Modern anime convention rests upon a scaffolding that has been built up over decades, a series of aesthetic and narrative conventions established one seminal work at a time. The more I explore this scaffolding, the more I find to appreciate in modern anime; as such, I was eager to check out Kaze to Ki no Uta, the film adaptation of one of the earliest and most influential works of shounen-ai manga. The manga’s explorations of sadomasochism, incest, and other charged topics made it controversial from the start; in fact, author Keiko Takemiya’s editors waited seven years from her first conception of the story to actual publishing. And its release was a lightning bolt; a hit from the start, it would help popularize shounen-ai more generally, opening the door for manga and anime’s subsequent explorations of queer identity.
Kaze to Ki no Uta plays a central role in a history I’m only just beginning to explore: the brilliant innovations of the Year 24 Group. Through their work, this array of female mangaka collectively imbued shoujo manga with a new level of complexity and maturity, shifting from child-friendly narratives to thorny meditations on gender, psychology, politics, and sexuality. The effect these women had on manga and anime cannot be overstated; the themes and structures introduced by artists like Riyoko Ikeda (The Rose of Versailles, Dear Brother) would go on to shape the dreams of creators across the globe, while clearly informing the sensibilities of modern legends like Kunihiko Ikuhara.
Even within the context of this artistic sea change, Kaze to Ki no Uta was a uniquely challenging work. The fact that it was adapted into animation at all is likely a quirk of another historical transition: the ‘80s OVA boom, when a broad consumer market for home videos allowed for the production of challenging, audacious films that circumvented TV content restrictions. This era produced some of the most violent and salacious anime ever, while also allowing for stories like Kaze to Ki no Uta to find new life in animation. Considering the manga ran for seventeen volumes, the film’s scant hour runtime can barely begin to cover its drama – fortunately, as a story framed around the lost dreams of youth, the fragmentary, incomplete nature of this film narrative actually feels perfectly appropriate.
The story begins at the prestigious Laconblade Academy in Arles, France, during the autumn of 1887. New arrival Serge is eager to make his reputation at the school his father once attended, but soon realizes he has been placed in a room shared by the academy’s most notorious student, Gilbert. Gilbert is sickly and obstinate, prone to disappearances and truancy, and seemingly at war with his own body. Additionally, rumors abound regarding Gilbert’s dalliances with other academy boys; and in fact, upon first meeting Serge, Gilbert immediately attempts to kiss him.
With a tension established between Serge’s chivalrous pursuit of right behavior and Gilbert’s alleged degeneracy, the film dances through a series of vignettes that muddle and vex their initial antagonism. Each initially hates the other, with Serge’s dreams of the lofty Laconblade dashed by Gilbert’s presence, and Gilbert’s self-hatred further cultivated by the unreachable Serge. And it’s those same oppositional qualities that eventually foster a mutual fascination, as Serge learns to define himself outside of society’s expectations, while Gilbert begins to hope that with a man like Serge, even he might be redeemed.
Their love story is familiar and iconic, in part because it has gone on to be repeated in some form by countless imitators and descendants. Familiar as well is the film’s melancholy tone, and its constant reflections on the vanishing ephemerality of youth. The framing device of an older Serge returning to the academy makes it impossible to ignore the fragility of Serge and Gilbert’s bond; from the start, we hear reflections like “you were like a little lamb, and look at you now. I stayed the same, while you all blew past me like a wind” from Serge’s old instructors. Youth is a brief and powerful wind, an otherworldly liminal state where social convention might momentarily be disregarded, and condemned love might bloom.
Gilbert’s beauty and very life are framed as equally ephemeral, with his absence from Serge’s adult reflections offering a silent indication of how his story eventually ends. Dangerously pale and prone to coughing fits, he seems almost too beautiful for this world; Serge describes him as a “golden harp with strings dangerously taut,” speaking to his beauty, tension, and self-destruction at once. Tying impossibly beautiful boys to latent homosexual longing was a trick Takemiya poached from Death in Venice; in both cases, these boys represent a freedom or peace beyond human reach (perhaps a peace that can only be known by the angels, as in clear successor Kaworu Nagisa’s case). Such a character further emphasizes the vanishing, transitional nature of youthful freedom; they always seem like they’ve been caught between trains, always straining their eyes towards some far-off destination unreachable for us mortals.
The irony of presenting Gilbert as a figure of worship in a world defined by rigid Christian doctrine is not lost on Takemiya. A great portion of Gilbert’s self-hatred comes from his understanding that he is inherently sinful; framed as a monster by his world’s values, he chooses to act out, and embrace his “monstrousness” to the point of self-destruction. In one of the film’s climactic moments, cuts of Gilbert yearning for intimacy and violent release are contrasted against a church service, with reflections on Christ’s “escape from his earthly flesh” speaking directly to Gilbert’s journey and destination. In their worship of Christ, this culture has made a new martyr of this unfortunate boy, who must suffer its slings and arrows with no hope of a final reward.
Kaze to Ki no Uta’s antipathy towards religious doctrine, and towards conservative ethics more generally, echoes beyond the story’s validation of homosexual love. Christianity’s avatar at Laconblade is Rosemarine, an androgynous youth with eyes like an insect, who preaches the sin of homosexuality publicly while privately counseling with Gilbert’s abusive father. Meanwhile, Serge’s friend Pascal speaks consistently to the useless rigidity of Laconblade’s curriculum, stating that “if all we study are the classics, we’ll never advance.” I can imagine Pascal’s words echo Takemiya’s own feelings; situated as she was on the cutting edge of an art form’s advancement, she well understood that it was only through rejecting convention that truth and beauty could be found.
And yet, for all of this story’s rich thematic undertones, it most fundamentally works because the relationship between Serge and Gilbert is genuinely convincing. They are two individually compelling characters who work brilliantly together, with Serge’s courtly affectations and Gilbert’s feral rejection of convention prompting first obvious conflict, and eventually grateful understanding. We can recognize the pain Gilbert feels as he attempts to integrate into this world’s culture, but is rejected without a thought, and lashes out in the only ways he knows. We see Serge’s initial fear at Gilbert’s behavior shift, as he realizes what he is most afraid of is unlocking his own condemned desires. Their pain and confusion are vividly realized, and so too is the comfort they find in each other.
It is the sincerity of that relationship which truly elevates this story, empowering its cry for freedom and self expression, for ugliness and intimacy and genuine truth. This cry would resonate throughout Takemiya’s peers, toppling dusty conventions and heralding a new era of narrative maturity. Few of my favorite shows would exist without this crucial advance; the messy reality of human emotion is what inspires me most, and the story of Serge and Gilbert was instrumental in steering manga towards such earnest, intimate tales. For all it has inspired and for its own poignant existence, I am gratefully indebted to this essential tale.
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