Tezuka's splash pages

Out of all the comics we have read, Osama Tezuka's The mysterious underground men is my favorite. As an art history minor, I never thought myself to be particularly interested in Japanese artwork and for that reason, I did not expect to enjoy Tezuka's work as much as I did. Nevertheless, one of the most engaging components of Tezuka's work arose from his adept artistic content, which I found particularly effective in the comic-book setting. His use of splash pages, which oftentimes bled from one page to the next, was especially poignant and effective. After reading Tezuka's Afterword (1982), I found that these pages, most importantly, achieved the comic writer's intention to create "Philosophical depth at the level of content" (iv). For example, the splash page spread across pages 98 and 99, are organized (or unorganized) to elicit the chaos of a brawl; the audience interacts with the pages as we would interact with a brawl. In another example, the majority of the splash page spread across pages 138 and 139, consists of negative space; this manipulation of space contextualizes the story in a broader scope, thus emphasizing the vastness of the world and the smallness of humanity and its inventions. Many of Tezuka's other splash pages evoke similarly profound philosophical subjects, which allow Tezuka to challenge the traditional framework of children's comics.

Tezuka's Fresh Perspective

The Mysterious Underground Men was probably one of my most enjoyable reads, due to its stark contrast in plot, quality of art and movement compared to our previous, more archetypal readings. The art is beautiful and the panels satisfyingly varied. I am reminded of Little Nemo in Slumberland and feel like I’ve entered a surreal dream sequence.  The opening panels are full, dynamic splash pages that catch the reader’s eye from the very beginning. However, contextually, I am at a loss. This plot and idea seems to be so removed from reality that I have no choice but to critique it with an outside view. No longer are heroes above us, but enemies are in the Earth, as a young boy attempts to create a train path through the middle of the Earth’s core. This time, I don’t see the 60’s influence of superheroes obeying police, beating up thugs and leaping through cities. Instead, the main character is a small boy, an older man, and a genetically engineered rabbit who travel to the underworld. In storytelling, it is a rich narrative. It is fantastical and pleasing to the eye with its aesthetic. It is iconic and unique, similar to how Superman stunned audiences as the first American hero.

The more I began to read it, the more I saw it fitting as a hero and the quest. Similar to what I saw in The Adventures of Tintin. I began comparing its likeness and continuity to that of Tintin, where a baby-faced teenager travels with his companion across the world and saves the day in the end of each issue. However, some elements were starkly different from the way Americans or Europeans convey elements of storytelling or pictorial information. Icons appear to be different and contextual references are lost. This perhaps, is the secret of the manga. It is a different style of storytelling. I wondered if the rabbit had a special significance to Japanese culture, or why a grandfather was chosen as the guardian figure for little John. The name choices such as Ham Egg seemed a bit confusing, but probably a result of Japanese to English translations. Mimio, the animal 'companion' becomes a dynamic and essential character to the story. Reading the very beginning of Tezuka's work, the development of manga had me relieved at the refreshing twists. 

Tezuka and the Influence of Film

As several people have noted, The Mysterious Underground Men significantly advances the use of splash pages and perspectival space beyond the other comics we have thus far considered. Though obviously it is problematic territory to consider film a kind of sped-up comic book or comic books to be slowed-down film, I nevertheless see certain interesting parallels between Tezuka's use of pace and panel and the visual language of film.

Structurally, the book has a lot in common with a film, or perhaps even with a TV drama. A list of characters almost like opening credits precedes the story, which opens with a self-contained episode introducing Little John. I see this as mimicking the 'cold open' format of TV shows. Throughout the story, the chapter divisions struck me as being quite similar to old TV serials like Commando Cody or the like, in that the chapters often segued into one another visually and narratively. There would be no apparent division between the two of them except for a change of scene -again a likeness to film- with the inclusion of text woven seamlessly into the image. (Sometimes the text that introduces the next chapter comes in the form of a newspaper headline, which of course alludes to the old 'spinning newspaper'method of film exposition.) In that way, the chapters seemed to follow the stylized cliffhanger format of TV episode; the viewer is intended to pick up the story in the same place, narratively if not spatially, and continue the episode.

The structure is far from the only thing that The Mysterious Underground Men has in common with film. Visually, the two overlap in their treatment of motion, pace, and perspective. Several of the splash pages, such as 2-3 or 98-99 have a self-contained motion that spills across the pages in the comic equivalent of a pan: the panels are trying to keep up with the action and consequently push their way out across the pages. The panels in page 72 use height in the same way that an upward pan or tilt would use motion to emphasize the relative placement of two objects separated by intervening space. By contrast, some of Tezuka's artwork freezes the motion in order to emphasize location or change the narrative pace. Page 74 in particular achieves both of these effects by a comic 'long shot' wherein we watch from a fixed perspective the gradual progression of Little John and Mimio down a hall. Their cautious movement is emphasized by how little they appear to move and the hall is imbued with immensity at the same time. Other panels, such as the first panel of the door on page 9 and the 'one hour later' panel on page 117 seem to have parallels with the cinematic 'pillow shot,' an interlude which neither drives the scene nor establishes a new setting. Whereas some of the earlier comics we've examined use the same size and shape of panel to tell their stories, the variation in Tezuka's storytelling makes use of the same innate sense of visual and narrative connection that filmmakers draw on when choosing their shots.

Something New

I read this comic backwards for an alarmingly long time. I thought it was some surreal, severed story that would straighten itself out. This confusion helped me focus on the images more, and I found myself transfixed on the exquisite use of color – images made solely of black, grey, white, and a subtle orange.

After finally finding my footing I whizzed through the comic. This was something new – different types of transitions, use of space, pace, and image. My favorite fragments of the comic are pages 7-9. As the father passes away, the panel shrinks on the page, symbolizing a sense of desperation and emptiness. On page 8, the page’s negative space dominates the eye. This is heavily contrasted with page 9: a single panel made of a large, imposing door titled “surgery room.” I literally enter into the surgery room as I flip the page. This is an ingenious transition and beautifully juxtaposes the panels around it. Fittingly, the comic ends with us exiting another door, stepping away from a fading Mimio.

Mimio’s death surprised me. I was so accustomed to Superman ceaselessly saving the day and restoring peace. Or Tintin perfectly fending off the endless swarm of thugs, solving whatever he needed to solve. The comics we’ve read so far this year have established a model of storylines that end in perfect harmony. Although this is a nice way to end an adventure, it gets old and uninteresting. This is the first narrative that ended in tears, and the first comic we read that I genuinely wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. I had questions at the end, which for the first time, I really wanted answers to.

Mimio, The Frankenstein Bunny

While reading The Mysterious Underground Men, I could not help but compare Mimio, the bunny to Frankenstein’s monster (Fm). After all, the two characters share a similar origin story. Most, if not all, are familiar with the story of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster through the various adaptations of the original novel. I, myself have not had the pleasure of reading the original story, but I assume the process in which life is given to the inanimate body of the monster has been fairly consistent. Through unspecified science, Dr. Frankenstein imparts life to his creation, the 8-foot grotesque humanoid monster. A key element in the mythology of Frankenstein’s monster is the striking of electricity to spark life onto the non-living flesh, giving him consciousness. Mimio on the other hand is introduced as a “most strange rabbit” that was born in Notre University. A team of scientists decide to modify Mimio and turn him more humanlike by also using unspecified science. The only specific detail regarding Mimio’s process of metamorphosis is that electrification will make him intelligent. It seems curious that in both characters, electricity is a vital step in their creation. Other key similarities between Mimio and Frankenstein’s monster includes their remarkable intelligence and articulate method of speaking. Furthermore, when first seen by the public, both characters were regarded as monsters and are terrified of them. Unfortunately, this is where their similarities end as Frankenstein’s monster begins committing horrid acts such as murder while Mimio helps defend humanity against the evolved termites. It is possible that Osamu Tezuka was influenced by Mary Shelley, which explains the similarities between their two characters. 

Tezuka's Doors

For me, the two most compelling pages of Tezuka's The Mysterious Underground Men were the splash pages on pgs 9 and 148 featuring doors. The first page appears directly before the character of Mimio is introduced and the second is featured as Mimio dies. I believe that the first door serves as a visual metaphor that allows the reader to enter into the story while the second door, which appears to be closing, ushers the reader out. The first door completely transitions the story from what I would consider the prologue (the death of Young John's Father) to the beginning of the body of the plot. The second door provides a jarring shift of perspective from the bedside of Mimio to outside the room watching John say his goodbye. The shift reminds the reader of his or her isolation from the characters to which he or she has become attached. This effect amplifies the readers emotional response to the death of a loved character.

The Elementary Science Side of Manga

        When reading the early pages of Tezuka, I was surprised by the amount of scientific knowledge displayed in the story. Not that any of this knowledge couldn't be found within a ten second google search, but the decision by Tezuka to employ this knowledge, such as different fossils of animals and the corresponding dates of when they lived, seemed like a bit of an odd choice. The science is slightly out of place, especially on page 42, which I just referred to and which we talked about in class today. Tezuka isn't helping it blend with the other pages any better by completely changing the art style of this page. It's as though, in the middle of the story, the reader has stumbled upon an exhibit at a children's natural history museum, and then the story continues after that as if nothing had happened. In fact, I would argue that Tezuka didn't need to even include that page, as he already gave out some fossil knowledge the page before, with identification of the ammonite fossil (41).

        The paragraph above represents quite a cynical view of the science-in-comics debate. However, it's not truly representative of how I feel about these pages of Tezuka, because I actually really appreciate them. He knew that the main audience for his comics would be young children/young adults, so why not take the chance to inject some real, tangible knowledge into his pages rather than just having a superhero fly around beating up bad guys (not that there's anything wrong with that). I appreciate Tezuka's awareness, and while the science facts aren't always streamlined into the story or dialogue, the attempt to add some meaningful learning to the comics is a welcome sight.