Now, Iwaisawa-san is back back back — buoyed by a bigger budget and a bigger animation team (including character designer and chief animation director Keisuke Kojima) — with 100 Meters, an audacious adaptation of Uoto’s eponymous manga.

100 Meters’ set-up — two sprinters, natural runner Togashi (Tôri Matsuzaka) and scrappy contender Komiya (Shôta Sometani), meet and train together as schoolboys before becoming racetrack rivals as adults — is pretty standard sports drama material. Iwaisawa-san’s execution of that story however, in his now-signature rotoscope-heavy style, is anything but. Using a striking mix of eye-catching animation techniques that blur the lines between the internal and external battles being fought on-screen, 100 Meters is a kinetic anime that finds Iwaisawa-san pushing the boundaries of the genre and, at its best, the medium itself.

With 100 Meters now available to stream widely on Netflix and having recently had a buzzing, packed-out screening at this year’s Cardiff Animation Festival (in partnership with Kotatsu Japanese Animation Festival), Skwigly headed down to the figurative track to speak with director Kenji Iwaisawa all about making his anime sports movie epic. On your marks… get set… go!

How did you first encounter Uoto’s 100 Meters manga? And what was it about the story that resonated with you enough to want to make a feature from it? I read somewhere that you were into sports yourself when you were younger.

I first read Uoto’s Orb: On the Movements of the Earth, my enjoyment of which naturally piqued my interested in the author. Put simply, a dive into his other works led me to 100 Meters. Regarding why that book especially resonated with me, as far as I’m aware, prior to my movie there had been no Japanese feature-length film, live-action or otherwise, revolving around the 100 metre sprint. So, along with the chance to adapt a work by Uoto, making such a film felt like a worthwhile challenge to me.

And yes, I did play sports when I was younger. I played baseball when I was a student, but our team wasn’t particularly good, so I suppose that experience did not directly influence this film. I will say, however, that the basic experience of having played sports myself means that I find stories about athletes to be relatable. I’ve always enjoyed learning about the lives of professional athletes of all kinds, whether it be through films, non-fiction books, or online articles. I think that this interest has certainly influenced my work on 100 Meters.

Your debut movie, On-Gaku: Our Sound, was a very low budget production that took more than half a decade to make. It is clear watching 100 Meters that you had more money and a greater pool of resources to work with this time around. How did directing On-Gaku: Our Sound, with all of both the financial challenges and creative freedoms of a low-budget production, help prepare you for making 100 Meters?

Yes, On-Gaku: Our Sound was made on an extremely low budget, which was the reason for the seven and half years that it took to complete it. The larger budget available to us for 100 Meters allowed us to complete the animation in just two years, with the help of many highly skilled professionals, although we were still able to incorporate the kind of flexibility associated with independent filmmaking, employing methods that were not bound by established industry rules. In short, our experience making On-Gaku: Our Sound helped us develop a unique approach that did not rely entirely on conventional commercial production practices. A significant number of our team members had little-to-no experience working on commercial animation productions, but despite that lack of experience, they were still an enormous asset to the project.

There was nothing in particular that surprised me when making 100 Meters, but I found that commercial animation production tends to divide responsibilities into very specialised roles, for better or worse, and involves many layers of review and approval. That style of production is not the sort to which I am typically accustomed, so it took a little getting used to.

The way a character moves is such a vital part of animation, and of visual storytelling in any medium. Here, the importance of movement — and what that says about your characters — is even greater. How did you approach crafting the running styles of Togashi and Komiya in this film? And what did you want the way they move to say about who they are as people?

Each character’s running style was based on the running form of a real person, which we then adapted into animation. For the running models, Togashi was given a clean, orthodox form that we considered befitting a standard protagonist, while Komiya’s form was designed to be more distinctive because he is not the type of person who comfortably fits into a conventional mould.

For the everyday scenes, we held auditions for rotoscope actors and selected performers whose image closely matched each character. During the live-action filming sessions, we were able to work together with the actors to develop their characters’ movements, and I think that collaboration is reflected in the final film. Artistic licence was added during the animation stage, but in most cases the animation is based on the live-action performances, adjusted where necessary to make the movement clearer and more effective as animation.

What was your guiding philosophy when it came to executing the race sequences? As a viewer, it feels almost as if you find ways to stretch time itself here, honouring the characters’ struggle both internally and externally in a way I haven’t really seen before. The only comparison I could even begin to think of is perhaps Takeshi Koike’s Redline, which also managed to create a staggering sense of speed while finding space to follow the psychology of its characters.

For the race sequences, I had already decided that the final race would be highly stylised through various animated techniques, so I designed the preceding race scenes with the goal of building up to that climactic race.

One of the defining characteristics of the 100 metre sprint is that the race itself is over in about ten seconds, and I wanted audiences to experience that same sensation of something ending in an instant. At the same time, because the film needed to portray many races, I occasionally stretched the action for entertainment purposes, allowing viewers to spend more time with certain moments and making them more memorable. However, coming up with enough variation between the different race scenes was a real challenge.

Can you tell us a little bit about the challenges of animating that breathtaking long take sequence in the rain? How does a sequence as ambitious as that make it from the storyboard to the screen? And how soon into the process of conceiving 100 Meters did you know this would be a major part of the movie?

The idea for the long-take sequence during the rainy final race came to me before full-scale production on 100 Meters began, when I went to watch an actual track-and-field competition. In that sense, you could almost say that the film 100 Meters began with that long rainy sequence. It was a scene that I considered absolutely essential to realize if I was going to make this film. Because the 100 metre sprint is an event that starts and finishes in the blink of an eye, I felt that a single continuous shot lasting three minutes and forty seconds would have a particularly powerful effect. I believe it allowed us to capture the tension and atmosphere of the moment.

100 Meters (Dir. Kenji Iwaisawa, Image: GKIDS)

This, to me, feels like a love letter to the human spirit. A love letter to the passion that enables us all to pursue what inspires us and achieve our goals. Where did your passion for animation begin? And what gives you the fuel to keep pursuing that passion to this day?

I would like works of art to be present for people in the way you describe, so I would naturally be very happy if this film serves as a source of motivation for those who watch it. My passion may not be for animation itself; rather, the driving force behind my filmmaking is the endless possibilities that it presents.

The Japanese animation industry has a large market, and most productions are created simply to supply that existing demand. As a result, there is relatively little diversity in genres and forms of expression. Rather than creating works aimed at an already established market, I am more interested in developing markets that have not yet been fully established. I believe there is real potential in doing that, and that belief continues to motivate me.

And one final question if I may. Do you have a favourite sports movie? Or a personal sporting hero?

It’s not a film, but I really enjoyed the Netflix drama series Sanctuary, which depicts the world of professional sumo wrestling. I appreciated the fact that the production did not rely on major star actors in its principal cast, which is somewhat unusual in Japan, and instead pursued a convincing sense of realism.

As for a sporting hero, for someone of my generation it would have to be Ichiro Suzuki.* Many athletes who perform at the highest levels of sport seem to possess their own unique philosophies. Reading their interviews and watching documentaries about them sometimes provides inspiration for my own creative work.

100 Meters is available to UK viewers on Netflix

*Ichiro Suzuki is a Japanese player widely considered to be one of the greatest ever. He retired from the game in March 2019 having spent a large part of his career in the MLB in the US, and as of last year is a member of the National Baseball Hall Of Fame.

The post 100 Meters | Interview with Kenji Iwaisawa appeared first on Skwigly Animation Magazine.

Naoko Yamada’s ‘The Colors Within’ (Credit Gkids)

Ever since making her major directorial breakthrough with anime sensation K-On! in 2009, Naoko Yamada has repeatedly proven herself one of the most singular and distinct voices in Japanese animation today. One of the few women directors to have successfully forged a career within Japan’s traditionally testosterone-filled anime industry, Yamada has garnered a reputation for her musically dynamic, aesthetically vibrant, intensely character-focused work over the past decade and a half. From Tamako Market to A Silent Voice, and from Liz And The Blue Bird through The Heike Story to Garden Of Remembrance, Yamada’s oeuvre has always been tantalisingly touched by the magical, whilst simultaneously remaining steeped at every turn in the kind of slice-of-life vérité that shoots straight for the heart.

With Yamada’s latest movie, The Colours Within, the filmmaker’s zest for life and love of music has never been more apparent — and nor has her mastery of her craft. Set at an all-girl Catholic high school, Yamada’s film — her first feature for anime outfit Science SARU — centres around Totsuko Higurashi (Sayu Suzukawa), a teenage girl with a sort-of synesthetic condition that enables her to see, well, the colours within those around her. Among those colours is the azure blue of Kimi Sakunaga (Akari Takaishi), whose arrival in Totsuko’s life — along with soft-spoken thereminist Rui Kagehira (Taisei Kido) — sparks a flame that quickly leads to the impromptu formation of a band, and of bonds between the trio that will prove life-changing in more ways than one.

As much a tender exploration of identity and self-discovery as an impassioned paean to the power of music and its capacity to say all the things that words alone can’t quite reach, The Colors Within, with its deeply expressive use of colour, beautifully realised characters, and ambitious, earworm-filled soundtrack, perfectly encapsulates all of that which has made Naoko Yamada such a major name in the world of Japanese animation. It’s also the latest product of a maverick director-composer collaboration between Yamada and multi-instrumentalist Kensuke Ushio that stretches all the way back to A Silent Voice.

Ahead of The Colors Within’s UK release on 31 January, 2025, Skwigly sat down with Naoko Yamada and her long-time composer Kensuke Ushio to discuss the duo’s latest collaboration, their formative moments as artists, and the filmmakers and musicians who inspire their work.

Watching The Colors Within, I was really struck by both how personal and specific Totsuko’s story feels. Where did this story come from, Naoko, and how early in the process did you know you wanted Kensuke to return as your composer?

Naoko Yamada: This was an original film, and when I was thinking about what kind of story I wanted to tell, what kind of atmosphere I wanted to create, I knew that I didn’t want to restrict meaning by using words. I wanted to give the audience the opportunity to use their imagination as much as possible. I also knew that I wanted to make a film that people would be able to feel. And when I was thinking about how to do that, I thought firstly of sound, and secondly, of colour — and then the story grew from there. The films that I tend to work with Ushio-san on are ones where feeling is important, where I want to express something beyond words. That was the case with A Silent Voice, and that was the case again here. So yeah, I thought he would be perfect.

Kensuke Ushio: And I do my best to get her to want to work with me on everything!

The interplay of sound and image here is a real joy to behold: it feels like this film is a perfect embodiment of animation at its purest. What does your collaborative process look like on a project like this? Does the music come first? Or the imagery? Maybe a bit of both even?

NY: I always try to have the images first, but usually I start with the scenario and then move on to the storyboard. That being said, before the storyboard, I will meet with Ushio-san, and he will often start to write the music based on what he has felt and the inspiration that he’s taken out of that meeting. So although the visuals start to move quite quickly, it often feels like the music is happening in parallel.

As we’ve touched upon, you guys have worked together across several projects now. How has working together influenced, or perhaps even changed, the way each of you approaches your own art?

NY: Well, Ushio-san is a musician in his own right. He uses the name Agraph, and I was already a fan of his music before we met. So when I was directing, when I was writing scenarios, drawing storyboards, I often felt that the way that I expressed myself was kind of similar to the way he structured his music. I felt this resonance, which I guess is why I reached out to him to work together in first place. Now, we obviously collaborate, but it wasn’t so much that my way of working ever changed… rather, I think there was this sense of relief working with Ushio-san. I always thought that my methods, my storytelling grammar, was a bit unusual, but it was a relief to discover that someone else worked in a similar way. This collaboration has helped me to accept that individuality, and it has given me the courage to keep working In that way — and I still experience that now.

KU: interestingly, I was also a fan of Naoko before we worked together. And I too felt that shared sensibility. What’s interesting is she comes across as this genius, but actually she has worked really hard to produce everything that she produces. She really gets her hands dirty and suffers for her craft, and it’s the same for me as I’m working through each millisecond of sound. I am hating every second, but I’m still going, and I keep going, and I keep crawling forward. And I sympathize with that, because that’s Naoko’s way of working as well. And like she said, it’s not so much that I’ve changed my way of working because of my collaboration with her so much as it’s given me a sense of affirmation for the way that I already am… and it’s working with her that makes it easier to take the first step. I don’t need to hesitate with Naoko, and I know that we both put our all into it, and that’s the way that we’ve continued to work together. And it’s great.

Naoko Yamada’s ‘The Colors Within’ (Credit Gkids)

That’s beautiful to hear, thank you both for sharing. Something else we should discuss is the verisimilitude you bring to your work, Naoko, the human, life-like flourishes in your animation. There are all these beautifully heightened sequences in The Colors Within and fantastical flourishes, but often the way that your films move and the way that your characters convey emotion feels like live action cinema. You’ve spoken before about being a big fan of the Czech filmmaker, Jan Švankmajer, who brings similar qualities to his stop motion films. Can you talk a little bit about your relationship with Švankmajer’s filmography and how that has impacted your own approach to animation?

NY: I love, love, love Švankmajer! And when I first saw his work, I was struck by the rawness of the interior world that it depicted. I discovered him when I was young, when I was starting to think that I wanted to create, and so it had a really big impact on me. Nowadays, you may not see much of his influence there directly in the images that I create, but I think the way that he shows people’s feelings, thoughts, individual problems, is something that continues to influence and guide me. And his style… gosh! My favourite of his work is Conspirators Of Pleasure, a film that feels really personal, and it’s something that has helped me hugely as an individual. I’ve always felt that as long as he is working, as long as he is creating, then I want to create as well.

One of the things that really lingers long after watching The Colors Within is how it serves as this really wonderful testament to that formative moment in adolescence where you discover your passion in life, whether that’s as an artist, as a person, or — as is the case here — both. Can you both recall that moment of electricity in your own early years that made you realise your passion as an animator Naoko? As a musician, Kensuke?

NY: Honestly, it was seeing the work of Jan Švankmajer… he had such a profound impact on me. His work showed me the breadth of techniques that there are in animation and made me inspired me to want to create animation myself.

KU: I decided that I was going to be a musician in the fourth year of primary school. And there was a guy in Japan, [Vampire Hunter D composer] Tetsuya Komoro, who was big at the time and surrounded by all these cool synthesizers. He was like a Japanese version of Stock Aitken Waterman! [Laughs] That was my source of passion.

Before we let you both go, we couldn’t miss the chance to ask about something that came up in an interview you did a couple of years ago, Naoko, where you were asked about the filmmakers who inspire you and you named John Carney. For fans of your work and Carney’s, there are definite parallels between the way that you both explore human stories using music, and how you incorporate song in a way that feels very true to life. Is there a connection there between you both as filmmakers? And do you have a favourite Carney film?

NY: I always talk about Once when I talk about John Carney. For me, his love of music and affinity for music spills over from his films, and you can feel the love that there is in the way that he looks at his characters, too. He’s someone that I do feel I have things in common with as well, as a filmmaker and in the way we look at things.

And have you shown Kensuke the joys of John Carney yet?

NY: He’s seen Sing Street, and I’ve still got to introduce him to Once yet. But then I’ve not seen Begin Again. So there’s those, and I think they’re the main three you can really get in Japan. But yes, I’m working on it!

And one very last thing before you leave us, we’d like to think that this isn’t the last time we’ll see Naoko Yamada and Kensuke Ushio’s names together on a project. Your collaborations have always been so fruitful and you clearly work so well together. Do you have any plans already for your next team-up?

KU: Of course we have! [Laughs all round] You just need to make sure you push that question more to her.

So, Naoko? Plans?

NY: [Extended laughter] There’s always plans…

The Colors Within will be in UK cinemas from 31st January 2025.

The post Interview: Naoko Yamada – ‘The Colors Within’ appeared first on Skwigly Animation Magazine.