Tsugumi Project: Theme as a Backpack
What even is humanity, and can it look like a chair?
Preface
Tsugumi Project snuck onto my radar at a strange time. I had just finished Gachiakuta Volume 1 and felt a profound connection to it. Usually when I have that strong of a connection to a story, it’s hard to follow it up. But then I met Tsugumi Project.
I try not to use hyperbole often, if ever, but when I say that Tsugumi Project is unlike any manga I’ve experienced before, I mean it. I’ve seen a lot of cool concepts and unique angles, but on the whole, Tsugumi Project looks, feels, and means different than most manga.
Sure, the journey is still very manga, and the growing cast is too, but… just trust me. Or read it yourself. It’s different. It takes a storytelling element I try to never think about—like, ever—and makes it a joy to think about.
Preface over!
The first time I watched Suzume, I found myself pretty bewildered, maybe even a tad upset, when Souta became a chair. I had just started to take a liking to him, and all of a sudden, he’s just… a chair. It robbed him of his humanity, right? I mean, he’s a chair. I felt a strong, albeit curious and unexpected detachment from him. It took me a second to settle back into the fact that it was still Souta.
Humanity can look like a chair. Go figure.
Generally speaking, I try to never ever think about theme when telling a story. Part of writing for children (my gig) is that kids can sniff out being preached to a mile away. You can tell them a story about human chairs saving the world from butts, but the minute you start making it an allegory for eating vegetables, they’re out. As well they should be, that sounds like a terrible allegory.
Adults are much the same, because adults are just older children.
Hello Tsugumi Project. A story with a theme so tangible that it essentially just saturates the entire story. And even as it does, it never gets in your way or prevents your enjoyment of the series. Yet you may find yourself surprised as you consider what it means to be a human.
In manga, themes can come cheap. The theme of One Piece? Try hard. The theme of Black Clover? Try hard. The theme of Hunter X Hunter? Try hard. Sure, there are other themes, like "trust your friends” or “good always wins” but themes don’t get too deep in most manga—especially of the shonen variety—and honestly, they just don’t need to. There are so many other emotionally resonant and enriching aspects of any given series to make it worthwhile. Not to mention standouts like Chainsaw Man that really do a fantastic job with meaningful themes bandying alongside all the traditional elements like character building.
I got side tracked. Back to Tsugumi Project. The theme? A question: What is humanity? What does humanity look like? Does it have to look human to be human? I’m expounding, but you get the point. Through volume four of Tsugumi Project, every narrative choice seems to exude that theme, or feed into it.
Two examples. The first: There’s a scene where we get to see a section from the perspective of Tsugumi, a little girl with limbs like chicken legs. It’s unnatural, you might say, on first look, but when you see the world through her eyes, you realize she’s just a regular child.
With chicken legs, but still a child.
Like Souta. He’s a chair, but still a human.
The second example: There’s a beautiful moment in volume four when this theme really sets in. Tsugumi, the young girl with the chicken legs, and Sanaki, a large, gorilla warrior woman, are having a back and fourth that is juxtaposed with the human protagonist Leon and his wife in a flashback. Their dynamics are so similar as to reflect each other. It’s artfully done, it’s meaningful, and yet it’s never too much to feel preachy. Perhaps because the theme is more of a question than an assertion, but regardless, the theme works so well because it essentially acts like a backpack on the back of plot and character and setting. It’s never forced, it’s never unnatural. It’s along for the ride.
And that there is the key to theme. It’s at its best when it never has to stand alone. If the theme is piggybacking plot, or character, it’s never going to get in the way. Dedicate scenes solely to theme, and you start running into preachy issues.
In the first example, we need to understand why Tsugumi is acting the way she is (like a spurned child) and through her eyes, it makes the most sense.
In the second example, it’s an important conversation between Tsugumi and Sanaki where we learn more about there history, while also filling in the backstory of how Leon and his wife met, which factors into the present push of the story.
Storytelling is all about balance, and for Tsugumi Project, the theme is added to the balancing act. In a best case scenario, which this story is so far, while theme becomes its own element, it also doesn’t need to walk on its own. It can latch onto other elements. In the case I alluded to with the parallel scenes, it is latched on to character.
There are themes woven throughout essentially any mainstream narrative. Lord of the Rings reminds us time and again that even the smallest person can make a difference. I mean, Galadriel just out and says it at one point, and she says it directly to Frodo, the small person making a difference. But there are other themes at play too, plenty to choose from, whatever resonates with you on any given day. Hope in the darkest of times, never giving up, yada yada.
In Star Wars, we have the constant reminder that good triumphs over evil, even when the odds are stacked against them. It’s everywhere. Does it affect your ability to enjoy the story? Not at all. That’s theme done right. It’s there if you want it, it’s not if you don’t. Does it make the story better? Eh. On some days. When I’m feeling particularly rebellious, sure, I love seeing this ragtag bunch take down an evil empire. Some days I just don’t want to think.
Let’s think back to that bit from a few paragraphs ago, about how theme should never exist on its own in a scene. Taking these two mainstream examples, the closest you get is Galadriel outright telling Frodo that even the smallest person can change the course of history. She is literally preaching to him, and to the audience. But! His confidence has started to waiver, and this is her way of building him back up again. Still, it’s asking you to do a little bit of extra work to connect with the theme and think on it a bit. And yeah, you may come away with a bit of a reward, but you also may just roll your eyes and fast forward to the Fellowship fighting the Uruk Hai on the banks of the river.
Tsugumi Project doesn’t ask you to do any extra work, but you still get that extra reward whether you want to or not. It’s all there, it’s impossible not to engage with, but it’s done in such a way, primarily through not outright drawing too much attention to it, that I actually found myself asking these questions solely because of the appearance of the seemingly non-human characters, the manner of their speech, and even the lettering, how Sanaki’s words were in a different font.
Small details that cue big thoughts.
A closing, tangential note. I’m currently writing my critical thesis in my MFA program about the role that monsters play in children’s literature. Yeehaw, right? Monsters, like chairs in Suzume or chicken legs on Tsugumi, can stretch our perspective of what’s human. It’s important for children to get that early dose of perspective, because it encourages them to challenge what they see, and what’s based solely on appearance or assumption.
For instance, if it walks like a chair and looks like a chair, it still may be a human named Souta. I’m having trouble letting this go.
For creative writers: What is your theme, and how actively are you thinking about it?
For fans of Tsugumi Project: Have you been thinking about the theme? Do you question humanity?