The primary plot—if you can call it that—revolves around two members of a biker gang, Kaneda and Tetsuo, who run rampant on the streets of dystopic, post-apocalyptic Neo-Tokyo. Neo-Tokyo borrows heavily from Ridley Scott’s vision of LA in Blade Runner (1982), with magnificent sky scrapers and neon rising far above the seedy underbelly of a city in chaos. Neo-Tokyo is run by corrupt politicians, and is the subject of terrorist attacks from groups claiming to be fighting against the inequality and poverty caused by “tax reform.” The only thing maintaining a semblance of order in Neo-Tokyo is the military, led by Colonel Shikishima, a figure who clearly exhibits the militaristic traits of pre-World War II Japan. The only sign of spiritual life in the city is provided by a cult which claims the current order will be destroyed by the re-appearance of a messiah-like figure named “Akira.” Tetsuo gets involved in an accident when a bizarre blue-skinned, withered child appears, and is swept away by the military along with the child. Tetsuo is sent to a military hospital where some strange, inactive psychic powers are awoken by medical experiments. He meets two other blue-skinned children who also have psychic powers. These children are analogous to the pre-cog characters in the Phillip Dick short story adopted by Steven Spielberg in Minority Report (2002). Tetsuo uses his new power to escape from the hospital and goes on a bloody, gory rampage through neo-Tokyo, acting out of old resentment against Kaneda, to whom he always played second-fiddle in the gang. Kaneda along with the Colonel, the three pre-cog children, and a female terrorist name Kai try to stop Tetsuo before he awakens Akira and destroys Neo-Tokyo. The ending has to be seen to be believed.

Akira was long ago elevated to cult status in the US, and is considered by many to be responsible for propelling anime to its current status within the states. This movie represented a radical stylistic and thematic departure from Speed Racer (1967-68) and Astroboy (1963), cartoonish television shows that were Americans’ only experience with anime up to that point. What guaranteed Akira’s popularity was its kinetic—often violent and bloody—energy, its mind-bending plot, dark atmosphere, fluid animation, and its willingness to tackle metaphysical issues. And it doesn’t hurt that some surrealistic scenes seem pulled straight out of a Dali painting. (One thing to keep mind when taking in this enormous display is that it was all created using hand-drawn animation.)

The film’s amazing visuals set the stage for some theologically troubling ideas. Ôtomo’s story suggests that a certain amount of mystical energy and knowledge, genetically hard-wired into every living being at conception, can be unleashed in the form of great power with the help of science. Thus the experiments that lead to Tetsuo’s becoming a psychic monster and the creation of Akira, attempts to harness “the power of god.” I was reminded of Dune, where the Bene Gesserit created the Kwisatz Haderach through selective breeding. Such Gnostic-type theology is very unnerving to someone raised in a Catholic tradition, though I understand that the Japanese see nature and divinity as much more tightly integrated than do those of us raised in the West. Another philosophical suggestion Ôtomo makes is that history is cyclical, periods of renewal following periods of construction in a never-ending dance of birth and death that spins round and round without actually gaining any ground. Once again, such a view of history is very different from the linear model of history traditionally adopted in the Judeo-Christian West. Ôtomo seems most concerned, however, about convincing his audience that scientific progress can lead to disastrous consequences when scientists do not consider the ethical impact of their studies. The result of such a moral lapse tends to be wanton destruction. Of course, this suspicion of science is seared into the Japanese psyche from the dropping of the atomic bombs on Japan. Ôtomo argues that the only way to avoid the destructive consequences of technological advancement is to retain a child-like innocence. Ôtomo seems to subscribe to the 60s statement about not trusting anybody over 30.

Does Akira deserve its place as a cult classic? Yes. This is one of the most original animation films in history. Did I find this movie an emotionally pleasing experience? No. My reactions to Akira is analogous to how I feel about modern art. With its kinetic energy and surreal images Akira can be considered a piece of modern art on film. The last time I was back in my hometown in the New York metro area, my mom and I went to the recently re-opened Museum of Modern Art (MOMA). As I walked around the galleries, on an intellectual level I could understand why the pieces displayed were important, how they represented feelings of angst in a world ravaged by two world wars, the elevation of materialism over the spiritual, the subconscious over the rational and how they represented a break with the past. But try as I would, I could not connect to these pieces—nor Akira—on an emotional level. Call me reactionary, but when I experience the fine arts I want to be uplifted or be part of the world envisioned in the art. The romanticism and nostalgic Victorian atmosphere of Otomo’s Steamboy does that for me, but the violent tormented Neo-Tokyo does not. There is enough angst in today’s fast-paced world without having to experience it again in the fine arts.

written by Michael Kim