This Isn’t Your Mother’s Mecha:
The Adolescent and Narrative in Neon Genesis Evangelion

    In his book, Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche,  MURAKAMI Haruki relates oral histories of the victims of the 1995 Aum cult sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subways. This book departs from his usual format of surreal and comedic science fiction (although I have to admit, his fiction is delightfully difficult to label) to non-fiction. He claims to do so because he feels the Japanese media too easily categorized the attack into black and white binary oppositions of "‘good’ versus ‘evil’ ‘sanity’ versus ‘madness,’ ‘health’ versus ‘disease.’" [1] Murakami believes that the witnesses were subsumed in this process into one identity of "victim."  His wish to relate the diverse, complicated and sometimes contradictory voices of these people is his answer to the "ego-consuming" identity of the cult who released the gas into the subway lines. How else could something so terrible happen except when an individual's identity is submitted to another's powerful ego. This overwhelming feeling of alienation to his fellow Japanese citizens as a result of this tragedy (heightened by the fact he had lived abroad for many year)  led him to recognize the media's "normalization" of the state of being a victim. His answer is to create multiplicity.

    You may ask yourself at this point, besides the tenuous connection of nationality, what Murakami has to do with the animated series (or anime) I will consider in this paper. Murakami rewrites the narrative of the gas attack beyond a simple binary opposition to delve deeper into the questions – who are we who suffered this attack? Who are we who produced those who attacked? How can we recover from the alienation we feel as a result of this tragedy? What, in other words, is missing from this story that has not been told and can we learn anything from that? He says, "what we need, it seems to me, are words coming from another direction, new words for a new narrative. Another narrative to purify this narrative." [2] For this reason, I’ve picked Murakami’s words to introduce my talk about the anime series, Neon Genesis Evangelion (or Eva for short), which, on the surface, tells a simple story of good versus evil through recognized genre conventions of the mecha (or giant robots). This series, however, weaves a new narrative underneath these conventions – revealing the transparent metaphors they stand for. The more simplistic versions of these genres assume an easier, even heroic transition from child to adult but in Eva, the struggle is much more uncertain -- there is no guarantee of success. For the rest of the paper I will organize the sections as following: First, what are the conventions of this genre? Second, how does this narrative subvert these conventions? Third, what does the unraveling of these conventions do to the authority of the genre? Last, what does it say about the formation of an adult identity, socially and sexually, when these "safe" childhood stories collapse. Significantly, the anime casts the transition from adolescent into adult into apocalyptic metaphors, but in this case, the world is not in peril; it is the self.

    The Genre Conventions of the Mecha: Typically an adolescent male fantasy of power through the technological extension of the powerful, robotic power. It’s a fantasy of control where young men and women blend seamlessly into their robotic selves and battle another monstrous robotic other in order to preserve the earth, their planet, any planet from annihilation. The boys and their robots are usually the last line of defense.

    The 26 episode, Neon Genesis Evangelion, directed and written by ANNO Hideaki and produced by Gainax in 1995, fits well into this convention. The protagonist, IKARI Shinji, is a 14 year old boy, summoned by his father to pilot the mechanized evangelion machines against the monstrous angels who seek to destroy the earth. As Susan Napier notes: "Recounted in this way, Evangelion would seem to adhere to all the most important mecha conventions, a near-future high tech setting, a fast narrative pace, and above all a youthful hero who pilots his robotic machine to victory over an apparently evil and apparently mechanical enemy." [3] Shinji, as well as the other pilots, Rei and Asuka, are selected young for their ability to "syncronize" with their assigned mecha.

    Napier notes, however, that these conventions are subverted even from the beginning– Shinji is reluctant to pilot his eva from the start. "It is as if Shinji were looking into a distorting mirror and is horrified by the self that he finds there." [3] The usually linear narrative is disrupted where the outcome of the first fight is only recounted in eps. 2. [4] The eva’s themselves also do not cohere to typical notions of what a giant robot should look like – shiny and technological or at the very least examples of easily reproducible toys. These robots are lean, the colors dark, the faces, distorted human faces. Even the battles they face suggest something more human, or even animalistic in they way they fight and are used, subsuming the pilot into one. When Shinji and his eva "berserks," his identity is wholly subsumed by the robot. We no longer see him in the cockpit and merely watch the violence from a distance. He and the eva become one, releasing an intense rage directed towards his father, his friends, the girls he is attracted to but cannot connect to. The roar becomes the release of an unarticulated anguish of alienation.
[example of the eva eating the angel in episode 19 -- the eva moves on four legs, grunts like a beast (a lion) and crawlwalks over to the fallen figure of his enemy. Holding the head down, he begins to tear at the creature with his mouth. The onlookers, members of the Nerv organization who are responsible for the creation and maintainence of the evas, look on in horror. One even throws up in his revulsion. We see the eva from a shadowy distance; He looks up at us, his eyes glowing like an animal in the dark. Victory is no longer the clean, unambiguous position in the conventional mecha genre]

    Susan Napier, building off of critic’s Kotani Mari’s observations, problematizes the identity of the eva to say it is also feminized – the eva pilots are immersed in liquid in their cockpits and the environment becomes womblike. The abjected mother stands in opposition to the cold, technical father who makes it completely clear that he summons Shinji out of need not out of love. The eva perhaps replaces Shinji's long-dead mother and at the same time, as I have said previously, his own identity. But the embrace that this "mother-figure" offers is horror.

     The anime, however subversive of this genre's conventions, still proceeds in a linear plot, unraveling the mysteries of who are the angels? What is Shinji's father's real plan behind the x-files' like conspiracy? Will Shinji ever become a hero who accepts his eva and doesn't run away from his responsibilities? All these questions are ultimately answered but in a very unexpected way. The last angel is defeated in battle but it is revealed that the angel represents humanity. The AT fields or "force-fields" that the angels project, signalling them as enemies, is revealed to be a field that every human has to keep others at distance. I want to make clear here that this is not a simple defense mechanism but an inherent boundary that shields the true self from knowability (to itself and to others). Shinji's father's plan is not the defeat of the angels through the eva but the "Instrumentality project" where the boundaries of ego fail, dissolving into one mind.

    One character states that "there is an emptiness in our souls, a fundamental incompleteness. All man's accomplishments stem from the hope of fulfilling it. By pushing all minds into one will fill this void" Although ANNO Hideaki has admitted to being influenced by Jungian psychology, this statement desperately begs a Lacanian reading of the formation of identity. Jacques Lacan (1901-1981), the French psychoanalyst and critic notes that the every person goes through a "mirror stage" as an infant. In this stage, the child looks into a mirror and forms an identity based on recognizing that image. The child then understands that other people become unknowable "others." While this is the key  moment upon which individual identity is created, is it also accompanied with a great sense of loss of that previous, pre-language identity that existed without boundaries. Lacan claims that we then search for something to fill that lack. Shinji's identification with the eva evokes the Lacanian notion of gestalt -- that is, the moment "that unite the I with the statue in which man projects himself, with the phantoms that dominate him, or with the automaton in which in an ambiguous relation, the world of his own making tends to find completion" [5] (735). In essence, Lacan states that once a child goes through the mirror stage and recognizes the "other," then he continually tries to overcome the alienation that is created by that separation. The statue, a phantom, an automaton that attempts to fulfill that lack. In the case of this anime, it is the eva. But that too, is recognized as a failure. The Instrumentality project has the desired goal of "one mind" (or, in Lacanian terms, the pre-language, pre-Mirror Stage identity) wishes to truly erase the separation from the other. But what happens to identity when this occurs?

    To represent the dissolution of these boundaries, the animation breaks down visually. We no longer see the classic animated figures but text intermingles with line drawings, abstract pictures and even real photographs. The genre dismantles itself completely. Susan Napier: "the alienation of the characters, especially that of Shinji, is spectacularly apparent in the puzzling and genuinely subversive final episode, a grand finale in which, bizarrely for a work in the mecha genre, not a single mecha is shown." [6]

    This last episode is titled "The Beast that shouted 'I' at the Heart of the World" tellingly signalling that identity is beast-like (primal) but also has a fierce need for a simpler Cartesian sense of "I." The beginning of the episode slides from bloody and important vignettes from the series to still photos of real, unanimated places, empty of human begins. This suggests that the battle of the ego is not just Shinji's but includes the viewers as well. Text questions flash to the viewers as signals of Shinji's mind: "What do you want?" "What do you desire?" "What do you fear?" "Why do you pilot the eva?" Shinji, as well as the other characters he projects in his mind, answer the questions superficially and are pushed by the demanding questions to further pursue their motives. In this place, they cannot lie to themselves. The central question to Shinji becomes the source of his own identity -- why does he pilot the eva? His answers vary -- to be liked, to be close to others, to win their praise, it's his duty; to save the world. But all these answers are unsatisfactory because he is not close to others; he receives little praise; he loathes piloting the eva and runs from it everytime he can and yet is always compelled to go back to it; and the world is still in danger.

    The animation then slips into simple line drawings until Shinji floats in a white space, free from the eva, free from the other characters. He is told that this is perfect freedom. This, however, doesn't satisfy Shinji because he feels himself fading away without any reference to anything or anyone. His father's voice gives him a restriction -- a straight line that delineates ground from sky.  He can no longer fly but his ego has become anchored. He is told "In the act of observing others, you may recognize yourself -- but this is tempered by the barriers that must exist between yourself and others." Shinji's world slowly rebuilds itself. He has broken down his alienation to discover perhaps a fundamental truth of identity: that difference from others is a key part to it. This separation does not have to be ultimately and devestatingly alienating. Shinji has a choice how to separate himself from others and still have a connection to them. Murakami says "Autonomy and dependency are like light and shade, caught in the pull of each other’s gravity, until, after considerable trial and error, each individual can find his or her own place in the world" [7].

    In the process of reconciling his difference from others, Shinji realizes that piloting the eva is only one such possibility for him. It is just one narrative of his life. He, therefore, rejects the eva as the defining narrative of his life. The perfect freedom of nothingness in eps. 26 becomes a stage for other stories he can create about himself. This give and take about whose narrative/whose life is being lived is summed up well in Murakami's statement:

 Haven’t you offered up some part of your Self to someone (or something), and  taken on a "narrative" in return? Haven’t we entrusted some part of our personality  to some greater System or Order? And if so, has not that System at some stage  demanded of us some kind of "insanity"? Is the narrative you now possess really  and truly your own? Are your dreams really your own dreams? Might not they be  someone else’s visions that could sooner or later turn into nightmares? [8]

     We then return to the eva story line where Shinji realizes he can exist without the eva. And while he still doesn't love himself, he recognizes that he could. At that moment, the scene changes to a blue-green world with Shinji surrounded by the other characters -- including a reunited mother and father, all who applaud Shinji and wish him congratulations on his realization. It's only when he realizes that he is separated from people fundamentally can he finally be accepted by them. His Lacanian crisis has been resolved.

    Of course, Lacan would doubt the validity of this success -- that Shinji can accept his identity in this way since he claims the search for the other takes up our existence, ending only with our deaths and it's a keen, alienating lack that we feel. Even Susan Napier is cautious to call this a happy ending given the overall darkness of the series. However, I would like to give the last words to Murakami:

Now a narrative is a story, not logic, nor ethics, nor philosophy. It is a dream you  keep having, whether you realize it or not. Just as surely as you  breathe, you go  on ceaselessly dreaming your story. And in these stories you wear two faces. You  are simultaneously subject and object. You are the whole and you are a part. You  are real and you are shadow. "Storyteller" and at the same time "character." It is  through such multilayering of roles in our stories that we heal the loneliness of  being an isolated individual in the world. [9]

[2] ibid., 227.

[3] Napier, Susan. Anime: From Akira to Princess Mononoke: Experiencing Contemporary Japanese Animation. New York: Palgrave Macmillen, 2001. 97.

[4] ibid.

[5] Lacan, Jacques. "The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience." In Critical Theory Since 1965. Eds. Hazard Adams and Leroy Searle. Tallahassee: Florida State University Press, 1986. 734-738.

[6] Napier, 101.

[7] Murakami, 230

[8] ibid., 233.

[9] ibid., 231.