Scene Dissection - Thirds and 180º Rule (Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood, Episode 15)

The following screenshots are from the series 鋼の錬金術師 Fullmetal Alchemist, episode 15 – 東方の使者, Emissary from the East. 

In this episode, there are two scenes I believe to be examples of poor storyboarding. There is a general lack of creativity stemming from lackluster framing that creates little movement or aesthetic weight, thus resulting in unimpressive scene overall. Specifically, the storyboard artist greatly fails to understand how to create a focal point/point of focus for the audience, likely stemming from little/no concrete knowledge of the Thirds Rule: 

The black lines divide the vertical into thirds, the blue lines divide the horizontal into thirds, and the red dots are the points of intersection of both black and blue lines. The red dots are, respectively, where the focal point of any framing/composition should be – whether it be photography, cinematography or animation, this general rule applies if one wishes to create an effective point of focus in any scene. 

Additionally, in framing multiple bodies in any scene, it is important to maintain a sense of visual movement even if there isn’t any immediate action occurring per say. Thus, understanding the 180º Rule is quite pertinent in this respect: 

Note that the subjects and camera are depicted from an aerial point of view. 

For instance, in the above diagram, the camera position (indicated by the blue line) establishes that subject 1 (purple) is on the left and that subject 2 (yellow) is on the right. The camera can move along this 180 degree axis (indicated by the blue dotted line) without violating the established positions of either subjects – that is, subject 1 will always be on the left and subject 2 on the right. However, should the camera be placed beyond this 180º axis (indicated by the red arrows), the subjects’ respective positions will be switched, thus violating the 180º rule. 

Taking these two basic ideas into mind, it is now easy to see what the storyboard artist did wrong in two separate scenes, and perhaps how one may remedy/redraw the scenes to create a more effective depiction. 

Ling, Ed, and Lanfan are all in frame, yet it is only Ling and Ed who are speaking – thus, Lanfan does not need to be in frame. This three body framing has no focal point – based off a screenshot alone, it’s difficult to tell who the storyboard artist intended to have the audience focus on – and is instead clustered, claustrophobic even. Instead, one might opt for a framing like this: 

The scribble above no longer involves Lanfan, and her presence is only hinted by her hand holding the kunai on the bottom right. Ed is now the focal point of the scene as he intersects a focal point (blue) that correlates to the thirds rule (lines scribbled in red). Ling is now in the background, but is still very much a part of the scene since the viewer’s eye will naturally traverse back and forth between Ed and Ling when they converse. Also note that Ling and Ed are still in their respective positions – Ling on the left, Ed on the right – so the 180º rule is not broken. 

Here is another scene, this time with Lanfan, Ling and Fu in frame. Again, the storyboard artist mistakenly incorporates a full-body shot of Lanfan while she conversationally contributes nothing to the scene. The thirds rule obviously mis- (or not at all) understood by the storyboard artist, it is again difficult to pinpoint a specific focal point or focus in the scene. Ultimately, the framing is lackluster, uncreative, and boring. Alternatively, one could visualize the scene like so: 

In this depiction, there are two points of intersection – Ling and Fu. However, both points of intersections are at a diagonal, so the viewers eyes will naturally flow initially from Fu to Ling (as depicted by the blue lines). Lanfan is also included, but she is a secondary subject and is only seen in the background, away from the focal convergence on Ling (note that she too is also near a focal point, an intersection of the lines depicted by the thirds rule). Had I drawn this better it could be presumed that Ling is in between Fu and Lanfan, but otherwise no distinct position has been changed – Fu on the far right, Lanfan on the far left with respect to the original camera position – so the 180º rule still holds true. 

What I’ve drawn is far from perfect: both scribbles are only two possible examples as to how one may redraw/reframe any scene that is particularly weak in conveying narrative and visual aesthetics. It must be noted that above all, understanding fundamentals like the thirds and 180º rules are crucial should one wish to artistically and competently frame subjects in any medium. 

Note: this series is a prime excuse to exercise my hobby of doodling/drawing and utilizing a tablet.

Fun times!

(Visit the official Funimation website or Hulu for full episodes. Copyright © Hiromu Arakawa, Studio Bones, Square Enix, Sony Music, Bandai and Aniplex)

Thoughts on "Departures"

Compassion should be unbiased and based on the recognition that others have the right to happiness, just like yourself – Dalai Lama

Forgiveness: the action or process of forgiving or being forgiven. 

A uniquely human characteristic, forgiveness is an action of kindness, a selflessness that reflects on the forgiver and relief on the forgiven –  indications and thematics that are presented and explored in the 2008 Japanese film, おくりびと, translated “Departures." 

Daigo Kobayashi is a conflicted man. Once an aspiring cellist, he is forced to give up his aspirations after the cruel pangs of reality sink in: his Tokyo orchestra disbands, and he cannot afford the cello he just purchased without discussing the cost to his wife, Mika. Deeper though is an undying resentment for his father, who abandoned him and his mother when he was only six years old. 

"Departures” explores Daigo’s transformation as he begins work as a nōkan, a person who prepares dead bodies for funeral and burial ceremonies. Initially, he hides his new occupation from his wife and friends, ashamed of the stigma attached to one of the most taboo subjects in Japan. However, he eventually comes to accept his new profession, taking pride in the care and delicacy of a ceremonious practice with origins, weight and meaning long lost to the modern tides of Japanese society. 

Daigo’s transcendence as a nōkan highlights multiple veins of resentment and forgiveness including himself, Mika, his boss Shōei Sasaki, and his co-worker Yuriko Uemura. These are people who just like us, are conflicted by personal qualms and a desire to continue living on for the sake of themselves and for whom they care deeply about. At what cost, however, is the main question. 

To forgive, in a sense, is to forget the pangs of resentment. The memories of the cause, of what happened still remain, but for the sake of continuing onwards the act of forgiveness is simultaneously an act for both the forgiven and the forgiver – an act in the pursuit of happiness and closure, and the right to such. 

Forgiveness, however, is easier said than done. For how could we ever forget the pain, the anger, the grief the compiles into the burning resentment for the one who wronged us so badly? 

Resentment, though differing in magnitude between individuals and dependent on the cause, always creates empty voids within our souls – voids that stem desires for vengeance or ongoing turmoils of despair and anger. These voids ferment over time, creating a toxicity that torments the soul endlessly, a ailing condition that can only be solved with the step towards forgiving the cause of resentment and of oneself for letting go of such memories. 

In the climatic scene of “Departures,” Daigo learns that his father just died. Initially unwilling to see the man who left him behind, Daigo is urged by his co-worker Yuriko to see him. He vehemently answers no, to which she discloses that long ago, she too abandoned her six year old son to run off with a lover; since then, she has been unable to return to her hometown and see her son despite her desire to. 

Through Yuriko’s, Mika’s and Shōei’s persuasion, Daigo is able to see his father and finally able to forgive everything: his father for all those years of abandonment, and more pressingly himself – for failing as a cellist, for initially disappointing his wife, for taking his place as a skilled and professional nōkan, and most importantly all those years of resentment for himself as a son to his mother and father. 

Simultaneously, Yuriko’s sudden insistence for Daigo to see his father in turn reflects her last hope at redemption for her past actions. Despite her desires, she does not feel worthy to first approach her own son: the shame of her actions bind her from initiating the act of forgiveness, and it is only through the will of her son to first approach her can she finally be at peace. It is this greatest hope that she imposes on Daigo: if he is capable of approaching his father after all these years, there is still a hope that her own son may approach her as well, and only then can she find it possible to forgive herself, to come to terms with the resentment she has for herself. 

“Departures” highlights the difficulty of letting go the resentment built over time, and how such bitterness can only be remedied and healed through the greatest act of compassion: 

Forgiveness. 

Though our desire for rightful indignation may cause us to maintain years of resentment, the desire for closures even stronger, and only through the gateway of letting go will we ever hope to leave chains of hurt for the right of happiness. 

After all, as finite beings we all deserve the right to happiness – in life and in death. 

Pink Hammers, Blue Tutus

When Elliott found E.T. in his backyard 28 years ago, the world became spellbound with the magic and charm that Spielberg’s film radiated – the human desire for childish fantasies, for the extraordinary beyond the drum of everyday life, for the innocence of what was once ubiquitous during everyday childhood. 

This classic parable – a boy and his little secret – encompasses such a desire, and has been reincarnated in other narratives such as Brad Bird’s “The Iron Giant” in 1999, and more recently Hayao Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” in 2008 (arguably, this narrative quality is what might’ve made the first half of Michael Bay’s “Transformers” in 2007 endurable when Sam comes into possession of Bumblebee). These boys were nothing spectacular – perhaps quirky here and there, but that’s not to say we all have our idiosyncrasies – yet by chance they came across marvelous discoveries, exceptional gems that they are blessed to even glance upon. These protagonists are who we all wish to be, to be chanced upon wondrous avenues that deviate from the limits of human life. However, 

Does this story only apply to boys? 

Hogarth and his robot from “The Iron Giant,” 1999. 

Types of popular narrative are indicative of a society and its standards of normality, morality, ethics, and avenues of progress. As it stands, most nuanced narratives of children and adolescents belong to boys: from the quiet Sousuke in Miyazaki’s “Ponyo” to the wide-eyed Elliott in Spielberg’s “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,” portraitures of adolescent fancy has predominantly fancied boys over girls. 

Are girls any less interesting, thoughtful, inquisitive? Of course not – simple observation instantly dispels such a notion. Are they more difficult to portray than their male counterpart? Again, no – girls are not much different than boys beyond interests and the social norms that may bind them to certain behaviors. 

So what is it about popular narrative that seems to favor boys over girls? 

It boils down to the type of society America and most other countries are – patriarchal. Thus by default, patriarchal qualities are valued more than matriarchal: what these terms encompass is defined solely by each society, but nonetheless these terms subconsciously deem what is more acceptable in the public spectrum. 

This comes back to why boy narratives are more predominant and more nuanced than their girl counterparts: females are indoctrinated to set standards at an early age, standards that are arguably more restricted and less opportunistic than that of males; these notions are marketed heavily to children through various mediums and consumeristic products. 

Girls get Barbie, Disney princesses, pink dresses, little toy baking sets, and an emphasis on the importance of shopping and fashion and make-up and all that jazz; boys get Nerf guns, Hotrod cars, little building sets, and an clear alleyway to getting muddy and dirty and matted and icky and all that fun romping business.

These are terribly gross generalizations, but they are necessary for consideration. At first glance it may seem that the qualities between boys and girls don’t seem any more restrictive than the other. But here’s the key difference: 

Indoctrinated norms for girls are deeply domestic while indoctrinated norms for boys seem boundless and opportunistic. 

It’s this key difference, this important deviation that subconsciously drives public acceptance for more nuanced narratives about boys than about girls. It may very well be the reason why it is difficult for more writers and creatives to depict nuanced girls beyond Cinderella daydreams and wedding planners and pink tutus at all – and it’s very well the reason why it’s even more important to advance beyond the princess narrative into a more sophisticated, a more engrossing and a much more gradated painting of young, adolescent girls. 

Mei and Satsuki peering down the stream in “My Neighbor Totoro,” 1988. 

Not to say that this challenge hasn’t been met and executed before. Hayao Miyazaki created two of the most subtle and sweet couple of sisters, 10-year-old Satsuki and 4-year-old Mei in “My Neighbor Totoro” back in 1988 and again in 1989 with the gifted and down-to-earth young witch, Kiki in “Kiki’s Delivery Service.” More recently, stop-motion animator Henry Selick adapted the prolific Neil Gaiman’s novel “Coraline” into a full-length feature, released in 2009. 

“Coraline” is particularly notable because it is one of the few American film efforts (adapted from a British novel) to convey a nuanced girl as the main protagonist that did not involve princesses and princes or jolly Disney side-kicks to sashay into musical dance and joy. 

Coraline is a strong and curious girl, displaying some traits of Alice from Wonderland but very distinctly sharper. Interestingly, this film – which was one of the best efforts to portray a non-Disney archetype girl – was met by most critics as a “fantastic” visual, few giving much thought to Coraline’s depiction; the few who did did so sparingly, tacitly and almost off-handedly. One of the most esteemed film critics, Roger Ebert, critiqued in his review, 

“Even more rare is that Coraline Jones is not a nice little girl. She’s unpleasant, complains, has an attitude and makes friends reluctantly.”

On the surface – yeah, maybe she is, depending on where you’re coming from and what your experience (or expectation) of girls are. But not all girls are sweet, gentile, quiet, obedient, daydreaming, as Ebert clarifies in his review; more pressingly however (and something that he did not address or perhaps consider) is that Coraline is just as vulnerable as any other girl despite her no-nonsense mannerism. Beyond the surface of her (seemingly negative) attitude is a nuanced character that deserves more than just a “unpleasant” stamp on the head. More than anything she is something of a gem, a girl who refuses to be Disney-princess-ified or Barbied-up or stuck in the kitchen baking flowery cakes and goods. 

She’s a girl, striking and unique, and one who speaks more to the female demographic than any social expectations of red lipstick and white minivans and great big suburban houses we’ve grown so familiar with. 

So to answer the question posed earlier: does this story – one of finding something extraordinary or being lucky enough to encounter something marvelous – is it only conveying, convincing and moving with a boy protagonist?

I think Miyazaki already answered this question 22 years ago.

Sharks and Swans

The slower we move the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. Some animals were meant to carry each other to live symbiotically over a lifetime. Star crossed lovers, monogamous swans. 

We are not swans. We are sharks. – Ryan Bingham, “Up in the Air”

At some point we all felt invincible. Whether we were the greatest superhero or could create one panacea after another or be the genius of tomorrow, childish fancy of invincibility were there. We could do something, be something. 

As we grow older, this sense of invincibility dies down for most, arguably peaked during young adulthood and then mostly degraded into hazy, vague memory when the world takes its toll with the chipping of reality. Relationships, jobs, households, security – wrapping into the practicality of life, we slowly die down into a stagnation of comfort, no longer motivated to continue the pursuit of invincibility. 

For some, that is. For the restless others, not so much. 

Restlessness rebels against this life course. It stems from the childish desire to feel invincible, to feel more than a mere mortal, to become a significant being in the finite span of life. A constant dissonance, a continuous disharmony, a ceaseless thought process – the childish restlessness that manifests into a constant movement of the mind. 

Set perceptions on limits and capabilities are rational, yes, but such ideas can be simultaneously helpful and harmful. For some, these ideas are a governing principle, a road map to their possibilities and successes in life – the elegant, beautiful swans; for others, these ideas are a suffocating assumption, a chain from pursuing beyond the practical, to go beyond what is simply tangible – the restless, moving sharks. 

To be restless is a gamble against perceived and palpable limits that ends either in success or failure, all or nothing. We like to see those lottery winners, those success stories that made it, but the cruel truth is that not everyone will make it, and in the greatest likelihood a majority of dreamers will fail for lack of resource, opportunity, support, or plain old luck. And in this world, society is unforgiving to those who fail. 

Does this mean we stop dreaming, hoping, wishing? Does this mean we must all be practical, rational, logical? 

God no. It just means we need a little bit of perspective, a little bit of growing up to do, something anew to set us into a more promising future with the same hopes intact. It means we as humans need to keep learning for our own sake in life and existence. 

Dreamers are necessary, pragmatists are essential. In order to get anything done in this world, you need a nice bit of both. A functioning human can neither be a drifting butterfly nor a cold robot – the extremities contradict what is even human. More pressingly, though, is a perspective of one’s self in the scheme of all things, that as a tiny being we are neither insignificant nor significant, unnecessary yet essential. 

Keep dreaming, stay practical. Stay restless, know limits. Be both a swan and a shark. Remain mortal and become invincible. It’s one of the hardest lessons that I’m still trying to learn in this little bubble of mine. 

Gods of Nonsense

Nonsense is genius. 

It takes gall and balls to chuck out every sense of logic and reason for the daredevil realm of illogic and insanity. Even more so it takes inane wit and ingenuity to revel in nonsense – gibberish, puns, turnarounds, the purgatory of comedy and drama. 

It’s what makes Lewis Carroll the godfather of all nonsense, the genesis of cartoons in their strictest incarnation. 

Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland seems like a mild-mannered children’s fable, a funny little tale of a girl who daydreamed and plunged into a world of gobbledygook. Poems about impossible fancies, songs bedridden with poppycock lyrics, dialogue swarming with mispronunciations and grammatical mistakes – it’s all nonsense, disjointed and positively rubbish. Yet here it is, a literary icon still today, distinguished by the very same quality most seamlessly disregard on a daily basis. 

Carroll created characters completely out of touch with our reality: without the same rules binding them, they were free to say and do what they wanted, repercussions exclusive themselves and not to us. Despite being completely unreliable, these characters – from the perpetually belated White Rabbit to the widely-grinning Cheshire Cat to a giant-headed Queen that screamed “Off with your head!” – could hit us readers with any remark as quick and stingingly possible and get away with it completely: allusions, satire, criticism, anything they wanted to say they said it, unafraid of offense or shock. They are legendary icons of nonsense, uttering the harshest comment to the lightest parody and still emerge unchanged, unscratched, untouched. 

It’s this untouchable trait that the truest of cartoons share, and the genius of this quality is their birthright into a God-like realm of any shenanigan they so chose to perform. 

Disney created lovable heroes, Warner Bros created screwball rascals. Bugs Bunny outsmarted every bullying antagonist, Daffy Duck haplessly tried to be serious, Wil E. Coyote devised contraptions after another to catch Road Runner, Porky Pig incessantly stuttered introductions – they said and did everything and anything otherwise impossible or unheard of. From breaking the fourth wall to dropping impossibly large anvils out of the sky, their wit, parody and commentary of pop culture and current events were stingingly honest. Even if the messages are now propaganda and/or racist by current standards, at the time they were relevant and reflective of the American public. But unlike politicians or public figures, they were completely unaccountable by virtue of their cartoon nature. 

Cartoons occupy a completely independent dimension, one that regards the presence of deus ex machina and red herrings and two ton mallets appearing from someone’s back as wholly and completely normal, that instantly changes scenes and mood at the whim of the animator, and most importantly has characters that are self-aware of their watching audience. Like the Muses of Greek Mythology, cartoons could dispel commentary at their own will and still remain detached from the ramifications of the humanly world. At their greatest metamorphosis, cartoons are Gods that take pleasure in jestering and commenting on our human dimension. 

Though funny in its own respect, “Family Guy” (premiering 1999) frequently indulges in the lowest denominator of humor instead of rebelling forward with a constant influx of musical/Broadway musical numbers and other high culture references it is also known for. 

Most recent animations no longer strive for this God quality of classic cartoons; they instead either opt for cheap laughs, distillations of life into moronic slapstick without substance or pursue stylization without forming (nonetheless understanding) an appreciation for the necessity of moving, intelligent narratives. Given how the American animation industry has restructured over decades, this is unsurprising: as studios cut back on animation costs, writers, animators and directors left for higher quality projects, and through a cascade of declining productions subsequent cartoons increasingly lacked the genius of their predecessors, forcibly dumb-downed by executives who failed to see value in the immaculate brilliance of tricksters and buffoons. Coupled with the continued formulae of Disney features, public perception of cartoons and animation dwindled into mere shrug-off to children as a buffer from “more adult” narratives. The God quality of cartoons soon retreated into its own reigning realm, now a hidden gem from the public that once flocked to its feet. 

Eddie and Roger Rabbit from “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

Few modern incarnations have reached scale of classic cartoons, and their ingenuity is highly commendable and celebratory. From the 1988 film “Who Framed Roger Rabbit” to the 1993-1998 series “Animaniacs,” these and likewise productions did nothing to tame themselves: they were slapstick, satirical and sharp, taking cues from their legendary forerunners; they did nothing to be loved and adored and were thus lovable and adorable in themselves. Unfortunately, these creations are underrated due to current bulk of American sentiment, that “cartoons and animation are a silly genre for kids." 

Yakko, Wakko and Dot with their favorite friend, Steven Spielberg. 

Animation and cartooning are not the same, and they most certainly are not genres. Both are mediums, and though similar are very much different by nature and by what they are able to accomplish – the former wanting to be delightfully endearing and the latter simply not caring. And most importantly, they have never been exclusive to children; it is only with current attitude that studios gear and shear and trim their animated productions into moronic, mass-consumerist products. Other countries like France, Britain, Canada and Japan understand this subtle difference very well, which is reflective in their animated/cartooned productions like Sylvain Chomet’s "The Triplets of Bellevile” (France) and Isao Takahata’s “Grave of the Fireflies” (Japan). 

2008 Pixar Short “Presto” by Doug Sweetland. 

In America, this distinction has been lost over generations of changing viewers, and its something that desperately needs to be clarified should American animators alike wish to push forth the two mediums back into the conscious, thoughtful public mindset. My greatest hope currently lies in the likes of Andrew Stanton (“Finding Nemo” and “Wall•E”), Henry Selick (“The Nightmare Before Christmas” and “Coraline”), Brad Bird (“The Iron Giant” and “The Incredibles”), Craig McCracken (“Powerpuff Girls” and “Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends”), Genndy Tartakovsky (“Dexter’s Laboratory” and “Samurai Jack”), and a few others who likewise maintain faith in the intelligence of children and adults alike, that animation has an artistic potential live-action will never accomplish. 

Now all we need is another daredevil animator to create a God of a cartoon.