Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters 9789048556885

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1. No Nukes before Fukushima : Postwar Atomic Cinema and the History of the “Safety Myth”
2. Straddling 3/11: The Political Power of Ashes to Honey
3. Resistance against the Nuclear Village
4. The Power of Interviews
5. Learning about Fukushima from the Margins
6. The Power of Art in the Post-3/11 World
Appendix: Interview from “Film Workshop with Director Hamaguchi Ryusuke”
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Critical Asian Cinemas Critical Asian Cinemas features book-length manuscripts that engage with films produced in Asia and by Asian auteurs. “Asia” refers here to the geographic and discursive sites located in East and Central Asia, as well as South and Southeast Asia. The books in this series emphasize the capacity of film to interrogate the cultures, politics, aesthetics, and histories of Asia by thinking cinema as an art capable of critique. Open to a wide variety of approaches and methods, the series features studies that utilize novel theoretical models toward the analysis of all genres and styles of Asian moving image practices, encompassing experimental film and video, the moving image in contemporary art, documentary, as well as popular genre cinemas. We welcome rigorous, original analyses from scholars working in any discipline. This timely series includes studies that critique the aesthetics and ontology of the cinema, but also the concept of Asia itself. They attempt to negotiate the place of Asian cinema in the world by tracing the distribution of films as cultural products but also as aesthetic objects that critically address the ostensible particularly of Asianness as a discursive formation. Series Editor Steve Choe, San Francisco State University, USA Editorial Board Jinsoo An, University of California, Berkeley, USA Jason Coe, Hong Kong University Corey Creekmur, University of Iowa, USA Chris Berry, King’s College, London Mayumo Inoue, Hitotsubashi University, Japan Jihoon Kim, Chung Ang University, South Korea Adam Knee, Lasalle College of the Arts, Singapore Jean Ma, Stanford University, USA

Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters

Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano

Amsterdam University Press

The publication of this book is made possible by grants from Japan Society for the Promotion of Science, The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC), The International Research Center for Japanese Studies, and Kyoto University.

Cover illustration: © Shuji Akagi Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6372 828 7 e-isbn 978 90 4855 688 5 doi 10.5117/9789463728287 nur 670 © Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2023 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

7

Acknowledgements

9

Introduction

13

1. No Nukes before Fukushima: Postwar Atomic Cinema and the History of the “Safety Myth”

37

2. Straddling 3/11: The Political Power of Ashes to Honey

61

3. Resistance against the Nuclear Village

83

4. The Power of Interviews

117

5. Learning about Fukushima from the Margins

145

6. The Power of Art in the Post-3/11 World

173

Appendix: Interview from “Film Workshop with Director Hamaguchi Ryusuke”

207

Bibliography

231

Index

241



List of Illustrations

Figure 0.1 Figure 0.2 Figure 1.1 Figure 2.1 Figure 2.2

The VIP seats left empty (Film still from Nuclear Nation) Mayor of Futabamachi (Film still from Nuclear Nation) Film still from Lucky Dragon No. 5 Japanese DVD cover image of Nuclear Nation DVD cover image of Nuclear Nation for overseas distribution Figure 3.1 “Interrelationships in the Nuclear Village” produced as a CG image (Film still from Nuclear Japan) Figure 3.2 “Stand-Alone Renewable Energy Systems” illustrated as a hand-drawn chart in the Kawai lecture method (Film still from Nuclear Japan) Figure 4.1 Camera positions in the “Z method” Figure 4.2 Setup for the “Z method” Figure 4.3 What the interviewee sees Figure 5.1 Cows that starved to death in their barn Figure 5.2 DVD cover for Fukushima: A Record of Living Things No. 1: “Exposure” Figure 5.3 Film still from A2-B-C Figure 6.1 The statue of Sun Child by Yanobe Kenji Figure 6.2 Chim↑Pom’s “Additional Art” to Myth of Tomorrow by Okamoto Taro Figure 6.3 Myth of Tomorrow by Okamoto Taro Figure 6.4 Sun Child displayed in front of Tower of the Sun Figure 6.5 Fukuda Miran’s Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter Figure 6.6–6.7 Two Smiles of Mona Lisa Figure 6.8 The 500 Arhats: Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Vermillion Bird, Black Tortoise by Murakami Takashi Figure 6.9 Five Hundred Arhats by Kano Kazunobu Figure 6.10 A viewer looking at a work of art with a VR headset Figure 6.11 Children playing next to bags of contaminated soil (Photo from Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013 by Akagi Shuji) Figure 6.12 Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances by Tsuboi Akira Figure 6.13 The front cover of Supplementary Reader for Elementary School Students on Energy: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy

21 22 46 64 64 92 93 132 134 134 146 147 166 177 180 181 182 185 187 188 189 196 197 199 203

Acknowledgements Amid difficulties, especially when forced to endure the inconvenience caused by this worldwide pandemic as we are today, whose “voice” should we rely upon? The writing of this book proceeded to seek an answer to this question while I found myself bewildered by such feelings of apprehension. And in the end, the “voice” that I arrived at was not a single voice but multiple “voices.” In the process of writing this book, I interviewed many f ilmmakers and artists. I also reached out to writers, museum curators, scholars, and researchers who are tackling the subject of post-3/11 issues in fields of study completely different from mine. Above all, many people living in the disasterstricken regions of Sendai, Ishinomaki, and Minamisoma enlightened me with their stories, knowledge, and perspectives. I want to take this opportunity to express my heartfelt thanks to them all. Their “voices” did not necessarily come from one unwavering position. Nonetheless, these “voices” caused me to contemplate motives to carry on with everyday life and, at the same time, gave me the faculty of reason to determine a compass for my life. In Chapter 2, I quote Jane M. Gaines’s expression, “political mimesis.” It suggests to us that exposing ourselves to others’ ways of living or their political stance that are fundamental to the way they live leads many of us to internalize to some extent what we have been exposed to and, as a result, to undergo the process of mimesis. If there were one thing in common among the “voices” that I have internalized, that would be concern for the public interest. The economist Kaneko Masaru asserts that the public interest is essential for the future of Japanese society and for its ability to defeat the systemic lack of accountability that has been perpetuated until today in politics and economy. Facilitating a transition into a new economic system for the twenty-first century requires a shift in the ethos that supports it. To put it simply, it is a shift from finance capitalism to public interest capitalism.…It is not an ideal world in another life. It is needed because neither the economic

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Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

system nor the idea that lacks concern for the public interest is sustainable. The public interest best reflects the needs of society. For that reason, as long as those who lack concern for the benefit of others and have not developed an understanding of the public interest are in charge of the economic systems, the economy in question is destined to lose its sustainability.1

The “voices” of many whom I had talked with were already imbued with such concern for the public interest. Moreover, after having listened to many people, what left the biggest impression on me was their belief that when one has fostered an idea in their mind, one needs to continue believing in the idea and to take a stand on it. In the introduction, I discuss “forgetting,” and it is no exaggeration to say that many of us grab hold of a future in exchange for “forgetting.” Due to the coronavirus crisis, our concern in Japan has completely shifted from internal radiation exposure to avoiding becoming infected with the COVID-19 virus and avoiding death while gasping for air. However, radioactive contamination from the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant has yet to be contained. The safety of nuclear power has not been guaranteed. To us confronting the year marking “the lost four decades” of Japan, the words of Hegel—who was skeptical about people learning from history—may sound fittingly ironical: “Peoples and governments never have learned anything from history, or acted upon principles deduced from it.”2 Under such circumstances, I hope to keep sending out to society the message of “no nukes”—a conviction that I have come to hold firmly in my mind—in book form, a medium of lasting impact. This book could not have been written without the help and support of an incredibly large number of people. There are so many that I could not possibly list all their names here. Firstly, this book project was initiated while I was at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies in Kyoto, Japan. I owe a tremendous amount to Hosokawa Shuhei, who welcomed me with open arms during my first stay, and Tsuboi Hideto, who generously granted me my second stay. In addition, Isomae Jun’ichi and Inaga Shigemi, upon finding out about my research on the post-3/11 culture of visual images, offered me their support in various ways. 1 Kaneko Masaru, “End to Nuclear Power” Growth Theory—Toward a New Industrial Revolution (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 2011), 181–182. 2 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Philosophy of History (Dover Philosophical Classics), trans. J. Sibree (New York: Dover Publications; Reissue edition, 2012), 8.

Acknowledgements

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During the course of a year, from 2016 to 2017, I hosted the collaborative study group “The Post-3/11 Discourse, ‘Japanese Culture’” several times, and not only was blessed with conversations with many attendees, but also had opportunities to hear from many guest speakers about the impact of the Great East Japan Earthquake, their thoughts on the disaster, or their ideas about their work. I would like to express my gratitude to the members of the study group: Ishida Minori, Kubo Yutaka, Tanikawa Takeshi, Kimura Saeko, Iwata-Weickgenannt Kristina, Shimizu Akiko, Takahashi Jun, Kanno Yuka, Ichinose Masaki, Chikamori Takaaki, Nishimura Hiroshi, Matsuura Yusuke, Sudo Noriko, Kitaura Hiroyuki, Nagato Yohei, Ma Ran, and Kinoshita Chika. For sessions focused on contemporary art, we invited Okamura Yukinori and Kitahara Megumi to speak from the art history perspective. Also, Kitahara most graciously accommodated my request to read a draft of the final chapter and offered valuable comments, which further improved the quality of the chapter. This book also benefited from a great deal of support from filmmakers, artists, and writers. I was blessed with a wide range of support: they made themselves available for post-screening workshops, gave me opportunities to interview them on more than one occasion, and allowed me access to works that are rarely seen under normal circumstances. I respectfully express my gratitude to Akagi Shuji, Thomas Ash (who went by the name Ian Thomas Ash at the time), Ito Hideaki, Iwasaki Masanori, Ushiro Ryuta, Ruth Ozeki, Obara Hiroyasu, Kamanaka Hitomi, Kawai Hiroyuki, Komori Haruka/Seo Natsumi, Doi Toshikuni, Hamaguchi Ryusuke, Funahashi Atsushi, and Yu Miri. From the project’s initiation to the present, as I am about to complete this book’s writing, over ten years have passed. In 2018, I moved my base from Canada to Japan, which meant parting with my dear colleagues at Carleton University with whom I spent many years working in Film Studies to start my new work at the Graduate School of Letters at Kyoto University. At Kyoto University, in addition to Hirata Shoji, Mizutani Masahiko, Kizu Yuko, and Deguchi Yasuo, who extended their generous support to me in various ways, I was aided by the intellectually stimulating input of new colleagues and friends. I also thank Daniel C. O’Neill, who gave me the wonderful opportunity to meet two directors: Doi Toshikuni and Thomas Ash at a symposium held at the University of California, Berkeley in February 2020. I would like to end with words of gratitude for my excellent editors in both Japan and the Netherlands: Tachibana Sogo and Nagahata Setsuko, who are editors of this book’s original version in Japanese, and Maryse Elliott, Julie Benschop, Mike Sanders, and Gioia Marini. Although I have

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Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

never met Maryse, Julie, Mike, and Gioia face to face, they have encouraged me through our many e-mail exchanges. I would also like to express my gratitude to Steve Choe, editor of the Critical Asian Cinemas series published by Amsterdam University Press, for his confidence in my project to publish the book in English. I would also like to thank my friend Chris Berry for suggesting that I should contact Steve. An earlier version of Chapter 2 was published in A Companion to Japanese Cinema (2022). I am grateful to the anthology’s editor, David Desser for the invitation and to Wiley Blackwell for publishing the essay. I thank Michael Raine and Jinhee Choi, who encouraged me to compile the special section “Japanese Cinema after Fukushima” for Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema vol. 11, issue 1, 2019. An earlier version of Chapter 5 was published in the issue. Concluding a work that you have invested so much time in through the act of “writing” not only requires decisiveness but also comes with the disconsolate feeling of having to discard ideas or words and the pain of introspection. During the period of self-imposed seclusion due to the COVID-19 virus, I might not have been able to finish this book without their constant encouragement and moral support. I want to note that, in the solitary endeavor called “writing,” I found exchanging thoughts with them via written words to be dialogues of supreme bliss. Last but not least, I owe much to Tsukuru Fors who helped me in translating this book from Japanese to English, and Kjell David Ericson and Beth Cary, who edited the English manuscript to make it more readable. Graduate students Imai Tsubura, Komatsu Suzuka, Maurice Alesch, Kuninaga Hajime, and Suhyun Kim also helped with the process of completing this book in its various stages. In the early stages of this book project, Sean O’Reilly helped me significantly with the translation. Without their diligent support, I would not have been able to finish this book. I hope that my son Nico will read this book someday. I sincerely hope that one day he will be able to speak and read Japanese, but this English version is a convenient shortcut for him to get to know about my work. I now live with my small yet precious family in Kyoto and would like once again to express my deep appreciation for their love and support. Note: Japanese names are given in Japanese order: family name followed by given name, unless I have known the person primarily in a US context.

Introduction Abstract: The introduction presents the author’s thoughts on how people can continue to think of the nuclear accident in Fukushima, which is in the process of becoming nearly forgotten, as an ongoing problem. If forgetting is the act of eradicating traces of memory, then we all need to consciously reinforce the act of imprinting these traces of memory in our minds. The author introduces two memory traces that have been etched in her mind since 2011, and at the same time she promises the reader to continue telling these stories. When will these memories come to an end? The introduction suggests that it might be when each person’s memories will connect to the great current of history and then move toward universality in the symbolic act of forgiving. Keywords: forgetting; memories; traces; system of sacrifice; no nukes

The project that led to the writing of Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters originated in 2011 when I was a visiting researcher at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies in Kyoto, Japan. I had been there from 2010 with a plan to spend a year researching the “distorted (nejireta)” state of postwar Japan, based on analyses of films of the era. And then, the Great East Japan Earthquake happened on March 11, 2011. I was scheduled to return to Canada that summer but wondered whether I should move up the date and go home to my family earlier than I had intended. However, I decided to remain in Japan for another six months as originally planned to perceive firsthand the information and images disseminated through the mass media and the Internet. Following my return to Canada in August that year, I worked to change my research topic by applying for new research funds for this project, which entailed undergoing many cumbersome processes. These efforts resulted in spending another year at the International Research Center in 2016–2017 researching visual culture in Japan after the Great East Japan Earthquake. Therefore, this book owes itself to these two years spent at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies.

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Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Based on presentations given to many study groups that I regularly organized during 2016–2017, I published an anthology of essays, Rethinking the Post-3/11 Media Discourses (“Posuto 3/11” Media gensetsu saiko), with Hosei University Press in 2019. The final chapter of this current book is based on a chapter published in that collection. As such, Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters was written over the course of nearly ten years. During these years, I met almost all the filmmakers of the films mentioned in this book in person. I continued to dialogue with their work while doing interview after interview and hosting screenings with them. Not only the filmmakers but also discussions with the audiences at the screenings provided me with much knowledge and many ideas. However, more than anything, by watching many of these films repeatedly, I extracted the “voices” within these documentary films themselves.

From the Midst of Forgetting It has been over eleven years since the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. How does Fukushima look to us today? With the Japanese government’s strategic courting of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics in 2013, its official announcement of the 2025 Osaka World Expo in 2018, and the spread of COVID-19 in Japan from the early part of 2020, it seems that the Japanese government, the mainstream media, and, most of all, Japanese society as a whole have shut their eyes to the human responsibility for the Fukushima nuclear disaster caused by Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) and the effects of ongoing radioactive contamination. Despite the need to discuss outstanding issues such as the phase-out of nuclear power plants, a transition to alternative energy, and providing aid to victims who have not been able to go home to Fukushima, Japanese people seem to stand frozen in the collective act of forgetting their national trauma and all that is inconvenient for the whole of Japanese society. If we—whether Japanese or not—consider our “memories” to be “traces” etched on our cerebral cortex, then “forgetting” to us means a definitive loss of “traces.” However, observing the post-3/11 state of Japanese society, the phenomenon mentioned above of “forgetting” does not seem like the complete loss of the etched traces. In reality, those human-made disasters that occurred in Fukushima have not entirely disappeared from people’s memories and continue to create ripples worldwide. In Germany in 2011, the Angela Merkel administration announced its plan to close all nuclear reactors

Introduc tion

15

by 2022.1 In the general election in Taiwan in January 2020, President Tsai Ing-wen of the Democratic Progressive Party won reelection in a landslide victory with a campaign promise to make Taiwan completely nuclear-free by 2025. In Germany, Taiwan, and many parts of the world, the forgetting observed in Japan is not happening. It makes one wonder whether/if there are some forces at work—whether the current phenomenon of forgetting in Japanese society is the result of intentional suppression. To me, it seems that this is a deliberate and arbitrary act of forgetting. Takahashi Tetsuya, a Fukushima-born philosopher, points out that “the nuclear accident in Fukushima exposed ‘the sacrifice’ hidden in the national policy of postwar Japan in support of nuclear power.” He directs our attention to the fact that nuclear power exists within a “system of sacrifice” (gisei no shisutemu) built by the conservative Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) and its conservative political order. The LDP was formed in 1955 by the merging of the Liberal Party (1950–1955) and the Japan Democratic Party (1954–1955) to counter the rise of the Japan Socialist Party (JSP, 1945–1996). Since then, the LDP has dominated Japanese politics and kept in place a one-party system for about a half century, but in 2009 the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ, 1998–2016) finally subverted the LDP’s position and installed Hatoyama Yukio as prime minister, followed by Kan Naoto in 2010. This period, however, was very short, as the DPJ regime ended in 2012 in the aftermath of the Great East Japan Earthquake, and the LDP regained its one-party dominant system with Abe Shinzo becoming prime minister for the second time. Takahashi describes the mechanism created by the LDP as follows: Was that a coincidence that the Hatoyama and Kan administrations, after a regime change, tackled the issues of Okinawa and Fukushima and collapsed as a result? The postwar political system of Japan [led by the LDP], unshaken by “the regime change” that happened overnight, raised its head. It also forced us to see in a harsh light that our life (and whose life is it?) has been made part of the mechanism that profits from sacrifices of others.2 1 As for the nuclear power plants in Germany, it cannot be denied that many problems have been unresolved. While the Merkel cabinet declared the withdrawal from the domestic development of nuclear power plants, it is also true that people in Germany have faced difficulties in everyday life. Thus, how to promote the withdrawal process and its subsequent adverse effects on economic activities remains an issue. See also Setsuko Schwarzer, “Long Way to the Withdrawal from Nuclear Power Plants Development in Germany: Unexpected Problems,” Nikkei Business (June 12, 2016), 4. https://business.nikkei.com/atcl/report/16/061600046/061600001/ (Accessed September 14, 2020). 2 Takahashi Tetsuya, Gisei no shisutemu: Fukushima/Okinawa [Systems of Sacrifice: Fukushima and Okinawa] (Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012), 4.

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Takahashi goes on to discuss the post-3/11 era and “how to bring a proper end to the system of sacrifice known as nuclear power.”3 However, is this system of sacrifice called nuclear power winding down in today’s Japan? The answer is clearly “no.” The political system of postwar Japan is still aspiring to restart nuclear power plants. It seems to be successful in gradually restoring the safety myth of nuclear power that for a time had been paid little attention. While it spreads the spells of “safety and reliability” (anzen, anshin), it creates a social structure of deceit and inertia. The meaning of “being safe” itself is lost, leading to the collective numbness not of euphoria but of safety overload. When one understands Takahashi’s formula, which equates nuclear power to “the system of sacrifice,” one can easily accept the words of Koide Hiroaki, the former assistant professor at the Kyoto University Research Reactor Institute, who claims that “nuclear power is a symbol of discrimination.” In postwar Japan, when everyone welcomed nuclear power as “the energy of the future,” Koide was regarded as a heretic among researchers for pointing out the danger of nuclear power. It was only in post-3/11 Japan that many people came to appreciate the reasonableness of his claims. Koide’s words, substantiated by his knowledge of nuclear power, admonish many Japanese people and, at the same time, give them a ray of hope: I am someone who entered the field of nuclear research with dreams for nuclear power. However, as I learned about nuclear power and came to realize its danger, I did a complete turnaround and began to think “nuclear power is a symbol of discrimination.” The benefit of nuclear power is its ability to produce electricity, but it is “just electricity.” Human life and the future of our children are far more important than that. Its risks outweigh the benefits. Not only that, we have options other than nuclear to obtain energy.…The past that has already happened cannot be altered, but we can change the future. Why don’t we leave a safe environment for children who are yet to be born? I hope every one of you will let your opinion be known by stating “We do not need the dangerous nuclear power plants.”4

I was inspired by the ideas and debates of many who came before me, including Takahashi and Koide. Moreover, this book starts with an inquiry into what is needed to take back life that is connected to the future from the deliberate and arbitrary act of “forgetting” the nuclear accident. Since March 11, 2011, most Japanese, including myself, have come to think that 3 4

Ibid., 38. Koide Hiroaki, Genpatsu no uso [Lies about Nuclear Power Plants] (Tokyo: Fusosha, 2011), 2–3.

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they must never let nuclear accidents happen again. Japan will no longer believe the safety myth spread by the government. Japan does not need nuclear power plants. In the post-3/11 era, when Japanese people have been tasked to transition to alternative means of power generation, they must recall the promise they have made to the future. For that to happen, what is it that we—whether Japanese or not—need? As a scholar of cinema studies, I decided to seek definitive traces of memories that would always remind me of those promises in the many documentary films introduced to the world after the great earthquake and listen to the voices of the filmmakers who made these films. By retaining those traces of memories, I thought I might be able to prevent an absolute state of “oblivion” from happening.

The First “Trace” In February 2020, I was given the opportunity to attend a symposium called “Imagining Post-3/11 Futures and Living with Anthropogenic Change” at the University of California, Berkeley. At the symposium, two documentary films produced after the Great East Japan Earthquake were screened: Fukushima Speaks (Fukushima wa kataru, 2018, Doi Toshikuni) and A2-B-C (2013, Ian Thomas Ash). I was able to meet the two directors and was given the opportunity to watch Fukushima Speaks for the first time. The film painstakingly collects testimonies from survivors whose lives have been changed by the nuclear accident, and features fourteen of the nearly 100 people who were interviewed. This documentary film literally contains the voices from Fukushima calmly spoken by survivors who are deeply traumatized by the disaster. The film’s director, Doi, is a freelance journalist. In recent years, as a film director, he has produced documentary films about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Breaking the Silence (Chinmoku wo yaburu, 2009), and the comfort women issue, Living with Memories (Kioku to ikiru, 2015), among others. His newest film, Fukushima Speaks, which premiered in Japan in March 2019, has several versions. Fukushima Speaks Full Version is 5 hours and 20 minutes in its entirety; Fukushima Speaks for Theatrical Release is 2 hours and 50 minutes. The version we watched in Berkeley was a shortened version of a little more than 20 minutes which Doi himself had re-edited.5 On the film’s official website, Doi states: “I hope 5 The DVD consists of a series of chapters. Viewers can choose at random which chapter to watch. Doi decided to hear more stories from the victims after participating in “the testimony meeting” held in March 2014. The f ilm focuses on the victims narrating their stories about

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to deliver ‘voices of Fukushima’ to Japanese society that is undergoing the process of forgetting.” This film’s power lies in how it exposes, through interviews of victims who continue to be plagued by the suffering that has not diminished, the fact that the damage of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster has not come to an end even today after ten years. On the day of the symposium, I was tasked with interviewing Doi on stage. Before the event, the organizer gave me a web link to watch Fukushima Speaks to prepare for the interview; however, Doi must have re-edited the film to make yet another shorter version in a matter of a month. The film that was screened was different from the version that I had watched. Due to the ease of editing, which is a characteristic of digital cinema, chapters can be easily reassembled; therefore, it is difficult to determine the definitive final edition. I realized that, to Doi, a film is not a conclusive piece of work that is to be enjoyed as is; instead, the value is placed upon the act of conveying the content of the film. To put it differently, I was made aware that Doi was not a filmmaker but rather a journalist to the core. I had a renewed appreciation that, when thinking about a film, to understand the work’s expanse, meeting the filmmaker in person occasionally gives rise to an unexpected viewpoint or contributes to the deepening of an understanding of the work. One remark during the conversation with Doi at the symposium piqued my curiosity when he emphasized the non-political nature of his work by stating: “I did not want to make a film of the anti-nuclear movement.” I have felt that, when making documentary cinema, it is difficult for a filmmaker not to bring their thoughts and opinions into the foreground and to remain politically neutral. I asked Doi whether it was too difficult to maintain such neutrality, especially in films like Fukushima Speaks, while depicting the relationship between the apparent perpetrators and victims of the nuclear accident and the grief of the people nearly crushed by the unjust situation. However, Doi, using his other works dealing with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as an example, pointed out the inconvenience of narrowing the target audience in the extreme by placing an emphasis on politics. As a freelance journalist, Doi had pursued political themes for a long time, but he had also faced the reality of the film market. Although I did not fully understand his point, I sensed why he seemed not to be doing this in Fukushima Speaks. Despite this, Fukushima Speaks afforded me an encounter with a critical trace. It introduced me to Fujishima Masaharu, a poet who appears in the Fukushima. He kept interviewing for five years from 2013 to 2017 and chose fourteen interviewees among some 100 applicants to make the complete version of the film.

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“Temporary Housing” chapter of the film.6 Through the film, I was not only able to get to know him, a disaster victim, but I was also able to get a glimpse of the deep rootedness of the victims’ suffering and the fact that theirs is not a temporary condition. The nuclear accident caused by the Great East Japan Earthquake drove Fujishima to live the life of an evacuee. After moving around from place to place, he was forced to settle into cramped, makeshift housing. In the collection of poems At Temporary Housing—Fukushima Has Become “Fukushima” (Kasetsu nite—Fukushima wa mohaya “Fukushima” ni natta) (2014), Fujishima describes the life of an evacuee as follows: Even today, we continue to live in poor conditions in temporary housing. Some people become sick or depressed.…We are at our wit’s end here. However, having nowhere else to go, we must continue to live this cruel life every day for many years for an unforeseeable future, without knowing what to do with our mounting frustration and stress.7

Fujishima was born in Manchuria in 1946 and retuned to Japan after the war, and he has resided in Fukushima since 1970. He was working as the president of a private organization called Kimagure Daigaku (Free-Spirit University), a local community organization, when he suffered the effects of the Great East Japan Earthquake at age sixty-five. This is an age at which one does not find it easy to start a new life from scratch like young people. However, at the same time, one cannot stop thinking about the rest of their life. After the nuclear accident, Fujishima evacuated to Niigata Prefecture for a time but later moved back into temporary housing in Fukushima Prefecture. Based on his experience there, he published his first collection of poems At Temporary Housing—Fukushima Has Become “Fukushima”; then A Long Absence—Living “Fukushima” (Nagaki fuzai—Fukushima wo ikiru—) in 2016; and his last anthology The Colorless Town—From Fukushima to You (Iro no nai machi—Fukushima kara anata e—) in late 2019. A piece of poetry included in the last anthology, “Declaration of Defeat” (Haiboku sengen), pierced my heart: I surrender / I lost / You, nuclear power / backed by a big corporation / and by the government / getting small businesses, farmers, and fishermen 6 The chapter was not screened at the symposium. The demonstration version of Fukushima Speaks was sent in advance by Daniel C. O’Neill, the co-organizer of the symposium. This version includes the chapter. Of course, the complete version contains the chapter, too. 7 Fujishima Masaharu, Kasetsu nite: Fukushima wa mohaya “Fukushima” ni natta [At Temporary Housing: Fukushima Has Become “Fukushima”] (Tokyo: Yugyosha, 2014), 122.

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involved / in the name of fulfilling electricity demand / hoisting a flag of legitimacy / You challenged me to a battle / … Above all / After the nuclear accident, you threw / a powerful blow called stress / that knocked me out / I suffered liver cancer / the tremendous / damage / on top of that, negative thoughts / These, three arrows / shot through my heart / caused lung cancer too / it is my complete defeat / it is exactly / like a symbol of your victory / I hereby declare my defeat / For, even if / I won / it just means moving toward hopeless hope / that is just what it is.8

At the symposium at UC Berkeley, I asked Doi how Fujishima was doing. “He passed away late last year,” was his answer. Upon returning home to Kyoto, I re-read Fujishima’s three books of poetry and promised myself that I would not forget Fujishima Masaharu, a trace, a victim of the nuclear atrocity.

The Second “Trace” Writing this book led to another unforgettable trace becoming etched in my mind. It is a long sequence of the 2011 meeting of the All Japan Council of Local Governments with Atomic Power Stations (Zengenkyo) from Nuclear Nation (Futaba kara toku hanarete, 2012) directed by Funahashi Atsushi. Readers of this book may not be familiar with the organization Zengenkyo, which is a group of local governments with reactor sites whose purpose is “to appeal to the national government, so that unique issues faced by these regions are reflected in national policies.”9 The first regular meeting of Zengenkyo after the nuclear accident in Fukushima was held that summer in 2011. Funahashi, disguised as a member of the press, attended the meeting, and recorded it on film. The regular meetings are usually attended by not only the head of local governments with reactor sites but also representatives of electric power companies; however, for this particular meeting, Kaieda Banri, Minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry at the time, and Hosono Goshi, Minister of State for Nuclear Power Policy and Administration specially appointed by the cabinet, were also in attendance. After he was appointed to head the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry by Prime Minister Kan in January 2011, Kaieda was also tasked with overseeing the handling of economic damage from the nuclear accident as Minister of 8 Fujishima Masaharu, Iro no nai machi: Fukushima kara anata e [A Colorless Town, From Fukushima to You] (Tokyo: Yugyosha, 2019), 48–52. 9 Futaba kara toku hanarete [Far from Futaba], as indicated as a chapter headline in the film.

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Figure 0.1: The VIP seats left empty (Film still from Nuclear Nation)

State on April 11, 2011. Watching the sequence confirmed doubts that I had been feeling, and I realized that the government cannot be trusted; that the words of those in power—especially of men in power—should not be taken at face value; and that I will not readily believe the logic of the majority. The trace was captured from a scene at this meeting. After he gives a brief greeting, Kaieda receives a mysterious message from the moderator and leaves, having spent barely five minutes at the meeting.10 Hosono, Minister of State for Nuclear Power Policy and Administration, goes on to report that the national and prefectural governments have been conducting health exams in tandem and comments on the result by stating, “As far as our study indicates, we understand there are no known ill effects for children. When the time comes, we, the government, would like to talk to you openly; however, this is not the time yet.” Then, prompted by another puzzling message from the moderator, Hosono also leaves the meeting. The camera captures the empty seats reserved for VIPs toward the front of the room. (Figure 0.1) Immediately following the shot, Idogawa Katsuo, mayor of Futaba at the time, poses a question to no one in particular, “Why are we forced to be in this position? I am so frustrated.…Who is responsible for this? Please stop this nonsense!” (Figure 0.2) Who heard his words of indignation? The film makes it clear that the government does not have the 10 In the following quotation, Kaieda made a senseless remark: “It has been announced that Japan’s energy policy is to be revised in the near future. I believe its detail needs to be revealed as soon as possible.” In Futaba kara toku hanarete (01:10:00).

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Figure 0.2: Mayor of Futabamachi (Film still from Nuclear Nation)

slightest inclination to listen. However, I heard his words. Through this film, Funahashi Atsushi managed to reify a profound distrust of the government. This has left another unforgettable trace in my mind. If you observe this crucial scene, you will notice people playing out their various critical roles in Japan’s “nuclear power village” (genshiryoku mura)— a group of politicians, corporations, and researchers who have mutually benefited from promoting nuclear power—which has come into focus as a huge issue since the nuclear disaster. For Kaieda, who was in the middle of a power struggle within the Democratic Party of Japan, it was doubtful that he had any interest in reviewing the national energy policy. Moreover, the moderator who granted Kaieda and Hosono an excuse to leave the meeting was Kawase Kazuharu, mayor of Tsuruga City in Fukui Prefecture. Kawase was not only a supporter of nuclear power who advocated “coexistence with nuclear power” but was also embroiled in a scandal exposed by the media in February 2012 for purchasing Echizen crabs (a delicacy) on the mayoral budget and sending them as year-end gifts to lawmakers—including Hosono—who were overseeing the handling of the nuclear accident.11 11 “Kohi de genpatsusora juichinin ni Echizengani; Tsuruga shicho ga seibo” [Echizen crabs given to nuclear minister and 10 others at public expense; Tsuruga mayor gives year-end gifts], Shikoku News, Shikoku Shimbun Sha, January 29, 2012, http://www.shikoku-np.co.jp/national/ political/20120229000242 (Accessed May 30,, 2020). Also, according to Nuclear Nation, Kaieda Banri greeted Kawase Kazuharu with the following words: “Thank you for the gift. It was such an amazing present.”

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This sequence also pointedly captures the appearance of the attendees other than those VIPs. It is shocking to see that the government officials and administrators from the capital on the stage and those sitting on the opposite side (members of Zengenkyo) are all men. There were no other meetings as important as this to the future of energy in Japan at the time. The only person at the meeting who is speaking his mind in earnest is mayor Idogawa, who was a victim of the accident himself. All the other men are silently looking down without expressing so much as a yes or a no in this farce. As you can see in Figure 0.2, the only woman present in the scene seems to be a journalist, who is recording Idogawa’s statement with her camera. I promised myself never to forget this scene that Nuclear Nation had thrust before me, as a trace of great importance—one that should be reflected upon when thinking about 3/11.

From Forgetting to Promising Here, I would like to revisit the meaning of promising. Paul Ricoeur, who promoted the philosophy of narrative theory, called the relationship with others who exist synchronously with the self—and the identity that is born out of the relationship—“narrative identity.”12 In the process of this identif ication, past, present, and future are deeply connected through the act of “remembering” or “promising.” For instance, many of us live in the present while retaining our past deeds, thoughts, and feelings as one unified memory. Based on our engagement with others in the present and our promises with others, we project into the future.13 “Narrative identity” does not see identity as how it is generally defined, which is the sole identity of an object or a personality, but instead as a dual structure consisting of two dimensions: “identity” and “selfhood.” The integration of fixedness/ universality (“identity”) and openness/creativity (“selfhood”) gives birth to self-identity. “Selfhood” in this sense does not necessarily become folded 12 Paul Ricoeur, Tasha no yona jikojishin [Soi-même Comme un Autre, Le Seuil, 1990], trans. Kume Hiroshi, new edition, (Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2010). Paul Ricoeur, Oneself as Another, translated by Kathleen Blamey (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 13 The philosophical term “project” can also be translated into “kito” as well as “toki” in Japanese. The term itself has been explored by existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Martin Heidegger. “People are put in the continuous process of def ining and redef ining ourselves, such that a person’s identity is never fixed.” See also an explanation of the term in Japanese in the online Encyclopedia Britannica. https://kotobank.jp/word/%E6%8A%95%E4%BC%81-103267 (Accessed May 27, 2020).

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into “identity” but rather serves as a trigger, presenting us with a new opportunity. For example, we place ourselves in a binding position in the future by making a promise to others. However, at the same time, because of the bind, we may successfully enter a world different from the present reality or create the possibility of causing a new wave or movement. Suppose we achieve an understanding of human existence or identity itself, so to speak, as a dual structure. Then we may retain our past deeds, thoughts, and feelings as “memories” while at the same time projecting into the future based on “promises” we make with others. Thus, it may lead us to recognize a connection within the self, a renewed awareness of the self—in other words, a living self. That awareness may give our perception a certain kind of abundance. Because of the promise I made with Fujishima Masaharu, thanks to the documentary film Fukushima Speaks, and the promises I made with mayor Idogawa and the unknown female journalist from the scene in Nuclear Nation, I was given not only an opportunity to become aware but also a feeling that I am not the only one who has been blessed with such “awareness.” Friedrich Nietzsche identifies a promise as a “memory of the will” and clarifies its ability as the following: The breeding of an animal that can promise—is not this just that very paradox of a task which nature has set itself in regard to man? Is not this the very problem of man?…But this very animal who finds it necessary to be forgetful, in whom, in fact, forgetfulness represents a force and a form of robust health, has reared for himself an opposition-power, a memory, with whose help forgetfulness is, in certain instances, kept in check—in the cases, namely, where promises have to be made.14

I have stated my suspicion before that the phenomenon of forgetting in Japanese society today results from suppression by some kind of force. The post-3/11 phenomenon of forgetting at the conscious level is nothing but a deliberate and willful act of forgetting. Therefore, if I am to borrow Nietzsche’s words, to resist this forgetting at the conscious level, we may have to recall our “promise” as our “memory of the will.” Suppose the “forgetting” of the nuclear accident results from a suppression consciously executed by “the system of sacrifice,” as Takahashi Tetsuya has 14 Friedrich Nietzsche, Zen’aku no higan: Dotoku no keifu [ Jenseits von Gut und Böse], trans. Shida Shozo (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1993), 423–424. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Genealogy of Morals (Dover Thrift Editions), trans. Horace B. Samuel (Mineola: Dover Publications, 2012).

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pointed out, or the political mechanism that perpetuates it. In that case, we—whether you are Japanese or not—now need to recall “promises” that we have made post-3/11 for the future of our children, promises such as “we will never let nuclear accidents happen again” and “we will move toward a nuclear-free future.” I believe, unless we muster up the primordial ability that humans possess as “an animal that can promise” and stand up to these suppressive forces, we will not be able to hold on to our life of abundance.

The Structure of This Book The structure of this book is as follows. Chapter 1, “No Nukes before Fukushima: Postwar Atomic Cinema and the History of the ‘Safety Myth,’” gives an overview of the notion of “atomic cinema” (genshiryoku eiga) before the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster, focusing on several films produced from the 1950s to the 1980s. Among the English-language scholarship on so-called atomic cinema, the name of the genre itself has not been solidified historically, as one can see in references to “hibakusha cinema,”15 “atomic bomb cinema,” and “atomic cinema.” Similarly, there has been no f irm definition of the notion of “genshiryoku eiga” in the history of Japanese cinema. As film scholar Sato Tadao states, even before Fukushima, there have been more f ilms about nuclear power or nuclear energy than we would expect.16 There are certainly icons such as atomic bombs, hydrogen bombs, hibakusha, radiation, and nuclear power plants floating around in the sphere of filmmaking. Suppose we are to include films of the special effects genre with monsters as their protagonists, such as Godzilla, who is said to have appeared in the aftermath of a nuclear explosion, then many films in the history of postwar Japanese cinema can be identified as referencing nuclear issues. The first chapter looks at several films and analyzes what stance filmmakers chose to take in the face of the safety myth of nuclear energy in postwar Japan. This chapter will add a new perspective to the work of pioneers in the field of postwar visual cultural studies such as the Documentary Film Archive Project by sociologists Niwa Yoshiyuki and Yoshimi Shun’ya, which provides analysis of atomic cinema and PR films (films produced for the purpose of promotion or advertisement 15 Hibakusha means ‘atomic bomb victims’ or ‘nuclear victims.’ 16 Sato Tadao, “Tokubetsukiko saigai wo kirokusuru eiga to terebi” [Special Contribution: Film and Television That Record Disasters]. In 3/11 wo toru [Shooting 3/11], eds. Mori Tatsuya et al. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012).

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for companies and government organizations). The films discussed are: Lucky Dragon No. 5 (Daigo Fukuryumaru, 1959, Shindo Kaneto); Nuclear Power in Fukushima (Fukushima no genshiryoku, 1977, Nichiei Kagaku Eiga); Frankenstein vs. Baragon, Frankenstein Conquers the World (Furankenshutain tai chiteikaijyu, 1965, Honda Ishiro and Tsuburaya Eiji); The Man Who Stole the Sun (Taiyo wo nusunda otoko, 1979, Hasegawa Kazuhiko); and Nuclear Scrapbook (Genpatsu kirinukicho, 1982, Tsuchimoto Noriaki). Going beyond genre and era, this chapter will expound upon the nuclear culture of postwar Japan. In Chapter 2, titled “Straddling 3/11—The Political Power of Ashes to Honey,” I will analyze the works of Kamanaka Hitomi, a filmmaker considered to be a standard-bearer of the anti-nuclear movement, and examine the “newness” of her works that transcend Fukushima. What is common among Kamanaka’s works, including Hibakusha at the End of the World (Hibakusha: Sekai no owarini, 2003); Rokkasho Rhapsody (Rokkasho-mura rapusodi, 2006); Ashes to Honey (Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten, 2010); and Little Voices from Fukushima (Chiisaki koe no kanon—Sentaku suru hitobito, 2015), is her approach of giving a voice to those who are invisible in the mass media and, aided by these voices, to get to the bottom of what she considers to be “the truth.” In Hibakusha, Kamanaka listens to the voices of victims of the Iraq War, especially those of children. Through moving images, she has us viewers participate in “listening” to those voices: the voices of villagers who oppose the construction of a nuclear fuel reprocessing plant in Rokkasho Rhapsody; the voices of residents on the small island of Iwaishima in the Seto Inland Sea protesting the construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant in Ashes to Honey; and the voices of mothers who do everything in their power to minimize their children’s exposure to radiation in Little Voices from Fukushima. Some regard her work with contempt, calling it “propaganda” or “too simplistic like a TV documentary.” Moreover, perhaps because her films are highly vocal on the message she wants to convey, their reception at film festivals has tended to be unexpectedly unfavorable. In this chapter, I also examine issues in the field of film criticism and the film industry. “Simplicity,” which Kamanaka’s films use as a yardstick, has not necessarily been valued or prioritized in the traditional film criticism space. Instead, it is a value that has been looked down upon as the “specialty” of television programs, which can be understood by everyone watching in the living room, from children to the elderly. Here is the question that we must give ourselves the time to ponder. Why do documentary films tend to have difficulty earning high praise when they are “easy to understand”?

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Kamanaka’s films raise this simple—we could call rather obvious— question for us and society as a whole, but also challenge the class system/hierarchy of values that have long been upheld in tacit understanding throughout the history of documentary cinema.17 In Chapter 3, “Resistance against the Nuclear Village,” I turn my attention to the lawyer and filmmaker Kawai Hiroyuki. In this chapter, I analyze the film trilogy that Kawai produced in quick succession after the earthquake: Nuclear Japan: Has Nuclear Power Brought Us Happiness? (Nihon to genpatsu—Watashitachi wa genpatsu de shiawase desuka?, 2014); Nuclear Japan: The Nightmare Continues (Nihon to genpatsu—Yonengo, 2015); and Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm (Nihon to saisei—Hikari to kaze no gigawatto sakusen, 2017). This chapter also refers to his two short films released on YouTube in 2019: The Criminal Trial of TEPCO: Undeniable Evidence and Nuclear Accident (Toden keiji saiban—Ugokanu shoko to genpatsu jiko, 2019) and The Criminal Trial of TEPCO: The Unfair Ruling (Toden keiji saiban—Futo hanketsu, 2019). What is it that Kawai, as a lawyer who has been involved in nuclear-related lawsuits to this day, attempts to communicate to the audience through his films? In a word, “accuracy.” To disseminate accurate information which neither the government nor TEPCO dares to tell, Kawai created a sort of production group which he calls Director Kawai Hiroyuki and which continues to produce documentary films, borrowing the knowledge and expertise of many. What Kawai is confronting, after all, is neither the government, TEPCO, nor the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant but “the system” called “the nuclear power village” itself, which has historically enabled nuclear power plants to exist in Japan. In this chapter, I examine the works produced by this “amateur” film director and ponder what is lacking in the post-3/11 culture of Japan while referring to the information presented in Kawai’s films. In Chapter 2, I refer to the “intelligibility” found in Kamanaka Hitomi’s work, and in Chapter 3, I will similarly uncover the “intelligibility” presented in Kawai Hiroyuki’s works. This new style of “intelligibility” expressed by these two filmmakers is not necessarily the same. However, this chapter hypothesizes that the reason why this style has been sought in documentary films since 2011 is due to the complex scientific aspects of the nuclear 17 It should be noted that I will not analyze Kamanaka Hitomi’s more recent film, Little Voices from Fukushima, in this chapter but rather in Chapter 5. The reason is that I wanted to focus on it as part of an analysis of films that go deeper into the issues of gender and minorities in contemporary Japanese society by listening more closely to the voices of “mothers”—amidst others such as children, foreigners, and non-humans—who are the main characters in the film.

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power collapse. Explaining these complex issues—which govern not only government and economics but also people’s safety, health, and future—in simple terms and presenting them in an easy-to-understand manner is necessary to make the public, including the lawyers and judges, recognize the consequences of the disaster. This book assumes that this was the only way to confront the government and TEPCO, which tried to exonerate themselves by claiming that this man-made disaster was an unforeseen natural disaster. Like Kamanaka Hitomi, Kawai relies upon a form of distribution known as “independent screening” ( jishu joei). In this chapter, I discuss not only the process of how these films are made but also the post-3/11 realities of film distribution and screening. In Chapter 4, “The Power of Interviews,” I focus my attention on the films in the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy (Tohoku kiroku eiga sanbusaku) directed by Sakai Ko and Hamaguchi Ryusuke. As I explain in this chapter, the films analyzed differ from those in the other chapters in that, except for some interviewees’ utterances, they make little reference to the issue of nuclear power and radiation exposure. One reason for this may be that Sakai and Hamaguchi conducted their interviews in the summer of 2011, a time when the aftermath of the tsunami, rather than radiation exposure, plagued many people in the Tohoku region. But above all, it is important to emphasize that the people they interviewed were those who had made the decision to remain in the affected areas. They preferred staying in their hometowns to evacuating. I believe that the two filmmakers’ works certainly underscore this invisible aspect of the nuclear disaster: the fact that there are multiple, unspoken anxieties swirling in the space and time of their interviews. Documentary cinema is a genre where the relationship between the subject and object is especially scrutinized to begin with. In this genre, the production scale is much smaller compared to the production of fictional films typically made in a studio. Therefore, the relationship between who is behind the camera and who is in front naturally becomes apparent in the production process. That said, post-3/11 documentary cinema is even more sensitive about where the filmmakers position themselves and the distance they put between themselves and the subjects they are filming. Maybe it was because many filmmakers, in the presence of people overcome with grief, felt at a loss about what they could do. Under the circumstances, what new way of filming did they invent? In the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy: The Sound of Waves (Nami no oto, 2011); Voices from the Waves (Nami no koe, 2013); and Storytellers (Utau hito, 2013), an innovative approach to documentary filmmaking is taken, one that is based on a brand-new way

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of interviewing. The fundamental motto that cuts across these films is the way the filmmakers participate in the interviews themselves or place themselves in the “dialogue” unfolding in front of the camera, instead of separating themselves from “the Other,” the subject of filming, as is done in “observation cinema.” Can we characterize this approach as a new attempt to communicate with people who have been victimized by the earthquake, rather than seeing it as a strategy or a means of self-defense on the part of the artists? To examine the meaning of filming Fukushima, I will take these films as a case study where filmmakers invested a vast amount of time, coming face to face with people living in the post-3/11 era. Sakai and Hamaguchi, while attending Tokyo University of the Arts Graduate School, produced these films in association with Sendai Mediatheque, a public archive. In this chapter, I will also allude to the significance behind the existence of the Center for Remembering 3/11—the archive for documenting and providing information regarding the Great East Japan Earthquake and the process of recovery—established within Sendai Mediatheque after the earthquake. In Chapter 5, “Learning about Fukushima from the Margins,” I direct my attention to the voices of the people and animals who tend to be placed on the fringes of society. The reported number of deaths and those missing as a result of the Great East Japan Earthquake was 15,899 and 2,529, respectively (as of March 1, 2020); however, due to self-censorship by the media, we are unable to see this reality in front of the camera.18 Animals are a different story. The human “deaths” made invisible have been replaced by the “deaths” of animals: livestock and pets left behind in Fukushima, wild animals that roam the Difficult-to-Return Zone, swallows with “white spots” on their feathers that have suffered radiation exposure, and the like. Since Fukushima, the images of victimized animals have become a visualization device to expose the horrors in the aftermath of the nuclear accident, which have been hidden by the “common practice” of the media. The filmmaker Iwasaki Masanori, for example, continued to film animals’ lives over many years and made five documentary films, releasing one each year since 2013. The documentary series Fukushima: Ikimono no kiroku 1–5 attempts to visualize the effects of radiation on the ecosystem by documenting the lives of animals and thereby calmly yet powerfully informing the audience of the danger of radiation exposure. 18 “Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, Keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report], Nihon Keizai Shimbun (March 7, 2020), https//www.nikkei.com/article/DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/ (Accessed September 14, 2020).

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In this chapter, I reflect on animals depicted in documentary films after Fukushima and contemplate the environment inherent in the anthropocentrism of modern society while bringing readers’ attention to those on the margins of the society who rarely have a voice in the post-3/11-era mass media. They include children who suffer thyroid abnormalities caused by radiation exposure and mothers who care for them, a group of women who attempt to aid these mothers and children through the system of “recuperation,” and resident foreigners in Japan who confront the numerous lies regarding radiation exposure that have become widespread after the earthquake in Japanese society. Furthermore, I engage in a dialogue with Giorgio Agamben’s discussion about the relationship between the human and the animal while shedding light on “the socially vulnerable” portrayed in documentary cinema after Fukushima, focusing on the Fukushima: Ikimono no kiroku series. This chapter might remind readers of animals as “the threshold,” as in Agamben’s assertion that “animals are poor in the world,” that is to say, animals do “without the world.” The attempt here, I believe, relates to the post-Fukushima ontology of us human beings, whom Heidegger once defined as “the rational animal.” Finally, in Chapter 6, “The Power of Art after 3/11,” I examine not documentary cinema but contemporary art in Japan. Why do I, a film scholar, contemplate contemporary art? That is because I see many things in common between filmmakers’ experiences and works, and artists’ missteps in dealing with Fukushima and how they stand face to face with their missteps. Many works of contemporary artists act, in a way, as a doppelganger—the other self—for f ilmmakers. One can catch a glimpse of the anguish of post-Fukushima filmmakers in these works of contemporary art. I hope to inquire whether the characteristics of the era drawn from analyses of films can be universally applied to “culture” in general. While focusing on the artist collective Chim↑Pom, which continues to lead the radical movement in Japanese contemporary art, I will also analyze the works of Yanobe Kenji, Murakami Takashi, Tsuboi Akira, Fukuda Miran, and Akagi Shuji, paying attention to the “warning” issued by them. Moreover, I will discuss what these standard-bearers of contemporary art attempt to communicate to the audience, as filmmakers do, their work once again calling attention to the irony/threat of nuclear technology, to which Heidegger alluded. In this introduction, I discussed two “traces” of memories, but I encountered not only these two but many other traces over the ten years in which I wrote this book. For example, I was encouraged more than once by the thoughts of Koide Hiroaki. Many words of his, possessing the expertise of

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a researcher and the conscience of a human being, have left an enduring “trace” in my mind. Koide’s words—“You also are responsible for having been deceived”—allude to “a distortion” of postwar Japan.19 I also found encouragement in Takahashi Tetsuya’s discussion of “the system of sacrifice” in a profound way. Would a national community without sacrifices be possible? That is a question I cannot answer here. Having said so, I believe making a political choice to limit risks of U.S. military bases and nuclear power plants to near-zero is perfectly possible, and we need to move toward that.20

With these sentences, Takahashi concludes his stimulating analysis. What would be the way to achieve such an ideal nation/society? Will we be able to find a method to go forward by looking to the past?’ This book has also been greatly influenced by the academic traditions and discourses of the past. Particularly since the 1990s, scholars publishing in English have looked at the relationships between film and nuclear technologies. I inherited some ideas from the existing literature dealing with nuclear issues and cultural representations, especially in film. At the same time, I learned a great deal about the position and approach that my book should take from the questions and discomfort that I had while reading them, coming from a different perception of nuclear power plants and nuclear weapons. It is important to emphasize again that this book examines “nuclear cinema” in Japan in the context of the aftermath of the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake, and yet it does not focus on the relationship between nuclear weapons and cinema but rather concentrates on the relationship between nuclear power plants/their accidents and cinema in Japan, where natural disasters such as earthquakes and tsunamis are inevitable. Hibakusha Cinema: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Nuclear Image in Japanese Film (1996) is a collection of articles compiled by Australia-based media analyst Mick Broderick. His anthology’s popularity has been proven by the Japanese translation that was published in 1999 and the reprinted English paperback in 2015, after the Great East Japan Earthquake. As the subtitle of the book aptly states, the focus of this collection of essays is not nuclear power but rather the images brought by the nuclear bombs dropped 19 Koide Hiroaki, Damasareta anata nimo sekinin ga aru: Datsu genpatsu no shinjitsu [The Victims of a Swindle! You are also Responsible!: The Truth on Denuclearization] (Tokyo: Gentosha, 2012). 20 Takahashi Tetsuya, Gisei no shisutemu, 216.

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on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. In this respect, it is distinct from the scope of my book. For the same reason, Jerome E. Shapiro’s Atomic Bomb Cinema: The Apocalyptic Imagination on Film (2002) is another publication that sets itself apart from my book. Even though he mentions a great number of films related to nuclear power and energy, it is described as an analysis of “bomb films released in the United States.” In other words, his book is intended for an American film audience/readership interested in the results of atomic bombs in cinematic images. Also, as with Hibakusha Cinema, Shapiro’s newly invented film genre, “atomic bomb cinema,” inclines the reader’s attention to nuclear bombs (weapons) and not on the development of nuclear power plants and its problems (energy resources). John R. Mathis’s 2013 doctoral dissertation, “Atomic Cinema in America: Historical and Cultural Analysis of a New Film Genre that Reflected the Nuclear Zeitgeist of the Cold War (1945–1989)” is also a must-read reference when considering the relationship between nuclear power and cinema. Mathis introduces “atomic cinema” as a new genre and explicates from the onset that “a coherent definition for this body of films did not exist.” He makes it clear that the name “atomic cinema” is his invention. The dissertation is a discourse analysis of a number of existing studies on atomic themes and symbolism. However, the meaning of the Cold War or the meaning of nuclear power and nuclear films in Mathis’s writing seem to be very different from my book’s perspectives. As he writes, his motivation in completing his work was based on three aspects: 1) “[his] passion for watching and studying American and British films—science fiction, combat, drama, film noir, comedy, and action—that portray aspects of atomic technology—both energy and weapons—and its effects on humanity”; 2) “[his] interest in understanding how others interpreted the same films that he has enjoyed over the years”; and 3) “the culmination of [his] humanities education in which he focuses on answering the question ‘What does it mean to be human in an age of advanced technology?’”21 As Mathis’s work is far removed from the meanings of the films in the socio-cultural and historical context of Japan, it differs from my book’s position. Anthropologist Joseph Masco—who published the excellent 2006 book, The Nuclear Borderlands: The Manhattan Project in Post-Cold War New Mexico—wrote an article entitled “The Age of Fallout” in the journal History 21 John R. Mathis, “Atomic Cinema in America: Historical and Cultural Analysis of a New Film Genre that Reflected the Nuclear Zeitgeist of the Cold War (1945–1989)” (Ph.D. diss., Salve Regina University, 2013), xi, https://digitalcommons.salve.edu/dissertations/AAI3567681/.

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of the Present in 2015. Although Masco focuses on the Great East Japan Earthquake in one long section in the article, it is about neither cinema nor visual culture. The collection of articles edited by theater studies scholar Barbara Geilhorn and literary scholar Kristina Iwata-Weickgenannt, Fukushima and the Arts: Negotiating Nuclear Disaster (2017), analyzes artists in various fields and their work in post-2011 Japan. Film scholar Fujiki Hideaki’s chapter on documentary films was especially informative for my book’s Chapter 5. More recently, another fascinating collection of essays, Through Post-Atomic Eyes (2020), has been published in Canada. The anthology— edited by contemporary art historian Claudette Lauzon and John O’Brian, who is known for his exhibitions on nuclear photography such as Camera Atomica (2015)—focuses on the intersection of visual art and nuclear issues in the world. Among the articles, Japanologist Eric Cazdyn’s article, “The Blindspot of the Post-Atomic,” is about post-3/11 Japan and visual images, but it is an analysis of photography, not cinema. In considering Germany as a defeated nation, the philosopher Karl Jaspers left for us a logical path to advance toward “universality,” despite the unerasable “defilement” at a national level. “Reinigung (purification) of sin,” the thinking that he proposed, draws people’s attention to the need for an awakening to recognize themselves as citizens of a defeated nation as well as citizens of the world.22 From Memory, History, Forgetting, a voluminous work by Paul Ricoeur, mentioned earlier, I not only learned of the concepts of “forgetting” and “traces” but was also introduced to the way that the challenging act of “forgiveness” should be performed.23 Contemplating whether his way of thinking deeply steeped in the religious tradition of Europe can be applied to modern Japan, which is marching toward neoliberalism, leaves me overwhelmed. However, one cannot proceed without identifying some path. In writing this book, I sought a way to move forward by considering those predecessors’ voices against the backdrop of the works of the filmmakers. In doing so, while engaging in a dialogue with the works that they produced with great care, I “interpreted” the voices that I extracted from the films with as much imagination as I could muster. In this long process, one voice of hope that I found was the message of “no nukes,” which is the title of 22 Karl Jaspers, Senso no tsumi wo tou [Die Schuldfrage], trans. Hashimoto Fumio (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1998). Karl Jaspers, The Question of German Guilt (Perspectives in Continental Philosophy) 2nd edition, trans. E.B. Ashton (New York: Fordham University Press, 2001). 23 Paul Ricoeur, Kioku/ Rekishi/ Bokyaku [La Mémoire, L’histoire, L’oubli, Le Seuil, 2003], vols. 1 and 2, trans. Kume Hiroshi (Tokyo: Shinyosha, 2004–2005). Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting, trans. by Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004).

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my book in Japanese. To achieve a nation/society with a future, not only must we hold onto “the traces” of memories called Fukushima, we must also continue to ponder upon “forgiveness.” This, of course, does not mean merely to forgive Tokyo Electric Power Company, the Japanese government for the series of decision-making errors made since the earthquake, or the system of complicity among industry, government, and academia that keeps the “nuclear village” in place. Instead, I hope to say that a focus should be placed upon each of us to seek the root of responsibility within ourselves; to take on our responsibility and to have the will to change society. With many of us taking up our responsibility, “the system of sacrifice” will be removed from modern Japanese society; then, a new “forgiveness” shall emerge. From the depth of my heart, I wish that this book will serve as the first step in that process.

Works Cited Fujishima, Masaharu. Kasetsunite: Fukushima wa mohaya “Fukushima” ni natta [At Temporary Housing: Fukushima Has Become “Fukushima”]. Tokyo: Yugyosha, 2014. ———. Iro no nai machi: Fukushima kara anata e [A Colorless Town, From Fukushima to You]. Tokyo: Yugyosha, 2019. Jaspers, Karl. Senso no tsumi wo tou [Die Schuldfrage]. Translated by Hashimoto Fumio. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1998. ———. The Question of German Guilt (Perspectives in Continental Philosophy) 2nd Edition. Translated by E.B. Ashton. New York: Fordham University Press, 2001. “Kohi de genpatsusora juichinin ni Echizengani; Tsuruga shicho ga seibo [Echizen crabs given to nuclear minister and 10 others at public expense; Tsuruga mayor gives year-end gifts].” Shikoku News, Shikoku Shimbun Sha, January 29, 2012, http://www.shikoku-np.co.jp/national/political/20120229000242 (Accessed May 30, 2020). Koide, Hiroaki. Genpatsu no uso [Lies about Nuclear Power Plants]. Tokyo: Fusosha, 2011. ———. Damasareta anata nimo sekinin ga aru: Datsu genpatsu no shinjitsu [The Victims of a Swindle! You are also Responsible!: The Truth on Denuclearization]. Tokyo: Gentosha, 2012. Kotobank. “Toki.” https://kotobank.jp/word/%E6%8A%95%E4%BC%81-103267 (Accessed May 27, 2020). Nietzsche, Friedrich. Zen’aku no higan: Dotoku no keifu [Jenseits von Gut und Böse]. Translated by Shida Shozo. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1993.

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———. The Genealogy of Morals (Dover Thrift Editions). Translated by Horace B. Samuel. Mineola: Dover Publications, 2012. Ricoeur, Paul. Oneself as Another [Soi-même Comme un Autre, Le Seuil, 1990]. Translated by Kathleen Blamey. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. ———. Tasha no yona jikojishin [Soi-même Comme un Autre, Le Seuil, 2003]. Translated by Kume Hiroshi. Tokyo: Hoseidaigaku Shuppankai, 2010. New edition. ———. Kioku/Rekishi/Bokyaku [La Mémoire, L’histoire, L’oubli, Le Seuil, 2003]. Translated by Kume Hiroshi, Vols. 1 and 2. Tokyo: Shinyosha, 2004–2005. ———. Memory, History, Forgetting. Translated by Kathleen Blamey and David Pallauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. Sato, Tadao. “Tokubetsukiko saigai wo kirokusuru eiga to terebi” [Special Contribution: Film and Television That Record Disasters]. In 3/11 wo toru [Shooting 3/11], edited by Mori Tatsuya et al., 157–176. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. Schwarzer, Setsuko. “Long Way to the Withdrawal from Nuclear Power Plants Developments in Germany: Unexpected Problems.” Nikkei Business, June 12, 2016. https://business.nikkei.com/atcl/report/16/061600046/061600001/. “Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, Keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report]. Nihon Keizai Shimbun, March 7, 2020. https//www.nikkei.com/article/ DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/. Takahashi, Tetsuya. Gisei no shisutemu: Fukushima/Okinawa [Systems of Sacrifice: Fukushima and Okinawa]. Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012.

1.

No Nukes before Fukushima: Postwar Atomic Cinema and the History of the “Safety Myth” Abstract: Chapter 1 focuses on films produced from the 1950s. The late film scholar Sato Tadao observed that, even before Fukushima, there were many films about nuclear power/energy. Iconic themes like atomic and hydrogen bombs, hibakusha (radiation victims), radiation, and nuclear power plants were recurring themes in the world of filmmaking. Even in the special effects genre, monster protagonists like Godzilla appeared in the aftermath of the nuclear bombings. Many films can be identified as referencing nuclear issues in the history of postwar Japanese cinema. This chapter analyzes what stances filmmakers chose to take within the myth of “safe nuclear energy” in postwar Japan. Keywords: postwar atomic cinema; safety myth; Great East Japan Earthquake; compartmentalization of danger; faith in the media

Many documentary films produced after the Great East Japan Earthquake demonstrated a link with the past—i.e., Japan’s prolonged postwar period— through the issue of nuclear power. For example, X Years Later and X Years Later 2 (Hoshano wo abita X nengo; Hoshano wo abita X nengo 2, Ito Hideaki, 2012 and 2015) confront head-on the issue of nuclear power by layering the state of Japanese society after the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster in 2011 against the backdrop of American nuclear tests conducted at Bikini Atoll from 1954 to 1958 and other radioactive contaminations and their aftereffects in the Pacific. These documentary films attempt to expose from a contemporary perspective the fact that tragic accidents caused by nuclear power, and many social issues associated with them, have been hidden from the public version of history in the name of the anti-communist policy under the Cold War regime—and, by extension, the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty.

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch01

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This military alliance, in effect since 1951, stipulates, among other things, the presence of U.S. military forces in Japan for the security of both nations, and is sometimes referred to as the Japan-U.S. Alliance, or as the Anpo joyaku or just Anpo in Japanese. The 1960 revision of the treaty was highly disputed in Japan, and widespread opposition to its passage led to the massive Anpo protests, the largest protests in Japan’s modern history. The remaining problem of the military alliance is the concentration of U.S. military forces in Okinawa Prefecture; about 75 percent of the U.S. forces in Japan are located there, a phenomenon that also resonates with Takahashi Tetsuya’s term—“system of sacrifice”—that I mentioned in the introduction. The fact that in 1989, the declaration of the end of the Cold War by Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev and U.S. President George H.W. Bush coincided with Emperor Hirohito’s death has symbolic significance as the end of the Showa period (1926–1989), the era characterized by the Second World War, the postwar recovery, and the subsequent Cold War. The year 1989 also indicates the turning point for nuclear issues in international politics. In this chapter, I examine the roles played by films dealing with nuclear issues; however, we again need to clarify that the category of “atomic cinema” has not existed in the history of Japanese cinema until today. In the case of Hollywood, such films have historically been categorized as either “panic films” or “disaster films.” These have existed as far back as the era of D.W. Griffith in the 1910s. Or, as I briefly indicated in the introduction, since the mid-1990s newly created genres such as hibakusha cinema (1996, Mick Broderick), atomic bomb cinema (2002, Jerome E. Shapiro), and atomic cinema (2013, John R. Mathis) have become subjects of research among Anglophone academics. The reason for the absence of analogous genres in Japan is not merely because “nuclear” themes have been incompatible with “cinema” as entertainment and with the market strategies for categorizing the films under other genres and topics, but rather because the cinematic discourse on nuclear themes has not gained enough cultural draw to justify a category due to the lack of the number of films. On the academic side, one could argue that film research related to nuclear power has been unintentionally discouraged under the influence of the nuclear safety myths of the postwar era. However, for Japanese culture, which has undergone the experience of the 3/11 disaster, I believe that the creation of a new category is called for. Doing so would enable us to dismantle the nuclear safety myth that films in the past have helped construct and to reflect on film’s responsibility as a medium. In recent years, academic research has been conducted on rather unusual categories of documentary films such as “CIE films” (films produced and distributed by the Civil Information and Education Section

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during the postwar Occupation of Japan). Among these films designed to instill a pro-American sensibility were those that not only emphasized scientific progress in the United States but also encouraged the significance of nuclear energy—or “nuclear PR films.” The purpose of this chapter is to examine how the myth surrounding nuclear power was generated, how it gained its unique connotation, and how it spread its influence in Japanese society, while also analyzing how atomic cinema was produced in the postwar Showa period (1945–1989). I examine all this from the perspective of the post-3/11 era in which, in my view, people’s outlook on nuclear power has shifted. I will look at Lucky Dragon No. 5 (1959, Shindo Kaneto); Frankenstein vs. Baragon, Frankenstein Conquers the World (1965, Honda Ishiro and Tsuburaya Eiji); Nuclear Power in Fukushima (1977, Nichiei Kagaku Eiga); The Man Who Stole the Sun (1979, Hasegawa Kazuhiko); and Nuclear Scrapbook (1982, Tsuchimoto Noriaki). I will also refer to the previously mentioned X Years Later as an example of post-3/11 atomic cinema.1

The “Safety Myth” Seen in Atomic Cinema: Nuclear Power in Fukushima How does “myth” generated within a culture differ from “history”? Film scholar Yomota Inuhiko defines the relationship between “myth” and “history” in his book Nihon eiga to sengo no shinwa (Japanese Cinema and the Myths of the Postwar Period, 2007), while referring to Giambattista Vico, a scholar of philosophy of history in eighteenth-century Italy. Yomota points out that, although “myth” and “history” are seemingly in conflict, this is not the case. It is commonly believed that myth is “an irrational story.” In contrast, history is “a true story established through verification of objective facts.” However, a “myth is not just an accumulation of mistaken facts, but a form of discourse which subconsciously enchants the hearts of those of us living in the present.”2 In his book, he states that ever since its invention in 1 While the list may not be entirely free of an element of arbitrariness, my intention was to select films representing the postwar period among the many works of atomic cinema produced during the Cold War/postwar Showa era. Due to page limitations, I was forced to narrow down my selections to six. I would emphasize, however, that atomic cinema encompasses more than these six films and is a new genre that should be continuously analyzed from more comprehensive and diverse perspectives. 2 Yomota Inuhiko, Nihon eiga to sengo no shinwa [Japanese Cinema and the Myths of the Postwar Period] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007). The idea of “myths” recalls Roland Barthes’s

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the nineteenth century, cinema has been placed in a privileged position as a medium to represent modern mythology.3 Considering the decline of the film industry in Japan since the 1960s, how “privileged” this medium remains is questionable. However, in my analysis, I assume that Yomota’s hypothesis holds significance for the nuclear safety myth created by the cinema culture in Japan, especially during the Cold War and postwar Showa era. What was the nature of the “safety myth” created by the atomic cinema of postwar Japan? The film critic Sato Tadao stated in 2012: “A rather large number of films have been made so far, dealing with nuclear power plants.”4 One of the pioneers among such films is Nuclear Power in Fukushima (1977). It is literally a PR (public relations) film sponsored by Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) and produced by Nichiei Kagaku Eiga at TEPCO’s request. Conveniently for TEPCO, the film highlights the safety of nuclear power generation and demonstrates how the host towns of nuclear power plants (Okuma Town and Futaba Town) have prospered financially and benefited enormously in terms of residents’ welfare. For those of us who witnessed the Fukushima nuclear disaster in 2011, the unwavering narrative of nuclear power’s safety now sounds empty and meaningless, but how was that narrative received in the late 1970s when the PR film was produced? Let us listen carefully to a part of the narration from the film: The construction of this nuclear power plant began in December 1966, after approximately two years of detailed research.…On the Earth where we live, radiation naturally exists. The amount of radiation from the nuclear power plant is stringently managed; therefore it is far less Mythologies published in the late 1950s (translated into Japanese in 1967). In the book, Barthes proposes that critics need to acquire an ability to comprehend “demythification.” To sum up, “myths” or “fantasies” are determined by social ideologies, and, in a way, become a reality or a reflection of it. As Shinozawa Hideo, who is a French literature scholar, mentions, Barthes foregrounds the equation “myths” = “fantasies” = “universality” and points out that it contributes to hegemonic ideology in society. In Barthes’s analysis, the second-level system of signification called “metalanguage” has an effect on the equation, and it shapes some aspects of human perception of a given topic. Since this chapter is not an attempt to redefine Barthes’s semiotics or structuralism, I will only indicate here that my analysis of “myths” and society originated from Barthes’s discussions. See Roland Barthes, Shinwasayo [Mythologies, Seuil, 1957], trans. Shinozawa Hideo (Tokyo: Gendaishichosha, 1991), 221 and 227. 3 Yomota Inuhiko, Nihon eiga to sengo no shinwa, v–vi. 4 Sato Tadao, “Tokubetsukiko saigai wo kirokusuru eiga to terebi” [Special Contribution: Film and Television That Record Disasters]. In 3/11 wo toru [Shooting 3/11], eds. Mori Tatsuya et al. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012), 165.

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compared to the amount of naturally occurring radiation, and its effect is negligible.…The Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant is a pioneer of seaside nuclear power plants that commonly exist in Japan and is a model of innovation in nuclear power generation.5

Nuclear Power in Fukushima, as a PR film, had the obvious purpose of convincing Tokyo residents, the main consumers of the electricity produced by Tokyo Electric Power Company, of the benefits of nuclear power. The film highlights the objective bases for nuclear safety while focusing on people who live in Fukushima. It presents them as beneficiaries of resident welfare and employment opportunities provided by the existence of the nuclear power plant. However, the exclusion of individuals’ faces and voices creates a comfortable anonymity both for the subjects being filmed and the audience. The result is a manner of expression that allows the facts presented through the film to be easily swallowed without questioning them. This film is an example that perfectly fits the pattern of “the metamorphosis of nuclear PR films” proposed by the sociologist Yoshimi Shun’ya. Yoshimi argues that, “compared to nuclear PR films of the 1960s, the narrative of those films in the 1980s takes a radically different form.” He defines the difference between the two periods by stating that “while films documenting the construction of nuclear power plants glorified the victory of stateof-the-art science and technology through the 1960s, nuclear PR films in the 1980s are fantastical tales of nuclear power’s co-existence with local communities.”6 Yoshimi concludes that “the official discourse surrounding nuclear power from the 1950s to the 1980s, through the process of gradually limiting the scope of reference from ‘mankind’ to ‘nation,’ and eventually to ‘local community,’ managed to normalize nuclear power as part of the daily landscape for people in the region.”7 Let us look at the specific ways that “safety” is expressed in Nuclear Power in Fukushima. The film opens with several long shots of the Fukushima 5 Fukushima no genshiryoku [Nuclear Power in Fukushima] is available for free on the website run by the NPO Science Film Museum, http://www.kagakueizo.org/movie/industrial/365/ (Accessed June 6, 2020). 6 Yoshimi Shun’ya, “Hibaku no akumu karano tenkan: Genshiryoku koho gensetsu no sengoshi” [The Shift from the Fear of Radiation Exposure: A Postwar History of the Discourses on Nuclear Power Public Information Statements]. In Sengo fukko kara kodoseicho e: Minshukyoiku, Tokyo Orinpikku, genshiryoku hatsuden [From the Rehabilitation of Postwar Japan to the Period of High Economic Growth: Democratic Education, the 1964 Tokyo Olympic Games, Nuclear Power Generation], eds. Niwa Yoshiyuki and Yoshimi Shun’ya (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2014), 258. 7 Ibid., 276.

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Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant taken from a helicopter. The narration informs us that the plant was built upon “a cliff with an approximately 100-foot drop to the Pacific Ocean on a vast area of Fukushima’s eastern coastland.” The fact that these geographical conditions make the plant vulnerable to earthquakes and tsunamis is diverted to the notion of “safety” by the ingenious use of images and sounds—for example, the majestic view of the plant taken from the helicopter, the strength of the confident voice of the narrator, the sound of a symphony which evokes the dawning of something spectacular. Not only does the film verbally explain the safety of the nuclear power plant with repeated narrations, it also visually suggests this by displaying the thickness of the walls of a unit in the plant. By showing us an image of three children extending their arms to measure the thickness of the walls, it attempts to make us see that “Fukushima Daiichi is safe,” a discourse/ myth that is invisible in reality. For those of us who have experienced 3/11, this guarantee of the safety of nuclear power plants is illusory. The film, after all, is a PR film of Tokyo Electric Power Company espousing the safety myth forged with a business-centric way of thinking and capitalistic logic. We can also imagine that it must have been sufficiently effective to deceive the general audience in those days. This film’s case leads us to believe that many other nuclear PR films such as this one took part in the creation of the myth, in the process of visualizing/imaging nuclear power, which cannot be seen in reality, and tying it to safety, another invisible value. However, it was not just the nuclear PR film that contributed to the creation of this myth.

Compartmentalization of Danger: Lucky Dragon No. 5 Let us shift our focus to the film Lucky Dragon No. 5, released in 1959, seven years after the end of the postwar occupation of Japan by the U.S and its allied powers. This film is based on the incident in which the Japanese tuna fishing boat, Daigo Fukuryu Maru (Lucky Dragon No. 5) with a crew of twenty-three men, was contaminated by nuclear fallout from the United States Castle Bravo thermonuclear weapon test at Bikini Atoll in March 1954. The film was made during a period in which, despite the end of the occupation, the ruling LDP (Liberal Democratic Party of Japan) was eagerly seeking to improve the country’s relationship with the U.S., with the first phase of the mass protests against the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty serving as the backdrop. Fearing that Japan’s anti-nuclear movement would turn into an anti-U.S. movement, the U.S. government hurried to negotiate compensation for the

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nuclear test bomb survivors with the Japanese government. The latter was heavily dependent on the U.S. for Japan’s own economic reconstruction, and the possibility of receiving nuclear technology from the U.S. had emerged, making it difficult for the Japanese government to criticize the U.S. As a result, it is believed that both parties tried to come to a settlement, with the Japanese government assuring the U.S. that it would not pursue the latter’s responsibility in the matter. Lucky Dragon No. 5 was an independent film co-produced by Kindai Eiga Kyokai Co., Ltd. and Shinseiki Eiga, based on a script co-written by Yagi Yasutaro and Shindo Kaneto. On the cover of the DVD, marketed in 2001, a promotional slogan from the time of the film’s release in 1959 is quoted as part of the paratext: “Never forgive A-bombs! Carrying the anger and prayers of the people of Japan, this sensational and controversial work makes an appeal to the whole world!” Aided by its global orientation, as demonstrated in the slogan “makes an appeal to the whole world,” the film earned the eighth spot in the 1959 Kinema Junpo Best Ten list. Furthermore, it won the Peace Prize at the FFP Czech Filmovy Exhibition Communist Workers Film Festival and the Silver Award at the Yugoslavia Youth Peace Fellowship Festival. The historical incident occurred on March 1, 1954, when Lucky Dragon No. 5 suffered radiation exposure at Bikini Atoll in the Pacific Ocean. The film’s director Shindo Kaneto, along with his assistant, Katsume Takahisa, and three producers—Itoya Toshio, Wakayama Kazuo, and Noto Setsuo— spent three months from May 1958 interviewing nearly sixty people who were involved in the incident, and constructed their narrative.8 Shindo and Yagi decided “to look at the incident as objectively as possible” and, with the goal of “having a construction as close to documenting the facts of the incident as possible,” they took great pains to have Taketani Mitsuo, a scholar of theoretical physics, review the script and sought the advice of Dr. Nishiwaki Yasushi of Osaka City Medical University from the perspective of practical medicine.9 One can interpret the film’s intention, or the promotional intent, behind the words in the catchphrases “the people of Japan” and “the whole world” as aspiring to be an “open” text, not closed just to the domestic audience, by the fact that it was entered into many international film festivals. Contrary 8 Shindo Kaneto, “Yagisan no shido de” [Under Mr. Yagi’s Guidance], Kinema Junpo (late August 1958), 131. 9 Shindo Kaneto, “Daigo Fukuryumaru no shinario hanteingu” [Location Scouting for Lucky Dragon No. 5], Kinema Junpo (early September 1958), 145.

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to the intention observed in these paratexts, the uniqueness of the film lies in the fact that the victims of the nuclear bomb or their suffering itself have been cleverly “closed,” in other words, “compartmentalized.” Another point of intrigue is the vagueness of where “the anger of the people of Japan” should be directed. Whom is this text “open” to? For what purpose did it need to “be opened”? The answers are unclear. An example of this vagueness can be seen in the sequence titled “The Room of the Deputy Chief at the University of Tokyo Hospital.” A conference table is positioned at the center of the screen. Seated on either side are actors playing Japanese and American doctors and researchers. On the right-hand side of the screen sit the American Chair of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (referred to in the film’s captions as “Old Doctor”), a second-generation Japanese American interpreter, and two other Americans, and on the left-hand side are the Deputy Chief of the University of Tokyo Hospital, Dr. Kumagaya, a physician in charge, Dr. Minami of University of Tokyo School of Medicine, and others. Let’s take a moment to examine the following extended sequence from the script. Note that the parts crossed out in the dialogue were included in the original script but were left out of the finished film: Dr. Minami: What is the purpose of your request to examine the patients? [In the film, the sequence proceeds as the interpreter interprets what is being said from Japanese to English and vice versa. Here, we will only show the dialogue in English.] Old Doctor: We want to examine the patients because we were asked to do so by the Japanese government. Also, because the matter of compensation is involved. Dr. Minami: [That would be a gaffe.] I think that the compensation has nothing to do with the condition of the patients. Old Doctor: [I admit that it was improper.] The fact is, in order to cooperate in the treatment of these men, we must examine them. Dr. Minami: You have already examined them at University of Tokyo Hospital and also at Yaizu. You desired to know the blood count. We have already given you the typed report. Old Doctor: We wish to examine the patients here, principally to take blood tests. Deputy Chief: How much time do you want? Old Doctor: It will take three to four hours per patient. Dr. Kumagaya: That’s impossible. The patients are too weak. They require absolute rest. We ourselves are refraining from examining their conditions at present.

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Old Doctor: If you do not wish to allow us to examine them, it is up to you. Dr. Minami: If the matter you wish is to take the blood test, our clinical doctors could do it for you at the time fit and proper. Old Doctor: We would like to take the blood ourselves. Dr. Kumagaya: You have probably conducted similar tests many times in the past. We desire you to tell us the results of such clinical observation. Old Doctor: I know nothing concerning such tests. Dr. Kumagaya: Ever since the atomic explosions at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japanese people have become extremely sensitive. [Instead of treating the patients, all you do is research.] These men have been hurt without warning. No expression of regret has come from you. These men have even been called a spy. Perhaps you should visit them to inquire after their health. Old Doctor: If possible, I would like to do that.10

What is emphasized here is the sincerity and humanism of the Japanese doctors and, by contrast, the American research team’s authoritarian and secretive attitude. The parts crossed out in the dialogue, while included in the original script, did not make it into the finished film. These lines show a direct “condemnation” of the American research team/government. One can suspect some political decision at work behind the deletions in the production’s late stages that led to the self-censorship of the filmmakers. On the other hand, in this film, based on the script written by Shindo and Yagi who strived to simply “document the incident,” what is dubiously made “invisible” is the pursuit of responsibility: Who were the perpetrators of the Lucky Dragon incident? Firstly, the Japanese government should have shouldered part of the responsibility, which is entirely absent in the sequence. Moreover, the direct “condemnation” of the U.S. government has also been replaced with mere “complaints,” as observed in the Japanese doctors’ responses in the sequence. Lucky Dragon No. 5 “visualizes” the nuclear bomb by presenting the victims’ lives or deaths. Nevertheless, it “compartmentalizes” the resulting indignation and frustration of the Japanese into a narrative space with no hope of resolution. Besides, it should not be overlooked that “the inequality” between Japan and the U.S. “made invisible” by the deletion of the lines has been camouflaged by an image of “equality” suggested through the symmetry in the visual composition of the sequence (see Figure 1.1). 10 Shindo Kaneto and Yagi Yasutaro, “Shinario Daigo Fukuryumaru [The Script for Lucky Dragon, No. 5],” Kinema Junpo (late August 1958), 140.

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Figure 1.1: Film still from Lucky Dragon No. 5

Let us delve deeper into the concept of “compartmentalization.” Another sequence in this film where the issue of the nuclear bomb is compartmentalized is the scene when a television set is delivered to the victims’ hospital room as a gift. The TV set, a luxury item rarely found in average households in those days, is delivered by a broadcasting station to the hospital room as a gift for the twenty-three victims. In 1953, the NHK and Nippon Television Network Corporation (NTV) networks were launched, and in 1955, Radio Tokyo (TBS) and others followed suit. In this film sequence, “Yaizu After the Incident,” the NTV television program that was broadcast in the year of the accident (1954) is shown on the screen. Yaizu City, in Shizuoka Prefecture, is the home port of the boat Lucky Dragon No. 5, and its crew members returned to Yaizu immediately after being exposed to radiation at Bikini Atoll. Yaizu has long been one of the leading fishing ports in Japan, and has been active since the Edo period (1603–1868) as a base for pelagic fishing, mainly skipjack and tuna. The sequence opens with the narration, “We are reporting from Yaizu, the town that captured the attention of the whole world for a nuclear fallout.” The narration continues: “Three months after the fallout when radioactive rain fell and covered the whole town, Yaizu appears to be regaining a sense of calm at last.” Scenes of citizens of Yaizu happily going about their day are shown in succession: unloading the tuna catch, the storefront of a fishmonger in town, the inside of a sushi restaurant serving tuna at the counter. Finally, an interview of a young woman on her shopping trip comes on. “I feel very sorry for those victims, but I would not want to marry any of them,” the woman candidly expresses her feelings on camera. The program presents the message that, while Yaizu was affected by the fallout, now everything is all right. In this television sequence, the boundary between the multiple “victims” and “non-victims” is constructed by media devices such as television or cinema. The critical distinction here

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is not the boundary between “the victims” and “the perpetrators.” First, the twenty-three fishermen (the victims) were compartmentalized from the ordinary citizens of the town of Yaizu (non-victims), and the townspeople of Yaizu three months ago (the victims) from the TV audience (non-victims). Furthermore, the TV audience in the film (the twenty-three victims and hospital staff) becomes compartmentalized from the film audience watching this sequence (non-victims) on the movie screen. Also, the unique nature of the television medium allows viewers to “turn it off” at will when they no longer have the need to watch; and the unique nature of the film medium allows viewers to go back to “reality” once they have left the movie theater. These compartmentalization patterns, along with the tangible feeling of isolation, establish in the mind of the audience the sense that they are not victims but are non-victims, and that they are safe. As these examples of “compartmentalization” observed in Lucky Dragon No. 5 show, multi-layered compartmentalizations helped form the consciousness in the audience’s mind that the reality of being exposed to nuclear bombs was an unfortunate incident that happened to only a handful of victims. Furthermore, to audiences who were not the subject of compartmentalization, the film became a visual expression that promised safety. To put it differently, this film manages to “visualize” in a multi-layered way the differences between “people who were exposed to radiation” and “people who were not,” between “victims” and “non-victims,” differences that are invisible in reality. However, it was later revealed through X Years Later that the radiation exposure at Bikini Atoll in the Pacific Ocean contaminated not the limited areas that the U.S. government had announced but all of Japan and even parts of the U.S. itself, which proved that the whole notion of “compartmentalization” made “visible” was, in fact, complete fiction. This documentary film released after 3/11 revealed to us that in 1954 the entire territory of Japan was exposed to radiation in varying degrees and that, in Lucky Dragon No. 5, this fact was made entirely “invisible,” regardless of the intention of the filmmakers including Shindo Kaneto. As a result, despite what the filmmakers intended, Lucky Dragon No. 5 itself became a device for “compartmentalization,” which assured “safety” to the audience at the time.

The Atomic Bomb Made Visible, and Its Meaning Made Meaningless: The Man Who Stole the Sun The Man Who Stole the Sun (Taiyo wo nusunda otoko), produced and released in 1979, made a splash in many ways. The film featured Sawada Kenji, aka Julie,

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a superstar in the world of Japanese popular music at that time. In addition, The Man Who Stole the Sun was the much-awaited second film by the director Hasegawa Kazuhiko, who three years before had earned the number one spot in Kinema Junpo’s Best Japanese Films of the Year and the Kinema Junpo Best Director Award with The Youth Killer (Seishun no satsujinsha, 1976), his directorial debut. The most significant buzz surrounding The Man Who Stole the Sun, above all, was its antisocial theme, in which an ordinary middle school science teacher, Kido (Sawada Kenji), builds a homemade atomic bomb and extorts the government. Kido’s demands toward the police are without any plans or political agenda, such as broadcasting a night baseball game into overtime and allowing the Rolling Stones to play a concert in Japan. The plot, which is simply about “insolent and nonsensical energy,”11 appealed to the segment of the audience called “the apathetic generation” (shirake sedai), a buzzword of the era. Despite having a big production budget for an independent film, this much-talked-about film did not do so well at the box office. However, the film was packed with many action elements such as a robbery at Tokai Nuclear Power Plant and a car chase by the police. It not only was favorably received by critics but also won the second spot in Kinema Junpo’s Best Japanese Films of the Year and the Readers’ Choice Award. Moreover, it remains in the history of Japanese cinema as one of the most iconic cult films. Kinema Junpo, for instance, put the film at 7th in the best Japanese films of all time in 2009. In The Man Who Stole the Sun, a homemade atomic bomb is an important motif. However, because the atomic bomb, which is central to the story, is treated as a symbol devoid of its meaning, the atomic bomb’s historical/social/political significance in real life does not exist in the film. The film’s treatment of the atomic bomb as a mere symbol was debated among contemporary film critics. For instance, film critic Oguro Toyoshi wrote an opinion piece about the film in Kinema Junpo (late April 1980): You rarely find films like this these days, which draw strong reactions from its audience; people either buy it or they do not.… It is a story about an “insolent” man who plays with, of all things, an atomic bomb, “the most heinous weapon that human beings have ever made,” and disrupts peace and order. One could stomach it if there were something intensely cynical or outlandishly satirical, but we see nothing like that.12 11 Matsuda Masao, “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko [The Man Who Stole the Sun],” Kinema Junpo (late November 1979), 90. 12 Oguro Toyoshi, “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko wa besutoten joi ninaru yona sakuhin ka?” [Is The Man Who Stole the Sun Worthy of High Praise?], Kinema Junpo (late April 1980), 124.

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With this particular column as a trigger, in the late May 1980 issue of Kinema Junpo, readers’ responses to Oguro’s criticism of the film were printed. The following is one example: What we see here in this film is a sensibility like that of manga or graphic novels, and the filmmaker Hasegawa Kazuhiko gained a complete mastery of that sensibility and showed us what frivolous and thoughtless times we live in. That is where the value of this film lies.13

Regarding the representation of the “frivolous and thoughtless times” that this reader pointed out, Hasegawa himself clarified his intention in an interview years later: About the role of Inspector Yamashita, I suggested: “Let’s make the role as a crack detective, a tough guy like Fudo Myoo (Acala, the god of fire).” “Takakura Ken?” (Leonard Schrader) suggested. “Would Takakura Ken play a supporting role?” I wondered, but…I met with him at a coffee shop near Aoyama Funeral Hall.…“Director, please let me play the guy who makes the atomic bomb,” he said. “If you play the role, it becomes something with reason or purpose. This is a crime without a cause, committed by a frivolous fellow. I would like to ask you to play the role of the tough inspector, the god of fire, who hunts him down,” I explained…14

Consequently, Takakura declined the role of Inspector Yamashita, the god of fire, and instead, Sugawara Bunta gave an excellent performance. At any rate, there is no doubt that a crime “without a cause” committed by a “frivolous” fellow was what the filmmaker intended from the start. Turning our attention to the production process, one can surmise that the relation between the use of the atomic bomb in the film and its representation reduced to a mere symbol is not one-dimensional. This film’s conception began when Leonard Schrader, the original scriptwriter, handed Hasegawa a script in which “a guy builds a homemade atomic bomb, extorts money from the government, and runs away to Brazil with a woman on an airplane.”15 Hasegawa apparently requested two changes to the original script. One was 13 Kitera Kiyomi, “Dokusha sono 1: Gekigachikku na kankaku to gendai no yojisei” [From a Subscriber: A Sense of Gekiga (Graphic Novels) and the Childishness of Contemporary Society], Kinema Junpo (late May 1980), 110. 14 Hasegawa Kazuhiko, “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko intabyu Hasegawa Kazuhiko [The Man Who Stole the Sun: Conversation with Hasegawa Kazuhiko],” Kinema Junpo (early February 2015), 26. 15 Ibid., 25.

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to “have the guy exposed to radiation in the process of building the bomb.” The other was to morph the character of Inspector Yamashita, who had initially been imagined as “good-natured, if not comical,” into “someone you can sink your teeth into, rather like a reincarnation thirty years later of the Inspector played by Mifune in Stray Dog.”16 On March 16, 1979, The China Syndrome (James Bridges) premiered in the U.S. It is a Hollywood film about a female reporter (Jane Fonda) who gets involved in an accident while covering a nuclear power plant and tries to report on the accident. The title was inspired by the dark humor at that time that asserted that in the case of a nuclear meltdown, nuclear fuel would leak out under the reactor and reach China on the other side of the Earth. As such, “China syndrome” was a widely used term that symbolized the general public’s anxiety about nuclear accidents. Subsequently, an accident occurred at the Three Mile Island Nuclear Generating Station in Pennsylvania on March 28, 1979, prompting the making of the documentary film The Atomic Café (Kevin Rafferty, Jayne Loader, and Pierce Rafferty) using clips of information and misinformation about the nuclear age, which was released in theaters in 1982. It was no wonder that the scriptwriter for The Man Who Stole the Sun, Schrader, who had lived in Japan for five years from 1969 to 1973, combined the student movement at universities throughout Japan between 1968 and 1970, with their homemade Molotov cocktails used at demonstrations, and the newly emerging skepticism surrounding nuclear power in the U.S. Meanwhile, one can find a link to atomic bombs and radiation exposure in Hasegawa’s background. He was born in Kamo District in Hiroshima Prefecture (current Higashihiroshima City) in January 1946 and believed that he had suffered “radiation exposure in the womb” when his mother visited the city of Hiroshima shortly after the bombing. Regardless of whether he was a formally certified hibakusha (atomic radiation survivor) or not, his background would be enough to lead him to subconsciously harbor personal rancor against atomic bombs, radiation exposure, and the government that offered no compensation to those tormented by such fears. I would like to point out that The Man Who Stole the Sun, created by these two men—Hasegawa and Schrader—with a relatively acute awareness of atomic bombs, while using the atomic bomb as an important motif, is an example of “atomic cinema” that not only lacks the catastrophe of a bomb exploding but also diminishes the atomic bomb to an empty shell. In the 16 Hasegawa Kazuhiko, “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko wa yokyu no nai jidai ni ikiru orejishin no messeji da [The Man Who Stole the Sun Is My Message, as One Living in the Age of Indifference],” Kinema Junpo (late October 1979), 110.

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film, the atomic bomb is depicted as a weapon dangerous enough to extort the government and yet, at the same time, as something familiar that can be made by hand like homemade plum wine or bread, as long as one has plutonium on hand. Moreover, Kido, the protagonist, experiences hair loss and bleeding gums due to his supposed exposure to radiation while building the bomb; however, there is no scene of his eventual death. Far from it: after his fight for survival with Inspector Yamashita, Kido is accidentally caught on an electric cable, bounces off a tree branch, and ends up landing on the ground without a scratch, escaping death. Therefore, it is quite possible to interpret this film to be not about atomic bombs as violent weapons of murder but rather about how atomic bombs gave a man a new purpose in life and allowed him to find the meaning of his existence for the first time. One can observe the conversion of meanings associated with atomic bombs or, in other words, a conversion of values: from “something to be feared” to “not to be feared”; “something dangerous” to “not dangerous”; “something that brings destruction to humankind” to “something that gives purpose and meaning to humankind.” Throughout the film, Kido repeatedly blows bubbles with his chewing gum. A homemade atomic bomb and a gum bubble of equal size can be interpreted, in the same sense, as representations of “the frivolous and thoughtless times.”

A Newfound Faith in the Media: Nuclear Scrapbook In 1955, Japan passed the Atomic Energy Basic Law, and the following year the country’s Atomic Energy Commission was established. The implementation of the strategy for the peaceful uses of nuclear energy starting from 1955 was enthusiastically promoted by Nakasone Yasuhiro (who later became prime minister from 1982 to 1987) and Shoriki Matsutaro, owner of the leading Japanese newspaper Yomiuri Shimbun and an influential figure in the world of mass media in those days. Shoriki’s eager commitment to the promotion of nuclear energy in Japan was evidenced by the fact that in 1958 he assumed the post of the first chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission and unveiled a plan for building a nuclear power plant in Japan within five years. It is a well-known fact that the first Japanese Nobel laureate Yukawa Hideki, a member of the Atomic Energy Commission at that time, resigned from the Commission, objecting to what he thought to be careless judgment and expressing concern about the future of nuclear energy development in Japan. As discussed by Yoshimi Shun’ya in his book Atoms for Dreams (Yume no genshiryoku), the objective for Shoriki was not the introduction of the

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ideal of nuclear power as “safe energy” for Japan. Instead, he used the topic of nuclear power to promote the growth of his own companies (Yomiuri Shimbun, Nippon Television Network Corporation, and Hochi Shimbun) and as a stepping stone to enter the world of politics. Yoshimi writes: Once Shoriki, owner of the Yomiuri Shimbun, had understood “nuclear power” to be a convenient tool to expand his influence, he used the Yomiuri Shimbun and the Nippon Television Network Corporation under his umbrella as vehicles for the campaign for the peaceful uses of nuclear power, successfully entered politics as a promoter of nuclear power, took the post of the first chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission, and then the Director-General of the Science and Technology Agency.17

However, following the Three Mile Island accident in 1979, mentioned above, and the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, people began to call into question the heedless celebration of nuclear power. Especially after the Three Mile Island accident, attitudes toward nuclear energy started to gradually take a cultural turn in the mass media.18 As a pioneer among documentary cinema reflecting skepticism toward nuclear power, Nuclear Scrapbook (1986) can be singled out. The f ilm points out the uncertainty and riskiness of nuclear energy development. It is mainly composed of and edited with newspaper clippings that Tsuchimoto Noriaki personally collected over many years. As it takes the form of a “cine essay” with a minimalistic composition of a collage made up of newspaper articles, it looks spare and simplistic at first glance, but what deserves notice is Tsuchimoto’s perceptive point of view in the way the film is assembled and the analytical ability that he puts to use of the newspaper articles. The most remarkable thing about the film, however, is how it ties together the domesticity of a living room, where the act of “clipping” articles takes place, with the global issues successively caused by nuclear energy development. At the same time, it makes full use of various editing techniques to convert the “word-based” characteristic of newspaper articles to the “image-based” characteristic of film, “stillness” to “motion,” and “two-dimensionality” to “three-dimensionality,” while exploiting the 17 Yoshimi Shun’ya, Yume no genshiryoku [Atoms for Dreams] (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 2012), 24–25. 18 Yoshimi Shun’ya defines the term “cultural turn” as a new way of looking at “culture” in the field of social theories. The term emerged in response to the linguistic turn or interpretation and the hermeneutic turn. Yoshimi Shun’ya, Karuchuraru tan, bunka no seijigaku e [Cultural Turn, Toward Politics] (Kyoto: Jinbun Shoten, 2003), 13.

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sense of humor and satire created by Ozawa Shoichi’s expert narration, and amateurish and yet intriguing music and sound by Takahashi Yuji and Suigyu Gakudan (Water Buffalo Band). As a result, it successfully transforms the viewer from one who “reads” the words into one who “watches” the images. On one hand, the film’s appeal is that it provides a meta-discourse, using newspapers and the mass media, on the connection between everyday life which exists “here” and the issues of nuclear power generation that exist “there,” that is, somewhere far away. On the other hand, while Tsuchimoto’s rather “introverted” act of clipping newspaper articles in his living room is linked to Japanese society and the media space of the early 1980s, it does not amount to anything other than an indirect warning about the dangers of nuclear power. Neither does it seem to fully represent reality or the politics behind it. It reminds us of the anonymity of accidents that we find in the newspaper every morning. Thus, it can be seen as merely presenting these accidents from a safe distance—the distance we experience when reading about these accidents in the newspapers. If the film is at all surprising, it is through the sheer number of newspaper clippings that Tsuchimoto has accumulated. These newspaper articles, albeit often very short and scattered, give us detailed reporting on numerous accidents associated with nuclear testing, nuclear power generation, and nuclear energy development. Take the sequence featuring articles on the Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant, for example. In April 1981, a periodic monitoring study by Tsuruga city officials detected abnormally high radiation levels in seaweed. This prompted an investigation of the Unit 1 reactor at the Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant. As a result, radioactive substance was found to be leaking from the drainage ditch at Unit 1. Further investigation revealed that the leak was caused by the design/construction flaws of the building for radioactive waste disposal, combined with an operational error. To make matters worse, the accident at the Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant was covered up, resulting in a big scandal. While displaying clippings from the evening edition of Asahi Shimbun, dated April 18, 1981, Ozawa’s narration points out the following: – Why did the radioactive substance leak into the ocean? Radiation exposure is suspected. – The official response of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. – Concealment of the evidence by Mainichi Shimbun. – The suicide of an employee at Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant. – Will lawsuits against the Ministry of International Trade and Industry and Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant ever materialize? – Six months later, the Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant resumed operations.

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This sequence regarding the Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant certainly showcases the film’s criticism of Mainichi Shimbun, i.e., the mass media. As described in the words of cinema/comic critic Ono Kosei, “one medium is being inevitably criticized by another medium of expression (film).”19 However, behind what is on the surface, the sequence is also seen as the process in which “a myth,” a secondary meaning, is being created. In other words, entirely disconnected from the intent of Tsuchimoto himself, “the myth/meaning” that this documentary film accidentally conveys to the audience is the reliability of the newspaper medium, an assumption that is underscored by the very act of clipping newspaper articles and composing a film about the history of nuclear power with these clippings. To put it differently, this documentary implicitly suggests that “newspapers report the truth.” More precisely, it is the myth of postwar Japan that, while we were deceived throughout the war by the mass media, in postwar democracy, “newspapers have come to report the truth.” However, it is common knowledge that what became the most influential force in creating the nuclear “safety myth” in postwar Japan was none other than the newspaper.

Conclusion: Dismantling the “Safety Myth” in the Post-3/11 Era In this chapter, an analysis of four films revealed a process of “myth” creation through postwar nuclear cinema leading up to the end of the Cold War and Japan’s Showa period in 1989. These films visualize and make audible such invisible and silent matters as “nuclear power,” “radiation,” “radiation exposure,” and the “safety” of nuclear power. As mentioned before, however, the process of visualization and audibilization is certainly not limited to these films. One might also include the many monster films churned out by film studios like Toho Co., Ltd. since the mid-1950s. In films like Frankenstein vs. Baragon: Frankenstein Conquers the World, the premise that the abnormally enlarged size of these monsters was due to a mutation caused by exposure to nuclear bombs became an agreed-upon trope. In this 1965 film, the link between “radiation exposure” and “gigantism” was emphasized. The story goes that the heart of Frankenstein’s monster is stolen from Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory in Germany by the Nazi German Defense Force, transported to Hiroshima on a U-Boat, and exposed to the A-bomb on 19 Ono Kosei, “Mini koramu Genpatsu kirinukicho” [A Mini-Column: Nuclear Scrapbook], Kinema Junpo (early February 1983), 159.

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August 6, 1945. Newly generated from a radiated heart at the hands of a Japanese scientist, Frankenstein grows into a sixty-f ive-foot giant and ends up in a meaningless battle with Baragon, an underground monster of equal size. These monster films visualize (by mega-morphosis) the invisible event (radiation exposure) caused by nuclear power and compartmentalize the visualized phenomenon by conf ining it to the narrative space of a fantasy-based genre called “monster film” (kaijyu eiga). As a result, these films have historically been presenting the ultimate “safety myth” by placing the audience in the position of observing the effects of nuclear power, that is, by placing us outside of the compartmentalized domain. By contrast, how has the “safety myth” been dismantled in “atomic cinema” produced after the Great East Japan Earthquake? X Years Later, the documentary film introduced at the beginning of this chapter, was a film produced by Nankai Broadcasting, a local TV station based in Ehime Prefecture, on Shikoku island. Before this film, the station had been producing and broadcasting a series of programs featuring different content on the same theme. Among those, a TV program of the same name, aired on January 29, 2012, won the NNN Document Best Film of the Year Award. As a result, at the request of the director Ito Hideaki, the program was not only re-broadcast late at night on local TV stations but also re-edited into a documentary film format so that more people could see it. A number of venues have organized an “independent screening” ( jishu joei) of this film, coupled with a post-screening discussion with the director.20 The inspiration for the documentary series by Nankai Broadcasting came about in 2004 when Ito was searching the Internet for work and came across research conducted by a group led by Yamashita Masatoshi, a former high school teacher, about “many other ships besides Lucky Dragon No. 5 that also suffered radiation exposure.” Ito talks about the process of creating the series as follows: “In 2004, we were able to inform the nationwide audience of the fact via affiliates of Nippon Television Network Corporation (NNN Document) and continued to air new programs on local TV stations ever since, every time a new fact came out; however, the programs never led to bringing the whole case to light.”21 With his cameraperson in tow, Ito made dozens of round trips between the western region of Ehime Prefecture to the 20 The screening venues were as follows: PolePole Nakano and Shibuya Uplink in Tokyo, Cinema Skhole in Nagoya, St. Paul’s Church of N.S.S.K. in Fukuoka, FAFFH in Hiroshima, and Minami Kaikan in Kyoto. 21 “Hoshano wo abita X nengo” [X Years After Radiation Exposure]. Film Pamphlet (Tokyo: Wookie Production, 2012).

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eastern region of Kochi Prefecture on Shikoku island, traveling thousands of miles, and continued to uncover many facts. The most critical above all were three documents: “a letter written by the Japanese government regarding the compensation for the victims of nuclear testing at Bikini Atoll”; “a confidential document of the United States Atomic Energy Commission (obtained by Nankai Broadcasting from the U.S. Department of Energy in 2009)”; and “a document showing how the compensation was distributed, found in the safe of a fishermen’s cooperative.” Furthermore, leading to the uncovering of the case were these documents, combined with the record of 556 ships in total that were active at sea from March to June of 1954, the names of the crew members on these ships, and radiation levels detected in fish caught by these ships, which later were obtained from the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare by a citizen’s group led by Yamashita Masatoshi. However, what is remarkable about this film is not these new pieces of evidence but rather the fact that it starts by collecting testimonies from crew members themselves and those who are close to them—their wives and other family members in the various regions. Taking the issue of the hydrogen bomb exposure that had been “compartmentalized” to the isolated area of Yaizu at that time, as seen in Lucky Dragon No. 5, and successfully expanding it to Kochi, to Ehime, and the whole of Japan was quite an achievement. Moreover, after its completion as “a finished work,” the film has departed from the traditional distribution/lifespan of documentary cinema and, using the “independent screening” format of distribution paired with a discussion with the director, has made itself a paratext for the movement and successfully expanded the conventions of the film medium. The cultural turn brought about by X Years Later was, I believe, rooted in its political sense of connecting the periphery with the center and its intent on fostering a critical point of view against the “safety myth.” In addition to its political message, X Years Later has given rise to a new form of expression in the history of the Japanese documentary. That form is “intelligibility.” This film ignores the unspoken agreement based on the trends and hierarchy in Japanese documentaries. While benefiting from several advantages of television documentary production—the possibility of producing a series of programs, contemporaneity, a direct connection with the viewer/audience, and the abundance of archival footage (recorded archives of television programs)—it brings the characteristics of how the television documentary expresses itself to the forefront: narration based on a pre-composed script; heavy use of music; transparency in the reporting process; and the abundant use of interviews. In short, by positioning a film fully loaded with the mannerisms of television within the domain of

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documentary cinema, it is raising a question about the tradition of documentary cinema and the value system that the history of the documentary espouses, which tends to look down upon television documentaries. The influence of the American documentary f ilmmaker Frederick Wiseman (b. 1930) is rather extensive among contemporary documentary filmmakers in Asia. That may be because Wiseman has continued to produce documentary films of high quality for more than fifty years since his debut work, Titicut Follies (1967), and because his films are also screened at many film festivals and film libraries even today. Wiseman has frequented film festivals himself and spent time with many filmmakers in Asia. In the People’s Republic of China, ever since West of the Tracks (Tiexi Qu, 2002), the filmmaker Wang Bing has been depicting people who live in great misery. By adopting the “observational style,” a unique characteristic of Wiseman’s filmmaking, he shows how they have been left out of the hyper growth of China’s economy. Also, in the world of Japanese documentary cinema, Soda Kazuhiro has been producing works of observational cinema in quick succession using the same method: Campaign (Senkyo, 2007); Mental (Seishin, 2008); Peace (2010); Theater 1 and Theater 2 (Engeki 1, 2012; Engeki 2, 2012); Campaign 2 (Senkyo 2, 2013); Oyster Factory (Kaki koba, 2015); The Big House (2018); Inland Sea (Minato machi, 2018); and Zero (Seishin 0, 2020). Soda, using his own work Mental as an example, defines “observational cinema” (kansatsu eiga) as follows: The reason I label my work “observational cinema” is that I have the desire to look hard (at the subject) without prejudice, with an open mind.…For instance, instead of having a preconceived idea about “mental patients” as “the socially vulnerable” and “someone victimized by society,” I want to look at them with new eyes. I want them to let me observe. Therefore, in my work, “invention is gold.” In other words, how many discoveries I make is the measure of the quality of my observation.22

Comparing X Years Later to observational cinema, which is the mainstream style of contemporary documentary cinema in Asia, one is struck by how eloquent a documentary the former is. X Years Later has a clear message from the director, which, rather than representing an ideology as a system of ideas, expresses director Ito Hideaki’s attitude toward the subject/subject matter. Ito’s purpose in filmmaking lies not in “making discoveries for himself,” as Soda Kazuhiro points out, but instead in communicating uncovered facts to a 22 Kawase Naomi and Soda Kazuhiro, “Kamera wo mawasu riyu” [Why We Shoot], Gendai Shiso, special edition, (October 2007), 23.

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wider audience. In short, it is an act of making films as an activist. In a way, it is inevitable that Japanese society in the post-3/11 era would desire such films focused on political messaging. I will continue my discussion of this “new” style of documentary film, the use of television documentary techniques, and the issue of “intelligibility” in documentary film in Chapters 2 and 3. The purpose of Ito’s work lies in facilitating an encounter between the subject/subject matter and the audience, or, to put it differently, in removing the “safety myth” that stood between the two in the past. Furthermore, his work deals with nuclear power, a subject that is universal on a global level, but at the same time the film turns its attention to regions and people in a limited scope. This glocal-ness—a characteristic that will be discussed again in the analysis of Kamanaka Hitomi’s work in Chapter 2—is also the power of Ito’s documentary films. At the beginning of this chapter, we introduced Yoshimi Shun’ya’s analysis of nuclear PR films. In the analysis, Yoshimi summarizes the changes in nuclear discourse since the 1980s: the subject of reference has become limited to a regional scope. What has been overlooked for a long time in the “safety myth” forged by postwar atomic cinema is an attempt to relativize regions, by taking a region/place to which everyone inevitably belongs, showing the reality of how individuals, groups, and various organizations within the region are structured and function, and contrasting it to its connection with the outside—in other words, facilitating dialogues between people inside and outside the region. Ito’s work collects the voices of nameless people and records what is happening locally. And, instead of putting the film in the traditional organization and distribution system, which operates on a capitalist logic, he delivers the film through dialogues facilitated by the time- and labor-intensive distribution method of independent screening ( jishu joei), which I believe results in the fostering of an attitude of questioning the status quo and the experience of recognizing “the myth” for what it is. I hope I am not the only one who senses such a new perspective within many post-3/11 documentary films.

Works Cited Barthes, Roland. Shinwasayo [Mythologies, Seuil, 1957]. Translated by Shinozawa Hideo. Tokyo: Gendaishichosha, 1991. Hasegawa, Kazuhiko. “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko wa yokyu no nai jidai ni ikiru orejishin no messeji da [The Man Who Stole the Sun Is My Message, as One Living in the Age of Indifference].” Kinema Junpo, late October, 1979.

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———. “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko intabyu Hasegawa Kazuhiko [The Man Who Stole the Sun: Conversation with Hasegawa Kazuhiko].” Kinema Junpo, early February, 2015. Ito, Hideaki. “Hoshano wo abita X nengo” [X Years After Radiation Exposure]. Film Pamphlet. Tokyo: Wookie Production, 2012. Kawase, Naomi, and Soda Kazuhiro, “Kamera wo mawasu riyu” [Why We Shoot]. Gendai Shiso (special edition). October, 2007. Kitera, Kiyomi. “Dokusha sono 1: Gekigachikku na kankaku to gendai no yojisei” [From a Subscriber: A Sense of Gekiga (Graphic Novels) and the Childishness of Contemporary Society]. Kinema Junpo, late May, 1980. Matsuda, Masao. “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko” [The Man Who Stole the Sun]. Kinema Junpo, late November, 1979. Oguro, Toyoshi. “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko wa besutotenjoi ninaru yona sakuhin ka?” [Is The Man Who Stole the Sun Worthy of High Praise?]. Kinema Junpo, late April, 1980. Ono, Kosei. “Mini koramu Genpatsu kirinukicho” [A Mini-Column: Nuclear Scrapbook]. Kinema Junpo, early February, 1983. Sato, Tadao. “Tokubetsukiko saigai wo kirokusuru eiga to terebi” [Special Contribution: Film and Television That Record Disasters]. In 3/11 wo toru [Shooting 3/11], edited by Mori Tatsuya et al., 157–176. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. Shindo, Kaneto. “Yagisan no shido de” [Under Mr. Yagi’s Guidance]. Kinema Junpo, late August, 1958. ———. “Daigo Fukuryumaru no shinario hanteingu” [Location Scouting for Lucky Dragon No. 5]. Kinema Junpo, early September, 1958. The NPO Science Film Museum. “Fukushima no genshiryoku” [Nuclear Power in Fukushima]. http://www.kagakueizo.org/movie/industrial/365/ (Accessed June 6, 2020). Yomota, Inuhiko. Nihon eiga to sengo no shinwa [Japanese Cinema and the Myths of the Postwar Period]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007. Yoshimi, Shun’ya. “Hibaku no akumu kara no tenkan: Genshiryoku koho gensetsu no sengoshi” [The Shift from the Fear of Radiation Exposure: A Postwar History of the Discourses on Nuclear Power Public Information Statements]. In Sengo fukko kara kodoseicho e: Minshukyoiku, Tokyo Orinpikku, genshiryoku hatsuden [From the Rehabilitation of Postwar Japan to the Period of High Economic Growth: Democratic Education, the 1964 Tokyo Olympic Games, Nuclear Power Generation], edited by Niwa Yoshiyuki and Yoshimi Shun’ya, 253–280. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2014. ———. Karuchuraru tan, bunka no seijigaku e [Cultural Turn Toward Politics]. Kyoto: Jinbun shoten, 2003. ———. Yume no genshiryoku [Atoms for Dreams]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 2012.

2.

Straddling 3/11: The Political Power of Ashes to Honey Abstract: Chapter 2 analyzes the works of Kamanaka Hitomi, a filmmaker considered to be a flag-bearer of the anti-nuclear movement. What is common among Kamanaka’s works, including Rokkasho Rhapsody (2006); Ashes to Honey (2010); and the latest film, Little Voices from Fukushima (2015), is her approach of giving voices to those who are invisible in the Japanese mass media, and, aided by those voices, trying to get to the bottom of what is “the truth.” Some condemn her work, calling it “too straightforward” or even “propaganda.” Perhaps because the films are highly critical of nuclear power plants, their reception at film festivals tends to be unfavorable. This chapter challenges the tendency in film criticism and the film industry of “not rocking the boat.” Keywords: anti-nuclear documentary; independent screening; media activism; glocal subjects; intelligibility

Since March 11, 2011, a great many moving images—from professional images such as TV programs to amateur videos shot with smartphones and uploaded to the Internet—of the multiple disasters of the Great East Japan Earthquake and tsunami and the meltdown of the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant have emerged in Japan. These include documentary films by professional filmmakers, narrative films representing the victims’ predicament and despair, endless television reports on the day-by-day damage control measures, and a multitude of videos shot with smartphones and uploaded to social media and YouTube. The moving image was the first medium capable of engaging with post-3/11 Japan. In the aftermath, the Internet and television were awash with stunning live images and sounds, produced with consumer-level digital media tools (DV cameras, cellphones, smartphones, PC editing applications, and YouTube). This was a defining feature of the post-3/11 mediascape, as compared with other catastrophes

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch02

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in earlier decades—e.g., the 1995 Great Hanshin Earthquake or the 1986 Chernobyl nuclear disaster—that predated the popularization of affordable and portable personal digital media technologies. How did portable personal digital media help shape the post-3/11 image? I will address this question by analyzing Ashes to Honey (Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten, 2010, Kamanaka Hitomi) in terms of both its documentary form and its distribution. The quality and attributes of documentary films have changed over the last ten years. Digital media have allowed filmmakers to move quickly to capture disasters and expanded the possibilities for documentary filmmaking in the post-3/11 era. After an early wave of disaster documentaries in the post-2011 period characterized by sensational images and an emphasis on “raw footage,” a number of more internalized and self-reflexive works have appeared. Anonymous images of generalized catastrophe have been replaced by a new emphasis on the difficulties faced by specific persons in specific places. We can observe this transformation not only in the thematic and formal attributes of documentaries but also in the manner of their production and dissemination. Omiya Koichi—who previously worked as an assistant director on Hara Kazuo’s acclaimed documentary The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On (Yuki yukite, shingun, 1987)—directed what was arguably the first post3/11 documentary, The Sketch of Mujo (Mujo sobyo, 2011). A few weeks after March 11, Omiya jumped into his car with a doctor friend and visited Kesennuma City in Miyagi Prefecture, one of the areas most damaged by the tsunami. Although he spent only a week shooting in the area, the scenery of the disaster’s cruel traces simply overwhelmed audiences.1 While Omiya’s film was mainly based on simple dolly shots from his car’s side window, the view he captured became the classic look of a vast and empty landscape dominated by rubble after the earthquake and tsunami, and it has influenced other documentaries that came after this film. While the film caused a sensation when it was released in theaters on June 18, 2011—barely three months after the disaster—it has since been largely ignored by critics, as if perhaps it was considered merely a collection of raw material that gradually lost its impact as the disasters were brought under control. The speed with which Omiya made and distributed his film would have been impossible without a compact DV camera, which only requires one camera operator and a driver and a PC application that allows for swift editorial work. Another early film, 311 (2011)—directed by Mori Tatsuya, Watai Takeharu, Matsubayashi Yoju, and Yasuoka Takuji—caused a huge controversy among 1

Omiya filmed in Kesennuma City from April 28 to May 4, 2011.

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critics and audiences after its screening at the 2011 Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival. Having no stated agenda or strategy aside from “checking out the disaster with their own eyes,”2 the four filmmakers visited the Fukushima nuclear power plant and Okawa Elementary School in Ishinomaki City in Miyagi Prefecture on March 26, 2011, where eightyfour schoolchildren and their teachers were washed away by the tsunami. The filmmakers shot the families of these lost children and eventually became embroiled in a confrontation with some of the surviving parents. The four filmmakers then turned the camera on themselves as they faced the ultimate impasse as filmmakers, revealing the difficulty of capturing such an unprecedented disaster and people’s deep sorrow. These scenes displayed the moment of the filmmakers’ self-reflexivity. Although they later tried to justify their actions and explicate their position in their book, Shooting the Film 311 (2012), Mori admits that he and the other three filmmakers failed to adequately rationalize the boundaries between the filmmaker as the Other and the suffering victims.3 On the level of aesthetics, the film’s “dark tourism” presentation often has the look of digital images captured in low light, while background noise is typically layered with anxious or excited conversation over ominous clicks of the Geiger counter. However, if the general definition of “dark tourism” is to experience and learn from the memories of tragedies such as disasters and wars, it should be noted that it is difficult to believe that the filmmakers of 311 associated their film with such significance as a means of learning. The 3/11 disaster produced many divisions that penetrated all aspects of Japanese society: victims and non-victims; people in Fukushima and people in Tokyo, for whom Fukushima nuclear power plants have historically provided electricity; “unsafe” East Japan and “safe” West Japan; victims who lost their family and victims who did not; people who were granted evacuation aid and those deemed ineligible; and so on. Alongside these divisions, documentaries displayed different facets of post-3/11 society. Funahashi Atsushi’s series of films, Nuclear Nation I (Futaba kara toku hanarete, 2012) and Nuclear Nation II (Futaba kara toku hanarete dainibu, 2014), for instance, set the boundary between the films’ subjects: people from Futaba Town and residents of the rest of the disaster areas. Futaba is one of the villages closest to the Fukushima nuclear power plant and is still designated as a Difficult-to-Return Zone (kikan kon’nan kuiki) by the current government. 2 Matsubayashi Yoju, “Yoju_Matsubayashi 3.11,” https://matsubayashi.asia/?works=311&lang=en (Accessed March 27, 2023). 3 Mori Tatsuya et al., 311 wo toru [Shooting 311] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012).

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Figure 2.1: Japanese DVD cover image of Nuclear Nation

Figure 2.2: DVD cover image of Nuclear Nation for overseas distribution

The films further bring attention to issues of evacuation from the disaster zone, examining how refugees from Futaba have been living in temporary housing. Nuclear Nation I became the first representative work on the disaster in Fukushima to achieve a global reach, as it was the first Japanese film on the disaster screened outside of Japan with English subtitles.4 The rather loose translation of the title should be highlighted. A literal English translation of the original would be Having Gone Far Away from Futaba, but the title for the international release became Nuclear Nation (see Figure 2.1 and Figure 2.2). The latter title cleverly displaces the boundary between victims from Futaba Town and the rest of the Japanese people to one between Japan and the rest of the world. Another point to note is that the cover image of the Region 1 DVD—two men wearing iconic protective clothing, working in the rubble after the disaster, encircled within a rising-sun flag—differs from the cover of the Japanese release, which captures a group of evacuees in front of the abandoned school where they live. The image of a paratext, in this case the DVD cover image, added a new meaning to the documentary, and it is this image that has been widely disseminated to global markets. 4 Nuclear Nation I was screened at the Berlin International Film Festival in February 2012 as its world premiere and at the Hong Kong International Film Festival from March to May 2012. Later, in October 2014, it was disseminated as a Region 1 DVD.

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This chapter examines the remarkable female filmmaker Kamanaka Hitomi’s anti-nuclear documentary, Ashes to Honey. Although Ashes to Honey was produced prior to 3/11, the disaster altered the film’s implications. Simply put, Kamanaka’s anti-nuclear films did not attract much attention from Japanese audiences in the pre-3/11 period, and we can easily speculate as to the reasons why. First, the issue of nuclear power and its risks was largely unfamiliar to general Japanese audiences until the 3/11 accident; and second, film critics in Japan have reacted rather indifferently and coldly to Kamanaka’s documentaries with their accessible style, characterized by her wordy narration and emotional music. In a way, the 3/11 incident justified her work, with people in Japan finally embracing her films with enthusiasm in post-3/11 Japan. In the summer of 2013, I invited Kamanaka to speak at Kyoto University, where I was teaching a summer intensive course. The next year I invited her to Ottawa, Canada for a series of screenings and discussions of her film at Carleton University. My interest was originally in the current “media activist” movements in Japanese cinema since the 2011 Fukushima disaster. I unexpectedly experienced the political nature of her work prior to our second meeting in Ottawa, when I found out that her Japan Foundation travel funding had been cancelled a week before her arrival, i.e., the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan had intervened in the grant process. The reason was that the Japanese government considered her work to be too political and not appropriate to be financially supported by the Toronto office of the Japan Foundation, which had been established by an Act of the National Diet and was now one of the independent administrative agencies under the jurisdiction of Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.5 My impression of Kamanaka Hitomi had simply been that she was an activist working against nuclear power while believing in renewable energy and sustainable communities. However, my perception of Kamanaka changed during our time together in Kyoto and Ottawa. Our discussions made me realize that she is not simply against nuclear power but also against the stagnant hierarchies and value systems operating in both the Japanese documentary tradition and Japanese political life itself as they have become entrenched under the LDP government during and after the Cold War period. As I mentioned earlier, Kamanaka’s documentary films straddled the 3/11 disaster, and like several other films made after 3/11, they have brought a 5 This notice of cancellation was relayed in a face-to-face conversation with the director of the Japan Foundation office in Toronto, who was careful not to leave any evidence (no letter, telephone, or email) and who came to my office to personally deliver the office’s decision.

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major cultural turn in the history of Japanese documentary cinema. These films function as “accented” cinema, not as exilic or diasporic films, as Hamid Naficy explicates, but as films revealing the “invisible” people whose voices have not been heard in the mass media.6 By focusing on Ashes to Honey, this chapter will elucidate her film’s “newness” in terms of three attributes: (1) the style of dissemination: independent community film screening ( jishu joei) and digital mediation on multiple platforms; (2) its glocal aspect: an attempt to link local subjects to an age of global ecology; and (3) its focus on “intelligibility” (wakariyasusa), a trait that is often associated with television documentaries. Although Kamanaka’s films were warmly accepted after 3/11, they are still not sufficiently discussed among film critics even now. I shall discuss the reasons why by contextualizing her films in post-3/11 Japanese politics.

Fusion of Distribution Styles: “Old” Independent Community Film Screenings ( jishu joei) and Multiple “New” Digital Platforms Ashes to Honey depicts the islanders of Yamaguchi Prefecture’s Iwaishima in the Seto Inland Sea. More than three-fourths of the island’s 348 residents are over the age of 65. Many make their living from fishing and organic agriculture.7 Since 1982, the villagers have been protesting against the planned construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant by the Chugoku Electric Power Company (Chuden). The film records the islanders’ opposition to the plant while outlining a vision of a sustainable society without nuclear power. The film also introduces European villages, such as Övertorneå in Sweden, where the people have already found alternative energy solutions and strategies for building sustainable communities. Ashes to Honey is the third film of Kamanaka’s “anti-nuclear trilogy,” following Hibakusha: At the End of the World (Hibakusha: Sekai no owarini, 2003) and Rokkasho Rhapsody (Rokkasho-mura rapusodi, 2006). Screenings of Ashes to Honey began in September 2010, but the film’s audience has expanded through countless independent screenings known as jishu joei. While most films are distributed as roadshow attractions in major theaters or in much smaller art theaters, the mode of jishu joei gives audiences the 6 Hamid Naficy, Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking (Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001). 7 “Iwaishima no goannai” [Information on Iwaishima], https://www.iwaishima.jp/ (Accessed July 28, 2020).

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autonomy to make their decision about where, when, and how they view a film and offers an opportunity to discuss the film after the screening among themselves, often with the filmmaker present. The jishu joei distribution style is not Kamanaka’s invention. In the 1970s and early 1980s, for instance, a number of local mothers’ groups often screened films for children in this manner. This earlier jishu joei movement peaked with the production of “Nikkatsu films for children” (Nikkatsu jido eiga) in the 1970s, although the distribution style eventually ebbed away with the rise of the video culture in the 1980s. Kamanaka and other contemporary independent documentary filmmakers have, in a sense, revived this distribution style because it is often the only way for them to access wider audiences, whether within or outside movie theaters, and to convey their political intentions face-toface. I, however, think there is no direct link between these contemporary filmmakers and the earlier 1970s filmmakers, since the latter usually did not involve themselves in the screenings as Kamanaka does. Kamanaka typically visits screening locations and has discussions with audiences. Her efforts have made people reconsider the significance of independent screening since the 2010s. Kamanaka writes: A director’s involvement with a film usually ends when the production process is finished, and then we move on. The film producer is the one who usually takes care of film distribution and other postproduction matters, such as promotion and correspondence with the audiences. I, however, have spent my energy attending screenings. As for the film Ashes to Honey, I have already participated in over 320 local screenings so far, and my office receives over twenty requests per week for me to attend such screenings even now (in September 2011).8

Through the experience of hosting jishu joei screenings with Kamanaka, I witnessed myself how the process works to grab the audiences’ attention and appeal to their empathy, especially via the post-screening discussion. Although there is a limit to the number of people with whom she is able to meet in this way, the strength of jishu joei distribution is that the filmmaker can disseminate the “political mimesis”9 of her beliefs to audiences 8 Kamanaka Hitomi, “Nihon no enerugi genshiryoku seisaku no mujun wo eguru!: Jishu joei susumu, Mitsubachi no haoto” [Extracting the Inconsistencies in Japan’s Nuclear Energy Policy!: Independent Screenings Progress, Ashes to Honey], Tsukuru 41:8 (2011), 48–54. 9 Jane M. Gaines, “Political Mimesis.” In Collecting Visible Evidence, eds. Jane M. Gaines and Michael Renov (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), 84–102.

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without any censorship by the mass media. The term “political mimesis” was highlighted by film scholar Jane M. Gaines, who sought to explain how radical filmmakers have historically developed a relationship with the screen and the audience to transform their audiences’ consciousness and make them more sympathetic to the active bodies on the screen. As mentioned earlier, the jishu joei style itself existed before 3/11, but why did this distribution method make a comeback among documentary filmmakers after 3/11? The history of jishu joei in Japanese film history indeed goes back as far as the 1920s. The original impetus for the jishu joei mode was a political one—an effort to avoid government censorship. However, jishu joei eventually died out in response to technological advancements and the increasingly apolitical tendencies in Japanese society. The Proletarian Film League of Japan (Prokino), a left-wing film organization, started producing small-gauge 16mm and 9.5mm films and created their own distribution networks that did not rely on movie theaters that were dominated by private business interests. Prokino disbanded in 1934 due to the rise of nationwide militarism, but the style of distribution was inherited by postwar independent filmmakers working for labor unions and leftwing social organizations, such as the Japan-Eurasia Society (formerly the Japan-Soviet Society, 1957–present) and the Japan-China Friendship Association (1950–present). When the legendary Russian film Battleship Potemkin (1925) was first distributed in Japan in 1957, the National Council of the Association for Promoting  Jishu Joei (Jishu Joei Sokushinkai Zenkoku Kyogikai) deployed this style of distribution and enjoyed great success.10 But alongside the rise of the Art Theatre Guild (ATG, 1961–1992), a minitheater boom took place and jishu joei distribution was gradually pushed to the periphery, where it persisted in much smaller communities in the 1970s and arguably died out with the rise of new video technologies in the 1980s.11 Although “Nikkatsu films for children” created a peak of the jishu joei movement among mothers, as I mentioned earlier, such films were hardly political, and the new technology of VHS was easily able to overtake the jishu joei distribution style. The revival of the independent screening distribution style must be related to the resurgence of political consciousness in contemporary Japanese 10 Yamada Kazuo, “Kankyaku wa eiga wo kanri dekiru: Jishu joei undo no imi suru mono” [The Audience Can Manage the Movies: The Meaning of the Independent Screening Movement], Eiga Hyoron 17:9 (1960), 36–39. 11 Yamada Kazuo, “Jishu joei no undo sonogo” [The Independent Screening Movement and Its Aftermath], Eiga Hyoron 19:6 (1962), 64–67.

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society. Pertinent factors include the end of the Cold War (and the resulting questioning of the American military presence in Japan), the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, and—more so—the 3/11 tsunami and nuclear disaster, which decisively deepened people’s suspicion of nuclear safety myths. These myths have been promoted by the postwar Japanese government along with Japan’s “nuclear village,” a huge social community comprising Japan’s electric power corporations, other industries benefiting from the relationship with nuclear power plants, postwar Japanese governments, academics who support the interests of the government, and the electric power industry. The mass media, which support and are often supported by the government via advertisements, tend to avoid espousing or promoting any programming or reporting that might appear to go against the pronuclear national cultural policy.12 Therefore, filmmakers such as Kamanaka, who have been asserting the danger of nuclear power since the early 2000s, have had no chance to show their work in any mass medium and have thus resorted to independent screenings. Kamanaka, along with other contemporary documentary filmmakers such as Ito Hideaki (After X Years I, 2013; and After X Years II, 2016) and Kawai Hiroyuki (Nuclear Japan, 2014; Nuclear Japan After 4 Years, 2015; and Renewable Japan, 2017), have revived this distribution style for their films, which would otherwise not be exhibited in mainstream theaters due to their anti-nuclear statements and people’s lack of interest in documentary film in general in Japan. The jishu joei model is imperative for Kamanaka’s works since they are often excluded from the mass media. Kamanaka describes the reactions of both audiences and the mass media as follows: People who saw Ashes to Honey had gathered from all over the nation to support the islanders of Iwaishima. Young people, who looked at the way Chugoku Electric Power Company was treating the islanders, frantically asked the mass media to report it in their nation-wide media coverage, but those media completely ignored the state of “war” on the small island. Then, out of desperation, those young activists collected money and obtained the equipment for Internet simultaneous streaming.…Those who saw the Internet stream began to act, for instance by making phone calls to protest against the Chugoku Electric Power Company and faxing the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry. The Internet streaming audience grew to 3,000 viewers and then as high as 10,000. The social 12 Honma Ryu, Genpatsu puropaganda [Nuclear Power Plant Propaganda] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2016).

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media, which young people launched from the beach on the small island, brought about change in many audiences.13

She also clearly describes the dichotomies between mass media vs. social media and screening in theaters vs. jishu joei in her 2005 book: A television just drips information and mirrors stereotypical images of human beings, and the viewers are forced to stop thinking. What documentary films provide are more than simply images you consume, they encourage people to start thinking.…Documentary films let people realize other aspects of social events that are not transmitted through the mass media; i.e., the documentary is a civic medium.14

In her view, documentary films promote interaction between filmmakers and audiences, especially through jishu joei followed by discussions. Kamanaka calls this interaction an “exercise of democracy” (minshushugi no ekusasaizu).15 However, the exercise of democracy inheres not only in documentaries. It has been almost twenty years since Kamanaka stated this idea, and since then, the widespread use of social media platforms and the Internet have enabled people to dispatch alternative information from the bottom up. In other words, the exercise of democracy has expanded and become more diversified. Although there are many unresolved problems with these social media, such as the tendency to limit communication to speakers of the same language, the frequent invasion of privacy, and the potential for fake news, slander, and discrimination, it can be said that democracy is being exercised by more—and more diverse—segments of the population. In Japan and elsewhere, people have come to distrust mass media, especially television. Alternative online social media platforms have helped to accelerate this loss of trust. Uchida Tatsuru, a scholar of French literature and a martial artist, has been very open about his distrust of NHK television (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) and its reporting on the current Covid-19 pandemic: It is, after all, a good thing that the fact that LDP’s governance has deteriorated during the last seven years of the Abe administration has now 13 Kamanaka Hitomi, Genpatsu no sono saki e mitsubachi kakumei ga hajimaru [Beyond Nuclear Power Plants: The Honey Bee Revolution Begins] (Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012), 143–145. 14 Kamanaka Hitomi, Kimu Son’un, and Kana Tomoko, Dokyumentari no chikara [The Power of Documentaries] (Tokyo: Kodomo no Mirai Sha, 2005), back page of the book cover. 15 Ibid., 60.

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become visible in Japan. However, I am certain that mass media in this nation, including NHK, will still hide many facts and realities, and even make the ridiculous announcement that “Japan has now successfully overcome the pandemic.”16

It is not our purpose to evaluate Uchida’s statement against NHK’s programming record. Instead, I would like to highlight that it is not so simple to determine that one medium can enable the exercise of democracy more than another. More than ever, I think we as contemporary consumers of those media need greater media literacy. In this post-mass media—especially post-television—era, how do Kamanaka’s documentaries retain their appeal? Ashes to Honey and her other films are outstanding for the ways they can help us think about the role of documentary film as “media activism” and an “exercise in democracy.” Kamanaka utilizes jishu joei at the interstices of established cinematic distribution, using liminal spaces in order to distribute her political message with minimal—if any—censorship from either the government or private corporations. “Media activism” is often defined as a movement that involves conveying marginalized perspectives to audiences through alternative media.17 If the significance of media activism is to ensure access to a diversity of information, the meaning and value of activist movements depends fundamentally on the development of media technology. With the spread of the Internet and the popularization of platforms like YouTube, people’s access to information has increased dramatically. For Kamanaka, this technological development of the Internet is the expansion period of the exercise of democracy. However, I also find myself wondering how to extract the most useful information from this enormous volume of data without being influenced by its consumerist dimension. In this current situation, how can we redefine media activism, and how does the film Ashes to Honey specifically engender such activism? As one can see from the example of Paper Tiger Television (1981–), the New York City-based non-profit, public access television programming and open media collective, media activists have historically expressed their ideas and images through small screens, such as public access television, and not 16 Uchida Tatsuru, “Ushinatta mono wo kazoeru yorimo, nokotteiru mono wo kazoeru koto” [Counting What Is Left Rather Than What Has Been Lost]. In Korona ga kaeta sekai [The World Changed by Covid-19] (Tokyo: P-VINE, 2020), 11. 17 For example, Paper Tiger Television, started in New York (1981–), has been using public-access channels and continuously commenting on the news reported by newspapers and television. The TV channel became suddenly well known during the Gulf War in 1991, when it advocated an anti-war position while most U.S. mass media supported the war.

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through larger screens like cinema. By contrast, Kamanaka utilizes every possible medium through which she can communicate with audiences, including print materials (books and newspaper articles), video letters on DVD, an Internet homepage and official blog, online social networking services, and her own Twitter account. Bunbun Correspondences (online in 2009, DVD in 2010), for instance, are video letters from Kamanaka to Ashes to Honey’s potential audiences, which she distributed even before the completion of the film. Kamanaka circulated the video letters, configured with clips from over 350 hours of video footage, in order to offer potential audiences a preview of the film. Through such diversified paratexts, Kamanaka expresses her opinions and concerns about nuclear power and shows various aspects of anti-nuclear movements. Her interviews with specialists in different f ields—e.g., a nuclear power scientist, a medical doctor who has been studying exposure to nuclear energy for years, and a scholar of sustainable energy policies—also make her media communication more informative and in-depth. Kamanaka’s documentary films are not simply embedded in those paratexts. In other words, there is a certain hierarchy in her outputs. She always puts her films at the center of her strategic communications. Yet it is likely that she could only have raised and sustained an activist movement against nuclear power with the help of crucial support from multiple, supplemental forms of digital media. Kamanaka’s ongoing outputs on various platforms have consistently reinforced her media activism and sustained her connection with her audience. Some of those viewers may begin as passive consumers, but they have the potential to take part in the activist movement. In other words, her strategy of multi-mediation has made her message an inclusive one that resonates not only with film audiences at larger theaters but also with consumers using small screens and social networks.18 Her communication with audiences is continuous, involving not just a one-time film viewing but rather multiple engagements via new images and information on different platforms.

Engendering Glocal Subjects Kamanaka’s documentary Ashes to Honey functions as “accented cinema” in terms of the subject, and one can find this characteristic clearly when 18 As with the Internet and social networking sites, this approach by Kamanaka tends, of course, to divide different groups, but if there is anything that mitigates this, it is her own participation in independent screenings that cannot exclude those who are different.

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comparing her film with previous Japanese documentaries on nuclear power, such as those discussed in Chapter 1. Kamanaka’s documentary is not accented cinema in the sense of being a film made by a filmmaker who has experienced migration or exile, but rather as a film marking Otherness. The similarities between Kamanaka’s work and Hamid Naficy’s concept of “accented cinema” lie in the elucidation of the workings of political power and the visualization of affect. Hamid Naficy indicates that films categorized as “accented cinema” share three key stylistic commonalities. First, there is no ultimate solution or salvation in the films’ narrative worlds. Absurdity continues endlessly. Accented cinema does not present a predetermined harmonistic ending as in classical Hollywood cinema. Second, the multilingual filmic spaces of accented cinema tend to foreground nostalgia for an imagined past. Memory becomes a crucial device for narrative development. Third, and above all, the concept of identity—including both feelings of belonging and estrangement—takes on a significant role. How are these stylistic aspects expressed in Kamanaka’s film depicting the islanders living on the small island of Iwaishima as the subject? The elderly people in Ashes to Honey do not cross any national boundaries or address their opinions in different languages. But like the diasporic filmmakers in accented cinema, the old men and women have faced the absurdity created by the nuclear power plant project and have tried to protect their identities as f ishermen, farmers, and family members in their life surrounded by lush nature. Ashes to Honey does not show people trapped in the past full of a sense of nostalgia. Instead, the film reveals the historical depth of over forty years of their opposition movement against the construction of the nuclear power plant. Their movement is in the present. Their identities are not only constructed by national boundaries, yet they are shaped by isolation within the country of Japan. In this sense, the relationship of the inhabitants of Iwaishima with the nation is like the one between Okinawa and mainland Japan as two parts who have never understood each other over the issue of the U.S. Army bases located on the islands. This film intentionally reveals the elderly men and women’s hope to keep their identity as Iwaishima islanders, which is nothing but Otherness in contemporary Japanese society. Even if this Otherness cannot be accepted locally, it can be granted a new value and an affirmative identity in other areas or in comparison with other localities. The Iwaishima residents are one such example. The term “glocal” was invented as an international corporate strategy in the 1980s along with the set phrase “Think Globally, Act Locally.” Since then, the

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term has increasingly been used in various fields, such as environmental studies, community development, diplomatic issues, and even in the field of countermeasures to the Covid pandemic situation. Ashes to Honey contrasts people’s difficulties in Iwaishima with the experiences of villagers living in Övertorneå in Sweden and asserts the possibility of a sustainable way of living in Japan. Kamanaka’s documentaries often suggest choices for local people and frame their problems in terms of glocal concerns. While Ashes to Honey clearly focuses on the farmers and fishermen of Iwaishima, the film links them to people in different regions. The film presents a global issue—the quest for a sustainable life without nuclear power—by connecting it to concerns in other local communities. The sense of linkage that the film creates is different from previous documentary films about nuclear power in Japan. Nuclear Power in Fukushima, for instance, is targeted at domestic Japanese audiences, particularly in Tokyo, whom the film producers needed to convince of the proposed plant’s safety. The film’s underlying message is one of nationalistic pride in high technology and future prosperity. The film is circulated exclusively within the nation and more specifically in the economic sphere of the huge electricity company TEPCO. In addition, Tsuchimoto Noriaki’s documentary Nuclear Scrapbook presents nuclear power by treating the problems of nuclear energy as if they were happening somewhere away from the audience, in a place called “society.” Tsuchimoto’s film does not go beyond the newspaper’s limitation of simply reporting the happenings “out there,” with the readers always safe at home. For sure, there is no guarantee that the sense of linkage that Kamanaka created in Ashes to Honey can solve problems in people’s real lives. This is because there are countless differences in the opposite ends of the linkage in people’s living environments, such as economical inequalities, differences in judicial systems, and variations in people’s lifestyles and customs. I believe, however, that the sense of linkage in the film may enable audiences to envision the possibility of solving their problems.

A Style for Everyone: Intelligibility in Documentary Cinema Along with its message, Ashes to Honey also establishes a new Japanese documentary aesthetic that can be called “intelligibility.” This intelligibility is a result of Kamanaka’s effort to consciously transcend the boundary between filmic modes historically employed by Japanese documentary filmmakers such as Tsuchimoto Noriaki and Ogawa Shinsuke—immersive

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and rather art film-like in their style and approach—and the techniques typically seen in television documentaries. Since the 1990s, Kamanaka has directed both films and television programs, and has established her status as a filmmaker. Her documentary film The Earthquake Disaster Attacks the Cities (Shinsai wa toshi wo osou: Hanshin daishinsai kyukyu iryo no kiroku, 1995) received the Director of Science and Technology Agency Prize in 1995; and she was granted the Galaxy Award in Japan for her television documentary, Ende’s Testament: A Fundamental Interrogation of Money (Ende no yuigon: Kongen kara okane wo tou) in 1999. The Galaxy Award, founded in 1963 by the NPO Association of Broadcast Critics, is specifically designed to celebrate excellent television programs. However, as indicated by Chiura Ryo—who was working as a projectionist for the screenings of Ashes to Honey at Eurospace in Shibuya when the 3/11 disaster occurred in 2011—Kamanaka’s films have long been deprecated by critics in Japan.19 This is a significant point for us in considering Kamanaka’s films and how they are recognized in the post-3/11 Japanese cultural sphere. I would argue that her films’ negative reception by critics has to do with Japanese documentary films’ historically antagonistic relationship with the television documentary tradition. Chiura writes about the difference between such documentarians as Tsuchimoto and Ogawa, and Kamanaka as follows: Although the auteurs in Japanese documentary film, Ogawa and Tsuchimoto, dealt with actual social matters, such as the Sanrizuka conflict (for instance in Narita: The Sky of May, 1977) and Minamata disease, the original values of those films, i.e., the filmic contents’ political messages, have been replaced by aesthetics in later critical discourses. Within this cinematic historical specificity, Kamanaka’s films have been located in the periphery and treated rather coldly, due to her films’ plainness (heiisa) in their ways of narrating and depicting the subjects, and their “unfamiliar” topics, such as the issue of nuclear power and nuclear power plants. Of course, I am talking about the situation in pre-3/11 Japanese society, but it is also the case even now.20

It is not my goal here to reveal the exact reasons for this shift in critical discourse from political message to aesthetics that occurred in Japanese documentary 19 Chiura Ryo, “Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten [Ashes to Honey].” In 21 seiki wo ikinobiru tameno dokyumentari eiga katarogu [Documentary Film Catalogue in Order to Survive the 21st Century] (Tokyo: Kinemajunposha, 2016), 187–191. 20 Ibid., 190.

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history, but I speculate that it was necessary for later critics to highlight aesthetics to create an enduring tradition of auteurs in the field, since such political messages are often viewed differently and lose their value for later generations. In the process of highlighting documentary films’ aesthetics, the contrast with television documentaries has intensified, as one can even now find in a discussion between Tahara Soichiro, former television documentary director and later political journalist, and director Mori Tatsuya, mentioned above as one of the directors of 311. Mori criticizes the mass media for their foregrounding of “objectivity” and “justice.” Mori asserts that the reality that audiences see in those messages is always one modified by the camera’s presence. In Mori’s opinion, there is no absolute fact; instead there are only “facts” that can be interpreted differently by different people. He also problematizes the tendency of the mass media to present information to audiences in an overly simplistic manner so that they can easily digest it. This simplifying process of mass media, according to Mori, is trivializing the world.21 That Kamanaka’s films occupy a peripheral position no doubt derives especially from their affinity with television documentaries. Her films always assert that nuclear power is unacceptable and that people should find an alternative way of living, messages that seemingly preclude multiple interpretations. It is, however, too hasty to say that they are completely equivalent just because her work is easy to understand like television. Rather, I believe that the ambiguous position of Kamanaka’s works presents a great opportunity for us to reconsider the tradition and history of documentary cinema, which regards documentary films as central and documentary television programs as subordinate. Let us compare her intelligible style with other contemporary documentary traditions in Japan. In the documentary field in Japan, the influence of the Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival (YIDFF) has been enormous. Although the festival began relatively recently in 1989 and has taken place only biennially since then, the judging criteria and reputations created there have propagated widely through mass media as well as art movie theaters such as Theater Pole-Pole Higashi Nakano (1994–present), the mecca of Japanese documentary films. Within this trend of the strong connection between film festivals and art theaters, documentary filmmaker Soda Kazuhiro has deployed the direct-cinema method, which he calls “observational film” (kansatsu eiga), in his numerous works, as I mentioned in Chapter 1. 21 “Mori Tatsuya, shiren no renzoku toku batoru! FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro media wa nani wo daibensurunoka” [Mori Tatsuya, A Series of Trials, Talk Battle!: FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro: What Does the Media Represent?], Kinema Junpo (early June, 2016), 48–51.

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In his recent film Mental 0 (Seishin 0, 2020), for instance, Soda avoids using any narration and music; the film simply “observes” the retired life of one psychiatrist in Okayama Prefecture. There is neither a clear statement on the film’s subject nor a political agenda offered in the film, but audiences see distortions or contradictions in the reality presented through the camera. By comparing these observational-style documentaries with Kamanaka’s Ashes to Honey, we can see that Kamanaka’s films—with their narration, music, and supplemental diagrams—are much more “communicative” than Soda’s or Chinese filmmaker Wang Bing’s films. They foreground her specific and clear message—no nukes—emanating from Kamanaka’s social concern, and set aside her artistic interests, which the observational documentarist Soda emphasizes as the goal of his films. Kamanaka is aware that a filmmaker can be subjectified by the camera, a moment that leads to “a discovery of self.”22 Her works, however, tend to dislocate self-consciousness from the primary position. Instead, they use her ethic of turning her films into a medium to convey a message she wants to tell. This is, in a sense, very different from both the television documentary tradition, which often tries to sustain an appearance of neutrality, and Soda, who professes to bring no specific politics to his filmmaking process. With glocal subjects and the intelligibility of her filmic style, along with the multiple mediation of images/messages, Kamanaka employs the commercial strategy of a digital media mix that is typically associated with anime and its paratexts.23 But, if anime’s media mix is a way of promoting its commercial success, Kamanaka’s version is more about connecting its filmic subjects with local and global audiences. While Ashes to Honey captures local peoples and remote regions, the film also holds a more universal appeal for audiences who are sympathetic to its anti-nuclear politics.

Conclusion In conclusion, we should consider the political context of Kamanaka’s documentaries, especially in relation to anti-nuclear sentiment and the search for new forms of sustainable energy. On January 22, 2014, in an interview ahead of the Tokyo gubernatorial election, candidate and former 22 Ibid. 23 Marc Steinberg, Anime Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012), trans. Nakagawa Yuzuru, Naze Nihon wa “media mikkusu suru kuni” nanoka (Kadokawa, 2015).

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prime minister Hosokawa Morihiro referred to Kamanaka’s film Rokkasho Rhapsody. When asked: “When did you change your opinion about nuclear power plants, since you had no problem with them during your time as prime minister?” The candidate responded as follows: When I was a member of the House of Councillors, I took on the role of Chairman of the Energy Special Committee for a few months. At that time, I went to visit the Ikata Nuclear Power Plant. I simply swallowed the explanation that nuclear power is clean and safe. Then, for some time, I held that stance and believed the message. I’m now ashamed of myself completely.…Later, I saw a TV documentary about the nuclear accident at Sellafield, England—the Windscale fire in 1957—which spread a lot of radioactivity to the Arctic Ocean. Fisheries and agriculture in the region have been, and will remain, completely ruined. And after that, I learned that nuclear waste has been brought to Rokkasho village in Japan, and I started studying the village….That was when I first realized the peril of nuclear power. I watched the documentary called Rokkasho Rhapsody, and I have now seen many other documentaries on nuclear power plants. Since that time, and I mean even prior to the 3/11 accident, I have been conscious of the risk of nuclear power plants.24

Even in this short remark, certain enduring problems of Japanese politics are clearly revealed, especially regarding nuclear issues. Frequent regime change is one such problem. If a chairperson is replaced every few months, how can the Energy Special Committee make long-term commitments to improve energy infrastructure and the environment? In addition, if the chairman of the Energy Special Committee unquestioningly accepts the message that “nuclear power is clean and safe,” how is it possible to improve nuclear safety? The most surprising point is that a national Energy Special Committee must rely on documentary films and television programs for information about nuclear safety. In the years since the nuclear catastrophe of Fukushima, we may wonder if the Tokyo gubernatorial election of 2014 is evidence that the accident is no longer a primary concern of the Japanese people. From this perspective, what changes has Kamanaka’s film Ashes to Honey actually achieved in the post-3/11 era? The answer to this question may not yet be apparent. The 24 “Hosokawa Morihiro shi ‘Genpatsu zero koso saijuyo tema’ Tochijisen kaiken sokuho” [Hosokawa Morihiro: ‘Zero Nuclear Power Is the Most Important Issue’: Tokyo Gubernatorial Election (Press Conference)], https://www.huffingtonpost.jp/2014/01/21/hosokawa-tokyogoverner_n_4635756.html (Accessed June 8, 2020).

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film’s audiences often assume that post-3/11, mothers and children survived and recuperated outside Fukushima, that Iwaishima islanders were saved, and that construction plans for the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant were completely cancelled. But this is not the case. Muraoka Tsugumasa, an LDP candidate and a former bureaucrat in the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, for instance, won the Yamaguchi Prefectural gubernatorial election in 2014. It is now apparent that he has promoted the construction of the nuclear power plant in Kaminoseki while also maintaining the LDP’s political stance of keeping nuclear power plants in Japan.25 The Kaminoseki nuclear construction project has not disappeared, so the Iwaishima islanders’ campaign against it must, unfortunately, continue indefinitely.26 The cultural turn that Kamanaka’s documentary has engendered is a sense of awareness that lies at the interstices of three characteristics: 1) a style of distribution that includes independent screenings ( jishu joei) and digital mediation on multiple platforms; 2) glocal subjects, which appeal to audiences sympathetic to anti-nuclear power; and 3) a mode of production defined by intelligible aesthetics. I hope that the sense of awareness will grow more and more and change the future. However, we will need many years to see the result. Just as Jane M. Gaines’ provocative essay on “political mimesis”27 reminds us of the inherent force of documentary films, the power of Kamanaka’s documentaries might help Japan become a non-nuclear nation so that disasters such as 3/11 will never occur again.

Works Cited Chiura, Ryo. “Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten [Ashes to Honey].” In 21 seiki wo ikinobiru tameno dokyumentari eiga katarogu [Documentary Film Catalogue in Order to Survive the 21st Century], edited by Kokubun Koichiro et al., 187–191. Tokyo: Kinemajunposha, 2016.

25 “Genpatsu seisaku, katarazu assho, Yamaguchi chijisen tosen no Muraoka-shi” [Muraoka Wins Yamaguchi Gubernatorial Election Without Talking about Nuclear Power Policy], Asahi Shimbun (February 24, 2014). 26 “Kaminoseki Genpatsu wo tatesasenai Yamaguchi daishukai 2020 dojitahatsu pafomansu” [Simultaneous Multiple Performances at the Yamaguchi Rally 2020 to Prevent Construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant], Kaminoseki Genpatsu wo tatesasenai Iwaishima no kai, March 22, 2020, http://touminnokai.main.jp/ (Accessed September 15, 2020). 27 Jane M. Gaines, “Political Mimesis.” In Collecting Visible Evidence, eds. Jane M. Gaines and Michael Renov, 84–102. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999).

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Gaines, Jane M. “Political Mimesis.” In Collecting Visible Evidence, edited by Jane M. Gaines and Michael Renov, 84–102. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999. “Genpatsu seisaku, katarazu assho, Yamaguchi chijisen tosen no Muraoka-shi” [Muraoka Wins Yamaguchi Gubernatorial Election Without Talking about Nuclear Power Policy]. Asahi Shimbun, February 24, 2014. Honma, Ryu. Genpatsu puropaganda [Nuclear Power Plant Propaganda]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2016. “Hosokawa Morihiro shi ‘Genpatsu zero koso saijuyo tema’ Tochijisen kaiken sokuho” [Hosokawa Morihiro: ‘Zero nuclear power Is the most important issue’: Tokyo gubernatorial election (Press Conference) ]. Huffington Post [Japan]. https://www.huffingtonpost.jp/2014/01/21/hosokawa-tokyo-governer_n_4635756. html (Accessed June 8, 2020). Iwaishima Homepage. “Iwaishima no goannai” [Information on Iwaishima]. 2020. https://www.iwaishima.jp/ (Accessed July 28, 2020). Kamanaka, Hitomi. “Nihon no enerugi genshiryoku seisaku no mujun wo eguru!: Jishu joei susumu, Mitsubachi no haoto” [Extracting the Inconsistencies in Japan’s Nuclear Energy Policy!: Independent Screenings Progress, Ashes to Honey]. Tsukuru 41, no. 8, 48–54. 2011. ———. Genpatsu no, sono saki e mitsubachi kakumei ga hajimaru [Beyond Nuclear Power Plants: The Honey Bee Revolution Begins]. Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012. Kamanaka, Hitomi, Kimu Son’un, and Kana Tomoko. Dokyumentari no chikara [The Power of Documentaries]. Tokyo: Kodomo no Mirai Sha, 2005. “Kaminoseki Genpatsu wo tatesasenai Yamaguchi daishukai 2020 dojitahatsu pafomansu” [Simultaneous Multiple Performances the Yamaguchi Rally 2020 to Prevent the Construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant]. Kaminoseki Genpatsu wo tatesasenai Iwaishima no kai. Last modif ied March 22, 2020. http://touminnokai.main.jp/. Matsubayashi, Yoju. “Yoju_Matsubayashi 3.11.” https://matsubayashi.asia/?works=​ 311&lang=en (Accessed March 27, 2023). Mori, Tatsuya, Watai Takeharu, Matsubayashi Yoju, and Yasuoka Takaharu. 311 wo toru [Shooting 311]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. “Mori Tatsuya, shiren no renzoku toku batoru! FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro media wa nani wo daibensurunoka” [Mori Tatsuya, a Series of Trials, Talk Battle!: FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro: What Does the Media Represent?]. Kinema Junpo, early June, 2016. Naficy, Hamid. Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001. Steinberg, Marc. Anime Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012. Trans. Nakagawa Yuzuru, Naze Nihon wa “media mikkusu suru kuni” nanoka. Tokyo: Kadokawa, 2015.

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Uchida, Tatsuru. “Ushinatta mono wo kazoeru yorimo, nokotteiru mono wo kazoeru koto” [Counting What Is Left Rather Than What Has Been Lost]. ele-king rinji zokango Korona ga kaeta sekai, 2020. Yamada, Kazuo. “Jishu joei no undo sonogo” [The Independent Screening Movement and Its Aftermath]. Eiga Hyoron 19, no. 6 (1962): 64–67. ———. “Kankyaku wa eiga wo kanri dekiru: Jishu joei undo no imi suru mono” [The Audience Can Manage the Movies: The Meaning of the Independent Screening Movement]. Eiga Hyoron 17, no. 9 (1960): 36–39.

3.

Resistance against the Nuclear Village Abstract: This chapter focuses on Kawai Hiroyuki, a career lawyer turned f ilmmaker. Although Kawai is an “amateur,” he chose cinema as the medium to convey his strong message to people outside the courtroom. I analyze the nuclear trilogy Kawai produced in succession after the 2011 quake: Nuclear Japan: Has Nuclear Power Brought Us Happiness? (2014); Nuclear Japan: The Nightmare Continues (2015); and Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm (2017), also referring to his two short YouTube videos released in 2019. What is Kawai attempting to communicate to audiences? We can say: truth and justice. Kawai took on the role of director to disseminate “accurate” information that neither the government nor Tokyo Electric Power Company dares to tell. Keywords: the nuclear village; cinema and law; intelligibility; the history of documentary; telementary

Kawai Hiroyuki, a lawyer/filmmaker, is “an amateur” when it comes to filmmaking; nonetheless, he has something he wants to convey. Why, then, did he choose film as his medium? Kawai responds as follows: People do not read books anymore. So, when I thought about what would allow me to make an appeal to the largest audience possible, I could think of nothing else than film. Mass media such as television do not lend an ear to what I have to say in the first place.1

To understand his “appeal” to a fuller extent, I was convinced that I had to scrutinize his documentary films. In this chapter, I will shed light upon two films from the anti-nuclear trilogy that Kawai directed after the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. 1 Kawai Hiroyuki provided this information in an interview conducted by the author on December 2, 2019 in the Sakura Kyodo Law Office he represents.

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch03

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The first film, and the first in Kawai’s trilogy, is Nuclear Japan: Has Nuclear Power Brought Us Happiness? (2014, hereinafter referred to as Nuclear Japan). The second film is the final installment in the trilogy: Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm (2017, hereinafter referred to as Renewable Japan). In addition, I will examine two short films that Kawai released on YouTube in 2019: The Criminal Trial of TEPCO: Undeniable Evidence and Nuclear Accident (hereinafter referred to as The Criminal Trial of TEPCO) and The Criminal Trial of TEPCO: The Unfair Ruling (hereinafter referred to as The Unfair Ruling). Let me first introduce you to Kawai Hiroyuki, the director who produced all these films. After the Great East Japan Earthquake, Kawai constructed a persona as “Director Kawai Hiroyuki” in collaboration with many production crew members. The persona, Director Kawai, is a kind of synecdoche, a part representing a whole. It was created to distribute information about the nuclear accident and other remaining issues that neither the government, Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO), nor the mass media such as television and newspaper had disclosed. In this chapter, I will call this way of film production with Kawai Hiroyuki’s persona at the center “the powerhouse method.” The original term “powerhouse” in Pilates, the exercise method that originated in Germany, indicates “the center of the body.” However, here I will use the expression to indicate “a group of people as the driving force.”2 Kawai’s filmmaking style, which borrows other people’s experiences and skills to produce documentary films, is the polar opposite of so-called “auteurism.” While auteurism means seeing the work as the direct and unique expression of an individual creator and glorifying the director who creates and controls the film’s style by calling them “auteur,” Kawai’s filmmaking style is completely different from these historical ways of filmmaking, in that he does not make films. In my book Japanese Cinema in the Digital Age, I have mentioned the fact that in the publishing industry, Kitano Takeshi—a multi-talented personality, filmmaker, and author—has produced an astonishing number of “books attributed to himself” in the same way.3 However, such cases are rare in the history of filmmaking. To begin with, Kawai does not write the script himself. He does not operate a camera. Neither does he edit nor compose music for the film. His connection to his 2 The meaning of “powerhouse” is quoted from the weblio English-Japanese and JapaneseEnglish dictionaries. https://ejje.weblio.jp/content/powerhouse (Accessed June 14, 2020). 3 Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano, Japanese Cinema in the Digital Age (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2012), 18. The book described Kitano Takeshi’s “autograph” had over 60, but a current search on Amazon.co.jp for “Takeshi Kitano books” yields the number 305 as a search result.

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films lies in his role as the producer who funds the film’s production and distribution and, even more importantly, as the narrator who appears in front of the camera and guides how the narrative unfolds.4 Furthermore, his most significant role is attaching his name to a series of films as “director”; by doing so, he takes responsibility for the information and assertions that the films convey. The powerhouse of Director Kawai Hiroyuki comprises many talented staff members with Kawai at the center. In Nuclear Japan, Kaido Yuichi, a competent lawyer who has long been working on environment and labor issues, takes on the role of content supervision. Niigaki Takashi, who gained notoriety for his role in the “digital-age Beethoven” Samuragochi Mamoru ghostwriter scandal, serves as the music director. I focus on Ogami Futaro, who is credited as the film’s screenwriter, editor, and assistant director. The name, which sounds like a pseudonym, reminds us of the surname of the protagonist, Ogami Itto, in Lone Wolf and Cub (Kozure okami, 1970–76), a graphic novel originally written by Koike Kazuo, combined with the given name of Yamada Futaro (1922–2001), a leading figure in postwar entertainment literature who excelled in such genres as legendary romance, mystery, and period fiction. Ogami Futaro, who may safely be called the powerhouse’s driving force, is a seasoned professional director. He has been involved in the visual production of various genres: company profile videos, TV commercials, documentaries, and educational programs.5 His real name, Obara Hiroyasu, is listed for the first time as director of the short film The Unfair Ruling. Kawai’s first film, Nuclear Japan, is a documentary film packed with a shocking amount of information. The sheer volume of detailed information, interviews, and citations from a wide array of established sources overwhelms the audience. The film opens with a sequence to introduce the history of nuclear energy in Japan, using numerous pieces of archival footage. Ever since the slogan, “Atoms for Peace,” was presented by President Dwight 4 According to Ogami Futaro who was involved in Kawai’s films as a scriptwriter, editor, and assistant director, Kawai did “everything from persuasion and search for people around him to ideas, interviews, and f inally narration” for the purpose of f ilm production. http://www. nihontogenpatsu.com/talk/脚本・編集・監督補：拝身風太郎%E3%80%80弁護士視点の.html (Accessed March 28, 2023). 5 https://ryudo009.jimdo.com/%E3%82%B9%E3%82%BF%E3%83%83%E3%83%95/ (Accessed December 8, 2019). In 2020, Obara Hiroyasu released the new documentary film Nihonjin no Wasuremono: Firipin to Chugoku no zanryu hojin [What the Japanese Forgot: Japanese Remaining in the Philippines and China] as its director and screenwriter. This film was also planned and produced by Kawai Hiroyuki and distributed by “K Project,” which was named after Kawai.

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D. Eisenhower at the United Nations General Assembly on December 3, 1953, Japan worked hand in glove with the United States promoting nuclear energy under the banners of “peaceful uses of nuclear power” and “the dream energy.” The film takes a clear stance of strongly denouncing the nuclear safety myth disseminated by the national government and the mass media without much thought for more than half a century by showcasing the history of nuclear energy promotion in Japan leading up to the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident on March 11, 2011. As the de facto “director,” Ogami’s expert ability is apparent in the skillful use and editing of archival footage. This may lead us to wonder why Kawai, a career lawyer, had to adopt the title of the Director, when Ogami was there to fill the acting director’s role. I had a chance to pose that question to Kawai himself. Kawai said no one around him was willing to take on the director’s role when he first began to think about making a film to convey the facts he had learned as a lawyer. Many young filmmakers declined Kawai’s offer, fearful that they would no longer be able to produce ordinary films or that no corporation would give them jobs producing TV commercials if they made an anti-conservative film advocating a phase-out of nuclear power. Self-censorship in the mass media is not unique to Japan; however, it became an especially serious social issue in the Japanese cultural sphere concerning nuclear power, particularly after the Great East Japan Earthquake. In that moment I realized that such self-censorship and self-restraint were negatively affecting not only the mass media, which are more likely to comply with the government’s wishes, but also the community of people involved in independent documentary production. Who are these young filmmakers who declined Kawai’s offer afraid of? What these filmmakers believe they may have to confront is not a sole entity such as the Japanese government or the Tokyo Electric Power Company but “the nuclear village,” a group of economically and politically powerful yet invisible entities, and the social system that enables nuclear power plants to exist in Japan to this day. Kawai chose to attach the label “Director Kawai Hiroyuki” to his work to confront this social system in contemporary Japan. This chapter examines the unique characteristics of Kawai’s films and explores the new possibilities, values, and hopes that his documentary films are expressing within the vernacular political culture of modern Japanese society. In our interview, Kawai stated, “After I had produced Nuclear Japan, I submitted it to many festivals through an agent in the U.S., but unfortunately I received zero responses.” This statement piqued my interest. The reason was that, contrary to this reception, I had found an extraordinary newness in the film, which is not just another information-driven propagandistic

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documentary film. Moreover, I felt the emergence of a new visual culture in the film that is indispensable to post-3/11 Japan. In the final section of this chapter, I will analyze this extraordinariness and its connection to Japan in the post-3/11 era.

The Relation between Cinema and Law Kawai’s documentary f ilms’ self-evident characteristic is the relation between cinema and law. The strength of Kawai’s work lies in the fact that Kawai, who has worked on many lawsuits against nuclear energy companies, conveys through his films real-life information and knowledge that he has acquired as a lawyer. However, the link between cinema and law is not unusual in the history of documentary cinema. There are some excellent Japanese documentary films such as Of Love & Law (Ai to ho, 2017, Toda Hikaru), which places law and issues of sexual minorities in the foreground. This film illuminates the interrelatedness between issues in the legal system and the current reality of Japanese society by depicting the daily life of two lawyers based in Osaka while focusing on the fact that they are a gay couple and portraying the political nature of identity in the cultural space of Japan. Another documentary filmmaker focusing on the intersection of legal and social issues is the American Frederick Wiseman, whom I mentioned in Chapter 1. Wiseman studied in France after graduating from Yale Law School, became a lawyer following his return to the U.S., and finally made the transition to filmmaking. Inspired by his involvement as a producer in Shirley Clarke’s documentary film, The Cool World (1963), which followed the daily life of African American youths who were members of a juvenile gang in Harlem, Wiseman went on to direct films of his own. In his 1967 Titicut Follies, Wiseman sheds light on the life of patient-inmates at a Massachusetts hospital for the criminally insane. Wiseman has made almost fifty documentary films to date, including Law and Order (1969) and Juvenile Court (1973). The difference between Wiseman and Kawai, however, is that the former stands behind the camera while Kawai makes films based on legal cases that he has personally worked on and stands in front of the camera as a prominent figure in his films. Kawai’s films are unique in the history of legal documentary cinema because they involve lawsuits on which Kawai himself has worked. Wiseman’s method of direct cinema documentary observes the subject matter through filmmaking (“observational cinema,” in Soda Kazuhiro’s words), placing its focus on showing the audience issues that have been made invisible

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within institutions and organizations. In contrast, Kawai’s focus is not only on showing the audience existing issues but also on demonstrating the issues to the audience in a comprehensible manner: visualizing issues that are not visible and elaborating on their complexities so they are easily understood. In other words, whereas Wiseman’s attitude is to leave the subject matter to the audience’s judgment, Kawai attempts to convey to the audience his opinion on the subject. This crossing of the boundary between law and cinema is what differentiates Kawai’s work from other legal documentary films.

The Aesthetics/Grammar of Intelligibility In addition to its relationship with law, another characteristic of Kawai’s work that grabbed my interest was its “intelligibility.” The same characteristic exists in Kamanaka Hitomi’s work, which I have analyzed in the previous chapter. Simply put, the “intelligibility” found in Kamanaka’s work stems from her crossing the boundary between the styles of documentary film history and the techniques used in television documentaries. However, unlike the simplistic expressions of “justice” or “objectivity” to which the mass media tend to lean, Kamanaka’s works are filled with her own subjective assertions. In other words, while foregrounding similarities with television in terms of expression, Kamanaka’s intelligibility is the result of a trial-anderror process of how to present the difficult topic of anti-nuclear power most effectively in order to present a social ethic that she believes in. In contrast to this, the “intelligibility” of Kawai’s films is deeply related to historical TV documentaries while being constructed from the various ideas and innovations of Kawai as lawyer and amateur filmmaker. In this chapter, I will focus on Kawai’s aesthetics of expression. In short, let us clearly define the aesthetics/grammar of intelligibility in Kawai’s documentary films: how Kawai, an expert lawyer, takes the complex and abstract issues of nuclear power and the complicated liability issues associated with them, visualizes them, and renders them into films using the powerhouse method in order to make the issues easily understood by the audience. Nonetheless, the word “intelligible” is subjective. Therefore, I intend neither to cover intelligibility in Kawai’s work thoroughly nor to discuss its intelligibility in comparison to other films. Rather, what I would like to emphasize here is why we focus on intelligibility. When the aesthetics of documentary cinema were discussed in the past, it was rare to see characteristics like intelligibility described as a strength or an element to

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be celebrated. However, I believe that this aesthetic/grammar is essential to the new documentary cinema of the post-3/11 era. The truth about nuclear power and the accidents caused by it is so complex that it is difficult for the public and even experts to verify the facts. In addition, it seems that after 2011, documentary films that tackle the issue of nuclear power without revealing the truth have become unacceptable to everyone. The following are examples of how intelligibility is expressed in Kawai’s films. 1) Kawai’s films illustrate highly abstract concepts of temporality and historicity in an intelligible manner. The history of nuclear power in Japan began seventy-five years ago in August 1945.6 Kawai gives us a bird’s eye view of this long history while interpreting how dominant values have changed over time. 2) Kawai’s work employs many inventions to visualize the intangible and the invisible, such as issues of responsibility for the disaster and the role of the nuclear village. His films clearly define the perpetrators of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. They reify the perpetrators of the accident who have only been represented as abstract and faceless subjects in the mass media: executives of TEPCO, the Japanese government and top officials, and the nuclear village. 3) Furthermore, Kawai’s films use mass media images to demonstrate the falsehood of testimonies given by these perpetrators. His films take disparate pieces of information from newspapers, television, the Internet, and personal photos taken with smartphones, reconstruct them based on a political judgment that Kawai believes, and use them as instances of supporting evidence, eventually guiding the distrust that began to form in many people’s minds since 3/11 toward a crystal-clear conviction. The value of Kawai’s experience as a lawyer is evident in the powerhouse of Director Kawai Hiroyuki. 4) Kawai aims to visualize the yet-unseen possibility of a nuclear-free society. With what goal in mind must we make an effort to build a sustainable society and future? The films present concrete examples to provide an answer to this difficult question and offer explanations. As described above, Kawai’s documentary films take concepts that are considered to be difficult to visualize and express them through images to be understood by many: perpetrators as the doers of intentional actions; discourse of political falsehood; social systems like the nuclear village that 6 It should be noted that the nuclear energy discourse in Japan is not limited to the period after August 1945. Nuclear fission was discovered in 1938, and nuclear weapons were already mentioned in the media during World War II. Yamamoto Akihiro, Kaku enerugi gensetsu no sengoshi 1945–1960: “Hibaku no kioku” to “genshiryoku no yume” [The Postwar History of Nuclear Energy Discourse, 1945–1960: “Memories of Radiation Exposure” and “Dreams of Nuclear Power”] (Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin, 2012), 14.

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are usually hidden from our view; and intangible and uncertain desires like hope for the future. By highlighting several films of his as examples, I will now explore the aesthetics/grammar of intelligibility that enable Kawai’s work to commit to these expressions.

The Intelligibility of Nuclear Japan Depicting complex matters in an easy-to-understand manner is surprisingly difficult. Nonetheless, Kawai’s films, taking advantage of his career as a lawyer spanning half a century and the wealth of experience that comes with it, take steps to explain complex matters in a comprehensible manner. Let us examine the techniques in Kawai’s films that allow them to demonstrate intelligibility by analyzing his first film and the starting point of his work, Nuclear Japan. This film attempts to visualize the unseen by materializing them into a visible form—subjects that one has heard of but cannot visualize; or abstract phenomena that are difficult to explain. Examples of the concepts presented in this film are as follows: the “nuclear village”; “stand-alone renewable energy systems”; “the theory of general scientific and technological progress and how it differs from that of nuclear power”; and the “drain on national wealth theory.” First, let us focus on the sequence visualizing “interrelationships in the nuclear village.” Nuclear Japan explains one of the biggest mysteries in Japanese society since 3/11—why nuclear power plants have been restarted despite the risks that they pose—by pointing out the ties between the governing Liberal Democratic Party and the nuclear village. The latter is generally defined as “the closed social institution comprising specific interest groups in industry, government, and academia within the nuclear power industry, the term being used with sarcasm and criticism to describe their relationships; and a group of politicians, corporations, and academic researchers who have mutually benefited from the promotion of nuclear power.”7 Being an enormous social system, it is difficult for ordinary people to grasp how this “village” actually works. Nonetheless, Nuclear Japan attempts to show this system to the audience while exercising its ingenuity to visualize it. On December 26, 2012, one and a half years after the Great East Japan Earthquake, the Liberal Democratic Party of Japan returned to power along with the Komeito. Since then, the governing coalition has 7 “Genshiryoku mura [Nuclear Power Village],” Wikipedia, https://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/原 子力村 (Accessed April 4, 2023).

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once again been promoting a pro-nuclear energy policy, as if the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster has already been dealt with. Nuclear Japan provides an answer to the question of “why the Japanese government is so adamant about pushing nuclear power” by highlighting the involvement of the nuclear village, the for-profit community of interests born out of the history of the nation’s pro-nuclear policy, and concluding that the motivating factor is the collusion between the Japanese government and the nuclear village. We can learn many facts from Nuclear Japan. For instance, it makes us realize that most of us know nothing about electricity, the point of contention after 3/11, or our electricity bill, which is more directly connected to our daily lives. The full-cost principle regulates electricity bills in Japan, which means that these bills are calculated based on the supply cost of electricity. Based on this principle, and by adding a fair amount of profit to the gross expense (the supply cost) needed to operate these public utility businesses efficiently, the full cost is calculated and converted into the gross income. Finally, the electricity bill is decided based on the amount of gross income. However, the problem with this principle is that “the information regarding the full cost belongs solely to the operator of the business” and therefore, “it may lead to excessive capital investment.”8 In other words, the full cost is determined by the power company. This information is not made transparent to citizens. The more capital investment the power company makes, the higher they can raise the cost of supply. The raised cost is automatically charged to citizens in their electricity bills. The power company would rather proactively increase their capital investment than put a stop to it, simply because that is the way they make more money. In addition, more investment in nuclear power plants by the power company economically benef its machine manufacturers, trade companies, and the subcontractors and employees of these companies, so they blindly follow the power company’s lead. Likewise, megabanks and the Keidanren (Japan Business Federation), as the financing arm for the power company and the nuclear village, do nothing to interfere with the power company’s profit-making activities, the source of their own profit. Local governments that physically host nuclear power plants are in the same boat, as they receive many subsidies and f inancial contributions from the power company. Under the Three Laws for Power Development, a signif icant amount of subsidy is paid by the national government to many local governments. 8 “Sokatsu genka hoshiki [Comprehensive Costing],” Wikipedia, https://ja.wikipedia.org/ wiki/総括原価方式 (Accessed April 4, 2023).

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Figure 3.1: “Interrelationships in the Nuclear Village” produced as a CG image (Film still from Nuclear Japan)

Shedding light on such facts that are basic matters within the issue of the nuclear village, Nuclear Japan leads the audience to the heart of the problem. To be honest, until I watched the film, I had not given much thought to the typical pricing practices of public utilities such as water, gas, and electricity. Through the many interviews conducted by Kawai, the director, Nuclear Japan reveals the reasons why the Japanese government neither regulates nor intervenes in the system of the nuclear village with the power company at the center. First, the amount of political funds and rewards received from the power company is enormous. And second, the power companies themselves historically play an important role as havens for retired public officials. Mass media such as newspapers and TV, which receive advertising dollars from power companies, and so-called “puppet pundits,” experts like university professors, commentators, scientists, and doctors, are all part of the money stream and thus do not dare to stand up to the nuclear village. The film points out that, because of this situation, no one can cast light on the social ills and contradictions of the nuclear village, which acts like an underworld criminal syndicate. Ever since the era of the peaceful uses of nuclear power of the 1950s, this is a huge outstanding issue in postwar Japanese society. Nuclear Japan structurally analyzes how the flow of money and people circulate in the nuclear village with the power company at its center, visualizing it with a chart created with computer graphics (CG) (see Figure 3.1). In this scene, the nuclear village is explained in an intelligible manner, the style resembling a university lecture. Alternatively, it may be described as a court

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Figure 3.2: “Stand-Alone Renewable Energy Systems” illustrated as a hand-drawn chart in the Kawai lecture method (Film still from Nuclear Japan)

trial methodology that Kawai has polished as a career lawyer since the early 1970s to convince listeners by providing easy-to-understand explanations. The “interrelationships in the nuclear village” sequence is one of the most important scenes in the film. Explanations about the structure of the money flow and the abuses of power lead the audience to many other revelations. For example, they can no longer listen to the statement made by the chairman of Keidanren about restarting nuclear power plants and think, as they may have in the past, that it is a colorless, non-political statement that prioritizes the citizens’ interest. The audience cannot help but see the possibility that the purpose of his safety guarantee is linked to the interests of the Ministry of Finance and the power companies, and that it is not for the citizens’ safety but for economic reasons. The scene of “interrelationships in the nuclear village” is created using CG. However, the production of a CG sequence takes time and effort. For that reason, Kawai makes full use of a whiteboard, the traditional tool of a lecture, in other scenes which require illustrations for an explanation, which I will name “the Kawai lecture” method. Nuclear Japan, using many inventive ways, expresses abstract concepts with concrete structural diagrams and attempts to guide the audience toward a better understanding of each subject matter. Take, for example, a sequence with the Kawai lecture method illustrating “stand-alone renewable energy systems,” (Figure 3.2) in which Kawai uses the case of the Monju research reactor (Tsuruga City, Fukui Prefecture), which differs from commercial reactors. The sequence reveals the contradictions

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in the government’s claim that fast breeder reactors “generate more nuclear fuel than they consume.” Since the early 1980s, the Japanese government has poured money into developing technologies for implementing and commercializing fast breeder reactors with fanfare, while praising their high performance, reliability, and safety as part of the nuclear safety myth. However, due to a sodium coolant leak and a string of other troubles, Monju has been inoperative for most of the time since it was originally built. On December 21, 2016, an official decision to decommission the plant was made, and it is in the decommissioning process at present. The Kawai lecture sequence about “stand-alone renewable energy systems” disproves with intelligible explanations the attractiveness of nuclear power generation central to the argument for fast breeder reactors, i.e., the empty promise made by the government and the nuclear village that it can keep producing stand-alone renewable energy. A uniqueness of the Kawai lecture method of explanation using a whiteboard is that Kawai, avoiding technical jargon as much as possible, explains points in simple terms that a lay audience can fully understand. Moreover, regardless of whether Kawai himself is aware, the sense of presence that this whiteboard lecture gives the viewers is noteworthy. Not only does it produce the feeling of an on-demand lecture, it also captivates the attention of the “student,” i.e., the audience. With his easy-to-understand, step-by-step explanations, he gradually dismantles the safety myth. Besides “stand-alone renewable energy systems,” Kawai uses two other whiteboard sequences in this film. One is the “theory of general scientific and technological progress and how it differs from that of nuclear power,” and the other is “contradictions in former Prime Minister Abe’s drain on national wealth theory.” Issues involving “science” and “nuclear power,” and the “national economy” and “nuclear power” are not only of enormous scale and complexity but also posit themes of a cross-disciplinary and inter-disciplinary nature. Therefore, there are probably only a few in the audience confident enough to say that they have a thorough understanding of critical points of discussion on these topics. Many sequences of the Kawai lecture in Nuclear Japan present the core of each issue to the audience while paring down extra information. This concise way of presenting an issue reminds us of a crash course for students at a preparatory school or a university; however, we must not overlook the fact that these sequences in Nuclear Japan are not there to cram random knowledge into the audience. Rather, they are composed of information that has been purposely collected based on Kawai’s firm belief about nuclear power. His belief is none other than the idea that Tokyo Electric Power Company, the

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perpetrator, should take responsibility for the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster, and his conviction is that there should be a way to demonstrate their responsibility. Where did the idea for the Kawai lecture method come from? I asked him, and Kawai responded that he often uses a whiteboard to convey his ideas to others in his work as a lawyer.9 Moreover, he added that this method of explanation is not uncommon at all in court. While he used a chart created with CG for “interrelationships in the nuclear village” as previously mentioned, the production of CG takes time and effort. Therefore, he said all he did was to replicate what he does as a lawyer in court using a whiteboard in his office for the rest: “stand-alone renewable energy systems”; “the theory of general scientific and technological progress and how it differs from that of nuclear power”; and “contradictions in former Prime Minister Abe’s drain on national wealth theory.” In the domain of the history of documentary cinema, how should this Kawai lecture method be understood and appreciated? At first glance, the Kawai lecture sequence looks like a recording of a mundane lecture scene. The composition is flat, and one cannot find freshness in either the cinematic techniques or production technologies. The camera is fixed, with the whiteboard and Kawai as the subjects of filming recorded at a fixed distance for the entire time. One might consider such a flat composition as primitive, reminiscent of Japanese cinema before the Pure Film Movement started in 1918, when it was called “moving pictures.” Furthermore, because of that primitiveness, it may be judged as unworthy of appreciation as a work of cinematic art. For instance, documentarian Sato Makoto (1957–2007) who taught documentary filmmaking at many schools including the Film School of Tokyo and the Kyoto University of the Arts, regards the history of documentary filmmaking as “the unfortunate history of being used as a tool to serve a great cause.” On the origins of the documentary, Sato writes as follows: First, documentary cinema began its history as a weapon for social change. The first Documentary Film Movement took place in England and was developed into a thesis, “documentary as the creative treatment of actuality” by John Grierson and Paul Rotha, whose intention was to position documentary as a means to educate the masses.…These documentary movements in England, the Soviet Union, and Germany are no different from each other in that they have attempted to make films 9

Kawai in an interview conducted by the author on December 2, 2019.

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serve some great cause. For that reason, even though the causes they are serving may be complete opposites, their preachy, lecture-like styles are shockingly similar.10

At the beginning of this chapter, I mentioned that Kawai chose film as a medium, even though he was an amateur in filmmaking. Kawai states that mass media like TV have no interest in the messages he wants to convey. Perhaps Kawai, without his knowledge, has shared and internalized the image that many commonly have of documentary cinema as “a means to educate the masses,” as Sato highlights in his writing. As orthodox as it may seem, when you take the role of documentary cinema as a means to educate the masses—as is inherent in Kawai’s work—and reposition it in the cultural context of the history of documentary cinema in the 2010s, one may sense an unexpected air of newness and freshness. In the works of documentary filmmakers who have established the canon of postwar Japanese documentary cinema—Hani Susumu, Haneda Sumiko, Kuroki Kazuo, Tsuchimoto Noriaki, Ogawa Shinsuke, Hara Kazuo, Mori Tatsuya, and the like—one cannot find a visual expression as simple and flat as the use of a whiteboard. In other words, the Kawai lecture method is, in a way, a method far removed from the conventional means of expression nurtured in the tradition or the canon of documentary cinema. Nonetheless, seeing this composition completely devoid of drama or aesthetics repeatedly in Kawai’s films, I cannot help but feel that such is the new form of expression for Japanese documentary cinema today. It felt to me like this was the style needed in the post-3/11 era. What is inherent in these plain facts revealed through this flat method of expression is that they are personal opinions expressed by an individual who is making his identity known and taking full responsibility for his words. In Sato’s view, documentary films have historically been reduced to “a weapon for social change.” As examples, he gives the socialist realism cinema of post-revolutionary Russia and the propaganda films used in Nazi Germany as tools for mass incitement. However, the exposition of plain facts and opinions stated from one’s perspective in Kawai’s films is different from the enlightenment or education by the establishment seen in historical documentary films. Kawai’s style is rather like the original form of the Enlightenment as represented by Diderot and others.11 The personal 10 Sato Makoto, Dokyumentari no shujigaku [The Rhetoric of the Documentary] (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobo, 2006), 77–80. Emphasis is mine. 11 Of course, we can go all the way back to Socrates and Diogenes with the word “parrēsia” (truth-telling, per Michel Foucault) here.

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voice in Nuclear Japan neither has political power nor is backed by such power. Moreover, the viewer is left to decide whether or not to trust the voice depending on the particular viewer’s subjective way of receiving the message based upon their reasoning. As far as I was concerned, what I need in the post-3/11 era is not “the truth” presented by an absolute authority but many facts that represent multiple voices of individuals that are trustworthy. I would assert that this is what was desired of post-3/11 documentary cinema. It occurred to me that the Kawai lecture method was a means of expression responding to the audience’s most desperate needs: the need to know what is happening to themselves; and the need to find the truth themselves.

The Intelligibility of Renewable Japan Next, let us shift our focus to the final installment of Kawai’s anti-nuclear trilogy, Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm, produced in 2017. When I came across Kawai’s anti-nuclear trilogy, I felt joy as I was reminded that the film medium can reify hope for the future. Renewable Japan in particular, as the Japanese subtitle Hikari to kaze no gigawatto sakusen [its direct translation is Solar and Wind Gigawatt Strategy] suggests, presents us with many concrete examples showing us that, by understanding and strategically using renewable energy, it is possible to live in a sustainable society. In this film, Kawai gives the following narration: By turning the power of nature into energy, we can change the world. The major causes of war are fighting over resources and poverty. If every nation in the world becomes self-sustainable with renewable energy, there will no longer be wars over natural resources. If poor nations and regions adopt renewable energy, digging wells, starting agriculture, and living life with access to hospitals and schools can be achieved in a short time. That is not doable with the mega-industry of nuclear power.12

Turning the power of nature into energy, adopting renewable energy in our daily life—while these are attractive ideas, where do we start if we are to implement them? To my knowledge, in Japanese society, we have barely seen either the government or corporations promoting such ideas. Especially before the nuclear accident of 3/11, I must say that no experts 12 Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm [Nihon to saisei—Hikari to kaze no gigawatto sakusen] (2018, DVD).

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could have been found at schools, corporations, or anywhere in Japanese society who would confidently state that “we can sustain ourselves with renewable energy without nuclear power.” Renewable Japan is a film that visualizes a new leadership who can make such a statement. The film exposes the reality that, even though more local governments are moving toward renewable energy after 3/11, they lack the national government’s support. Conversely, the film reveals that the current legal system, such as the feed-in tariff (FIT) scheme revised in 2017, is blocking local governments’ move toward renewable energy.13 Former Prime Minister Abe claimed that Japan, a resource-poor nation, “cannot ensure stable energy supply without nuclear power” and remained in support of nuclear power even after the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. Renewable Japan exposes the fact that behind such pro-nuclear views of the government entangled in the complicated web of interests in the nuclear village, there are laws and regulations friendly to big power companies. By visualizing—in as comprehensible a manner as possible—the way the supply of electricity in Japan should be and how the country could wean itself off nuclear dependency and shift to renewable energy, the film inspires many in the audience to feel that perhaps it can be done. I would venture to say that the film succeeds in the visualization of hope. In this section, I will talk about four different styles of intelligibility. The first is the “two-person pilgrimage” style by Kawai and Iida Tetsunari, the scholar and advocate of renewable energy who provides content supervision for the film. The two-person pilgrimage style means that the two of them visit a location and engage in a dialogue; the rhetoric of the dialogue is simple but to the point. The role that Iida Tetsunari plays in the film is significant. After studying nuclear engineering, Iida joined Kobe Steel, Ltd. While there, he was temporarily assigned to the Central Research Institute of Electric Power Industry (founded in 1951), celebrated as the first major private think tank in postwar Japan; however, the contradictions of the nuclear village he encountered there compelled him to resign. Following his resignation, he studied in Sweden. After returning to Japan in 2001, he founded the Institute for Sustainable Energy Policies, a nonprofit organization. He ran for the governorship of Yamaguchi Prefecture in July 2012 and was defeated by a candidate endorsed by the Liberal Democratic Party and Komeito. In 13 FIT is also known as a “f ixed price trading system.” Under this system, the government guarantees that electric power companies will purchase electricity produced from renewable energy sources at a fixed price for a fixed period of time.

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December of the same year, he ran for the House of Representatives and was defeated by another LDP-backed candidate. Since then, Iida has focused his attention—once again from a private citizen’s perspective—on promoting a shift to renewable energy and a new way of local community building while continuing his activities primarily as the director of the Institute for Sustainable Energy Policies. In Renewable Japan, Kawai forcefully conducts interviews with experts inside and outside Japan, accompanied by Iida who is an expert in energetics and environmental science. This two-person pilgrimage style is not new in Kawai’s films. Previously in the first two installments of the trilogy, Nuclear Japan and Nuclear Japan: The Nightmare Continues (2015), he was accompanied by Kaido Yuichi. Incidentally, in the recent film for which Kawai was the producer, What the Japanese Forgot: Japanese Remaining in the Philippines and China (Nihonjin no wasuremono, 2020, Obara Hiroyasu), he guides the camera on a journey with Inomata Norihiro, director of the Philippine Nikkei-jin Legal Support Center, sticking to the two-person pilgrimage style once again. In the case of Renewable Japan, this interview method enables Kawai to capture on camera dialogues with interviewees/subjects carefully selected by Iida, taking advantage of his knowledge and connections nurtured throughout his career, thus maintaining the quality of the interviews. A pattern is established where Kawai, a layman, tosses out a question that many in the audience are likely to ask. Iida, an expert, provides an answer to the question in an easy-to-understand manner. In addition, when the two of them interview a third person, the conversation unfolds from the perspectives of both a layman and an expert. Thanks to the Q&A conducted by Kawai, who is not a science expert and who tries to minimize technical terms as much as possible, and the questioning and supplementary explanation by the expert Iida, the interviews successfully convey information to many in the audience who are not familiar with the topic. In short, the technique to make the content more comprehensible to the audience is derived from the presence of the two of them and the two-person pilgrimage style. The second feature is the astounding number of interviews executed by Iida and Kawai; the two of them visit and conduct many interviews in countries and cities that have successfully shifted to renewable energy or towns and villages about to embark on this new experiment both inside and outside Japan. Perhaps it should be described as a rhetoric of persuasion that can only be achieved through the sheer volume of interviews. In other words, not only do they themselves affirm the value of renewable energy,

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but they also have these interviewees testify that it is possible. Cinema is neither the window to nor a mirror of the reality of society. With the presence of a camera, truth and reality are inevitably altered, and the work of film cannot be completed without editing, an artificial process involving human intentions. For that reason, all those numerous interviews that appear in the film cannot be taken as an indicator of the reality of our society. Nonetheless, the voices of many people who do not belong to one place certainly add to the weight of the message that the film is attempting to get across. Among documentary films about nuclear power, more than a few compare Japan’s situation to cases overseas. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Kamanaka Hitomi’s documentary film Ashes to Honey (2010)—while drawing a parallel between the people of Sweden, who decided by national referendum to abandon nuclear power, and the residents of Iwaishima, who are protesting the proposed construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant—explores the use of alternative energy and illustrates possibilities of shifting the social system itself. The power of Kawai’s documentary film, however, lies not in comparing advanced Western European nations with a Japan that is lagging behind. Through the sheer volume of interviews, the film not only allows the audience to realize that many nations outside Japan are making the shift toward renewable energy, it also enables us to see a new change inside Japan through interviews with so many people in regions that we have never heard of. Renewable Japan introduces to the audience the reality that, despite various obstacles on the policy front, numerous groups of people are executing a shift to renewable energy in many regions of Japan, though they may be small in scale. The third feature is the use of rhetoric to change the mindset of the audience—to move them toward a new hope—by confronting conventional prejudices against renewable energy and prompting the audience to think that what they thought was impossible may be possible. To that end, the Kawai lecture method is used once again. In these whiteboard sequences, questions that are simple but that pique everyone’s curiosity are cleverly used to the film’s advantage. For instance, in the sequence titled “three obstacles to the development of renewable energy,” Kawai asks Iida why, if renewable energy is such an attractive and new form of energy, its development and implementation is still lagging in Japan after 3/11. Iida provides a clear explanation about the three obstacles to renewable energy placed mainly by the power companies. Another sequence called “is renewable energy unstable?” confronts the prejudice against renewable energy and attempts to debunk misinformation with rhetoric to change the audience’s mindset. In defying common sense in our society, which

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considers renewable energy generated from wind, sunlight, geothermal heat, and biomass as unstable, the film uses mathematical concepts such as the law of large numbers to demonstrate that wind power, which is often thought of as unstable, can maintain a stable amount of output at a high level by installing wind turbine generators in many locations. In yet another whiteboard sequence, a commonly asked question—“is Germany a cheat?”—is dispelled with a sense of humor, another major asset in Kawai’s film. It takes up the controversy surrounding Germany, which has been motivated by the tragedy of the nuclear accident in Fukushima in a major way to work toward a complete phase-out of nuclear power under the slogan of “Energiewende” (energy transformation). The conventional view of pro-nuclear advocates in Japan perpetuates the mockery that Germany is a hypocrite that supplements power shortages caused by its policy of phasing out nuclear energy by purchasing electricity from France, which still generates electricity with nuclear power. Kawai and Iida travel to Germany and, by interviewing many people of different social standings, dispel this myth. The fourth style of intelligibility in Kawai’s film is its extremely high instructiveness. If people are to stop buying electricity from major power companies such as Tokyo Electric Power Company or Kansai Electric Power Company, what other options do they have? In today’s Japan, it is rather difficult to find the answer to this question and to take action. Kawai, by giving the audience accessible and specific possibilities, sends a highly instructive message. Another whiteboard sequence that he presents, “steps you can take toward renewable energy,” introduces two options: a commercial service called “jibun denryoku service” (personal electricity power service) operated by NTT Smile Energy, and “Pal & System” operated by Consumers’ Co-operative. In the scene where the latter is introduced, after the explanation at a whiteboard, Kawai invites a Consumers’ Co-operative staff member to his home and demonstrates to the audience that you can make the shift to renewable energy just by signing a contract, with a short performance just like the kinds you see on a TV shopping channel. Concerning the film’s high instructiveness, one cannot overlook the fact that Renewable Japan emphasizes the importance of distributed energy resources instead of centralized power generation as the key to successfully linking a move toward renewable energy to the revitalization of local communities. The idea calls to mind the economic structure with “distributed risk” that economist Kaneko Masaru advocates. This film proposes to the audience that, just as convenience stores rather than supermarkets are

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more fitting for the lifestyle needs of today’s consumers, distributed energy resources rather than nuclear power—that is, an organizational structure in which distributed energy resources such as wind and solar power are networked by computer systems—is the form that new energy systems should take in the future. In this section, we discussed the four distinctive features in Renewable Japan and how these styles of expression present intelligibility: the twoperson pilgrimage style, the volume of interviews, the use of rhetoric to change the mindset of the audience, and the high instructiveness. However, it is doubtful that this film will be handed down through generations and be remembered as a masterpiece in the history of documentary cinema fifty or 100 years from now. One of the reasons is because Renewable Japan is, after all, an information-oriented documentary. New information turns old in time. Nonetheless, Renewable Japan made me realize the value of a new documentary genre: placing emphasis not on public information but on information based on personal intention and pushing it to the foreground. Some may think that, due to the arrival of the Internet age, having access to information is not that difficult even for us ordinary people. The world of the Internet is indeed vast. If you have language ability, you can easily overcome national and cultural boundaries and obtain a wide variety of information. Even a lack of language ability is becoming less of an issue, with improved AI-based translation capability. However, an emerging issue is how one can find information that is trustworthy among the vast amount of information. In short, we are faced with another kind of hurdle that requires us to have a remarkably high level of media literacy as we enter a new era. In this era in which citizens feel an increasing sense of distrust and frustration with how the government has been conducting itself after 3/11—delays in the reconstruction policy, inadequate compensation for victims, and most of all, its stance of continuing to promote nuclear power—how are we to select what is relevant from the vast ocean of information? That is why, I think, intelligibility is in demand. Intelligibility does not just mean simplicity. Rather, it means that we cannot be convinced without understanding how the issue in question is structured. Just as the Encyclopédie edited and published by Diderot and others aspired to be, we first want to value our need to know, and in order to initiate the process of knowing, we want to value information that is simple and starts with a question that everyone is likely to ask. Renewable Japan fulfills these requirements, and I cannot help but sense the need of our times in the fact that such a film emerged in post-3/11 Japan.

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The Intelligibility of the Short Films The Criminal Trial of TEPCO and The Unfair Ruling Let us focus on the two most recent films that Kawai has produced. On July 10, 2019, a short film, The Criminal Trial of TEPCO, was uploaded on YouTube. The creator is listed as “Film: Nuclear Japan,” the film production office of Kawai Hiroyuki. In advance of the sentencing in the criminal trial of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster scheduled on September 19 of the same year, the purpose of this film was to raise the public’s interest in the trial and to point to the truth by disclosing the maximum amount of information presented at the court trial, a space kept quite separate from the general public. The blurb attached to the 26-minute film on the Internet reads: What will be the decision of the court on the heinous crime committed by three former TEPCO officers? The accused, while foreseeing a megatsunami and planning a countermeasure to safeguard the facility against the tsunami, crushed the project for fear of it negatively affecting profit. The film analyzes many pieces of undeniable evidence for the crushed project which was almost buried in the dark and tells the whole story of how the project was shelved. A must-see 26 minutes for Japanese citizens before the day of sentencing.14

Contrary to the smooth-talking tone of the promotional statement, this short film intelligibly and convincingly demonstrates to the audience the crucial issues in the criminal case against TEPCO by presenting detailed pieces of evidence. The first day of the trial was held at the Tokyo District Court on June 30, 2017. Approximately two years later, on March 12, 2019, the 37th session of the trial, the prosecution sought a sentence of five years’ imprisonment for the crime of professional negligence resulting in injury or death against the three defendants: Katsumata Tsunehisa, the former chairman of TEPCO; Takekuro Ichiro, a former vice president; and Muto Sakae, a former vice president. The sentencing on September 19 was the day of the final judgment, the culmination of the criminal trial that had spanned two years. One of the crucial issues in this trial was that forty-four patients at Futaba Hospital located within 6.2 miles of the nuclear power plant died while being transported from the hospital immediately following the accident or 14 “Tanpen eiga Toden keiji saiban ugokanu shoko to genpatsu jiko YouTube de kokai!” [Short Film, TEPCO Criminal Trial: Conclusive Evidence and the Nuclear Accident, Now on YouTube!], https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJhyDSnutqk (Accessed June 14, 2020).

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after the transit was completed. In March 2011, many people in the Tohoku region of Japan lost their lives, were injured, or were forced to become refugees because of the dual natural disasters of the earthquake and tsunami. However, in the criminal trial against Tokyo Electric Power Company, the prosecution pursued TEPCO’s responsibility for a series of events associated with the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster by claiming that the death of the forty-four patients was not the result of the natural disasters but the direct result of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident. Therefore, this criminal trial was linked to the answer to a fundamental doubt that the entire citizenry of Japan had been harboring about the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster but had never received an answer to: Who in the world is responsible for the worst nuclear accident we have ever experienced? The question was about to be answered in September 2019, eight years after the earthquake. For ordinary citizens, it is not easy to follow the entire course of a criminal trial. One of the reasons, as apparent in the criminal trial against Tokyo Electric Power Company, is that it takes a long time from the first day of the trial until the day of sentencing. While mass media such as TV and newspapers do report on new and different events happening daily, they are not suited to following a specific case continuously. Another difficulty lies in the fact that the amount of evidence presented during the thirty-seven court hearings was vast. People who are able to grasp all this evidence are limited to just a handful directly involved in the case. What on earth is the main point of the argument in this trial? What facts remain hidden? Who is telling the truth, and who is lying? Even if we recognize the importance of the trial, to the eyes of ordinary citizens like us, the truth may not become apparent so easily. The even bigger problem is that this trial’s importance was not sufficiently conveyed to the general public through the mass media. The Criminal Trial of TEPCO, as its subtitle Undeniable Evidence and Nuclear Accident suggests, conveys the core evidence through visual images and narrations. It presents detailed pieces of evidence that proves their guilt, making the fact obvious to the eyes of the audience that the three former top executives of TEPCO quashed the planned construction project that would have safeguarded the facility against a tsunami—the cause of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident—in order to prevent a loss of profitability for TEPCO. Ogami Futaro, who was the film’s scriptwriter, editor, and assistant director, wrote in an email to me: “We explained numerous pieces of evidence that had almost become buried in the dark in the most intelligible manner possible.”15 15 From the text of Ogami Futaro’s e-mails exchanged with the author on July 12, 2019.

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This raises the following question: What kind of visual techniques did The Criminal Trial of TEPCO employ to present the process of the court hearings that lasted a little over two years in the most intelligible manner possible? First, it makes use of a vast number of borrowed images. It uses images from various existing media—moving images, photos, graphs, maps, newspaper clippings—and inserts them at appropriate places throughout the narrative. These images include those already reported by NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation), AFP (L’Agence France-Presse), FNN (Fuji News Network), Tokyo Electric Power Company, Fukushima Central Television, ANN (All Nippon News Network), Asahi Shimbun, as well as some with the printed copyright symbol of the Cabinet Public Relations Office.16 Through the abundant use of these publicly available archival images, combined with contrasting private images recorded with personal smartphones, the film guides the audience closer to “the undeniable evidence.” Especially in the first five minutes, The Criminal Trial of TEPCO visually demonstrates to the audience what happened to the victims at Futaba Hospital by editing impactful private images together in quick succession. Eight privately taken photos expose the truth that we could not perceive through mass media. For example, the film presents a normally bedridden patient being transported onto a bus and other photos showing how uncomfortable it must have been for these bedridden patients to spend long hours confined in the bus. Over these photos, the words, “No food, no medical care, in search of shelter for over ten hours” are displayed. Moreover, a photo of a rescue worker hurriedly performing emergency treatment on a patient who has taken a sharp turn for the worse on a doormat at the hospital entrance is followed by another photo showing a disorderly hospital hallway after all the people have been evacuated. Furthermore, another photo displays a scene at an evacuation shelter: patients and dead bodies are lined up on a high school gym floor, with yellow blankets over them. To this photo, a subtitle is added to explain the situation, “On March 14, about 9 p.m., six confirmed dead at a shelter at a high school.” As illustrated in this example, by editing public and private images together, this film communicates to the audience the tragic reality not presented on television news or in newspapers. 16 It should be noted that these “public” images are not quoted without permission. Their sources are shown on each screen, and the notice at the beginning of the f ilm—“This short film is also intended for introduction, reference, and criticism of news reports, publicity, and advertisements related to the TEPCO criminal trial”—is devised to guarantee its own legitimacy from the production stage regarding such citations.

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The intelligibility of visual expressions in The Criminal Trial of TEPCO is also expressed in the editing techniques applied to the written information. This film uses many official documents as a key component; however, not surprisingly, a documentary film does not allow enough time for all these documents to be read aloud to the audience in their entirety. Furthermore, these official documents are full of unfamiliar proper nouns and terminology, and it is not easy to explain them to the audience. This film attempts to overcome the difficulty of understanding these official documents with the power of storytelling demonstrated by the lawyer Kaido Yuichi, a member of both the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Accident Criminal Case Supporters Group and the Complainants for the Criminal Prosecution of the Fukushima Nuclear Disaster who was the producer and provided content supervision, and also thanks to the skillful editing by Ogami Futaro in charge of the script and the editing who also served as the assistant director. Take, for example, a document titled “Long-Term Evaluation on Seismic Activity from Sanriku Offshore to Boso Peninsula” written and published by the Headquarters for Earthquake Research Promotion and the Earthquake Research Committee on July 31, 2002. This “Long-Term Evaluation”—released by the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency within the Agency for Natural Resources and Energy, part of the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry—is a piece of critical evidence in the criminal trial against TEPCO and frequently referred to throughout the film. The Criminal Trial of TEPCO first introduces a premise emphatically written in red letters that the “Headquarters for Earthquake Research Promotion (Jishin Chosa Kenkyu Suishin Honbu)” is often abbreviated as “Suihon.” It shows the face of key players in this trial and their affiliations. As symbolized by war crimes cases, what is terrifying about crimes that are committed by organizations is that the identity of individual perpetrators disappears into the organizations they belong to, be it nation, government, society, or corporation. As a result, the question of where the responsibility lies is inevitably pointed toward organizations and not individuals. This often turns the pursuit of truth into a mere formality. In the end, getting to the heart of the issue becomes impossible. This film intentionally tries to avoid such digressions. The Criminal Trial of TEPCO pays attention to fine details and explains to the audience the key points of the trial in simple terms. For example, “taishin backcheck,” the terminology that Suihon uses in 2006 in a document that requires each power company to submit, is a word of special importance to this trial but is not generally known. The Criminal Trial of TEPCO pays attention to these expressions that are easily overlooked but crucial for getting to the truth of the case and explains them one by one. In this case,

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“taishin backcheck” is explained as “duties to assess the safety of the nuclear power plant against earthquakes and tsunamis and to report its validity to the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency.” In providing such supplemental explanations in written words, this film sometimes uses close-ups, the classic method of emphasis in old Hollywood films. On February 11, 2009, Tokyo Electric Power Company internally submitted a report at a meeting, “The Situation Concerning the Seismic Safety Evaluation at the Fukushima Site.” In this report, it is revealed that Tokyo Electric Power Company had decided not to start on the project to safeguard against tsunamis. In the document, the heading “Earthquake’s concomitant phenomenon (tsunami)” is marked with a “– (minus),” meaning not submitted. However, what becomes the issue in the trial are three handwritten notes right next to the heading: “problematic,” “cannot submit,” and “getting attention.” These notes were handwritten by someone attending the executive meeting. The film calls attention to them with an extreme close-up. This close-up scene corresponds to the visualization of written words often seen in recent Japanese variety shows, that is, the technique of adding emphasis by displaying utterances in written words on the screen. Next to those three hard-to-read handwritten notes, the same words are displayed in typewritten characters, adding further emphasis. In this section, I illustrated the intelligibility of visual expressions in The Criminal Trial of TEPCO, but what was the outcome of the trial itself? Against the wishes of The Criminal Trial of TEPCO, on September 19, 2019, all three former TEPCO executives were acquitted. Following the acquittal, Kawai’s second short film, The Unfair Ruling, was released on YouTube on November 3, 2019, about one-and-a-half months after the judgment. The Unfair Ruling was produced by the same crew as The Criminal Trial of TEPCO. In addition to re-editing the former film’s footage, it features Kaido Yuichi, the aforementioned lawyer and producer, explaining in an easy-to-understand manner to the audience why the criminal trial against TEPCO is an unfair ruling. Explanations about the entire course of the criminal trial itself and how the case was lost are demonstrated in a nested structure. Kaido’s interviews in talking-head format (an interview format in which the speaker is placed at the center of the frame) are presented in four longish sequences. While pointing out problems with presiding judge Nagafuchi Ken’ichi’s decision, Kaido explains how it is an unfair ruling in a convincing way. The aim of this chapter is not to pursue the truths/lies or good/evil of the criminal trial against TEPCO; therefore, I will not discuss here whether Kaido’s argument is right or wrong. Instead, I will highlight the following.

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These two short films with the copyright notice, “© K Project,” were produced from the start to be distributed through YouTube. That is a very different form of film distribution from the usual procedure. K Project did not produce these films to be presented in court as evidence. Rather, their purpose was to inform as many viewers as possible of the entire course of the criminal trial and its outcome with accuracy. As evident in the number of views—42,858 for The Criminal Trial of TEPCO; and 10,484 for The Unfair Ruling as of September 16, 2020—it is fair to think that, especially with regard to the first f ilm, Kawai’s initial purpose has been achieved to a considerable extent.

Views on Intelligibility through the History of the Documentary In this chapter, we discussed how intelligibility is expressed in Kawai’s work, but how were these expressions viewed? In this section, we reconsider how intelligibility is received in documentary cinema, comparing it to Japanese TV documentaries from the 1950s to 1960s. I have called Kawai’s performance using a whiteboard the Kawai lecture method because it looks like a preparatory school or university lecture. Kawai himself provides smooth and easy-to-understand explanations about complex matters from a lecturer-like position. Not only Nuclear Japan but many of Kawai’s films are, in addition to the visual expression using the whiteboard, rich with Kawai’s narrations. How were these films packed with the director’s own voice received? As mentioned previously, Kawai hired an agent in the U.S. and submitted Nuclear Japan to as many international film festivals as possible. It was submitted to practically every film festival in the world that screens documentaries: New York Human Rights Watch Film Festival (U.S.A.); Dokufest (Kosovo); Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival (Japan); Nuremberg International Human Rights Film Festival (Germany); Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival (U.S.A.); International Uranium Film Festival (an international film festival with rotating host countries/ cities, including Rio de Janeiro, Berlin, and Los Angeles); New York International Documentary Festival (DOC NYC, U.S.A.); Toronto International Film Festival (Canada); Seoul Eco Film Festival (Republic of Korea); Watch Docs International Film Festival: Human Rights in Film (Poland). However, unfortunately, he received no response.17 17 Kawai in an interview conducted by the author on December 2, 2019.

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In contrast to the disinterest of the f ilm festivals, the f ilm has been watched to this day by many audiences in Japan through independent screenings. The base fee for the independent screening of Nuclear Japan is 50,000 yen (approximately US$ 470) per screening. By the end of 2019, a total of 1,199 screening requests had been made, and 75,018 viewers had watched the film.18 This means Kawai’s production company had made almost 60 million yen (US$ 570,000) through these independent screenings. Considering approximately 20 million yen (US$ 190,000) spent on production and promotion activities, it is fair to assess that this film not only broke even but made a sufficient profit.19 When the high demand in the domestic audience is contrasted with the reality of the disinterest expressed by documentary film festivals both domestic and abroad, what insights emerge? As is widely known, it is difficult for the documentary genre in and of itself to earn a large amount of money at the box office. Compared to average fictional films, documentary films are in general made with a much lower budget and a smaller production crew. Their contents tend to be deeply tied to a limited time, region, people, or society, making it challenging for them to garner the same level of interest or emotional engagement that fictional films may enjoy. In short, documentary films are confronted by the difficulty of transcending cultural boundaries, both in the entertainment aspect of their visual expressions and in the universality of their content. Yet how are we to understand the glass ceiling that Kawai’s film encountered and the reality that its income was not necessarily low whereas the opinions among critics were? When we consider the reality of the high level of interest in Kawai’s film domestically as opposed to the low opinion of critics both in and outside Japan, the key to solving the mystery is in the regionality of post-3/11 Japanese society and the reality that Kawai’s film is itself competing in a space quite different from the league that it was originally intended to be a part of. I mentioned before that the factors characterizing Kawai’s works are its easy-to-follow instructiveness and the aesthetics/grammar that enables it. With these factors, Kawai makes it possible for viewers to cope with their confusion and anxiety stemming from the erosion of trust in the government and the nuclear village. In the post-3/11 cultural domain, these factors—instructiveness and the aesthetics of intelligibility to confront the sense of distrust toward the government—deeply connect Kawai’s film to many audiences/viewers because Kawai, the originator of the film (subject), 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid.

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and the audience who take part in the experience (object) are taking the same position in the same environment and confronting the same doubts and contradictions. The high level of resonance between subject and object created in simultaneity, historically speaking, more closely resembles that of the television documentary than documentary cinema. In other words, the glass ceiling that Kawai’s film encountered exists because Kawai himself is not aware that his film is in a different league. As previously mentioned, Kawai thought that “mass media such as television do not lend an ear to what I have to say in the first place.” Undoubtedly, anti-nuclear advocacy or anti-nuclear-village discourse may not be easily accepted by the television medium for political reasons. Nonetheless, to the audiences/viewers, Kawai’s documentary film, which is highly instructive and deals with modern, everyday matters, is not too far removed from television programs familiar to them. When we consider the canon of Japanese documentaries such as those by Tsuchimoto Noriaki and Ogawa Shinsuke, Kawai’s work is much closer to television than those considered to be documentary cinema. For that reason, if we refrain from making a comparison with traditional documentary cinema and instead compare it to another visual medium—television, or the “telementary” format, for instance, popularized since the late 1950s—Kawai’s film can be analyzed from a different perspective. “Telementary,” a word coined from “television” and “documentary,” may not sound familiar today, but in the history of the Japanese documentary, it was a new expression used for some television documentary programs during the 1950s. According to Matsuyama Hideaki, a scholar of television culture, a “telementary” was “a way of ‘thinking’ unique to television” and an expression containing “admiration for the new medium.”20 Literary critic Sasaki Kiichi (1914–1993) and filmmaker Hani Susumu (1928–) used the word with enthusiasm. What on earth is a telementary? The word was created and frequently used in critical discourse on the program The Real Face of Japan (Nihon no sugao), 306 episodes of which were broadcast on NHK from November 1957 to April 1964.21 This TV series became a topic of conversation among the intellectual class of that time. It left its mark on the history of television documentaries as a pioneer of full-blown documentary programs. As 20 Matsuyama Hideaki, “Terementari toiu shiko: NHK ‘Nihon no sugao’ to 1950 nendai” [The Concept of Telementary: NHK’s The Real Face of Japan and the 1950s]. In Tenkeiki no medioroji [Mediology of the Metamorphosis Period], eds. Toba Koji and Yamamoto Naoki (Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2019), 183–206. 21 Niwa Yoshiyuki, Nihon no terebi dokyumentari [Japanese TV Documentaries] (Tokyo: Tokyo University Press, 2020) analyzes this type of TV program in more detail.

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summarized in the expression “the transformation of the whole population of Japan into idiots” used by social critic Oya Soichi (1900–1970) in 1957, many TV programs that had just begun airing were generally criticized as being vulgar. At a time when people were warned that watching those television programs for long hours would cause them to lose their imagination and their ability to think, Nihon no sugao was supposed to overturn such criticism. What was the format of Nihon no sugao, which was touted as “television [that] has surpassed cinema” at that time?22 Matsuyama takes notice not of television but of street radio programs that were popular shortly after the end of World War II—such as Recorded on the Street (Gaito rokuon, 1946–1958), Social Exploration (Shakai tanbo, 1947–1951), and Window of Society (Shakai no mado, 1948–1954)—as one influence. Matsuyama elaborates: “These radio programs were called ‘recording compositions’ and reported the fresh voices of people living in the postwar chaos.” Moreover, “Nihon no sugao applied the techniques of ‘recording composition,’ that is, editing multi-layered voices, to a visual medium,…and arrived at a new method of television programming.”23 Simultaneously, Matsuyama placed the utmost emphasis on the concept of “the format unique to television” that Sasaki identified in Nihon no sugao at that time in contrast to cinema. Sasaki states: That type of composition probably cannot be applied to cinema as it is. At least, in the way that documentary cinema has been made till today, one cannot find such a style. It is my opinion that it is a format made possible only by television.24

In other words, Nihon no sugao became highly regarded for its rejection of many of the methods that were common among existing documentary cinema and for discovering a new montage form by adopting the techniques found in postwar radio programs. While referring to Sasaki’s remark, Matsu­ yama emphasizes the discovery aspect of it and draws our attention to the fact that this television program was “a legitimate child of radio, rather than cinema,” despite being a documentary.25 Furthermore, while focusing on the difference between documentary cinema and the telementary, he concludes that “it was during the 1950s that ‘television surpassed cinema.’”26 22 Matsuyama, “Telementari toiu shiko,” 188–189. 23 Ibid., 187. 24 Sasaki Kiichi, “Tere eiga ni tsuite [On TV movies],” Hoso bunka (August 1959), 8. Quoted in Matsuyama, “Terementari toiu shiko,” 188. 25 Matsuyama, “Terementari toiu shiko,” 188. 26 Ibid., 188–189.

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According to Matsuyama, there are two stylistic features worthy of note that are unique to Nihon no sugao (that is, the telementary): 1) “actuality,” a characteristic that places contemporaneity in the foreground; and 2) a new and different way for image and sound to relate to each other. He translates the term “actuality (akuchuariti)” as “reality (genjitsu-sei)” or “simultaneity (doji-sei)” and further adds the following explanation: Nihon no sugao described issues that it raised, be it a sign of the times, politics, or social welfare, as they were happening at that time.…Rather than presenting solutions that felt forced, but instead presenting the issues “in progress” as they were, the program indicated to the audience that these were not “other people’s problems.”27

Matsuyama describes these methods as new and fresh: presenting current issues as they are and raising an issue and keeping it at that rather than providing a solution or a conclusion in the end. In addition, regarding the relationship between image and sound, Matsu­ yama points out that, considering the small screen size and low resolution of CRT television sets of those days, visual aesthetics was not something you could expect from television programs in the 1950s. Therefore, the effect of sound, especially of narrations, played a more important role. Specifically, in the case of Nihon no sugao, he highlights the way that image and sound compete. In other words, “words are rarely used to explain an image, but rather, sound is used to criticize what the image indicates, or the image is used to ridicule what is being stated by the sound,” borrowing the words of Hani Susumu at that time.28 Matsuyama claims these stylistic features of telementary as new and fresh; however, in order for something to be felt new and fresh, it needs to be compared to something else. What, then, was it being compared to? Here, he compared television documentaries of the 1950s to visual media of earlier times, that is, the documentary film and the cultural film (bunka eiga) that came before the 1950s. In postwar Japan, documentary films were generally called “educational films.” From the wartime “documentary” and “cultural film” to the “educational film” that emerged after the war, there were factors that continued 27 Ibid., 189–190. 28 Ibid., 193. Hani Susumu’s quote is from “Terebi purodusa e no chosenjo: Kagami ni natte shimatta mado” [A Challenge to Television Producers: The Window That Has Ended Up Becoming a Mirror], Chuo Koron (November 1959), 203.

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to be used and others that were not.29 As examples of such continuity and discontinuity, Maruyama Tomomi, a scholar of media history, focuses on the involvement of Yoshida Naoya, who worked on the production of Nihon no sugao for many years first as a director and later as producer (Yoshida worked on the program from November 10, 1957 to June 26, 1960). Maruyama states: Yoshida regarded documentary films which participated in wartime propaganda as a form of documentary made to persuade viewers to accept a modelized understanding of reality and criticized its structure with its predetermined conclusion.…He took an approach called the “working hypothesis,” in which the creator of the program positions an understanding of reality generally considered a given as a mere hypothesis and shares the thinking process to either prove or disprove the hypothesis to the audience.30

Yoshida believed that the postwar television documentary had taken a departure from “the structure with its predetermined conclusion” represented by the wartime propaganda documentary film and changed in the direction of visualizing the process of thinking to prove or disprove a hypothesis. With that in mind, Maruyama emphasizes the following: If we reflect upon discourses surrounding the “format” of the visual documentary until today, they have gone back and forth between an emphasis on “the objective stance,” insisting that documentaries should depict a subject as it is, and “the subjective stance,” which insists that they present the creator’s message and argument. In contrast, we need to design a framework that does not return to the dualism of the past and rethink the documentary.31

While focusing on the point that we should rethink the subject-object dualism, let us return to Kawai’s work. Previously, I commented on the resonance between the style of telementary and Kawai’s work. Matsuyama characterized the former’s representative work, Nihon no sugao, as limiting 29 Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano, “Educational Films in Postwar Japan: Traces of American Cultural Policies in the Cold War Period.” In The Cold War and Asian Cinemas, eds. Poshek Fu and Man-Fung Yip (New York and London: Routledge, 2020), 95–118. 30 Maruyama Tomomi, “‘Nihon no sugao’ ni okeru ‘yoki janarizumu’: ‘Kyakkanteki’ dokyumentari no mosaku” [Good Journalism in ‘The Real Face of Japan’: In Search of an Objective Documentary], Shakai-shirin 60:3 (December 2013), 85. 31 Ibid., 78.

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itself strictly to raising an issue while refraining from presenting a solution or a conclusion and remarked that the style was “new and fresh” in those days. However, we should not overlook the fact that, in these television documentaries, because of the limitation imposed by the imaging technology of that time, a lack of visual aesthetics was being supplemented by narration. Narration played a particularly important role in creating the gap between the narration and image by purposely criticizing or ridiculing the image deemed objective in those days. That could be interpreted as an expression of the creator’s subjectivity. The distinctiveness of Nihon no sugao and, by extension, of the telementary could not have been achieved without the narration/subjectivity factor. In the meantime, Kawai’s work focuses on intelligibility, utilizing his eloquent narration, and he brings out his opinions (subjectivity) to the fore. This subjectivity is established upon the tension to visualize the invisible, while at the same time having actuality (objectivity) as defined by Matsuyama as “setting its main purpose on raising an issue, not on providing a solution or a conclusion.” Nonetheless, the crucial difference between the two groups of f ilms is that, while the telementary was regarded as new and fresh, Kawai’s work was ignored in the critical space for contemporary documentaries such as film festivals. I submit that this phenomenon stems from the fact that Kawai’s work inherits the television documentary style; in other words, it suggests a resonance between the two media. Following in the footsteps of the television documentary, what meaning does that bring to Kawai’s work? Contrary to the reception of the telementary in the 1950s, what it does is evoke the feelings of being worn-out and outdated. Since the 1950s, throughout the evolution of television media from a new medium into a medium for the masses, television documentary programs continued to be mass-produced and gained popularity. However, in the documentary category of today, the image of mediocrity has somehow been attached to Kawai’s work without consideration of the significance or value inherent in his work, as it reminds us of its resonance with the television documentary style that has earned familiarity among the general public. As I mentioned in the beginning, Kawai is an “amateur” when it comes to filmmaking. To him, there is no preconception or fixation concerning how documentary cinema should be. When we consider Kawai’s trajectory since his birth in 1944 along with the history of the documentary in Japan, the following fact comes into view. When Nihon no sugao began airing in 1957, Kawai was thirteen years old. Moreover, by the time the series came to an end in 1964 after gaining wide recognition among the general public, Kawai

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had turned twenty years old. In short, when Kawai decided to communicate his views to a large audience to let them know the truth after the Great East Japan Earthquake, the documentary style he chose might have been that of the television documentary programs he had watched in his formative years, in his teens.32

Conclusion I f ind the series of works produced by Kawai, an amateur f ilmmaker, intriguing and at the same time feel their freshness in the post-3/11 era. Throughout this chapter, we focused on intelligibility in Kawai’s work, and I believe this very characteristic to be the newest power of cinema to foster people’s awareness of nuclear issues, to encourage them to have fundamental doubts regarding the use of nuclear energy, and to confront this issue. As with the work of Kamanaka Hitomi discussed in the previous chapter, there is a continuing need today to persuade audiences/citizens by making use of the rhetoric of intelligibility. After 3/11, many Japanese citizens were made aware of the collapse of the safety myth. However, ten years after the disaster, Japan has not achieved a nuclear-free society, even though in far-away Sweden, Italy, Belgium, and Germany, nuclear power phase-out policies have already been put in place. Furthermore, Switzerland, Taiwan, and the Republic of Korea have set their sights on future plans to abandon nuclear power generation, prompted by the disaster of 3/11.

Works Cited “Genshiryoku mura” [Nuclear Power Village]. Wikipedia. https://ja.wikipedia.org/ wiki/原子力村 (Accessed April 4, 2023). “Haiyu ga haiyu toshite hibi jibun wo migaki, manabi, tanrenshi, shigeki wo ataeai, shojin suru tameno ‘benkyo kai’” [A “Study Session” for Actors to Improve, Learn, Train, Inspire Each Other, and Devote Themselves as Actors Every Day]. “Representative Lecturer.” https://ryudo009.jimdo.com/%E3%82%B9%E3%82 %BF%E3%83%83%E3%83%95/ (Accessed December 8, 2019). Hani, Susumu. “Terebi purodusa e no chosenjo” [Challenges to TV Producers]. Chuo Koron 74, no. 16 (November 1959): 198–207. 32 However, the discussion in this section does not require a direct relationship of influence between the two.

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Kawai Hiroyuki Kantoku Eiga Saito [The Director Kawai Hiroyuki Film Website]. “Press & Talk.” http://www.nihontogenpatsu.com/talk/脚本・編集・監督補： 拝身風太郎%E3%80%80弁護士視点の.html (Accessed March 28, 2023). Kawai, Hiroyuki. Nihon to saisei: Hikari to kaze no gigawatto sakusen [Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm]. K purojekuto, 2017. DVD. Maruyama, Tomomi. “‘Nihon no sugao’ ni okeru ‘yoki janarizumu’: ‘Kyakkanteki’ dokyumentari no mosaku” [Good Journalism in ‘The Real Face of Japan’: In Search of an Objective Documentary]. Shakai-shirin 60, no. 3 (December 2013): 77–98. Matsuyama, Hideaki. “Terementari toiu shiko: NHK ‘Nihon no sugao’ to 1950nendai” [The Idea of Telementary: NHK’s The Real Face of Japan and the 1950s]. In Tenkeiki no medioroji [Mediology of the Metamorphosis Period], edited by Toba Koji and Yamamoto Naoki, 183–206. Tokyo: Shinwasha, 2019. Niwa, Yoshiyuki. Nihon no terebi dokyuumentari [Japanese TV Documentaries]. Tokyo: Tokyo University Press, 2020. Sato, Makoto. Dokyumentari no shujigaku [The Rhetoric of Documentary]. Tokyo: Misuzu Shobo, 2006. “Sokatsu genka hoshiki” [Comprehensive Costing]. Wikipedia. https://ja.wikipedia. org/wiki/総括原価方式 (Accessed April 4, 2023). “Tanpen eiga Toden keiji saiban ugokanu shoko to genpatsu jiko YouTube de kokai!” [Short film TEPCO Criminal Trial: Conclusive Evidence and the Nuclear Accident Now on YouTube!]. YouTube video, 26:10. Posted by Eiga Nihon to Genpatsu [Film Japan and Nuclear Power Plant], July 11, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=ZJhyDSnutqk. Wada-Marciano, Mitsuyo. Japanese Cinema in the Digital Age. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2012. ———. “Educational Films in Postwar Japan: Traces of American Cultural Policies in the Cold War Period.” In The Cold War and Asian Cinemas, edited by Poshek Fu and Man-Fung Yip, 95–118. New York and London: Routledge, 2020. Weblio English-Japanese and Japanese-English dictionaries. “Powerhouse.” https:// ejje.weblio.jp/content/powerhouse (Accessed June 14, 2020). Yamamoto, Akihiro. Kaku enerugi gensetsu no sengoshi 1945–1960: “Hibaku no kioku” to “genshiryoku no yume” [The Postwar History of Nuclear Energy Discourse, 1945–1960: “Memories of Radiation Exposure” and “Dreams of Nuclear Power”]. Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin, 2012.

4. The Power of Interviews Abstract: Chapter 4 focuses attention on the “Tohoku Documentary Trilogy” directed by Sakai Ko and Hamaguchi Ryusuke. In documentary cinema, the relationships between subject and object are scrutinized and the scale of production is much smaller compared to f iction f ilm productions. The relationship between who is behind the camera and who is in front naturally becomes noticeable and can be of crucial importance. However, post-3/11 documentary cinema is even more sensitive about where f ilmmakers position themselves and the distance they put between themselves and their subjects. Under these circumstances, what new ways of f ilming did they invent? In this chapter, I analyze three f ilms that took an innovative approach to documentary f ilmmaking through the so-called “Z-shooting” strategy of interviewing. Keywords: interviews; Tohoku Documentary Trilogy; tsunami; Sendai Mediatheque; Z method

Post-3/11 documentary cinema exhibits an extremely high level of sensitivity to the relationship between filmmakers and their subjects. This was not simply due to political concerns but rather to ethical ones. In the face of victims shattered by devastating sadness after the disaster, filmmakers themselves felt conflicted about where they should stand or how they should behave as the subject of filming. As a result, they had to pause to consider their reasons and motivations for the act of filming itself. Amid such hesitation, what methodologies of f ilmmaking did post-3/11 f ilmmakers put into practice? This chapter analyzes the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy (Tohoku kiroku eiga sanbusaku), which consists of The Sound of Waves (Nami no oto, 2011), Voices from the Waves (Nami no koe, 2013), and Storytellers (Utau hito, 2013), and focuses on the directors, Sakai Ko and Hamaguchi Ryusuke, who challenged the boundaries of documentary

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch04

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f ilmmaking by inventing and executing a new method of interviewing in the films.1 A distinct characteristic shared by all three films in the trilogy is that the directors participate onscreen as interviewers and audience members. Without being concerned about the realism typically expected of documentary cinema, which emphasizes objectivity or authenticity, they deliberately push narrativity and fictionality to the forefront, thereby clarifying their stance that their films are not mere recordings of reality but a product of the complicity between the filmmakers and the object being filmed. Rather than characterizing this act of the filmmakers—i.e., revealing their own self or self-consciousness—as misrepresentation by outsiders (who are not victims themselves) or self-promotion, I hope to rethink the meaning of filming disasters and of documentary filmmaking. I will do so by appreciating their trilogy as an example of filmmakers creating something of their own—entirely different from what is produced by the mass media—while building on communications with many people by spending an enormous amount of time and effort. The films I analyze in this chapter rarely mention nuclear power plants or radiation exposure. Rather, the focus of these films is the tsunami. Tohoku Documentary Trilogy includes many interviews that Sakai and Hamaguchi conducted in the first months following the disaster. For that reason, they did not venture into the Difficult-to-Return Zone or the Restricted Residence Zone near the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant where the damage from the accident was devastating.2 Instead, their interviews were conducted far from the site of the Fukushima nuclear power plant accident, where the mass media believed it to be low in radiation exposure and therefore relatively safe. I later asked Hamaguchi why the issue of radiation exposure is conspicuously absent from the films. Hamaguchi replied that neither he nor Sakai had expected this absence. However, they decided to let the people speak and simply listen. In addition, reflecting on the fact that the interviews were often conducted in open spaces also occupied by other people, such as temporary housing, Hamaguchi thinks that in such public spaces, there may have been 1 It should be noted that Voices from the Waves consists of two parts, Voices from the Waves: Kesennuma and Voices from the Waves: Shinchimachi; however, in this book I will refer to the pair together as Voices from the Waves. 2 The Difficult-to-Return Zone (annual radiation dose exceeding 50 millisieverts) was defined as the area to which no one can return for five years or more counting from March 2012, one year after the accident. The Restricted Residence Zone (20 millisieverts to 50 millisieverts per year) was defined as the area where people are expected to be able to return to within a few years.

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peer pressure at work to inhibit the interviewees from discussing radiation exposure, an uncertain fear. The Great East Japan Earthquake affected a vast geographical area, and the nature of the damage varied as well. In the summer of 2011, many people whom Sakai and Hamaguchi encountered had no idea as to how they might rebuild their lives after the disaster. They were confused and overwhelmed by the immediate difficulties confronting them rather than being concerned about the invisible, i.e., more serious, worries that were certain to hit them at some point in the future—internal exposure to radiation caused by the nuclear accident, for instance. Their families and friends were lost in the earthquake and the tsunami; their houses gone and their workplaces completely destroyed. As you continue to read this chapter, I would like you to keep in mind that invisible issues associated with the nuclear accident are casting a shadow of absence on these interviews and on all of us who live in Japan. Last but not least, I would like to reiterate that the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy would not have been made without the involvement of Sendai Mediatheque, a public facility opened in 2001 as a library combined with an art gallery, which later became an archive of post-3/11 images. The codirectors of the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, Sakai Ko and Hamaguchi Ryusuke, produced the trilogy in association with Sendai Mediatheque. The role of Sendai Mediatheque after the earthquake is significant in terms of saving “lost” images and memories after 3/11, and their effort in creating a community archive is nothing short of innovative. For more information on this, I point readers to Build a Community Archive (Komyuniti akaibu wo tsukuro!, 2018), a book introducing the community archives.3 The video archive of the 1995 Great Hanshin Earthquake consists overwhelmingly of recordings made by the mass media. Almost no recordings made by ordinary citizens of the earthquake or shortly after the earthquake exist. In contrast, by 2011, people were able to record personal images using their mobile phones and upload them to the Internet. However, there was no systematic archive that enabled public access to these recordings. Sendai Mediatheque came forward to offer such a platform, the Center for Remembering 3/11 (Sangatsu Juichinichi wo Wasurenai-tameni Senta, known as “Wasuren”), on May 3, 2011. 3 Sato Kazuhisa, Kai Kenji, and Kitano Hisashi, Komyuniti akaibu wo tsukuro!: Sendai Mediateku “3 gatsu 11 nichi wo wasurenaitameni senta” funtoki [Build a Community Archive!: Sendai Mediatheque “Center for Remembering 3/11” Struggle Record] (Tokyo: Shobunsha, 2018). In its Acknowledgements, the book mentions “all the participants, donors, and collaborators of the Center for Remembering 3/11” and “the Graduate School of Film and New Media, Tokyo University of the Arts,” 370.

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This chapter is paired with the Appendix provided at the end of the book, which contains the interview conducted at a film workshop when Hamaguchi Ryusuke was invited to Kyoto University Graduate School of Letters in 2015. In analyzing the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy in this chapter, I will examine the architecture of these films from two axes. First, I will introduce Hamaguchi and Sakai’s style of filmmaking. Second, I will analyze the role of documentary cinema as testimony.

What is the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy? The Sound of Waves and Voices from the Waves are significantly different from Storytellers. The two directors always open their interviews in the first two films of the trilogy with several specific questions. “What were you doing on March 11th?”, “What have you been doing up to now since March 12th?”, 4 and “What had you been doing up to March 10th?” While the first two films consist mainly of interviews in the talking-head style of directing, part three focuses on folk storytellers and their audiences in the Tohoku region. In part three, the two directors do not ask the questions mentioned above; instead, they place Ono Kazuko, a researcher of folktales, at the center of the folk storytelling space within the film. Nonetheless, the underlying factor connecting these three films can be found in the title of each film: The Sound of Waves, Voices from the Waves, and Storytellers. All the titles focus on the production of sounds that the audience will listen to. While it is widely understood that films usually place great weight on seeing, the trilogy calls the audience’s attention to something new, that is, the act of listening. The Sound of Waves opens with a series of shots showing waves breaking on the shore. A short distance from the beach, collapsed breakwaters appear tilted to one side like a piece of modern art. Seeing this mark left by the tsunami, the audience realizes that the visual space that they are witnessing is Tohoku in the present. However, in the beginning sequence—consisting of staged elements such as calm waves lapping on a beautiful sandy beach, a row of lopsided breakwaters at a tilted angle, and the stillness of seagulls leisurely resting on top of them—the scars of the earthquake and tsunami are so poetic that they could be inadvertently overlooked. 4 Hamaguchi went to Sendai in May 2011 and Sakai in July, and since then they lived in Sendai while filming these interviews. Therefore, we can see that this “now” is the time after July 2011, from summer to early autumn.

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Immediately following this series of images is the sudden appearance of Tabata Yoshi, a storyteller performing her kami-shibai picture-story show titled Tsunami. The audience watching the film is thrown into the position of the audience for the picture-story show. At that moment, with the camera positioned in front of the picture-story show performance, the film’s audience and the filmmakers share the perspective of an intruder from the outside who knows nothing about the tsunami that happened in the past. When we speak of documentary film produced through the act of reconstructing memories, where listening or storytelling itself is emphasized, some may recall Claude Lanzmann’s film Shoah, which caused a worldwide stir after its premiere in 1985. For various reasons, Shoah was not released in Japan until 1995, ten years after its initial release. Shoah means “catastrophe” in Hebrew but Lanzmann has revealed that the film’s original working title was “Site and Speech.”5 I think that “Site and Speech” is also suitable as a title for Sakai and Hamaguchi’s trilogy. Although their trilogy may look at first glance like an accumulation of interviews (speech), the places in which the interviews take place and the landscapes that serve as connectors between the interviews also function as critical sites in the film. As we contemplate the architecture of the trilogy and the significance of speech and sites within it, a comparison with Shoah will be used accordingly. Film scholar Ma Ran, while defining the element linking the titles of the trilogy’s films as “storytelling,” writes as follows: The titles of the trilogy, “sound,” “voice,” and “sing” (utau), suggest not only that Hamaguchi et al. are conscious of the element of storytelling inherent in documentary cinema but also reveal their stance of asking questions about the relationships between cultural symbols, memories, and reality, by dialectically engaging with what can be seen, expressed in words, felt, and remembered.6

In analyzing the trilogy, Ma Ran repositions Sakai and Hamaguchi’s trilogy within the context of “the post-Fukushima documentary” (PFD). At the 5 Claude Lanzmann with Marc Chevrie and Hervé le Roux, “Site and Speech: An Interview with Claude Lanzmann about Shoah (1985).” In The Documentary Film Reader: History, Theory, Criticism, ed. Jonathan Kahana (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 786. 6 Ma Ran, “Kioku to shintai wo norikoeru: Tohoku dokyumentari sanbusaku to posuto Fukushima dokyumentari [Overcoming Memory and Body: The Tohoku Documentary Trilogy and Post-Fukushima Documentaries].” In Posuto-311 media gensetsu saiko [Rethinking “Post-3/11” Media Discourse], ed. Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano (Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2019), 290.

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same time, she states that the PFD can be broadly classified into three mutually related styles. Representative works of the PFD mentioned in her analysis are: 1) archives of 3/11 testimonies produced by NHK, i.e., television documentary programs; 2) independent documentary films that place great emphasis on filming on location in the affected region and, as a result, reflect the local aesthetics of the region; and lastly, 3) the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi as distinct from the other two categories, which Ma Ran points out represents a new style of film that disrupts the boundary between reality and fiction.7 By considering how the trilogy exposes the constructed nature of the boundary between reality and fiction, it is possible to examine the films not only in the synchronic context of post-Fukushima documentary cinema in Japan but also in the global and diachronic context of the history of documentary cinema. Previously I mentioned the talking-head style of directing in the trilogy. This style has been regarded as one of the methods to emphasize the element of reality, such as the objectivity of an image and the veracity of the testimony produced, as the camera films the object being interviewed as the Other. Ever since the 1960s, the history of documentary cinema has transitioned from “cinéma vérité,” which highlights reality in front of the camera, to “direct cinema” in which the filmmaker becomes “a fly on the wall” in an effort to make the presence of the camera disappear so as to convey directly to the audience the experience of seeing the subject, and f inally to “observational cinema,” referring to the general category of documentary film that records the reality in front of the camera as is. This term “observational film” has been widely advocated by director Soda Kazuhiro, and is described to have its origin in direct cinema, which emerged in the United States in the 1960s.8 Positioned in the history of documentary cinema spanning half a century, the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy’s adoption of the talking-head style of directing can be regarded as a position of anti-vérité (anti-reality). The objective for the two filmmakers is not to record what is perceived as reality but to film a nuanced fiction unfolding in front of the camera through attention to performative acts of storytelling. The trilogy not only introduces the audience to what is new and fresh in the history of documentary filmmaking but also gives us a clue for contemplating a new possibility in cinema itself. 7 Ibid. 8 Soda Kazuhiro, “Kansatsu eiga ni tsuite no oboegaki” [Memorandum on Observational Films], https://www.kazuhirosoda.com/oboegaki, in Kazuhiro Soda Filmmaker (Accesed April 1, 2023).

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Three Methods Exhibited in the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy (1) Departure from Archiving Hamaguchi Ryusuke has talked about how he and Sakai Ko started what would become the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy. The project began as a result of the role that Tokyo University of the Arts Graduate School of Film and New Media took in founding the Center for Remembering 3/11 (“Wasuren”). However, Hamaguchi has said that he and Sakai participated in the project not out of a sense of obligation due to being associated with the university but rather out of “individual desires to get involved.” Moreover, Hamaguchi revealed that the two objectives in making the trilogy were to create archives for the Center for Remembering 3/11 and to produce their own films. They were wearing two hats as they worked on the project. Hamaguchi also mentioned that the trilogy was “filmed with the premise that all of the footage was going to be archived,” that their films were made by extracting from those materials, and that “archiving and turning the footage into a film were happening at the same time, like a pair of wheels.” Let us ponder the difference between archiving and making films, which Hamaguchi has pointed out. What he pays attention to as a filmmaker is first the issue of the length of a piece and second the need for design in the process of making a film: If we talk about archiving, it is recording moving images and preserving them as is. For instance, most interviews are two to three hours in length, and out of these two to three hours of footage, we preserve as much as the interviewee permits us to. On the other hand, in terms of “making films,” there are several stages going from there to a finished work, which depends on how you define the work, but I think it means to present it with your own signature, in other words, it needs to go through some degree of editing.9

According to this viewpoint, the difference between archiving and making films is preserving the reality in front of the camera to the greatest extent at one end and cutting it and reconstructing it into a finished work at the other end. Editing is part of the process through which reality is converted into fiction. Through the post-production process of editing their documentary trilogy, Sakai and Hamaguchi departed from archiving. They also departed from archiving in other ways. First, they refrained from recycling the catastrophic 9

From Film Workshop Interview. See Appendix.

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recorded images that began to accumulate immediately after the earthquake. Second, they decided not to film the devastating sights of damage from the earthquake, which were still in front of their camera. In short, in producing the trilogy, Sakai and Hamaguchi chose not to depend on images reminiscent of the disaster, which many videographers were probably looking for in the affected regions in those days. Let us look at the structure of The Sound of Waves once again. Kitagawa Yoshio’s cinematography has a rhythmical structure. There are a total of six interview sequences, each one sandwiched between a three-tiered transitional sequence consisting of a map; a dotted line drawn on the map animated to show the movement of the car that Sakai and Hamaguchi are traveling in; and scenery supposedly filmed from their car window. Film scholar Ma Ran describes the structure of the trilogy’s films in terms of road movies: The trilogy is structured as a series of road movies.…Though the reason for the trips is hinted at in the film, the trilogy does not try to get closer to and look straight at the devastated landscape.…The filmmakers do not place value on doing direct and newsworthy reporting on the devastated landscape of Tohoku and the hardships faced by evacuees.10

I will give an example of Sakai and Hamaguchi’s choice to look away from the devastated landscape and hardships faced by evacuees. After the interview with Tabata Yoshi and Higashi Kinu, elderly sisters introduced at the beginning of The Sound of Waves, the viewer sees a map of the town of Taro overlapping an image taken from a car window. In the car, Sakai is driving. Sakai and Hamaguchi, sitting side by side, are filmed through the windshield, a scene which is typically used in fictional films to create an illusion that the driver is actually driving. In the scene, Hamaguchi is in the passenger seat, reading a book, and neither Sakai nor Hamaguchi looks directly at the camera in front. The book Tsunami and Village by Yamaguchi Yaichiro, a Fukushima-born scholar of geography and folklore, is recited as the narration to the scene. The audience listens to the unfamiliar-sounding onomatopoeia of a massive tsunami described by Yamaguchi, “nohn, nohn,” which is recited in Hamaguchi’s voice as the narration. In this elaborate staging, both the devastated landscape and hardships faced by evacuees are invisible. In addition, although the moving images of the mountain road filmed through the car window are inserted in this sequence, they are far from direct and newsworthy reporting. Rather, it occurs as though it were 10 Ma Ran, “Kioku to shintai wo norikoeru,” 289.

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a prelude to an adventure story where two young men from Tokyo make their way into the unknown world of post-earthquake Tohoku. It is the most fictional scene in the film, giving the audience a premonition of the start of the encounters between the two in the car and the disaster victims in Tohoku. So far, we have discussed the departure from archiving through editing, that is, a departure from images likely to be archived. Lastly, I will explicate another departure from archiving by borrowing filmmaker Fujii Hikaru’s expression “the evil and madness of archiving,” something that happened regardless of whether Sakai and Hamaguchi had intended it to happen. First, let us listen to a remark by Fujii, who also produced a post-3/11 documentary film (ASAHIZA, Ningen wa doko e iku, 2014) for Sendai Mediatheque. Fujii points out that, especially since the earthquake, filming and archiving have been elevated to the level of absolute good or justice. Fujii writes: Generally speaking, after the earthquake, filming in and of itself has become defined by social justice.…like you must participate in the huge power mechanism called an archive.…Within the act of recording or archiving, the evil and madness of archiving are lurking for certain.11

“The evil and madness of archiving”—excessive positivity and an uncritical stance toward preserving images resulting from archival supremacy—was not something that newly arose after this disaster. Nonetheless, they undoubtedly exist and, one may wonder if they originate from the ambiguity and diversity of an archive itself. It is difficult for many of us ordinary people to readily answer the question “what is an archive?” The word archive makes us think of records themselves, such as those collected for the Center for Remembering 3/11 project, or a facility for records like Sendai Mediatheque. However, many of us do not see the meaning of the word as obvious. To begin with, in Japanese the word is a loan word expressed by katakana notation as “akaibu(su)” and has not found a well-fitting Japanese equivalent. Even though the National Institute for Japanese Language and Linguistics translates it as “hozon kiroku” (preserved records) or “kiroku hozon kan” (buildings for preserved records), the word archive cannot be reduced to just records or buildings. Nonetheless, after the earthquake, has there been any discussion anywhere about the diversity in the use of the word archive? For example, does the word archive indicate collected materials, places 11 Fujii Hikaru, Sakai Ko, Hamaguchi Ryusuke, and Shimizu Kento, “Kameraichi to shinko, arui wa kyoki” [Camera Position and Faith or Madness], Mirufuiyu 07: Soki no hosoku (Miyagi: Sendai Mediateku, 2015), 187.

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that store them, the information contained in the materials, discussions about the varied degrees of significance (the hierarchical nature of recorded materials such as meaningful archives or more important archives), or about the disparity in ethics (whether an act of recording has crossed the line between good and evil for every person in a community)? Furthermore, I highly doubt that people are broadly aware of the existence of political and economic dynamics at work. “The evil and madness of archiving” that Fujii calls attention to continued to be invisible in post-3/11 Tohoku. Due to the scale and severity of devastation and tragedy in the region, there was a sense of purpose in the act of archiving: making a record of it so that future generations can learn from it. That sense of purpose became widespread throughout Japanese society and gained momentum. As a result, those involved in archiving were given a free pass. Since a camera is an entrance leading to a film or other visual media, being in front of a camera and allowing yourself to be exposed comes with grave risks. There is no way of anticipating which scene one will feature in, how one will be seen and judged, and by what audience. Unfortunately, it is difficult not only for the completed film itself but also for the one who operates the camera—the filmmaker—to protect the object who is being exposed. A minimal level of legal protection such as portrait rights exists. However, the practice of asking for the permission of a rights holder or signing a letter of agreement to protect someone’s privacy is still uncommon in Japan, and there are limits to what these practices can protect. I surmise that Sakai and Hamaguchi tried to escape “the evil and madness of archiving” in two ways: first, they positioned themselves on stage with the interviewee in front of the camera; second, they successfully established a mutually complicit relationship between themselves (the ones recording/ interviewing) and the interviewee through negotiations carefully repeated in the process of editing, with the agreement of the subject (interviewee). Hamaguchi and Sakai explain the process as follows: Hamaguchi: Concerning ethics, we behaved very carefully. Respecting interviewees’ privacy, not asking too many questions, honoring their wish not to be included or not to include part of their interview in the final cut.…I think we took great care with the process of having them participate in the film.12 Sakai: There were moments during the interview when we let out a voice of wonderment or some other emotion, and that becomes the part that we 12 Ibid., 178–179.

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want to use in the editing. Then we consult the interviewee, show them the scene that we are editing, and get their permission for the part that we want to use.…Every time we edit, we include the interviewee in the process and make sure that we are on the same page.13

Although taking such a painstaking approach in communicating and confirming the interviewees’ intentions meant that it was a time-consuming process, Sakai and Hamaguchi may well have succeeded in keeping a certain distance from “the evil and madness of archiving.” To minimize the feeling of a troubled conscience that comes from the ambiguous nature of archiving, they chose ways to build empathy with the interviewees while avoiding disagreement. (2) Landscapes That One Cannot Film and Others That One Will Not Film Let us dive deeper into the methodology in the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy by examining “the landscapes that one cannot film” that Sakai and Hamaguchi found in the process of transitioning from archiving to making films. The judgment that one cannot film arises from the fate of the camera called “belatedness,” which Sakai and Hamaguchi were already feeling at the time of filming. Let us return once again to the film workshop discussion. In the film workshop, Hamaguchi talked about arriving in Sendai for the first time in May of 2011 and filming The Sound of Waves from July to August of the same year. Leaving behind the images of the disaster that he had watched on television while in Tokyo, when he arrived in the disaster-stricken region, he felt all the images that could have been filmed had already been filmed. Also, in another interview, he describes his state of mind at that time in the following manner: In the disaster-stricken region, there are panoramic landscapes where you have a 360-degree view of your surroundings. When I was actually on site, while the landscape was overwhelming, I had a feeling that I could not possibly capture this with a camera. Even though we had watched the scenes of the disaster area on television, when we stood in that landscape, we felt that it was completely different from what we had seen on television and that something was missing from the images that we had watched when we were back in Tokyo.14 13 Ibid., 180. 14 Ibid., 169.

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Setting aside the technical challenges of filming a landscape, this feeling of “cannot possibly capture with a camera” becomes further clarified by Hamaguchi’s words in the film workshop. The issue is, supposing something extraordinary was happening, how could a camera be present? That is what I am always thinking. Though it may seem simple, that is not the case. I think in most cases, for one reason or another, a camera cannot be there.15

Unless filming 24/7 with a surveillance camera, even if something extraordinary happens at a given time, it is difficult to capture that moment with a camera. This may be self-evident for any photographer; nonetheless, Sakai and Hamaguchi were not the only ones attempting to overcome “belatedness,” the inescapable fate of a camera in documentary cinema. Lanzmann, the director of Shoah, is one of them. In 1976, approximately thirty years after the end of World War II, Lanzmann began filming a documentary about the Nazi concentration camps. His belatedness relates not only to the fact that the objects of the past had faded with the passing of time, it was also exacerbated by the fact that during the last years of the war, the Nazi Party itself had already obliterated many of the concentration camps. Many of the films left preserved were the ones recorded by the Nazis, which Lanzmann found to be detached from reality. As he felt ethically conflicted about using these films, he decided to distance himself from these archived materials and to seal them off as “images that one will not film.” Moreover, Lanzmann, like Sakai and Hamaguchi, not only decided not to use visual materials from the past, he also placed strict restrictions regarding what he himself intended to leave behind with his film—what to archive, so to speak. In his film, no narration gets inserted abruptly from outside of the narrative universe of the film. Neither does music. To sum it up, the film looks like an oral history collection performed by interviewees; however, at the same time, this oral history is produced with unmistakable fictional film elements. Among those film elements, landscape plays an especially important role, and the power of this element shares a significant commonality with the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi. For instance, in the landscape that Lanzmann shows us through his camera, there are no remains of the concentration camp, only barren grasslands. Even so, the moment that the landscape is set on the screen, the audience is reminded of the history that no longer exists in visible form: 15 From the Hamaguchi Ryusuke Film Workshop interview (see Appendix).

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a Nazi concentration camp used to stand there, and over a million Jews were indiscriminately slaughtered. Moreover, what Lanzmann’s camera captures through the interviews with the few remaining survivors is not a record of the event itself but the facial expressions of people who continue to live while internalizing the horrific events and the inflection of their voices that echo their feelings. The ultimate manifestation of belatedness in Lanzmann’s work is found in the restaging of a steam locomotive in Shoah. From 1976 to the early 1980s, when the film was in production, steam locomotives were no longer being operated in the remote region in Poland where he was filming. However, Lanzmann successfully negotiated with a local railroad company to operate a locomotive in this barren land just for the shoot. Lanzmann later spoke of it as “my locomotive.”16 The film opens with a scene of the locomotive arriving at the place where the Nazi concentration camp used to be and ends with a scene of its departure. Although such restaging may seem to go against the principles of reality, Lanzmann chose another level of reality. By showing the aged survivors a locomotive identical to the ones that transported Jews to the concentration camp in those days and showing what they recall and what they relate about that time, he captured a new reality and challenged the fate of the belatedness of the camera/cinema. I need to add that Lanzmann was not the first to attempt to overcome belatedness. For example, in 1976 Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet produced a documentary film called Fortini/Cani. The film captures a long take of Franco Fortini, an Italian poet, reading aloud a part of his book, I Cani del Sinai (The Dogs of Sinai). In the book, he gives an account of himself in a nation growing increasingly Fascist day by day, having a Catholic mother and a Jewish father and being isolated from both Judaism and Italian society in those days. The long take of the unsentimental way in which he recites his book is shown in contrast with the scenery of an ordinary Italian town in the 1970s. Like Lanzmann’s Shoah and the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi, the work of Straub-Huillet tries to overcome the belatedness of the camera by staging a conflict between the past—expressed by Fortini’s book/words as a medium that spills out of his body—and the present symbolized by the scenery of Italy at the time of filming. If the scenery of the present provides reality to Fortini/Cani, fictional freedom is made possible by the past revealed in the fragments of memory delivered through the poet’s voice. Returning to the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi, let us examine the landscape used as a device to overcome belatedness. In filming the trilogy, 16 Claude Lanzmann with Marc Chevrie and Hervé le Roux, “Site and Speech,” 788.

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Sakai and Hamaguchi encountered an underlying fact in the landscape that they did not expect to find, which was discussed in a live chat program that they streamed as they were filming the trilogy, “Talk Log (1): What is The Sound of Waves Project? (Katarogu (1): Nami no Oto Purojekuto to wa).”17 As they read various documents in preparation for filming the disaster caused by the tsunami in 2011, they encountered the fact that it was not the first time that the coastal region of Tohoku had been devastated by a tsunami. In fact, the same region had been repeatedly ravaged by tsunamis in the past. The most recent example was the tsunami caused by the Great Chilean Earthquake in 1960 that killed 139 people; other examples include the Showa Sanriku Tsunami of 1933 that killed over 3,000 and the Meiji Sanriku Tsunami of 1896 that caused the worst tsunami disaster of all time in Japan, killing as many as 22,000. In the picture-story show introduced at the beginning of The Sound of Waves, Tabata Yoshi relates her memories of the Showa Sanriku Tsunami of 1933 in Taro-cho, Miyako, Iwate Prefecture. Naturally, Sakai and Hamaguchi wondered about the memories of many past tsunamis in the coastal region of Tohoku that seemed to have faded. “Will this (the tsunami of 2011), too, be forgotten?”, and if that were the case, “what is the meaning of archiving?”18 The feeling of puzzlement is apparent in the questions that Sakai poses to Shoji Yoshiaki, a tax accountant and city council member of Ishinomaki, in the fourth interview in The Sound of Waves. Sakai asks Shoji about his desire to continue living in a region that is frequently affected by tsunamis and can anticipate that it will be struck again, even after he has experienced the disaster. What is gradually revealed in this interview sequence, in which Shoji repeats himself by stating that he will continue living in the region “because it is my hometown,” is the fact that Sakai remains unconvinced of Shoji’s answer and that Shoji’s wife does not necessarily agree with his desire to continue living in the region. Sakai never challenges or contradicts Shoji; instead, he communicates his puzzlement over Shoji’s desire to continue living in the region through countless questions that pour out of him. The landscapes that Sakai and Hamaguchi decided they “will not film” were sensational images of the devastation that had been captured by mass media and smartphones. On the other hand, the landscapes that they felt they “cannot film” may be what the interview with Shoji revealed, that is, 17 Katarogu (1): Nami no Oto purojekuto towa? [Talk Log (1): What is The Sound of Waves Project?], https://recorder311.smt.jp/movie/2116/ (Accessed March 3, 2020). 18 Ibid.

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Shoji’s mental image of “the hometown.” Having been washed away by the tsunami, the hometown is now gone and has been recreated in Shoji’s mind as a symbol; as a result, for him, recovering it has become his life purpose. The question then becomes how two young men from Tokyo could possibly capture a landscape called “the hometown” that each of the many disaster victims hold dear to their own hearts? It is impossible for us, the audience, not to feel a sense of resignation from the trilogy. Sakai relates the feeling of being at an impasse in the following manner. Hamaguchi was saying he didn’t know where to position the camera, in which direction. Worries aside, there is a reality in front of us and once we roll the camera, it will record something, I thought. But when I am actually in the coastal region and about to film a scene, I too have no idea where to position the camera. When we watch the footage that we have shot for a camera test, honestly speaking, it shows nothing of what we felt when we were on site.19

The bewilderment that they felt in the face of the landscape may have been deeply connected to the fact that in the early stage of the production, they had not been completely clear about the meaning of recording the disaster with f ilm as their method. In “Talk Log (1),” the streaming program mentioned before, there is a scene where Sakai shows interest in the history contained in people’s bodies. Having given up on filming the landscape, they re-directed the focus of their filming to the landscape where history, invisible to their eyes, emerges. In other words, they turned their focus on filming the storytelling, or interview, capturing the moment when the disaster victim’s entire body tells a story about an event as their history. (3) The Power of Cinema Inherent in the Interview Format Feeling bewildered by the landscape, Sakai and Hamaguchi sought a breakthrough in storytelling, in other words, the interview method. Sakai says: Before I joined him, Hamaguchi was listening to someone relate their experience about the tsunami in the past and had the feeling that somehow, this he could film.20 19 Fujii, Sakai, Hamaguchi, and Shimizu, “Kameraichi to shinko, arui wa kyoki,” 169–170. 20 Ibid., 170.

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Figure 4.1: Camera positions in the “Z method”

The two decided to film the record of storytelling through moving images. Within the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, there is a discontinuity. As I mentioned previously, between the first two, The Sound of Waves and Voices from the Waves, and the last, Storytellers, there is continuity but there is also a mysterious feeling of dissociation at the same time. Whereas the first two are composed of a series of interviews with disaster victims, the last film is the recording of a meeting of the Miyagi Folklore Association (Miyagi Minwa no Kai), with the camera capturing the retelling of folklores handed down through generations in the region. Nonetheless, the three films are also connected through the act of fieldwork, and to Sakai and Hamaguchi, there was no conscious disconnect between the two types of films in the trilogy.21 Fieldwork generally is an act of visiting places in order to collect historical/folkloric materials; however, in their case, they visit the storytelling, listen to it, and film it. What they paid attention to through the methodology of fieldwork was a fine voice and the power of listening. To put it differently, they took notice of and focused on the fact that for good storytelling to manifest itself, there needs to be one body to project a fine voice to reach into the heart of the audience and another body that makes a conscious effort to listen. To create the moment of fusion between a fine voice and the power of listening, the two adopted an interview method called the “Z method” in The Sound of Waves and Voices from the Waves. Let us look at how the filming is actually staged in the “Z method.” Usually, when a two-person interview is being filmed, two cameras are set up positioned over each person’s shoulder, resulting in a technique called “shot/reverse shot” (Figure 4.1). Sakai and Hamaguchi use “shot/reverse shot” to film the interview subjects in the first part of an interview, and sixty minutes later as they change the camera batteries, they reposition the cameras so that each camera is directly in front 21 Sato, Kai, and Kitano, Komyuniti akaibu wo tsukuro!, 151.

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of each subject. As they continue the interview, the subjects are instructed to look straight at the camera. At this point, the interview subjects are sitting not facing each other directly but diagonally opposite each other, as shown in the image on the right in Figure 4.1. However, the setup is designed so that the distance between the two becomes shortened; therefore, the relationship already established between the two is not easily broken. Those familiar with documentary film techniques will notice that the Z method is similar to Interrotron, which is known for being invented by documentary film legend Errol Morris. Morris used the Interrotron technique to shoot his interview with former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara in The Fog of War (2003), and Donald Rumsfeld, another former Secretary of Defense, in The Unknown Known (2013). Both McNamara and Rumsfeld were able to make eye contact directly with the camera, while giving their testimonies about events that changed the course of history. In short, Interrotron is a device for capturing images in which the filmic subject looks directly into the camera while being interviewed, i.e., maintains eye contact with the film audience through the camera. Sakai and Hamaguchi, who studied filmmaking under the cinephile filmmaker Kurosawa Kiyoshi at Tokyo University of the Arts, must have been familiar with this Interrotron technique by the time they filmed the trilogy. However, the Interrotron technique requires two expensive studio prompters. Perhaps to avoid this expense, the two young filmmakers developed the Z method, in which the cameras are shifted and positioned to face each other diagonally without prompters. Let us look at several photos that illustrate this method (see Figures 4.2 and 4.3). These photos show the staging of the cameras in the Z method that the two directors used, which was reproduced and exhibited from November 2014 to January 2015 at the “Records and Recalls” exhibition at Sendai Mediatheque. Let us focus on one photo in particular (Figure 4.3). This photo, which is the last photo in the sequence, shows what subject A is actually seeing during the interview after the cameras have been switched to the Z method. Seeing this photo, what came to my attention is that what subject A is seeing while the Z method is being executed is not limited to the camera lens directed at them and subject B sitting diagonally opposite them. If I am sitting in subject A’s position—that is, in front of the camera shown in Figure 4.3—I will be seeing my own expression during the shoot, the inverted image of myself in the small monitor rotated 180 degrees to face me that is attached to the high-performance camera. It is similar to the feeling that one gets when using two-way communication applications such as Skype or Zoom. A subtle difference is that when you are using Skype or

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Figure 4.2: Setup for the “Z method”

Figure 4.3: What the interviewee sees

Zoom, the image of the other person speaking at a given moment usually takes up most of the screen and the image of yourself gets shoved to a corner of the screen, while in the Z method, even though another person is sitting diagonally in front on your left, you are the only one shown on the screen.

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When the subject looks at themselves despite the fact that they are being interviewed by the other person, an artificial time and space is created, designed to make the subject conscious of how they are telling the story and how “the other” is perceiving them telling the story. Hamaguchi points out that from the time and space of the Z method arise opportunities for fiction to be born. What does it mean that fiction is born from a documentary? Furthermore, what kind of moment is it when the audience watching the documentary recognizes it as fiction? An interview usually is an act designed to draw out storytelling about experiences and feelings of the past. Many interviews by Sakai and Hamaguchi, which always open with the question “What were you doing on March 11?”, are no exception in terms of their purpose to discover the past. When you excavate a past deep within people’s bodies or memory, once the past has gone through the medium of their body, it is no longer the past itself. It is also evident that an interview, as a device, does not inherently produce an ultimate truth. Sakai and Hamaguchi are already aware of the self-contradiction that the device of the interview is inevitably equipped with: although it is assumed that truths are being told, it is not necessarily reproducing the truth. Hamaguchi says: Strictly speaking, that [a story about when the tsunami struck] is definitely different from what happened then. Moreover, it is not something words can describe, and memories themselves are unreliable as well. In the interview method, when a person directly involved in the incident relates a story, it inevitably sounds like the truth, although the reality is something different. However, this important principle tends to be easily forgotten. When you show two people in a dialogue, switching back and forth between their shots, each taken directly from the front, it produces a fictional timeline that could not have actually occurred.22

What Hamaguchi means by a fictional timeline is that the timeline (the arrangement of images in chronological order) feels like that of fiction. Breaking it down a little more, it means that it creates a flow of time that makes the audience conscious of the existence of editing that is often used in fictional film.23 22 Fujii, Sakai, Hamaguchi, and Shimizu, “Kameraichi to shinko, arui wa kyoki,” 171. 23 Of course, even in fiction films, the concept of a “fictional timeline” itself will take on a different meaning in the works of directors like Jean Renoir and Mizoguchi Kenji, who often use long takes.

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Concerning the Z method, Hamaguchi adds: “With this camera position, fiction is created from interviews, the most representative in the methods of the documentary.” That is to say, “It was the camera position that provided everything that we wanted.”24 The Z method certainly is a groundbreaking technique in documentary filmmaking. Nonetheless, I would assert that there is a need to further examine the meaning of fiction created through the use of the Z method. As a guidepost for this examination, let us turn our attention to what literary critic Shoshana Felman has written about Shoah, which was mentioned previously. Shoah is a film about the relation between art and witnessing, about film as a medium which expands the capacity for witnessing. To understand Shoah we must explore the question: what are we as spectators made to witness?…“The truth kills the possibility of fiction,” said Lanzmann in a journalistic interview. But the truth does not kill the possibility of art—on the contrary, it requires it for its transmission, for its realization in our consciousness as witnesses.25

In the above quote, art, film, and fiction are discussed as approximate equals (art = film = fiction) without much scrutiny, and so are testimony, interview, and truth (testimony = interview = truth), but let us set that aside for now. The important thing here is what it is that is conveyed to us, the audience, via the medium, which is a testimony/interview. Or in the case of the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi, a better question may be what is it that is manifested in our consciousness through art called the Z method? Let us examine in the following section what is manifested within the consciousness that the trilogy presented or what it could not present.

Tohoku Documentary Trilogy and Testimony as Storytelling (Katari) Let us reexamine the trilogy not by focusing on the direction within the text and methods of expression but by taking a macro view of the work purely 24 Ibid., 172. 25 Shoshana Felman, “The Return of the Voice: Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah.” In Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History, Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub (New York: Routledge, 1992); Koe no kaiki: Eiga “Shoah” to “shogen” no jidai, trans. Ueno Naritoshi, Sakiyama Masaki, Hosomi Kazuyuki (Tokyo: Ota Shuppan, 1995), 13. Emphasis in original.

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from the audience’s perspective. What does watching the trilogy in a theater or on DVD make us—the audience—feel, and in what position does it put us? In The Sound of Waves and Voices from the Waves, by using the interview as a device, the victims’ testimonies about the disaster are represented. In Storytellers, folk storytelling in the Tohoku region is recorded as a testimony of the past. By watching the trilogy, we listen to these “testimonies” and become a witness, but the question is, after all, a witness to what? One of the biggest impacts that watching the trilogy has on its audience is that it makes them realize that witnessing people and their past does not necessarily lead them to understand the subject. As mentioned before, The Sound of Waves consists of six interviews, and all the people who appear in the film (except for Sakai and Hamaguchi who are the interviewers) are giving testimonies about their experience of the disaster. However, the audience will notice that these testimonies are not testifying about one big mass of an event called the disaster, but each of them is like a fragmented piece. Regardless of the actual chronology of filming, in The Sound of Waves, it is suggested on the map shown between the interviews that Sakai and Hamaguchi are traveling by car, driving southward from Taro-cho, Miyako, in Iwate Prefecture, to Kesennuma, Minamisanriku, Ishinomaki, Higashimatsushima, in Miyagi Prefecture, and to Shinchi-machi, Soma-gun, in Fukushima Prefecture. It becomes clear first of all that the victims residing in the six different places across three prefectures had strikingly different experiences of the tsunami. Moreover, even people who happened to be at the same place at the time of the disaster saw different things and had different experiences. For example, in the case of Abe Jun and Abe Shimako, a married couple in Higashimatsuyama, even though they were at the same place at the time of the disaster, Jun, the husband, is missing a part of his memory. The camera captures the moment when a new piece of the past—a new testimony—emerges for Jun through his exchange with Shimako, his wife. Such interview processes evoke in us a feeling of awe at the depth, limitlessness, and uncertainty of the past. At the same time, they make us realize that these interviews themselves are the act of seeking traces of memories of the past rather than excavating and preserving them. Memory in and of itself is like the past called the disaster; it is not a solid mass but only a thing that is forever fluid that can disappear or be erased and rewritten, just like letters on a palimpsest as described by Freud, or the trace of a memory seized by Abe Jun. Film scholar Mary Ann Doane discusses this uncertainty of memories, using a concept called “reverberations” which exist between historical

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events.26 Doane points out that the event that we believe we remember is not necessarily the whole/entirety, that it is impossible for our memory to sufficiently represent the event in its complete form, and that the event itself cannot be separated and abstracted from the limitlessness called the past. She concludes her discussion by stating that the only possible way for us to connect with historical events is through our unreliable memory, and that our memory itself belongs only to ambiguous reverberations that lie between numerous events. Watching the trilogy by Sakai and Hamaguchi, I sensed the difficulty of accessing—much less of expressing—one’s horrific experience of the past, which may even be described as psychological trauma, even though for many interviewees it may have been a past as recent as a few months back. At the same time, I identified their approach to filmmaking with the act of repeatedly listening to reverberations where people’s memories belong, rather than seeking the ultimate truth or absolute past.27 Moreover, I deeply sympathized with the fact that we as the audience can witness testimonies/the past of the people who appear in the film through their performance of storytelling (katari) but can never fully understand them, a fact that Sakai and Hamaguchi probably felt as well. In “Talk Log (1),” the streaming program previously mentioned, Hamaguchi uses the expression “people outside,” which begs examination. On May 21, 2011, Hamaguchi arrived at Sendai Station from Tokyo, ahead of Sakai’s arrival.28 Despite expecting to encounter scenes different from the images aired on television and the Internet, seeing signs of recovery already in Sendai, Hamaguchi was caught by the feeling of belatedness that “he had arrived too late.” Moreover, Hamaguchi noticed that this belatedness not only existed in himself but also in the minds of the people in Sendai. Compared to people on the coastal region where reconstruction efforts were still lagging behind, Sendai residents, who had suffered relatively little damage, felt they belonged to the fringes of the disaster. The feeling of being the “people outside/outsider” is always the flip side of the preconception that “people inside/people concerned” must exist somewhere. It was not just people in Tokyo who felt they could not call themselves victims on an emotional level but also Sendai residents who, despite having experienced the earthquake measuring an intensity of upper 7 on the Japanese seismic intensity scale 26 Mary Ann Doane, “Remembering Women: Physical and Historical Constructions in Film Theory,” Psychoanalysis and Cinema, ed. E. Ann Kaplan (New York: Routledge, 1990), 58. 27 They conducted these interviews in the summer of 2011, which means that the stories are about events that happened four or five months prior. 28 From the Hamaguchi Ryusuke Film Workshop interview (see Appendix).

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(equivalent to magnitude 9.0), felt their hardships were nothing in comparison to the “people inside/people concerned.” Even victims on the Pacific coastal region, where there was no progress in the reconstruction efforts, shed tears for invisible victims, saying “Many people are suffering more than we are.” Located at the center of this suffering are none other than those swallowed up by the tsunami, the dead who are no longer with us today. Through the narratives of the interviewees, these absences at the center become visible to the audience, endlessly expanding in concentric circles. And we feel that those located at the farthest periphery of the concentric circles—or rather outside of it—are we, the audience, even though many among the audience who resided in Japan at the time of the disaster, and still do today, are seen as unmistakable victims of the disaster by people outside of Japan. Watching the trilogy, we come face to face with the impossibility of identifying with the disaster victims. Let us recall once again the question at the beginning of this section. Through watching the trilogy, what have we, the audience, become witness to? Besides witnessing the impossibility of identification with the victims in and of itself, have we not become witness to the moment when the invisible is made visible? By adopting the Z method, Sakai and Hamaguchi projected onto the screen the possibility of the documentary being fiction composed of reverberations, despite the tendency for a documentary to be considered as truth. In other words, they succeeded in making visible reverberations that had been invisible. In addition, the trilogy reveals the complicity between the filmmakers and the interviewees, which is a relationship that usually remains invisible. In the trilogy, in The Sound of Waves and Voices from the Waves in particular, many of the interviewees are relating the events of March 11, immediately after the earthquake and tsunami occurred; however, the interviews were conducted during the summer of 2011. As mentioned before, we notice that none of the interviewees mentions any anxiety or anger about radioactive contamination, the literally invisible, inescapable fear beyond their imagination. To the question that I posed—“Why do you think we do not hear anxiety about the nuclear power plants or dissatisfaction with the disaster recovery efforts by the government in the trilogy?”—Hamaguchi, while answering that it can probably be ascribed to the fact that the three fundamental questions in the interviews are specifically focused on events before and after March 11, offers a more intriguing explanation: It may have been because we were afraid, but we decided as a basic principle that we won’t ask questions in such a way that we pry into other people’s business. Our approach was to have them say what they

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can.…There are a wide variety of people in many different communities. Opinions about nuclear power plants may be shared in your inner circle of friends; however, we basically interviewed people who intended to remain in the area, so I suppose it may have been awkward for them to state an opinion that could cause discord in their community.29

As evident in Hamaguchi’s remark, it was not the case that Sakai and Hamaguchi manipulated the interviewees’ statements. Furthermore, the two mention that during the filming, while they “wondered from time to time about the fact that no one spoke of the nuclear power plants,” they “sensed that was the way it was.”30 As of March 1, 2020, the number of deaths resulting from the Great East Japan Earthquake was reported as 15,899. Over 99% of the total deaths occurred in Miyagi, Iwate, and Fukushima, the three prefectures where Sakai and Hamaguchi conducted their interviews.31 Visually traveling through the time and space of the trilogy, we as the audience become witness to the invisibility of the center of the suffering—the dead as the ultimate victims of the disaster—and to the impossibility of identifying with the victims. Moreover, we have witnessed that the “experience of the disaster,” in and of itself is an endless storytelling of memories and a performance deliberately created through the complicity between the filmmakers and the interview subjects. At the same time, we realize that we as the audience have begun to take part in this complicity. Ten years after the disaster, the center of the suffering is growing farther away from us, and it has been a while since we stopped talking about the earthquake, the tsunami, or the nuclear accident. We are standing in a vortex of this complicity, convincing ourselves that “that is the way it is,” without being able to move forward.

Conclusion More than ten years have already passed since 2011–2013 when the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy was f irst released. These f ilms, however, are still surprisingly current, probably because they do not feel like a pile of memories 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid. 31 “Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, Keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report], Nihon Keizai Shimbun (March 7, 2020), http://www.nikkei.com/article/DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/ (Accessed September 25, 2020).

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stuffed in a can. Furthermore, Hamaguchi is becoming a new leading figure in Japan’s film industry, having produced hit movies like Happy Hour (Happi awa, 2015), Asako I & II (Netemo sametemo, 2018), and Academy Award winner Drive My Car (Doraibu mai ka, 2021) in succession, and winning the Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize at the Berlin International Film Festival in 2021 with his feature film, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (Guzen to sozo, 2020): another factor adding new cultural value to the trilogy. Re-examining the filmography of Sakai and Hamaguchi may lead you to realize that all that they had been directing prior to the trilogy were fiction/narrative films. Sakai produced a feature film, Home Sweet Home (2007), while he was a student at Tokyo University of the Arts Graduate School of Film and New Media, and Creep (2007) as his graduation project. Since the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, he has continued to record folklore in Sendai and is currently involved in creating film archives in the region.32 In Hamaguchi’s case, ever since he produced his first feature film Innocent Look (Nanikuwanu kao, 2003), he has continued to direct fiction/narrative films. The Tohoku Documentary Trilogy could be viewed, in a way, as no exception and just another work of fiction for them. It has been a while since film production has shifted from 35mm film to digital format. Inspired by such a drastic shift in technologies, independent filmmakers like Sakai and Hamaguchi are feeling less significance in preserving the boundaries between the different film genres that used to be considered fixed. Based on the analysis of forms of expression seen in the work of independent f ilmmakers and political action expressed through cinema in contemporary Asia, film scholar Ma Ran observes that cinematic imaginations of independent filmmakers in contemporary Asia are literally overcoming the boundaries of identities built on national, ethnic, and cultural differences that have held many filmmakers captive to this day.33 For Sakai and Hamaguchi, the boundaries to overcome may be the wall between fiction and non-fiction and the four walls of the film medium itself. Through the trilogy, I felt as if I had become a witness to these two twentyfirst-century directors’ views of cinema. Hamaguchi also states as follows: I think of cinema as basically trickery with facts. I have been watching things that are nothing but that, and have had an experience so many 32 KIITO, “Sakai Ko,” https://kiito.jp/ people/sakaiko/ (Accessed April 1, 2023). 33 Ma Ran, Independent Filmmaking across Borders in Contemporary Asia (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020).

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times when I wondered why it makes me upset or moved, despite it being trickery. Reality gets shaken by trickery at times. As a filmmaker, we must first accept cinema as such.34

It is obvious that “cinema” in Hamaguchi’s statement does not necessarily point to all cinematic genres. All the same, as we approach the end of this chapter, let us return to the topic mentioned at the beginning: the relationship between the state of post-3/11 Japan and film as a medium. Is film, after all, a medium suitable for recording events such as earthquakes that are accompanied by psychological trauma? Fukushima-born poet Wago Ryoichi has been publishing his poems not in the traditional manner (as books) but on Twitter since 2011. Akagi Shuji, also from Fukushima, who works as a high school art teacher, has been taking photographs of his daily life with a smartphone and uploading them on Twitter, which has been made into a book, Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013, published in 2015. It goes without saying that after 3/11, television reports continuously provided us with distressing images, and through the Internet or TV, images and words that express people’s state of mind after the disaster were spread far and wide in the blink of an eye. It does not seem likely, from the aspects of immediacy and reality, that such a closed and time-consuming medium as cinema can stand a chance against these new media. Nonetheless, the question remains: What does cinema “transmit”? Having “witnessed” the trilogy, I felt that cinema certainly has the power to introduce to us, the audience, what other media cannot transmit: what our words fail to express and what our eyes fail to see. In the face of what one cannot say/see, perhaps cinema has the power to inspire us to think that we cannot be paralyzed by our failure to find words, and to put us in a place to think and seek ways to overcome this. These ways are the Z method, the new interview format, or the complicity the filmmakers establish with the subject. However, if there is more to “the power of cinema,” that power may be for film, a medium that is none other than a recording device, to challenge and to expand the power of fiction. That power does not belong only to small, independent productions like that of Sakai and Hamaguchi. When we encounter works such as the trilogy that is able to keep a certain 34 Hamaguchi Ryusuke, “Eiga towa jijitsu wo mochiita peten de aru” [Cinema Is a Fraud Using Facts]. In Eiga no kotoba wo kiku: Waseda Daigaku “Masutazu obu shinema” kogiroku [Listen to the Words of Cinema: Waseda University “Masters of Cinema” Lecture Notes], eds. Ando Kohei, Okamuro Minako, Kore-eda Hirokazu, Tani Masachika, Hase Masato, and Motomura Naoki (Tokyo: Filmart-Sha, 2018), 393.

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distance from the power dynamics (economic, for example) associated with large production projects, the power of cinema becomes easily visible to us, the audience. In the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, I feel that I saw/listened to much that our eyes fail to see and our words fail to express.

Works Cited Doane, Mary Ann. “Remembering Women: Physical and Historical Constructions in Film Theory.” In Psychoanalysis and Cinema, edited by E. Ann Kaplan, 46–63. New York: Routledge, 1990. Felman, Shoshana. “The Return of the Voice: Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah.” In Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis, and History. Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub (New York: Routledge, 1992); Koe no kaiki: Eiga “Shoa” to “shogen” no jidai. Translated by Ueno Naritoshi, Sakiyama Masaki, Hosomi Kazuyuki. Tokyo: Ota Shuppan, 1995. Fujii, Hikaru, Sakai Ko, Hamaguchi Ryusuke, and Shimizu Kento. “Kameraichi to shinko, arui wa kyoki” [Camera Position and Faith or Madness]. Mirufuiyu 07: Soki no hosoku, 148–189. Miyagi: Sendai Mediateku, 2015. Hamaguchi, Ryusuke. “Eiga towa jijitsu wo mochiita peten de aru” [Cinema Is a Fraud Using Facts]. In Eiga no kotoba wo kiku: Waseda Daigaku “Masutazu obu shinema” kogiroku [Listen to the Words of Cinema: Waseda University “Masters of Cinema” Lecture Notes], edited by Ando Kohei, Okamuro Minako, Kore-eda Hirokazu, Tani Masachika, Hase Masato, and Motomura Naoki. 379–394. Tokyo: Filmart-Sha, 2018. “Katarogu (1), nami no oto purojekuto towa?” [Talk Log (1): What is The Sound of Waves Project?]. YouTube video, 1:07:19. Posted by “Seisaku Namioto,” November 5, 2014. https://recorder311.smt.jp/movie/2116/. KIITO. “Sakai Koh.” KIITO. https://kiito.jp/ people/sakaiko/ (Accessed April 1, 2023). Lanzmann, Claude, Marc Chevrie, and Hervé Le Roux. “Site and Speech: An Interview with Claude Lanzmann about Shoah (1985).” In The Documentary Film Reader: History, Theory, Criticism, edited by Jonathan Kahana, 784–793, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Ma, Ran. “Kioku to shintai wo norikoeru: Tohoku dokyumentari sanbusaku to posuto Fukushima dokyumentari [Overcoming Memory and Body: The Tohoku Documentary Trilogy and Post-Fukushima Documentaries].” In Posuto-311 media gensetsu saiko [Rethinking “Post-311” Media Discourse], edited by Mitsuyo Wada-Marciano, 283–302. Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2019. ———. Independent Filmmaking across Borders in Contemporary Asia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020.

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Sato, Kazuhisa, Kai Kenji, and Kitano Hisashi. Komyuniti akaibu wo tsukuro!: Sendai Mediateku “3 gatsu 11 nichi wo wasurenaitameni senta” funtoki [Build a Community Archive!: Sendai Mediatheque “Center for Remembering 3.11” Struggle Record]. Tokyo: Shobunsha, 2018. Soda, Kazuhiro. “Kansatsu eiga ni tsuite no oboegaki” [Memorandum on Observational Films]. In Kazuhiro Soda Filmmaker. https://www.kazuhirosoda.com/ oboegaki (Accessed April 1, 2023).

5.

Learning about Fukushima from the Margins1 Abstract: Chapter 5 focuses attention on the voices of ordinary people and the perspective of animals, both of which tend to be marginalized by society and rarely have a voice in the mass media. The reported number of deaths in the Great Tohoku Earthquake was 15,899 and the missing, 2,529 (March 1, 2020), but due to the self-censorship of the media, viewers did not see the people who died. In place of visible human deaths, we saw the deaths of livestock and pets left behind and the wild animals that roamed freely in the Difficult-to-Return Zone. The depiction of animals in documentary films made after the Fukushima disaster made viewers contemplate the mistaken perceptions of the environment inherent in modern society. Keywords: animals; mothers; children; foreigners; anti-anthropocentrism

The victims of the Great East Japan Earthquake numbered 15,899 dead as of March 1, 2020, but in actuality, we are unable to witness any of these deaths on screen.2 Animals, however, are another story. From the livestock and pets 1 Some object to the now-widespread practice of referring to the Great East Japan Earthquake simply as “Fukushima” as written in the katakana syllabary (which is usually reserved for the transliteration of foreign or unfamiliar words). The objection arises because some victims of this disaster sense that, by using this syllabic script and writing “フクシマ” rather than using the standard Chinese characters “福島,” “it feels like they’re slapping a label on it, turning it into a symbol of a bygone place” (Yanai Michihiko). While it is important never to forget that such objections exist, hereinafter I will be using “Fukushima” precisely because I wish to refocus attention not on the actual place named Fukushima but rather on the post-disaster media construct “Fukushima.” 2 Casualty figures taken from “Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, Keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report], Nihon Keizai Shimbun (March 7, 2020), http://www.nikkei.com/article/DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/ (Accessed September 25, 2020).

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch05

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Figure 5.1: Cows that starved to death in their barn

that were left behind and starved after the Fukushima nuclear disaster, to the wild animals freely roaming in the Difficult-to-Return Zones, to the irradiated swallows whose feathers are now unnaturally white-speckled, it is possible to use the abnormal and dead bodies of animals as stand-ins for what is otherwise impossible to make visible: the diseases and deaths afflicting human beings (see Figure 5.1). After the Fukushima meltdowns, it seems clear that the mass media, particularly in Japan, began using footage of animals as a device to render all of that death visible. Even amidst this media climate, there is one series of documentaries that deserves special mention: Fukushima: A Record of Living Things 1–5 (Fukushima: Ikimono no kiroku 1–5) by director Iwasaki Masanori, who painstakingly recorded the daily lives of irradiated animals and released a new film on this subject every year from 2013 to 2017 (see Figure 5.2). Film scholar Fujiki Hideaki has described this film series as “signifying an ecological intermediary” and also highly praises the series for avoiding an anthropocentric viewpoint, instead “foregrounding this place and the ontological problem of animal awareness as caused by human activity.”3 These films of Iwasaki Masanori, 3 Fujiki Hideaki, “Antoroposen no datsu shizenka—3.11 genpatsu saigai-go no dokyumentari ni yoru randosukepu, dobutsu, basho” [De-Naturalizing the Anthropocene: Landscape, Animals, and Place in Post-3/11 Nuclear Disaster Documentaries]. JunCture: Choikiteki Nihon bunka kenkyu, 8, 2017, 50.

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Figure 5.2: DVD cover for Fukushima: A Record of Living Things No. 1: “Exposure”

which seek to render visible the devastating effects of radiation on living creatures by using animals as intermediaries and depicting them over a long period of time, are a soft-spoken yet powerful appeal to audiences to recognize the situation as a crisis. Have we heretofore been listening carefully enough to the animals that in the mass media have been made to fulfill the role of mere devices to render human death and suffering visible? Have we lent an ear to the other vulnerable or disadvantaged marginal groups who in general tend to be overlooked? It seems to me that it is precisely now, more than ten years after the earthquake, that it is incumbent upon us to pause quietly to listen for these neglected voices and think once more about the far-reaching effects of the nuclear disaster that befell Fukushima in 2011.

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In this chapter, my aim is simple: to rescue from obscurity and render audible as many voices as I can that have been suppressed in the cultural discursive climate of the post-Fukushima meltdown era. Such voices include those of the animals left behind in the wake of the Fukushima disaster, those of women and children—who tend to be overlooked due to systemic discrimination in traditionally male-dominated systems or fields like politics, economics, and science—as well as those of foreigners who do not always retain equal rights in Japan’s still xenophobic society. I will focus on these groups to shed light on the problems plaguing contemporary Japan’s mass media as well as the cultural discourse that has emerged from that media landscape. What are the cultural causes of this systemic discrimination? One is the overly anthropocentric, off-kilter value system represented by the peculiarly Japanese version of environmentalism that emerged, hand in hand with environmental pollution, in the postwar era. Another is the introversion that is such a deeply rooted infestation throughout Japanese society, or put differently, the notion of localism, so strongly linked to Japan’s national identity. A third is the continued existence and influence of cultural totalitarianism, which can be said to be the cultural apparatus through which localism is maintained. Male chauvinism and xenophobia, meanwhile, are such long-standing and obvious features of Japanese society that they need hardly be mentioned anew here. However, I wish to make clear that I am not treating these cultural components as in any way unique to Japan, nor am I taking any sort of cultural essentialist position. Indeed, the cultural context described above exists not only in Japan but also in every nation and community globally, though of course it varies greatly in degree. Rather, in this chapter I intend to re-examine the discriminatory composition of society by analyzing the irreparable and man-made calamity that struck Fukushima on March 11, 2011. It is through the analysis of devastating shocks like Fukushima and the cultural phenomena brought about from such shocks that we can observe how disasters can refocus awareness on circumstances like “official history” and “national culture,” which are normally beneath people’s notice. The specific type of cultural phenomenon analyzed in depth in this chapter is the group of documentary films made in Japan after—and about—the Fukushima disaster. These works, as is also typical of Japanese documentary films that are explicitly political in nature, can only find exhibition in an extremely limited number of theaters, and after these tiny theatrical runs, such films can generally only be shown through independent screenings. Here I will focus on three documentary films, namely the aforementioned

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Fukushima: A Record of Living Things series (2013–2017), Little Voices from Fukushima (Chiisaki koe no kanon: Sentaku suru hitobito, 2015, Kamanaka Hitomi), and finally A2-B-C (2013), directed by Ian Thomas Ash, an American expatriate living in Tokyo. I will use these three works to consider the discriminatory post-nuclear disaster system governing the discussion of Fukushima and the many ways it suppresses unprivileged voices such as those featured in these documentaries.

What Animals Can Tell Us Giving ear to the voices of animals or thinking about the situation of these animals helps us to see the real world in an entirely new light. This sort of animal-centric research is not only occurring in the field of cultural studies but is also currently regaining prominence in cinema and media studies. 4 Despite the availability of anti-anthropocentric works that have been introduced to Japanese audiences via translation, the way of thinking known as “species discrimination” has never managed to penetrate into the daily lives of the general public in Japan.5 To find out why, let us examine a case study, namely Fukushima: A Record of Living Things. Iwasaki Masanori, the director of this Fukushima documentary series, is not someone who in the past was a protestor opposed to nuclear power. Prior to 2011, he had made a number of television programs about wild animals and was a specialist in the sub-genre of animal documentary programming. But the first post-2011 documentary film project Iwasaki devoted himself to, namely Fukushima: A Record of Living Things, was in fact still ongoing as of 2018. In June 2017, when I interviewed Iwasaki in person, he was just beginning the principal photography phase for the fifth installment, entitled

4 Akira Mizuta Lippit, Electric Animal: Toward a Rhetoric of Wildlife (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008); Brian Massumi, What Animals Teach Us about Politics (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2014); Giorgio Agamben, L’aperto: l’uomo el’animale. Bollati Boringhieri: 2002), trans. Kevin Attell, The Open: Man and Animal (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), trans. Okada Atsushi, Taga Kentaro, Hirakare: Ningen to dobutsu (Heibonsha: 2011). 5 For instances, Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring (1962) was already translated into Japanese in 1964. Arne Næss, Ecology, Community, and Lifestyle: Outline of an Ecosophy, translated and revised by David Rothenberg (1989), was translated into Japanese in 1997 and has garnered a wide range of readers in Japan since then. Peter Singer, Animal Liberation: A New Ethics for Our Treatment of Animals (1975), rendered as Dobutsu no kaiho, has been translated into Japanese twice, by two different publishers: once in 1988 (Tokyo: Gijutsu to Ningen) and again in 2011 (Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin).

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Traces (Tsuiseki, vol. 5 of the series), which was completed and released on DVD for sale in November of that year. No matter how one looks at it, the Fukushima: A Record of Living Things series is a “minor” work. It was exhibited in a handful of theaters nationwide, and after this brief run has been circulating commercially only via independent screenings or through home video sales on DVD. The mission at Gunzosha, an organization founded in 1981 and managed by Iwasaki himself and a few staff members, is “to create documentary f ilms and TV programs on various themes, especially wild animals and the global environment,” and “to create independent films in company with freelance staff members who found each other to be kindred spirits during the making of the TV program Long Live Living Things (Ikimono Banzai).”6 As the ordinariness of the images on the jacket designs of most of the films and DVDs released for home video sale through Gunzosha attests, these are not sensationalist, highly political films designed to provoke a sense of alarm amongst humanity; rather, they give the impression of having slipped quietly—indeed almost unnoticed—into the gigantic marketplace of the Internet. Each of the five films in the series has a subtitle: Exposure (Hibaku), Disruption (Ihen), Diffusion (Kakusan), Life (Seimei), and Traces (Tsuiseki). And as one might expect, given that they were made by a veteran who has created so many television documentary programs, the cinematography and editing of each episode in the series are handled in such a way as to prioritize ease of comprehension for the viewer. Yet at the same time, and despite the vanishingly small production budget, rather than employing the direct-address style one sees in the work of John Grierson in which the viewer is appealed to directly, this film series adopts the cinéma vérité approach, depicting the director himself, along with his tiny crew, heading off to the shoot, and showing the interactions, such as questions, between the filmmaker and the subject being filmed. In most cases, the subjects are researchers collecting flora and fauna, photographers engaged in repeated photo shoots, or farmers attempting to raise the animals left behind in the disaster-struck areas. Inasmuch as Iwasaki’s real voice is frequently overlaid onto the on-screen image, one can draw a line between this film series and observational cinema, for example the work of aforementioned 6 An educational program broadcast on an NET aff iliate and a TBS aff iliate. In total, the program ran from 1973 to 1982. It was a co-production between Mainichi Broadcasting Corporation and Iwanami Film Studio, and the Nippon Steel Corporation Group (known today as Nippon Steel & Sumitomo Metal) was the film’s sole sponsor. Translated from “Gunzosha to wa [What is Gunzosha?].”

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documentary filmmaker Frederick Wiseman or those his work inspired, such as Soda Kazuhiro. Iwasaki’s thoroughly down-to-earth film series never makes use of snappy catch-phrases designed to bolster sales. But although it might succeed in making a powerful appeal to those who became interested in such issues in the wake of the nuclear disaster, in point of fact, it might be difficult for this series to even appear on the radar of its true target audience, namely those whose interest in the nuclear power issue is quite limited. Nonetheless, by recording the many, many contradictions those of us who live in post-Fukushima Japan must directly confront, this series helps us recognize these contradictions. The insights I gained during the June 2017 interview with series director Iwasaki were considerable. The conversation was not limited to anecdotes from the film production process but also included the connection between politics and cinema. From an even wider perspective, this interview represented the moment the two of us could pass beyond the level of mere speculation and instead share our viewpoints regarding the relationship between politics and contemporary Japanese culture itself. In fact, this documentary series has been very well received, not only in the world of film criticism but also by the Japanese government. Exposure, the first installment in the series, won the Agency for Cultural Affairs’ Best Documentary Award in 2013, and each of the first three episodes received production grants of one million yen from the Japan Arts Council. The problems did not begin until after this point. Starting with the fourth episode, the production assistance grant from the Japanese government was terminated. For a small, minor production and distribution company like Gunzosha, the discontinuation of this financial support was a near-lethal blow. On the subject of the decision by the government to terminate the production grant, Iwasaki himself said that he was absolutely at a loss as to why this decision was reached or how to make sense of it. However, together we were easily able to surmise that it must surely have been prompted by Iwasaki’s plan to continue reporting on radiological contamination, a plan that to the Japanese government is quite an “inconvenient truth.”7 7 The reference here is to the 2006 documentary An Inconvenient Truth (2006), an exposé on the problem of global climate change starring former U.S. Vice President Al Gore. As is well known, this film won the Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature at the 79th Academy Awards in 2007; Gore also earned the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize for his role in spreading awareness of global climate change. Yet despite (or perhaps partly because of) these accolades, the film provoked an antagonistic reaction from then President George W. Bush, and the Republican Party more generally. The title An Inconvenient Truth is a reference to the challenge the film’s documentation of evidence of global climate change posed for the Bush administration’s official

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What, then, does the Fukushima: A Record of Living Things film series actually have to show us? I will provide an overview of the series’ main points. First, it seeks to painstakingly document and expose the various effects of radiological contamination, not only on the wild plants and animals living in the affected areas but also on the livestock and pets that had to be left behind in the Difficult-to-Return Zones. Nor is the subject matter limited to animals alone; many of the researchers conducting ongoing field work inside Fukushima’s Difficult-to-Return Zones are also shown on camera as they use a wide variety of methods to record their findings for the future. Some are affiliated with universities, many are sponsored by other organizations such as research institutes or NPOs, while some of the field work occurring in the affected area does not appear to be part of any established organization at all. Indeed, it is possible to read this documentary series as showing many researchers whose ongoing studies in the affected area seem to be entirely voluntary, motivated by individual interests and goals. The topics being studied by these researchers are varied, including swallows inexplicably developing white speckles and those with tails that have become split in an irregular fashion. Seemingly identical white specks have also appeared on the hides of many cows, and the calves born to such speckled cows are afflicted from birth with impairments. The life expectancy of calves born blind and with festering hides is all too short. In terms of other subjects of this documentary series, it features quite a menagerie of living things, including mammals such as horses, boars, monkeys, field mice, moles, and deer; herons and other birds; amphibians like the forest green tree frog; rock shells and other shellfish; several species of fish, including fat greenling and flounder; and plants such as the willow shrub, which has repeatedly manifested abnormal branching patterns. And while the series treats all these living things in a gentle fashion, it also quietly yet firmly displays the clear abnormalities afflicting each species. Moreover, in addition to showing the objects of study—the animals and the scientists gathering data on them—Iwasaki’s documentary series also captures the contradictions affecting those people left behind in the Difficult-to-Return Zones. A good example of this is the sequence showing Yoshizawa Masami, who runs “Hope Ranch” (Kibo no Bokujo) in stance that global warming was a mere scientific hypothesis and that no one had yet been able to prove climate change had been occurring. Similarly, since the Abe administration in Japan is on record as claiming, regarding radiological contamination, that “the problem has been resolved,” it is easy to imagine the discordance between the goal of this film series—to continue to show evidence of the serious damage caused by radiation—and the government’s official position.

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Fukushima Prefecture’s Namie Town. Heretofore, the frequent references to Mr. Yoshizawa in the mass media have treated him as an outspoken anti-nuclear power activist. His on-screen appearances, such as his speeches delivered while walking along the road, repeatedly stressed his fury toward the current LDP government, TEPCO, and the inhabitants of Tokyo, who blithely consumed the electricity generated in Fukushima, as well as his anger about the unresponsiveness of the government and TEPCO to the lawsuit to compensate the livestock farmers in Fukushima. Yet one of the aspects of Iwasaki’s series which is worthy of special mention is precisely its unusual portrayal of Yoshizawa, which is structured in such a way as to disclose not his political statements themselves but rather the impossibleto-resolve paradox of his position. Even after the Fukushima disaster, Yoshizawa continued to manage a herd of over 370 head of cattle, but it is now clear he will never be able to sell any of these cows to support his livelihood. These were beef cows and are literally “live stock” (which is to say, living products), but it is simply impossible to commercially sell (or buy) cows that have been contaminated with radiation. In fact, the government has issued an order to cattle farmers mandating the culling of all such livestock currently living within the Difficult-to-Return Zones.8 However, neither the government nor TEPCO has paid any compensatory damages to the livestock farmers for the economic losses imposed by this directive. While most of the farmers in the area have abandoned the industry after concluding that continuing in the business of raising livestock in such a place is impossible, leaving their cattle behind and fleeing to areas unaffected by the disaster, Yoshizawa has remained behind in Fukushima, and far from killing his cows, he has resolved to keep taking care of them. Most of the cows left behind by those livestock owners who decided to flee have starved to death in the barns they were restrained in, and as for those few cows that miraculously survived—first because their owners somehow managed to free them during their own evacuation, and then because they thrived in the wild—their eventual reward for this unlikely survival was to be targeted by the cull directive. It is out of these circumstances that Yoshizawa, with the help of countrywide donations of feed and money and the support of volunteers, has been running Hope 8 On April 5, 2012, the head of the Nuclear Emergency Response Headquarters (the prime minister) released the following directive in response to the issue of livestock abandoned within the evacuation zones: “Regarding the livestock currently at large within the formerly hazardous area, continue to recapture them, and—having in principle obtained the support of the livestock owners—proceed to cull all such animals in a painless manner (by euthanasia).” http://www. maff.go.jp/j/kanbo/saisei/sinsai/pdf/siryo_12_2_3.pdf#page=3 (Accessed May 19, 2021).

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Ranch from the time of the disaster up until the present day, more than ten years later. What should be stressed here is the paradox of Yoshizawa’s position. The paradox Yoshizawa has embraced is not simply the financial contradiction of being unable to sell the cows he had raised; it is also a kind of self-contradiction contained in the purportedly humanitarian act of forcing irradiated cows to remain alive. And from the moment viewers see his self-contradiction on the screen, they are induced to question everything else linked to it. What, then, is the nature of Yoshizawa’s self-contradiction? He faces the camera and confesses that his one and only reason for continuing indefinitely to take care of his unsellable beef cattle is “just my pride as a cattle farmer, and that’s it.” The cows were originally raised to be eaten as beef, and thus if the disaster had never happened, they would of course have been marched to their preordained deaths. Where can one claim to find justification to permit the scheduled slaughter of cows as livestock on the one hand and yet find the cull order to be inexcusable on the other? Yoshizawa struggles to find a solution to this internal aporia. In the end, the answer that he eventually arrived at was a way of thinking he said he had inherited from a scientist.9 His revised reason was: “I will keep the cows alive for posterity, as an important resource for research on the effects of radiological contamination.” The abovementioned film scholar Fujiki Hideaki refers to this Hope Ranch sequence in arguing that while Iwasaki’s documentary is not necessarily fully devoted to the cause of animal welfare, it is nonetheless praiseworthy for highlighting the role that animals play as “ecological intermediaries.” Fujiki writes: As I have already pointed out, Yoshizawa ultimately reached the utilitarian conclusion that the cows can be used as “living witnesses” that contribute to scientific inquiry, and regardless of the merits of that conclusion, it is absolutely vital to note that the fact that radiological contamination has forced humans to consider the significance of animals’ lives and deaths implies that the very relationship between Yoshizawa and his livestock has been affected….In this film … animals are not treated as a menace to humanity; instead, the film gives due consideration to the point of view and positionality of animals, and by doing so, the viewer is able to surmise that the problem lies in the multifarious relationships between 9 This statement is from Yoshizawa’s utterance in the film, in which he does not mention the scientist’s first name.

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animals and humankind, and in the environment itself, the place which both animals and humans share….The problem which A Record of Living Things renders visible is the fact that this place is the habitat of all manner of living creatures, not of human beings alone; concomitantly, this location is not a territorial location subject to human governance, but instead is a de-territorial place where the physical and practical consequences of contamination are far-reaching.10

It is because this film series pays such close attention to the notion of a “de-territorial place” and in doing so denaturalizes the relationships between humans and our “other,” namely animals, in the Anthropocene Epoch11—“an era in which humanity has encroached, on an unprecedented scale, all over the earth, notably in the post-Industrial Revolution period”12—that Fujiki concludes the film series is akin to ecological discourse. Fujiki’s analysis is incisive. Indeed, the Fukushima: A Record of Living Things series does not treat the affected area as a space that can be delineated by human governance; if anything, it depicts the contamination zone as something that cannot be contained by mere human demarcations, and the animals alive within it as hints of this uncontainability. It would also behoove us to take special notice of the fact that Fujiki describes the film series as “akin to ecological.” Compared to the other post-Fukushima documentaries he analyzes in the article quoted above, Fukushima: A Record of Living Things really has taken concrete steps to distance itself from the Anthropocene mentality, or in other words from an anthropocentric perspective. However, the truth is that when one continues watching the series, it cannot be denied that one nonetheless feels evidence of a certain amount of apparently ineradicable anthropocentric affect. It may be that some among the viewers of this film series might feel yet another paradox looming as they watch the “plot” unfold of Yoshizawa struggling to find a solution to his paradoxical situation. Under Yoshizawa’s logic, and by extension also the logic of this documentary, no one is claiming that the irradiated beef cattle—and indeed any of the other animals left behind in the Difficult-to-Return Zones—do or should possess anything close to the same value or privileges as human beings. As Fujiki has pointed out, the irradiated animals are not being presented as living creatures possessing what the historian of science Donna Haraway has dubbed a “companion 10 Fujiki 62–63. 11 A concept popularized by the atmospheric chemist Paul Crutzen. 12 Fujiki, 48.

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species” relationship with human beings.13 To grant the irradiated beef cattle long lives as living witnesses is perhaps humanitarian, but it is not anti-anthropocentric. One of the volunteers working at Hope Ranch, a woman from Osaka, claims on camera that “We [humans] don’t have the right to kill them.” Although at first glance this way of thinking might sound naïve, it is precisely this conclusion that anti-anthropocentrism declares to be unmistakably true. Yet what is fascinating is that the footage does not simply push this view straightforwardly. From the moment she is put into contrast on screen with Yoshizawa, the professional rancher with his sturdy physique, the perceived amateurishness of this daintily built woman as she announces “I was the first volunteer to come here!” renders her words powerless, and the only signifier that remains is “naïveté.” Not only is the way of thinking regarding humankind and animals conveyed through this footage of Yoshizawa based on “science,” which is to say rational thought; it is also presented as the reasoned opinion of a professional cattle farmer, and moreover it is the reasoned opinion of a man. I do not believe I am the only one who, upon viewing this sequence, felt that the one-sided, gender-dependent logic employed by the film actually resonates with the “male logic” of the repeated claims by the government and by TEPCO that nuclear power is safe and nothing to worry about. It seems there really is a deeper paradox contained within the method the film employs to show Yoshizawa discovering his own self-contradiction. The paradox that Fukushima: A Record of Living Things exposes is deeprooted. But it is also possible to read this paradox as one that affects the mass media in a more general sense. The moment the camera for Fukushima: A Record of Living Things quietly captures the “plot” sequence in which Yoshizawa is finally able to find a solution to his own self-contradiction is also the moment in which the documentary film, as a type of media, falls into sympathy with its subject. In that sense, I believe Iwasaki’s works embody the limitations of the intrinsically mediated category of “contemporary Japanese documentary f ilms,” limitations that Japan’s documentaries, which have historically fostered their own set of norms, have never been able to overcome. What precisely are these limitations? Japan’s mass media industries are themselves built upon an undistinguished history of not treating animals and humans as being of equal value and making little effort to grant equal access to the disadvantaged members of society. In the realm of identity 13 Donna Haraway, The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness (Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003).

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politics, Japan’s mass media industries lay bare so many contradictions that it would take too much time to mention them all: placing “humankind” in opposition to “animals” (even though humans are themselves animals); the Zainichi ethnic minority (whose members, no matter how much time passes, never seem to win acceptance as Japanese, instead being described in perpetuity as being of North Korean or South Korean descent); those with physical impairments (who never seem to appear on the small screen except for isolated cases like NHK Educational TV’s program “Heart-net TV” or broadcasts of the Paralympics); the gender minorities covered by the LGBT acronym (the only ones who ever show up on screen are stereotypically flamboyant gay men); not to mention the elderly, women, and children. These members of socially disadvantaged categories are almost never given a chance to speak in Japan’s mass media. In pointing out that depictions by Japan’s mass media of one such minority—namely animals—are lacking in feeling, I do not intend to fall into any sort of essentialism or claim that this contemptible trait of apathy is somehow unique to the Japanese or to Japanese society. However, if we accept, as the historian Simon Avenell has argued, that the “uniquely Japanese” approach historically adopted in Japan toward the environment and environmentalism was “anthropocentric environmentalism,” then it is possible to argue that Japan’s mass media, including documentary films, are simply following the same paradigm.14 What viewers tend to latch onto, which is the sense of intrinsic wrongness depicted in Yoshizawa’s “plot,” is possibly due to the feature so many post-3/11 documentaries—and Fukushima: A Record of Living Things in particular— share: the lack of sufficient introspection. In other words, what I want to stress is that we are rapidly heading toward a moment in which it will be absolutely essential to scrutinize the cultural trait that can be summed up by the single word “introversion.” This trait has been developing in tandem with the concept of a “local viewpoint,” itself strongly connected to the very concept of Japan for quite a long time, and thanks to which people are blithely unaware of anthropocentric environmentalism, whose existence is as invisible as the air they breathe. Let us return once more to Fujiki’s analysis. Is Fukushima: A Record of Living Things truly, as he claims, a work that “gives due consideration to the point of view and positionality of animals”? In the fifth installment, 14 Simon Avenell, “Hoho to shite no kankyo akutibizumu—Nihon no ningen chushinteki kankyo shugi” [Environmental Activism as Method: Japan’s Human-centered Environmentalism]. Trans. Osaki Harumi, JunCture: Choikiteki Nihon bunka kenkyu 8, 2017, 67.

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Traces, Iwasaki’s camera takes as its subject a large number of scientists and purports to show the traces of their six-year-long investigations. As the director himself has stated in an interview, “the main purpose of this film was to convey the warning and dread of these researchers, who are witnessing how dramatically memories of the nuclear disaster are fading from public consciousness despite the fact that they are saying they have no idea what will happen in the future.”15 The gaze the researchers direct at the animals is gentle. But the goal of their research is not to improve the animals’ future. If it is the case that no consideration is actually being given to the point of view or positionality of the animals themselves, then can we not say that nothing has really changed, with animals still in a denigrated position, and still doomed, one way or another, to serve humankind?

What Women Can Tell Us A scene from Little Voices from Fukushima (Chiisaki koe no kanon) shows the wider truth that statements about the nuclear power issue are overwhelmingly made by men. High-ranking governmental officials, those in charge of TEPCO, and even the scientists and doctors who kept chanting the refrain that such a miniscule amount of radiation is totally safe—all these groups are predominantly men. While it is all too easy to make light of this, dismissing it with a flippant “Well, it’s Japan, so gender inequality can’t be helped,” I would hazard that it is necessary to think about this reality more deeply. Regarding the nuclear power issue, just as we should pay more attention to the voices of animals, I believe we should also lend our ears more often to the voices of women. Filmmaker Kamanaka Hitomi has long been listening to the voices of the disadvantaged. Three of her films, which have become known as her anti-nuclear trilogy, have been raising awareness of the dangers of nuclear technology, starting long before the Fukushima meltdown occurred. The first film in the trilogy, Hibakusha at the End of the World (Hibakusha: Sekai no owarini, 2003), features an interview with a 14-year old girl named Rasha afflicted with leukemia, which, thanks to news coverage after the first Gulf War, we now know was caused by radiation accumulating in her body from depleted uranium shells used by the American military. This conversation with Rasha is the start of Kamanaka’s quest, shown in this film, to journey 15 “Genpatsu jiko no kowasa, dobutsu ga tsutaeru” [The Fear of Nuclear Accident, Reported by Animals], Tokyo Shimbun (July 8, 2017), 23.

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all over the globe to meet the world’s hibakusha (a Japanese term meaning “victims of nuclear radiation”). Rokkasho Rhapsody (Rokkasho-mura rapusodi, 2006) covers local figures— notably Kikukawa Keiko, who opposed the construction of the plant, and Tomabechi Yasuko, who for many years has continued to grow rice organically, without using any pesticides or chemicals—in the town of Rokkasho in Aomori Prefecture, where a plant was built for the reprocessing of plutonium extracted from spent nuclear fuel used in nuclear power plants. And in Ashes to Honey (Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten, 2010), people in Sweden, who voted in a referendum to abandon nuclear power entirely, are put into dialogue with the ongoing, nearly thirty-year struggle by the inhabitants of Iwaishima, a small island in the Seto Inland Sea, against the plan to construct a nuclear power plant nearby. Through this dialogue, the film raises inquiries into the possibility of new energy sources. In her newest work, Little Voices from Fukushima (2015, hereinafter Little Voices), Kamanaka lends an ear to the voices of a new group, namely the mothers of Fukushima Prefecture. Although it is also in Fukushima Prefecture, the city of Nihonmatsu, unlike Futaba Town or Namie Town, has not been designated a Difficult-to-Return Zone by the government. And yet that does not mean that the city is safe. Rather than force the people living in this area to evacuate, the government adopted a policy of “decontamination” and, under this policy, proceeded to launch reconstruction efforts soon after the earthquake. Anyone will realize, if they examine the government’s plan, that there is no way it can totally safeguard the health of the people. The gap between the Japanese and American governments in reporting about the threat of airborne radiation contamination is huge, and in fact the city of Nihonmatsu is in the “grey zone” of discrepancy between the two countries’ statements. In other words, it is an area that has been declared “safe” by the Japanese government, yet according to the data released by other governments it is in fact seen as “dangerous.” This documentary follows the mothers living in this area—whose primary concern is their children, considering how easily harmed by radiation they are—and the process by which they progress from groping toward some sort of plan to taking action. At first glance, this documentary might seem too reliant on its binary oppositions—“mother” versus “government” or “private voice” versus “public voice”—but in reality, the film doesn’t stress these oppositional pairings. Instead, it draws attention to the link between the “mothers of Nihonmatsu” on one hand, and, on the other, the “mothers of Belarus,” who have been struggling for many years with problems stemming from radiation from the Chernobyl disaster. Kamanaka skillfully deploys techniques to compare

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the hibakusha forerunners overseas to the local communities in Japan struggling with the nuclear issue. For example, in Ashes to Honey, she shows the audience the little Swedish town of Övertorneå, and how the people are able to live comfortably by using sustainable energy sources. By actually being shown, right before their eyes, new lifestyle possibilities such as reliance on sustainable energy sources, many viewers will be persuaded that the outcry against nuclear power by the islanders of Iwaishima, who feel somehow abandoned in the middle of the Seto Inland Sea, as well as their earnest desire to eliminate nuclear power as an energy source and switch to a sustainable lifestyle, are certainly neither reckless nor overly idealistic. In just the same way, Little Voices shows figures in the present day from the medical profession in Belarus and the Belarusian mothers’ ongoing efforts in their quest, which has continued now for more than thirty years, to overcome their experience of irradiation. By doing so, the film attests to its audience that neither the anxieties of the mothers of Japan nor their plans to protect their children are in any way unrealistic or excessive. One such plan is “hoyo.” There are two general definitions for this term. The first meaning is recuperation, the promotion of health by resting the body, while the second meaning is to delight one’s mind by gazing at something beautiful.16 So the word “hoyo,” as conveyed in the idiom “me no hoyo ni naru” (to be a feast for the eyes), has strong connotations of enjoyment and happiness. However, their goal of protecting children from radiation exposure notwithstanding, many mothers face steep obstacles preventing them from taking a month, much less longer, to go somewhere to let loose and recuperate. In the typical home environment in Japan, in which systemic inequalities between men and women as regards housework show no signs of abating, these women’s husbands and other family members left behind simply would not be able to manage on their own. There are doubtless also financial reasons preventing such recuperation, but it is society’s strict morals, even more than finances, that torment these mothers. Yet Little Voices features the recuperative experiences of Belarusian mothers and children, advocating that this sort of recuperation is the most effective way to heal children from the effects of irradiation. Where, then, can the children of Fukushima find recuperation? Will the government provide any funding for it? It is best we not hold our breath. Not a single health resort facility has been prepared anywhere in Japan specifically to accept the children of Fukushima. The film depicts some 16 Weblio jisho, https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E4%BF%9D%E9%A4%8A (Accessed May 20, 2021).

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mothers of Nihonmatsu who traveled to Otani University’s recreation facility in Gifu Prefecture to recuperate, taking advantage of the connection between Shinkoji Temple, affiliated with the Otani Shin Buddhist sect, and Otani University. The scene depicting these mothers casually chatting at this facility is an important one. One remarks, “We really haven’t had any chance to socialize at all up until now [from the time of the disaster to the time they began helping at the open-air market hosted by the temple].” The film draws attention to the fact that in Japanese society, there are few communities for women and even fewer for mothers. As a contrast, the film also depicts the non-profit organization (NPO) Cherunobuiri e no Kakehashi (Bridge to Chernobyl), based in Rusutsu in Hokkaido, as it accepts some of the oft-neglected children of the Kanto area for recuperative purposes. The facility of Bridge to Chernobyl is quite small, as shown in the film. The care-giving provided by the staff, especially its representative Ms. Noro, in their efforts to eliminate radiation from their guests is very warm and courteous, but the small size of the building hints at the NPO’s financial straits. Nonetheless, the data collected from urine samples of the children indicate that the results of the recuperation are clearly effective, and this is quite moving. But will Japan’s indecisive government actually act to provide financial support for the sort of recuperation facilities that will doubtless be needed for decades to come? In the present state of Japanese society, both government and mass media have a marked tendency to crow about “signs of recovery” or how “this marks the end of the disaster” each time the people who were initially forced to seek shelter in temporary housing after the disaster manage to get back on their feet and become self-reliant. Given this condition, how many of Japan’s citizens can possibly recognize the ever-growing demand for recuperative activities and the need for facilities that can provide such services with capable people to staff them? Little Voices, in addition to showing the spatial contrast between Japan and overseas, also makes effective use of a temporal contrast. As is well known, the Chernobyl disaster occurred on April 26, 1986. Because Chernobyl is located in the northernmost area of Ukraine, radioactive substances spread beyond the border of Ukraine into Belarus, which is due north of Chernobyl, and caused widespread damage, particularly to the southeastern region. The linkage between radiological contamination from the meltdown and thyroid cancer has been all too amply demonstrated in this region, and Little Voices introduces both the medical data accumulated in the thirty years since the disaster and the true state of treatment. While documentaries often employ some kind of a temporal contrast through editing techniques, in Little Voices it is no simple “before and after”

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contrast between the past and the present of a single place; instead, the viewer is able to watch the passage of time in a more complex layering of differences that also includes a spatial contrast (between Belarus and Fukushima). To bridge this spatiotemporal divide, the film introduces several figures involved in medical care. Two such figures are Sugenoya Akira, a doctor from Nagano Prefecture who was four-term mayor of Matsumoto (2004–2020), and Valentina Smolnikova, a Belarusian doctor of internal medicine. To counter the tendency toward only abstract spatiotemporal connections, this film develops a “storyline” in which the affected mothers are being cheered on by the “raw materials” known as people, particularly a woman absolutely everyone would agree is trustworthy, namely Dr. Smolnikova. It is this spatiotemporal linkage that is the heart and soul of the film and that distinctly underpins the central message at the film’s end. There has been a great deal of commentary on what can be called the “raw materialism” (sozai-shugi) of documentaries in Japan. In most cases, the term “raw materialism” is used to ridicule works that rely too heavily on the merits of their raw materials and cannot deliver a corresponding level of technique or filmic quality. However, there is no doubt that whether such raw materials—that is, the film’s subjects—are interesting often determines whether the film itself is interesting. In the case of Little Voices, quite apart from Dr. Smolnikova’s nature as a person, the film slowly and methodically builds the case to emphasize her trustworthiness. And, in fact, this is accomplished even when it is no easy feat to cultivate this feeling of trustworthiness on film. Mori Tatsuya’s documentary series A (1998), A2 (2001), and Fake (2016) makes skillful use of the “raw material” constituted by the exact moment the filmic subject’s anti-hero nature is overturned. Fake is an especially good example of this. Mori has explicitly stated that “documentaries lie,” and in keeping with this perspective, he refuses to recognize any distinction between “factual” documentaries and “fictional” dramas (Mori 2005). That is to say, Mori stresses that both nonfiction and fiction films are artificial creations that undergo editing and production processes. Most of Mori’s works chase “the truth” about their filmic subjects or raise questions about “the truth” of the various rumors swirling around these subjects. However, some of his works employ a self-reflexive ending technique designed to make viewers feel that there actually might be no such thing as “the truth” at all. The compositional method for filmic subjects used by Kamanaka in Little Voices was successful in creating the raw material, or personification, of a trustworthy woman. Under Kamanaka’s approach, no self-reflexive doubts arise. This is because instead of fabricating her raw materials, Kamanaka

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has succeeded in singling out the abstract concept of trust from among all the different layers of interconnectedness and making it visible.17 First and foremost, Dr. Smolnikova introduces her successor, Dr. Zanna Eftokhova, who began working at the clinic many years before. From the moment we are shown the trusting relationship between these two colleagues and the high regard in which the junior doctor obviously holds her elder, Dr. Smolnikova, viewers are able to surmise the extent of this elderly doctor’s professionalism. Similarly, we catch a glimpse of Dr. Smolnikova’s successful interpersonal relationships during her discussions with the staff members of the organization she helped create, the “Children of Chernobyl” group. The camera even follows Dr. Smolnikova on her house call to the Osipenko family. This sequence, which shows them sharing stories of the hardships of the disaster, also portrays the weighty history between them: the longstanding relationship, one that hasn’t faded at all over time, between the doctor and this one family—representative of all the families forced to evacuate in the wake of the disaster and who are afflicted by thyroid cancer—and their mutual fight against this disease. Before long, the trust the viewer comes to feel in this elderly female doctor is made unshakeable during the scene in which she introduces her own family. Her daughter Svetlana, who was f ifteen at the time of the meltdown, speaks in that special, relaxed way that many daughters use when addressing their mothers, and complains that at that time, her mother, who lived for her work, didn’t do anything around the house. As the conversation continues, however, it becomes clear that secretly, and in ways undetectable to a child, her mother had been deeply worried and anxious, and it was these feelings that prompted her desperate attempts to take a wide variety of counter-measures. Once the film reaches the scene where she speaks about her now-deceased husband, an alcoholic obsessed with escapism, the figure of this woman, who wagered her very life on the ongoing struggle against nuclear contamination, is thrown into sharp relief. It is in precisely this moment that the film is victorious in awakening definite feelings of affinity with and trust in this doctor in its viewers. Little Voices devotes a great deal of screen time in order to imbue this lone female subject with such trustworthiness, and at the end of the film, Little 17 Little Voices is indeed noteworthy for using “the different layers of interconnectedness,” such as going beyond the act of merely recording the mothers’ locational differences and instead also capturing the “phase differences”—the gaps that occur between multiple topological intervals, or the (subset) differences in interval that are granted to structural composition by abstract space—in their surroundings. Much has been written and said about the emergence of “phase differences” in the wake of the Fukushima disaster.

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Voices borrows her own words to deliver a new message. The profundity of her speech arises from the film sequence itself and its emphasis on her endurance and wisdom; it is because of these qualities that, for the first time, a deep sense of understanding strikes the hearts of the viewers. As Dr. Smolnikova—and through her, Little Voices itself—declares, It is not nation-states who are doing this work, but private citizens. Ordinary people have immense power. Those women [the mothers of Nihonmatsu] are ready and able to prove that “the drowning person must rescue herself.” Our own case [in Belarus] doesn’t completely apply to Japan. The first step is for you to demand, in a manner befitting the Japanese people, a dialogue with your government. And above all, you must take action—no matter how small.

In contrast to Dr. Smolnikova’s firm statements, the utterances of the mothers in Nihonmatsu City lack strength and weight. However, Little Voices makes effective use of this. Although these women are decisive when it comes to their children in pleading for “recuperation (hoyo),” an act of courage that is difficult to pull off in everyday life in Japan, they are not equipped with the same theoretical armaments as the women’s liberation fighters of the 1970s. Rather, the mothers in the film cry a lot. Their actions may be seen as melodramatic or effeminate, depending on one’s point of view. However, the film certainly captures the reality of the inability to express one’s feelings in words. The very act of weeping by these women is an expression of the absurdity of the reality of Japanese society, a reality that cannot be resolved by logos—i.e., a reality in which people are at a loss of how to protect the future of their own children. The strength of film is not only its ability to capture what is there but also to show what is there but cannot be seen, what is felt but not expressed; in other words, the impossibility of such expression, the limitations of logos, and, further, the impasse of modern society that has promoted logos-centrism. Little Voices is unique in that it not only films the actions of the mothers but also captures the differences of “topologicality” (iso) in their surroundings. One of the mothers, Sasaki Yuri, finds a highly polluted vacant lot on her children’s way to school. She calls together a group of close mothers, the Haha Rangers (haha in Japanese means mother) and begins decontaminating the vacant lot. The housewives who live in the neighborhood look at them quizzically, point to the bags of contaminated soil, and tell them that they did it on their own and that they should dispose of the contaminated soil by themselves. The film reveals that the Haha Rangers’ gratuitous act is

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not necessarily acceptable to all people—that is, it exposes the presence of a phase difference among the women. In addition to this, the film also sheds light on the phase differences between man and woman, husband and wife. Chiharu, a mother who came from Tokyo to Rusutsu in Hokkaido for recuperation, states that she and her husband have hugely diverging opinions on radiation exposure, and that she is no longer able to communicate her thoughts to him. There are many discourses on the phase difference that occurred after the Fukushima disaster. The philosopher Ichinose Masaki, in his book Philosophy’s Response to the Problem of Radioactivity (Hoshano mondai ni tachimukau tetsugaku, 2013), refers to “moral phase differences” and “regional phase differences.” As an example of the former, he points out the difference between the adults, who should bear responsibility for the nuclear accident, and children or future generations to whom responsibility cannot be attributed. As an example of the latter, he displays the difference caused by the region in which they live, such as people in Fukushima and people in Tokyo. However, the phase differences brought about by the disaster arise not only from such uniformity as generational or regional differences but can be more multifaceted and compounded, even if they live in the same region and belong to the same generation and same gender, or share the same attribute as “mothers.” By listening closely to the vulnerable voices of women, especially mothers, Little Voices successfully reveals the complex phase differences of the disaster-affected communities.

What Children and Non-Japanese Can Tell Us The heart and soul of the documentary film A2-B-C, created by American filmmaker Ian Thomas Ash, are the interviews with the mothers of children and the children themselves who were diagnosed as having cysts in their thyroid glands due to their exposure to initial-stage radiation from the Fukushima nuclear disaster. The first part of the film’s title comes from the fact that those who did not develop a cyst were classified “A1,” while those with cysts were designated “A2.” Most of the children shown on screen are A2, which is to say they have been medically diagnosed with a thyroid disorder, with B and C indicating larger thyroid cysts. Their mothers face the camera and make a direct appeal: “We were deceived and betrayed! We believe our children have cysts because the initial-stage radiation was [much more] severe [than the authorities claimed].” (See Figure 5.3). A2-B-C begins with a shocking clash of views. Ash pointedly asks Dr. Yamashita Shun’ichi, the risk management advisor on matters of health

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Figure 5.3: Film still from A2-B-C

related to radiation from Fukushima, “Can you give us a guarantee that we won’t get cancer from this?” But Yamashita retorts, “I am sorry but I cannot. It’s a question of probability. No one is able to say absolutely—no one can say it is absolutely safe.” As is now commonly known, Dr. Yamashita—despite his position as risk management advisor for Japan’s most dire health crisis in decades—has become notorious for his off-putting remarks such as “As the name ‘Fukushima’ becomes famous throughout the world, this crisis will turn into an opportunity”; and his outrageous statements such as “Radiation has no impact on those who just keep smiling.”18 Here, what I want to stress is not which of these two—Ash or Yamashita—is correct; rather, it is what separates the two of them. The problem with Yamashita is that, in discharging the mission to which he was assigned vis-à-vis the people who continued to live in the affected regions of Fukushima, far from explaining to them clearly and simply the reality of the damage radiation causes, his manner appears to have been to use rhetorical flourishes and wordplay to lull them into a totally groundless sense of security. The issue with Ash, on the other hand, is that he takes what he believes people most want to know and simply asks about it, point-blank. Even though he is using Japanese to ask these questions, the things he says make it abundantly clear that an entirely different way of life and sense of values motivate him. 18 “Yamashita Shun’ichi no tondemo hatsugen” [Yamashita Shun’ichi’s Unbelievable Statements], available on Youtube.com, at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PuwFrNEgDTg&feature=yo utube_gdata_player (Accessed May 19, 2021, by which date it had been viewed 150,105 times).

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The main attraction of this documentary, A2-B-C, is the point-blank nature of Ash’s mode of speech. Put differently, he possesses a viewpoint and speaking style so straightforward it is childlike. Many victims of the Fukushima disaster have been eking out a living while constantly squaring off, ever since 2011, against all manner of contradictions, doubts, and absurdities. Ash’s unrestrained and uninhibited questions have won the hearts of many. Quite a number of children appear in Kamanaka’s Little Voices, as well. However, it is obvious that the camera is pointed primarily at their mothers rather than at the children themselves. Ash, by contrast, is clearly committed to rescuing these children’s voices from obscurity. Elementary school students in the area have something called a “glass badge” attached to their bookbags. According to the Terminological Dictionary for New Words and Current Events (Shingo jiji yogo jiten), this term “glass badge” refers to “a kind of dosimeter made from a special type of glass designed to light up when exposed to radiation. It is able to measure the size of the radiation dose an individual has received.”19 Ash approached a young boy, probably a first-grader based on the yellow safety cover on his bookbag, and asked him “What’s this thing?” The boy responded, “A glass badge.” Ash: “What’s a ‘glass badge’?” Boy: “A thing that measures stuff.” Ash: “What stuff?” At that point, the sister of the now lost-for-words boy came to his rescue, answering “It’s a thing that measures radioactivity.” What we sense from this dialogue sequence, I think, is not “Oh, how wonderful that this sort of scheme has been put into place to monitor the children’s safety!” but rather “Is it really a good idea to make children walk to school through areas with measurable amounts of radioactivity?” This film, A2-B-C, is asking “Is these children’s future safe?”20 Children are not given rights commensurate with their role as vital subjects in society, and as a result there is a tendency to ignore or belittle their voices. A2-B-C masterfully draws forth the voices of children, whom, it is probably safe to say, are the living beings most grievously injured by the Fukushima nuclear disaster. Nevertheless, this film was also beset with difficulties. This is not to say that hearing what children can tell us is difficult; rather, it was the process of getting the film made and screened that proved herculean. The film 19 “Garasu bacchi betsumyo: garasu senryokei, kojinyo garasu senryokei” [“Glass Badge,” Also Known as “Glass Dosimeter,” “Personal Glass Dosimeter”], updated June 22, 2011 and available at: https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E3%82%AC%E3%83%A9%E3%82%B9%E3%83%90%E3 %83%83%E3%82%B8 (Accessed May 28, 2018). 20 “A2-B-C (Japan Theatrical Trailer 2015).” http://www.a2-b-c.com/trailer.html (Accessed May 28, 2018).

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first entered the distribution phase in May of 2014. But in March of 2015, before even one year had passed, the distribution committee decided to abandon their efforts to distribute it. Regarding the process by which the “film screening committee, the parent organization of the Tokyo distribution company” responsible for A2-B-C, washed its hands of this film, the details have been laid out in Yamada Rie’s article, published on August 29, 2015 in Asahi Shimbun entitled “Fukushima ni kurasu hitobito wo egaita eiga, uchikiri kara saijoei e” (“Film Depicting People Who Live in Fukushima, From Discontinued to Resumption of Screening”). Yamada writes: The film screening committee has not clearly identified its reason for discontinuing the film’s showings, but according to the film’s director and other sources close to this matter, it is because one of the women shown in the film, as well as a certain medical facility in Fukushima Prefecture at which the thyroid glands of children were examined, were both identified by someone as connected to the radical revolutionary group Chukakuha (the Japan Revolutionary Communist League, or JRCL).21

In reality, as will be clear to anyone who actually watches the film, A2-B-C does not contain the slightest hint of propaganda or support for JRCL. If one leaves aside how the film identifies the problematic nature of the current conservative government’s reconstruction plans, it is absolutely impossible to detect any sort of political bias in this film. Yamada’s article continues: The film screening committee, for its part, stated “There is a risk that it could be used as propaganda by certain organizations. The possibility exists that it could thereby inconvenience other citizens’ groups seeking to screen their films” and instructed the filmmaker to cut the scene in question. But the director, who has said he was unaware of the connection [between the woman and JRCL], refused to comply.

To this date, no one knows who was seeking to call out the connection with the JRCL. After this controversy broke, Ian Thomas Ash gave interviews and held a press conference regarding his clash with the committee. But he noted that the only ones who showed any interest in covering this story 21 “Hatena blog: Shuuei no memo—2015−08−30 Fukushima ni kurasu hitobito wo egaita eiga, uchikiri kara saijoei e” [Shuuei’s Notes: 8–30–2012: Film Depicting People Who Live in Fukushima, From Discontinued to Resumption of Screening], http://d.hatena.ne.jp/shuuei/20150830/1440875392 (Accessed May 28, 2018).

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and who respected his quest for a frank and open dialogue were foreign reporters in Japan. Children and foreigners, both groups who are not enfranchised, tend to be looked down on politically as a result. However, A2-B-C affirms that they each have enormous potential. This potential lies in the two traits they both share, namely their straightforward viewpoint and their blunt, point-blank mode of speech, both of which are often seen as unrefined manners in Japan. The camera in A2-B-C, positioned in such a way that it arguably cannot “read the room” of modern-day Japanese society, will certainly make every viewer think there is something strange about it. Yet they will also feel that somehow, in ways that are difficult to identify precisely, this camera has also taken the reality of the post-disaster situation and rendered it visible. Ash has admitted that in his day-to-day life he is not conscious of being a foreigner; it is only while he is making a documentary in Japan that he is unable to avoid becoming aware of his foreignness. But he has at times been able to convert his foreignness into an opportunity. In a conversational interview between Ash and Kamanaka Hitomi on the process of making documentary films about nuclear power, both touched on the topic of being “foreign” filmmakers.22 Ash spoke of his experience making films in Japan, while Kamanaka discussed the process of shooting footage all over the world for her documentaries. Both noted that as foreigners in their respective shooting locations, they spoke and interacted with people either in the locals’ native language or in a language both the filmmaker and locals knew but which was foreign to them both. In Kamanaka’s case this language was English, while for Ash it was Japanese. And Ash pointed out that no matter how proficient Kamanaka’s English was, the fact is that many interviewees let their guard down psychologically when facing a foreigner who is speaking a language that is not her mother tongue. In other words, even when foreigners ask questions that cut straight to the crux of the matter and that are consequently awkward to answer, inasmuch as they are asking straightforwardly, without rhetorical flourishes, and speaking in an almost childlike way, many of their interviewees will answer them in a kind, straightforward, easy-to-understand manner. It is this tendency that Ash identified as an opportunity. The two went on to find they had more common ground, as both agreed how difficult it is to communicate in Japanese society using the sophisticated, indirect way of conversing that is the Japanese language. 22 “Filmmakers Ash and Kamanaka Discuss Radiation, Secrets and Lives.” The Japan Times, May 13, 2015. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/community/2015/05/13/issues/f ilmmakers-ashkamanaka-discuss-radiation-secrets-lives/#.Wwv2HKlFPow (Accessed May 28, 2018).

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Actually, what Ian Thomas Ash identified above about the foreigner had already been pointed out by Julia Kristeva in her book Strangers to Ourselves. “He is the hidden face of our identity, the space that wrecks our abode, the time in which understanding and affinity founder,” and the one who possesses this power is “strangely, the foreigner [who] lives within us.”23 Kristeva writes that the essence of the foreigner is “to disagree. Constantly, about nothing, with no one. Coping with that with astonishment and curiosity, like an explorer, an ethnologist.”24 Perhaps what we all need, inasmuch as we all have this foreigner-esque quality within us, is precisely this sort of curiosity, which won’t easily succumb to the views of others—a curiosity that will strive to listen to the sorts of voices that are all too often inaudible. Now, then, let us examine the similarities between the post-disaster documentary films I have discussed in this chapter. Each of the three works highlights a group whose members are often assumed to lack the autonomy to state their views freely—a group that is indeed vulnerable but at the same time one whose existence deserves more respect than it receives. The films give a voice to these voiceless figures, showing their internal resistance to their situations on screen. Nonetheless, all three works ran afoul of contemporary mainstream Japanese society. Iwasaki’s Living Things series initially enjoyed the financial support of the government but lost this support as soon as the series began to record the “inconvenient truth” about Fukushima. The distribution committee for A2-B-C tried to compel Ash into self-censorship and totally ceased all its public screenings and other media-based promotional activities for it. And as for Kamanaka’s films, she has received no financial support from the government or from any specific corporation, a fact made clear by her actual method of raising money to cover production costs—crowdfunding. Moreover, it is safe to say that the resounding silence with which Japan’s mass media outlets have greeted these works has exposed their distinct lack of curiosity in any films possessing a point of view that differs from the mainstream. I think I am not alone in fearing that the decisions of the current ruling party and the totalitarian power they wield, which reverberates throughout Japanese society, appear to be far too pervasive to permit any diversification of the cultural dialogue at present. 23 Julia Kristeva, Étrangers à nous-mêmes (Paris: Fayard, 1988). Trans. Leon S. Roudiez, Strangers to Ourselves (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). Trans. Kazuko Ikeda, Gaikokujin: Warera no uchinaru mono (Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 1990). 24 Ibid., 17.

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Works Cited “‘A2-B-C’ (Japan Theatrical Trailer 2015).” YouTube video, 2:01. Posted by “Thomas Ash,” April 8, 2014. http://www.a2-b-c.com/trailer.html. Agamben, Giorgio. L’aperto: l’uomo el’animale. Bollati Boringhieri: 2002; Trans. Kevin Attell, The Open: Man and Animal. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003; Trans. Okada Atsushi and Taga Kentaro, Hirakare: Ningen to dobutsu. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2011. Avenell, Simon. “Hoho to shite no kankyo akutibizumu—Nihon no ningen chushin-teki kankyo shugi” [Environmental Activism as Method: Japan’s Human-Centered Environmentalism]. Translated by Osaki Harumi. JunCture: Choikiteki Nihon Bunka Kenkyu 8, (2017): 66–81. Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962. “Filmmakers Ash and Kamanaka Discuss Radiation, Secrets and Lives.” The Japan Times, May 13, 2015. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/community/2015/05/13/issues/ filmmakers-ash-kamanaka-discuss-radiation-secrets-lives/#.Wwv2HKlFPow. Fujiki, Hideaki. “Antoroposen no datsu shizenka—3.11 genpatsu saigai-go no dokyumentari ni yoru randosukepu, dobutsu, basho” [De-Naturalizing the Anthropocene: Landscape, Animals, and Place in Post-3/11 Nuclear Disaster Documentaries]. JunCture: Choikiteki Nihon Bunka Kenkyu 8, (2017): 48–65. “‘Fukushima’ wa sabetsu? Genchi no hito wo kurushimeru katakana hyoki” [Is “Fukushima” discriminatory? Katakana notation that afflicts local people]. Shukan Asahi, December 5, 2014. https://dot.asahi.com/wa/2014112600078. html?page=1. “Genpatsu jiko no kowasa, dobutsu ga tsutaeru” [The Fear of Nuclear Accident, Reported by Animals]. Tokyo Shimbun, July 8, 2017. Gore, Al. An Inconvenient Truth. Hollywood: Paramount, 2006. DVD. Haraway, Donna. The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2003. Ichinose, Masaki. Hoshano mondai ni tachimukau tetsugaku [Philosophy’s Response to the Problem of Radioactivity]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 2013. Kristeva, Julia. Étrangers à nous-mêmes. Paris: Fayard, 1988; Trans. Leon S. Roudiez, Strangers to Ourselves. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991; Trans. Kazuko Ikeda, Gaikokujin: Warera no uchinaru mono. Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 1990. Lippit, Akira Mizuta. Electric Animal: Toward a Rhetoric of Wildlife. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000. Massumi, Brian. What Animals Teach Us about Politics. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2014.

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Naess, Arne. Ecology, Community and Lifestyle: Outline of an Ecosophy. Translated by David Rothenberg. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. New Language Dictionary of Current Affairs in Weblio Dictionary. “Garasu bacchi” [Glass Badge]. https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E3%82%AC%E3%83%A9%E 3%82%B9%E3%83%90%E3%83%83%E3%82%B8 (Accessed May 28, 2018). “Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, Keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report]. Nihon Keizai Shimbun, March 7, 2020. http://www.nikkei.com/article/ DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/. Shuuei no memo (Shuuei’s notes). “Fukushima ni kurasu hitobito wo egaita eiga, uchikiri kara saijoei e” [Film Depicting People Who Live in Fukushima, From Discontinued to Resumption of Screening]. Hatena blog, August 29, 2015. http://d. hatena.ne.jp/shuuei/20150830/1440875392. Singer, Peter. Animal Liberation: A New Ethics for Our Treatment of Animals. New York: Harper Collins, 1975. Trans. Toda Kiyoshi. Dobutsu no kaiho. Tokyo: Gijutsu to Ningen, 1988. “The head of the Nuclear Emergency Response Headquarters (the prime minister).” April 5, 2012. http://www.maff.go.jp/j/kanbo/saisei/sinsai/pdf/siryo_12_2_3. pdf#page=3. “Yamashita Shun’ichi no tondemo hatsugen” [Yamashita Shun’ichi’ s Unbelievable Statements]. YouTube video, 2:44. Posted by “sievert311,” May 8, 2011. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=PuwFrNEgDTg&feature=youtube_gdata_player. Weblio jisho. https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E4%​BF%9D%E9%A4%8A (Accessed May 20, 2021).

6. The Power of Art in the Post-3/11 World Abstract: The final chapter examines not documentary cinema but rather contemporary art in Japan. Why should a cinema scholar contemplate contemporary art? The answer can be found in the many things artists and filmmakers had in common as they struggled to deal with Fukushima and grappled with where they should stand. Many works of contemporary artists are like doppelgangers—other selves—of filmmakers. Can the characteristics of the post-3/11 era drawn from analyses of films be applied to “culture” in general? Namely, focusing on Chim↑Pom, who continues to lead the radical movement in Japanese contemporary art, I also analyze the works of Yanobe Kenji, Murakami Takashi, Tsuboi Akira, Fukuda Miran, Akagi Shuji, and turn my ear to their “warnings.” Keywords: political stance; contemporary art created after 3/11; instigate critical thinking; “Don’t Follow the Wind,” exhibition that no one can see; being unfinished

In this f inal chapter, I examine the power inherent in contemporary art created after 3/11. Even though my f ield of study is cinema, I wanted to verify if the cultural current observed in post-3/11 cinema is also present in other cultural domains, such as the field of contemporary art. Cinema is not necessarily identical with contemporary art; f ilm and artwork are traded and circulated within their respective markets. In the case of f ilm, it is generally the product of collective work, though the scale may vary, while in the case of contemporary art, it is the product of the individual artist. Of course, there are some f ilms and contemporary artworks for which these generalizations do not apply. Nonetheless, I sensed that many contemporary artists who have tackled societal issues after 3/11 may have something in common with f ilmmakers. I wish to examine the transitions in the cultural domain of post-3/11 Japan by examining the role of art, including the power to resist the contradictions that dominate the era.

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_ch06

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The relationship between art and politics is indeed complex. Political works of art exist in all ages; however, some artists tend to pursue the goal of achieving universality by associating themselves with aesthetic values or imagination rather than with political claims that inevitably confine them and their work to a specific time. To put it differently, art at times risks losing the possibility of being appreciated for its universal values when it adheres itself to the social structure woven by the politics or the political dynamics that unfold in a specific time. For example, it is widely known that state-sponsored “war paintings” (senso-ga) have lost their value in later ages. In the case of Fujita Tsuguharu (in the West known as Léonard Foujita), he actively produced war paintings such as Final Fighting on Attu (Attsuto gyokusai, 1943) during World War II, which led to social criticism of him for being a “war collaborator” in Japan after the war ended. In contemporary art, where the sum of money a work garners becomes an indicator of its value, being associated with a specific political agenda, thereby practically losing business opportunities, is a serious dilemma for many artists. The ultimate example of this is anti-nuclear films.1 Many producers of anti-nuclear films lament that it takes careful consideration and determination to direct films that advocate anti-nuclear positions. Producing an anti-nuclear film is one thing, but it is a serious gamble that puts filmmaking careers on the line. Many directors in Japan who made anti-nuclear films have had difficulty finding other work because they have lost the financial support of large sponsors.2 As mentioned in Chapter 3, the clout of the nuclear village in Japan is enormous and has not lost its influence even in the face of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. I do not assert that various social infrastructure components necessarily comprise the most critical factors that make up either art or cinema. Nor do I always believe that the value of art or cinema is determined by ungraspable concepts such as “the state of the society” or “the spirit of the times,” which collectively constitute “culture.” However, at the same time, both art and cinema are not entirely segregated from the politics or economy of a 1 Okamura Yukinobu, a curator of Maruki Gallery for the Hiroshima Panels, avoids using the expression “the art of anti-nuclear power”; instead, he uses the expression “the art of non-nuclear power” in order to connect it not only to the nuclear accident but also to broader nuclear problems. Cf. Okamura Yukinobu, Hikaku geijutsu annai: kaku wa do egakarete kitaka [An Introduction to the Art of Non-Nuclear Power: How Nuclear Power Has Been Depicted] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013). 2 According to the author’s interview with Kawai Hiroyuki, discussed in Chapter 3 (the interview was conducted in July 2017).

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particular region or specific historical factors profoundly tied to “culture.” Especially with regards to art that has come out of Japan since the Great East Japan Earthquake, without doubt, many artists could not help but ponder how they would be able to present their work convincingly to people who suffered through the disaster. I believe that these artists have the power to inspire and instigate critical thinking. What is the power to inspire and instigate critical thinking? What do we need to be critical of? In 1949, Martin Heidegger gave a series of lectures entitled “Insight into That Which Is.” In these lectures, he discussed the philosophical theory of technology. Focusing on nuclear technology, he presented his profound skepticism of the essence of modern technology. In short, Heidegger explained that modern technology is an “all-encompassing system” that includes humans and nature, and that the essence of modern technology, in and of itself, is ultimate nihilism. In his rather esoteric theory of modern technology, Heidegger draws our attention to the danger of modern technology as being hidden. “What is most dangerous in the danger consists in the danger concealing itself as the danger that it is.”3 In this theory of technology by Heidegger, I find the purpose of the power to inspire and instigate critical thinking. The nuclear disaster following the Great East Japan Earthquake is a failure of civilization that has already happened and cannot be reversed. Nonetheless, it may be nothing but a part of the vast danger that modern technology has brought on us. Suppose the disaster of 3/11 was nothing but the tip of the iceberg, part of the danger that is made visible. What is it that we must think critically about? What is the grave danger that remains hidden? I am still seeking a word that can concisely express it. As mentioned in the introduction, I think the danger might be something that deeply resonates with the very thing that has created “the system of sacrifice” as described in the words of philosopher Takahashi Tetsuya, or with what has promoted the logic that helped in creating the system of sacrifice. 4 The supreme danger for all of us is the way of politics itself which, in the name of benefiting the community/nation, tries to invoke the “all-encompassing system” of sacrifice. In this chapter, I focus on several works of contemporary art that are of personal interest to me. I realize that the selections are arbitrary and that my analysis of these works might be no more than an interpretation. 3 Martin Heidegger, Martin Heidegger: die Japanische Gesamtausgabe, in The Complete Works of Martin Heidegger vol. 79, trans. Mori Ichiro and Hartmut Buchner (Tokyo: Sobunsha, 2003), 71. 4 Takahashi Tetsuya, Gisei no shisutemu: Fukushima/Okinawa [Systems of Sacrifice: Fukushima and Okinawa] (Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012).

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However, one justification for my choices of these art forms is that I have chosen works that have made me pause for a moment when I saw them, either because I was moved in some way or because I had major questions about them. Moreover, some of the works intrigued me because of the gap that exists between the work and the artist’s discourse that accompanies it. I also think these works of contemporary art that I discuss here cannot be described as a totally random collection. The creators of these works have expressed their consciousness of the Great East Japan Earthquake in their works. That is the common trait among the selection of works that I will introduce. These are works of a political nature, conscious of their relationship to society—in other words, works that are self-aware of their connection to new waves in society. This chapter examines the political nature of these works. The works that I discuss in this chapter are as follows: Sun Child (Yanobe Kenji, 2012); Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (Haru natsu aki fuyu, 2012–2013, Fukuda Miran); The 500 Arhats (Gohyaku rakanzo, 2012, Murakami Takashi); and the Don’t Follow the Wind Exhibition (2015–, Chim↑Pom). I will also be referring to Akagi Shuji’s collection of photographs, Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013 (2015), and Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances (Rensaku saidanga mushubutsu, 2013–, Tsuboi Akira). My focus is on the power of art to inspire and instigate critical thinking. I will highlight these works’ visualization of the invisible and their intentional incompleteness as a way to maintain attention on the shifting state of the world. Before I begin my analysis, I would like to take special note that this chapter aims neither to evaluate nor critique works of post-3/11 contemporary art in Japan. Instead, I intend to turn our awareness toward the culture and politics of post-3/11 Japan by contemplating contemporary artworks that appeared during the past decade.

Sun Child: What Is the Message that Is Being Sent Out to the World from Here? Figure 6.1 is a photograph of the statue of Sun Child (2012) by Yanobe Kenji that I took at the Hankyu Railway Minami-Ibaraki Station. This work has a subtitle, Giving “Hope for the Future” to the Children (Kodomo ni takusu “Mirai no kibo”). Born in 1965, Yanobe Kenji says he was enthralled by manga and anime heroes from an early age. After graduating from Kyoto City University of Arts Graduate School, he made his debut as a professional artist with Tanking Machine (1990) and has been building an “egocentric fantasy

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Figure 6.1: The statue of Sun Child by Yanobe Kenji

world” ever since.5 He writes that he has attempted “communication to gain awareness of the existence of self” through a series of works including Geiger Check (1995), Radiation Suit Atom (1996), and Survival Racing Car (1997).6 In 1996, Yanobe went to Berlin with the theme “survival” in mind, and with The Atom Suit Project/Chernobyl (1997), the object of his fantasy world began to have a connection to the real world. However, a connection to the real world meant nothing more than Yanobe physically going inside the character in the fantasy world he had created and stepping out of the exhibition hall and into the real world. The following is Yanobe’s statement “People Rising,” which he released on March 16, 2011, shortly after the Fukushima disaster: Upset by the news of the disaster, I mindlessly spent hours and hours glued to the television at home, wanting to find out more. After a while, I heard my young son, who was sitting next to me, whisper, “Is it still better to be alive in such a horrible world?” 5 Yanobe Kenji, Shinsoban Yanobe Kenji sakuhinshu 1969–2005 [A Collection of Yanobe Kenji’s Works 1969–2005, New Edition] (Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013), 3. 6 Ibid.

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I turned off the TV in a hurry. I was being swept up in the news of despair and was not even aware of it. Then I was convinced. Is art needed now? I would like to provide a clear answer to the question. It is needed now in particular. Art gives us the power to stand firmly in the middle of the storm of despair, looking ahead and confronting our challenges head-on. Creativity abundant with courage and hope points to dignity for life. With faith and pride in the function of art, we need to nurture a soul that wishes “to continue living.” Imagine, beyond the ruins, a utopia for every person. To those who are doing their best to live on despite the tragedy of the disaster, To those who are fighting to contain the damage with their life on the line, With deep respect for all, I offer my support. Ultra Factory, Director Yanobe Kenji March 16, 20117

I will not discuss the propriety or appropriateness of Yanobe’s statement here. Yanobe highlights “the power to stand firmly in the middle of the storm of despair, looking ahead and confronting our challenges head-on” and representations of “courage and hope.” Drawing from his statement, I would like to explore the expression that possesses “courage and hope” and breathes a spirit that wishes “to continue living” into people. The Sun Child project was initiated in April 2011 by the art collective Ultra Factory, which is part of Kyoto University of the Arts where Yanobe teaches. Although it represents a young boy, Sun Child stands twenty-feet tall. The child is wearing a radiation hazmat suit, carrying a helmet in his left hand, with a Geiger counter reading “000” attached to his chest. These symbols, including scratches on his face and a band-aid on his right cheek, signify that Sun Child, despite the fact that he suffered from the nuclear disaster, has already overcome it, and stands tall full of “hope for the future,” as suggested in the subtitle. Let us turn our attention to the sun shining brightly on his right palm. According to Yanobe, “the sun in the child’s right hand uses the image of

7 Yanobe Kenji, Urutora: Yanobe Kenji ato purojekuto [Ultra: Yanobe Kenji Art Projects 2008–2013] (Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013), 77. Emphasis added.

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the sun painted on the wall of a nursery school in Chernobyl as the motif.”8 Yanobe offers an additional explanation: Sun Child was f irst displayed in the Expo ’70 Commemorative Park, indicating that it was a successor to the message of the Tower of the Sun (Taiyo no to) by Okamoto Taro. The design for “the small sun” is taken from a group of works by Okamoto Taro, which centers on the “sun” as its theme. It also was the act of erecting “hope for the future” on the site of Expo ’70, the starting point of “the ruins of the future.”9

Why is Expo ’70 the starting point of the future ruins, and why does one need to build the “hope for the future” there? These questions are likely to occur to everyone. It is worth noting that Yanobe Kenji is from Ibaraki City, which is very close to the venue of Expo ’70 held at Senri Kyuryo in Suita City, Osaka, in 1970, and from his childhood he has been quite familiar with Okamoto Taro’s Tower of the Sun, the monumental sculpture of the central Theme Pavilion in Expo ’70. What I find intriguing is the obviousness attached to Okamoto Taro’s sun emphasized in Yanobe’s statement and the fact that Yanobe envisions his work going back to Okamoto Taro’s work. Okamoto Taro (1911–1996) was, needless to say, one of the leading contemporary artists in Japan, and his name has remained unshakeable as a master in the Japanese art world ever since his Tower of the Sun was introduced at Expo ’70. There is a video on YouTube titled “Yanobe Kenji Sun Child, Taro’s Children Full Version.”10 Aside from the uploader’s name (“The Torayan”), it is uncertain when and by whom the video was made, but I assume that it was produced with Yanobe Kenji’s permission at least. The video ends with the caption, “Kenji Yanobe Sun Child, Taro’s Children 2011.” The “Taro” in the caption is unmistakably Okamoto Taro, and it suggests that Yanobe and Sun Child are Okamoto’s “children.”11 However, as I reflected on how much of an influence Okamoto Taro has had on Yanobe’s work, I became more confused about what intention Yanobe Kenji has entrusted to Sun Child. 8 Ibid., 80. 9 Ibid., 74. 10 The Torayan, Complete edition of Yanobe Kenji “Sun Child, Taro’s Children 2011”.mov, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHoUTNl_Obk (Accessed August 21, 2018). 11 At the same time, during to the 2009 general election, the media were frequently using the notion of “Ozawa Children” again. The term “Ozawa Children” is used to refer to young politicians who have received political influence from Ozawa Ichiro, and The Torayan might be following this usage.

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Figure 6.2: Chim↑Pom’s “Additional Art” to Myth of Tomorrow

Yanobe is not the only contemporary artist who claims a connection to Okamoto Taro. In the anti-nuclear work of the art collective Chim↑Pom, Okamoto’s sun image also makes an appearance. Let us recall “the addition to the Myth of Tomorrow incident” in Shibuya, Tokyo. On May 1, 2011, Chim↑Pom literally added their “additional art” depicting the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster (Figure 6.2) to Myth of Tomorrow, a giant mural by Okamoto Taro permanently installed in a connecting passage inside Shibuya Station. (Figure 6.3) Chim↑Pom’s addition disappeared from the public space by the end of the day.12 In a 1968 interview, Okamoto Taro said of his mural Myth of Tomorrow that “I expressed my feeling that, despite the confusion unleashed to the world by the explosion of the nuclear bomb, humanity will overcome such a disaster to invent a future.”13 By attaching the “additional art” to Myth of Tomorrow, which depicts the moment of the hydrogen bomb explosion

12 This “additional art” was prepared for the exhibition called “PAVILION” at the Taro Okamoto Memorial Museum in 2013. This is re-displayed as a form of “collaboration” with a catchphrase like “After two years, ‘an off icial boxing ring’ is prepared for Chim↑Pom and Taro Okamoto. The unlimited game between them has broken out with a gong ringing,” Tokyo Numéro 462 Culture Post, https://numero.jp/news-20130426-chimpom-pavilion/ (Accessed June 24, 2020). 13 “Interview with Okamoto Taro,” (Chugoku Shimbun, January 27, 1968, morning edition).

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Figure 6.3: Myth of Tomorrow by Okamoto Taro

suffered by Lucky Dragon No. 5, Chim↑Pom expressed their intention of being the successor to the negative legacies of history. Similarly, Yanobe Kenji writes that he intends to inherit the message of Okamoto’s Tower of the Sun.14 (Figure 6.4) Okamoto’s Myth of Tomorrow depicts hydrogen bomb explosions, skeletons, flames, and the ship Lucky Dragon No. 5. However, it is doubtful how strongly Okamoto Taro intended to confront the nuclear safety myth forged by the postwar conservative regime and to express messages of a political nature such as anti-nuclear energy through his mural. Moreover, we may need to re-examine whether the series of works created by Okamoto with the “sun” motif, including Myth of Tomorrow, intended to carry a message as universal and objective as “hope for the future,” as Yanobe assumed in later years. In 1980, Awazu Kiyoshi, a graphic designer, made an interesting statement about Okamoto Taro’s relationship to Tower of the Sun. I think it was when he was creating Tower of the Sun. Several pieces of the objet of the faces of man-beasts were scattered about in the yard of his atelier. Looking at the scenery that was random and wide-open, it felt as if you were stepping inside Okamoto Taro himself. “What do you think, Awazu?” Okamoto asked me, but I was so dazed that I did not know what to answer. I just nodded.…That face of the man-beast had already appeared in his work in the early 1930s. It came to me at that 14 Yanobe Kenji, Urutora, 74.

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Figure 6.4: Sun Child displayed in front of Tower of the Sun

very moment that it was the self-portrait of Taro’s superego coiled around his flesh as a persistent image for as long as forty years; however, I could not say this for some reason.15 15 Awazu Kiyoshi, “Okamoto Taro no ribingu ato—muyo no yo no kusuguri” [The Living Art of Okamoto Taro—The Joke about the Usefulness of Uselessness], Okamoto Taro no sekai [The World of Okamoto Taro], eds. Okamoto Toshiko and Saito Shinji (Tokyo: Shogakukan, 1999), 132. Emphasis added. This article was originally written in 1980 and reprinted in the anthology.

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Awazu’s insight in this statement is that the image of the “sun” Okamoto depicts is not an abstract expression of “future” or “hope” but rather Okamoto’s expression of his ego. The important thing here is that the interpretation Awazu made in 1980 reminds us of the possibility of unsubstantiated assumptions that people tend to hold toward historic works of art. Remarkably, the overvaluation and adoration of Okamoto Taro as a master artist and permanent figure in contemporary Japanese art history has become even further solidified by successors in the field of art such as Yanobe Kenji and Chim↑Pom. Let us return to Sun Child. I stated previously that Yanobe’s fantasy world began to form a connection to the real world with The Atom Suit Project/ Chernobyl (1997). What is Sun Child’s connection to the real world? As far as I can see, this work identifies the unsubstantiated sense of hope for post-disaster reconstruction reported through the media. This sense of hope seems no different from the government’s statements or the corporate PR slogans that repeat the mantra of “safety/security” (anzen/anshin). There is more than one Sun Child statue. Yanobe’s multiple sun children traveled around the world. They circulated in Moscow (Russia) and Haifa (Israel), two locations in Tokyo, and three locations in Osaka, including the one permanently installed in front of Minami-Ibaraki Station, as shown in Figure 6.1. Thanks to supporting organizations and crowdfunding efforts, another statue was exhibited at the 2012 Fukushima Contemporary Art Biennale.16 Talking about the process leading up to the exhibition in Fukushima, Yanobe has stated that “Transporting Sun Child to Fukushima was not the objective. What was important was to send a message out to the world from Fukushima with Sun Child.”17 Yanobe’s statement does not specify what that message is. What message exactly was sent out, via Sun Child, from Fukushima to the world? The exhibition of Sun Child in Fukushima was initially scheduled to last just over a month starting in August 2012. However, the exhibition was extended until the end of March 2013. I wonder how much of a difference there is between the overoptimism of Sun Child and the excessively positive statement and empty promises irresponsibly made in the speech given by then Prime Minister Abe Shinzo in a bid to host the 2020 Olympics. Sun Child looks toward a bright future, assuming that the nuclear accident 16 The number of supporting organizations and crowdfunding donors is a total of 208 contributors, including 182 individuals. 17 Yanobe Kenji, “3/11 and the Sun Child: The Creative Workshop of Things,” Urutora, 133.

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has already been dealt with and holding the sun symbolizing hope for the future—new energy for the next generation—in his hand. In the same vein, Prime Minister Abe Shinzo stressed the environmental safety of Tokyo—and, by extension, the whole of Japan—at the International Olympic Committee assembly on September 1, 2013: “Some may have concerns about Fukushima. Let me assure you, the situation is under control. It has never done and will never do any damage to Tokyo.”18 The exhibition coincided with the period in which the government needed to articulate the image both domestically and internationally that Japan was safe. On August 3, 2018, Sun Child was relocated to the Com-Com Children’s Learning Center (Komu Komu Kan), a municipally operated childcare support center near Fukushima Station. However, local residents complained that the statue gave the impression that Fukushima City was still suffering from radioactive contamination19 and that it would fuel damaging rumors.20 As a result, the Fukushima City Office removed the statue in September 2018. A new location has not been selected, and thus the Sun Child has been stored in a municipal facility ever since. I myself will continue paying attention to how Sun Child is received by the public, including discourses by art critics, media coverage such as in newspapers, and ordinary citizens’ reactions. More importantly, I need to stand squarely and see Sun Child, the twenty-foot statue in a yellow suit, once again myself. I wonder if the day will ever come for us to be able to meet its innocent smile with equally bright and hopeful smiles.

The Desire of the Creator and the High Concept Preceding It— Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and The 500 Arhats Sun Child is not the only work of contemporary art that exhibits overoptimism, or a lack of ability to offer criticism of reality. This section will discuss several examples of such artwork, even though their perspectives are different 18 “Abe shusho ‘anda kontororu’ no uso” [The Lie of PM Abe’s Assertion, ‘Under Control’], https://webronza.asahi.com/science/themes/2913091700003.html (Accessed June 24, 2020). 19 Hayashi Tomohiro, “Bogofuku wo kita kodomozo San Chairudo wa, naze Fukushima de enjo shitanoka” [Why the Sun Child, a Statue of a Child in a Protective Suit, Went up in Flames in Fukushima], https://gendai.ismedia.jp/articles/-/57167 (Accessed June 20, 2020). 20 “Bogofuku no kodomo ritsuzo San Chairudo Fukushima-shi de tekkyo sagyo hajimaru” [The Removal of Sun Child, a Statue of a Child in a Protective Suit, Has Started in Fukushima]. Sankei News, (September 18, 2018). https://www.sankei.com/affairs/news/180918/afr1809180005-n1.html (Accessed June 20, 2020).

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Figure 6.5: Fukuda Miran’s Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter

from that of Sun Child. One example is Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (2012, Figure 6.5) by Fukuda Miran. Another is The 500 Arhats: Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Vermillion Bird, Black Tortoise (2012) by Murakami Takashi. Fukuda Miran, born in 1963, is a painter talented for her ability “to reconsider uncertainties surrounding the history of art.” According to art historian Yamashita Yuji, she “makes us question the way we view the masterpieces of the past.”21 However, she herself notes that her post-3/11 disaster-related paintings distinguish between Fukuda as the creator of the work and the people who were affected by the disaster, as well as between her work and the post-disaster reality. In the catalogue for her 2013 exhibit at the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, Fukuda describes her self-awareness as follows: I was aware that, for someone like myself who has invested so much energy into the act of “seeing,” the acute desire to see the cruel devastation of 21 Yamashita Yuji, “196–199 Haru, yokujitsu no chokan ichimen; Natsu, shinsaigo no asari; Aki, hibo kannon; Fuyu, kyoka” [196–199 Spring: The Front Page of the Next Day’s Morning Newspaper; Summer: Clams after the Earthquake; Autumn: Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother; Winter: The Flower Offering], Nihon bijutsu zenshu, Vol. 20: Nihon bijutsu no genzai, mirai: 1996–Genzai [The Complete Collection of Japanese Art, Vol. 20: Japanese Art in the Present and the Future:1996–the Present], ed. Yamashita Yuji (Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2016), 300–301.

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the disaster with my own eyes was a desire unique to those who create and different from being sympathetic to people who had lost their home and their family members swept away by the tsunami.22

Fukuda’s four works are entitled Spring: The Front Page of the Next Day’s Morning Newspaper (Haru: Yokujitsu no chokan ichimen) (top right); Summer: Clams after the Earthquake (Natsu: Shinsaigo no asari) (bottom right); Autumn: Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother (Aki: Hibo Kannon) (top left); and Winter: The Flower Offering (Fuyu: Kyoka) (bottom left). Among these, Spring is the expression of her internal feeling of despair after the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident. The source of her despair and anxiety was delivered to her by the newspaper, depicted in both Spring and Summer, a medium that usually delivers news that she is alienated from. As a result, her paintings feel somewhat distant from the victims and from those directly affected by the disaster. Summer expresses her anxiety about the irreversible damage to the ecosystem caused by the nuclear accident. The work was inspired by the newspaper article “After the Big Earthquake, Clams Are Also Stressed,” which reported on the continued contamination of seawater after the disaster. Fukuda sought out clams every time she went to the fish store and made sketches of them. She wrote that “due to the damage caused by the disaster, grooves had formed on their shells that changed their colors and patterns.”23 In Summer, the emphasis is placed upon the sensitivity and susceptibility of the artist who is herself feeling despair and anxiety. This obsession with the creator-as-self is even more pronounced in Autumn and Winter. Autumn is an homage to Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother, the final work of Kano Hogai (1828–1888), the Japanese-style painter active from the late Edo period to the Meiji period. Winter is reminiscent of Roses (1890) by Vincent van Gogh. Art historian Yamashita Yuji has commented that Fukuda is “drawing from art histories of all times and places, reflects on herself as a descendant of these histories and clearly defines herself as she is.”24 Yamashita’s comment aside, what are the meanings of these homages to past masterpieces? Let us look at one of Fukuda’s works from her so-called reproductions from “masterpieces” by juxtaposing it to Leonardo da Vinci’s 22 Ibid. 23 Fukuda Miran ten [The Fukuda Miran Exhibition], eds. Hirakata Masaaki and Mizuta Yuko (Tokyo: Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, 2013), 79. 24 Yamashita Yuji, “196–199 Haru, yokujitsu no chokan ichimen; Natsu, shinsaigo no asari; Aki, hibo kannon: Fuyu, kyoka,” 300–301.

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Figure 6.6–6.7: Two Smiles of Mona Lisa

Mona Lisa (Figure 6.6 and Figure 6.7). When we compare Fukuda’s work before and after 3/11, one thing comes to the surface. To simplify, the elements that impress us are Fukuda’s wit and her painting technique. Fukuda’s works are not so much created by an act of homage or respect as by a strong attachment to her own self, expressed through clever differences from the masterpieces of the past. Winter: The Flower Offering uses Van Gogh’s Roses as a motif. Fukuda encountered Van Gogh’s painting while visiting an exhibition of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings at the National Art Center in Tokyo in June 2011. Fukuda says that she “was feeling at a loss as to how I might engage with the disaster caused by the earthquake in my work” and that “the encounter led me to take a step forward in facing those who had lost their lives in the disaster.”25 I wonder, though, if the grief that she intended to express through her painting was dedicated only to the countless people who had been lost in the disaster—victims whom Fukuda has no way of personally acknowledging. In 2009, Fukuda’s father Shigeo—a well-known graphic artist who often created optical illusions—died unexpectedly of a stroke. Many offerings of white flowers were delivered to their residence. Fukuda started taking 25 Fukuda Miran ten, 81.

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Figure 6.8: The 500 Arhats: Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Vermillion Bird, Black Tortoise by Murakami Takashi

photos of the potted white flowers that continued to bloom. Winter: The Flower Offering is composed of these images.26 Fukuda is thus paying homage not only to Van Gogh’s Roses but also to her grief at the time of her father’s death. Audiences might have been able to project their own feelings onto Fukuda’s images of “the flower offerings.” However, it makes me wonder whether Fukuda was able to overlay her grief about the loss of her father with mourning for the deaths of victims of the Great East Japan Earthquake whose faces she had no way of seeing. In that sense, this work may serve as an empty vessel in which the source of grief can easily be switched. The work does arouse a vague sense of grief. However, it does not display a critical attitude, or any power to inspire and instigate critical thinking toward the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident and the issues at the root of this accident. For the same reason, I do not sense a critical attitude in Murakami Takashi’s large-scale work, The 500 Arhats: Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Vermillion Bird, Black Tortoise (Figure 6.8). Moreover, I have serious doubts about the power of art that this work attempts to express. Art critic Sawaragi Noi comments on this work by Murakami as follows. Inspired by “a fantastic idea” proposed by the two (art historians Tsuji Nobuo and Yamashita Yuji) and the concept of “salvation” by arhats, Murakami as a post-3/11 artist conceived the idea of creating the world’s largest paintings of 500 arhats. In addition to all the techniques and know-how he had cultivated, he invested in the latest digital technologies and “a caravan” of art students scouted from all over Japan. He managed 26 Ibid.

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Figure 6.9: Five Hundred Arhats by Kano Kazunobu

to bring the exhibition to Doha, Qatar in the Middle East in 2012, the year after the Great Earthquake, in little more than a year from its conception.… Please take a careful look at the double page spread (in the exhibition catalogue). You can find the face of someone whom you were once close to, it is said, among the 500 arhats. Those left behind are given salvation and healing through the reunion with loved ones and reflecting on the regrets of the deceased. Murakami attempted to reproduce the spiritual workings of the 500 arhats in today’s Japan after the Great East Japan Earthquake. You see wild waves like the massive tsunami (in the form of the Blue Dragon, for instance) in the background.27

Murakami’s work is an homage to Kano Kazunobu’s Five Hundred Arhats (1854–1863) (Figure 6.9), whose story tells us that “you can find a face of someone whom you were once close to. Those left behind are given salvation and healing through the reunion with loved ones and reflecting on the regrets of the deceased” as Sawaragi explicates above. If Murakami “attempted to reproduce the spiritual workings of the 500 arhats after the 27 Sawaragi Noi, “43 Gohyaku Rakanzu (bubun)” [43 Painting of The 500 Arhats (Partial)], Nihon bijutsu no genzai, mirai [The Complete Collection of Japanese Art in the Present and the Future], ed. Yamashita Yuji, 227. Emphasis added.

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Great East Japan Earthquake,” why was this work exhibited in Doha and not in Fukushima? For whom and what purpose was this work created? The original role of Kano Kazunobu’s Five Hundred Arhats may have been as Sawaragi relates. However, one cannot accurately interpret the meaning behind the aberrant volume (a set of 100 hanging scrolls) of his Five Hundred Arhats simply by looking through the religious lens of salvation and prayer.28 Kazunobu, born in 1816 as the son of an antique dealer in Honjo-hayashi-cho in Edo (present-day Honjo, Sumida-ku, Tokyo), became a disciple of a painter in the school of Tsutsumi Torin and later studied under Kano Sosen Akinobu. When Kazunobu was commissioned to paint Five Hundred Arhats, he was just beginning to achieve recognition in the world of painting after many years as a painter in the lowest social stratum of the Kano school. He was almost forty years old when he started to paint Five Hundred Arhats in 1853. During that time he was also commissioned to paint a large-scale scroll, Shakamonjufuken, Shitenno, Judaideshi-zu (1856–1858) for the wall of Naritasan Shinshoji Temple. These works came to be regarded as his masterpieces after his death. However, Five Hundred Arhats would meet a curious fate. In 1878, fifteen years after Kazunobu’s death, the Rakando (Arhat Hall) was built as the permanent home for Five Hundred Arhats at Zojo-ji Temple, known for its deep connection to the Tokugawa clan, the rulers of Japan during the Edo period. The Rakando burned down during World War II. Although Five Hundred Arhats escaped the f ire, it ended up being stowed deep within a storehouse of Zojo-ji, never to see the light of the day for more than half a century. In 1983, the Minato-ku Board of Education published a report on Five Hundred Arhats, leading to a resurgence of interest in the work. Five Hundred Arhats was exhibited at Edo-Tokyo Museum from April to July in 2011. A catalogue of the complete collection was published in March 2011, which coincided with the Great East Japan Earthquake.29 Furthermore, it was exhibited at the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery in Washington, D.C., in the spring of 2012, opening the door for the value of Kazunobu’s work to be recognized worldwide. Murakami, who had originally studied Japanese-style painting, likely knew about this resurgence in the art world. In 2011, Murakami started his production of The 500 Arhats. “The Prayer Project (gankake purojekuto),” 28 Kazunobu is his given name. It is customary, however, to refer to painters like Kazunobu by their given names. 29 Kano Kazunobu: Gohyaku rakanzu [Kano Kazunobu: Five Hundred Arhats], eds. Yasumura Toshinobu and Yamashita Yuji (Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2011).

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as it had come to be called, was completed in 2012 with the support of approximately 200 students recruited from art universities across Japan. Following its exhibition in Doha, the first Japanese exhibition of The 500 Arhats opened at Tokyo’s Mori Art Museum in 2015. Can we suppose that these works of massive volume had little or no intent of religious nature such as salvation or prayer but instead were nothing but the means for these two ambitious artists—Kazunobu and Murakami—to achieve success and/or maintain their fame? Miki Akiko, the guest curator for Murakami’s exhibition at Mori Art Museum, points out a parallel between these two artists’ ambitions. Murakami found inspiration for The 500 Arhats not so much in his religious faith but the historical context that great works of art were often born in times of calamities and deaths such as earthquakes, massive f ires, and famines: the late Edo period when Kano Kazunobu’s Five Hundred Arhats was created; the Momoyama period; and the Heian period. Murakami also found the challenge invigorating, confronting the limits of our focus and physical endurance in the way that Kazunobu, Nagasawa Rosetsu, and other painters of the past tackled their work. Moreover, unlike Buddhist paintings in general that tend to observe many restrictions, arhats’ paintings allow artists the freedom to play with virtual images to express supernatural power or mystique with dynamism and scale. Yamashita Yuji, the authority on Five Hundred Arhats, points out that this sense of freedom fueled Kano Kazunobu’s artistic ambition, and I think perhaps the same could be said for Murakami.30

It may be difficult to find someone you were once close to or loved ones among Murakami’s colorful, coquettish, and caricaturized arhats. Although Murakami attempted to connect the goal of creating the world’s largest painting of 500 arhats with post-3/11 Japan, the link between the two does not sit well with me. When Murakami discusses the purpose behind The 500 Arhats project, he says that he wanted to see what could come out of the cross-fertilization between “Japan’s animation studio production system established after the 30 Miki Akiko, “Murakami Takashi no Gohyaku Rakanzu: kaiki to shinsei” [Murakami Takashi: The 500 Arhats—Recurrence and Rebirth], Murakami Takashi no Gohyaku Rakanzu ten [The Exhibition of The 500 Arhats by Murakami Takashi], ed. Mori Art Museum (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2016), 29. Emphasis added.

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war” and “the methodology of art production he had developed.” When asked what he demands of contemporary art in Japan, Murakami says “rigorous training in polished techniques.”31 Deducing from his statement, The 500 Arhats project is the culmination of his artistic techniques, and its reason for being is simply to show off those techniques. When thinking about the artwork, the image of the arhat, and its relationship with those who create or interpret the artwork, I became rather interested in “The Project for the Future Commemorating the Great East Japan Earthquake (Mirai e no kioku purojekuto)” held in Fumonji Temple in Yonesaki town, Rikuzen Takata City. The psychologist Sato Fumiko, an art therapist, initiated the project to hold a memorial service for the victims of this earthquake and to heal the survivors. With the help of the chief priest of Fumonji Temple, Kumagai Mitsuhiro, she managed to dedicate and hold a Buddhist memorial service of the five hundred arhats. I have not had a chance to go see them, but participants have reported their experiences as follows: “Every summer, participants from all over Japan have made arhats by carving the kogaseki (a kind of liperite found on Niijima, Izu Island) around 15-16 centimeters tall with a chisel with the help of stone-carving artisans. Many of the arhat-shaped stone statues have a calm expression, probably because the participants are reminiscing about their beloved family members and friends whilst carving the stones.”32 Another article reports that “the facial expression of arhats made of stone varies—some arhats are smiling with calmness and others are expressing sadness. The participants of this project have created the stone statues at their own pace, which is heard in the hammering sounds.”33 As is obvious from these reports, I am inclined to think that these five hundred arhats created by non-artists show a stronger “power of art” which is highly desired in post-earthquake Japan, rather than Murakami Takashi’s high concept artwork.

31 “Murakami Takashi ga Nihon no gendai bijutsu wo kataru [A Talk on Contemporary Art in Japan Given by Murakami Takashi],” Kanagawa Shimbun/kanakoro, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=wnFPxcaAffg (Accessed June 24, 2020). 32 Watanabe Yosuke, Asahi Shimbun Digital, August 19, 2017, https://www.asahi.com/articles/ ASK8L45VTK8LUJUB004.html (Accessed December 13, 2020). 33 “Rakanzo 500 tai totatsu e, 19 nichi made Yonesaki-cho no Fumonji de seisakukai; Mirai e no kioku purojekuto” [To Complete 500 Arhat Statues, a Workshop Will be Held at Fumonji Temple in Yonesaki Town until the 19th; The Project for the Future Commemorating the Great East Japan Earthquake]. Tohkai Shimpo, August 16, 2017. https://tohkaishimpo.com/2017/08/16/171372/. (Accessed December 13, 2020).

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An Exhibition that No One Can See: Don’t Follow the Wind Since 3/11, many artists have been forced to redefine their raison d’être by asking how artists can come face to face with those who have been devastated by disaster. What can art do? Don’t Follow the Wind, an exhibition chiefly organized by the contemporary art collective Chim↑Pom and joined by many other contemporary artists, has attempted to confront questions about the ability of art to visualize the invisible. On March 11, 2015, twelve groups of artists opened the exhibition Don’t Follow the Wind in four sites within Fukushima’s designated no-entry zone.34 The exhibition catalogue explains the title as follows: Don’t Follow the Wind is quoted from the words of an evacuee. At the time of the accident, informed by his knowledge gained through fishing, he was able to read the wind and escape in the right direction.35

To this day, no one has been able to see this exhibition in person, for it is in the zone designated as “difficult to return” by the government due to continuous radioactive contamination since the Great East Japan Earthquake. No one can predict when the restrictions in the zone will be lifted entirely. For this reason, Don’t Follow the Wind has become “the exhibition that continues to be seen within people’s imagination” according to the official catalogue.36 At the same time, the exhibition has opened “Non-Visitor Centers” in different parts of the world. “Non-Visitor Center” derives its name from the information centers (visitor centers) found in national parks and world heritage sites,37 and adding “non” to the name suggests that it is an information center that cannot welcome its visitors. The exhibition catalogue indicates that the Non-Visitor Center, “while taking the form of an exhibition in principle, utilizes various other forms of information media such as books and websites, accumulates the archives and derivative works from the 34 The list of artists (and groups) is as follows: Ai Weiwei, Groundguignol Mirai (the initial members are Ameya Norimizu and Sawaragi Noi, with Yamakawa Fuyuki and Akagi Shuji joining them later), Koizumi Meiro, Taryn Simon, Takeuchi Kota, Takekawa Nobuaki, Chim↑Pom, Nikolaus Hirsch & Jorge Otero-Pailos, Trevor Paglen, Eva & Franco Mattes, Miyanaga Aiko, and Ahmet Ögüt. 35 Chim↑Pom, Sawaragi Noi, the Executive Committee of Don’t Follow the Wind, Don’t Follow the Wind tenrankai koshiki katarogu 2015 [Don’t Follow the Wind: Official Catalogue 2015], (Kawade Shobo Shinsha, 2015), 45. 36 Ibid., 43. 37 “Don’t Follow the Wind, Non-Visitor Center,” WATARI-UM, http://www.watarium.co.jp/ exhibition/1509DFW_NVC/index2.html (Accessed April 2, 2023).

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exhibition, and makes them available to the public, and will continue on a long-term basis.”38 The first Non-Visitor Center of Don’t Follow the Wind was exhibited from September 19 to November 3, 2015 at the Watari Museum of Contemporary Art in Tokyo.39 The originator of Don’t Follow the Wind is the collective Chim↑Pom, which collaborates with the exhibition’s curators Jason Waite, Kubota Kenji, and Eva and Franco Mattes. Twelve groups of artists answered Chim↑Pom’s call from all over the world. Installations include Fukushima Project by the Chinese contemporary artist and radical creator Ai Weiwei, and Recycle Project by Eva and Franco Mattes. The twelve groups of artists tackle the task of how to visualize invisible radiation and the fears associated with it while recognizing that the nuclear accident in Fukushima is a trans-border issue. Don’t Follow the Wind articulates the power of art beyond visual terms. Art critic Sawaragi Noi talks about “seeing” art in the following way: While art is considered a typical visual art, it is “invisible.” What we can see is only “the work of art.” Though a work of art is visible, we do not appreciate “the work of art itself.” We expect to receive from the work of art “the power of art” which we can sense and which again is “invisible.” We receive the power of art, for it makes a powerful appeal to our hearts. It is not the canvas or the paint on the canvas that moves our hearts. These are nothing but physical media through which “the power of art” is projected (in short, it is nothing but a usage example of ready-made goods). 40

The art in Don’t Follow the Wind can be analyzed via the three elements that Sawaragi proposes: “art,” “work of art,” and “the power of art.” Although these “works of art” are invisible to the audience, the pieces have been exhibited since 2015. In other words, the audience recognizes these works as “art” without actually seeing them. The imagination that they are urged to use to see something that is not in front of them is “the power of art” generated by their conceptual art. 38 Chim↑Pom, Sawaragi Noi, the Executive Committee of Don’t Follow the Wind, 43. 39 Sono Sion, Ukawa Naohiro, and Kato Tsubasa joined as new production members for this exhibition. 40 Sawaragi Noi, “Bijutsu to hoshano, Don’t Follow the Wind ten no hata ga tatsu ichi” [Art and Radioactivity: The Place Where the Banner for the Exhibition Don’t Follow the Wind Is Located], Don’t Follow the Wind tenrankai koshiki katarogu 2015 [Don’t Follow the Wind: Official Catalogue 2015], 65–66.

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Similarly, Ushiro Ryuta, the leader of Chim↑Pom, discusses the collective’s art as follows: For example, as we approached this project, we thought creating art by leaning upon the imagination of conceptual art, rather than the immediacy of activism or the visual-forward nature of street art, would be more effective in getting to the depths of the issue. 41

Let us dive deeper into “the imagination” that this exhibition inspires; in other words, the power of art generated by this exhibition. What are the audiences supposed to imagine by the power of art? They are reminded once again of a wide variety of things that they are compelled to recognize: there are places faraway still so dangerous that they cannot set foot inside; these places are contaminated with high levels of radiation invisible to our naked eye; in these faraway places, the works of art continue to be exposed to radiation day after day; and there is no way of knowing when they will be able to see these works of art in person. In short, they are forced to use their imagination to see these invisible works of art / radioactively contaminated sites / radiation / the power of art. Instead of seeing the actual works of art, they are made aware of the high levels of radiation that their eyes cannot see and shown the power to evoke the reality that there are places far away still contaminated with radiation. What sort of power is exhibited in Don’t Follow the Wind? First, by being installed in the Difficult-to-Return Zone designated by the government, the exhibition is violating the entry ban. Moreover, “the wind” that the title indicates not to follow is a polyphonic voice that has become prevalent after Fukushima: information reported by the government or Tokyo Electric Power Company; mass media reporting; and groundless rumors. One may observe that art is forging its unique power of art by presenting skepticism toward these popular discourses and asserting its political views. An intriguing part of this project is that it is ongoing. Beside the exhibition in the Difficult-to-Return Zone, the Non-Visitor Center as a satellite exhibition has continued to be held intermittently without a definite end date. Unfortunately, I could not attend the first Non-Visitor Center at the Watari Museum in September 2015. However, I had an opportunity to experience the Don’t Follow the Wind exhibition at the Yokohama Triennale in 2017. There I watched with VR (virtual reality) goggles the video documentation of Chim↑Pom’s process of installing the exhibition in the Difficult-to-Return Zone (see Figure 6.10). 41 Don’t Follow the Wind jikkoiinkai zadankai [Symposium by the Executive Committee of Don’t Follow the Wind], ibid., 236.

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Figure 6.10: A viewer looking at a work of art with a VR headset

The works of art exhibited in the Difficult-to-Return Zone proliferate and form connections in Japan and beyond through the multiple Non-Visitor Center satellite exhibitions and the ongoing Don’t Follow the Wind exhibition. Through this scheme, I feel the power of art in the continuously watchful eyes aimed at the overwhelming issues of nuclear power after 3/11 and in the firm determination to not forget the ongoing damage that the government and Tokyo Electric Power Company are attempting to obscure.

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Figure 6.11: Children playing next to bags of contaminated soil (Photo from Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013 by Akagi Shuji)

The Power of Being Unfinished: Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013 and Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances Among the post-3/11 artists, Don’t Follow the Wind is not the only exhibition adopting the form of continuously watchful eyes. As mentioned in Chapter 4, in the medium of photography, Akagi Shuji, a citizen photographer currently residing in Fukushima, has published Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013. The project is still ongoing today. Akagi takes photos of situations where he feels “something is wrong” with the current state of the government and the everyday lives of Fukushima citizens—for instance, a pile of blue bags containing contaminated soil left untouched for a long time where children gather and play (Figure 6.11) or the stripping of contaminated bark from trees lining a street in a school zone. He describes such examples as “the out-of-the-ordinary within the ordinary.” Akagi’s photos may not be immediately perceived as being sensational. However, when looking at his series of everyday photos taken on an ongoing basis in Fukushima, one cannot help but feel doubts about the course taken by the government and civil society in Japan after 3/11. Akagi’s photos have no titles. Instead, they are labeled with the date the photo was taken and a short comment. He tweets photos daily. His first published collection was re-edited from a vast number of photos that he had

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first published on Twitter. To avoid the cost and space limits imposed by the nature of print media, Akagi’s photos are being sent out digitally. Digital technologies support his continuous observation of “the out-of-the-ordinary within the ordinary.” Akagi’s work calls his audience’s attention to photography’s ambiguities. Our attention is significantly heightened when an image and its accompanying text seem to have nothing in common at first sight. For instance, a photo taken on June 8, 2013 shows children playing right next to a pile of contaminated soil. The caption reads, “Whenever I took any photo, the soles of my feet were standing firmly upon the ground.” This text focuses not on the children or the blue tarp covering the contaminated soil in the photo but rather on the position of Akagi himself as a photographer. The photo and the text, though seemingly dissociated, create a spatial structure consisting of the different positions of the object which is being seen and the subject who is seeing the object. Consequently, anyone who sees the photo and text is inspired to empathize with the perspective of Akagi, a fellow subject who is also a participant in the act of seeing. Another photo of contaminated soil taken on June 8, 2013 is accompanied by the caption, “If my tweet is dark tourism, I think it is only natural for people nearby to vilify me.” This tweet suggests the layered existence of multiple subjects: 1) the contaminated soil of current Fukushima as a tourism destination, 2) Akagi as a tour guide, 3) people in Fukushima who (may) vilify Akagi, and 4) Akagi’s followers on Twitter who “participate” in the tourism. Akagi establishes his own subjectivity as the photographer who creates images and the subjectivity of Twitter followers who interpret those images. Akagi’s near-daily tweets transmit what is currently happening in Fukushima and what may happen in the future. I think that the power of art, which enables Akagi to disseminate signs of danger that cannot ordinarily be seen, is not only enabled by the power of the new technology, i.e., Twitter, but also by his power of continuity, which originates from Akagi’s determination and sense of duty to monitor the out-of-the-ordinary within the ordinary in Fukushima. Akagi expresses his feelings as follows: I am no longer sure how people receive my photos. I can no longer judge what is “sensational” or “rational.” The only thing motivating me to keep photographing is the feeling that “I must preserve this.”42

42 Akagi Shuji, Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013 (Tokyo: Osiris, 2015), 166.

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Figure 6.12: Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances by Tsuboi Akira

Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances, a series of paintings by Tsuboi Akira (Figure 6.12), is “a story that never ends,” in the words of Okamura Yukinori, curator at Maruki Gallery for Hiroshima Panels. Okamura explains the production process of the series as follows: The first time Tsuboi presented this work in public was March 2012, a year after the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident. He took part in a protest which surrounded the Diet building and laid the paintings down on the ground. Since then, he would take the paintings to anti-nuclear-power demonstrations in front of the prime minister’s office or the Fukushima Collective Evacuation trials and put them on display. He adds the stories of suffering and testimonies to the paintings as he hears from people he meets at these sites. 43

This work has been exhibited at many places inside and outside Japan. On December 10 and 11, 2016, Gallery KEN in Setagaya, Tokyo, hosted the special exhibition of Mushubutsu for the fifth time since 2013. In addition, five replicas from the series were shown in the special exhibition “The Penumbral Age: Art in the Time of Planetary Age,” held from June 5 to September 13, 2020 at the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, Poland. 44 On the website of Gallery KEN, Tsuboi’s work is described in the following manner: For the reason that it is too political, most art galleries shun Tsuboi’s art activity, which transcends the category of painter. Exhibiting paintings in the city streets of Tokyo in a guerrilla-like manner, transforming the cityscape into part of his visual expression, communicating the current situation to passersby, collecting information at times, and inviting 43 Okamura Yukinobu, Hikaku geijutsu annai, 45. Emphasis added. 44 “Akira Tsuboi Web denno garo” [Akira Tsuboi Web: Cyberbrain Gallery], http://dennou. velvet.jp/(Accessed June 21, 2020).

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Fukushima residents to exhibitions to have them expose what goes on behind the scenes, Tsuboi’s work has developed into an exciting expression which asks fundamental questions: What can art do for society and what does freedom mean?45

When a golf course in Fukushima appealed to a court that Tokyo Electric Power Company should decontaminate its fairways covered with radioactive dust, TEPCO objected by claiming that “the radioactive materials dispersed by accident belong to no one; therefore, they are ‘mushubutsu’ (ownerless substances).” Since Tsuboi’s project was initiated as a protest against TEPCO’s excuse, the fact that his painted saga has not come to an end should be given due weight. In other words, the reality of his work being incomplete is linked to the reality that neither TEPCO nor the government has provided a satisfactory explanation regarding the decommissioning of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. By extension, it always reminds us—the audience—of the incompleteness of the situation. In November 2016, it was reported that the costs of the post-3/11 cleanup and reconstruction efforts had increased substantially. However, even ten years after the accident, the absurdity that ordinary citizens of Japan are shouldering 70% of these expenses amounting to tens of trillions of yen has not been given sufficient explanation. 46 It is no wonder that Tsuboi’s painted saga has not come to an end. Tsuboi’s production method has not only extended time and introduced continuation into the pictorial space but also expanded the subject of the production process as to who is doing the painting. Okamura Yukinori, whom I have mentioned before, comments on Tsuboi’s approach by positioning it within the history of “anti-nuclear art” (hikaku geijutsu): It is difficult for people who are on the outside to truly share the thoughts and feelings of people who are on the inside and in the middle of the 45 “Tsuboi Akira ten Tokyo hokoku at Ken Vol. 5” [Tsuboi Akira Exhibition: Tokyo Report at Ken, Vol. 5], http://kenawazu.com/events/page/2/ (Posted on November 25, 2016; Accessed June 24, 2020). 46 NHK, NHK Special: A Path for Decommissioning of Nuclear Reactors 2016 Investigation Report – the Ballooning Cost: Who Could Shoulder It?, first broadcast from 9:00 p.m. to 9:54 p.m. on November 6, 2016 (Sunday). This program publicizes the fact that it is not TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company) that pays for the increasing cost of nuclear power but rather Japanese citizens. It also discloses the system developed by government officials to conceal such costs, which sucks money from citizens by tacking on extra electricity bills or by setting the Electric Power Development Tax. https://www.nhk-ondemand.jp/goods/G2016074482SA000/ (Accessed September 27, 2020).

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suffering. Nonetheless, artists like Maruki Iri and [Maruki] Toshi, and Ueno Makoto struggled with the difficulty, listened to the victims’ words, and tried to express them in their art form. Tsuboi’s attempt seems to have brought the lineage of anti-nuclear art back to life in the present. 47

Positioned in the lineage of anti-nuclear art, Tsuboi incorporates the victims’ voices, perspectives, and existence into his work, takes what comes out of the process, and molds it into a new shape. In other words, in this series of works, the production process’s subject is not limited to Tsuboi himself. Instead, he manages to embrace others. Such expansion of the “creator” that involves others in the production of art and the continuous nature of expression are not limited to the world of painting. For instance, many new documentary films in the post-3/11 era have developed unique methods to visualize the disaster victims’ thoughts and feelings. One such exercise in ingenuity is the “Z method,” a new interview format detailed in Chapter 4, that the creators of the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy invented.

Conclusion: In Pursuit of Alternative Values Let me travel back in time almost twenty years ago to the 2003 Kyoto Biennale entitled “The Slowness of Light.” When translated literally from Japanese into English, the title of the exhibition is in fact “The Slowness of Light Speed,” which incorporates the opposing qualities of speed and slowness. Yoshioka Hiroshi, a scholar of aesthetics and the director of the Kyoto Biennale 2003, explained the theme as follows: The world’s civilization has always been in pursuit of speed. Since the definition of speed has been based on a physically perceived sense of reality, we have felt more speed in horses than men, trains than horses, and airplanes than trains. However, with the development of digital technologies in the late twentieth century, the speed of information processing and transmission has finally reached the level of the speed of light. In other words, humanity has already reached the limit of speed in a sense. Suppose we are to depend upon our physically perceived sense of reality. In that case, no one will experience light as “fast,” and the dichotomy between speed and slowness no longer exists in principle. However, we are 47 Okamura Yukinobu, Hikaku geijutsu annai, 46.

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still driven by the nineteenth-century principle of competition called the pursuit of speed, by the obsession that we must move as fast as possible to outsmart others. 48

In this day and age when “the pursuit of the speed principle” has become defunct, what should art and culture offer? That was the question posed by Yoshioka. At a time when the pursuit of the speed principle—i.e., the values upheld in the process of modernization that equate speed with efficiency and meaningfulness—was being called into question, Yoshioka was anticipating a value transition to slowness, an alternative value. Seven and a half years later, another principle of modernization collapsed in Japan: “the energy economic efficiency principle,” which advocated the production and consumption of the most advanced and efficient nuclear energy in Japan. Along with this, the nuclear safety myth also began to crumble. In February 2010, the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology and the Agency for Natural Resources and Energy (part of the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry) distributed a textbook called Supplementary Reader on Energy for Elementary School Students: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy (Shogakusei no tame no enerugi fukudokuhon: Waku waku genshiryoku rando) to elementary schools across Japan (Figure 6.13). Let us look at how “the energy economic efficiency principle” and “the nuclear safety myth” were discussed in this supplemental text catering to the children who would define Japan’s future. Approximately 6.7 billion people live in the world today. It is predicted that the global population will grow even more, mainly in Asia and Africa. Furthermore, due to robust economic growth in these regions, further increases in global energy consumption and carbon dioxide emissions are expected. 49

This text suggests the limits of economic growth. However, it goes on to have a child robot ask a question, “Oh, my goodness, Doc, what should we do?” To that, the scientific authority responds: “We need to use energy carefully 48 “Kosoku suronesu” [Slowness at the Speed of Light], http://www.iamas.ac.jp/~yoshioka/ SiCS/e-text/jp_pub_2004_kousokuslowness.html (Accessed June 24, 2020). Emphasis added. 49 Shogakusei no tame no enerugi fukudokuhon: Wakuwaku genshiryoku rando [Supplementary Reader on Energy for Elementary School Students: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy] (Tokyo: Monbukagakusho/Keizaisangyosho Shigenenerugicho, 2010).

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Figure 6.13: The front cover of Supplementary Reader for Elementary School Students on Energy: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy

while coming up with ways to reduce carbon dioxide emissions so we can stop global warming,” and presents the logic behind why we need nuclear power plants in Japan. The scientist compares “thermal power generation which produces approximately 60% of electricity in Japan to nuclear power generation producing approximately 30%” and argues that nuclear power “generates more electricity with less fuel,” “emits less carbon dioxide,” and “produces less waste.” Finally, The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy ends with the scientist’s words: “Nuclear power plants are kept safe with measures to prevent accidents and impact on the environment and surrounding communities in case of an emergency.” It is obvious today that there are contradictions and lies in the scientist’s words; the supplementary reader disappeared from all elementary schools in 2011. We have learned from the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident of March 2011 that once a nuclear accident happens, we are faced with an

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irreversible situation. The damage is tremendous and beyond our comprehension. No one can guarantee safety when it comes to nuclear power plants. In this final chapter, we have examined alternative values for arts and culture and discussed what is “the power of art” demanded in the post3/11 world. The nuclear myth has fallen apart. As if in protest, a work of contemporary art was installed in Fukushima’s government-designated Difficult-to-Return Zone to visualize the damage caused by the nuclear disaster. Moreover, unfinished works of art turn their watchful eyes continuously toward the voice of the government that claims that “the nuclear accident has already been dealt with.” If the power to inspire and instigate critical thinking in the post-3/11 contemporary art scene exists in Japan, then I will assert that such power relies upon the state of these new works of art. Their power is not limited to the characteristics that I have mentioned, and there are probably limitless other works of art that I have failed to see. I can only hope that more works of contemporary art with such power to inspire and instigate critical thinking will continue to be created.

Works Cited “Abe shusho ‘anda kontororu’ no uso” [The Lie of PM Abe’s Assertion, “Under Control”]. Ronza. https://webronza.asahi.com/science/themes/2913091700003. html (Accessed June 24, 2020). Akagi, Shuji. Fukushima Traces, 2011–2013. Tokyo: Osiris, 2015. Awazu, Kiyoshi. “Okamoto Taro no ribingu ato—muyo no yo no kusuguri” [The Living Art of Okamoto Taro: The Joke about the Usefulness of Uselessness]. In Okamoto Taro no Sekai [The World of Okamoto Taro]. Edited by Okamoto Toshiko and Saito Shinji, 132–134. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 1999. “Bogofuku no kodomo ritsuzo San Chairudo Fukushima-shi de tekkyo sagyo hajimaru” [The Removal of Sun Child, A Statue of a Child in a Protective Suit, Has Started in Fukushima]. Sankei News, September 18, 2018. https://www. sankei.com/affairs/news/180918/afr1809180005-n1.html. Chim↑Pom, Sawaragi Noi, eds. Don’t Follow the Wind tenrankai koshiki katarogu 2015 [Don’t Follow the Wind: Official Catalog 2015]. Tokyo: Kawade Shobo Shinsha, 2015. “Complete edition of Yanobe Kenji Sun Child, Taro’s Children.mov.” YouTube video, 3:24. Posted by “The Torayan,” February 17, 2012. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=pHoUTNl_Obk. “Don’t Follow the Wind, Non-Visitor Center.” WATARI-UM. http://www.watarium. co.jp/exhibition/1509DFW_NVC/index2.html (Accessed April 2, 2023).

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Furusawa, Keita. “Tokyo Numéro 462 Culture Post.” https://numero.jp/news20130426-chimpom-pavilion/ (Accessed June 24, 2020). Hayashi, Tomohiro. “Bogofuku wo kita kodomozo San Chairudo wa, naze Fukushima de enjo shitanoka” [Why Sun Child, a Statue of a Child in a Protective Suit, Went up in Flames in Fukushima], Gendai Business, https://gendai.ismedia.jp/ articles/-/57167 (Accessed June 20, 2020). Heidegger, Martin. Martin Heidegger: die japanische Gesamtausgabe, in The Complete Works of Martin Heidegger, vol. 79. Translated by Mori Ichiro and Hartmut Buchner. Tokyo: Sobunsha, 2003. Hirakata, Masaaki, and Mizuta Yuko, eds. Fukuda Miran ten [The Fukuda Miran Exhibition]. Tokyo: Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, 2013. IAMAS. “Kosoku suronesu” [Slowness at the Speed of Light]. http://www.iamas. ac.jp/~yoshioka/SiCS/e-text/jp_pub_2004_kousokuslowness.html (Accessed June 24, 2020). “Interview with Okamoto Taro.” Chugoku Shimbun, January 27, 1968. Miki, Akiko, ed. Murakami Takashi no Gohyaku Rakanzu ten [The Exhibition of The 500 Arhats by Murakami Takashi], edited by Mori Art Museum. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2016. Monbukagakusho, Keizaisangyosho Shigenenerugicho, eds. Shogakusei no tameno enerugi fukudokuhon: Wakuwaku genshiryoku rando [Supplementary Reader on Energy for Elementary School Students: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy]. Tokyo: Monbukagakusho/Keizaisangyosho Shigenenerugicho, 2010. “Murakami Takashi ga Nihon no gendaibijutsu wo kataru” [A Talk on Contemporary Art in Japan Given by Murakami Takashi]. YouTube video, 6:26. Posted by, “kanaloco,” January 29, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnFPxcaAffg. NHK on demand. “NHK Special: A Path for Decommissioning of Nuclear Reactors 2016 Investigation Report—The Ballooning Cost: Who Could Shoulder It?”, 2020. https://www.nhk-ondemand.jp/goods/G2016074482SA000/ (Accessed September 27, 2020). Okamura, Yukinobu. Hikaku geijutsu annai: Kaku wa do egakarete kitaka [An Introduction to the Art of Non-Nuclear Power: How Nuclear Power Has Been Depicted]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013. “Rakanzo 500 tai totatsu e, 19 nichi made Yonesaki-cho no Fumonji de seisakukai; Mirai e no kioku purojekuto” [To Complete 500 Arhat Statues, a Workshop Will Be Held at Fumonji Temple in Yonesaki Town until the 19th; The Project for the Future Commemorating the Great East Japan Earthquake]. Tohkai Shimpo, August 16, 2017. https://tohkaishimpo.com/2017/08/16/171372/. Sawaragi, Noi. “43 Gohyaku rakanzu (bubun)” [43 Painting of 500 Arhats (Partial)]. In Nihon bijutsu no genzai, mirai [The Complete Collection of Japanese Art in the Present and the Future], edited by Yamashita Yuji, 226–227. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2011.

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Takahashi, Tetsuya. Gisei no shisutemu: Fukushima/Okinawa [Systems of Sacrifice: Fukushima and Okinawa]. Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012. Tsuboi, Akira. “Akira Tsuboi Web dennogaro” [Akira Tsuboi Web: Cyberbrain Gallery]. http://dennou.velvet.jp/ (Accessed June 21, 2020). “Tsuboi Akira ten Tokyo hokoku at Ken, Vol. 5” [Tsuboi Akira Exhibition Tokyo Report at Ken, Vol. 5]. Last modified November 25, 2016. http://kenawazu.com/ events/page/2/. Watanabe, Yosuke. “Giseisha kuyo no gohyaku rakanzu zo” [Buddhist Memorial Service for Five Hundred Arhat Statues in Memory of Victims]. Asahi Shimbun Digital, August 19, 2017. https://www.asahi.com/articles/ASK8L45VTK8LUJUB004.html (Accessed December 13, 2020, but this URL is no longer accessible). Yamashita, Yuji. “196–199 Haru, yokujitsu no chokan ichimen; Natsu, shinsaigo no asari; Aki, hibo kannon: Fuyu, kyoka” [196–199 Spring: The Front Page of the Next Day’s Morning Newspaper; Summer: Clams after the Earthquake; Autumn: Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother; Winter: The Flower Offering]. In Nihon Bijutsu no Genzai, Mirai [The Complete Collection of Japanese Art, vol. 20: Japanese Art in the Present and the Future—1996 to the Present], edited by Yamashita Yuji, 300–319. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2016. Yanobe, Kenji. Urutora: Yanobe Kenji ato purojekuto [Ultra: Yanobe Kenji Art Projects 2008–2013]. Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013. ———. Shinsoban Yanobe Kenji sakuhinshu 1969–2005 [A Collection of Yanobe Kenji’s Works 1969–2005, New Edition]. Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013.



Appendix: Interview from “Film Workshop with Director Hamaguchi Ryusuke”

(In the Common Study Room, Kyoto University Faculty of Letters, Department of Sociology, February 18, 2015) Wada-Marciano (moderator): To start with, I am going to set aside the two films we screened today—Intimacies (Shinmitsusa, 2012) and The Sound of Waves (Nami no oto, 2011)—for now and ask you a general question. As we enter the digital age, we scholars of cinema studies are being challenged with an ontological question of how we define the cinema/ film medium itself, the subject of our research for a century. I would like to ask you what you think it means to be a “film” director in this time and age. After that, I am going to ask you questions more specific to the two films we screened today. Thank you again for spending time with us, Mr. Hamaguchi. Hamaguchi: You are welcome. I would like to say first, thank you for watching my films. Wada-Marciano: Many of you who are attending this workshop today are already familiar with Director Hamaguchi or his work. And we can find information to some degree online, so rather than dwelling on minute matters, I would like to ask questions focusing on points that I find intriguing. After graduating from the University of Tokyo, Faculty of Letters, and by the time you became independent as a film director, you had worked as an assistant director in film and also in television for about three years? Hamaguchi: For about two years I worked as an assistant director in film and TV.

Wada-Marciano, M., Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima: Perspectives on Nuclear Disasters. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789463728287_app

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Wada-Marciano: After that, you spent two years in the Graduate School of Film and New Media at Tokyo University of the Arts. I heard you studied film mainly with Kurosawa Kiyoshi. Kurosawa has directed mostly narrative films; and studying with him, what left the biggest impression on you, or what was the biggest influence? Hamaguchi: I attended the so-called Kurosawa seminar for two years, though I am not quite sure if it was a seminar in a traditional sense. What we did for two years was chat over tea (laughs). Basically, it was two years of making films hands-on. During those two years, though, there was the Kurosawa Kiyoshi Retrospective at Cinemavera Shibuya, and Loft (2005) had just been released, so we were able to ask Kurosawa specific questions directly like, “How did you film that?” These dialogues in themselves taught me many things and allowed me to really understand what he talks about in his books. That had a huge influence on me. What I learned was about the job of a director, and it roughly entails two roles, as I understand it. One is to decide where to position the camera and which direction to point it, which lens to use, and from how far and what angle to shoot. That is one thing that I learned. As for the guideline for where to position the camera, as discussed in film study textbooks and such, positioning it “where it feels like something is about to happen” is Kurosawa’s philosophy. He used Exiting the Factory (La Sortie de l’usine, Lumière à Lyon, 1895), the Lumière brothers’ earliest film, as an example to teach us to position the camera where it feels like something is about to happen.  The other part of a director’s job is to decide when to start rolling the camera and when to stop. That was what I learned. It sounds so obvious, but there is something extraordinary in the obvious. What it means is to decide what to film in a single take, where to start, and where to end. In order to show the audience what happened from this point to that point, deciding what should be included in the take is the job of a director. That was what Kurosawa taught me. To give you a good example, if you are filming a violent scene, depending on whether you are going to film the moment when a knife penetrates the flesh or stop rolling the camera a moment before that, the arrangement would be totally different. As common sense, you cannot film someone getting stabbed for real, so in order to make it look as if someone is getting stabbed, you would need some kind of trick. Whether to show the trick or not—not that it is better to show it but just deciding whether to show it or not—and if you do, how, is the job of a director. I think that was hammered into me.

Appendix: Interview from “Film Work shop with Direc tor Hamaguchi Ryusuke”209

Wada-Marciano: The two films that we screened today are, I feel, especially intriguing among your work. As apparent in these films, they are, if I am to risk sounding self-contradictory, consciously unconscious about the boundary between documentary and fiction, or the made-up and the real. In other words, these films have been tasked with consciously deconstructing the boundary that we have assumed to exist, with making the audience have doubts, by shifting our consciousness about the boundary. What kind of consciousness do you bring to the handling of the sense of the made-up and the real in filmmaking? Hamaguchi: That is a difficult question to answer… (laughs). I recognize myself basically as a director of narrative films. I am conscious that I have watched more narrative films, and until I made The Sound of Waves that you watched today, all I had made were narrative films, so I consider myself to be a director of narrative films. Fundamentally I think my job is to shoot a drama, regardless of what contradictions that may entail. If I were to quote Kurosawa Kiyoshi, maybe I am quoting him too much, but what he wrote in his book Kurosawa Kiyoshi Discusses Twenty-First-Century Cinema (Kurosawa Kiyoshi nijuisseiki no eiga wo kataru, 2010) really made sense to me. In the book, he relates a story where he was consulted by a Korean film student who asked him, “My films do not look real. What should I do?”, to which Kurosawa responded, “Of course they don’t.” Because in film, actors read a script, memorize their lines, and say them as they have memorized them, so naturally it will look like actors have read a script, memorized their lines, and said them as they had memorized them. It is completely natural that it looks made-up to some extent or that it does not look real. And Kurosawa goes on to tell the student that a camera is a formidable recording device. I learned that Kurosawa Kiyoshi-ism, which makes total sense to me. So, shooting a narrative film becomes a losing battle as soon as you think you are making it look like it’s real. And definitely, there is always an aspect that has you say, “Well, it is made up after all.” I think there are many different ways to handle that, and which way you choose will decide what kind of director you will be. One way is to act like “There is no way that it would seem made up.” Or a simpler approach is, as you see in films by Leos Carax, to show this person, obviously an actor, obviously acting, but show him moving his body for real, like running, at the same time. This is probably one of the simplest approaches to make the realness stand out in a narrative film. By introducing the realness—in this case, exercising for real—in the acting itself, recording

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it, and showing it to the audience, you lead the audience to feel that it somehow does not seem made up. Mizoguchi Kenji and Jacques Doillon, for instance, are this type of director. The toughest of all is having the audience be moved despite the fact they are fully aware that it is absolutely made up, that it cannot be real. Directors like Carl Dreyer and Manoel de Oliveira are in this category. Having watched these films, I have come to think about my own strategy as a director. Meanwhile, I have my pivoting foot firmly planted in narrative films rather than in documentary films, and with that, I am always thinking about how to position myself between the made-up and the real. Wada-Marciano: Regarding “narrative films rather than documentary films,” I heard that the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, consisting of The Sound of Waves (2011), Voices from the Waves: Kesennuma/Shinchimachi (2013), and Storytellers (2013), was basically not a project proposed by you out of your own desire to make documentary films but originated from a request made by Sendai Mediatheque to Tokyo University of the Arts. Will you tell us about the motivation behind producing the trilogy? Hamaguchi: To tell you the truth, the trilogy was made through a complicated process. Wada-Marciano: Consequently, Tohoku Documentary Trilogy at present is regarded as one of your films. In other words, it has “earned its own place in the world” as a work of a filmmaker instead of functioning as just an archive to be deposited in the media bank at Sendai Mediatheque. Despite the complicated motivation behind the work, do you still regard the trilogy as your own work? Hamaguchi: I will answer the last part of your question first. I co-directed the trilogy with Sakai Ko, so it is a work by the two of us rather than just my own. That is one point. Regarding the process, first, the earthquake and tsunami happened on 3/11, and then the center for media archive, the Center for Remembering 3/11, commonly known as “Wasuren,” was established within Sendai Mediatheque. As far as the Great Hanshin Earthquake (1995) goes, the only media archive available is footage recorded by major media, and it is difficult to find anything else. Learning from that mistake, Wasuren was established with the objective of creating and maintaining an archive of various media including written, audio, visual, and others recorded by ordinary citizens about the Great

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East Japan Earthquake. And it was not that Tokyo University of the Arts was requested by Sendai Mediatheque but rather the Graduate School of Film and New Media at Tokyo University of the Arts was a collaborator in the founding of Wasuren. Graduate School of Film and New Media sounds nebulous, but it is made up of individuals, and as you can imagine our state of mind at that time, there were individual desires to get involved with the project. However, students in the School of Film and New Media have a regular curriculum which is pretty packed with filmmaking project assignments. As for me, I had already finished the curriculum when I was asked if I was free, and I had a desire to go to Tohoku in the first place, so I jumped at the opportunity and went. That was how it happened.  Tohoku Documentary Trilogy was filmed with the premise that all of the footage was going to be archived in Wasuren. And from this footage, we made the trilogy as our film. And this goes into the discussion about camera position, but we were aware when we were filming that we were filming the way we were because we had the intention of making a film. Making a film was running parallel with archiving, and without that, the way that we filmed with a specific camera position would not have made sense. If you just saw the archived footage, you would have no idea why we positioned the cameras the way we did. We had the feeling that this was going to be a film, or rather, that we had no choice but to make a film, so archiving and making it as a film were happening at the same time, like a pair of wheels.

Wada-Marciano: What do you mean by “making it as a film”? Hamaguchi: If we talk about archiving, it is recording moving images and preserving them as is. For instance, most interviews are from two to three hours in length, and out of these two to three hours of footage, we preserve as much as the interviewee permits us. On the other hand, in terms of “making films,” there are several stages going from there to a finished work, which depends on how you define work, but I think it means to present it with your own signature, in other words, it needs to go through some degree of editing. Wada-Marciano: Can we come back to this later if we have time? Let us talk about the film Intimacies that we screened this morning. Due to time constraints, we screened a shorter version of the film, but actually Intimacies is a long film with a running time of more than four hours,

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consisting of Parts I and II. Part I is based on the documentary-style footage of students in ENBU Seminar [a film and theatrical school located in Shinagawa, Tokyo] in a play rehearsal. Part II, which we screened today, is the part that shows the stage production of the play. Structurally speaking, if you see Part I but not Part II and vice versa, it is like looking at parts of a jigsaw puzzle and it is a totally different experience from watching the whole thing. I would like to ask you how this film ended up being produced the way it was, meaning it is incomplete, yet it is complete, and it is complete and incomplete at the same time. In particular, would you please talk about the relationship between the film production and ENBU? Hamaguchi: ENBU Seminar is the production base of Intimacies. ENBU Seminar is a school of theater and film based in Tokyo. It has a directing and an acting program in the film department and an acting program in the theater department, and I was asked to teach in the acting program in the film department for three months and be part of their graduation project. The lecturer is hired with the premise of making a film for the graduation project and teach acting for three months. Until Intimacies, I had never had any experience in teaching. I would like you to keep in mind that, as a director, you don’t study acting. Being a film director does not translate into knowing how to act. Not at all. As a director, all you do is to give an actor a script, tell them which part of the script to act, and roll the camera. If it works, fine. If not, we do another take. I’m usually just hoping that we will do a good take by the end of the day. Since that had been my approach, coming face to face with actors, or people who want to be actors, I wondered if there was anything that I could teach them. And I thought not much, to be honest. “What is acting?” I didn’t know myself; I wanted them to teach me. That led me to think that I would take a long-term approach. I will just do what I have always done; give them a script, have them memorize their lines, and film until we have a good take. I thought in three months, surely, we will have something decent. In order to produce a decent theater performance from a two-hour script, you need one to two months of rehearsal time. As I was filming the documentary of their rehearsal for one to two months, at the same time I was thinking about what to do about the final graduation project. What you saw today is the stage production by these students based on the script that I gave them initially. The stage direction was done by Hirano Rei, who is sitting in the audience seat in the film. The script was written by me. The

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complete version of the film is 255 minutes / 4 hours and 15 minutes in length and contains the process of the rehearsal leading up to the stage production and the part that shows what happens after the stage production. To be more exact, while Part I was produced based on the documentary-style footage of the rehearsal, it was re-acted. There is a script, and the names of people are rewritten as characters in the film, and the reenactment of the theater production process was made into a 4-hour-and-15-minute film. Having said that, I see the shorter version that you saw today as a stand-alone film rather than part of the film. If you see the complete version, you will have a different way of seeing it. That is a unique kind of film-viewing experience. That is my concept. Wada-Marciano: Soda Kazuhiro also made Theater I & II (Engeki I & II, 2012), for instance. Comparing Intimacies to Soda’s films, it seems to me that your film was made with the intention of questioning the boundary between the theater medium and the film medium, just like The Sound of Waves questions the boundary between documentary and fiction. In other words, the film has the mechanics to have the audience question the boundary. Did you intend to make the film from the start with the awareness that this type of crossover between the two media is something new? Hamaguchi: Well, I wouldn’t say it was that calculated. I have never done any theater myself, and although I had Hirano Rei to depend on for stage direction, I had no idea how to put together a theater production. Hirano has stage experience herself and understands the process of theater production. So, I would not say it was a clear and conscious attempt on my part from the start to cross over between theater and film. As I said before, I adopted the theater production for very practical reasons and had no idea what the outcome would be. It could end up being a terrible theater piece, or in the end we might not have any theater piece at all. Whatever would come out of the process, I thought I would make a film out of it. The theater production happened to materialize, and I ended up incorporating that into the film. Wada-Marciano: In preparation for today’s talk, I read all your past interviews that I could find. In one of the interviews, you were discussing Intimacies and talking specifically about Part II, and you said you combined the footage of the stage production and the documentary style footage of the rehearsal. You went onto say that this kind of technique, having

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actors perform their lines ad-lib, had been used by Kiarostami and Hou Hsiao-hsien. “It’s not that I am doing anything new. Many directors have already had successes with it,” you said. Among what you said then was, “I feel that there is ‘the power of cinema’ hidden in that sort of technique.” What is “the power of cinema” you refer to in that context? Hamaguchi: Like I mentioned earlier, there is a feeling of “this cannot possibly be real,” and on the other hand there is a feeling that says, “it seems so real that I cannot help but think it is.” These two feelings co-existing at the same time, to me, is “the power of cinema.” Wada-Marciano: Do you think it is something that cannot be generated through theater or other methods of expression? In other words, is the power unique to the film medium? Hamaguchi: I wonder if it is. A better way of saying it may be, “the power of fiction,” though I certainly feel that film as a recording device accentuates it. Wada-Marciano: Thank you for your answer. Let us shift the focus of our conversation to The Sound of Waves. As we prepared for this workshop, we talked via Skype between Canada and Kobe, Japan. You talked then about “belatedness,” the feeling that you are always a little too late for what you want to capture, by the time you finally place your camera in front of the subject. You went to Tohoku a few months after the disaster of March 2011. You arrived in Sendai City in May, and it took you about two months to start filming. Hamaguchi: Yes, that is right. With regard to The Sound of Waves, we filmed in July and August 2011. Wada-Marciano: When you arrived there, you felt that everything that was to be filmed had already been filmed, and that feeling prompted you to think about what you could do, you were saying. I think that in order to overcome that “belatedness,” you invented a new interview method. Do you think you have successfully overcome that feeling through this film? Hamaguchi: I have never thought of it using the term “belatedness,” but there is an issue that I am always thinking about in terms of making a film. It does not have to be anything that is spectacular. For instance, you would

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be chatting with a friend and think there is something extraordinary happening here and now. Then, the issue is, supposing something extraordinary was happening, how could a camera be present? That is what I am always thinking. Though it may seem simple, that is not the case. I think in most cases, for one reason or another, a camera cannot be there. Going back to the example of a chat with a friend, what is so extraordinary…I do not quite know. Maybe something deep within yourself becomes revealed through the conversation, and you wish there were a camera there, but under normal circumstances, there wouldn’t be. If there was a camera and there was a possibility for what is inside yourself, something that you would not want people to know, to be recorded and watched anytime, anywhere, then that extraordinary thing would not reveal itself. Just for the fact that the camera is there, it won’t come out in the first place. Or what does come out is what we feel safe for the camera. There is a good chance of that sort of thing happening. For instance, the same sort of thing could happen with images of a tsunami. I saw so many images of the tsunami taken from so many different angles, from the air, from inside a building, and from a city street. And I know it is strictly my own personal sense, but as I watch these images on the news, I am feeling that the camera is not in the right position. Then what is the right camera position? Maybe this is inappropriate, but maybe it is from the perspective of being swallowed up by the wave. Maybe it is the image taken by the camera swallowed up by the wave. There must have been many cameras swallowed up by the wave, while trying to film the tsunami. So, I think maybe that is the right camera position, but those images do not exist anymore. There are movies, like Hereafter (2010) by Clint Eastwood, which try to recreate those images. But sometimes there are moments when you are watching the images of the real tsunami and you think you have never known anything like this before. You think, “Wow, this is how it is when a real tsunami comes.” You do not see these images in Hereafter. I feel that, after all, the camera position that makes you feel viscerally that “this is what a tsunami is” does not exist, and that you cannot see it. I feel somehow instinctively that a camera cannot be present to encounter the best thing, or cannot be in the best position for something, and that is the fate of the camera.  In the case of The Sound of Waves, I went to places where the disaster has already happened to film the traces of the disaster after the fact. Probably I could have used the methodology of fictional films to overcome the situation. It may lower the quality of the film in terms of the

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realism of tsunami, but you could have actors act, rehearsing the lines repeatedly. And by rehearsing many, many times, some actors master their role and others don’t, but as a director, you will know how the actors move to some extent. You will know when and how this person says this line, and this line causes that person to have this expression and this voice, and at that moment, these two actors are positioned in this way. Based on that knowledge, you will do camera blocking and decide where to position the cameras: here, here, and here. And you direct the scene by telling the actors to say this line here or to look over here and say this line, while guessing that what you will end up with after you put these takes together through editing should look right. You do multiple takes on film, though, because gestures and lines do not work well with the actor, or the actor’s acting does not reach the dimension of being believable many times. Maybe it won’t happen at all, let alone many times. It may never reach the dimension of being believable, when the boundary between fiction and reality starts to blur, but you cannot say it will never reach the level of making the audience feel that they have seen this before in a film, not once but many times. That is why we do multiple takes when making a fictional film.  I don’t know if I can reach “belatedness,” (laughs)…but going back to Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s words that I quoted in the beginning, when you are filming a fictional film, position the camera where it feels like something is about to happen. That is Kurosawa’s ironclad rule, and I genuinely believe that it is the ironclad rule of filmmaking. In my films, that place is “the face.” By positioning cameras where we can see people’s faces and capturing the moment that something happens to the face, many films somehow take shape as a narrative.

Wada-Marciano: Regarding the methodology of how to capture “the face,” you adopted the “Z method” as the filming method for the interviews. In this method, like in the films of Ozu Yasujiro, the interview subject looks straight at the camera while having a conversation with either the interviewer or another interviewee. I imagine that the technique of the Z method was decided as the best method through trial and error by you and Sakai, but what was the crucial reason that made you decide to adopt this method? Hamaguchi: I will take it from there, but first, let me explain what the “Z method” is. May I use the whiteboard? Basically, the two of us, Sakai Ko and I, used two sets of camera positions for filming. One is placing

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each camera over the shoulder of each person like this, to show them sitting face to face. Each interview lasted about two to three hours; however, we were filming on a 60-minute tape, so we needed to interrupt the filming to change the tape. As we change the tape, we tell the interviewees, “We will reposition the cameras,” and change the position of the cameras this way (Figure 4.1 in Chapter 4) and film the second half of the interview from a different camera position. The two people are listening to each other but not looking at each other, since they are looking at the camera instead. With our editing, though, we give the audience the impression that they are facing each other directly. “Z” in the Z method is like a code name that we made up for the camera position and points to the imaginary line connecting each person and the camera that they are seeing and connecting the two people who are listening to each other. Sakai and I would say, “Let’s go to ‘Z’ from here” during the filming.  So the question was, why we chose this method. With regard to the Tohoku Documentary Trilogy, we were based in Sendai during filming, and when I first arrived in Sendai, I saw the landscape of destruction by the tsunami. However, I arrived in May, and although the disaster was still within the domain of the recent past, it did not feel like it. And by the time we started to film in July, within those two months, many things had been cleaned up and organized, and traces of the disaster were becoming fewer and fainter. I felt “belatedness,” so to speak, that I was late, that I had not made it in time for something. Then, as I said earlier, I thought of ways for the camera to be there at the time of the event. Right about then, coincidentally I had the opportunity to listen to people talk about their experiences of the tsunami. There were about ten people besides myself listening. I don’t know how to describe it, but I experienced the space fill with extremely heightened concentration through listening. Some might say it was just me, but you could not reach that level of quietness without everyone concentrating on listening. Through the experience of that quietness, though it was incredibly quiet, I felt that something was happening between the storyteller and the audience. If that was the case, by filming a person telling a story and another listening, I thought maybe we could capture that something on camera. If we film people’s facial expressions just as that something is happening between them, maybe we can capture it on camera, I thought. That is one reason why we decided to point the cameras directly at two people at the same time. Although if it were the only reason, shot/ reverse shot between two people with over-the-shoulder shots would

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suffice. However, if you use the Z method a timeline emerges in the editing, which would be impossible unless an invisible camera were to be invented. The two people are apparently having a conversation. Watching this impossible footage where two people are having the kind of conversation that wouldn’t be possible to recreate with a written script gives birth to a timeline where “the unreal footage” and “the real conversation” exist at the same time. And I thought that would make a film. Maybe it is more appropriate to call it fiction in this case, but I thought I could create a film that, although it is “a documentary,” is clearly “a fiction.” Wada-Marciano: In adopting the Z method, you inserted in the film the facial expressions of you or co-director Sakai doing the interviews. I think it is the act of having yourself take part in the process of filming the fiction that comes out of the act of interviewing. I wonder if “the complicity” between the filmmakers and storytellers, the interview subjects, is deliberately visualized here. Also, in the case of the Z method, by bringing the artificiality of it to the fore, you do not hide this complicity. In other words, this method of filming is not filming what is there as is but is visualizing the elaboration by the filmmakers. What is the reason you tried to visualize the complicity in this film? Why did your face have to be captured on camera? Hamaguchi: About having my face being captured on camera, part of it was for an emotional reason. For one, there was a dilemma about us staying behind the camera. We were filming in 2011 under extraordinary circumstances. There was a hesitation about filming people who had gone through the disaster not too long ago. So, for an emotional reason, there was a choice that we could make to put ourselves in front of the camera. Wada-Marciano: Was it a sense of atonement, so to speak? Hamaguchi: That may have been the case, but it may have been strategic. By doing so, we may be protecting ourselves from some sort of criticism. I am not sure, but I feel that we tried to show our feeling in the film, the feeling of “not understanding” that we had being there. We went but didn’t understand anything at all. We had no ties to Tohoku, so we did not understand. The most puzzling of all was the tsunami. If you do a little research, you will know that many victims of the disaster live in a region where there is a giant tsunami every thirty to fifty years. From

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our point of view, we do not understand why people live in the area knowing that there will be a tsunami. Going back to the time shortly after the disaster, from our perspective of being from Tokyo, we could not understand why people who lived within a few dozen miles of the nuclear power plant wanted to remain there. We wanted to toss our feeling of “not understanding” into the film. Basically, the interviews are composed of conversations between people who are close to each other, and we have made a choice to do so in order to get what we could out of it. But beyond that, we appear in the film as a portal for people who do not share anything in common with the victims. We are there to represent people who do not understand anything. Wada-Marciano: This is the final question from me. Watching The Sound of Waves, I felt that something was really out of place. All the stories that came out in this film were about the tsunami, and there was almost nothing about the nuclear accident. Was it because you were in the area where people were not concerned about that, or was it a time when people could not talk about it? I don’t think you deleted it in the editing process, but why were there no expressions of anxiety about the damage caused and will continue to be caused by the accident, or dissatisfaction with the government’s handling of that disaster in this film? Hamaguchi: Watching the film now, it does seem rather odd, but I think the biggest factor was that we did not ask any questions specifically concerning the nuclear accident. We had three fundamental questions: “What were you doing on March 11th?”; “What have you been doing up to now since March 12th?”; and “What had you been doing up to March 10th?” These questions were just there to provide a theme, just to ease them into a conversation. Basically, what Sakai and I were saying was that it may have been because we were afraid, but we decided as a basic principle that we won’t ask questions in such a way that we pry into other people’s business. Our approach was to have them say what they can. We did wonder from time to time about the fact that no one spoke of the nuclear power plants, but we sensed that was the way it was. There is one reason I can think of why no one spoke of the nuclear accident. There are a wide variety of people in many different communities. Opinions about nuclear power plants may be shared in your inner circle of friends; however, we basically interviewed people who intended to remain in the area, so I suppose it may have been awkward for them to state an opinion that could cause discord in their

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community. Voices from the Waves: Kesennuma/Shinchimachi follows The Sound of Waves and the two sisters who appear at the very end of The Sound of Waves are from Shinchimachi. And in the interviews that we did in Shinchimachi, the topic of the nuclear power plants did crop up, though they weren’t about dissatisfaction with the government and such. Why did we not encourage them to talk about such things? The honest reason was that to us, it was not anything that we particularly wanted them to say at all. We weren’t motivated to steer the conversations toward the topic of the nuclear power plant. I understand it may seem unnatural to some because of the absence of the topic, but we had a policy of not forcing the topic on them as long as they were not talking about it of their own accord. Wada-Marciano: Thank you for your answer. Now let us take questions from the audience. Questioner 1: Thank you for taking my question. My name is Mizutani Masahiko, and I am affiliated with the Center for Applied Philosophy and Ethics (CAPE) at Kyoto University, one of the organizers of today’s workshop. I could not attend the morning session, so I would like to ask a question pertaining only to The Sound of Waves, which was screened in the afternoon. Since my area of study is ethics and I am an amateur on the subject of cinema, my question may run the risk of being irrelevant or self-seeking, but I am a scholar of ethics, so I don’t think it is totally unrelated. What I would like to ask you is concerning the regrets that the survivors may have, about survivor guilt. In the film, you interview the survivors of a natural disaster, a tsunami. In the interviews in the film, several people referred to “tsunami tendenko.” I think it is an important keyword, for it appears more than once. I heard that people who act on the idea of “tendenko” (prioritizing one’s own survival when faced with an extreme situation such as a tsunami) may end up with regret later. At an academic conference last year, Kodama Satoshi, a fellow scholar in my department, did a presentation on “tendenko” from the standpoint of ethics. Being a utilitarian, he gave the brilliantly logical presentation that “tsunami tendenko” can be explained from the standpoint of ethical utilitarianism; however, I have doubts, as a criticism toward utilitarianism, if survivor guilt can be explained away with utilitarianism. I think today’s talk touches on this issue.  Now I will go into the subject of cinema. There have been films that document disasters, whether they are manmade or natural disasters,

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using interviews with survivors as a vehicle. A famous example is Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah (1985), and another example in Japan is Hara Kazuo’s The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On (Yukiyukite shingun, 1987), an outrageous film, which is a favorite film of mine but one of the films that I would never want to watch ever again. This film does something extremely violent to survivors, forcing regret on those who may not have felt regret. I think Shoah had some aspects of that, but in the case of The Sound of Waves, you said that the interviewers and interviewees are not forming an agreement subconsciously, which I found fascinating. What I found a little unnatural was that the interviewees’ talk was too smooth, so fluent and flowing as if they had been delivering lines prepared for them. Supposing I were being interviewed, I would interject utterances like “uh” and “erm” a lot, but in The Sound of Waves, the interviewees’ responses are so smooth and flowing. Shoah and The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On are quite different; in those films, they too talk about their regret as survivors, and you hear the utterances in their speech. On the other hand, in The Sound of Waves, maybe it is due to the timing of the interviews, but the interviewees’ talk is so smooth that it makes one wonder. I personally could not help but feel a certain uneasiness in their extremely smooth, fluent way of speech. In Shoah and The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On, most tend to be reticent; there are moments when they clam up or gaze up at the sky. I personally felt a kind of uneasiness or shock in the eloquence of the interviewees in The Sound of Waves, and I would like to hear your thoughts on that. Hamaguchi: I do agree with you, and I think it is edited that way. As I mentioned earlier, we spent two to three hours for each interview, and it is abridged or condensed—maybe that is too hefty of a word—into the length of about twenty minutes. Sakai and I decided that the raw footage of two to three hours would need to be condensed to twenty to thirty minutes in the finished work. So, for one, the smoothness was created through the process of editing. What we considered as the core of our editing was a word or a voice that was there at the core of the moment during the interview when Sakai and I felt that we had a good interview. What we are doing with the editing is, perhaps, to extract the word or the voice at the core and reproduce the feeling that we had around the core. In order to arrive at the word or the voice at the core, we contemplate how we stack up the pieces to construct an interview and how we end the interview. That is our approach to editing. The Z method exists to clearly mark it as made-up, to indicate that it is

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a documentary and fiction at the same time. Although it will create entirely different problems if you start treating it as a license that allows you to do anything. When we edited, we tried to preserve the rhythm of the conversation as much as possible. However, as we edit, among the most difficult elements to select is “fillers.” The moment when people hesitate to speak, how much to use it and from where to where is the question, since you can use fillers with intention. You can take the time to show people hesitating and gradually form words, but somehow Sakai and I felt very uncomfortable about doing that. We felt resistance to adding some sort of authenticity to the film by intentionally choosing to show fillers. This leads to another conversation about why I focus on faces. What I personally feel extremely uncomfortable about is capturing something in “a documentary-like fashion.” A simple example would be chasing someone’s back. Chasing someone’s back, while pretending as if you don’t anticipate anything, and make it seem like you happened upon a crucial moment. That, I find extremely uncomfortable. I felt that choosing to include fillers was in some respects akin to chasing someone’s back while pretending as if you don’t anticipate anything. We felt that it would not jibe with our method of editing. For that reason, we edited with attention to smoothness as the basic tone, creating something similar to the feeling of how time flows in a fictional film. Questioner 2: Today I watched The Sound of Waves for the second time and enjoyed it very much. I watched it on a bigger screen the first time, but in today’s talk I thought what you said about the director’s job was remarkably interesting. You said the director’s job was to decide where to position the camera, but when you do, I would think you also think about how the film is going to be experienced by the audience. How did you want this film to be experienced? Hamaguchi: I hesitate to reveal how I wanted the film to be experienced. However, it wasn’t that I didn’t have any thoughts on that, so I will tell you what I was thinking at the time of the filming, including the decision about whether we would talk about the nuclear power plants. For instance, there is a faraway coastal region that suffered the disaster, or there is the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. And there are many layers of people, depending on their distance from the disaster, be it physical distance or psychological distance, like someone close to you lost their life in the disaster. For instance, at the center of the suffering probably are the people who were killed. And there are people who lost

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their loved ones, lost their relatives, lost their house, experienced the loss of essential utilities, could not get home from work, and people who weren’t affected at all. There was a general atmosphere in those days that people who suffered less dared not say anything to people who suffered more, or you dared not say anything at all unless you suffered more. I was thinking that while I was in Tokyo, but I found the same situation in Sendai. Depending on your distance from the disaster, you felt less entitled to speak, which made you wonder if you were allowed to say anything at all about the disaster. There was a situation that made you refrain from saying anything at all, even though you felt something was probably safe or trivial enough to say. I made the film so we could say what we couldn’t say. I feel that is the hope that we have entrusted to the film, which is bigger than the film itself. While we were filming, I thought, how can we overcome this division? In the film, victims of the disaster talk with each other, and they talk with people who experienced the same degree of suffering. Watching them talk, I feel that, even though they happened to experience the disaster, these people and I are not that different. Especially the conversation between the sisters that appears at the end of The Sound of Waves. Listening to them, I think even if I had suffered the disaster, maybe I would talk about it with the same kind of lightness. There is a sense of distance that is too difficult to grasp in all seriousness, which would prevent you from speaking in any other way. The timeline created by the Z method almost inevitably causes the audience to confuse themselves with the interview subject. The audience feels as if the interviewee was talking to them in a kind of a fictional experience, while the interviewee in reality is talking to their loved ones. Or when the audience feels the direct gaze of the interviewee, I imagine them exchanging places with the disaster victim who they thought was so far out of their reach. Maybe I am aggrandizing it, but at least in theory this is what should occur. So, I wished that kind of experience would occur to the audience. We may experience another disaster again in a few decades, or we will prepare for another disaster, and if possible, I wished the audience of this film would feel beyond time and distance that they too have been affected by the disaster and that they too are the victims. I wished that somehow that feeling would reach the audience and be remembered in their body. Questioner 3: This is related to the earlier question. As I was watching the film, I too thought everyone was such a good storyteller. The filming was done two months after the disaster, and I thought one of the reasons

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why they were so good at telling their stories was because they might have been telling similar stories more than once. I remember one of the interviewees saying, “When I spoke to the mass media,” so I thought perhaps some of them have spoken with news media. Also, another woman said she had watched video recordings of the tsunami repeatedly. In other words, they had been interacting with the media in many ways. Among the many intertwined interactions involving the experiences and memories of the survivors themselves, their interactions with the mass media based on their memories, them performing the stories of their memories, and them performing for the media, and so forth, what role did you want your film to play? Hamaguchi: I sensed that instinctively. I will give you an example. I decided to make The Sound of Waves when I first heard Mr. Shoji speak; he is the city councilman who appears in The Sound of Waves. That was toward the end of May, and I suppose he was already used to talking about his experience of the disaster, but he had this solid voice. Maybe it was partly because multiple people were there listening to him, but when he began to talk, the level of his focus apparently would heighten. I listened to him at an evacuation center, but his talk was so vivid that it stimulated my imagination, and I was seeing the waves rushing into the room in my mind’s eye. Then July came and we asked Mr. Shoji to be interviewed for the film. When we were filming his interview, though, both Sakai and I felt that he was too practiced in speaking about the tsunami that, maybe this is too harsh a word, but his words felt dead. It left us feeling that this was not what we wanted to hear. His interview was done in the early stage of our filming, and we felt that we couldn’t go home with this. So, Sakai as the interviewer was persistent until he managed to draw out something personal from Mr. Shoji. Maybe that was the turning point for us when we became more focused. One of our themes for the interviews became seeking to hear each person’s voice rather than just listening to stories about the tsunami. Maybe these voices appear in the mass media, but to us, it felt rare. We decided to film interviews where individual voices are personalized so that each person will show up as who they are, instead of putting them in the category labeled “victims.” When I was watching the images of the disaster in the mass media, the feeling that I had about the victims was that they were distant from me, that they were different from me. And what I mean by different is that you feel these things won’t happen to you. So I wanted our film to play the role of having you recognize each

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interviewee as an individual rather than “a victim” and making you feel in your gut that these disasters could happen to you. It may be a stretch, but I believed that the film could have that effect on people. Questioner 4: I have been studying cinema at Kyoto University. I watched Intimacies and The Sound of Waves for the first time today, and what I found fascinating was how the sense of distance between people is treated, be it between romantic partners or siblings. After 3/11, I entered graduate school and have been researching home movies, and I felt puzzled to see that in movie after movie the romantic relationships represented were heterosexual couples. I feel that we cannot ignore the fact that in this kind of visual space, other relationships such as same-sex or bisexual relationships, for instance, that do not fit into the mold of heterosexuality are excluded. But when I saw Intimacies, toward the end of the film, there was a scene where men were hugging, or there was a suggestion that one of the men probably had sex with a person who had gone through a sex change and that finally these two were going to share a house together as roommates. I felt, as a member of the audience, that I was given a certain kind of hope that there was a visual space not caught up in the heterosexual worldview. Comparing the post-3/11 f ilmmaking to f ilmmaking before 3/11, what are your thoughts about the representations of heterosexuality, bisexuality, or homosexuality? Hamaguchi: I think it can be good or bad, but the truth is that I am not conscious of whether it is heterosexual or bisexual. Intimacies has ended up the way it is, simply because one of the actors happened to be someone who had gone through a sex change. She is in the film based on a mutual understanding that if I were to cast her, I would cast her as someone who had gone through a sex change, since she does not look like a feminine woman. How the story unfolds is informed by the presence of the person; it unfolds on its own in a way. After casting is done, in many cases, roles are written according to the character of the actor who plays the role, and that was what happened with that role. About heterosexuality or homosexuality, I do not understand it well, but basically, I do not film stories just because they are about heterosexual or homosexual relationships. In terms of what has changed since 3/11, the short version of Intimacies was filmed before 3/11, so I don’t think much has changed since 3/11. What I have begun to think after 3/11, though, is that it is so precious to have someone with you when a disaster

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happens, regardless of what kind, whether it is a tsunami or a nuclear accident, even if your relationship is rocky, and it does not have to be your family or significant other. Supposing it is an acquaintance or a friend, it is so important that “someone is with this person.” That is what I simply thought, when I was doing interviews in the disaster-stricken region. Then what happens to people who have no one? That issue is not dealt with either in The Sound of Waves or The Voices from the Waves, so I think I will make a film about that someday. It is precious to have someone with you in times of a disaster, but what if you don’t have anyone? What happens then? Then, it is not necessarily a discussion of whether it is a heterosexual or homosexual relationship. To have someone that you can be with; that is rather necessary for people. It is just that not everyone has that someone. Questioner 5: This is related to what you just said. In The Sound of Waves, the second film that was screened today, there were those three men that appeared in the beginning and the sisters in the end, it seems to me that there is a pattern of showing relationships, whether it is romantic in nature or a relationship between family members. I found the woman talking extensively about her best friend who died especially interesting. In the beginning, we cannot tell the friend’s gender, but as you continue to listen, you begin to learn that the friend is a woman. It is further revealed that the friend who passed away is married and has grown children, while we do not know whether the interviewee herself is married or has a family. Listening to the intense feelings that she has for her best friend and her feeling of despair, of not knowing how to cope with life without her best friend, although that relationship falls outside of the category of family or cannot be defined in terms of heterosexuality or homosexuality, I found it remarkably interesting.  And this is a question. We tend to think that it inhibits you from saying things to have a camera pointed at you. On the other hand, I think there is a time when the presence of a camera prompts you to blurt things out. I especially enjoyed the conversations between the husband and wife, and the two sisters. I wondered if they wouldn’t ordinarily talk about what they talked about in the interview in their daily conversations, but because they were placed in an unnatural position with the cameras pointed at them, they were able to have that sort of conversation for the first time. In the case of the married couple, I don’t know if they are in the kind of relationship to talk freely with each other, but the wife, in particular, was encouraged by the presence of the cameras to say things

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like “No, what you are saying is different from what really happened.” The presence of the cameras reveals a new kind of relationship between the two. The wife would be saying something, and the husband tries to interrupt, but regardless of whether it is because of the editing or not, the wife keeps talking. At that moment, the film shows the dynamics between the two. In the conversation between the two sisters, the dynamics especially stands out. It makes me think about what you said, “positioning the camera where it feels like something is about to happen.” There is a feeling that a fascinating drama is unfolding, and you wonder how this conversation, these dynamics, will continue. So there are things you hesitate to say because of the camera, and sometimes you are encouraged by the camera to say things you may not say otherwise. For example, the older sister says in the interview, “I’ve been thinking it but couldn’t say it. Somehow I just got it off my chest.” Did these moments happen organically? Hamaguchi: Not just in The Sound of Waves, but also in The Voices from the Waves, and there is Storytellers, which documents folk storytelling, and in all three of them, when the cameras were rolling, people would somehow find themselves saying things that they wouldn’t say under normal circumstances or in their daily life. It is difficult to say why that happens. A cynical explanation would be that they are performing for the camera or showing off, but this does not seem to be the only explanation, so I always wonder what and why that happens. When do I see more of that happening? If I were to talk about the trend, I would say it happens more when we are using the Z method. I wonder why that is. People are looking directly at the camera, so in a way, they are being exposed to the eyes of thousands, but why would that draw out the words that they have always wanted to say but couldn’t? I would like to ask the interviewees to enlighten me. One thing I can say is that when two people are looking into each other’s eyes for a while, our facial expressions start to mimic each other. Whether it is a smile, an angry or serious expression, they start to look alike. I think that is what it is like to be in the same space. When you film with the Z method, though, sometimes there are moments when that synchronicity is broken. One person may be extremely cheerful, while the other may look as if they had just swallowed a bug. I suppose what happens is that you listen to the other person’s voice, but you are looking directly at the camera that exhibits no facial expressions, so that somehow creates an effect where you are engaging in an inquiry with yourself. And you have the feeling

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that this is it, that this opportunity will never again present itself. In a dimension quite apart from the reality of being filmed, you feel that you must say it right here and now, or you will carry it to your grave. Maybe that is the feeling of compulsion that people have, Sakai and I often said to each other. Questioner 6: I think it is an inspiring film, and I would like to ask you about the sound in the film. Watching the two films you directed today, what I noticed was there is no background music. Is there any significance in that? In other words, are you intentionally keeping out any kind of background music? In addition, about the purpose that music may serve in documentary cinema, do you have any thoughts on that? Hamaguchi: I invite you to tell me if there is anything else about that, but it simply does not agree with me at a gut level. This is an extremely terrible example, but suppose you are watching a news program, you see someone crying, and music in a minor key comes on, suggesting something incredibly sad is happening at this very second…. I think that kind of way of using music, regardless of whether it is a narrative or a documentary film, is not O.K. My aesthetic sense, if I may call it that, won’t tolerate it. Adding a piece of music exposes the creator’s self-consciousness; it exposes that you would like it to be seen this way, or you want the audience to spend this kind of moment. So, to be frank, I think for the creator it is something you want to avoid doing if you can help it. Very often music is added to amplify the emotion in the scene, for the creator thinks that without music it wouldn’t be seen or heard that way. To me, adding music for such purposes is not acceptable, because it is like confessing the weakness of the film, what is seen on the screen, or the voice. Simply put, I just think it shouldn’t be done. There are ways to use music as an opposing or contrasting factor to what is seen on the screen, like adding a commentary, but that is as futile and meaningless as wrestling against yourself. Adding music to deconstruct something you have shot yourself…it does not make sense to me. For example, in certain genre films for which adding music is conventionally done, then I may be more relaxed about it. If you are told you must add music, then within that convention, you will think creatively about where and how, but music is not something you want to add if you can help it. Creative relationships that music and visuals produce are possible, and Godard’s methodology is an example of that; however, I feel it is risky unless you are masterful at it. I am not confident enough to attempt that. It is not

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that I never have any desire to add music. Nor that I want to appear detached. While I do not feel the need to add music, if my film would seem so stoic that it feels inaccessible to some because of that, then it is simply sad and regrettable. Music can play the role that smiles play in interpersonal relationships. For that reason, I think it is acceptable for me to add music to express to the audience that this film does not do any harm to you. Questioner 7: My name is Yamazaki in the department of French Literature. I have a question concerning Intimacies. I have watched the long version before, and today I watched the short version for the f irst time. My honest thought is that I could not separate Part II from the whole and watch it as an independent piece. For those who have not watched the long version, this may not make sense, but I kept going back to Part I in my mind. For instance, “Diagram of Words,” the poem you wrote, and another poem on violence reminded me of the part about war in the first half. And Etsuko, the transgender woman, did not make much of an appearance in Part I but appears a lot in Part II. Especially every time the shot of Hirano appears in the audience seat, those of us who have watched the long version first cannot help but see her as the stage director. I imagine that it is difficult for you as the director to think of these films separate from each other, and I would think that with just the short version, the emotional impact would be less, or the multi-layered quality of the long version would be lost. Despite these concerns, for you to release the short version as a stand-alone film, was it because you valued the autonomy of the short version? Hamaguchi: Whether the emotional impact of the short version is less compared to the long version, that, I would not know for certain. However, I think it is true that the multi-layered quality is lessened if you just watch the short version, but I simply have a certain attitude of acceptance about it. My attitude is that the complete version is not the only right answer, and that the theatrical universe in the short version simply exists independently. I consider, as a principle, the complete version and the short version as two separate and independent works of film, rather than the short version as part of the complete version. It is only natural to view the short version the way you did if you have watched the complete version first, so I just let it go. What should be done about that? (laughs)

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Questioner 7: So, in your mind, the short version can be viewed and enjoyed as an independent piece? Hamaguchi: Yes, that is how I have made it. *The recording of this interview was first buried in the Kyoto University Research Information Repository, KURENAI, in the depths of the Internet, so I decided to reprint it for wider readers. Thanks to the scholars and students who participated in the workshop and their thought-provoking questions, this has become an exceptionally valuable record, and that is why it is included in this book. Though it may seem that the interview ended rather abruptly, the question by questioner 7 (Yamazaki studying French Literature) was really the last question. Since the workshop was held in a seminar room at Kyoto University, Graduate School of Letters, we had to vacate the room at a predetermined time. However, the discussion with Hamaguchi—which lasted over two hours—was incredibly extensive and multifaceted, and by the end of the interview, I remember feeling confident that it had given us, the audience, so many ideas. I would hereby like to express my gratitude once again to Hamaguchi Ryusuke who graciously made himself available for the workshop and to the many scholars and students who participated in the workshop. Thank you so much.

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236 

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Monbukagakusho, Keizaisangyosho Shigenenerugicho, eds. Shogakusei no tameno enerugi fukudokuhon: Wakuwaku genshiryoku rando [Supplementary Reader on Energy for Elementary School Students: The Exciting Land of Nuclear Energy]. Tokyo: Monbukagakusho/Keizaisangyosho Shigenenerugicho, 2010. Mori, Tatsuya, Watai Takeharu, Matsubayashi Yoju, and Yasuoka Takaharu. 311 wo toru [Shooting 311]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. “Mori Tatsuya, shiren no renzoku toku batoru! FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro media wa nani wo daiben surunoka” [Mori Tatsuya, a Series of Trials, Talk Battle!: FAKE vs Tahara Soichiro: What Does the Media Represent?]. Kinema Junpo, early June, 2016. “Murakami Takashi ga nihon no gendaibijutsu wo kataru” [A Talk on Contemporary Art in Japan Given by Murakami Takashi]. YouTube video, 6:26. Posted by, “kanaloco,” January 29, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnFPxcaAffg. Naess, Arne. Ecology, Community and Lifestyle: Outline of an Ecosophy. Translated by David Rothenberg. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Naficy, Hamid. Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001. New Language Dictionary of Current Affairs in Weblio Dictionary. “Garasu bacchi” [Glass Badge]. https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E3%82%AC%E3%83%A9%E 3%82%B9%E3%83%90%E3%83%83%E3%82%B8 (Accessed May 28, 2018). NHK on demand. “NHK Special: A Path for the Decommissioning of Nuclear Reactors 2016 Investigation Report—the Ballooning Cost: Who Could Shoulder It?” https://www.nhk-ondemand.jp/goods/G2016074482SA000/ (Accessed September 27, 2020). Nietzsche, Friedrich. Zen’aku no higan: Dotoku no keifu [Jenseits von Gut und Böse]. Translated by Shida Shozo. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1993. ———. The Genealogy of Morals (Dover Thrift Editions). Translated by Horace B. Samuel. Mineola: Dover Publications, 2012. Niwa, Yoshiyuki. Nihon no terebi dokyumentari [Japanese TV Documentaries]. Tokyo: Tokyo University Press, 2020. “Non-Visitor Center ten (hi-annaijo), 2015.9.19 (do) ~ 10.18 (nichi), mini ikukotoga dekinai tenrankai no tameno sateraito-ten” [Exhibition of the Non-Visitor Center from 19 September (Sat) to 18 October (Sun) 2015: An Ongoing Exhibition Taking Place Inside the Restricted Fukushima Exclusion Zone]. www.watarium. co.jp./exhibition/1509DFW_NVC/1509images/Non-Visitor%20Center_new.pdf (Accessed November 10, 2020). Oguro, Toyoshi. “Taiyo wo nusunda otoko wa besutotenjoi ni naruyona sakuhin ka?” [Is The Man Who Stole the Sun Worthy of High Praise?] Kinema Junpo, late April, 1980.

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Okamura, Yukinobu. Hikaku geijutsu annai: Kaku wa do egakarete kitaka [An Introduction to the Art of Non-Nuclear Power: How Nuclear Power Has Been Depicted]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013. Ono, Kosei. “Mini koramu Genpatsu kirinukicho” [A Mini-Column: Nuclear Scrapbook]. Kinema Junpo, early February, 1983. “Rakanzo 500 tai totatsu e, 19 nichi made Yonesaki-cho no Fumonji de seisakukai; Mirai e no kioku purojekuto” [To Complete 500 Arhat Statues, a Workshop Will be Held at Fumonji Temple in Yonesaki Town until the 19th; The Project for the Future Commemorating the Great East Japan Earthquake]. Tohkai Shimpo, August 16, 2017. https://tohkaishimpo.com/2017/08/16/171372/. Ricoeur, Paul. Oneself as Another. Translated by Kathleen Blamey. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. ———. Tasha no yona jikojishin [Soi-même Comme un Autre, Le Seuil, 1990]. Translated by Kume Hiroshi. Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2010. New edition. ———. Kioku, Rekishi, Bokyaku [La Mémoire, L’histoire, L’oubli, Le Seuil, 2003]. Translated by Kume Hiroshi. Vols. 1 and 2. Tokyo: Shinyosha, 2004–2005. ———. Memory, History, Forgetting. Translated by Kathleen Blamey and David Pallauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. Sato, Kazuhisa, Kai Kenji, and Kitano Hisashi. Komyuniti akaibu wo tsukuro!: Sendai Mediateku “3 gatsu 11 nichi wo wasurenaitameni senta” funtoki [Build a Community Archive!: Sendai Mediatheque “Center for Remembering 3/11” Struggle Record]. Tokyo: Shobunsha, 2018. Sato, Makoto. Dokyumentari no shujigaku [The Rhetoric of Documentary]. Tokyo: Misuzu Shobo, 2006. Sato, Tadao. “Tokubetsu kiko saigai wo kirokusuru eiga to terebi” [A Special Contribution: Film and Television That Record Disasters]. In 311 wo toru [Shooting 3/11], edited by Mori Tatsuya et al., 157–176. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. Sawaragi, Noi, “43 Gohyaku rakanzu (bubun) ” [43 Painting of Five Hundred Arhats (Partial)]. In Nihon bijutsu no genzai, mirai [The Complete Collection of Japanese Art in the Present and the Future], edited by Yamashita Yuji, 226–227. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2011. Schwarzer, Setsuko. “Long Way to the Withdrawal from Nuclear Power Plants Development in Germany: Unexpected Problems.” Nikkei Business, June 12, 2016. https://business.nikkei.com/atcl/report/16/061600046/061600001/. Shindo, Kaneto. “Yagisan no shido de” [Under Mr. Yagi’s Guidance]. Kinema Junpo, late August, 1958. ———. “Daigo Fukuryumaru no shinario hantingu” [Location Scouting for Lucky Dragon No. 5]. Kinema Junpo, early September, 1958.

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“Shishasu 15899nin shinsai 9nen, keishicho matome” [Victims Amount to 15,899 after Nine Years since “Fukushima”: A Metropolitan Police Department Report]. Nihon Keizai Shimbun, March 7, 2020. https//www.nikkei.com/article/ DGXMZO56536620X00C20A3CZ8000/. Shuuei no memo (Shuuei’s notes). “Fukushima ni kurasu hitobito wo egaita eiga, uchikiri kara saijoei e” [Film Depicting People Who Live in Fukushima, From Discontinued to Resumption of Screening] Hatena blog, August 29, 2015. http://d. hatena.ne.jp/shuuei/20150830/1440875392. Singer, Peter. Animal Liberation: A New Ethics for Our Treatment of Animals. New York: Harper Collins, 1975. Trans. Toda Kiyoshi. Dobutsu no kaiho. Tokyo: Gijutsu to Ningen, 1988. “Sokatsu genka hoshiki” [Comprehensive Costing]. Wikipedia. https://ja.wikipedia. org/wiki/総括原価方式 (Accessed April 4, 2023). Steinberg, Marc. Anime Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012. Trans. Nakagawa Yuzuru, Naze Nihon wa “media mikkusu suru kuni” nanoka. Tokyo: Kadokawa, 2015. Takahashi, Tetsuya. Gisei no shisutemu: Fukushima/Okinawa [Systems of Sacrifice: Fukushima and Okinawa]. Tokyo: Shueisha, 2012. “Tanpen eiga Toden keijisaiban ugokanu shoko to genpatsu jiko YouTube de kokai!” [Short Film TEPCO Criminal Trial: Conclusive Evidence and the Nuclear Accident Now on YouTube!]. YouTube video, 26:10. Posted by Eiga Nihon to Genpatsu [Film Japan and Nuclear Power Plant]. July 11, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=ZJhyDSnutqk. “The Head of the Nuclear Emergency Response Headquarters” (the prime minister). April 5, 2012. http://www.maff.go.jp/j/kanbo/saisei/sinsai/pdf/siryo_12_2_3. pdf#page=3. The NPO Science Film Museum. “Fukushima no genshiryoku” [Nuclear Power in Fukushima]. http://www.kagakueizo.org/movie/industrial/365/ (Accessed June 6, 2020). Tsuboi, Akira. “Akira Tsuboi Web dennogaro” [Akira Tsuboi Web: Cyberbrain Gallery]. http://dennou.velvet.jp/ (Accessed June 21, 2020). “Tsuboi Akira ten Tokyo hokoku at Ken, Vol. 5” [Tsuboi Akira Exhibition: Tokyo Report at Ken, Vol. 5]. Last modified November 25, 2016. http://kenawazu.com/ events/page/2/. Uchida, Tatsuru. “Ushinatta mono wo kazoeru yorimo, nokotteiru mono wo kazoeru koto” [Counting What Is Left Rather Than What Has Been Lost]. ele-king rinji zokango Korona ga kaeta sekai, 2020. Wada-Marciano, Mitsuyo. “Educational Films in Postwar Japan: Traces of American Cultural Policies in the Cold War Period.” In The Cold War and Asian Cinemas,

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edited by Poshek Fu and Man-Fung Yip, 95–118. New York and London: Routledge, 2020. ———. Japanese Cinema in the Digital Age. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2012. Watanabe, Yosuke. “Giseisha kuyo no gohyaku rakanzu zo” [Buddhist Memorial Service for 500 Arhat Statues in Memory of Victims Reaches 500]. Asahi Shimbun Digital, August 19, 2017. https://www.asahi.com/articles/ASK8L45VTK8LUJUB004.html. Weblio English-Japanese and Japanese-English dictionaries. “Powerhouse.” https:// ejje.weblio.jp/content/powerhouse (Accessed June 14, 2020). Weblio jisho. https://www.weblio.jp/content/%E4%​BF%9D%E9%A4%8A (Accessed May 20, 2021). Yamada, Kazuo. “Kankyaku wa eiga wo kanri dekiru: Jishu joei undo no imi suru mono” [The Audience Can Manage the Movies: The Meaning of the Independent Screening Movement]. Eiga Hyoron 17, no. 9 (1960): 36–39. ———. “Jishu joei no undo sonogo” [The Independent Screening Movement and Its Aftermath]. Eiga Hyoron 19, no. 6 (1962): 64–67. Yamamoto, Akihiro. Kaku Enerugi gensetsu no sengoshi 1945–1960: “Hibaku no kioku” to “genshiryoku no yume” [The Postwar History of Nuclear Energy Discourse, 1945–1960: “Memories of Radiation Exposure” and “Dreams of Nuclear Power”]. Kyoto: Jinbun Shoin, 2012. “Yamashita Shun’ichi no tondemo hatsugen” [Yamashita Shun’ichi’ s Unbelievable Statements]. YouTube video, 2:44. Posted by “sievert311,” May 8, 2011. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=PuwFrNEgDTg&feature=youtube_gdata_player. Yamashita, Yuji. “196–199 Haru, yokujitsu no chokan ichimen; Natsu, shinsaigo no asari; Aki, hibo kannon: Fuyu, kyoka” [196–199 Spring: The Front Page of the Next Day’s Morning Newspaper; Summer: Clams after the Earthquake; Autumn: Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother; Winter: The Flower Offering]. In The Complete Collection of Japanese Art, vol. 20: Japanese Art in the Present and the Future—1996 to the Present, edited by Yamashita Yuji, 300–319. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2016. Yanobe, Kenji. Urutora: Yanobe Kenji art purojekuto [Ultra: Yanobe Kenji Art Projects 2008–2013]. Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013. ———. Shinsoban Yanobe Kenji sakuhinshu 1969–2005 [A Collection of Yanobe Kenji’s Works 1969–2005, New Edition]. Kyoto: Seigensha, 2013. Yomota, Inuhiko. Nihon eiga to sengo no shinwa [Japanese Cinema and the Myths of the Postwar Period]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007. Yoshimi, Shun’ya. Karuchuraru tan, bunka no seijigaku e [Cultural Turn Toward Politics]. Kyoto: Jinbun shoten, 2003. ———. Yume no genshiryoku [Atoms for Dreams]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 2012.

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———. “Hibaku no akumu kara no tenkan: Genshiryoku koho gensetsu no sengoshi” [The Shift from the Fear of Radiation Exposure: A Postwar History of the Discourses on Nuclear Power Public Information Statements]. In Sengo fukko kara kodoseicho e: Minshukyoiku, Tokyo Orinpikku, genshiryoku hatsuden [From the Rehabilitation of Postwar Japan to the Period of High Economic Growth: Democratic Education, the 1964 Tokyo Olympic Games, Nuclear Power Generation], edited by Niwa Yoshiyuki and Yoshimi Shun’ya, 253–280. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2014.

Index 311 (2011) 62, 63, 76 A (1998) 162 A Long Absence—Living “Fukushima” (Nagaki fuzai—Fukushima wo ikiru—, 2016) 19 A2 (2001) 162 A2-B-C (2013) 17, 149, 165–170 Abe Jun 137 Abe Shimako 137 Abe Shinzo 15, 183, 184 Abe administration 70 Prime Minister Abe 94, 95, 98 accented cinema 66, 72, 73 actuality 95, 112, 145 actuality (akuchuariti) 112 actuality (objectivity) 114 AFP (L’Agence France-Presse) 105 Agamben, Giorgio 30 Agency for Cultural Affairs’ Best Documentary Award, the 151 Agency for Natural Resources and Energy, the 106, 202 Ai Weiwei 194 AI-based translation capability 102 Akagi Shuji 30, 142, 173, 176, 197, 198 All Japan Council of Local Governments with Atomic Power Stations, the (Zengenkyo) 20 all-encompassing system, an 175 amateur 27, 61, 83, 88, 96, 114, 115, 156, 220 animal(s) 24, 25, 29, 30, 145-150, 152, 154–158 animal awareness 146 deaths of animals 29 voices of animals 158 rational animal 30 ANN (All Nippon News Network) 105 Anpo 38 Anpo joyaku 38 anthropocentric 146, 148, 155, 157 anthropocene mentality 155 Anthropocene Epoch 155 anthropocentrism 30 anti-anthropocentric 149, 156 anti-anthropocentrism 145, 156 anti-nuclear 69, 77, 110, 180 anti-nuclear energy 181 anti-nuclear movement(s) 18, 26, 42, 61, 72 anti-nuclear art (hikaku geijutsu) 200, 201 anti-nuclear films 65, 174 anti-nuclear documentary 61, 65 anti-nuclear trilogy 66, 83, 97, 158 anti-nuclear power 79, 88 anti-nuclear-power activist 153 anti-nuclear-power demonstrations 199

anti-vérité (anti-reality) 122 apathetic generation (shirake sedai) 48 archival footage 56, 85, 86 archival images 105 archival supremacy 125 archive of post-3/11 images 119 archiving 123, 125–127, 130, 211 evil and madness of archiving 125–127 akaibu(su) 119, 125 hozon kiroku (preserved records) 125 kiroku hozon kan (buildings for preserved records) 125 art 30, 33, 75, 76, 95, 136, 173-176, 178–180, 182–188, 190–196, 199, 200 art and politics 174 power of art 30, 173, 176, 188, 192, 194, 195, 196,198, 204 work of art 194, 196 Art Theatre Guild, the (ATG, 1961-1992) 68 Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, the 190 Asahi Shimbun 53, 105, 168 ASAHIZA, Ningen wa doko e iku (2014) 125 Asako I & II (Netemo sametemo, 2018) 141 Ash, Ian Thomas 17, 149, 165, 168, 170 Ashes to Honey (Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyu no kaiten, 2010) 26, 61, 62, 65–67, 69, 71–75, 77, 78 The Atom Suit Project/Chernobyl (1997) 177, 183 Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, the 44 atomic bomb cinema 25, 32, 38 atomic cinema 25, 32, 39, 40, 50, 55, 58 bomb films 32 genshiryoku eiga 25 atomic bombs 25, 32, 48-51 Atomic Café, The (Kevin Rafferty, Jayne Loader, and Pierce Rafferty, 1979) 50 Atomic Energy Basic Law, the 51 Atomic Energy Commission 51, 52 United States Atomic Energy Commission 56 atomic technology 32 Atoms for Peace 85 authenticity 118, 222 Avalokitesvara as a Merciful Mother 186 Avenell, Simon 157 Awazu Kiyoshi 181, 183 Battleship Potemkin (1925) 68 belatedness 127-129, 138, 214, 216, 217 belatedness of the camera/cinema 129 The Big House (2018) 57 Bikini Atoll 37, 42, 43, 46, 47, 56 Breaking the Silence (Chinmoku wo yaburu, 2009) 17

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Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Broderick, Mick 31, 38 Bunbun Correspondences (online in 2009, DVD in 2010) 72 Bush, George H.W. 38 Cabinet Public Relations Office, the 105 Camera Atomica (2015) 33 Campaign (Senkyo, 2007) 57 Campaign 2 (Senkyo 2, 2013) 57 Cazdyn, Eric 33 Center for Remembering 3/11, the 29, 119, 123, 210 Center for Remembering 3/11, the (Wasuren) 123, 211 Center for Remembering 3/11 project, the 125 Central Research Institute of Electric Power Industry, the 98 Chernobyl 161, 179 Chernobyl disaster 52, 159, 161 Children of Chernobyl group, the 163 1986 Chernobyl nuclear disaster 62, 69 Cherunobuiri e no Kakehashi (Bridge to Chernobyl) 161 The China Syndrome (1979) 50 Chim↑Pom 30, 173, 176, 181, 183 art collective Chim↑Pom 180, 193-195 Chiura Ryo 75 Chugoku Electric Power Company, the (Chuden) 66, 69 Chukakuha (Japan Revolutionary Communist league or JRCL) 168 JRCL 168 CIE films 38 cinema and law 83, 87 cinéma vérité 122, 150 Civil Information and Education Section, the 38 Clarke, Shirley 87 Cold War 32, 38, 40, 54, 65, 69 Cold War regime 37 Com-Com Children’s Learning Center, the (Komu Komu Kan) 184 community archive 119 companion species 155 Complainants for the Criminal Prosecution of the Fukushima Nuclear Disaster, the 106 complicity 34, 118, 139, 140, 142, 218 computer graphics (CG) 92 compartmentalization 46, 47 compartmentalization of danger 37, 42 contemporary art 30, 173–176, 179, 180, 184, 192, 193, 204 The Cool World (1963) 87 COVID-19 14 Covid-19 pandemic 70 Covid pandemic situation 74 Creep (2007) 141

Criminal Trial of TEPCO: The Unfair Ruling, The (Toden keiji saiban—Futo hanketsu, 2019) 27, 84, 103–108 Criminal Trial of TEPCO: Undeniable Evidence and Nuclear Accident, The (Toden keiji saiban—Ugokanu shoko to genpatsu jiko, 2019) 27, 84, 104 crowdfunding 170, 183 cultural film (bunka eiga) 112 cultural totalitarianism 148 da Vinci, Leonardo 186 dark tourism 63, 198 de-territorial place 155 “Declaration of Defeat” (Haiboku sengen) 19 defilement 33 Democratic Party of Japan, the (DPJ) 15, 22 Diderot 96, 102 Difficult-to-Return Zone, (Restricted Residence Zone, the) 29, 118, 145, 195, 196, 204 Difficult-to-Return Zone (kikan kon’nan kuiki) 63 Difficult-to-Return Zones 146, 152, 153, 155 Digital technologies 188, 198, 201 direct cinema 87, 122 direct-cinema method 76 disadvantaged 147, 156-158 disaster 28, 62, 63, 118, 140, 161, 163, 165, 177, 180, 186, 187, 193, 217–226 disaster victim(s) 19, 125, 131, 132, 139, 201 disaster films 38 experience of the disaster 137, 140, 224 Doane, Mary Ann 137, 138 Documentary Film Archive Project, the 25 Documentary 106, 108, 110, 113 documentary films 17, 70, 100, 109, 112, 113, 121, 122 documentary traditions 76 history of documentary 27, 76, 83, 87, 95, 96, 102, 114 documentary filmmaking 95, 117, 118, 122,136 documentaries lie 162 Doi Toshikuni 17 Dokufest (Kosovo) 108 Don’t Follow the Wind 173, 193–197 Don’t Follow the Wind Exhibition 176, 196 Drive My Car (Doraibu mai ka, 2021) 141 DV cameras 61, 62 earthquakes 31, 42, 107, 142, 191 Earthquake Disaster Attacks the Cities, The (Shinsai wa toshi wo osou: Hanshin daishinsai kyukyu iryo no kiroku, 1995) 75 ecological discourse 155 Edo period (1603-1868) 46, 186, 190, 191 Edo-Tokyo Museum 190

Index

educational film 112 Eftokhova, Zanna 163 egocentric fantasy world 176 Eisenhower, Dwight D. 85 Emperor Hirohito 38 Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On, The (Yuki yukite, shingun, 1987) 62, 221 Encyclopédie, the 102 Ende’s Testament: A Fundamental Interrogation of Money (Ende no yuigon: Kongen kara okane wo tou, 1999) 75 Energy Special Committee, the 78 environment 16, 30, 78, 85, 110, 145, 157, 160, 203 environmentalism 148, 157 environmental pollution 148 anthropocentric environmentalism 157 evacuees 64, 124 exercise of democracy (minshushugi no ekusasaizu) 70, 71 exhibition that no one can see 173, 193 Expo ’70 179 Expo ’70 Commemorative Park, the 179 faith in the media 37, 51 Fake (2016) 162 feed-in tariff (FIT) scheme 98 Felman, Shoshana 136 FFP Czech Filmovy Exhibition Communist Workers Film Festival, the 43 fiction 135, 136, 141, 142 fiction/narrative films 141 fictional film 135 fictionality 118 Final Fighting on Attu (Attsuto gyokusai, 1943) 174 first Gulf War, the 158 Five Hundred Arhats (1854-1863) 189, 190 The 500 Arhats (Gohyaku rakanzo, 2012) 176, 184, 188, 190–192 The 500 Arhats: Blue Dragon, White Tiger, Vermillion Bird, Black Tortoise (2012) 185, 188 FNN (Fuji News Network) 105 Fog of War, The (2003) 133 Fonda, Jane 50 foreigner 145, 148, 169, 170 foreignness 169 forgetting 13–16, 18, 23, 24, 33 forgiveness 33, 34 Fortini/Cani (1976) 129 Frankenstein vs. Baragon, Frankenstein Conquers the World (Furankenshutain tai chiteikaijyu, 1965) 26, 39, 54 Fujii Hikaru 125 Fujiki Hideaki 33, 146, 154, 155, 157 Fujishima Masaharu 18-20, 24 Fujita Tsuguharu (Foujita, Léonard) 174 Fukuda Miran 30, 173, 176, 185-188

243 Fukuda Shigeo 187 Fukushima 14, 15, 190, 193, 194, 195, 197, 198, 200 Fukushima Central Television 105 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster, the 18, 25, 37, 83, 89, 91, 95, 98, 103, 104, 174, 180 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident 86, 104, 186, 188, 199, 203 Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Accident Criminal Case Supporters Group, the 106 Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, the 10, 27, 41, 42, 118, 200, 222 Fukushima nuclear disaster 14 Fukushima meltdown 146, 158, 161, 163 post-Fukushima meltdown era 148 March 11 13, 16, 61, 62, 86, 120, 135, 139, 148, 193, 219 Fukushima Project 194 Fukushima Speaks (Fukushima wa kataru, 2018) 17, 18, 24 Fukushima Speaks for Theatrical Release 17 Fukushima Speaks Full Version 17 Fukushima: A Record of Living Things 1–5 (Fukushima: Ikimono no kiroku 1–5) 29, 30, 146, 152, 155-157 Fukushima series 149 Exposure (Hibaku) 150 Disruption (Ihen) 150 Diffusion (Kakusan) 150 Life (Seimei) 150 Traces (Tsuiseki vol. 5 of the series) 150 Fumonji Temple 192 Funahashi Atsushi 20, 22, 63 Futaba 21 Futaba Town 40, 63, 64, 159 Futaba Hospital 103, 105 Gaines, Jane M. 68, 79 Galaxy Award, the 75 Gallery KEN 199 Geiger Check (1995) 177 Geiger counter 63, 178 Geilhorn, Barbara 33 glass badge 167 glocal subjects 61, 72, 77, 79 glocal-ness 58 Godzilla 25, 37 Gorbachev, Mikhail 38 Great Chilean Earthquake, the 130 Great East Japan Earthquake, the 13, 15, 17, 19, 29, 31, 33, 37, 55, 61, 84, 86, 90, 115, 119, 140, 145, 175, 176, 188–190, 192, 193, 211 Great Hanshin Earthquake, the 62, 119, 210 grey zone 159 Grierson, John 95, 150 Griffith, D.W. 38 Gunzosha 150, 151

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Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Haha Rangers, the (haha in Japanese means mother) 164 Hamaguchi Ryusuke 28, 117-133, 135-143 Hamaguchi interview (Appendix) 207–230 Haneda Sumiko 96 Hani Susumu 96, 110, 112 Happy Hour (Happi awa, 2015) 141 Hara Kazuo 62, 96, 221 Haraway, Donna 155 Hasegawa Kazuhiko 26, 39, 48, 49 Hatoyama Yukio 15 Headquarters for Earthquake Research Promotion (Jishin Chosa Kenkyu Suishin Honbu) 106 Heart-net TV 157 Heidegger, Martin 30, 175 “Insight into That Which Is” 175 hibakusha 25, 37, 159, 160 hibakusha (atomic radiation survivor) 50 victims of nuclear radiation 159 hibakusha cinema 25, 38 Hibakusha at the End of the World (Hibakusha: Sekai no owarini, 2003) 26, 66, 158 Higashi Kinu 124 Higashimatsushima 137 high concept artwork 192 Hiroshima 32, 45, 50, 54 Hochi Shimbun 52 Hollywood 38, 50, 73, 107 Home Sweet Home (2007) 141 hometown 28, 131 Hope Ranch (Kibo no Bokujo) 152, 154, 156 Hosokawa Morihiro 78 Hosono Goshi 20-22 Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival (U.S.A.) 108 hoyo 160, 164 Huillet, Danièle 129 Human Rights in Film (Poland) 108 hydrogen bombs 25, 37 hydrogen bomb exposure 56

intelligibility 27, 56, 58, 61, 74, 77, 83, 88–90, 97, 98, 101–103, 106–109, 114, 115 intelligibility (wakariyasusa) 66 internal exposure 119 International Research Center for Japanese Studies, the 13 International Uranium Film Festival 108 Internet, the 13, 55, 61, 69-71, 89, 102, 119, 138, 142, 150, 230 Interrotron technique, the 133 interview 14, 18, 28, 29, 46, 56, 72, 77, 85, 86, 92, 99, 117 interviewees 99, 100, 119, 126-128, 138-140, 169, 217, 221, 224, 227 interview format 107, 131, 142, 201 journalistic interview 136 introversion 148, 157 Ishinomaki City 63 Ishinomaki 130, 137 Ito Hideaki 37, 55, 57, 69 Itoya Toshio 43 Iwaishima 26, 66, 73, 74, 159 Iwaishima islanders 69, 73, 79, 100, 160 Iwasaki Masanori 29, 146, 149 Iwata-Weickgenannt Kristina 33

Ichinose Masaki 165 identity 23, 24, 73, 87, 106, 148, 156, 170 Idogawa Katsuo 21, 23, 24 Iida Tetsunari 98-101 Ikata Nuclear Power Plant, the 78 image of the arhat 192 inconvenient truth, an 151, 170 independent filmmaker 68, 141 independent screening ( jishu joei) 28, 55, 56, 58, 61, 66–71, 79, 109, 148, 150 Inland Sea (Minato machi, 2018) 57 Innocent Look (Nanikuwanu kao, 2003) 141 Inomata Norihiro 99 instigate critical thinking 173, 175, 176, 188, 204 Institute for Sustainable Energy Policies, the 98, 99

K Project 108 Kaido Yuichi 85, 99, 106, 107 Kaieda Banri 20-22 Kamanaka Hitomi 26-287, 58, 61, 62, 65-67, 69–78, 88, 100, 115, 149, 158, 159, 162, 167, 169, 170 Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant, the 26, 66, 79, 100 Kan Naoto 15, 20 Kaneko Masaru 101 Kano Hogai 186 Kano Kazunobu 189–191 Kano school, the 190 Kansai Electric Power Company 101 Katsumata Tsunehisa 103 Katsume Takahisa 43

Japan Arts Council, the 151 Japan Democratic Party, the 15 Japan Foundation, the 65 Japan Socialist Party, the 15 Japan-China Friendship Association, the (1950–present) 68 Japan-Eurasia Society, the (formerly the Japan-Soviet Society) 68 Japan-U.S. Alliance, the 38 Japan-U.S. Security Treaty, the 37, 42 Japanese government, the 34, 43-45, 56, 65, 69, 86, 89, 91, 92, 94, 151, 159 Jaspers, Karl 33 jibun denryoku service (personal electricity power service) 101 Juvenile Court (1973) 87

245

Index

Kawai Hiroyuki 27, 28, 69, 83–90, 103, 109, 110, 113-115 Kawai lecture method, the 93–97, 100, 108 Kawase Kazuharu 22 Keidanren, the (Japan Business Federation) 91, 93 Kesennuma City 62, 137, 210, 220 Kikukawa Keiko 159 Kimagure Daigaku (Free-Spirit University) 19 Kindai Eiga Kyokai Co., Ltd. 43 Kitagawa Yoshio 124 Kitano Takeshi 84 Koide Hiroaki 16, 30, 31 Koike Kazuo 85 Komeito, the 90, 98 Kristeva, Julia 170 Kubota Kenji 194 Kumagai Mitsuhiro 192 Kuroki Kazuo 96 Kurosawa Kiyoshi 133, 208, 209, 216 Kyoto Biennale, the 201 “The Slowness of Light” 201 Kyoto University of the Arts 95, 178 Kyoto University Research Reactor Institute, the 16 landscapes 121, 127, 130 Lanzmann, Claude 121, 128, 129, 136, 221 Lauzon, Claudette 33 Law and Order (1969) 87 Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) 15, 42, 65, 70, 79, 90, 98, 99, 153 LGBT 157 Liberal Party 15 Little Voices from Fukushima (Chiisaki koe no kanon—Sentaku suru hitobito, 2015) 26, 61, 149, 158–165, 167 live stock 153 Living with Memories (Kioku to ikiru, 2015) 17 living witnesses 154, 156 local community 19, 41, 74, 99, 101, 160 local viewpoint, a 157 localism 148 Lone Wolf and Cub (Kozure okami, 1970-76) 85 Long Live Living Things (Ikimono Banzai) 150 Lucky Dragon No.5 (Daigo Fukuryumaru, 1959) 26, 39, 42, 43, 45–47, 56 Daigo Fukuryu Maru (Lucky Dragon No.5) 42, 46-55, 181 Ma Ran 121, 122, 124, 141 Mainichi Shimbun 53, 54 male chauvinism 148 male logic 156 male-dominated systems 148 The Man Who Stole the Sun (Taiyo wo nusunda otoko, 1979) 26, 39, 47, 48, 50, Maruki Gallery for Hiroshima Panels 199 Maruki Iri 201

Maruki Toshi 201 Maruyama Tomomi 113 Masco, Joseph 32, 33 Mathis, John R. 32, 38 Matsubayashi Yoju 62 Matsuyama Hideaki 110–114 Mattes, Eva and Franco 194 McNamara, Robert 133 media activism 61, 71, 72 media landscape 148 Meiji Sanriku Tsunami, the 130 memory 23, 129, 135, 137, 138 memories 14, 24, 30, 34, 63, 119, 121, 130, 135, 137, 138, 140, 158, 224 a memory of the will 24 Mental (Seishin, 2008) 57 Mental 0 (Seishin 0, 2020) 77 Zero (Seishin 0, 2020) 57 Merkel, Angela 14 Miki Akiko 191 Minamata disease 75 Minamisanriku 137 Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry, the 20, 69, 106, 202 Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology, the 202 Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan, the 65 minority 157 Miyagi Folklore Association, the (Miyagi Minwa no Kai) 132 Mizutani Masahiko 220 modern technology 175 Mona Lisa 187 Monju 94 Monju research reactor, the 93 monster film (kaijyu eiga) 54, 55 Mori Art Museum 191 Mori Tatsuya 62, 76, 96, 162 Morris, Errol 133 mother 30, 50, 67, 68, 79, 145, 159–165, 167, 169 mothers of Nihonmatsu 159 mothers of Belarus 159 voices of mothers 26 Murakami Takashi 30, 173, 176, 185, 188-192 Muraoka Tsugumasa 79 Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, the (Poland) 199 mushubutsu (ownerless substances) 200 Mushubutsu: Ownerless Substances (Rensaku saidanga mushubutsu, 2013–, Tsuboi Akira) 176, 197, 199 Muto Sakae 103 myth 39, 180, 181 myth and history 39 Naficy, Hamid 66, 73 Nagasaki 32, 45 Nagasawa Rosetsu 191 Nakasone Yasuhiro 51

246 

Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Namie Town 153, 159 Nankai Broadcasting 55, 56 Narita: The Sky of May (1977) 75 narrative identity 23 narrativity 118 National Art Center in Tokyo, the 187 National Council of Association for Promoting Jishu Joei, the (Jishu Joei Sokushinkai Zenkoku Kyogikai) 68 national culture 148 Nazis, the 128 Nazi concentration camp 128, 129 Nazi Party 128 neo-liberalism 33 New York Human Rights Watch Film Festival (U.S.A.) 108 New York International Documentary Festival (DOC NYC, U.S.A.) 108 NHK, the (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) 46, 71, 110, 122, 157 NHK television 70, 105 Nichiei Kagaku Eiga 26, 39, 40 Nietzsche, Friedrich 24 nihilism 175 Nihonmatsu 159, 161, 164 Niigaki Takashi 85 Nikkatsu films for children (Nikkatsu jido eiga) 67, 68 Nippon Television Network Corporation (NTV) 46, 52, 55 Nishiwaki Yasushi 43 Niwa Yoshiyuki 25 NNN Document, the 55 no nukes 33, 37, 77 non-victims 46, 47, 63 Non-Visitor Centers 193, 194, 195 Non-Visitor Center satellite exhibitions 196 Noto Setsuo 43 NTT Smile Energy 101 nuclear bombs 31, 32, 44-47, 54 nuclear cinema 31, 54 nuclear contamination 163 Nuclear Japan: Has Nuclear Power Brought Us Happiness? (Nihon to genpatsu―Watashitachi wa genpatsu de shiawase desuka?, 2014) 27, 83-86, 90–94, 97, 99, 103, 108, 109 Nuclear Japan: The Nightmare Continues (Nihon to genpatsu—Yonengo, 2015) 27, 83, 99 Nuclear Nation (Futaba kara toku hanarete, 2012) 20, 23, 24 Having Gone Far Away from Futaba 64 Nuclear Nation I (Futaba kara toku hanarete, 2012) 63, 64 Nuclear Nation II (Futaba kara toku hanarete dainibu, 2014) 63, 64 Nuclear Power Generation Today (Ima genshiryoku hatsuden wa, 1976) 26

Nuclear Power in Fukushima (Fukushima no genshiryoku, 1977) 26, 39-41, 74 nuclear power plants 14, 16, 17, 25, 27, 31, 32, 37, 40-42, 61, 63, 69, 75, 78, 79, 86, 90, 91, 93, 118, 139, 140, 159, 203, 204, 219, 220, 222 nuclear PR films 39, 41, 42, 58 nuclear reactors 14 Nuclear Scrapbook (Genpatsu kirinukicho, 1982) 26, 39, 51, 52, 74 nuclear themes 38 nuclear village 27, 34, 69, 83, 86, 89–95, 97, 98, 109, 174 nuclear power village (genshiryoku mura) 22, 27 nuclear weapons 31 Nuremberg International Human Rights Film Festival (Germany) 108 O’Brian, John 33 Obara Hiroyasu 85, 99 observational cinema (kansatsu eiga) 57, 87, 122, 150 observation cinema 29 observational f ilm (kansatsu eiga) 76, 122 Of Love & Law (Ai to ho, 2017) 87 Ogami Futaro 85, 86, 104, 106 Ogami Itto 85 Ogawa Shinsuke 74, 96, 110 Oguro Toyoshi 48, 49 Okamoto Taro 179–183 Okamura Yukinori 199, 200 Okawa Elementary School 63 Okinawa 15, 38, 73 Okuma Town 40 Omiya Koichi 62 Ono Kazuko 120 Ono Kosei 54 oral history 128 Osaka World Expo 14 Osipenko family, the 163 Otani Shin Buddhist sect, the 161 Otani University 161 Övertorneå in Sweden 66, 74, 160 Oya Soichi 111 Oyster Factory (Kaki koba, 2015) 57 Ozawa Shoichi 53 Pal & System 101 Paper Tiger Television (1981–) 71 paratext(s) 43, 44, 56, 64, 72, 77 Paralympics, the 157 Peace (2010) 57 people inside/people concerned 58, 138, 139 people outside/outsider 58, 83, 138, 139 “People Rising” 177 performance of storytelling (katari) 138 personification 162 picture-story show (kami-shibai) 121

Index

political mimesis 67, 68, 79 political nature 18, 65, 87, 176, 181 politics and cinema 151 post-3/11 documentary cinema 28, 58, 97, 117, 125, 157 post-Fukushima documentary cinema 122 post-Fukushima documentary, the (PFD) 121, 122, 155 post-3/11 mediascape 61 postwar atomic cinema 25, 37, 58 power of cinema 115, 131, 142, 143, 214 powerhouse 84, 85, 89 powerhouse method 84, 88 PR (public relations) film 25, 39-42, 58 Prayer Project, The (gankake purojekuto) 190 privacy 70, 126 private voice 159 production of sounds 120 Project for the Future Commemorating the Great East Japan Earthquake, The (Mirai e no kioku purojekuto) 192 Proletarian Film League of Japan, the (Prokino) 68 promises 17, 23-25, 183 promising 23 propaganda 26, 61, 96, 113, 168 psychological trauma 138, 142 public voice 159 puppet pundits 92 Pure Film Movement, the 95 radiation 25, 29, 37, 40, 41, 46, 50, 53, 54, 56, 147, 153, 158, 159, 160, 161, 165–167, 178, 194, 195 radiation exposure 26, 28–30, 43, 47, 50, 51, 53–55, 118, 119, 160, 165 Radiation Suit Atom (1996) 177 radioactivity 78, 167 radiological contamination 14, 37, 139, 151, 152, 154, 161, 184, 193 Rakando, the (Arhat Hall) 190 raw materialism (sozai-shugi) 162 Real Face of Japan, The (Nihon no sugao) 110-112 reality (genjitsu-sei) 112, 118, 122 Recorded on the Street (Gaito rokuon, 1946-1958) 111 Records and Recalls exhibition, the 133 recuperation (hoyo) 160, 161, 164, 165 system of recuperation 30 Recycle Project 194 Reinigung (purification) of sin 33 renewable energy 65, 90, 93-95, 97–101 Renewable Japan: The Search for a New Energy Paradigm (Nihon to saisei—Hikari to kaze no gigawatto sakusen, 2017) 27, 69, 83, 84, 97–102 Ricoeur, Paul 23, 33

247 risk management advisor 165, 166 Rokkasho Rhapsody (Rokkasho-mura rapusodi, 2006) 26, 61, 66, 78, 159 Roses 186–188 Rotha, Paul 95 Rumsfeld, Donald 133 safety 16, 54, 167, 184, 204 anzen, anshin 16, 183 safety myth 16, 17, 25, 37–40, 42, 54–56, 58, 69, 86, 94, 115, 181, 202 Sakai Ko 28, 29, 117-134, 210, 216 Samuragochi Mamoru 85 Sangatsu Juichinichi wo Wasurenai-tameni Senta (Wasuren) 119, 123, 210, 211 Sanrizuka conflict, the 75 Sasaki Kiichi 110, 111 Sasaki Yuri 164 Sato Fumiko 192 Sato Makoto 95 Sato Tadao 25, 37, 40 Sawada Kenji, aka Julie 47, 48 Sawaragi Noi 188-190, 194 Schrader, Leonard 49, 50 Second World War, the 38, 111, 128, 174, 190 self-censorship 29, 45, 86, 145, 170 self-contradiction 135, 154, 156 selfhood 23 Sellafield, England 78 Sendai Mediatheque 29, 117, 119, 125, 133, 210, 211 Seoul Eco Film Festival (Republic of Korea) 108 Shakamonjufuken, Shitenno, Judaideshi-zu (1856-1858) 190 Shapiro, Jerome E. 32, 38 Shinchi-machi (Shinchimachi) 137, 220 Shindo Kaneto 26, 39, 43, 45, 47 Shinkoji Temple 161 Shinseiki Eiga 43 Shinshoji Temple 190 Shoah (1985) 121, 128, 129, 136, 221 Site and Speech 121 Shoji Yoshiaki 130 Shooting the Film 311 (2012) 63 Shoriki Matsutaro 51, 52 shot/reverse shot 132, 217 Showa period (1926–1989; postwar 1945–1989) 38-40, 54 Showa Sanriku Tsunami, the 130 simplicity 26, 102 simultaneity (doji-sei) 110, 112 Sketch of Mujo, The (Mujo sobyo, 2011) 62 Smolnikova, Valentina 162-164 Social Exploration (Shakai tanbo, 1947–1951) 111 social media 61, 70 Soda Kazuhiro 57, 76, 77, 87, 122, 151, 213 Soma-gun 137

248 

Japanese Filmmakers in the Wake of Fukushima

Sound of Waves, The (Nami no oto, 2011) 28, 117, 120, 124, 127, 130, 132, 137, 139, 207, 209, 210, 213–215, 219-227 Sound of Waves Project, The 130 Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter (Haru natsu aki fuyu, 2012-2013) 176, 184, 185 Storytellers (Utau hito, 2013) 28, 117, 120, 132, 137, 210, 227 storytelling 106, 120–122, 131, 132, 135–138, 140, 227 katari 136, 138 Straub, Jean-Marie 129 Straub-Huillet 129 Stray Dog (1949) 50 Sugenoya Akira 162 Suihon (Headquarters for Earthquake Research Promotion (Jishin Chosa Kenkyu Suishin Honbu)) 106 Sun Child (2012) 176–179, 182-185 surveillance camera 128 Survival Racing Car (1997) 177 survivors 17, 43, 50, 129, 192, 220, 221, 224 system of sacrifice (gisei no shisutemu) 13, 15, 16, 24, 31, 34, 38, 175 Tabata Yoshi 121, 124, 130 Tahara Soichiro 76 taishin backcheck 106, 107 Takahashi Tetsuya 15, 24, 31, 38, 175 Takahashi Yuji and Suigyu Gakudan (Water Buffalo Band) 53 Takakura Ken 49 Takekuro Ichiro 103 Taketani Mitsuo 43 “Talk Log (1)” (streaming program, 2011) 130, 131, 138 talking-head format 107, 120, 122 Tanking Machine (1990) 176 telementary 83, 110–114 telementary format 110 television documentaries 56-58, 66, 75-77, 88, 110, 112, 114 television documentary program 110, 114, 115, 122, 150 TV documentary 26 temporary housing 19, 64, 118, 161 Theater 1 and Theater 2 (Engeki 1, 2012, Engeki 2, 2012) 57 Theater Pole-Pole Higashi Nakano 76 Think Globally, Act Locally 73 Three Laws for Power Development, the 91 Three Mile Island accident, the 50, 52 threshold 30 thyroid cysts 165 cysts in their thyroid 165 a thyroid disorder 165 Titicut Follies (1967) 57, 87 Toho Co., Ltd. 54

Tohoku Documentary Trilogy (Tohoku kiroku eiga sanbusaku) 28, 117–120, 122, 123, 127, 132, 136, 140, 141, 143, 201, 210, 211, 217 Tohoku region, the 28, 104, 120, 137 Tokai Nuclear Power Plant 48 Tokyo District Court, the 103 Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) 14, 27, 28, 34, 40, 74, 83, 84–86, 89, 94, 101, 103–107, 153, 156, 158, 195, 196, 200 Tokyo gubernatorial election, the 77, 78 Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, the 185 Tokyo Olympics 14 Tokyo University of the Arts 133, 208, 210, 211 Tokyo University of the Arts Graduate School 29, 123, 141 Tomabechi Yasuko 159 topologicality (iso) 164 Toronto International Film Festival (Canada) 108 Tower of the Sun, The (Taiyo no to) 179, 181, 182 trace(s) 13, 14, 17, 18, 20–23, 31, 33, 62, 158, 217 traces of memories 17, 30, 34, 137 Tsai Ing-wen 15 Tsuboi Akira 30, 173, 176, 199-201 Tsuchimoto Noriaki 26, 39, 52-54, 74, 75, 96, 110 Tsuji Nobuo 188 Tsunami and Village 124 tsunamis 28, 31, 42, 61–63, 103, 104, 107, 117, 118, 124, 130, 131, 135, 137, 139, 140, 186, 189, 210, 215, 217, 218, 219, 224 Tsuruga Nuclear Power Plant, the 53, 54 Tsutsumi Torin 190 Twitter 72, 142, 198 U.S. military 31, 38, 69 Uchida Tatsuru 70, 71 Ueno Makoto 201 Ukraine 161 United States Atomic Energy Commission, the 56 universality 23, 33, 109, 174 The Unknown Known (2013) 133 Ushiro Ryuta 195 van Gogh, Vincent 186-188 VHS 68 Vico, Giambattista 39 victims 14, 18, 19, 47, 201, 218, 219, 223, 224, voiceless figures 170 Voices from the Waves (Nami no koe, 2013) 28, 117, 120, 132, 137, 139, 210, 220, 226, 227 voices of women 158, 165 Wago Ryoichi 142 Waite, Jason 194 Wakayama Kazuo 43 Wang Bing 57, 77

Index

war collaborator 174 war paintings (senso-ga) 174 Watai Takeharu 62 Watari Museum of Contemporary Art, the 194, 195 Watch Docs International Film Festival 108 West of the Tracks (Tiexi Qu, 2002) 57 What the Japanese Forgot: Japanese Remaining in the Philippines and China (Nihonjin no wasuremono, 2020) 99 Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (Guzen to sozo, 2020) 141 Window of Society (Shakai no mado, 1948-1954) 111 Wiseman, Frederick 57, 87, 151 X Years Later (Hoshano wo abita X nengo, 2012) 37, 39, 47, 55-57, 69 X Years Later 2 (Hoshano wo abita X nengo 2, 2015) 37 xenophobia 148 xenophobic society 148 Yagi Yasutaro 43, 45 Yamada Futaro 85 Yamada Rie 168

249 Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival (YIDFF), the 63, 76, 108 Yamaguchi Yaichiro 124 Yamashita Masatoshi 55, 56 Yamashita Shun’ichi 165, 166 Yamashita Yuji 185, 186, 188, 191 Yanobe Kenji 30, 173, 176-179, 181, 183 Yasuoka Takuji 62 Yokohama Triennale, the 195 Yomiuri Shimbun 51, 52 Yomota Inuhiko 39, 40 Yoshida Naoya 113 Yoshimi Shun’ya 25, 41, 51, 52, 58 Yoshioka Hiroshi 201, 202 Yoshizawa Masami 152–157 YouTube 27, 61, 71, 83, 84, 103, 107, 108, 179 Yugoslavia Youth Peace Fellowship Festival, the 43 Youth Killer, The (Seishun no satsujinsha, 1976) 48 Z method 117, 132–136, 139, 142, 201, 216–218, 221, 223, 227 Z-shooting strategy 117 Zainichi ethnic minority, the 157 Zengenkyo 20, 23 Zojo-ji 190