’s Metropolis manga was apparently based on what Tezuka heard about the film of the same name. Written between 1947-1949, 20 years after Fritz Lang’s original film, Tezuka never claimed to have seen the film or read the script. Both versions featured architecture and social structure to express class differences through capitalism and deteriorating environmental conditions, but in comparison, Tezuka added the class differences between the rich humans, the poor humans, and all manner of discriminated cybernetic humans, regardless of intelligence.

Orbaugh theorizes that the general trend of machines going from a symbol of progress to a symbol of corruption may have resulted from World War I’s use of deadly technologies. This may have given rise to the popular “mad scientist” whom are hell-bent in wreaking havoc with their technology. World War II and the machine’s association with Futurism and Fascism did little to give positive imagery. This continues even into modern day, with the most prolific example being Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner, where dark, forbidding, and colossal towers of computerized hardware are featured, just as they were in Metropolis many decades ago.

Back in Japan, the period between the 1950s-1980s saw a boom in robotic heroes (Astro Boy, Tetsujin-28), mecha (Getter Robo, Mobile Suit Gundam), and space opera (Space Battleship Yamato, Superdimensional Fortress Macross). Here, the machine was still used as tools of justice, exploration, and idolization. During this time, the scale of anime often superseded the city level, where humanity’s reach expanded into the depths of space. Interest in mecha and space waned temporarily in the 1980s though, most likely due to the advent of such works like Fist of the North Star and Dragon Ball, later giving birth to many other similar works in the 1990s of the famed Golden Age of Weekly Shounen Jump (One Piece, Rurouni Kenshin, Yu Yu Hakusho, etc). It wouldn’t be until the mid-1990s when Neon Genesis Evangelion and Ghost in the Shell did the emphasis on technology and its relationship with the human condition resurface. Still, technology itself remained a theme throughout these decades, such as Bulma’s fantastical technologies in Dragon Ball for example.







In anime, technology and people popularly co-exist with each other, with technology giving an internal, spiritual source of strength. Compare, say, the usage of an arm cannon in an anime, which is attached to the user, to the usage of a gun in a western work, where it can easily be discarded and replaced. This relationship goes deeper in shows featuring mecha, where at times the pilot and the robot share the same conscience.

Still, anime is not immune to criticisms of it all. Shows such as Akira and Psycho-Pass exist to demonstrate the logical extents of the misuse of technology. Again though, anime, for the most part, is not without some glimmer of hope with regards to mechanics-gone-wrong. In giving examples from personal experience, Now and Then, Here and There, as well as Casshern Sins, feature entire populations dictated by technology and happen to be some of the most depressing works I’ve ever seen, and yet, they’re not without some hint of salvation.

So, to throw out a few questions, how has technology in anime been shown throughout the 2000s? How has it been shown so far in the 2010s? Will the way technology is shown in anime ever change? Without a doubt, more anime like Psycho-Pass will arrive to show the darker sides of technology, whether by internal Japanese experimentation or influences from western media. What’s left is to see when it happens, and what happens after.









The Animatrix exists as a work combining the talents of multiple anime directors to give a spin on The Matrix films created by the Wachowski brothers, which Watanabe Shinichiro described his experience where he “watched it as if [he] was watching a Japanese animated film.” As Carl Silvio immediately claims afterwards, “as I shall argue in this essay, The Animatrix not only provides its viewers with an artistically fascinating supplement to the original, but also engages in a thoughtful and nuanced critique of its underlying philosophical and ideological assumptions.” To elaborate, Silvio believes The Animatrix is representative of the relationship between anime and global cultures, where the collaboration expresses both the potential and the growing trend in cultural blending, of which Antonia Levi’s essay previously warned of. In doing so, Silvio wishes to portray the positive portrayal of posthumanism in The Animatrix as compared to the original, in addition to highlighting this difference using anime’s history and the difference between live-action and animation.



To begin, “posthuman” is defined by Silvio as an interpretation of humans as embodying transferrable information, rather than strictly cyborgs or the like. This defines humans as another interface, like that of a computer, without the absolute necessity to be part machine. Through this definition, posthuman takes into consideration the relationship between a pilot and their mecha, despite pilot needing cybernetic implants.

Going into the comparison, The Matrix and everything inspired by it involves the struggle of humans against machines, which have completely overtaken everything. As Silvio notes though, The Matrix never explicitly explained the meaning behind the war between humans and machine, leaving the audience to assume that it was somehow caused by the machines running amok. With The Animatrix parts “The Second Renaissance Part I” and “The Second Renaissance Part II” however, they tell of a history where it’s suggested that it was humanity’s fault for creating the initial conflict and bringing about its own demise. Humanity failed to treat its creations with compassion, inspiring a demand for equal rights by its sentient creations before resulting in all-out war once humanity’s atrocities rise to unforgivable levels.

In addition to moral ambiguity, the difference here is The Matrix’s version of the conflict: a material, physical war of domination and retaliation, and The Animatrix’s version of a conflict brought about by beliefs, particularly ones related to humanist ideals. One questions what is reality, whilst the other questions what measure is human.

The next mentioned feature, “Beyond,” portrays an unnamed city in the Matrix that experiences a programming anomaly, allowing kids to experiment with a rupture in reality. This, combined with “World Record,” which describes a track and field star unknowingly breaking the system and accomplishing inhuman feats, show ways individuals can break from reality without having to completely leave it. This is compared to Morpheus’s offer of the Red Pill and Blue Pill, where it turns the choice into an absolute. While still in the Matrix, people are able to manipulate reality, consciously and unconsciously, without any greater motive than having fun or surpassing one’s own limitations.

The discussion of human/machine and the removal of absolutes continue into “Matriculated,” where human survivors whom escaped from the Matrix capture a patrol robot and attempt to reprogram it to be more human-like. This story then becomes less about humans and machine, but about minds consisting of independent data, reflecting Silvio’s original argument. Still, the connection between humans and robots isn’t outright considered a solution, but the inherent problem, where difficulty exists in the two forming relationships with one another.

This ambiguity, as Silvia explains, persists throughout anime, especially with regards to apocalyptic works. Curiously, they’re not always outright horrific events. There exists a paradox where some good either comes from or continues to exist, even after the end of modern civilization. Some examples would be Future Boy Conan, Yokohama Shopping Trip, and Humanity Has Declined. Rather than stories of survival, they become stories of how life goes on.

Moving past this point, Silvio dives into preconceptions about animation and the viewers’ interpretations with “A Detective Story.” Anime characters, as drawings, can be represented in a variety of ways while still containing the same idea. Essentially, imagine every single piece of fanart and fanfiction of a character in addition to official art and works. Everyone one of these are representative of the same character, despite being portrayed in a multitude of ways. In “A Detective Story,” the feature is an animated black and white 1940s film noir piece, yet it still has Trinity from the films in it. A different visual style, a different setting, and a different reality; in all of this, the information remains the same. This is also expressed in “Kid’s Story,” where hyper-stylization runs parallel with the body and the self, as well as “Program,” where the exaggeration of the ordinary remains consistent.

Throughout all this, as Silvio highlights, the gap between physical and metaphysical ideas is constantly referenced, as opposed to a strict “is this realty” assessment. It’s not so much what we see, but we think. In the opening sequence, “Final Flight of the Osiris,” is entirely in CGI animation, features a man and a woman sparring with swords, progressively cutting away at each other’s clothes with great precision. This isn’t strictly erotic, but in serving as the opening, it playfully presents the slow stripping away of reality as animation approaches realism. In ending his analysis, Silvio acknowledges that each of the pieces are by different directors with different intentions, so they’re not all perfectly in sync with one another. However, as a whole, they do portray the ambiguous relationship of ideals present throughout anime.





Saying that The Animatrix is a diverse collection of ideas is a gross understatement. As such, it’s difficult to make the claim that it’s one cohesive narrative with a singular agenda, yet Silvio makes the attempt. Regardless of his success, it’s evident that he points out various trends in anime that are often overlooked, mainly how an idea of a character transcends anything visual. Within this book, it relates to Tatsumi Takayuki’s essay about TAMALA 2010 and its usage of a corporate icon. In present day, iconography is everywhere, ranging from McDonald’s signs to the very letters on our computer keyboards.

Symbols are everywhere, and they represent different ideas depending on our individual perceptions. That McDonald’s sign could indicate a place of good fast food to one person, or a place of great evil to another. Relating this to anime, characters mean and are seen differently in the eyes of different people, whom span multiple cultures and times. For example, Naruto Uzumaki in 1999 was seen very differently than he’s seen now, for both the east and west. At a time, he was an up and coming star who boasted guts and courage. 15 years later, he’s the source of controversy between fans and everyone else.

In relation to the overall narrative of Cinema Anime, this essay strongly portrays the results of an east and west collaboration, blending a western interpretation of eastern styles, then sending it back to be reinterpreted again. Through global efforts, the result was an anime that proved to be a social and technological success.







“Modern humans have become cyborgs,” as Brian Ruh immediately claims in his introduction. Relating to previous essays, the concept of “cyborg” is no longer a definition that strictly involves physical integration of flesh and metal. It now involves the organization of the way we think, which has long since been integrated with all manner of technology. This is evident in how prominent phones, computers, and the internet are in our daily lives, which becomes important to note for today’s youth, whom are exposed to technology from the early stages of their lives. The results of this are new identities and ways of thinking unique to present day, where technology is so plentiful and accessible.



Ruh describes FLCL as a work revolving around fragmentation, particularly the fragmentation of identity. Aside from its internal function as a coming-of-age story, FLCL visually demonstrated in how robots are formed to represent the inner workings of various characters. As Ruh explains, “The robots that spring from Naota’s head are illustrative of a schizophrenic loss of identity (the separation of the mediated identity from the body) as well as a feeling of freedom and power because of this separation.”

Oddly, Ruh repeatedly asserts how he writes, and will continue to write, against the commentary of director Tsurumaki Kazuya, who denies any deeper meaning to the inclusion of robots. Despite the interpretation going against Tsurumaki’s intentions, Ruh continues to infer unintentional and meanings in FLCL. To do so, he looks briefly at the portrayal of robots in Japanese popular culture, specifically the success of Astro Boy and Doraemon. Simplifying the phenomenon as Japan being infatuated with robots is, as Ruh notes, “reductionist and shallow.” As he explains, such characters turned into public and marketable symbols, integrating themselves into the daily lives of the country’s consumers. The omnipresence of such symbols have in turned defined how one functions and identify themselves, constructing a sense of self that is based around the cybernetic.

This is played with in FLCL, where Naota receives transformational powers that lets him deal with destructive robots, but while under the control of a force beyond his control. Parallels can be drawn here in relation to Naota’s relation with the other characters, his own identity at any given moment, and influences that surround him. It’s a phenomenon resulting from the external, internal, and blending of the two. Also, it’s important to note that FLCL portrays this as more positive than other works dealing with the omnipresence of media. Other works would have portrayed such influences as a strictly external force, bending the minds of individuals to its whims. In FLCL, it’s actually an internal force that’s brought out, giving greater control and freedom to the characters while still highlighting its effects.




As Ruh continues, he goes into the coming-of-age aspect of FLCL. Quoting Tsurumaki, by the end of the show, “though Takkun was just a kid, he was trying to be an adult. But Haruko was saying that he didn’t need to be worried about that kind of stuff. But this last time she said it, she was saying that Naota, who is acting like a kid again…He has accepted it. Naota has actually grown up. Kids who act like kids and don’t pretend to be adult, are actually more adult.” This is expressed not only through verbal conversation, but how Naota emerges from Canti’s head – an inversion of the beginning act where the reverse occurred, symbolically showing Naota’s acceptance of the world around him and his understanding of what he’s capable of accomplishing.

In the US, Ruh describes its popularity being due to its limited censorship, in spite of cultural references being lost in translation. It helped that violent and sexual acts were highly stylized and satirized humorously, of course. However, criticism still arose against FLCL’s content, in particular to how the characters are mostly adolescents. This worry shows, as Ruh describes “how loathe many are to seriously consider ideas of how we use the media to construct our own identities; this is especially true when subjects involved are adolescents as in FLCL. This tone of moral panic…is reflective of a general sense of ignorance about how young people interact with the media environment.”

To conclude his thoughts, Ruh states that FLCL demonstrates how young people in modern society can adapt and change with the technologies in their lives. Portraying its content in a playful manner, it shows how media









FLCL, as I understand, was created after Neon Genesis Evangelion as a “cooling down” anime, relieving the creators of the depressing state left behind. In comparison, while both dealt with young boys coming to terms with one’s identity growing up, FLCL addresses this in a comedic, energetic fashion. Throughout Ruh’s interpretation of FLCL, he continuously notes the importance of identity, which is also a major theme throughout not only postmodern and cyberpunk works, but in present day in general.

What do we call ourselves? How do we define ourselves? Are we adjectives consisting of surface-level descriptions about our physical and mental states of being? Are we defined as fans of various forms of media, or are we defined by what we hate? How about our beliefs? Our nationalities? Our favorite sport teams? Our favorite types of ice cream? Could we even define ourselves by if we snore at night?

Relating this to anime, identity is a topic that often comes up, not just with existential works, but with even generic works. Do the characters in One Piece define themselves as pirates? If so, what kinds of pirates exist? How do they differ? Is the difference as clear as night and day? How about for ourselves, how do we interpret the characters? What measure is a good or bad pirate? Is it strictly based off the narrative’s point of view? What does that say about how we interpret pirates in real life? Such questions can go on forever, but the point remains: anime can feature characters whom define themselves as various things, and we, as viewers, can reflect ourselves on the characters simultaneously.






tl;dr - Summary of the summaries of Part 2

Orbaugh: The introduction of technology as a form of progressiveness in Japan has and will influenced anime for many decades to come.
Me: As technology changes, will the way it’s expressed in anime also change?

Silvio: The Matrix films portrayed a straightforward war being humans and machine, constantly questioning if reality is truly reality. The Animatrix, with the aid of animation, introduced near experimental techniques to completely skew reality while creating a moral ambiguity between the humans and machines.
Me: The Animatrix is an example of an anime influenced by globalization, where the series could bounce back and forth between hemispheres, blending ideas into singular works.

Ruh: Cyborgs aren’t humans with mechanical limbs, but they’re people whom have adapted technology into their daily lives, ranging from cell phone usage to the prominence of the internet, which is then portrayed in FLCL, albeit defined through his own interpretation.
Me: How do anime characters identify themselves? How do we interpret anime characters? How does these connections and disconnections reflect our own thoughts and experiences?


Source: Brown, Steven T. Cinema Anime: Critical Engagements with Japanese Animation. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Print.