Thirty-One
Before we go on, let’s take a minute to look back from where we came.
On some level or another, every character in Evangelion is lonely, depressed, overstimulated, horny, and caught in a rut. Shinji Ikari, our main protagonist, the 14-year-old son of NERV commander, Gendo Ikari, sits at the forefront of everything. He’s been separated from his father for three years, living with a tutor. He does his best to disappear into the background, doesn’t like attention put on himself, and sees nothing about himself worth maintaining.
And while Shinji’s depression might be the most outwardly recognizable, Anno and crew provide a different manifestation with Misato Katsuragi. A NERV commander, she’s skilled and capable at guiding the Evas, but her home life is a mess. Her diet consists almost exclusively of instant noodles and beer. She says she hasn’t lived in her apartment long but it also looks like she hasn’t unpacked anything, either. On one hand, all her relationships are superficial and distant, but she also doesn’t seem able to function in her own head. She’s constantly on the phone, stays way too late at the office, and lacks care for her own well-being. She has Shinji move in with her to not have to live alone. The only time in either of these opening episodes she says something honest about herself, is an off-hand mention that her father, like Shinji’s, was a high-ranking individual, never around and rarely showing concern for everyone else. Misato’s boisterous and exuberant, but that’s a mask for her, which Shinji can feel even if he doesn’t necessarily understand.
Director Gendo Ikari, Dr. Ritsuko Akagi, Sub-Commander Kozo Fuyutsuki, and the Human Instrumentality Committee also make appearances, where they say cryptic things that only make sense once you’ve experienced the whole series, and put into motion events that make the engine for the entire series. With Director Ikari and Dr. Akagi, especially, we get a sense of their position and relationship with the people around them, but their deep flaws and motivations won’t be revealed till much later.
Thirty-Two
In a memo to the Gainax staff, Anno wrote: “I tried to include everything of myself in Neon Genesis Evangelion — myself, a broken man who could do nothing for four years. A man who ran away for four years, one who was simply not dead. Then one thought. ‘You can’t run away,’ came to me, and I restarted this production. It is a production where my only thought was to burn my feelings into film. I know my behavior was thoughtless, troublesome, and arrogant. But I tried. I don’t know what the result will be.”
In the first half of the series, we see that influence and personal experience at work. Shinji, overwhelmed with the attention his classmates put on him and racked with guilt over hurting Toji’s sister, once again refuses to get in the damn robot. Like Anno on Nadia, he was thrown into a situation he didn’t understand or have much investment in, Shinji runs away, then resigns, before, at the end of “Rain, After Running Away,” realizes piloting the Evas is something he has to do. It’s all external still, Shinji’s willingness to drive Unit-01, but we see him finding other reasons to get in the cockpit besides appeasing his father. By the way, who is all too happy to toss him to the side and try out other pilots, even though people continually tell him Unit-01 only reacts to Shinji, for reasons that will become clear later.
In terms of subtle subversions, while most mecha protagonists are eager to hop into the giant robots, without qualm, without thought, Shinji, of course, has no interest in this. Only Kensuke Aida, one of Shinji’s classmates, with thick glasses and a camcorder, shows any classic Gundam protagonist qualities. At one point, he even remarks he would give anything to pilot one of the Evas. (Spoiler: he never gets to.) That being said, there’s also something to note with Toji Suzuhara, the other friend Shinji manages to make. He’s not wowed or scared by the giant robots roaming around Tokyo-3, but more bored by the concept, desensitized. The only thing he cares about is flirting with Misato and taking care of his sister, who was hurt in the Angel Sachiel’s attack. He’s the only other character who understands Shinji’s reluctance. Later in the series, when he’s revealed to be the Fourth Children, he, too, takes his time to decide what to do.
Continued belowThere’s a line of critical thinking that says nothing should exist beyond the text. It’s all extra-textual and doesn’t matter. Our stories, however, aren’t created in a vacuum, no matter where they’re from in the world. Neon Genesis Evangelion has made such an impact on the culture and the conversation, people have dug deep into its themes, symbols, meanings, and influences with gusto. Anime might have been slow to arrive in America, but we’ve embraced it and been able to better understand the environment in which it was created. There’s certainly a wealth of material about this show out there and it’s so easy to get lost in the weeds when we’re talking about it.
Thirty-Three
Anime is made up of a lot of cheats. In Speed Racer, cars shifted back and forth laterally. In Space Battleship Yamato, the star cruisers rose and fell through the cosmos in rigid straight lines. Often, the camera pans over a still image, with sound effects added in the background to imply the liveliness of a scene. Long dialogue sequences are intercut with seemingly random glimpses of the environment. Characters shift straight into frame with exaggerated expressions and wild background images.
These shortcuts appeared throughout cartoons well into the ’90s. Consider how Sailor Moon never flows into a new expression, but rather shifts between. Or how Spike Spiegel is hidden by his hair when he speaks. Or how, in so many of these shows, the characters’ lips never form sounds but kind of jerk up and down.
This is because cel animation is an inherently imperfect method. When animators lay too many images over each other, the bottommost layer, which receives the least amount of light, appears fuzzy on camera. The shortcuts sometimes create glaring and rigid and stiff actions. Smudges might appear within the frame. Despite the assured hands and practiced movements, there are invariably variations in the line. The camera itself can only offer a limited range of motion. Paint quirks might appear for a fraction of a second. And if one element is off by a fraction of an inch, the whole thing looks wonky.
Also because these are handdrawn, different animation directors take their own approach to model sheets. Shinji looks similar between episodes, but sometimes, he might be somewhat chonkier. Or Rei Ayemani’s body may be drawn in with a more lustful intention here and then a pitying sadness there.
On paper this might sound like a fundamental disadvantage, a crippling and damning set of shortcomings, but even the cheapest, most rapidly produced traditional animation holds up stronger than 3D animation from five years ago.
Thirty-Four
I have no idea how much of Neon Genesis Evangelion Hideaki Anno planned out when he started the series, not to mention how much he told Shirō Sagisu beforehand. Nonetheless, the themes for our adolescent pilots do well to map out where the series takes them. Whether it be how far Asuka falls by the end of End of Evangelion to Shinki, so desperate to be left alone and ignored, finally has to stand alone.
Sagisu recalls the same genre for Shinji and Asuka’s scores: the Western. It’s no secret Japanese filmmakers were obsessed with American Westerns, replacing six-shooters with samurai swords (just like it’s no secret American filmmakers eventually replaced samurai swords with lightsabers), a tradition that became so ingrained in their pop culture it spread like long tendrils.
Asuka’s theme has swagger and grit, a bright exterior with a twangy guitar and shuffling beat. The fiddle that carried the melody clips away, dominating and overpowering. It’s played a step lower, flatter, than the rest of the arrangement, almost like it could fall apart from the music at any moment. It’s full of flourish and shows off its talents, and unless you’re looking for it, the piece seems like it has it all together.
“I, Shinji” borrows more from the Morrisone spaghetti Western. A muted horn. An aged piano. The orchestra harmonizes in triplets. You can feel it attempting to charge up, gear itself up, pulling itself together for that final moment, gaining more confidence as more instruments enter. The muted horn melody gets absorbed by the rest of the orchestra near the end, but it does so willingly, all too happy to disappear and become something else entirely.
Continued belowWhile much of Shinji and Asuka’s characterizations are hidden in the music, Sagisu performs a feat of misdirection when it comes to Misato and Ritsuko. “Misato’s” a pop song, chapter, sunny, something you could snap your finger with or dance to, somewhat messy but overall fun. “Ritsuko” has a power ballad energy, the piano casually shifting between chords, breezy, easy, knowing exactly where it’s going and in no rush to get there. Both these themes never change or shift, act as almost a distraction and relief from everything else in their environment.
Mixed up in all this, somewhere in-between the grandiose declarations of Shinji and Asuka and the repetitive sensibilities from Misato and Ritsuko, sits Rei. Well, both Reis since, spoiler, we eventually learn Rei is a clone and several versions of her have been running around this whole time.
For “Rei I,” Sagisu uses a mysterious solo piano, with quiet strings cutting through the melody, muted horns offering texture in the background. The music is simultaneously desperate and terrified, but never allows those emotions to push pas the surface until they’re finally subdued and dismissed. “Rei II” maintains the same melody, but the piano has been replaced with strings, although it continues to strike chords buried somewhere in the mix, a reminder of what it once was while it’s shifted into something else.
Netflix uses Rei’s theme for their end credit music, suggesting more revelations to come. It might not carry the same weight as the various renditions of “Fly Me to the Moon,” but it’s not inappropriate.
Evangelion’s score carries so much weight and power it serves as a key to our understanding of the series. That and Sagisu’s score slaps.
Of course, we haven’t made it to the most recognizable parts of the soundtrack, the opening song, one of the most famous anime openers of all time, and the closing numbers. All this means is that we’re just going to have to continue this later.
Thirty-Five
Without a doubt, “A Cruel Angel’s Thesis” ranks among the most recognizable, most famous, and most cited opening themes in anime. A J-pop retro funk throwback, the song fuckin slaps, with its fast tempo and decorative brass section. No wonder it’s such a function of karaoke performances.
We could talk about how the song in no way sets up the mood of Neon Genesis Evangelion, although the conflicting tones of an upbeat pop number, with its call to actions lyrics sung by Yoko Takahashi, and a depression-fueled psychological dive into the apocalypse are all oh so Eva. Or we could talk about how Hideaki Anno wanted to use a piece of symphonic music for the opening theme and despite how the producers gave him full creative control of Evangelion, they intervened here. Or we could talk about how the song has spread through the culture and become ubiquitous with anime, that it may be responsible for the Trent of the theme music not matching the production. Or we could even break down the notes and chord progressions and figure out how the song matches the show’s mood, actually.
But you already know all that.
Instead, I want to look at the sad story of Neko Oikawa, who wrote the lyrics for “A Cruel Angel’s Thesis,” and how she was scammed out of almost her entire fortune.
Neko Oikawa never thought the Evangelion job would have such an impact on her. The assignment came from the show’s producers who needed something to market the show. She skimmed the proposal and watched the unfinished first two episodes. She put the lyrics together in two hours.
After the show found success, Oikawa also found herself flush with royalty checks. “A Cruel Angel’s Thesis” climbed the Japanese charts and Oikawa discovered she suddenly had the opportunity to travel. “I was so detached from my regular life in Japan,” she said in an interview with Geki Rare-son wo Tsuretekia, which I’ve sourced through Anime News Network for this story. “So I thought I’d try out a different meal.”
Oikawa ended up in Turkey, where she met a young man almost 20 years younger than her. They didn’t speak the same language and had no real ability to communicate. She dismissed him as a child. Yet Neko Oikawa liked Turkey and made subsequent visits. It was during one of those later visits the young man confessed he was in love with her, that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Continued below“He was an interesting guy,” Oikawa said.
So they started a long distance relationship. Late night phone calls. The usual love letters strained by the language gap. The young man wanted to see Oikawa more often, but, due to her work, it was rare she could often get away. Therefore, Oikawa invited the young man to come to her in Japan. She fronted the fee for his passport, almost six hundred thousand yen, or, more or less $6000.
Soon, they constantly traveled back and forth between Turkey and Japan. Oikawa paid for more of the young man’s bills, on behalf of his shop, on behalf of his family. Her friends tried to take her to the side and warn her the boy was no good. She shrugged them off and said, “Even if I am being scammed, all I’m losing in money.”
They eventually got married. The young man moved to Japan and started making more financial demands on her. Oikawa founded business pursuits, most of which amounted to nothing. She bought him fancy cars and big houses and inadvertently gifts for the girlfriends he accumulated. Oikawa did see these demands were getting ridiculous, but by that time, they had gone so far and she had already spent so much, she had no idea how to get out.
The young man got it into his head that he wanted to build a hotel in Turkey, in a cave. This project would cost around 74 million yen, or $74,000. This on top of the cumulative 10 million yen she had already spent. Like always, Oikawa handed him the money. Before construction could begin, the young man asked Oikawa for a divorce. She was left with hardly any money in her account, waiting for the next batch of royalty checks to clear.
“He seemed to be under the impression that I would keep helping him,” Oikawa said. “But after we divorced, his problems weren’t my business. When I told him so, he called me a traitor.”
The whole ordeal chipped away at her finances and quality of life, but she got out and she started to rebuild.
Oikawa claims her ex-husband still calls from time to time to ask for more money. She shrugs it off. “He’s a vain sort of person who only gets happy when people make a fuss over him,” she says.
To this day, Neko Oikawa claims she hasn’t watched Evangelion in its entirety. “A Cruel Angel’s Thesis” was a job for her, one she moved on from years previously, one that helped her, hindered her, and brought her from the brink.
This is where we stand. Now we can continue onward.
