Let’s get this out of the way: I’m a nerd. I grew up playing video games after school and watching Saturday morning cartoons like it was my religion. References to both still litter my room, whether it’s the Digimon goggles on my desk or the Pokemon badges on my backpack. There’s something so free about visiting these worlds. They’re similar to ours, yet so entirely different at the same time. For me, they contain a magical mix of nostalgia and escape. Anyway, that’s a post for another day.
So what’s the story behind the Elevator Scene? Asuka Langley (right), is introduced to us as a child genius, praised for her brilliance and deft in piloting mech suits. However, through the arc of the show, she is forced to confront the abusive relationship she had with her now dead mother. As a result, her ability to control the mechs falters and she falls behind her once inferior peers. Asuka, who prides herself on her superiority, crumbles under these new circumstances. She begins to lash out at her peers, most of all Rey Ayanami (left). All of Asuka’s frustrations, her anger, her shame, are projected onto Rey. All this leads us to the infamous Elevator Scene. Fifty-three seconds of two people riding an elevator. No music, no camera changes, not even the flickering lights of floors gone by or shifts in gaze or posture. It is simply fifty-three seconds of deafening silence.
For those unfamiliar, Neon Genesis Evangelion is an iconic Japanese animation, considered by many to be among their favourite series of all time. What began as a fairly typical “mech-suits fight off alien invasion” show evolved into a dark exploration of consciousness and the human condition. However, then novice director Hideaki Anno was battling depression and, pressured with a time crunch to meet production schedules, left Evangelion rough around the edges to say the least. Despite its continued popularity, many criticize it for inconsistencies in pacing, story, and characterization. In a sense, the Elevator Scene is the perfect representation for the show’s short-comings. When you start to think about it, it doesn’t quite make sense, and the more you think about further down the rabbit hole you fall.
Here’s the thing though. I actually like it. In fact, I think it’s a very intentional choice. Anno, who enjoys dramatic scores and tight close ups throughout the show, chooses to forgo both in this moment. Instead, he locks the camera into a flat shot and offers only the slow rumbling of the elevator. The stoic, frozen expressions of the characters expresses the real tension between the two. For me at least, this kind of story-telling really works. There’s something to be said for allowing the audience to experience the world just as the characters do. To truly feel the tension and uncomfortableness the characters do.
Of course, there’s a right and wrong way to do this. For example, the first eight episodes of season 2 in the Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya (2006) are actually a loop of the same episode, eight times. Imagine the writers wrote one full episode with options for jokes ABCDE and character designs 12345. Instead of reducing it to one episode with ABC and 125, they created eight episodes, each of which is just some permutation of the original five letters and numbers, often overlapping in both. This was supposedly meant to make the audience experience the same repetition as the protagonist who, spoiler, was caught in a time loop. Instead it became a massive turn off for weekly viewers who were excited for a new season and instead endured week after week of the same thing. “The Endless Eight” was incredibly infuriating for viewers and arguably one of the contributing factor to the show’s downfall. I don’t think there’s much argument to be made for why this would work.
Now, I want to offer you the chance to make your own decision: the pie-eating scene from Casey Affleck’s A Ghost Story (2017). In scene, Rooney Mara returns from the funeral of her lover to find a pie, left on the kitchen counter. In a moment of complete and utter heartbreak, she unwraps the pie, sinks to the kitchen floor and proceeds to eat as much of the pie as she can stomach until she sprints off to vomit in the toilet.
In a sense, it’s very similar to the Elevator Scene. Both go uncut and without accompanying music or dialogue. They allow the audience to focus solely on the moment. I think by now you can gather my opinion. Personally, I love it. We’re so used to shitty spelled out writing. “Oh Mom, I’m so sad because he’s gone.” Bullshit. Heartache is illogical. It doesn’t always reach out for comfort or seek the help it needs. Sometimes it just wants to eat pie and try to fill a void that truly can’t be. It’s like every grade school English teacher ever has always said: “show don’t tell.”
Note: I’m not sure how much of this type of writing I’ll do. It takes a lot longer to do research and flush out my ideas, plus there’s about a million YouTubers and Editorial Columnists who do it better. At the moment I’m a big fan of Patrick (H) Willems and Nerdwriter to name a few. But hey, writing is writing.
Fun(?) Fact: Takotsubo cardiomyopathy or Broken Heart Syndrome, occurs when the death of a loved one causes such emotional stress that the muscles in the heart weaken leading to acute heart failure. In other words, your heart can literally be break. Isn’t that… heartbreaking?
Quote: “All the world needs is me. I’ve got my values so you can keep yours, alright?” — Neku Sakuraba, The World Ends with You (2007)
