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The loyalty of dogs
Nov. 25th, 2012 09:33 amJohn is away for a bit in Davis, doing his mad-scientist thing while the particle accelerator is (otherwise) idle for the long weekend. I took the occasion to watch what I knew would be a teary and sentimental film.
Hachi is a low-budget, probably made-for-video telling of the story of the famous Akita-inu that waited ten years at a train station in the hope that his deceased master would some day return. I've always had mixed feelings about the story, since in my mind it was not just a heart-warming tale of loyalty but also a warning about the hazards of emotional inflexibility. Taking it at face value, I thought, was glorifying one of the worst parts of Japanese culture.
I waited until I was alone to watch it. I'm not a big fan of this sort of movie because, in my media-averse world, film is a powerful and immersive experience that I can't take lightly. I knew this one, in particular, would be hard to sit through. This is why I am kind of harsh on film in general; I can't really compartmentalize a film as "mere fiction", and if something is going to remain with me as strongly as a real-life experience, I'm not going to tolerate crap. Unfortunately, most film IS crap, and a lot of promising ones end up being the most disappointing.
Anyway, it left me pretty much wrecked, though not in quite the way I had expected. In many ways, it's a typical American set-piece, spiced up with "white people problems", like being distracted while teaching a ballet class, and struggling to restore a charming antique theater. That's all a bit too precious for my taste. But as you might imagine, having a cute Akita on screen redeems everything. I particularly enjoyed the riff on how he was too self-important to play fetch. (No, YOU come here and get the ball FOR me, and I'll watch you throw it again!)
Dog films have an unfortunate tendency to paint a rose-colored view of any given breed, and really popular ones - 101 Dalmatians being the worst offender - can create big problems as children demand one of their own, expecting it to be just like the ones on the screen. Anyone with an Akita knows that letting them run free is just asking for trouble, so it's worth noting that the one completely unrealistic part of this story is that Hachiko never does anything seriously wrong, such as intimidating people or fighting with other dogs. I suppose in a small town in 1920s Japan it all worked out fine, but this laissez-faire approach makes the adaptation of this story to an American town seem a little far-fetched. As good a job as it did capturing Hachiko's personality, I would hate for this to be seen as an example of responsible Akita ownership.
I suppose the past 25 years have made me a little hard-hearted when it comes to human affairs, and in the context of all the shit that's happened I recognize the irony of completely losing it over a story about a dog. (Along those lines, there is nothing in all of literature that makes me tear up so much as Odysseus' reunion with Argos.) I guess that's the little crack in the emotional dam through which everything comes flooding out. So I poke at it only with some hesitation.
What struck me most strongly about Hachiko, though, was that his loyalty was not just a stubborn, inflexible obsession, that it was not actually futile or pointless, or even something he had a choice about in the first place. It's simply what he was, and in that seemingly impossible situation, he found his niche at the train station, one with lots of support and affection. So there is actually something very reassuring in this parable; the idea that no matter how unlikely your pursuit, merely having it as an organizing principle creates the space and support you need to keep it going. That, for me, was the biggest surprise in seeing the film - realizing that Hachiko was not some sad and miserable creature doomed to eternal disappointment, but that he actually had a rich and full life, surrounded by people who loved him for what he was. I wonder if, after a few years, he even remembered why he was at the station in the first place. Maybe it was just a nice place to be.
It was especially poignant, I guess, because all the while Kitsune has been patiently sitting by the front door waiting for John to get back. It's easy to believe that she'd wait there for the rest of her life. She's not indifferent to other doggy pleasures like walks and cookies in his absence, but you can't help but be struck by the single-mindedness of her attachment. I have, at times, been a bit jealous that she bonded to him rather than me, but the truth is he has always been the one to spend more time with her. She's been a very good influence on his health, pestering him to go out on walks and such when otherwise I think he'd sit at his desk forever.
Sigh. That unknowable something about the Akita never gets old; so pretty, so lovable, so aloof and inscrutable. They've got their own agenda, and you aren't necessarily part of it! For all its flaws, it really is a pleasure to see a film that presents them pretty much as they are. For those of you who are into that sort of thing, I have to give it a thumbs-up.
Hachi is a low-budget, probably made-for-video telling of the story of the famous Akita-inu that waited ten years at a train station in the hope that his deceased master would some day return. I've always had mixed feelings about the story, since in my mind it was not just a heart-warming tale of loyalty but also a warning about the hazards of emotional inflexibility. Taking it at face value, I thought, was glorifying one of the worst parts of Japanese culture.
I waited until I was alone to watch it. I'm not a big fan of this sort of movie because, in my media-averse world, film is a powerful and immersive experience that I can't take lightly. I knew this one, in particular, would be hard to sit through. This is why I am kind of harsh on film in general; I can't really compartmentalize a film as "mere fiction", and if something is going to remain with me as strongly as a real-life experience, I'm not going to tolerate crap. Unfortunately, most film IS crap, and a lot of promising ones end up being the most disappointing.
Anyway, it left me pretty much wrecked, though not in quite the way I had expected. In many ways, it's a typical American set-piece, spiced up with "white people problems", like being distracted while teaching a ballet class, and struggling to restore a charming antique theater. That's all a bit too precious for my taste. But as you might imagine, having a cute Akita on screen redeems everything. I particularly enjoyed the riff on how he was too self-important to play fetch. (No, YOU come here and get the ball FOR me, and I'll watch you throw it again!)
Dog films have an unfortunate tendency to paint a rose-colored view of any given breed, and really popular ones - 101 Dalmatians being the worst offender - can create big problems as children demand one of their own, expecting it to be just like the ones on the screen. Anyone with an Akita knows that letting them run free is just asking for trouble, so it's worth noting that the one completely unrealistic part of this story is that Hachiko never does anything seriously wrong, such as intimidating people or fighting with other dogs. I suppose in a small town in 1920s Japan it all worked out fine, but this laissez-faire approach makes the adaptation of this story to an American town seem a little far-fetched. As good a job as it did capturing Hachiko's personality, I would hate for this to be seen as an example of responsible Akita ownership.
I suppose the past 25 years have made me a little hard-hearted when it comes to human affairs, and in the context of all the shit that's happened I recognize the irony of completely losing it over a story about a dog. (Along those lines, there is nothing in all of literature that makes me tear up so much as Odysseus' reunion with Argos.) I guess that's the little crack in the emotional dam through which everything comes flooding out. So I poke at it only with some hesitation.
What struck me most strongly about Hachiko, though, was that his loyalty was not just a stubborn, inflexible obsession, that it was not actually futile or pointless, or even something he had a choice about in the first place. It's simply what he was, and in that seemingly impossible situation, he found his niche at the train station, one with lots of support and affection. So there is actually something very reassuring in this parable; the idea that no matter how unlikely your pursuit, merely having it as an organizing principle creates the space and support you need to keep it going. That, for me, was the biggest surprise in seeing the film - realizing that Hachiko was not some sad and miserable creature doomed to eternal disappointment, but that he actually had a rich and full life, surrounded by people who loved him for what he was. I wonder if, after a few years, he even remembered why he was at the station in the first place. Maybe it was just a nice place to be.
It was especially poignant, I guess, because all the while Kitsune has been patiently sitting by the front door waiting for John to get back. It's easy to believe that she'd wait there for the rest of her life. She's not indifferent to other doggy pleasures like walks and cookies in his absence, but you can't help but be struck by the single-mindedness of her attachment. I have, at times, been a bit jealous that she bonded to him rather than me, but the truth is he has always been the one to spend more time with her. She's been a very good influence on his health, pestering him to go out on walks and such when otherwise I think he'd sit at his desk forever.
Sigh. That unknowable something about the Akita never gets old; so pretty, so lovable, so aloof and inscrutable. They've got their own agenda, and you aren't necessarily part of it! For all its flaws, it really is a pleasure to see a film that presents them pretty much as they are. For those of you who are into that sort of thing, I have to give it a thumbs-up.
