A nice little tactic by Tuttle’s sales force. Rather than leave it to their reps to explain to booksellers why they should stock my new book (available now in the US and the UK), they hand them an iPad and I tell them myself.
Fandom is up in arms about the recent Netflix broadcast of Evangelion, because the all-new dub is missing several vital cues from the soundtrack. Some of them, such as background noise under an answerphone message, are liable to pass a lot of viewers buy, but the most noticeable omission is the ending theme – Bart Howard’s “Fly Me to the Moon”.
Ten months ago (NEO #181), this column reported on the slow creep of Netflix’s influence on anime theme songs. Now fandom has had its first full-on taste of what that might mean. Evangelion, the Japanese original and the original overseas release on VHS, was made in the 1990s before the advent of true binge-watching, and indeed before the days when distributors were likely to require global licences. One can imagine a bean-counter at Netflix flinching at the idea of paying the original composer and lyricist, plus multiple singers and arrangers, repeatedly, for single-use performances of a song that most Netflix viewers are liable to skip through anyway.
If you add together all the different iterations of Evangelion, the differing lengths of episodes in different formats, and the new versions dropped in for the DVD renewal, there are in fact 31 different versions of “Fly Me to the Moon” appearing in the Evangelion series, so there is no way that Netflix could have used all of them in just 26 episodes. They have, however, chosen to use exactly none of them – although the show still goes out in Japan (where rights were presumably cleared 24 years ago) with the 1954 ballad over the ending credits, Netflix in most other territories drops in a piece of orchestral music, “Hostility Restrained”, for which rights were presumably easier to clear.
I’ve been a little surprised at the intensity of the fan response to this alteration. Theme songs get switched around all the time, often without anyone noticing or caring (A “Chariots of Fire” pastiche, missing from a Gunbuster re-release was a rare exception reported in NEO #32), but this one seems to have struck a nerve, not the least with old-time fans with fond memories of the song’s gentle reverie, usually as they came down off whatever intense and visceral misery they had just seen in the episode proper. It serves as a reminder to us all that the media are never entirely fixed, and that the experience of one fan can be distanced from that of another by time, context, and even content.
Jonathan Clements is the author of Anime: A History. This article first appeared in NEO 191, 2019.
“…a brilliant juggling act on a tightrope between anthropology and sociology, which manages to keep ideas in the air from soft power to difference feminism, nation branding and emotional labour. This could have all too easily gone very wrong, but Puppets, Gods and Brands will be welcomed by an entire generation of students trying to talk their supervisors into taking animation seriously.”
Over at All the Anime, I review Teri Silvio’s Puppets, Gods and Brands, out now from the University of Hawaii Press.
Dour, widowed Shanghai chef Mr Cheng (Chu Pak Hong) comes to the one-horse Lapland town of Pohjanjoki in search of a mysterious person called “Fong Tran”. Marooned 40 kilometres from the nearest hotel, he lodges with Sirkka (Anna-Maija Tuokko), a divorcee trying to make a go of it at her late aunt’s roadside diner. But when a coach party of Chinese tourists is horrified at the mere thought of a Finnish buffet lunch, Cheng comes to the rescue, whipping up Chinese food in Sirkka’s kitchen.
Cheng’s ability to cook edible food brings more visitors, including a gaggle of feisty pensioners from the old people’s home hoping for a Daoist pick-me-up, and a crocodile of children from the local school, who inevitably have a catalogue of allergies and intolerances longer than the menu. He befriends local old fogies Romppainen (Kari Väänänen) and Vilppula (Vesa-Matti Loiri), who drag him fishing and subject him to a sauna, and his son Niu Niu (Lucas Hsuan) slowly comes out of his shell.
Stick with this one-film-a-month blog of every Finnish movie ever released, and Mestari Cheng will swing around again some time in the early 2040s, when I am probably long gone and the automated updates merely look like I am still there. But since I saw it at the cinema today, I might as well write it up out of order, as a fascinating glimpse of where the Finnish film industry is fated to end up eight decades after the most recent entry in my chronological watchathon, which is currently at the cusp of 1939. Mika Kaurismäki’s little Lapland romance is a carefully constructed advertorial that pretends to sell Chinese food to the Finns, but is really intent on selling Finland to the Chinese.
“IT’S SAUSAGE DAY!” proclaims the sign outside Sirkka’s café, leaving me the lone giggler in a midday cinema full of baffled Finns. Because every day is sausage day in Finland, particularly in the sort of joyless canteen that Sirkka runs. Some suspension of disbelief is required, not that Cheng can acquire ingredients from a Lapland super market, but that the effort will not bankrupt him. One of the spin-offs of having my every purchase logged by the local supermarket chain is that I get sent Statto-the-Statman reports about my purchases, and I can tell you that a household in Finland that tries to cook Chinese food every night ends up spending double the local average on its food budget.
I have sometimes succeeded in getting Finns to eat Chinese food. My finest moment was on Hainan island a few years ago, when I was the Pied Piper that led a dozen disbelieving conference-goers to a restaurant where they had what several proclaimed to be the best meal of their lives, and drank the entire local supply of Tsingtao. But all too often, it has been an uphill struggle that comes with a checklist of intolerances real and imagined, kvetching about spice and mewling about dessert.
“There’s a new Chinese restaurant in town,” my girlfriend has been heard to say. “Let’s go there soon before the Finns ruin it.”
Kaurismäki’s film also requires the audience to believe that Finns presented with fish in mandarin sauce or sweet and sour vegetables will not recoil in horror. I once cooked a green curry for a bunch of Finns, and was forced to dilute it so much that it ended up more like a watery coconut soup. For reasons not worth going into here (but discussed at length elsewhere), Finns often scrimp on the correct ingredients, struggle to get the right heat on an electric hob, and fail to patronise higher-end restaurants, leaving much of the hinterland mired in buffets of grim 1950s gruel. But Kaurismäki still has a faith that was bludgeoned out of me long ago: that Finns fed good food will clamour for more, and not simply throw it down their gullets and ask if there’s ice cream for afters.
Offered perch soup, Romppainen is initially sceptical.
“Is it Finnish perch?” he asks, suspiciously (again, I was the lone laugher in the cinema).
When he is assured that, yes, the perch is not an immigrant, he quaffs it down with gusto, becoming one of Master Cheng’s first and most enthusiastic converts, along with the local womenfolk, who find that Cheng’s soup is a good remedy for period pains. Thanks, Finland.
Romppainen later reveals that he is dying of cancer, but that Master Cheng’s dishes have changed his life. He is still going to die, but Master Cheng’s food has given him hope. In a discovery not unfamiliar from many Chinese foodie films, what he means is that the food has brought him joy. Some might find this claim rather patronising, and admittedly, it wouldn’t play so well if, say, a bunch of German tourists descended on a French town, proclaimed the local food crap, and demanded that a German chef prepare their favourites. But there is an unsurpassed bliss in Chinese food, that I fell in love with when I was a child and that I have never shaken off, and when I am as old as Romppainen, I expect I shall feel the same. And while cultural relativism has its place, some cuisines are just better than others.
The film bears some comparison with Naoko Ogigami’s Kamome Shokudo (2006, Seagull Diner) a similar hands-across-the-water film about a bunch of Japanese nutters who decide to open a café in Helsinki. But, conspicuously this is not an Asian director trying to get to grips with a Finnish subject, but a Finnish director trying to flog Finland abroad, so we are consequently staring up the microscope in the other direction. Kaurismäki and Hannu Oravisto’s script has a handful of missteps that betray their origins – Cheng bows to everyone like a stereotypical Japanese tourist, and is momentarily taken aback by the prospect of eating reindeer, as if, in the words of famed diplomat Prince Philip the Duke of Edinburgh, the Chinese wouldn’t eat anything with four legs that wasn’t a chair. More tellingly, a school teacher blunders into Sirkka’s café proclaiming that her pupils have no experience of Asian food, which is plainly not true, because several of them are Asian. Then again, as the unnamed teacher, Helka Periaho only has a couple of scenes to establish whether or not her character is a blinkered mentalist, and the jury’s still out on that.
Cheng teaches the Finns to live again, but they do the same for him. Distracted and driven since his wife’s death in Shanghai, he finds in Lapland a place of exultant quiet and calm, vistas of endless fells, and reindeer loping through the mists of ancient forests.
“There’s so much space here,” he comments to Niu Niu. And I would add that you can see it, too. Finland doesn’t have smog, and in a scene liable to cause a lot of upset tourist stomachs over the next few years, Sirkka even demonstrates that you can just scoop up and drink a handful of water from the lake. Any lake…? I’m sure we are about to find out.
The East-meets-West theme is signified even in the opening shots, as an erhu and an accordion sound complimentary notes. We might forgive it a plot so thin that it only stretches out for movie length because nobody bothers to have a proper conversation about Cheng’s backstory. Despite this, the film contains such multitudes that it could easily form the basis of a TV series. Apart from the obvious scope for Cheng’s past (and Sirkka’s future, as hinted at in a closing coda), a longer, episodic running time would have allowed the main characters more time to develop their chemistry. As it is, the Cheng-Sirkka romance kicks off in a perfunctory fashion, as if they are last two standing in an onscreen game of musical chairs, although as their relationship develops, the two actors do get have some moments of believable affection.
As Sirkka, Anna-Maija Tuokko is a tad under-written, or perhaps just realistically Finnish, shouting a lot about the stupidity of men and hectoring Cheng about the need to speak up and be blunt about it. In a naturalistic touch, it’s not necessarily the love of a good woman that perks Cheng up, but the acceptance of a wider community. The septuagenarian Vesa-Matti Loiri, once a rotund, operatic singer, now a lithe little twig like a deflated Falstaff, has a melancholy moment that will mean more to Finns than foreigners, mournfully singing his own “Lapland Summer” as if delivering his own elegy – it is a song about the transience of happiness and the brevity of life, “Mut pitkä vain on talven valta” (But oh so long is the power of winter). Master Cheng counters with a song of his own, “In a Distant Place” (在那遙遠的地方) one of the best-known songs in China, written by Wang Luobin in 1939 to a Kazakh folk melody, and loaded with a similar elegiac quality. But if Mestari Cheng is a last hurrah for Loiri and Kaurismäki-stable regular Väänänen, it’s also a noteworthy appearance by Lucas Hsuan as the sulky Niu Niu, who manages the rare feat for a child actor of not acting like a child actor.
The closing credits feature a smorgasbord of beautiful shots of high-end Chinese food, which even Master Cheng would have trouble whipping up with three packets of instant noodles and some condemned chicken from R-Kioski. It is, indeed, technically possibly to cook Chinese food using Finnish ingredients, although one wonders what digital tech wizardry Kaurismäki had to employ to stop the aubergines browning within seconds of being sliced.
Jonathan Clements is the author of An Armchair Traveller’s History of Finland and A Brief History of China. He has likened getting Finns to eat real Chinese food to teaching Irish ducks how to read Jivvanese.
As I predicted in my entry on Taku Mayumura in the Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, his 1778 Stories for My Wife is the work that much of the Japanese media chooses to remember him by.
“In 1998, when Mayumura’s wife was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he began Nichigawari Ichi-hanashi [‘A Story A Day’] (1998) in order to distract her from her condition. Purportedly writing solely for an audience of one, this project would eventually extend to ten thousand pages, and endure for several years past Mrs Mayumura’s original estimated terminal date. Tsuma ni Sasageta 1778 Hanashi [‘1778 Stories for My Wife’] contains 19 tales of varying length, written in daily three-page instalments. The story of Mayumura’s Scheherazade-like attempt to keep death at bay was subsequently adapted into the film Watashi to Tsuma no 1778 Monogatari [“1778 Stories of My Wife and I”], likely to endure as Mayumura’s own epitaph and best-known work in the modern Japanese mainstream.”
Derek Sandhaus has a vested interest in making Chinese liquor sound good. Unlike Chris Ruffle, whose A Decent Bottle of Wine in China was more about educating the Chinese in Western ways, Sandhaus’s newly published Drunk in China: Baijiu and the World’s Oldest Drinking Culture aims teach the West about Chinese drinking, not just today, but through its long history.
It’s an uphill struggle, not the least for Sandhaus himself, who freely admits that his first sip of the liquor in 2006 was so repulsive that “if I never tasted baijiu again it would be too soon.” Baijiu isn’t terrible, he reasons hopefully, it’s just different. Not everyone loves their first taste of beer, or whisky or wine, but surely if your palate gets used to it, it doesn’t taste awful anymore? Two chapters in, however, he is still describing the aroma of baijiu as “Jolly Ranchers mixed with paint thinner” and “a banana soaked in turpentine.”
But there is hope! It turns out that there is such a thing as a Taste Threshold – a point beyond which the body accepts whatever new torment has clearly become a regular item of consumption, like a sort of epicurean Stockholm Syndrome. All you have to do, Sandhaus discovers, is drink baijiu three hundred times, and after that you won’t mind so much.
Quietly, he wrestles with another issue – the prospect that the Chinese don’t really like baijiu, either, instead regarding it as some sort of ritual component of social dining. It is consumed, after all, in single, thimble-sized shots, downed in one as a gesture of sincerity. It’s not designed to be sipped and savoured or mixed in cocktails. Perhaps, he wonders, Chinese drinking culture has developed its peculiarities as a means of coping with the fact that baijiu tastes awful, turning it into a short, sharp, and overwhelmingly powerful medicinal shot, best over and done with as quickly as possible. In an epiphany, Sandhaus realises the awfulness of baijiu and the tedium of Chinese social events cancel each other out. Each makes the other bearable.
Sandhaus’s greatest provocation is not the gotcha game of cultural relativism. It is his assertion that it was the pursuit of booze that caused the first people to form a fixed prehistoric settlement on the banks of the Yellow River – alcohol, he argues, created China. His reasoning for this is the Jiahu site, which, as a small point of order, is actually on a tributary of the Huai River, and where Patrick McGovern and his team did indeed uncover the traces of a fermented alcohol made with rice, honey, wild grapes and hawthorn. But as McGovern himself pleads with Sandhaus in an interview, it’s not really fair to say that Jiahu was the first just because it happens to currently provide the earliest evidence.
Regardless, Sandhaus is not crazy. His theory cites authorities at the cutting edge of academic publishing on alcohol history, and is rooted in the work of the early 20th-century scholar Wu Qichang, who also argued that agriculture was not some magical and plentiful easy fix that created human civilisation. It was, in fact, a difficult and troublesome faff, much more hard work in the short term than the nomadic lifestyle. “Our ancestors,” writes Wu, “first planted rice and millet with the goal of brewing alcohol, not making food.”
It’s a long road from meads and ciders to full-on baijiu. First, the Chinese have to invent qu, the yeast that allows for a swifter fermentation process. Sandhaus isn’t that clear on when qu developed – he cites its “rise” to around the time that the First Emperor’s conquest created greater communications between far-flung regions, but then places its discovery up to two thousand years earlier, only to admit that the earliest text to mention it is the Essential Techniques for the Welfare of the People (Qimin Yaoshu) seven hundred years later. It’s not Sandhaus’s fault that the literary record has been purged and flensed by revolutions and accidents, but the ballpark he ends up delineating for the development of yeast is as wide as that separating the present day from Alexander the Great!
Sandhaus also wanders into epigenetics, suggesting that ancient cultures in the Middle East disinfected their water by turning it into beer, creating an evolutionary environment that favoured a physique that manufactured dehydrogenase – the molecule that breaks down alcohol. The Chinese, embracing the boiling of water early on (and infusing it with certain leaves), left themselves more susceptible to drunkenness. By the Han dynasty, which soon begins to derive much of its tax revenue from a state monopoly on alcohol, Sandhaus is ready to declare: “The fate of the nation depended on drink.”
This is all good fun. Any reader of rudimentary intelligence doesn’t need to be reminded that history is a more complex process than that, and an author of Sandhaus’s rhetorical skill could probably argue just as readily that some other commodity – silk, or horses, or jade, or salt – might be conceived as the cornerstone of Chinese culture. In fact, publishing cycles being what they are, it wouldn’t surprise me if he pops up again in a couple of years to say just that. His true aim is to tell the story of China from a quirky new perspective. Daoism, for example, is seen here as the last vestige of Bronze Age ritual intoxication, reimagined as a passive-aggressive challenge to dour Confucianism – Confucius was not a teetotaller, but the books attributed to him do rather leech all the fun out of drinking. Sandhaus sees in China’s many tedious drinking games the distant echoes of Bronze Age ceremonies, in which it was deemed uncouth to drink unless ritual required it.
The poet Li Bai inevitably puts in an appearance as Sandhaus delves into the rich and boozy literature of the affluent Tang dynasty, described here with particular reference to his Drinking Alone by Moonlight. As Sandhaus smartly observes, the poem is a prolonged and somewhat slurred defence of breaking a taboo – it’s not the moonlight that so preoccupies Li, but the fact that he is drinking alone.
The Chinese had distillation as early as the Han dynasty, but there are only scattered, cryptic references to “burnt wine” before the Middle Ages to suggest that they used the technology for anything except perfumes and medicines. It seems it took the Mongol conquest, and the pathways it opened to Arab chemistry, to bring distillation to China and the explosive creation of baijiu. Sandhaus reasonably describes spirits as “attacking China like a virus”, and notes that the first victims were the Mongols themselves – a ruling class used to quaffing large quantities of low-alcohol koumiss, decimated by their encounter with distilled spirits.
Many authors talk of alcohol production as a side-effect of surplus. Sandhaus turns this on its head, taking a desire for alcohol as a given, and then positing that baijiu, for all its acrid unpleasantness, is the most economic means of getting drunk not in times of plenty, but in times of hardship. That, alone should be enough to explain its stolid endurance through China’s troubled 20th century, particularly when Sandhaus maps near-famine conditions to a pointed and deliberate Communist Party focus on native, proletarian commodities. Having myself discovered Red Star erguotou to be literally undrinkable, I feel better now knowing that it was more likely to have been used as a medical disinfectant in the war against the Japanese, and I am curious about the precise identity of the unnamed “Japanese Communist” who apparently designed the logo.
Halfway through the book, when Sandhaus’s history catches up with memoir, he is enthusiastically knocking back Guizhou Maotai, and has largely overcome his earlier distaste. I, personally, think that Guizhou Maotai tastes like pencil erasers dissolved in brake fluid, but Sandhaus has seen the light: “…fermented beans, wild mushrooms, bitter herbs, roasted nuts – the flavours just kept coming. I had been sucker punched by the umami gremlin.” Now, there’s an image.
The history was fascinating enough, but Sandhaus goes up a whole gear when he can talk about his personal experience of manufacturers, banquets and drinking encounters. He runs into “Demolition Girls” (professional party-lubricators who drink baijiu by the bowl), a man selling “three-penis wine”, which is apparently thrice as good as wine made with just one penis, and the various other southern Chinese potions that involve dissolved animal parts, leading to a digression on the Chinese railway workers in the Wild West, and the attempts of various local conmen to copy their medicines made from “snake oil”. His account comes with trenchant observations about the minutiae of everyday life – the “ruthless altruism” of Chinese hospitality, and the common issue of being unable to stay hydrated because there is no potable water in one’s hotel.
Thirteen chapters after Sandhaus first alluded to, shall we say, cultural biases in appraisals of Chinese liquor, he returns to it with subtle vengeance in a section on alcohol safety. Dodgy booze, he writes, is dodgy booze – the question really should be is Chinese booze any dodgier? This, of course, opens up a whole new can of worms regarding food safety and quality control, and Sandhaus has some wonderfully colourful tales to tell, not the least that Laoshan spring water, the source for one of China’s most famous beers, was found by US assessors to contain “an unhealthy level of fecal matter.” This, too, has a sting in the tail, when after chronicling several of the early 2010s food scandals, he reveals that the passing of stricter Chinese safety laws in response ended up catching a bunch of European food companies peddling, for example, cognacs containing unacceptable levels of plasticizer.
Sandhaus does not flinch from the health crisis engendered by China’s “bottoms-up” booze culture. He drops in on an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Chengdu where, curiously, “God” is still granting serenity in the closing prayer, even in Communist China, and he observes the statistical anomaly that China is “…the only nation in the world where an adult’s likelihood to binge increases with age.” His investigations here carry his out-of-the-box thinking in new and rewarding directions, including a survey of baijiu as a drink that is not drunk, but instead bestowed and re-gifted without leaving its presentation box in a long series of bribes and back-handers. In a razor-sharp observation, he notes that when an official proclaims that a matter needs “more research”, it could be construed as a solicitation for something else – yanjiu means research, but is also a homonym for “smokes and booze.”
Sandhaus’s closing chapters outline the writing process of his earlier book, Baijiu: The Essential Guide to Chinese Spirits, in which the man who is still likening his subject matter occasionally to “cough syrup” and “vinegar-glazed cabbage” (and that’s when he’s being nice!) attempts to generate a foreigner-friendly taxonomy of baijiu varieties. In doing so, he investigates the way that the Chinese classify different brands, itself a deeply interesting glimpse of the Party industrial complex at work. An exhaustive account of previous attempts to export baijiu, 99% of the global supply of which, you will be unsurprised to hear, is still drunk in China, is followed by Sandhaus’s speculation that the grading curve – in terms of consumption, quality and respect – for Chinese alcohol is likely to follow that of Chinese food, which itself has had a chequered but upwardly-mobile history.
I would like to be reporting on a whole generation of new fans suddenly created – an upwelling of anime love generated by the Netflix release of Neon Genesis Evangelion. Instead, for the second month in a row, fandom is enmired in complaints and arguments about the English-language version. This time it’s over the appearance of Kaworu, the “Fifth Children”, who famously tells the beleaguered hero Shinji that he loves him.
Or rather, he did, in the old ADV Films DVDs. In Dan Kanemitsu’s new translation, he says he likes him, which Kanemitsu has defended as a deliberate word-choice for ambiguity’s sake.
It turns out that there is a faction within fandom who demands that this not be ambiguous at all. Many have fond memories of Kaworu’s declaration as a moment of LGBT clarity, a “we’re here, we’re queer” invasion of mainstream anime to be celebrated, and now being suppressed. Others are armchair translators who remember the former version and don’t like the change.
Kanemitsu is working with a bunch of factors behind the scenes, starting with his own undeniable talent (he didn’t win this gig in a lottery) and unknown stipulations by Studio Khara, whose own staff are keener on the “like” side. Add to that the delicious tangle that he cannot even lean on precedent, because Evangelion’s creator Hideaki Anno limited himself to the equally ambiguous comment that Kaworu “could” be a potential same-sex partner. Meanwhile, ADV’s own original translation of Evangelion had “like” in its 1990s VHS subtitles, and switched it to “love” when the DVD came out.
The fact is that suki can mean like or love depending on context. There are hundreds of ways to say “I love you” in Japanese, but the Japanese hardly ever employ any of them, regarding a direct declaration as rather gauche, blunt or well, foreign. Kaworu’s line is already a step away from the norm, a nudge beyond flirtation – a comment sure to unsettle and discombobulate.
So I’m with many others in the translation field when I say that I, personally, would have gone with “love” for this line, not only for its possibly disquieting force, but because Judaeo-Christian tradition, on which Evangelion leans so conspicuously, has multiple interpretations of the term – including philia (brotherly love), agape (charity) and eros (erotic love). Just because you unpack the term into a single English word, doesn’t mean that the arguments over interpretation are over.
But I would have done so in search of the same ambiguity as Kanemitsu. I find it in scripture and the assumption of an audience with a Christian cultural background, which is frankly, a presumption on my part not necessarily shared by the audience Kanemitsu is playing to. “Context” is not merely the dramatic situation of the line, but the abilities and expectations of one’s presumed audience. So both lines are right, depending on who is reading them.
Jonathan Clements is the author of Anime: A History. This article first appeared in NEO 192, 2019.