My webcomic Hypersonic Music Club, which I write and Hiroyuki Takahashi draws, is a thing now and we have several (!!!) anime industry and licensing people looking at taking it to the next level. But now is sort of a crucial time where we have to show traction / buzz / interest. If anyone wants something killer cool to hang on their wall, you could actually spend a few bucks on this and I will kiss you on the astral plane!
Back to yawning face red skin disease because it pleases the gods. He is rudder and harsh, hair tonic and cough drops. She is skull with skin pulled gently over it, false eyelashes and watery mascara caught in the rain stretched out over fields of black down winter coats now past their welcome, cocooned in cold grey city, never understanding modulation because someone needs to make you humid humid humid in here. I am tired hip socket joint laying down legs in fetal position left. Everything was done and tried before a million times because maybe it pleased the gods before tonight.
Evil rusted wormwood lungs lying on the floor all day. Itchy eyes, people trying to break into my head, runny nose, running away from America. Bathing in red sundown Shimokitazawa. It’s a weird little diorama from the front of the magazine.
Flashback to something we had nearly forgotten about because the years are getting on now: Aspiring biological entity Pedro Edogawa doesn't know anything anymore and prolonged exposure to different time zones, never ending jet lag, extended periods of isolation, crowded narrow spaces, languages he can’t fully speak or read supplemented by a short list of phrases that get him through the day without any incident, spinning forward on purity café time hoping the staff has forgotten about him so he can stay forever, avoiding eye contact deliberately and instinctively, legs and feet always walking, always hurting, pretending he is invisible, just a fixed point of sensory input that glides through the tunnels and sidewalks of Tokyo3 like second hand smoke that no one seeks to pinpoint anymore, mixing in as it does with a light mist of human odor that is inescapable when he’s pressed flat against a door and window on the Doubutsu-sen with others like himself speeding backwards on tracks to a fixed series of destinations and transfers like this one right here.
Hiroyuki Takahashi is a Japanese artist whose eye-popping work is supercharged with the influence of anime and manga. Now, he is teaming up with Crunchyroll for a series of exclusive new projects. Read an interview with Takahashi and enjoy his art via an image gallery, after the jump!
Tease + title reveal for my upcoming web comic collaboration with Hiroyuki Takahashi… He draws, I write, you get HYPERSONIC. Spoiler for deep readers: although radically different in style and content, this will be the second part of the Mystery Frequency saga following Paranoia Girls. More in early 2015.
Her lace glove hand holding a tightly folded McDonald's bag containing hot apple pie within for warmth, Luna Kobayashi is wandering on high heeled sneakers down a cold rainy day shotengai towards the JR station, frayed and torn pitari cold mask plastered across her mouth, medical bandage for a right eye, her ruined face a masterpiece framed by an imitation fur cheap down jacket hood. From her strange gait alone comes the rapid switch of weather which takes effect as soon as we get on the Shonan Shinjuku line at 4:27. We go from passing through mere clouds and drizzle to miles of cold hard stone above our heads, asphyxiated dead blue colors like the whole world under polar icewater now; nothing left to see except dying sun, fluorescent office light, and LEDs all blurred by moving train windows like this. And then she stops walking / stumbling long enough to finally lay down and die, last breaths clearly visible, but seen by no one, as steam mingling and twisting with evaporating mositure from the runied city below.
I am gathered here today to pay tribute to Bunta Sugawara whose death marks the end of the modern movie yakuza, the last shot of the machine gun dragons, and the final police sweep of the Showa era...
Discovering Bunta’s 1970s output on dozens of VHS tapes at SF’s Japan Town (egged on by Chris D.’s pioneering reviews in Asian Trash Cinema magazine) pretty much changed my life. Gendai Yakuza – Hitokiri Yota (AKA Street Mobster) in particular wound up a primal scene, and without it, I might never have wandered into the deep end of Japanese pop culture beyond the boundaries of anime and kaiju flicks.
Back then, it was impossible to find a subtitled copy of any of the Kinji Fukasaku / Sugawara films, but Bunta’s hellfire persona was more than enough to go on. There was THAT FACE, twisting and contorting with overclocked emotion. Then there was THAT VOICE, which could go from a deep menacing rumble to something I can only equate with the sound of an entire room filled with beer bottles breaking and ramen bowls shattering (usually over someone’s head). I needed to write about it. I wound up writing books about it...
Looking back, I think I was seeing something of my own father when I saw Bunta and many of the yakuza movie tough guys mixing it up. While he wasn’t an abusive person by nature, explosive rage mixed with remote coolness was something I did experience up close on several occasions. I think I was trying to understand what masculine violence was and where it came from. I wound up looking for answers in post-war Japan; both in real history and in the exploitation “true document” films in which Bunta and directors like Kinji Fukasaku relived their own past traumas in.
Bunta’s death arrives mere weeks after the loss of fellow icon Takakura Ken (that's both of them destroying the world in the picture above). Together, they were the alpha and omega, the ninkyo and the jitsuroku, of Japan’s movie tough guys. Ken was stoic, suffering, and deeply connected to the crisis of Modernization during the Meiji and Taisho era. Bunta was something more primal: a libidinal Frankenstein monster that 20th century Japan created by proxy, but could not tame with law and order. An outsider outlaw no matter what gang he might belong to.
That both Bunta and Ken are gone means we are on our own now -- death claims victory in yet another cynical freeze frame ending – but at least we will forever have role models, real and imaginary, for how battles without honor or humanity can be fought.
So let's start everything over right here, right now.... what the fuck are you staring at?