gurren lagann redux
1 Aug 2008 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigouAwhile back I contemplated bad guys and bad motivations (among other things) and then I finished the series and moved along. At AX I snagged the first volume of the official release, and mentioned (again) to CP that I really, really recommend this series. He'd watched the first episode, and said, "I don't know, it looked kinda silly."
(This from the man who cheerfully, even avidly, watched Lucky Star. Silly. Right.)
I told him, look, you know FLCL and Magical Shopping Arcade Abenobashi? You know how both started out kinda silly, way over the top, goofy and just plain wierd and wacky? ...and then at some point along the way, it took that goofy wackiness and turned around and slammed you in the gut?
Yeah. That's Tengen Toppen Gurren Lagann. It's goofy, it's ridiculous, it's over-the-top, it's wild, it's almost retro sometimes in its visual style, it's even downright silly with the robot-heads bouncing around with these completely unrealistic super-robot-throwbacks, down to the camera angles and the angled lines as the robot hangs there on the screen mid-move, even the totally outrageous homage-and-yet-parody names Kamina comes up for each move... and then suddenly, it will take a left turn and the next thing you know, you've been gutted. Completely, and totally gutted. I'm warning you but I'm saying you can't brace yourself, because when it happens -- spiraling around again to come to that silent center, where the sacrifice lives -- it's just... this sudden quiet. That's the only way to put it.
Last night I had leaned into CP's study to let him know something, and saw he was watching Gurren, so I held off on having him pause and watched it with him instead. The entire rip-roaring, to-the-end, almost-beaten-but-rising-again fight in the grand epic tradition of any truly magnificent mecha series, and then... the character gently lowers his head. CP says, half-joking, "yeah, this is where you fall over." I didn't say anything. I just let him watch, and then as he realized exactly what had just happened... yeah. Even the soundtrack goes silent, not even ambient noise, just a series of images, and then: sayonara, comrades.
CP didn't say anything for a moment or two. I don't know if it's true for him, but I know when I first got to that point, it took a minute or two before I could marshall my thoughts, as well. Struggle to find something else to talk about, to deflect that vulnerable moment of intense pain. And it's a pain, I think, that's doubly so because in some ways you get taken in by the goofiness, the wackiness, the along-for-the-ride sensation of this ragtag bunch of mismatched larger-than-life characters, and you just don't think to yourself, I should be ready. You just don't think it could happen. You've fallen for the comedy and you've forgotten that the reason we have comedy is because we have tragedy, and that in some ways, maybe, all comedy is tragedy -- as Carol Burnett once said -- but it's just tragedy from a distance. Except that some writers bring you in so close.
That's the power of good writing, and if it means watching some outrageous, often-silly, almost goofy story to see just how powerful a gut-punch can be, to experience what it's like to be laughing and cheering on the heroes and then suddenly, silence. There are a hundred, thousand anime and cartoons out there that just aren't worth the celluloid they're on, let's be honest, and then along comes one like Gurren Lagann that makes you realize that under everything, no matter the medium -- word, sound, or image -- a good story is a good story and the best stories always hurt.
I remember when we went to see Firefly with some friends, and afterwards they were saying that their one complaint about the movie was that they didn't see why any of the main characters had to die. It seemed so...unnecessary, and it made any victory bittersweet, with a strong emphasis on bitter, even. But I think Whedon's tapped into the same vein as Kazuki Nakashima (the playwright who authored Gurren Lagann), and both even instinctively recognize the power of the sound and the fury that signifies nothing: that its real power is best felt when it's abruptly, unexpectedly, not there. When death comes in Firefly, it's not a moment of glory, it's not accompanied by large clashing symbals or even a spike in the soundtrack, it's just this quiet moment. Just a soft pause, maybe a few words, and... it's so understated that it's almost overstated in the absence of the fireworks everywhere else in the story. So the high fever pitch of action, like the high fever of laughter, is torn away and you're gut-punched but you can't even see it happening when it does, it's like it just doesn't sink in, there's this lag, this delay, and you hurt and you wonder how that gaping wound happened in your heart.
The best stories always hurt.
Believe in you. Not in you who believes in me, not in me who believes in you, but in you, who believes in you.
(This from the man who cheerfully, even avidly, watched Lucky Star. Silly. Right.)
I told him, look, you know FLCL and Magical Shopping Arcade Abenobashi? You know how both started out kinda silly, way over the top, goofy and just plain wierd and wacky? ...and then at some point along the way, it took that goofy wackiness and turned around and slammed you in the gut?
Yeah. That's Tengen Toppen Gurren Lagann. It's goofy, it's ridiculous, it's over-the-top, it's wild, it's almost retro sometimes in its visual style, it's even downright silly with the robot-heads bouncing around with these completely unrealistic super-robot-throwbacks, down to the camera angles and the angled lines as the robot hangs there on the screen mid-move, even the totally outrageous homage-and-yet-parody names Kamina comes up for each move... and then suddenly, it will take a left turn and the next thing you know, you've been gutted. Completely, and totally gutted. I'm warning you but I'm saying you can't brace yourself, because when it happens -- spiraling around again to come to that silent center, where the sacrifice lives -- it's just... this sudden quiet. That's the only way to put it.
Last night I had leaned into CP's study to let him know something, and saw he was watching Gurren, so I held off on having him pause and watched it with him instead. The entire rip-roaring, to-the-end, almost-beaten-but-rising-again fight in the grand epic tradition of any truly magnificent mecha series, and then... the character gently lowers his head. CP says, half-joking, "yeah, this is where you fall over." I didn't say anything. I just let him watch, and then as he realized exactly what had just happened... yeah. Even the soundtrack goes silent, not even ambient noise, just a series of images, and then: sayonara, comrades.
CP didn't say anything for a moment or two. I don't know if it's true for him, but I know when I first got to that point, it took a minute or two before I could marshall my thoughts, as well. Struggle to find something else to talk about, to deflect that vulnerable moment of intense pain. And it's a pain, I think, that's doubly so because in some ways you get taken in by the goofiness, the wackiness, the along-for-the-ride sensation of this ragtag bunch of mismatched larger-than-life characters, and you just don't think to yourself, I should be ready. You just don't think it could happen. You've fallen for the comedy and you've forgotten that the reason we have comedy is because we have tragedy, and that in some ways, maybe, all comedy is tragedy -- as Carol Burnett once said -- but it's just tragedy from a distance. Except that some writers bring you in so close.
That's the power of good writing, and if it means watching some outrageous, often-silly, almost goofy story to see just how powerful a gut-punch can be, to experience what it's like to be laughing and cheering on the heroes and then suddenly, silence. There are a hundred, thousand anime and cartoons out there that just aren't worth the celluloid they're on, let's be honest, and then along comes one like Gurren Lagann that makes you realize that under everything, no matter the medium -- word, sound, or image -- a good story is a good story and the best stories always hurt.
I remember when we went to see Firefly with some friends, and afterwards they were saying that their one complaint about the movie was that they didn't see why any of the main characters had to die. It seemed so...unnecessary, and it made any victory bittersweet, with a strong emphasis on bitter, even. But I think Whedon's tapped into the same vein as Kazuki Nakashima (the playwright who authored Gurren Lagann), and both even instinctively recognize the power of the sound and the fury that signifies nothing: that its real power is best felt when it's abruptly, unexpectedly, not there. When death comes in Firefly, it's not a moment of glory, it's not accompanied by large clashing symbals or even a spike in the soundtrack, it's just this quiet moment. Just a soft pause, maybe a few words, and... it's so understated that it's almost overstated in the absence of the fireworks everywhere else in the story. So the high fever pitch of action, like the high fever of laughter, is torn away and you're gut-punched but you can't even see it happening when it does, it's like it just doesn't sink in, there's this lag, this delay, and you hurt and you wonder how that gaping wound happened in your heart.
The best stories always hurt.
Believe in you. Not in you who believes in me, not in me who believes in you, but in you, who believes in you.