copypasta from a class essay @w@:
Osamu Tezuka was as invested in his fans as they were in him; the feelings of his readers were paramount, and he would often adjust the tone, pace, or emphasis of his work in response to the reactions of his audience. After achieving mainstream success and gratuitous accolades from very early in his career, Tezuka remained somewhat preoccupied with being liked. As such, his style would frequently change to suit the want of his constituency – sometimes in the middle of a series. The results of these shifts were mixed, but Tezuka would always persist until he reached another plateau of resonance with his readers.
In the late 60’s, with the dark and mature genre of gekiga on the rise, Tezuka’s work fell out of favor with critics and audiences; his comparatively simplistic plots and ideologies began to seem outdated and no longer relevant within a medium that was struggling to hold an artistic legitimacy within the mind of the public. Though he remained mostly dismissive of this movement as a frivolous fad, he could not ignore the market’s opinion, and the influence of gekiga ultimately left a mark on Tezuka’s work that never faded. In the early 70’s his work began to take on a heavier and more sober tone, due not only to gekiga and the waning spotlight upon his work, but also to his studio’s business difficulties – culminating with the folding of COM magazine which was, ironically, an anthology founded as a response to gekiga.
Though the somberness lasted for the duration of his career, the culmination of Tezuka’s “dark period” is, in many ways, 1972’s Ayako. Tezuka had previously been toying with a more realistic style in lightly sci-fi works such as Apollo’s Song and Ode to Kirihito, it is Ayako that first realizes a fully a serious tone and realistic ground. Tezuka mercifully holds back his infamous urge to punctuate the most serious scenes with off-color comic relief, and thus this work is relentlessly dry by Tezukan standards; jokes are rare, gags are even rarer, and caricature is used perhaps once or twice. Further isolating Ayako from the rest of his oeuvre is the absence of Tezuka’s “star system,” a device adopted at the beginning of his career that treats his cartoon cast as actors, allowing the same characters to return in different roles. Normally a new Tezuka work is populated with familiar faces that act as winking self-references, lending his stories a certain exclusivity that comforts and rewards the more experienced reader (as do the recurring gags and caricature that are likewise absent from Ayako). The absence of these standards creates an abject distance and discomfort for those used to Tezuka’s adventure stories, emphatically tethering Ayako to the real world, separate from Tezukan lore. At the same time, real events are weaved into the plot, marrying the narrative to real-life history.
The story takes place in the immediate aftermath of the war, as the P.O.W.s are being returned to Japan. This choice of setting is very purposeful, providing us with a keen and obvious metaphor for the state of Japan: Ayako herself. She is the youngest daughter of a land-owning Japanese clan who clings to feudal tradition, at the cost of their family’s welfare (and, ultimately, survival). The retrograde Tenge clan treats her with cruelty and intolerance, locking her away in a room for most of her life – a blatant metaphor for Japan’s centuries of isolation. As these old ways disintegrate, Ayako is “freed” and whisked away by her brother, a soldier in the war turned U.S. collaborator who is an embodiment of the American occupation and influence. Though he has the best of intentions, and grants her great wealth, she is also met with indirect ramifications of her brother’s violent and corrupt lifestyle (he is an individualist American-style gangster).
The traditional and retrograde family clan holding tightly to the old ways, and the misguided interference of a violent and callous guardian: both of these forces cause damage and distress upon the Japanese body (the naïve and virginal Ayako). She helplessly takes the brut of this abuse, and is raped, beaten, and stripped of her autonomy. Having been isolated from age 5, her mental and emotional growth is severely retrenched, akin to what General MacArthur said of Japan during the occupation: that the nation was “like a child of 12.”
Perhaps that is to be expected of Ayako, going through most of her life in what is essentially a dollhouse. In fact, she essentially becomes a doll herself. Ayako, as a character, is a completely flat and static failure. Her reactions and priorities are totally far-fetched, often disrupting the gravity and realness of a mostly straight-faced story. But this is not the way her “character” is meant to be read: she is purely a device. She is an experiment, a would-be woman who has been absolutely flattened by the aforementioned sordid circumstances. Analyzing Ayako as a person is missing the point entirely: she is, emphatically, an object. There is deliberately no depth to her psychology; her only value comes from what she represents. She is sexually desired by everyone who sees her, she is passed around her family like an heirloom, and she arrives (from dollhouse to dollhouse) in a box. This packaging keeps her pristine and attractive: “Her body,” says the narration, “in its youth and frailty harbored a purity that was beyond human, like that of a mannequin.” (Tezuka 419) The book itself drives this point home, it’s a flesh colored tome that features Ayako naked on the cover, with a child’s smile, striking a vulnerable pose.
Even her brother cannot withstand her sexual charm. In the beginning of the story, as a boy, he shines as the brightest hope for the family (and for Japan?), a precocious voice of dissent among his clan’s misdeeds. His guileful interrogation of his relatives meets a dead end after a certain amount of trickery and corruption; he resigns himself to the family, marked by his adoption of their kansai accent (used by Tezuka here and in other works to subtly obscure the dignity of his characters).
His older sister, Naoko, is politically and socially subversive, and her feminist politics also highlight her as the last beacon of her family’s decency. But as Ayako is abused and locked away, she takes flight, avoiding her family in the years to come. Her actions – or inactions – are similar to those of the progressive Japanese public, who were so overwhelmed by the virulent power dynamic in post-war Japan that they had no recourse but to run off and turn a blind eye, rendered totally helpless and disillusioned.
Every other character is likewise layered with meaning, and the cast is sizable, yet each actor is masterfully positioned in a stunning ballet of synecdoche. The resulting tapestry owes much to Russian literature (Tezuka was, like many mangaka of the time, an avid Dostoevsky fan), displaying a considerably grand narrative that is simultaneously poised and intimate. Though this pretension is mitigated somewhat by the tropes and the brisk, streamlined pace of genre fiction. There’s a pulp improbability to the somewhat cartoonish criminal motif – the incident in which Ayako’s gangster brother hides information in his empty eye socket.
This balance of literary aspirations and hard-boiled detective novel aesthetic is something that Tezuka has in common with the gekiga artists of the time. I mentioned earlier that Tezuka’s impetus for creating this manga, and for adopting the style therein, was the rising idiom of contemplative, adult-oriented manga. Ayako is, undoubtedly, a reaction to gekiga, but I also believe it is itself an analogical essay of the manga medium. The character of Ayako can be said to represent manga itself, an impressionable child at the mercy of conflicting ideas. Her old-fashioned family (traditional manga artists) circumscribes her potential by stowing her away without allowing her to mature. But the gekiga-like influence of her gangster older brother is equally harmful, imposing upon her a radical and dangerous new lifestyle marred by superfluous violence and absurd situational drama – yes, her elder brother is an embodiment of gekiga itself, and his failed attempt at ushering Ayako into healthy adulthood is a clear and scathing critique of what gekiga artists at the time were attempting. The work is a meditation of itself. At the end of the novel, all the characters are trapped together in a small cave, helpless and static. Ayako eventually consumes each of her influencers to stay alive, and when she is rescued she escapes into the wild, to be shaped by unknown circumstances.
It is important to note that in Japanese, Ayako’s name is written “奇子,” with the characters for “strange” and “child,” an apt description for Ayako, for post-war Japan, and for the nascent medium of gekiga.