Yeah, you know what’s coming. In fact, Cuchlann beat me to the punch with this moment. Perhaps needless to say, if you haven’t seen Gurren-Lagann, and you want to, you should not read on.

But if you have seen it, let’s revisit that part again.

I was not prepared for Kamina’s death. I watched the scene with staunch disbelief. I wouldn’t believe it; I couldn’t believe it.

While the dominant reaction seems to hover somewhere between sadness and outrage, and while I was certainly upset, I felt more shock than anything. As Cuchlann said, “we as audience members can understand why a group can build so readily around him — we want to be there too, being pushed by the force of his personality.” Thus far, the show had used Kamina to propel itself forward. His initiative was responsible for practically every ounce of progress the good guys had made up until the eighth episode. What the hell was the Gurren Brigade supposed to do without him — no, what the hell were we supposed to do without him?

I was wholly prepared to accept that Kamina would survive his grievous wounds.

But then he went ahead and died anyway.

I wasn’t any more pleased at this outcome than Simon. But I’ll be honest: after a bit of thought, it seemed quite sensible, in the context of the story.

For all his charisma, Kamina always irked me. He did his best to support Simon, certainly, but that did nothing to change his being a constant factor in the way of Simon’s progress. Kamina was the unbearably awesome older brother to whom Simon was forced to live up, and, when faced with this situation, Simon seemed to take the route of accepting his subordinate position. He wouldn’t try to match Kamina; how could he? It becomes obvious that he can as the show progresses, but would he have ever felt the need to as long as Kamina was alive? In order for Simon to grow in a way that would put him at the forefront of everything post-time skip, I figure that Kamina more or less had to die. He was a necessary victim of the plot.

It’s really quite tragic, I think — especially for me. I know what it’s like for the progress of a younger brother to possibly require my getting out of the way. Take it from Otouto.

Otouto-kun: I wouldn’t call you a roadblock. You’re more of a waypoint for me. Anyway, I hate to say I wanted Kamina to die, but he really had to. Alright, maybe it doesn’t pain me too much to say it, but the point is simple: he was a roadblock for Simon.

Pontifus: But did you really want him to die? From the beginning?

Otouto-kun: Nah, I didn’t want him to die, I simply understood the importance of his death. In a way, his death wasn’t only a way for Simon to grow up, but for himself as well. You could say that while he was dying he realized it wasn’t a game. He accepted his death and sort of passed the torch on to Simon. Although I could just be insane, since I’ve started looking at everything like a growing up story lately.

Pontifus: Which isn’t unreasonable, since so much anime deals with young people. But what makes me a waypoint and Kamina a roadblock? What’s the key difference there?

Otouto-kun: Well, Kamina was a leader. He took the spotlight and pretty much inspired everyone to follow him. This pushed Simon back and forced him to try to keep up. You’re more of a teacher; you have actually sat me down and taught me things. You aren’t really standing in my way. From what I’ve gathered you are perfectly fine with standing aside and letting me go when the time is right. I’m not too good at explaining things, but are you seeing what I’m saying?

Pontifus: I’m not much of a figurehead, I can tell you that much. When you go back and watch the early episodes of G-L, though, you see that Kamina was supportive of Simon all along; he always had a sense of Simon’s strengths, and seemed to rely on them. I’d agree that, in order for Simon to end up as the adult he became in the end, Kamina had to go, but I don’t think Kamina ever intended to get in the way. He genuinely seemed to want to be a good older brother figure.

Otouto-kun: You definitly speak the truth. I never saw Kamina as a bad person. The way everything played out put Simon in more of a background position though. Because of this, he was forced to try to keep up. I can understand how Simon must have felt in this situation. I think that, yes, Kamina was usually supportive of Simon, but I feel like it might have been hard for Simon to pick up on this. He probably felt kind of left out when matched up with someone like Kamina. At times I have felt, and sometimes still feel, this way about you, Aniki.

Pontifus: Simon definitely found himself in Kamina’s shadow — I think it’s safe to say that someone like Kamina casts a longer shadow than I do — but the reason this was a problem, the reason Kamina had to go, was because Simon had accepted his subordinate position. He didn’t really aspire to be anything else. And I think that Kamina even realized that Simon’s attitude wasn’t good for him, hence the “believe in you who believes in yourself” scene. Which was, incidentally, the last thing Kamina did before he died, with the exception of the Giga Drill Breaker.

The point is, we older brothers may not want to be these monolithic figures, but we really have no choice sometimes. It’s hard in a different way than being a younger sibling is hard. I have to sympathize with Kamina — I mean, it’s sad that death was literally his only option for the plot to work.

Otouto-kun: Let me just say, when you’ve lost your parents, literally or figuratively, you are going to look for the first thing that even slightly inspires you, and you’re going to follow it. When you are young, that is. Trust me. I must also say that, as a younger brother, I probably can’t truly understand the hardships of an older brother, but I feel like it’s hard for the older brother to truly understand how much his younger brother truly treasures their relationship.

It is sad that Kamina had to die, but it was because of his personality that it had to happen. If he had been more of a teacher than a role model, things may have been different.

Pontifus: The line between teacher and role model seems blurry to me. And besides, had Kamina not been Kamina, the Gurren Brigade never would’ve happened. There’s no question in my mind that Kamina had to die because of his role, but he couldn’t have been any other kind of character, either. He was doomed from the beginning, unfortunately, even if I didn’t see his death coming — I mean, I didn’t expect the show to have as much depth as it did.

You mention, though, that the older brother has a hard time understanding how the younger brother views the sibling relationship, and I think that’s probably true, but do you think Kamina’s lack of understanding was part of his “problem?”

Otouto-kun: I hate to say I’m truly sure about anything, but I feel that it was a contributing factor. I think that Kamina didn’t understand the effect his actions were having on Simon.

Pontifus: It’s the conundrum of being an older brother, I suppose. But the thing that elevates G-L beyond gar fanservice for me is that it lets people like us see the big picture. We can sit here and talk about Kamina and Simon in a way we’d never be able to manage with ourselves — we’re too close to our own situation. If I had to say Gurren-Lagann was “for” someone, I’d say it’s for us.

Otouto-kun: Well said, Aniki.

Pontifus:

Otouto-kun: True.

Pontifus: I finally realized that the purpose of critical writing isn’t to share a critic’s knowledge, it’s to teach a critic something and give other critics something to bounce their ideas off of. Remember my whole approach: there is no knowledge, only questions.

Otouto-kun: NO, NOOOOOOOOOO, DON’T SAY THAT, I just got done being pissed at critics. This brings me back to…CRITICS ARE A WASTE OF SPACE!

Pontifus: You’re a waste of space.

Otouto-kun: You’re a waste of space.

Pontifus: You are.

Otouto-kun: No, you.

Pontifus: NO U…and don’t even say I’m a waste of space because I’m not an artist, I just sent you a thousand words of creative writing that I’m pretty pleased with.

Otouto-kun: I thought you said critics are for strengthening the bond between x and y.

Pontifus: X and y being artist and reader?

Otouto-kun: Of course.

Pontifus: No, I said critics create a new x-y, with critic as x, remember?

Otouto-kun: OK, but if you are going to write about something as a critic, who are you helping if it’s for other critics?

Pontifus: It’s not for anyone…or, rather, it’s for everyone.

Otouto-kun: You just said…AAAAAAAAAHHHH

Pontifus: See, I’m in favor of a criticism that’s accessible to more than just critics. Take out all the big and borderline meaningless words and actually say something. A critic is just a reader who knows how to write a little. It’s fan fiction minus the fiction.

Otouto-kun: “I finally realized that the purpose of critical writing isn’t to share a critic’s knowledge, it’s to teach a critic something and give other critics something to bounce their ideas off of.” WHAT IS THIS?

Pontifus: Alright, it’s to give other people something to bounce their ideas off of.

Otouto-kun: I thought it was for the good of the reader.

Pontifus: I don’t know, define “the good of the reader.”

Otouto-kun: HELPING THE READER, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

Pontifus: If it’s “for” something, it’s for the unending search for knowledge — or, I mean, understanding. It’s philosophy.

Otouto-kun: Exactly, and it’s for spreading that knowledge, correct?

Pontifus: Not spreading so much as encouraging the pursuit of.

Otouto-kun: But still, it’s for helping the reader to better understand that knowledge, am I right or wrong?

Pontifus: I suppose that’s true, in a sense, though total understanding is impossible. The questions will never end.

Otouto-kun: So, as a critic, you find the knowledge and you write about it to help other critics and also to help people like me to better understand what they are reading, or watching, or playing, or anything, right?

Pontifus: If meaning in a text equates to knowledge, then yes.

Otouto-kun: Thank you, now it doesn’t seem so much like a useless club.

Pontifus: Criticism as a useless club is a common misconception…or at least I’ve decided it’s a misconception.

Otouto-kun: Well, that’s how you were talking about it; what was I supposed to think?

Pontifus: I didn’t mean to talk about it that way. I mean, I’ve talked about it like that before. It hasn’t been long since I changed my mind.

Otouto-kun: Well, I better understand now, I was just making it clear that it’s not ONLY for other critics.

Pontifus: It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t only be for anyone, at least not intentionally so.

I’m not conscripting Otouto into holding long conversations with me to avoid working on the three drafts I’m in the middle of, I swear. And even if I am, this one seemed relevant, given recent developments. I really am writing a few art-centric posts, though, so you can safely assume (more or less) that my next post will be something along those lines.

I’ve been meaning to make a fairly straightforward post about criticism and my thoughts thereupon, as that seems to be a step in the average critical aniblogger’s acquisition of internet tenure. But when an alternative presented itself, I resolved to do something a bit different. What follows is an IM conversation between myself and my younger brother, hereafter referred to as Otouto-kun (he wanted the -kun, don’t ask me why), an enterprising young hikikomori-type with game design aspirations. We got on the topic of criticism somehow, and I ended up spilling all my most recent thoughts on the subject. Being an IM conversation, it’s a bit spur-of-the-moment and rough around the edges, but I’ve cleaned it up for the sake of readability — and I think it makes a little sense, anyway. There are certainly enough of you out there to correct me if I’m mistaken.

Otouto-kun: Just remember, there will come a time when you have to choose: creator, critic, it’s a tough choice, but it must be done.

Pontifus: I don’t have to choose, I can do both.

Otouto-kun: You will be influenced too much by the one you excel in.

Pontifus: Granted, I think Eliot was a better critic than poet, but that’s just me; most people [who are English majors] love his poetry.

Otouto-kun: Which do you expect to do more, creation or criticism?

Pontifus: I can’t say…I mean, if I end up as a college professor, I expect I’ll write more criticism than fiction, because 1. it’ll pay my bills, and 2. it takes less time. Ultimately, my goal is early retirement paid for by fiction writing. I used to think there was a huge difference between the two — now, though, I’m not so sure.

Otouto-kun: On one side, you’ll be a creative critic, and on the other side, you’ll be an observant creator. I suppose I’m a lot like the way you used to be. I think the way you do it is the way it should be, but not the way it is.

Pontifus: Maybe…I [think] the majority would disagree with my ideas.

Otouto-kun: I think people shouldn’t be critics unless they create, but that’s just my opinion.

Pontifus: I agree, but artists and critics each tend not to trust the other group, without ever realizing that all critics are artists, and all artists are critics.

Otouto-kun: I rue the day when there is critical criticism; does that make any sense?

Pontifus: You mean, like, the criticism of criticism?

Otouto-kun: Yeah.

Pontifus: It’s called hermeneutics.

Otouto-kun: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

Pontifus: I actually think it’s interesting, because criticism is a kind of art, so you can analyze it…and in doing so you’re doing criticism, which is a kind of art…it’s very cyclical.

Otouto-kun: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH, IT BURNS, don’t utter those words. Criticism art, bah!

Pontifus: I like [Cuchlann's] opinion on the subject: “Derrida claimed that any work based on another work — he was primarily concerned with acts of criticism and scholarship here, probably not being aware of fanfiction at the time — is its own self-contained work, and not a kind of ‘lens’ to view the original through. That is, T. S. Eliot’s famous essay about Huckleberry Finn is just as much an original piece of work as his The Waste Land is. The audience for criticism, then, reads criticism to get ‘something good’ out of it, just as they might read the ‘original’ pieces that the criticism is based on.” Derrida is a lunatic of a theorist, by the way.

Otouto-kun: I hate to see criticism; I feel like the only relationship that need be is the one between artist and viewer.

Pontifus: You’re making the mistake of viewing criticism as some kind of confounding influence. It seems to me that you think of criticism as something that jumps between the artist and the reader/viewer.

Otouto-kun: Umm, yeah, I guess you could say that. I applaud what they are trying to do, but I don’t think it can be done.

Pontifus: Well, I’ll refer back to my quote of Cuchlann quoting Derrida. Criticism is a text in and of itself. It creates a new relationship, one between (surprise, surprise) writer and reader/viewer.

Otouto-kun: Damn it, you’re getting all critical on me. Like I said, I applaud what they are trying to do, but is it happening?

Pontifus: What do you think they’re trying to do?

Otouto-kun: I don’t know; like you said once, you have to drop the reader/writer mindset to be a critic, but in my opinion that leaves out all of the feeling. I just feel like it’s not helping the writer/reader or, in my case, player/creator relationship. To me it feels like a mass of smart words without feeling.

Pontifus: Well, a lot of people would agree with you, but what are they trying to do that they’re failing at? In other words, they’re turning out a mass of smart words instead of…?

Otouto-kun: What true criticism needs to be. A love for the art, but still…I can’t think of that word, it means you can’t pick a side, hate it or love it you…fuck.

Pontifus: Objective?

Otouto-kun: Yeah.

Pontifus: Say, for example, I can look at Lucky Star and say, “Well, this is pretty boring, but I can accept it as art.”

Otouto-kun: Yeah.

Pontifus: But what you’re saying is that, in the face of that, of being able to genuinely dislike something and accept it anyway, the critic needs to have a love for all art. The critic doesn’t have to like it, but by God the critic has to love it. Because if that’s your point, I absolutely agree.

Otouto-kun: Well yeah. Not exactly where it was going in the beginning, but yeah.

Pontifus: I think that’s part of love, whether we’re talking criticism or human beings, being able to accept something in spite of (and sometimes because of) its flaws. To be a critic, you must love art — not one work of art, but all art, just because it’s art. And your complaint is that love of art doesn’t come across most of the time?

Otouto-kun: I’m confused now; that’s what I was saying, but I’m second-guessing myself.

Pontifus: How so? I mean, on what point?

Otouto-kun: I guess I looked past what the critic can do, and what he/she has to do. I guess I took objectivity as no love for the art. Also, I realized I need to start being objective; it’s similar when you’re a creator.

Pontifus: Well, I’d argue that true objectivity is impossible, and that what you’re calling objectivity is just love of art, but I think you’re right in that the artist and critic should have a similar love of art. That doesn’t mean you have to like every marginally artistic thing you see; it just means you can look beyond your own dislike for it.

Otouto-kun: Yeah.

Pontifus: I mean, the artist in particular has a lot to learn from the successes of the past.

Otouto-kun: Of course.

Pontifus: I don’t like Eragon, I think it’s a triumph of good marketing over any kind of requirement for good writing…but tough shit, it made that little rich kid even richer. Something went right in that situation even if it was only situational. Granted, I didn’t learn a whole lot from reading it.

Otouto-kun: That’s something else that kicks my balls.

Pontifus: Commercialization?

Otouto-kun: Writers who have no love for what they write. How much do you think he really put into those books?

Pontifus: You know, I don’t fault the kid for being inexperienced; I have no reason not to believe he has passion. He just has a lot to learn. It’s hard to write something that long and not love what you’re doing…fuck, I love writing fiction, and I get too dissatisfied with my writing to continue longer than a few thousand words without stopping in frustration.

Otouto-kun: I’m no Picasso myself — in fact, I suck — so I suppose if I had a chance to easily get something published, I would take it. Damn it, we’re arguing the same point.

Pontifus: I mean, most people at his level of talent end up on FanFiction.Net or deviantART…he just happened to come from a family of publishers. Like I said, it’s situational. I don’t fault him in any way, though.

Otouto-kun: You know what? I can’t truly say anything about those books; I haven’t read them. All I know is he blatantly used things from other artworks.

Pontifus: Yeah, he is pretty obvious with his borrowings. One could argue that the borrowings being so obvious renders each of them a meta-literary reference, that the Eragon books are the fantasy equivalent of Ulysses…and as much as that sounds like bullshit to me, I’m bound to accept as valid any criticism, as there can be no “wrong” criticism if it’s supported by evidence. Joyce would probably be furious at that comparison…but, eh.

Otouto-kun: Oh man, Joyce…from what I’ve heard, that man was a writing god.

Pontifus: That’s because all you know of Joyce you’ve heard from me.

Otouto-kun: True.

Pontifus: I mean, here’s the thing about depth — and I’ve been talking about this a little lately — I don’t think works of art come with depth attached, I think depth is a matter of how deep someone, anyone, even if it’s only one person, is willing to dig, and if one and only one person can dig deeply into Eragon, who am I to say Eragon isn’t deep? It’s like, a hundred people on the surface can say the ground is only a foot deep, but if one person digs down twenty feet, clearly the surface-dwellers were wrong, regardless of whether they bust out shovels and dig for themselves.

Otouto-kun: I found my argument again. Well, one argument.

Pontifus: Have at it.

Otouto-kun: It’s hard for me to believe that there can be criticism of something that can be interpreted in as many ways as there are people in this world.

Pontifus: There exist people who think that the goal of criticism is to establish the “right” way of reading a text, I guess. I would argue that those people are [misguided, assuming one can even judge a critical approach]. Granted, they’d say the same of me.

Otouto-kun: I didn’t say that critics are trying to pinpoint the one correct way; it’s the opposite, in fact. How can there be criticism when there are so many ways?

Pontifus: Ah, so your question is more along the lines of, how can anyone be right?

Otouto-kun: Exactly.

Pontifus: To which I respond: how can anyone be wrong?

Otouto-kun: I didn’t say anyone could be wrong, just that no one person can be right. I guess it’s more of, there is no wrong, and everyone is right on their own.

Pontifus: I mean, what’s your complaint about everyone with some modicum of evidence being right?

Otouto-kun: That brings me back to, can there really be any such thing as criticism in a field where it all depends on the individual?

Pontifus: I don’t really understand your question.

Otouto-kun: How can there be criticism where the experience changes between each individual?

Pontifus: Well, I keep mentioning the need for evidence from the text. That’s why it’s important. Reading experiences differ, yeah, but if you can say, “Well, Leopold Bloom’s marriage is pretty tragic,” and cross-examine it with Frye and Aristotle, it doesn’t matter that most people think it’s comically ironic; they’ll be able to see where you’re coming from if you did a good enough job. (And, where that example is concerned, my grad school applications hinge upon whether I did a good enough job…)

Otouto-kun: I just don’t see the importance in that. How does that help the reader?

Pontifus: I thought you might ask that.

Otouto-kun: They see what they see no matter what.

Pontifus: Well, people have different answers because people’s goals as critics differ. My goal is, I think, to better understand human beings, and to understand the effect literature has on them, and its importance…you know, the same goals I have as a fiction writer. My goal is to raise questions. I’ll nod to Socrates here: you can’t learn if you think you already know.

Otouto-kun: Readers need questions, yes, but what about the answers?

Pontifus: No, I mean, my goal is to raise questions in readers about themselves: “huh, this could be ironic or tragic, maybe I should broaden my reading…” or “huh, this could be ironic or tragic, reminds me of my own marriage…” It reminds me of Aria. Your mind needs to be in a certain state to see itself most clearly, and literature can help it get there (so can gondolas on Mars, but that’s a different matter).

Otouto-kun: What is important about getting the reader to relate [art] with his/her life?

Pontifus: All I want to do is get readers to think. If they disagree with me, they had to decide consciously to disagree, so I’m fine with that.

Otouto-kun: To get them to better understand themselves?

Pontifus: Right.

Otouto-kun: I like it.

Pontifus: So, with any luck, I’ve answered your question about what criticism is good for, somewhere in that wall of text. But again, everyone does it for a unique reason, I’d imagine. Ask ten people, get ten answers. Actually, ask ten people, get eleven answers.

Otouto-kun: I understand.

Pontifus: And since I write fiction with the same goals in mind, I can’t help thinking of criticism and fiction writing as more similar than I used to admit. There’s also entertainment, but I think both have to be entertaining, on a certain level. I have a broad definition of entertainment.

…After which we spiraled into a largely irrelevant conversation about my ex-girlfriend, the Bible, and Catcher in the Rye, but I’ll spare you that. Feel free to leave comments for Otouto, if you like; he’s sure to see them eventually.