APRIL 18, 2008 - VOL. 1, ISSUE 11

In the United States, the films of the Japanese animation studio Ghibli are released under the distribution of Disney, which is, to me, ironic considering the gross differences between the productions of the two studios. The films of the latter are homogenized adaptations of dense, complex literary works; turned into vapid, sunny, educational stories meant to indoctrinate our youth with the accepted mores of our society, take for example The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Those of the former are dense, complex original works that present youth with honest investigations of social problems and the "darker" themes of death and sexuality. Perhaps the "darkest," by western standards, of the Ghibli films is Isao Takahata's Pom Poko, also known as The Raccoons of Tama Hills, a film that moves beyond mere ecological agit-prop and attempts to present younger audiences with an analysis and critique of the very nature of philosophy and activism.

Like the majority of the Ghibli lexicon, Pom Poko is concerned with the adverse effects of industrialization and population growth, manifested in tales of loss of traditions and spiritual connections with nature. Though never blind idealism, these kid's cartoons never conclude with a simple, or single, answer to the many questions it raises. This film in particular follows a band of raccoons living in the wooded surroundings of Tokyo. Humans have designated their peaceful habitat as the site of a new, vast housing development that will engulf their entire home. But the raccoons aren't completely helpless; in Japanese lore, raccoons are mystical creatures that have the ability to transform into anything, be it man or monster. Immediately the film sets up this dilemma so that the remainder can investigate all the avenues these creatures have at their disposal to survive and the consequences of each.

This is where the film truly separates itself from what we are used to in the West as well as the other films of Ghibli. Employing a vast cast of characters Takahata is able to give symbolic representation to all avenues of thought without pedantic allegory. The most prevalent raccoons are the elders, Oruku and Osho, both skilled in the arts of transformation. These characters mainly serve to facilitate the discussions and offer their experience and wisdom and are the most connected to the traditions of the past. If it can be said that the film has a main protagonist it would fall dually upon the conflicting characters of Gonta, the militant, and Shokichi, the activist. Both favor action to mere discussion, but their methods are radically set apart from one another. Gonta, who witnesses the bloody onscreen deaths of many comrades, carries with him vengeance and a fanaticism that dictates "us or them." At one point this escalates into a call for open genocide of all humans, not just those directly involved in the construction work. Shokichi, as foil, both understands and legitimizes his anger against humans, but implores that though raccoons and humans live in different habitats, they share the same world and have developed a symbiotic relationship and the eradication of one may lead to the demise of the other.

Furthermore, the issue of violence is constantly returned to. Disgusted with the lack of results Gonta defects with a band of followers. Employing guerilla tactics, the group sabotages the efforts of the construction workers, resulting in the grisly deaths of several humans. Takahata doesn't leave us embittered over these murders or ecstatic over the temporary halt on construction. Instead we are shown results of violence: it is met with equal violence in the form of justified retribution. The humans now have cause to hunt these creatures. As history has proven in the twentieth century, a cold war accomplishes little more than needless death and constant fear.

The auxiliary characters offer equally important insights and opinions concerning what to do about the construction. Tamasaburo, a young raccoon, is charged with locating the ancient transformation masters in the hopes that they will present a solution. Along his journey he is caught up in the personal struggles of marriage and parenthood. Similarly, this occurs when Shokichi unites with Kiyo. These romantic interludes offer a new take on indifference. All three characters lose sight of the larger problems, forgetting from time to time the gravity of the situation. Rather than slapping on labels of selfishness or ambivalence to those not actively participating, Takahata shows us that the day to day struggles of the average citizen is enough to completely involve a persons thoughts. On a personal level, the survival of our children trumps the survival of our culture.

Halfway into the film the three transformation masters arrive, bringing with them new solutions to the struggles, and new problems. At first the masters, and all the raccoons, are united by a single plan of action: they will hone and master their magic abilities of transformation and unleash them on Tokyo. What results is one of the most beautiful and technically astounding sequences in the film. Hundreds of raccoons, morphed into spirits and monsters of Japanese culture, eerily parade through the city, in the hope that humans will be so frightened and awestruck that their humility before these spirits will put an end to all deforestation. They succeed so far as fascinating the humans, but they attribute the spectacle to a nearby amusement park and their new technologies.

Deflated and distraught, the raccoons regroup. The fallout of this failed attempt only serves to create more schisms. Of the three masters, one dies during the parade, one goes senile and creates a death cult, and the third, Kincho, is presented with perhaps the most tempting solution as well as morally ambiguous. A fox approaches him; they too have the ability to disguise themselves. The fox brings him to the city where he offers him a life of exorbitant excess. Ever the social Darwinist and Ayn Rand disciple, the fox declares that assimilating into human life is the only future for the raccoons, even it means leaving the ones who cannot transform to die. Convinced of his logic, Kincho returns to the raccoons with the same offer, many of who take in the end.

Clearly, this is not Bambi, where the hunters are bad and the animals are good. The social contract between the people and animals leaves both parties equally responsible for the events that occur; the construction is finished, the woods are no more, those who can live among the humans, those who can't scratch out a meager existence or become roadkill. The raccoon's plight may have been doomed from the beginning, but the film serves as an example, an involved and complicated lesson that informs rather than trains its audience of the many complexities of a given problem, in this case ecological. Could you imagine a Bambi this socially aware? Where the woodland creatures are not in a harmonious utopia? Where the humans are complex beings? Where both share a responsibility in the problems at hand? Furthermore, could you imagine any Disney production that didn't cater to the lowest common denominator and respected its child audience as intelligent, capable beings?