Silent, significant, still;
A study of Hideaki Anno’s Neon Genesis Evangelion, and its relationship with movement—or rather, lack thereof
Note: this post is a live draft, in order to provide evidence for the ISP mentioned in this post. When it’s all said and done, this post will probably be repackaged and reposted.
Cinema and animation aren’t all that different. Both are audiovisual mediums used to tell stories. Save for the very obvious difference of the added difficulty that comes with manually creating each frame, the two require a lot of the same people and work — an animation requires writers behind the story, storyboard artists behind shot composition and blocking, and a director whose vision guides the whole process, just as a live action film or series does. Even as a live-action filmmaker, I’ve found that there’s so much to learn from animation that applies to my work.
For example, despite current technology pushing cinematography (both in live-action and in animation) toward this concept of a fluid, moving frame, cheap gimbals and cheaper drones rendering once-impossible camera movement effortless, [and new animation techniques alongside advancements in technology facilitating increasingly complex animation,] I’ve found myself often throwing the camera down onto sticks and really considering what’s in front of it. As I’ve grown in my craft, I’ve discovered this appreciation for a frame crafted just as carefully as a painting, one that, while still, has my eyes flying all over the composition for details that only come from the image.
My appreciation for the art of such a frame comes from Hideaki Anno’s Neon Genesis Evangelion, a genre-defining mecha anime from 1995. On the surface, Evangelion is about a life-or-death struggle between humanity and the “Angels,” otherworldly beings hellbent on destroying the the human race…or something like that. At the same time, complex global political tensions, secret organizations bordering on clandestine order, and underlying conspiracy thicken an already-thick plot. Evangelion has no trouble throwing an audience straight into this mess.
As one might imagine, the animation of such a grandiose story on the scale of 26 30-minute episodes might have cost quite a bit back in 1995. During the second half of Evangelion’s three-month run, production studio Gainax began running tight on budget and time. To cut animation costs, the studio utilized techniques considered by some to be incredibly controversial, including stills featuring little to no animation whatsoever. (Eventually, the animation was reduced further into live-action sequences, but that’s beyond the point.)
These shots garnered immense critical reaction — which was justified, of course, seeing as they were often drawn out ad nauseam. Audiences just weren’t looking to watch a thirty-minute animation comprised of one-minute stills. However, it is in these moments that Evangelion really proves its status as the deconstructivist masterpiece people claim it to be. While Evangelion is a series with a massive, larger-than life story, it’s moreso a character study of the individuals inhabiting its world, fighting its struggle, their worries, their desires, their hopes. Instead of seeing laziness and a lack of effort on the studio’s behalf, I see a mark of realism that grounds Evangelion’s fantastical story of mechas-fighting-angels. These long shots are small reminders that the show isn’t about the plot as much as it is about its characters and the meaningful relationships they have with one another.
I’ve realized that real life is comprised more of these quiet, significant, still moments than it is of choreographed, floating grandeur. It’s this brand of realism — the kind that’s extraordinary and carries weight, not just in the detail of the frame, but also in the focus on the human aspect of film as well — that I strive to cultivate in my own work.
