Lately, my memory for people’s names, dates, and numbers has been growing terribly hazy. Having eaten mainly fish since my youth, I wonder if acetylene-based microplastics have accumulated around my hippocampus and damaged the cells there. Reports say that the brains of severe dementia patients contain about two teaspoons of microplastics. It may already be too late, but I want to leave some notes as a personal record before things get any worse.
Last time, I wrote about “Computopia” and the dawn of computers, and I had intended to write about the current state of AI next. However, I thought it might be easier to understand my views on AI if I first wrote about what I have been trying to express and create throughout my career.
Plunging into the World of Manga
Having studied architecture in high school, I suddenly received an invitation from Osamu Tezuka and leaped into the world of manga and animation. Through daily work, I came to understand how manga was made, but there were no lectures or courses on the fundamentals of storytelling or its purpose. That part remained unclear.
I had watched plenty of films and manga since childhood, copied them, and drawn pictures of my own. But honestly, I had never intended to become a manga artist. Even though I had memories of stories from manga, novels, and films, when asked what it meant to create something new, my answer was zero.
After that, I immersed myself in manga, film, novels, theater, kabuki, and rakugo. What they all share is, first and foremost, story. But what does a story actually tell? That was where my thinking became muddled and I could not find clarity.
Meeting Shinobu Hashimoto
Around 1972, I was working on the animation for the simulation sequences of the Toho film Japan Sinks. One day, a visitor appeared at my office in Kichijoji.
“My name is Shinobu Hashimoto. I write screenplays. Would you like to make an animation together?”
Could this possibly be one of the screenwriters of Seven Samurai? I was skeptical, but as we talked, it quickly became clear that he was indeed that very person.
Despite it being our first meeting, he was remarkably frank. He told me the title of his new project was Chinsetsu Yumiharizuki — Minamoto no Hachirō Tametomo, and he laid out the key points of the story. The theme, he said, was the love between Tametomo and his dog (whose name I have forgotten) — a tale of the dog’s self-sacrifice to protect its master.
The original work is by Kyokutei Bakin, with illustrations by Katsushika Hokusai. Utagawa Kuniyoshi and Tsukioka Yoshitoshi also created woodblock prints on the subject. In 1969, it was staged as kabuki at the National Theatre of Japan, with Yukio Mishima writing and directing.
As someone comfortable with animal subjects, I found it fascinating. But at the same time, I pictured Tsukioka Yoshitoshi’s warrior prints and imagined the nightmare of animating those suits of armor.
“Mr. Hashimoto, in another ten years or so, computers will be able to move images. Could you wait until then?”
He must have sensed my lukewarm enthusiasm. Hashimoto never visited my office again.
The Three Elements of Film
However, I want to record the crucial lesson he taught me.
The three elements essential to film —
- Theme
- Story
- Character
That was it.
I did nothing to help with Hashimoto’s project. Yet these words filled in the missing piece of the puzzle I had been struggling with in my creative work. Since then, this teaching has been my treasure, and I have passed it on to my students at university.
Does theme come first, or story? The order does not matter. Sometimes a story comes first, and the theme is discovered afterward, leading to revisions. I had already sensed the importance of theme while working on the NTV documentary series Wonderful World Travel, but understanding how theme connects to story, and story to character, finally revealed the flow of the creative process.
Character and Reality
Character is what concretely performs and expresses theme and story. In film, casting is the process of choosing actors to match the story; in animation, character design gives concrete form to personality. The word “character” originally means personality.
But what matters even more is movement and acting. This is true for both film and animation.
In Seven Samurai, each of the seven warriors has a distinct personality. It becomes hard to tell whether you are seeing the actor’s nature or the character’s. Every gesture and posture expresses who the person is.
Kenji Mizoguchi and Yasujirō Ozu were known to spend an entire day filming a scene with just two or three lines of dialogue. What were they waiting for? I believe it was “reality” — a sense of authenticity.
Realism is an artistic philosophy — avoiding exaggeration and embellishment to depict things naturally. Reality, on the other hand, is “the quality of seeming real.” Film and animation are fabrications. That is precisely why they must make the audience feel, “This seems real.”
What Lies Beyond Words
Desmond Morris observed that much of human communication is carried by non-verbal elements: tone of voice, facial expressions, gestures, body language — all play a significant role.
If someone says “It’s fine” while their eyes are darting around, would you believe them? Movement speaks more truth than words.
I believe this is exactly what those great directors were waiting for.
The king in Paul Grimault’s The King and the Mockingbird is a perfect example. The personality of that insecurity-ridden monarch is conveyed through the subtlest gestures.
One could say this was possible precisely because it was hand-drawn animation — but what about CG? What about AI?
In my own animation work, what I love most is the expression of movement that does not rely on dialogue.
This time, I have recorded the precious lesson Shinobu Hashimoto taught me. Next time, I would like to write about AI and imagination.
Sadao Tsukioka