The film opens with the arrival of Kannami Yuuichi, a 'Kildren' ('Kild'?), at a small forward base of his company in Europe, where he is seen settling in amongst his new surroundings. Though a few battle scenes are depicted, most of the film follows a slow, almost languid pace, showing the interactions between Kannami and the small cast of characters of the film, most importantly the base commander, Kusanagi Suito. Over the ensuing days, through the use of slowly moving dialogues and long stretches of silence, rather a few questions are raised on the 'Kildren', their existence and meaning, only a few of which are answered, and, more importantly, attention is given to Kusanagi and the results of her having lived for longer than she perhaps should have. On an interesting note, one major question is left both answered and unanswered: those viewers preferring to see the question unanswered can safely turn the film off when the end titles start rolling, while those who prefer to see an answer can watch the little scene afterwards.
Ostensibly, The Sky Crawlers seems to wax philosophical on the nature of war, mentioning how it is a clean, brutal way of determining winners and losers in whatever game, political or otherwise, is played. Yet, for being constructed around a message on war, there is very little focus on the actual military situation in the story or the battles themselves. Yes, there are a few scenes containing aerial dogfights and a campaign briefing, but they are very short and tend to serve more as scene markers (more on this later).
There is, however, another message, hidden in plain sight. The message is not deep. It is not novel. In fact, everyone watching the film will have the feeling of having seen exactly the same story once before. The Sky Crawlers is simply about interaction between humans - and about interaction between those who can't be called exactly human. The film voices once more the questions of what happiness is, what the effects of change (external and internal) are on it, how it is achieved and, most importantly, how it can be recognised at all. In order to do so, it shows the differences between those who are able to understand both human interaction and human emotion, acting upon it in a natural fashion, and those who have either never had or have lost this ability to understand, to whom it is not natural. Thus, no matter how suggestive a situation, nothing will happen if it is not clearly expressed or shown and no action will be taken unless it has been discussed or asked, while even on acting the hesitation and unease remains.
The effect of this is that those who have an ability to read between lines will undoubtedly be particularly unimpressed by what happens and the slow pace in which the story progresses, but also that those who do need the whole sentence are exposed to scenes that, because they are clearly expressed and/or aided by visual markers, become very powerful in their clarity, at times perhaps even touching uneasily on the recognisable.
It is in this view that the film is strongest and the role of Oshii Mamoru as a visual director appears most clearly. It is no coincidence that one of the greater truths voiced in the film is shown through almost glazed eyes, voiced by a Kusanagi who is pale and dishevelled and clearly has had to much to drink, speaking with that lack of inhibition and that truthfulness of the drunk. It is no coincidence that the intrinsic emotional violence of the passionate encounter is accompanied by the visual promise of physical violence. And while it is a coincidence that the female protagonist is named Kusanagi, her striking resemblance to one of Innocence's gynoids is too strong to be a coincidence, and so it is not surprising to see her with an almost child-like body, a mature poise and an old mind, both as human and as inhuman as that other Kusanagi is.
The film strongly uses both time and space to place its protagonists and enhance their being in the world and their being special. Again, both are clearly presented visually. Most of the film is set in the countryside of what is clearly the British Isles, most likely Britain but perhaps Ireland. It is wholly unclear in what time the film should be set. On the one hand, the advent of world peace and the existence of the Kildren may point to some future date, yet on the other the aeroplanes that we see are all propeller-driven while a prominent car looks suspiciously like one of the big American 1950s vehicles, suggesting an alternate near past. Finally, the map hanging in the commander's office shows present-day Europe.
Whatever the exact time period in which the film is placed, visual markers abound in marking the progress of time, showing both how things change and how things are eternally unchanging: the film shows the characters amidst standing stones, some marked with glyphs, legacies of an ancient past; before the typical dry-stone hedges of the British countryside and collections of chinaware, common in a past that is closer to us; and in a roadside diner where the people of the present day congregate. The same sky rolls over all these temporal markers in an essentially flat land, as day follows unchangeably on day and the markers of the past form part of the spatial realm of the present. In the same vein the viewer is shown paintings of past people hanging in a restaurant, looking over the shoulder of the present characters, while a monologue is uttered on how some things never change.
Spatially, most scenes are cramped in only a few places, connected to each other by societal and economic ties, and the characters move between their barracks, the diner, a brothel and the countryside. Only once in the entire film is a larger settlement shown and for most of the film there is a striking lack of people. It is interesting to note that the mercenaries (and what might almost be termed their camp followers), Japanese all, are shown to speak two languages, Japanese amongst themselves and English to the locals. In this manner is shown how the protagonists differ from their surrounding society that comes on top of their being Kildren, ensuring a type of clinging together.
Because of all this, the concept of change looms large. Living in what is essentially a foreign country, in an area where past and present seem to flow together, the close-knit group of Kildren roam from one placid day to another, while due to their longevity they ought to see the same drama played out time and again, whatever the small changes over time, as well as the same groping for what is essentially simply not well understood.
Change, both temporal and spatial, is quite often accompanied by more action-oriented scenes. Travel and, especially, the few combat scenes in the film have a tendency to serve more as markers separating one time period or area from the following, fast-forwarding as it were the story for a moment.
The characters, as well, are defined by change, or the lack thereof. Long-living, the Kildren's physique simply stops developing at some point, the question remaining whether the mind follows suit. The difference in attitude on aging and changing is what defines both protagonists, Kannami and Kusanagi, and drives much of their interaction. The former emphasises continuously that he is child, still, and entitled to be one, given that he might die at any moment in battle. Thus, he seems to shirk much of an adult's sense of responsibility, not by actively refusing but by not getting involved. Kusanagi, on the other hand, older and with a better sense of time's progress, and, most importantly, being confronted with actions of the past, seems to stand in between child- and adulthood, unwilling to take responsibility but unable to refuse it, in the end having both more to lose and less to look forward to. The result is that the two interact in an atmosphere of palpable carefulness, melancholy and distance, avoiding getting hurt while suggesting offering closer companionship.
All remaining characters seem to function more as walking commentators, divulging snippets of the past without mentioning their own roles therein. Most remain rather flat when compared to the expressed mess the more noticeable characters are in and, even with a hint of an unpropitious romance offered later on, remain really asides. It is telling that one character that is never shown but only referred to seems to be more developed than most of the characters with speaking roles. That said, while development is rather non-existent and characterisation doesn't go beyond each having a clear role, these roles are executed very well and each fulfil a function in the story.
With regard to the art and animation used, the film can be called a hybrid of typical Oshii style and the style favoured by Production I.G in its latest releases. Throughout the film the audience is treated to wide, open vistas of mostly empty countryside. Especially under the intensely blue, cloud-specked skies that dominate many such shots, both buildings and people are kept very small. When the screen shows all in a more human scale, however, the relative emptiness is being replaced by a profusion of detail. Not only is every crack in every wooden beam of some little room visible, but most spaces that are worked and lived in are veritably cluttered with all kinds of apparel, embellishments and personal belongings, capturing the eye in most of the many silent, languid scenes that the film is filled with. Some such trappings, especially the seemingly omnipresent chinaware plates and vases might hint at symbolism, at some meaning, but nothing is explained or even mentioned.
Equally noticeable between the scenes on a grander and on a more human scale is the difference in colourisation. Whereas, barring some rainy skies, though even here rays of sunshine flitter through, the open vistas are coloured in with the brighter spectrum of the colour palette, both soft and sharp, especially the indoor scenes are shadowy, gloomy, sometimes even drab, with all brighter dashes as well being generally more dark of tone in their crimsons and navy blues, the rare light bulb orange and pallid white only giving this stronger emphasis.
In sharp contrast to their detailed surroundings, the characters themselves seem to follow the standard used by Production I.G in their newer releases (Ghost Hound, Toshokan Sensou, et al.), being drawn with a paucity of lines, leaving especially the face as devoid of details as possible. While this has been used to great effect in other shows, where the style provides for the wide range of very visually recognisable expressions asked of the characters, The Sky Crawlers is almost minimalist in this regard, thus leaving the characters rather empty of detail. Mostly likely deliberately, this applies more strongly to the Kildren than to the ‘normal’ humans presented.
As far as design of especially the backgrounds go it seems that the makers opted for realism, even if they went out of their way to prevent having any area entered that can be recognised as actually existing. The realism of setting, even if embellished at times up to a point where it starts deviating from reality, is apparent in almost all details, especially of contraptions of human make. The main exception is formed by the aeroplanes, which for the most part are unlike any that have been in general, active use, added, almost, as if only in this manner can they befit the equally unreal Kildren.
Clearly being intended as a theatrical release, The Sky Crawlers seems to want to disturb your neighbours. Volume levels vary disparately, with sound effects, especially those of the aeroplane engines, being louder by far than music, which in turn has a tendency to overwhelm the voices. The net result is an assault on one’s hearing, especially as one sometimes has to strain to hear what is said.
It doesn’t help that the orchestral pieces that form most of the music is rather lacklustre, accompanied at times by the sort of female chanting that composer Kenji Kawai famously used in the Ghost in the Shell films, which is quite out of place in this film. On the other hand, quite a few scenes are unaccompanied by music. In fact, the film toys with meaningful silences overly much, thereby removing their meaning, though at least then the dialogue is more pleasant to listen to.
The voices are mainly subdued, as per the story at many times properly devoid of extremes in expression.
The Sky Crawlers shook me far more strongly than it ought to have done, all things considered. As has been mentioned above, the interplay between what is said and what is shown on screen is at times strong enough to make for very memorable scenes, especially because the film manages, at times, to visualise some of the concepts it mentions. For all that it might have a predictable story, has a pace that is at times too slow for its own good, has emotions enter the fray in explosive amounts when at all and does not voice anything that can be considered innovative, the questions raised on change and happiness, on how change affects humanity and is needed for continuation remain important ones. As so often with this type of film, it is not the happiest of stories, but there is a certain serenity in its calm sadness.
