Millennium Actress – A Fading Division between Dreams, Reality, and Memories

Sometimes when I watch movies, I have trouble remembering that what’s happening on screen isn’t real. Yes, the story itself is fictional to varying degrees, but the emotions, the drama, the comedy – there’s a distinct human connection to all of these movies that play on the big screen. Animated or live action, film is a unique medium that possesses the quality of storytelling and documenting what’s occurring, played back for us viewers to engage in and experience full throttle. It’s the same reason some people can’t stand horror films, violence, sex, social awkwardness, or any distinct characteristic of certain genres – it becomes too real to see it in playback, regardless of the reality that we occupy; it’s also the same reason why we sometimes live vicariously through the characters that grace the screen, becoming inspired to change, act differently, or even emulate certain characteristics that we admire so much. This second reason is what Satoshi Kon masterfully explores in Millennium Actress, released in 2001. 

If there was ever a film that demonstrated Satoshi Kon’s mastery of depicting dreams in conjunction with reality, I would argue Millennium Actress is one of the best examples in his filmography thus far. Compared to the exuberant and visually astounding sequences of inanity in Paprika and Paranoia Agent, Millennium Actress is more subdued, blurring the distinction between dreams and reality much more subtly and naturally and presenting stronger thematics and questions that result in a much more cohesive and moving story. 

The story focuses around Chiyoko Fujiwara, a retired and reclusive actress who details her life and career to director, Genya Tachibana, and a cameraman, Kyōji Ida. With Tachibana’s insistence and enthusiasm, Chiyoko opens up about her childhood, and the events that led her from the beginnings of a modest child actor to a Japanese film icon before, during, and after the years of WWII. Interestingly, Chiyoko does not directly tell her life as events that actually took place, but through her acting roles that coincided with the different time periods during the release of her films, respectively. Moreover, Genya and Kyōji are often featured in her flashbacks, with Genya prominently taking the roles of her self-sacrificing savior and Kyōji still filming the events with his camera, in normal attire and all. The one thread that holds all these different stories together is Chiyoko’s lifelong quest to find her first love, a young artist she helped hide from the police during the fascist government of 1930s Japan. He leaves her a key to his art supplies, which she keeps for her entire acting career until her very last movie, the point where she immediately retires and distances herself from society for reasons I will not reveal here. 

Millennium Actress, at its core, is a love story, but goes even further in exploring the blending of reality and fiction in films, the voyeuristic function of filming and watching these narratives, and how one may vicariously live through the very roles and characters they act out and watch on the reels of footage. Moreover Kon’s work is a masterful exploration of one’s hopes and dreams perpetuating their motivations and actions in real life, and the psychological effect of events in real life may simultaneously influence the universes of fiction. Most ingeniously, Kon never makes a active point of differentiating between dream and reality, leaving us to ponder about what is actually Chiyoko’s acting role and what is actually happening around her. 

Recurring figures pop up in Chiyoko’s life story, either in the form of acting roles, real life personalities, or both: at times, it’s difficult to tell if what’s happening is a recollection of Chiyoko’s filmography or real life situation, given how the film cuts from one event and film to the next. These cuts are simultaneously abrupt and seamless, creating further ambiguity at times as to whether or not what’s happening to Chiyoko is just a film role or something that actually happened. Chiyoko’s acting rival is simultaneously a maternal authority and jealous colleague; the scar-faced policeman who pursued the young artist in real life frequently comes back as a hard-faced and cruel antagonist; and an old woman near a spinning wheel taunts Chiyoko of her impending doom and suffering, claiming the actress is destined to pursue a love tied to loneliness and despair. These projections of Chiyoko have fictional and reality weight, echoing from her real life acquaintances and psychological troubles that drive her to act so emotionally and effectively in her film roles. In fact, Chiyoko’s first director advises her to act from the heart, to take real life counterparts and incorporate them into the characters she must act out: this sets the stage for the growing and continuous ambiguity of Chiyoko’s life and filmography, and whether or not she ever differentiated between what was happening in real time and on screen. 

This ambiguity is best demonstrated when Chiyoko is thrown into jail and interrogated by the police, only to be released when her true love is captured and proclaims he knows nothing about her; before she can see his face again, the police close the doors on her, locking her out from ever seeing him again. It’s a heartbreaking scene, like watching someone so close to their life dream suddenly having it swiped away from them in an instant of cold cruelty. This scene is one of the more difficult scenes to comprehend: her acting rival is present, condescending and blunt as per usual, and the scar-faced policeman is unkind as seen previously; however, she never sees the artist’s face, leading us to further question whether or not she was actually thrown into jail, acting out a part, or possibly knew what happened to her love but never wanted to admit it consciously. Additionally, Genya and Kyōji are in normal attire, and Genya is unusually uninvolved with what’s happening to Chiyoko in the flashback. 

At first, the cut to this jail scene seems like another jump to one of Chiyoko’s films, but after some time it becomes ambiguous: is what’s happening real or fiction? Or is it simply a emotional recollection of what happened to her in real life? It’s difficult to say what really happened, but the scene presents another question that I found interesting: that is, is there a logical consistency when we recollect and retell our memories and the events that affected us personally? 

Memory is always a difficult thing account for, especially with regards to accuracy. How can we be for sure that the events that happened to us previously actually happened 100%? The answer: we can’t. There are details missed, or mis-remembered, or purposely forgotten for our own psychological sake. Memories cannot be accounted for logically; they can, however, be accounted for emotionally, which is what Kon demonstrates so profoundly and sympathetically when Chiyoko recounts her life and filmography, and the ambiguity in between these two distinctions. 

Like the key she keeps as a torchlight to her first love, Chiyoko’s emotions are what bind together everything that happens in Millennium Actress. The sudden leaps between scenes, the curious blur between fact and fiction – the only thing keep her, Genya, Kyōji and us in the loop is how strongly emotional Chiyoko is about everything that as happened to her, and most strongly her love for a man that she never saw again in her earthly lifetime. And as we peek into and document her memories, there is essentially a voyeuristic aspect that is inherent to all narratives, documentaries, retellings and biographies; that by coming out of reclusion and revealing a bit of herself in the most emotionally honest sense, Chiyoko highlights the voyeuristic quality of human curiosity and our desire to explores lives outside of our own. This is the genius of Satosi Kon’s tragic and beautifully sympathetic film, Millennium Actress. 

*Note: I found out today while writing this that Satoshi Kon suddenly passed away at the age of 47 46 on August 23rd 24th, 2010. I’m shocked and extremely saddened by this news, as he was slowly becoming a favorite director and writer of mine, and I was really looking forward to his upcoming film The Dream Machine. He had a thirteen year career in anime, animating, writing and directing a total of nine films and television series, which include Paprika, Perfect Blue, Tokyo Godfathers, and Paranoia Agent. My greatest condolences go out to him; he was a fine director and visionary who explored the maddening and enlightening aspects of psychology, dreams, and the blur between reality and fiction, and more so created strong female leads and characters consistently in all the works I’ve seen so far. It’s always sad to hear a relatively young and exceptional visionary die so suddenly; I can only hope his work will demonstrate for future generations his ingenuity and originality that made him such a distinctive presence in anime and film. 

A Visual Progression of Millennium Actress and some explanations

Genya and Kyōji within Chiyoko’s recollection, breaking the fourth wall and demonstrating the voyeuristic aspects of filming and narratives, fact or fiction. The fourth wall is frequently broken with Genya’s and Kyōji’s presence, which can be seen in subsequent images…

This sequence is one of the earlier demonstrations of Chiyoko’s real life events blending into her acting roles, given how the scene in the above images transitions abruptly and seamlessly into the scene into the last image…

Genya is frequently Chiyoko’s self-sacrificing persona in her recollections, as demonstrated here. Kyōji is still himself, attire and camera and all.

Genya and Chiyoko acting out the scene in real life, much to Kyōji’s chagrin. 

The scar-faced police officer frequents Chiyoko’s recollections as a cruel and unkind persona. He’s always looking for a man she helped in real life or in film. 

Eiko, Chiyoko’s acting rival, also frequents the recollections as a maternal-like authority who is more worldly, condescending, and jealous of Chiyoko’s youth and naivety. 

The pinnacle scene that really emphasizes the ambiguity between fact and fiction: we’re never quite sure if what happened here is a film role, a real life event, or both. 

The old woman at the spinning wheel recurs as a proselytizing entity that foretells of Chiyoko’s emotional suffering. I wondered if Kon consciously referenced Sleeping Beauty for the spinning motif, or if it has some other literary or symbolic significance. The other likely reference is that to Buddhism, which philosophizes that patterns of humor behavior are like a wheel with eight levels, and to reach enlightenment you must break the wheel and overcome the eight levels of materialistic desires and earthly values. 

One of the best demonstrations of Chiyoko’s projection of Eiko being an extension of her own mother, as the above image transitions suddenly into the below image…

The old woman again, who haunts Chiyoko as potentially the elderly appearance and future of the actress. 

Genya as a young man on set, and as himself in real life. At this point, it becomes obvious that Genya’s projections into Chiyoko’s recollections very much have real life foundations, as we’ll see soon…

The above three images demonstrate Kon’s blurring of reality and memory, and again reiterates how documenting and watching such a personal story is voyeuristic on our part. 

Genya’s recollection, paired up with that of Chiyoko’s, further demonstrates his outside knowledge of Chiyoko’s memories, and what he knows that she doesn’t. The first image is an older Genya looking back at his younger self, as depicted in second image of this pair of screenshots. 

The train incident happens again, which we saw previously in an earlier recollection of Chiyoko’s. Even the framing is distinctly similar (see above images of a younger Chiyoko on a train if you’d like to see the similarities)

The above images are a fantastic sequence that really demonstrate Kon’s mastery of blending memory, fiction and fact into a illogical yet cohesive progression. It’s really quite an extraordinary feat, given how everything is tied together my Chiyoko’s emotional conviction. Genya makes another appearance, this time as an extension of his real emotions for her in real life. 

The real life event where Genya saved Chiyoko from an earthquake accident, thereby establishing his previous projections with an real life foundation as the self-sacrificing savior. 

The recurring old woman that Chiyoko sees, proclaiming her final taunt that drives Chiyoko to retire from acting. 

Genya’s and Chiyoko’s recollections converging into present day, where she remembers him as the young man who saved her from the earthquake accident. 

The last sequence that blurs Chiyoko’s reality and memories into a last farewell, where she believes she’ll continue looking for her love in the next life. This is a sad and beautiful ending to a mesmerizing story, with numerous other thematics I’m sure I’ve yet to explore with subsequent viewings. 

The Grace and Horror of Eternal Life

I’m twelve. But I’ve been twelve for a long time. 

I recently watched “Let the Right One In,” a 2008 Swedish horror film that involves vampires. But this is not your typical vampire lore – not the like the classic “Nosferatu” nor the inexplicable cultural phenomena “Twilight” – for it has hints of despair and sweetness that are strangely nonsexual and exclusive to childhood. The girl, Eli, is a vampire perpetually trapped in the body of a 12-year-old girl; her companion, an older man named Håkan, is presumably her caretaker and harvests pints of blood for her (it is hinted that she does not enjoy a violent effort against her victims). 

She meets 12-year-old boy Oskar, and they form a friendship. What happens throughout the rest of the movie I will let you see for yourself. But what did come out of the viewing was this question: 

If you suddenly discovered you were able to live eternally (but not immortally) and essentially in the same form that you currently are that – if certain physical conditions were met – would not break down, what conditions would lead you to committing suicide or continue living on?

It must be reiterated that under such conditions you would not be immortal – that is, you would not die under normal human conditions but could perish by non-human conditions. For instance, if you suddenly became a vampire, you could theoretically live on forever if you stayed out of the sunlight, drank blood, and so on; failing to meet these non-human conditions will end if your peril and death. Let’s assume your new form is supernatural – not immortal, but not human. 

First there’s the religion aspect. I’m not here to discuss what’s right or wrong, but it’s an important consideration in this hypothetical situation. For instance, if someone who was raised in a religion that deems suicide immoral, if suddenly they find themselves a non-human with living conditions they find insufferable – what then? Does the morality of a human-based religion still apply to the individual? For the token, what if the now supernatural individual becomes shunned by the same religion they were raised up in? Arguably, if their supernatural form is considered blasphemous, the individual is now at a moral dilemma: kill themselves, and they go against the morality of the religion; stay alive, and they go against the acceptability of the same religion. Either way, if the conditions I’ve presented apply, hypothetically a supernatural person is doomed by virtue of the described religion they adhere to.  

Now assuming one’s prior religion does not establish any sort of stigma against suicide – if you were in a position to kill yourself after transforming into a supernatural individual, would you do it? This stems from one’s definition of life and the experiences prior to such a pivotal change. For instance, Eli was twelve years old when she turned into a vampire; with relatively little human life experience up until this point, we can assume that she chose to continue living as a vampire rather than offing herself early, and at the time we see her in “Let the Right One In” she has garnered enough years and experience as a vampire to be ok living as one, regardless of the conditions otherwise discomforting and inconvenient.

On the other hand, one of Eli’s failed victims, Virginia, turns into a vampire, and eventually manages to kill herself in the hospital by asking the residing doctor to let sunlight into the room. Contrasting to Eli’s time of transforming, Virginia’s point of change takes place at a much, much later time in her life where she has garnered enough experience and years to appreciate her life as a human, so to suddenly transform into a supernatural being – one who’s living conditions are strikingly different from the conditions of a human – accepting and coping with such terms is maddening. To live as a vampire would be to abandon her spouse and companions or risk killing them to sustain herself, and it’s a circumstance that drives her to commit suicide (arguably, it would have been much more merciful if Eli had killed Virginia to begin with, but alas how a meal ends interrupted). 

As a supernatural being, are you living with a particular purpose beyond sustaining yourself? Assuming the condition applies, this question boils down to distinguishing two types of supernatural beings: those who take the opportunity of their own existence to engage in some goal, and those who simply maintain their own existence. Presumably, most are more inclined to view the first type in the positive (unless their goals were destructive) and the second type in the negative (unless the self-maintenance does not infringe upon anyone). This also calls into question when one becomes indifferent to their supernatural existence: if they suddenly stopped having a purpose or desire to exist, where do they go from there? 

In second to the above question, are you living at the expense of others? This particular condition is tricky since it calls upon the ethics and guilt of one’s supernatural existence. For one, is it right for one to live off the life of others such as a vampire? Strictly from a biological point of view, yes – this is not unfair. Generally omnivores worldwide, we humans have killed animals to sustain ourselves, so a vampire preying on a human is no different from this practice. To restate, this is strictly a biological argument. The associated guilt and blasphemy of living off another being leaves to be determined by said supernatural individual: if the need to survive is great enough, supposedly this would overcome all barriers of guilt and consciousness. 

However, what if one’s lifespan has been increased by taking others’ lifespans for themselves? This a variation on the idea of one living at the expense of others, though it is a variation that I believe needs consideration since it cannot (or with great difficulty) be argued for from a traditional biological perspective. For instance, in “Fullmetal Alchemist” the main character’s father, Van Hohenheim, is a living philosophers stone: that is, he is able to (theoretically) live forever and accomplish amazing feats of alchemy at a devastating cost – his philosophers stone is derived from the half the souls of ancient civilization Xerxes with over a million individuals, a civilization that he grew up in. His existence is at the expense of his friends, comrades and beloved nation.

Now if the main story of Fullmetal did not exist (and it’s something I’m not going to reveal here for those interested in reading/watching), would it be more ethical for Hohenheim to continue on living and maintaining himself in hopes of discovery, research and possible reversion of the process, or is it best if he deplete his own stone and allow the souls of Xerxes to finally leave and rest in peace? In this case that does not apply to the actual story of Fullmetal, it depends on what greater good he chooses to serve and place his goals upon.  

Then there’s the living condition – is it insufferable or doable, and is the quality of life worth it? This comes down to what the individual wants and values. In asking people some questions I found that this aspect is considered the least, and only when I impressed upon them the idea did they usually reconsider their stance. For instance, I asked my mother what she thought about eternal life and found her to be enthusiastic about the prospect: from her perspective, it was an opportunity to continue learning infinite aspects of the universe, and though she would grieve at the lost of loved ones the idea of endless discovery was absolutely alluring.

When I inquired about hypothetical conditions that could potentially restrict her, she initially shrugged them off with a “I’ll just deal with them”; I then specified such conditions (eg. “What if you were like a vampire and could only go out at night… wouldn’t that would mean you’d be greatly restricted to access different institutions you’d like to look into?”) and pressed further about the quality of life that she could possibly experience as a supernatural. After using a very specific, particularly pessimistic example and condition my mum began reconsidering her position (for which she called me a bloody mood killer). 

It is inevitable that your loved ones will age and die while you, the supernatural individual, remain the same; psychologically, the stress can be immense and it is your judgement call if you’d be able to handle such. And it’s not just about losing family and friends – meeting new acquaintances, potential friends and lovers, initially heartwarming but inevitably leading to a shared despair – that the relationships you create and share are drastingly temporal since relative lifespans of people and yourself do not correlate: that is, though humans all die there is at least a finite sense shared between all relationships; a supernatural being who can live eternally does not share this same finite sense and is instead left to accept the cold truth as a observer – observers of our loved ones’ demise as their finite lives run out. There is a difference of relative time, and this leads to utter tragedy and despair. 

Herein lives another dilemma: if you had the ability to offer loved ones the same physical conditions you abide by – would you do it? More pressingly would they agree to such conditions? This dilemma assumes that you were ok with such conditions to begin with in offering others such an option. The implications, however, are dire: if the person you offer accepts, then that means you both will become observers of time, lonely companions till conditions arise that result in one or the others’ death but nonetheless you are both in the same boat; if the person you offer declines, that means they disagree with the conditions you live by, and by extension are openly judging you for who you are, what you are and how you live – in a sense, while they may not find your existence unacceptable they may find the conditions of your existence unacceptable. 

They leave. Because they should or because they find someone else. And some of them, some of them… forget me. 

…I suppose in the end, they break my heart.

Here is the most heartbreaking aspect: assuming you were unable to offer eternal life, what happens when you fall in love with somebody? You know full well that this person is mortal and that their time will run out and that you, a mere supernatural being, can do nothing to stop this process of time – so do you allow yourself to engage in these emotions or do you repress them? An additional angle is that if the person you love and who loves you back – if circumstances (besides the passage of time and aging) prevent them from being with you and there are elements that could force you both to be separated from one another – do you take this risk? Do you risk your own emotional stability by falling in love with the inevitability that it cannot be? Is the risk of eventual heartbreak enough to deter you from pursuing a simultaneously timeless and finite love? 

This last question is particular striking to me on a personal level. Philosophically, I believe in the temporality of everything, and while it is necessary to look to the past for learned lessons and to the future for dreams the most important thing that matters is what is happening here and now because in another instant here and now will have vanished and been replaced by another here and now. I make an effort to appreciate the smallest things, for when time has passed they are often the things I miss the most. The fact that I can still type quickly, breath good air, still have all my teeth, engage in physical activities, have all my appendages intact, can see, can breath, can eat – it’s amazing how easily I take things for granted, and it takes a conscious effort to break away from subconscious assumptions of permanence. 

So to fall in love despite the possibility of circumstance destroying such, that eventually all things die – is it worth it? 

Personally and paradoxically, yes. But for myself that’s all I can speak for as an ordinary human. Human or supernatural, finite or eternal life, to each their own.