by Josef Steiff
Since the idea of adolescence as an interim stage in growth was unknown, the medieval assumption was that children progressed directly from an infantile state to adulthood. Once a child displayed the very first signs of physical maturity, they were considered, for all intents and purposes, to be adults at that instant, with no regard to the many years of further physical and emotional growth that are needed. Though smaller in stature, once a child was able to articulate himself coherently and read fluently, if he were educated, he was considered as capable of reason as any grown-up.
Within this framework, the door is opened to the range of adult experiences at an age we in developed societies consider to be wholly inappropriate. Such situations include putting a child to work (even in extremely dangerous situations such as mining), sex and marriage (by not recognizing a minimum age of consent) or the intersection of the work and sex trajectories, in prostitution. Unfortunately, we still see this potential at work today. Though most first world countries recognize the age of majority and condemn child labor, many parts of the world turn a blind eye to the situations of the conscription of children for war and the child sex trade.
The Ability to Reason
Grave of the Fireflies can be seen as taking the position that this medieval attitude regarding childhood and the nature of children is completely wrong. When the protagonist, Seita, takes on the role of the anime hero in the film, he starts down a path that leads directly to his own death and the death of his sister, Setsuko. For his initiative, instead of saving himself and his younger sister, he dooms them both because he is simply not capable of making choices, those that we would consider to be rational and adult, or, in philosophical terms, applying the capacity to reason.
The popular anime notion of child as hero is placed in direct contrast with our modern understanding of childhood. Grave of the Fireflies’ emphasis on the importance of the ability to reason is rooted as much in an Aristotelian philosophy as it is in modern developmental psychology. Traditional anime, like its medieval attitude counterpart, simply ignores this need for emotional and rational growth. Grave of the Fireflies demonstrates just how dangerous this approach can be. Seita completely and utterly fails in his mission: to care for his sister and himself. Aristotelian concepts of the nature of children and the limits of their capabilities are reinforced through negative examples, demanding an awareness and application in our world. The two philosophies of childhood come into their most direct conflict over the idea of reason.
The child or adolescent in anime puts a romantic spin on the medieval notion. Seita, the apparent hero in Grave of the Fireflies, is about the same age as most anime adventurers. In these animated series or movie fantasies, children succeed in their struggles to gather dragonballs and cards or win tournaments through hope and dogged determination in the face of insurmountable odds. We see over and over again that the fantasy children in anime don’t need adults as nurturers. Intrepid children constantly strike out on their own, without any guidance or supervision. Children in series such as Dragon Ball, Pokémon, Yu-Gi-Oh!, and Fullmetal Alchemist, wander the countryside from adventure to adventure with no adults around, frequently failing to address the most basic issues of food and shelter, unless the plot specifically calls for those issues as McGuffins.
While there are cases such as Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away¸ where the goal of the child’s journey is to save her parents (whose absence is part of the plot), the dangers of unaccompanied travel are ignored, at best. One might believe that there would be no problems in running away from home. Seita certainly believes that he is as capable as any adult and that he, like other child heroes, can succeed. He takes his first step on his own journey of adventure by taking Setsuko and leaving the home of their aunt.
Defying Conventions
We now understand that a child needs nurturing and guidance from adults throughout adolescence. They are not realized as people and, most significantly, not capable of reasoning, of making their own decisions for their own or others’ welfare. Our modern notion is informed by the rise of developmental psychology but is also rooted in the Aristotelian concepts of childhood that predated the medieval notion.
Grave of the Fireflies warns the viewer as soon as it begins that this will be no ordinary anime, providing a few feints before the direction of the tale is made clear. The starkness of the opening scene in the train station seems to indicate that this will be an adult tale, of mecha-grittiness perhaps. As the candy-tin spills open, the rei (spirit) of Setsuko rises out of cremated remains10 and the rei of Seita steps out of the train station. The softness of their features and the deliberate cuteness of the little girl then hint that this may be some type of spirit fantasy along the lines of Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke. But, an instant later, the realization of what we’ve just seen crashes down as it becomes clear that this story is going to be told in flashback and isn’t going to end happily. The impending tragedy indicates the first break from classic, child-centered anime. The specific anime genre in which Grave of the Fireflies works isn’t clear in the introduction, but the death of the cute child doesn’t fit within any of them.
Over the course of the tale, we see Seita act like a classic anime youth, believing that the medieval perspective will hold true, and he will be capable of succeeding in his mission. Seita makes several choices which, in the lens of the traditional anime world, would seem daring and empowering. These decisions seem perfectly reasonable to him at the time. They are made at moments where adventures tell us that plucky determination will win out. But these ill-informed choices lead directly to the deaths of the children.
The focus of these choices is the aunt with whom the children stay while their mother is in the hospital and after her death. To a certain degree, the aunt is taking the role of the wicked stepmother from western fairy tales. She is an adult, somewhat related, so commands a certain amount of respect, but not immune to criticism like a parent or grandparent would be.
Nothing she does is particularly evil. She is unpleasant, to be sure, but there is no actual abuse. She makes rather pedestrian complaints such as demanding why Seita doesn’t get a job and help the community and their home? She complains about Setsuka’s crying. She grouses when Seita leaves all of his dirty dishes in the sink, after the children start making their own food. That being said, there is nothing fundamentally unreasonable about what she’s asking of the boy. Show respect for the others you live with. Clean up after yourself, contribute to the household, and let others get their rest. Where some might see these parameters as the minimum behavior expected for a roommate, especially in wartime, these demands cast her as the adversary in Seita’s eyes.
His reactions to her demands are childish and spiteful. While she’s obviously unpleasant, she never threatened to kick them out of the house or deny them food. All she really wanted was at least “a single word of apology.” But he ignores her, offers no response to the suggestions that he work, and he starts cooking his own meals in her house out of spite (and, again, leaving the dirty dishes). The implicit refusals to contribute to the household are compounded when it’s revealed that Seita has access to fairly large amounts of money in the bank. Finally, in his pride and the plucky determination of an anime hero, Seita strikes out on his own with Setsuko. But let’s face it, Seita is striking out in defiance of an adversary who, at the end of the day, is at worst only a mean aunt.
This is the first and most major decision by which he dooms his sister and himself to death. To live without an adult is the clearest demarcation of adulthood, which Seita assumes for himself without any thought of the real consequences. The decision, though, is framed as that of the classic anime hero. Seita rebels against his adversary, the mean authority figure. Or, at least, this is how it is justified in Seita’s mind.
The aunt is clearly not faultless when the crucial turning point is reached. When Seita announces that the two are leaving, she asks “Where are you going?” and he tells her, “I don’t know for certain,
yet.” The aunt doesn’t express a great deal more concern for their decision. She simply says, “Well, be careful,” without trying to stop them from their misguided adventure.
The Offer of Help
Anime is littered with adults playing the role of advisors, who give the heroes bits or information or tools they need in their quests. Their input is always friendly and helpful, though they notably don’t ever take in the children or join on the quests in order to protect them. Seita is so sure of his ability to command his situation, his ability to reason for himself, that he ignores these adults, particularly when they point out his need to be nurtured. The farmer with whom he tries to trade for food directly tells Seita to rely on his relatives, his family. Seita claims, “Well, . . . I can’t get in touch with them,” as if to imply the other relatives in Tokyo that the aunt referred to earlier. But the farmer apparently recognizes that Setsuko is hiding the truth. “Then it’s better for you to go back to that house. Besides, everything’s rationed now. If you’re not part of a community group, you can’t eat. Apologize and ask them to let you stay.”
In this one moment, Seita is specifically told where he needs to go and what he needs to do in order to survive, but he consciously chooses to take another path. His ability to reason as an adult is inadequate. Seita does noticeably pause when the farmer lays out the situation, and he seems to consider, but ultimately disregard, the option. “Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll try other places.” Seita clings to his idea that he is a man, not a child, ironically demonstrating that he, in fact, is only a child.
The medieval spirit rears its head again as Seita deals with his sister’s health. Over the course of their time in the wilderness, Setsuko becomes weaker and sicker. When Seita finally takes her to get some help, the doctor tells Seita that Setsuko is malnourished. At this point, the boy simply cannot comprehend the impact of his neglect and demands that the doctor fix the problem with a shot or some medicine, as if there is literally a magic quick fix. Even at this crucial point, when he has been explicitly told of the problem, Seita doesn’t consider returning to the aunt’s house, out of childish pride. It is this final decision that ultimately dooms Setsuko.
The Aftermath of Tragedy
As adults, we can look at every single one of these decisions by Seita and see how they led to the deaths of the children. Our understanding of children tells us that they simply can’t take care of themselves, but the framework of the anime adventurer does not allow for any alternatives.
It’s hard to imagine that the film’s director, Isao Takahata, and Studio Ghibli, intended for the film to be a criticism of anime’s depiction of childhood, given their respective artistic and commercial interest in the genre. However, it is equally hard to imagine that the comparisons did not occur to them.
This disconnect is noticeable particularly in light of the fact that Studio Ghibli released and marketed the now-classic, more traditional anime feature, My Neighbor Toturo, alongside Grave of the Fireflies as a double feature. Miyazaki’s My Neighbor Toturo is more of a “spirit” anime—an exploration of the Japanese concept of the spirit world—rather than an adventure story, but still it evokes the broad range of children’s fantasy anime. In pairing the two, the producers beg a comparison between Grave of the Fireflies and the other films in the genre.
In fact, the pairing was initially a commercial failure because Grave of the Fireflies was so completely different from the expectations set with the marketing campaign, which indicated that the story was suitable for children.11 The fact that it was initially a commercial failure points to its uniqueness in the medium and how the public simply wasn’t prepared for that perspective.
Grave of the Fireflies is an adaptation of the semi-autobiographical novel of the same name by Akiyuki Nosaka. Nosaka says in interviews that he wrote the story as a personal apology to his two sisters who died of malnutrition during World War II. Referring to the younger of the two, Nosaka says, “My sister’s death is an exact match with the novel.” He feels responsible for her death. His reaction is classic survivor’s guilt, but he is also fully aware that his own immaturity was a factor in his sister’s death.
The real-life tragedy behind Grave of the Fireflies resonates with even more power in animated form where the genre conventions tell us to expect a happy ending and capable children. The director makes Seita’s failure that much more poignant by implicitly placing the boy next to anime heroes such as Yugi Mutou, Ash Ketchum, and Son Goku. If the boys of Yu-Gi-Oh!, Pokemon and Dragon Ball can succeed in their tasks over and over again, what does this say about Seita? If these heroes can save the world, why can’t Seita save one little girl?
The answer lies in that he is simply a normal young teenager who does not have the reasoning ability or maturity to adequately care for himself or others. Seita is an adolescent in the Aristotelian mold. Even when you strip away the fantasy elements of the adventure stories, most anime heroes can be seen as personifications of romanticized medieval ideals of children. Their fantastic powers and tools are independent of the coping skills needed for their travels. Seita, too, had resources of money and family available to him, just not the judgment needed to use them.
Perhaps this additional layer of meaning is exactly why Seita and Setsuko’s tragedy was not first told as a live-action film.3 The realities of the story conflict with the conventions of anime, demonstrating that much more intensely how the medievalist attitude regarding children really is unworkable in real life. While the story of Grave of the Fireflies reminds us of the horrors of war, telling that story in anime raises questions about the very elements that frequently define the medium. Anime often romanticizes the idea that a child striking out on his own will discover a world of thrilling adventures with little personal consequence. How many children viewing these anime adventures might come to believe the same delusion? While the odds of such an influence are extremely low, Takahata’s film works as an effective counter-balance to these unrealistic depictions of the capabilities of children in anime. Grave of the Fireflies reminds us that, while the cockiness and bravado of adolescence may try to fool us, a child’s ability to reason and to make sound decisions is not ready-made but instead takes years of development, guidance, and nurturing.12
Devils
16
Human Alchemy and the Deadly Sins of Capitalism
D.E. WITTKOWER
Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is Alchemy’s First Law of Equivalent Exchange.
—ALPHONSE ELRIC, Fullmetal Alchemist
The law of equivalent exchange might express a number of different basic beliefs we have about the world. As a Law of Alchemy, it expresses a scientific rationality—both the beauty of an ordered, knowable universe, and the sorrows of a world where not everything is possible. A world where there is final, permanent, and insoluble loss. As a moral law, it expresses an ideal of justice—both that none should benefit without having done something to deserve that benefit, and that no sacrifice should ever fail to receive some kind of compensation in return. A religious perspective binds these meanings together. In a world created by a just God, the world would work according to fair and knowable laws—both that we would know there is a price to be paid for our desires and sins, and that there are some things for which we must never strive. Things beyond the reach of humankind.
How are we meant to interpret the meaning of the law of Equivalent Exchange? As with any central theme in any really interesting work of fiction, there are many ways, and we shouldn’t claim that there is a single right—or even a best—interpretation. But I’d like to speak of it as telling us something about our contemporary form of alchemy: economics.
Economics is a form of alchemy; it transforms goods into one another, and turns productive elements into gold. It dreams too of the Philosopher’s Stone—a way of escaping equivalent exchange and creating profit. And it too has the same fundamental proble
m: How can you have a process that ends up with more than you started with? And the answer for economics is the same as it is in Fullmetal Alchemist: only by sacrificing human lives.
It’s Not a Miracle, It’s Science
In a basic alchemical transmutation all the parts there at the end must be present at the beginning; the change has to do simply with a useful reorganization of those parts. For example, when Alphonse fixes a radio in “Those Who Challenge the Sun,” he doesn’t create anything new, but only rearranges the parts so that it’s a working device again, instead of just a collection of detached radio parts.
This is basically the way that any artisan or craftsman creates value. The usefulness of something comes from both its raw materials and its organization, and neither is useful without the other. You can’t make soup out of a stone any more than you can squeeze blood from a turnip, but, on the other hand, a perfectly ripe and nutritious basket of berries is of no use to you until someone bothers to go into the forest and pick it. In the same way, it’s through taking some suitable raw material (cotton or wool, yes; dirt or milk, no and ew) and reorganizing it in a proper sort of way (yarning and weaving, yes; burning and shredding, no) that we get clothing. And it’s the same with all the basic goods of life: clothing, food, shelter, and so on.
Here, there is a kind of equivalent exchange—raw materials go into and are used in the finished product. There is, of course, another kind of equivalent exchange that takes place when the product is brought to market. The berries I gather can be traded for the clothing you’ve made. And in this, we both stand to gain, even though there is an equivalent exchange.
