The Dance of Telling and Showing in Recent Anime Films
Every visual work is built on the interplay between two core vectors: to “tell” and to “show”. In late January, three feature-length animated works debuted in quick succession—Kusunoki no Bannin (which can be translated as “The Camphor Tree Guardian”), Kidou Senshi Gundam: Senkou no Hasaway – Kiruke no Majo (“Mobile Suit Gundam: Hathaway’s Flash – The Witch of Kirke”), and Chou Kaguyahime! (“Super Princess Kaguya!”)—each with its own distinct balance of telling versus showing. And each, in its own way, turned out to be utterly captivating.
Kusunoki no Bannin: Mastering the Art of Narrative
Kusunoki no Bannin is an animated film adaptation of the novel of the same name by Higashino Keigo. Centered around a mystical camphor tree said to grant wishes to those who pray to it, the story weaves together the tales of multiple families. Among the three films, this one leans most heavily into the “telling” component. And its approach to narrative seems built on a foundation of American-style screenplay technique.
Film director Kurosawa Kiyoshi once wrote: “Suppose there is a very sad story. Suppose you tell it really well. Then it will undoubtedly be sad, and the audience will all shed tears equally. This is a basic truth, obvious when you think about it. By faithfully executing this alone, American cinema continues its unceasing prosperity.” (From “Monogatari o Tsumugu Koso Eiga da to, Sonnonko Wakatteiru no ka, Minna” in Eizou no Charisma Kurosawa Kiyoshi Eiga Shi Zouho Kaitei Ban, published by Xknowledge).
This “skillful telling” is precisely what Kusunoki no Bannin aims for. The film revolves around three young people, including the protagonist Naoi Reito, with their storylines alternating throughout. To unify these three threads and create a cohesive flow, the film employs meticulous narrative craftsmanship.
First, just before the climax, there’s a moment where each character hits their emotional low point. The scenes are structured to align these timing as closely as possible. Then, the film depicts Reito’s heart hitting rock bottom and beginning to turn around—using music, a prop (a 100-yen coin), and his metaphorical mascot character, a konohazuku (Japanese scops owl). Once Reito’s emotions shift, the story accelerates toward the climax.
At the climax itself, a key piano performance scene incorporates two flashbacks, allowing the emotional peaks of all three storylines to converge. If you just consider the timeline, the sequence might seem slightly complex, but the piano melody binds the episodes into a single, powerful experience. By surrendering to the moment, the audience can feel a true catharsis. The clear strategy behind how to tell the story is what makes this film such broadly accessible entertainment.
Interestingly, after the piano climax, the film adds another peak for Reito’s arc, boosting the audience’s emotions like a multi-stage rocket. Here, a pastel-toned visual style—different from traditional cel animation—takes over, allowing the “showing” vector to shine at its brightest.
Beyond that, the film reserves simple shot reversals for crucial moments, while employing bold camera movements when it wants to draw attention, or using mirror images to let viewers feel a character’s inner turmoil. The direction is packed with thoughtful touches.
《Fujitsu Ryota》
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