Settling In:

Andrei Rublev and Kiki's Delivery Service

Viewed October 2, 1999 on video

For credits and other information on Andrei Rublev, click here

For credits and other information on Kiki's Delivery Service, click here

Since my return home I've been reserving videos from the Peninsula Library System Video Center, the same service I used to watch hundreds of movies as a teenager at the rate of three or four a weekend, all for free (one merely has to reserve the date for the video's delivery to one's local library -- the new titles are naturally high in demand and difficult to book in the weeks following their release).  Times have changed since those days of carefree youth and potential -- since I now work for a living I can only fit in two videos over the weekend, and they now charge a whopping 50 cents per video.  These days I've been rummaging through the list, trying to find those movies that piqued my interest in random articles or conversations over the last couple of years.  I reserved Kiki's Delivery Service after reading Roger Ebert's advance praise of the upcoming Princess Mononoke; both films are done by the Japanese animation master Hayao Miyazaki.  I don't know where I'd heard of Tarkovsky or Andrei Rublev, but the name and title stuck in my head for some reason as a must-see.  Much in the same way as many events in my random, passive life, the reservation dates of these two videos fell together by chance. There can't be two films any more different in background or technique than these two, but upon viewing them together, however, I couldn't help thinking of them as a pair, whose shared theme of discovering a role in which to contribute to society has held fast to my conscience ever since.  

Watching these movies I also discovered the importance of this shared theme to me, of finding a role in which to fit into society, and having it facilitate one's process of self-realization.  I can trace this role in half of the movies I've seen in the last two months, as well as in some of my favorite films, Taxi Driver, Performance, and Tokyo Story to name a few.  Perhaps this is a bit indicative of what concerns me; or worse, of how limiting my appreciation can be of any given movie for what varied ideas and joys it has to offer.  I may address this later on, but for now I think it worthwhile to examine thoroughly what I did take from both films.

The title characters of both films struggle through their respective stories with their ability to fulfill the role they've lived and trained for their whole lives.  Rublev is an iconographer of Medieval Rusia, who wonders what use his art has through one outrageous episode after another of chaos, death and madness.  Kiki is an adolescent witch who leaves home to find a place where she can put her special skills to some service.  The town where she lands her broomstick is an idealized seaside hamlet with cobbled streets and surrounding green woodlands.  Everyone seems to know each other and regard each other with small-town kindness.  This interconnectedness is a world away from the fragmented series of torments that inflict Rublev with doubt and depression.  

Nonetheless, Kiki is often beset with anxiety over finding a place to fit into her chosen close-knit community.  She takes up with a young family who runs a bakery and in exchange for room and board delivers bread on her broomstick.  As she settles into her routine she becomes intrigued with a young boy who dreams of flying.  Despite an incident between them that incites feelings of betrayal and rejection by the community, she rescues the boy from a perilous situation involving a magnificently drawn dirigible.  In rescuing the boy, her inner talents emerge fully and she assumes her role as a contributing member of the town.

Another boy with grandiose ambitions is also what brings Andrei Rublev out of his depressed vow of silence.  The boy is the son of a murdered bell-founder who attempts to forge a new bell of Kiev to replace the one destroyed when the city was sacked.  This sequence, and its stunning, musical climax is patiently, beautifully realized; the boy's breathless confession at the end is heartbreaking.  Despite their widely different narrative paths, both films end on a similar note of triumph, invention and human connection.

Both films are breathtaking visions by accomplished masters, though again in opposite ways. Tarkovsky has a sweeping, overwhelming scope, with shockingly original scenes: a witches sabbath, a prolonged sacking of a town, a bloody ambush in a forest.  The hopeless despair and chaos of such material is sublimated by technical execution that is almost musical: I can't think of a film with so much beautifully choreography of people, sets and camera.  Single shots extend for minutes at a time, with the camera sweeping over people frantically running from warriors charging on horseback.  Miyazaki is far more subtle in his artistry, by simply filling in dozens of realistic details that make hyperactive Disney movies seem like, well, cartoons compared to the rich world he has created.  The way smoke wafts from a log, or the look of rustling leaves are subdued and thus evoke a world where real people may actually live.  

I should point out that my appreciation of both films is probably impaired not only by language barriers but by the limited scope of video.  The version of Andrei Rublev I saw was letterboxed, but this format only further shrunk the scope of Tarkovsky's vision; it was also copied from a rather poor print.  As a result, I wasn't swept away by it, and my fondness for it grows largely from the idea of such a film rather than the actual experience of watching it.  Having said this, I really think all three hours of this film deserves to be seen on a big screen.  As for Kiki, I've heard accounts from those who've seen the original version with subtitles that the dubbed version by Disney trounces all over the quiet beauty of the original, despite the involvement of A-list talents such as Kirsten Dunst and Phil Hartman.  Added sound effects clutter the soundtrack and the characters sound a little too American to be enjoyed.  Being conscious of Kiki's age, Disney changed a scene where she asks for coffee to a request for hot chocolate.  We then see her put cream and sugar into her "hot chocolate."  Which way makes more sense?

Getting back to my experience of viewing, there's something to be said about finding a common central theme in two movies from different countries and genres that happens to be a theme that's been heavy on my mind these days.  So much for the idea that being globally conscious expands one's mind: the value I take from these films is self-reflexive; I see what I want to see.  However, I make the appeal that my self-absorption, somewhat Felliniesque, projects a self-image that can only be perceived by reflection against the mirror of society.  The idea of finding a role in which to make oneself known is one with which constantly spins my mental wheels and drives my ego.  I think my grandfather and my father, restless agents busily trying to do something they thought was important in the eyes of others, were possessed by these issues too.  My family's self-negating regard for their public achievements has merely disguised their pride, just as Kiki's earnest will to please is laden with insecurity, and Andrei's contempt for his world is commingled with despair at his own uselessness

I share images of both figures in my own bouts with my self-image.  Like Andrei, but less frequently and with less disdain, I can see the futility of the world and thus the futility of feeling self-worth through social contribution.  Kiki, inhabiting a far more humanist world (and thus reminiscent of East Asian societies where the needs of people are of more immediate concern than ideas of transcendence), never displays this level of existential angst that Andrei -- and I, occasionally -- struggle with.  However, my general, daily anxieties over wanting to prove myself and gain social acceptance more closely resemble Kiki. 

Perhaps Kiki has less in common with Andrei Rublev than with the young bell maker who inspires him to resume his art.  Both Kiki and the bell-maker make their achievement and establish themselves as mature artisans by trusting their own instincts and intentions over their dependence on craft.  Neither of them their families around to guide them, though in Kiki's case it's intriguing to see how many different types of women -- a sister, mother, and grandmother figure -- nurture her along the way; her sole enemies are other girls her age.  During her period of depression, her closest friend, her cat Jiji (spoken by Phil Hartman with a smugness that is Disneyesque but still entertaining) is unable to speak with her; in losing her witch powers, she has no choice but to go to the community of humans for support.  In a Zen-like paradox, to become a fully mature witch, she must temporarily abandon her dependence on her witch identity and skills develop her emotions and strengths as a human.  The bell-maker is working with no plans left behind by his late father; he accomplishes his task purely out of memory and vision.  Through mental and emotional growth, they become larger than the roles they have assumed, which allows them to realize their aspirations.  

Although my narrow-scoped appraisal may be doing these films a disservice, I think I can be happy to report that I really got something out of them together, that these films helped me devise and shape some ideas I have about my life during a crucial time of uncertainty.  That's a lot to receive given that I had no knowledge of either film other than some printed words that flashed by me at some point in the recent past saying how great they were.  In a way that is no different than when I was memorizing Bible verses in junior high, not really understanding the "thou"s and "whatsoever"s but having faith that they were doing me good.  In an existence that swings between Andrei Rublev's fragmentation and Kiki's overconnected-ness, I've managed to nurture some thoughts that can help me figure out where my life is going, and how to get there.

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