santetjan's Blog

No matter the media in which it was brought to an audience, any real masterpiece of art is often in discussion preceded by the word 'timeless'. This addition points to the realisation that most pieces of art, no matter how good they were when first appearing, will be superseded in and by time. This is, of course, unsurprising: success breeds imitation, copying and outright theft, in turn leading to loss of a sense of innovation and successors improving on the original by having learned from its flaws.
Not seldom, the creators of such subsequent works officially pile high praise upon the source of their imitation, calling it a classic worthy of emulation, a monument of what was possible by combining the technical expertise of the time and a mind that wanted to offer its audience a different point of view. Praise, undoubtedly partly well-meant and partly used to pre-empt the critics' use of the dreaded word 'copyright', leads many who know of the successor to search out its predecessor, the supposed classic - and having some trouble with coming to grips with the factual quality of that classic: it may have been the first in what it did, but what it did was done better by its imitators. So how should one look at such a classic, seeing its flaws laid bare before one but knowing how it inspired what came after?

This is the Classic Trap, the realisation that both reactions one can have to witnessing a classic piece, and which divide audience and critics alike into two camps, seem unfair.
On the one hand, there is the realisation that most classics, seen (I'll use visual art here for ease of referral, but it applies equally well to all other art forms) years, decades or more after they were produced and were hailed for being so very well done or innovative, just don't live up to the expectation one has after hearing the years or decades of praise heaped on them. Inspiring a whole type or genre, the classic was cut to pieces into its constituent elements, studied - and studied well - and imitated, copied, done again in countless later pieces. Those who came after saw what wasn't all that great with the original and eliminated those flaws while retaining what was good, in the process coming up with a product that was simply better. Moreover, by having this centrifugal force and leading to the uncounted number of imitations, what was once exciting, new, fresh, or whatever buzzword you'd like to use, very quickly became stale, something seen before, not that impressive.
But that hardly seems fair towards the classic, now does it? First of all, the innovative classic didn't have the luxury of studying the genre it was working in, seeing what was wrong with its type of pieces of art. It practically made that genre from scratch. Second, many of its flaws were the product of its time, when less was possible technically or there was less money available for it as investors weren't sure whether this new idea would be successful. Third, of course it can't be original anymore, as it was the impetus that drove the production of so many imitations in the first place.
So, the second reaction is to see the classic piece within the context of its own time and place. It was original, well constructed and something that simply wasn't available when it came out.
But that hardly seems fair towards what came after, now does it? First of all, following pieces always had to content with the fact that what they would have liked to do was done before and, all in all, there really aren't that many possible innovative ideas out there. Second, by doing so it's difficult to appreciate what came after regarding the ways improvements of technical processes and ideas to add to and better the original were used. Third, by emphasising how the original was, well, original the problem of the newer products having to work within a context of already existing conceptions of whatever it was the classic brought to the audience cannot be appreciated in full: the original did not have to contend with so many others.
This has the result that many might actually think that what comes out right about now is better than what came before - unsurprisingly, as the newer releases are the result of years of tinkering with and building upon an ever more tightly delineated formula - but feel that they should like the classic as something valuable and worthy, even if it just isn't all that interesting anymore nowadays. There exists something of a general understanding that if one likes genre or type X, one has to like the progenitor of X, whether or not it is a good piece in and of itself.

A primary reason for the existence of this problem of thinking about some classic is the emphasis often put on a piece of art being unique and innovative. Tired of the same old same-old, people want something new, and expect the artist to deliver. That which is new often has the greatest impact, shakes up thought and feeling and leading to discussion and the seeking out of like pieces. The very impact of experiencing something new is one of the greatest motivators of nostalgia: when confronted with ever more experiences that seem like they are copies of what was before one hungers for the time when something was still exciting. It doesn't really matter whether that which was experienced first was good or not: the simple fact of facing the new was what was made the experience enjoyable. Quite a few classics were born exactly from this notion, as people remembered how they first experienced a genre or type through it.
What this does not take into account, however, is that there really aren't that many truly original thoughts to begin with, nor is it so that what is original automatically brightens the world (in fact, there are quite a few inventions society could have done without).
Moreover, this hunger for what is new and exciting, for what is innovative and unique, passes over the fact that it might be more artistic to come up with the new but that working with the old and making something the best possible example of the known type displays a more impressive craftsmanship.
It's easy to be original and unique. All you have to do is think up something that hasn't been thought of before and work from there. It doesn't really matter if the idea is a good one, literally speaking. You have the playing field all to yourself and aren't constricted by existing sentiment and preconceptions. Whatever you do, you're bound to leave an impact.
It's difficult to be original and unique. There isn't all that much left that hasn't been tried before and there is no guarantee that some novel idea will actually work out in any way. It's also difficult to find an audience at first.
It's easy to be an imitator and craftsman. All you have to do is take what's out there, study and dissect it and take the best parts it has to offer. You're almost guaranteed an audience and can work from what you know that the audience likes and dislikes.
It's difficult to be an imitator and craftsman. There are swarms of competitors who are also trying their best to improve on what's already out there, so you'll have to struggle for exposure. You'll also have to deal with the fact that people already know what to expect and will not be surprised easily, with existing preconceptions and with the lack of leaving an impact.
Both sides face their own difficulties and opportunities. In a very real sense, those artists who work exclusively within type and trope, exquisitely crafting a construction wherein all these existing elements are fitted together in a tightly structured whole are as brilliant as those flashing stars who flatten their audiences by bringing something heretofore unseen and unimagined to show. Whereas it's easy to see whether something is fresh or not, it's more of a walk on the tightrope to guard the shifting borders where archetype becomes stereotype, and trope becomes cliché.

Seen from a distance of years, many classics, once original and unique, aren't like that anymore. Never crafted to remain on the safe side of both archetype and trope to begin with, they are riddled with stereotypes and clichés.
Has their worth come to an end, then, and is it impossible to value them in and of themselves, without grasping for artificial aids such as 'they have to be considered within their own time'? Not necessarily. That is to say, any worthy classic had more to offer than some innovation. What they pioneered in must have been something that was, itself, worthy if people thought the innovation something that added to the world in the first place. The type or genre they introduced can be liked and loved in and of itself and was produced with enough persuasive power that people wanted to emulate it, and that is a strength that will not have diminished with time.
True, only a few such classics, in whichever media, exist. Most simply nowadays aren't what they once were. But that shouldn't matter: not only are new and original works constantly produced, the old is still toyed and tinkered with in a bid to perfect what the now-diminished classic once started, while a remote few of them have that timeless quality that enables them to remain sources of inspiration and testaments to craftsmanship.

Most people will recognise Dr J.R.R. Tolkien as the writer of The Lord of the Rings (with the more puritan screeching that the different Silmarillion versions are far superior to it). Many, students and people fed up with the idolisation of his fiction both, will recall that he was quite a prominent scholar in the field of linguistics and an important one in popularising English philology and Old English. Some will argue that he was important as a literary critic, overturning established perception, scholarly and public both, of the quality and importance of fairy-tales and the Germanic epic.
Me, I believe his most important work is On Fairy-Stories, not so much because of the statements and thoughts on the use and importance of the fantastic in literature or on mythopoiesis contained therein, but because of its implicit criticism of the poetic suspension of disbelief.

I have always found myself greatly disliking this latter notion, to any implicit remark of 'just accept that it holds true here, for the sake of the story' emphatically responding 'I will not'. The primary reason for opposing any such suspension of disbelief is that it shifts responsibility from the author* to the audience: the author asks his audience to work towards accepting something they know not to be true (or be highly unlikely, at least) instead of convincing his audience that it makes perfect sense within the context of the story. As it is the author who tries to tell something, I have always felt that it is his responsibility for making sure he does so in a right manner.
Tolkien seems to agree. On Fairy-Stories argues that the fantastic should be wholly credible and follows rationally from whatever else happens in a story. To do so, the author needs to portray a 'sub-creation', a world inside his work that, though different from the one we inhabit, is consistent and rational, with the fantastic simply being a natural part of it. Only in displaying such a world the author can have his audience appreciate the fantastic without it forcefully denying the stretches of logic, as it makes sense within its context.
In a word, the entire setting should be realistic. 'Realism' here should not be read in its literal sense of 'depicting the real' (insofar that is even possible), that is, not as something attached to a particular, but as a concept of the interaction of many particulars, real or no, 'making sense'. Logic, or at least causality, is part of realism (if in my fantasy world gravity goes sideways this by necessity will influence the structure of my world), but it is only a small part. Far more important is that the realistic accords to human perceptions of natural consistency (if dragons exist, there must be some ecological niche for them) and the workings of society (with magic abound you'd expect there to be someone who'd invent self-washing dishes), and, most importantly, to human thoughts and emotions: reactions should accord to what is common or not in the fantasy world, feelings should follow from what is acceptable within the portrayed society, etc. In the truly realistic fantastic setting, not only are 'nature' and 'society' consistent with the fantastic, but 'morality' should also follow from it, creating a sense of normalcy.
Quite often, it is morality that tears apart what is otherwise a fairly consistent fantasy: characters react, think and feel like 'true' humans would do, developing in the fashion prescribed by courses on writing and constructed to appeal to the public - thereby wholly disregarding that they are part of a world and society that isn't ours. By making the characters 'realistic' - i.e., accord to the 'real' - the realism of the greater story is broken. Characters should not always think the way we think, or feel the way we feel: to make them living parts of an alien world, they, themselves, need to be alien. In fact, it is exactly in not being able to relate to a character that his realism is shown.
Very few authors are able to create such a society and such characters. There are more or less two paths to tread: the 'heroic' and the 'comic'. The 'heroic' path takes the world it is set in for granted. Characters are beyond our life, acting in a manner that would seem over-the-top or particularly unintelligent but wholly befits the world it is set in. Tolkien's own Silmarillion, for example, takes that path. The 'comic' doesn't necessarily have to be funny but creates a sense of humour by depicting a setting not unlike the world known to us, only just a bit different in the particulars. This type is exemplified by Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, which has long ceased to be comedy derived from making fun of bad fantasy exactly by infusing it with rationality and has turned into a more grim and sometimes strangely unsettling depiction of society as it could have been. Characters live in a world with amenities that in function are known to us, being fully integrated philosophically and morally into that world and burdened with issues that are certainly realistic, but not real.**

It is, then, certainly feasible for a story to be realistic, but not real. Equally important, and something authors should really be more aware of, is that the reverse also holds: something that is 'real' is not necessarily 'realistic'.
This is a critique aimed mainly at those authors who defend their pathological need to describe the unhale and populate their settings with misery by stating that it is 'real', that the audience 'should open their eyes to the realities of this world'. What these authors, in their sadistic glee to paint a world devoid of decency, completely forget, however, is that these 'realities of this world' are really only a part of a whole. No matter how many disillusioned street punks, addicted petty criminals, abused prostitutes and conscripted child-soldiers there may be, and no matter how bleak their little corner of the world would be, just around the corner things are different. Yes, the grim and the gritty, and suffering in all its forms are real, but the very reason for the desire to depict them is that they are limited. Heaping disgrace upon misery over a swath of characters might be real, it might be 'based on actual story' in fact, but by its very noticeability, by its being set apart from the greater context, it is not realistic.
A story constructed of an excess of the 'real' becomes contrived. Instead of 'opening my eyes', it makes me recognise the wanton distress as nothing but cheap tricks to try and get the audience to sympathise with the characters. Moreover, by emphasising only this little part of the 'condition humaine' it disgusts, for apparently the author can find no way to reel in his audience than by catering to an intrinsic feeling of wrongness.
Sympathy, like respect, is something that must be gained. Throwing a 'real' situation detached from reality as a whole in my face does not qualify; all it does is create a disbelief I'm not willing to suspend. Even when describing the real, the author should be realistic. It is by being realistic, by having actions follow each other, if not logically, then at least rationally, that a character truly comes to life. And if you want to emphasise a character's pain and grief, do so in moderation. Such is far more likely to result in actual recognition of the depicted story and the audience's sympathy.


*I mostly refer to literature in this blog post, but 'author' should be read as any creator of art intended for an audience. The entirety of the post certainly applies to anime and manga.
** Relatively well-done examples of such realistic, but not real, stories in anime and manga are Juuni Kokki and Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, respectively.

Since this blog option exists, I figured I might as well make use of it. Perhaps there really are people who every once in a while check my profile, perhaps I'm simply catering to my own ego and perhaps I'm just delusional to think anyone would bother to read this.
Given that, as a rule, when discussing anime and manga I try to retain a narrow focus and leave my own prejudices, likes and dislikes out of the discussion as much as possible - the only element definitely up for attack being implausibility (not impossibility, as that may lead to interesting situations) -, I would like to use this blog option to, every now and then, comment on more general issues that I believe to notice over multiple series and about my personal take on them. Such personal takes are likely to be strings of thoughts, written out loud with no answer or reaction expected.

Watching a few episodes of Aoi Hana last night I noticed that I really didn't like what I saw, that I wanted to have a bit more distance between what the story is about and what is shown. Those who have seen the show most likely will find this surprising: Aoi Hana is slow, sweet and really quite inoffensive.
It is, however, a story that wholly centres on the issue of teenage love and sexuality. This is a subject the very existence of which I've always strongly objected to. I will not go, at length, into the reasoning behind that notion here; suffice it to say that I believe that desiring love and sex, and acting upon this desire, should follow only after understanding them, which understanding is only possible to a mind that possesses a developed set of morals, values and principles. (Whichever morals, values and principles these are is unimportant, as long as they are bound and will not be changed by some simple change of mood or thinking.) This objection was, however, something that was nothing more than an objection in principle as such: I had no qualms with hearing about the subject, knew it as something that simply existed and while I could rile a bit about why anime, for instance, has so strong a tendency to focus on sexuality between children instead of between adults, I would also understand that it made sense considering the primary audience of the medium.
Over the past few years, though, this objection in principle has evolved into something that manages to be actually disconcerting and which makes that I have some difficulty in handling depictions and tales of the subject. It doesn't take much to effect this difficulty: while the Maria-sama ga Miteru-series, for example, is on the safe side of the fence, I consider something like Stawberry Panic to be mildly uncomfortable and manga like Girlfriend or Happy-go-Lucky Days to be positively distressing. One should be able to imagine, then, how School Days appeared to me. Of course, anime and manga are far from the only media to have taken a liking to the subject and I feel the same sense of uneasiness reading many articles in magazines and newspapers.
But where does this discomfort stem from? Part of the reason is, without a doubt, the fact that the subject is alien: to me it is, something that is inexperienced and remains, if you'll excuse me the very bad pun that fills up my thoughts right now, wholly virgin territory (and will always remain so, as I consider it impossible to regain my youth at some point in my life). Yet, while it is true that what is unknown will at all times be considered as something to watch out for, no matter how small this sense of distress will be, it seems hardly likely that 'being unknown' is a reason for discomfort to grow with each passing year.
It may be very likely, though, that it is exactly this passing of the years that is the cause. When starting on Kodomo no Jikan (which starts out as something you can't believe is actually published but surprisingly turns out to have at least a somewhat mature point on view later on), I suddenly found my myself thinking: 'Good Lord, I could be her father...' Now, no matter how much of a classic phrase that may be, it does reflect a peculiar notion: most of the protagonists of anime and manga are, to me, in every sense simply small children - children who know enough about fire to want to play with it, but too little to do it in a safe manner. I continue to remain baffled about the age of most of these characters, thinking only that they're so incredibly young. And though I cannot imagine anyone taking a particular pleasure out of seeing such children go through experiences that range from the confusing to the all-out harrowing, I do believe that the way of looking at it changes when you're able to imagine characters as being your own children.
(This last sentence might come as a bit of an eyebrow-raiser for some, as I am, indeed, really not fond of children, specifically because of the lack of sense referred to. This does not mean, though, that I'd wish them subjected to the torture of diving headlong into something without knowing for one's self what it entails, how things could change and where a line should be drawn.)

What is the point of mentioning all of the above? I certainly do not believe that it makes any difference on how and why people like or dislike whatever they watch or read. As so often, I think that I wanted to mention it because it caters to the question of whether like and dislike affect - and should affect - appreciation. My discomfort with teenage love and sexuality is mostly a moral one and I cannot but find its celebration in fiction disagreeable. Common wisdom states that to disagree with a moral element of a particular show should not, generally, influence the appreciation thereof: when considering how to rate it critically, one should not look at whether one agrees with the message but with the manner in which it was portrayed. In essence, this same common wisdom states that the fact that it is discomforting or objectionable speaks in favour of the quality of what was shown: to provoke a reaction, be it rational or emotional, on what was portrayed, not how it was done, means that the subject was displayed in such a manner that the portrayal itself must be qualitatively quite good.
One could also say that me simply being uncomfortable with a subject means that I should not be the one to watch or read it, because I would most likely not enjoy it even if I could appreciate it. What I should, at any rate, not do is criticise the decision to portray the subject, as such criticism is a criticism of taste and, in the end, of the freedom to express such tastes. To keep to the example: I might dislike it, on a moral level, that youngsters are sexualised, but I should not by this very dislike slam any such portrayal and want to have it censored, removed, or whatnot.
As a principle, I believe this to be very dangerous. The move towards a general attitude of 'if you don't like it, don't watch it' is a move towards an attitude wherein everything goes: the freedom of desiring something and of expressing something takes precedence over the question as to whether something should be desired or expressed in the first place. To staunchly defend each and every freedom of expression, stating that anyone who doesn't like it always has the option of not listening, is not too far removed from a notion that disagreeing with something means that one should not pay attention to that something. Of course, there is that distinction between idea and action, between portrayal and physical realisation, but that only applies to questions of physical harm: to take the big example, I might talk in favour of general genocide as much as I want to and should be allowed to do so for as long as I don't act towards that notion. That's all fine and dandy, but what about issues of a moral quality, where 'harm' can only be defined in a less physical manner?
There are quite a few subjects that could be named as delivering a more abstract, or emotional, harm. Some of them are also illegal and punishable, meaning that, in a sense, they are censored, as it is not allowed to speak of them aloud. Libel and slander are examples; discrimination, sexually charged conversations with minors, lèse majesté. All of them have their proponents and detractors, but it is generally accepted that 'harm' is not solely a physical thing, that society should keep to certain morals to keep functioning and that, while a strict legalistic definition of 'freedom of expression' may be summed up as 'anything goes as long as it's not physical', in practice some limitations are in force.
I'll not go into a political debate about this freedom. Suffice it to say that I, myself, do believe that society as a whole has a duty to protect itself and its members from ideas which can easily be converted into harmful actions, for the very simple reason that, in contrast to common wisdom, most people do not have the ability to make a wholly informed decision on an idea, no matter that a sizeable minority is able to do so. Minors in particular are often protected for this very reason, and rightly so. ('Protection' does not include full censorship, far from it. It does include a notion that a departure from, for lack of a better expression, 'accepted morality' needs a reason: simple desire to do so can never be enough.) I would like to point out, though, that I do not believe that one is not allowed to voice one's disagreement with some particular expression or portrayal. The 'you don't have to watch/read/hear it' argument does not apply, as one should certainly be allowed to question whether something should be portrayed or expressed at all.
In this respect, likes and dislikes are allowed to influence appreciation. A subject that is simply offensive or vulgar may very well be considered inacceptable or even intolerable, even if there are people who like it and even while it may not affect one's critical examination of the quality, efficiency or beauty of the portrayal of that subject. It does not matter in this regard whether the subject is true to life: the moment wherein something may not be criticised simply because 'that's the way things are' is the moment wherein we lose all civilisation.

Am I, then, to return to the beginning, to protest to the depiction of love and sexuality in Aoi Hana (or whichever title one may name)? Perhaps I could and should, if I could find a more compelling reason to find it generally morally objectionable. This particular discomfort is, however, really my own and stems more from a lamentation of a state affairs than a righteous anger. As a rule, I try and not let if affect my judgment. Yet I do think that there is a distinct threshold out there which should not be crossed and will have such crossing be reflected when judging. Is such a judgement, then, an emotional or rational one? That is to say, is it a judgment that I could ask, expect or demand other reasonable human beings make? I believe it to be so, as such thresholds divide between the socially allowable and unallowable, and while this division may have its roots in purely emotional axioms of what is considered right and proper, a certain basic sense of propriety is what makes up civilised society.