Hey Wisecrack, Jared here and today we’re talking the
ultimate one hit wonder, - One Punch Man.
One Punch Man is unlike any anime you’ve ever seen.
For one thing, the show parodies just about every trope in the genre.
We might examine this in a future episode, so be on the lookout for that.
Today, however, we’re looking at another way the show is unusual: there’s pretty
much no drama.
After you’ve seen one or two episodes, you know how practically all of them are going
to end: with a big-a** punch and a yawn
from the titular One Punch Man.
So how does the show remain interesting?
Well, that’s where it gets pretty smart.
Not only does it provide a hilarious take on anime but also a more subtle take on where
humanity is going as a civilization.
Welcome to this Wisecrack Edition on the Philosophy of One Punch Man.
As always, spoilers ahead.
Our protagonist is Saitama.
Once a disillusioned young man with a full head of hair searching for a job in business,
"I'm no business man, I'm unemployed. Right now I'm looking for a job."
he discovers a love for hero work that lights a fire in his eyes.
But three years later, the thrill is gone, along with that luscious hair.
While he claims to be a “hero for fun,” Saitama doesn’t seem to be enjoying it much.
"Well, that was lame."
That’s because he’s become so powerful that he can defeat any enemy with a single
swing.
Ever try to play Mortal Kombat against your mom?
It’s not fun.
That’s what it’s like for Saitama every time he fights.
"What the- I didn't even see what happened."
It would be easy to conclude from Saitama’s vacant expression and resigned demeanor that
this is a show about boredom.
Boredom is certainly a prevalent theme.
But what the show really focuses on is conflict - specifically, imagining a world without it.
In doing so it highlights the importance of conflict not only to a fictional story, but
to human experience.
The show’s abnormal story structure is key to understanding its message.
Conventional narratives, whether from a horror movie, sitcom, or action flick, are driven
by conflict.
In his book Story, screenwriting guru Robert McKee explains: “The music of story is conflict...as
long as conflict is progressing and building in the story, it moves forward in time.”
Without conflict, the characters aren’t motivated to do anything.
Thus, in a typical narrative, there’s an overarching problem that gives the characters
some purpose.
Find the bomb before it explodes.
Survive detention.
Impress the girl who’s out of your league.
"Over the course of the story, the heroes of these tales meet obstacles that force them
to change and grow.
Each of these mini-conflicts drives the narrative forward towards the climax of the story.
We can illustrate this with countless examples, but let’s go with a classic: the original
Star Wars trilogy.
When we meet Luke Skywalker, he’s an ambitious but inexperienced youth who dreams of adventure.
He faces constant challenges - the death of Obi-Wan, the loss of his hand, finding out
that the hot princess is really his sister.
"Leia."
As he overcomes these obstacles, he reaches greater heights as a character, all in preparation
for his showdown with Darth Vader.
This kind of development doesn’t happen in One Punch Man because, well, Saitama is
too damn strong.
Unlike Luke, he decimates any conflict with one swing of his fist.
Worse, he knows he can’t lose, so he doesn’t even benefit from the fear of defeat.
Absent any adversity, he has nothing to strive for.
So, with the exception of a brief flashback to his origin story, he’s basically the
same guy throughout the series.
Even Saitama’s training regiment, usually an opportunity to depict a character’s mental
and physical development, is just the same thing every day - there’s no progression.
"One hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, and one hundred squats."
"Then a ten kilometer run. Do it every single day!
As superhero power sources go, it’s pretty pedestrian, which appears to foreclose the
possibility that he has any secrets to reveal.
Since Saitama is immune to conflict, the bulk of the episodes don’t really focus on him.
He’s either not present during most of the big battles or he’s relegated to a passive observer.
"You saved me. You're pretty amazing aren't you."
Instead, they focus on the supporting characters, establishing their backstories and placing
them in challenging situations.
Genos presents a classic character arc: the wandering warrior with a chip on
his shoulder convinces a reluctant teacher to impart secrets of great power,
"Please teach me the way to become strong like you are."
also this warrior can tap his inner beast-mode and avenge past injustices.
"I have an old enemy who must be defeated at all costs. Thought the battle is not for me alone, it is for my entire hometown and productively single as well."
Think Karate Kid, or the Bride and Pei-Mei from Kill Bill, or again, Luke Skywalker.
Even the villains’ motivations are developed - like Dr. Genus, whose dismissal by the scientific
community compels him to spend 50 grueling years trying to unlock the key to humanity's evolution,
"It's all over, there's no one in this world who can stop my glorious creation."
all for it to be undercut by one lackluster punch.
"I think I'm finished dabbling with evolution."
Saitama’s motivations, in contrast, are mundane.
He’s just doing all this for fun!
"I'm just a guy who's a hero for the fun of it."
His powers don’t spring from some deep-seated pain in his past - he just did a bunch of exercise.
The ease with which he reached superhero status robs the supporting characters of any meaning
they’ve derived from their struggles.
"I did not ask to study under you to hear jokes!"
And they get pretty pissed off about it.
"You say you do this for fun? For fun? How dare you confront Mother Earth's apostle for such a mindless reason."
Worse, whenever these characters get any kind of narrative traction,
"My species won the struggle for survival. We possess the ultimate in regenerative ability."
Saitama is there to whip the carpet out from under them.
"Blah, blah, blah. Boring me out of my mind."
Just when Vaccine Man’s rage is at its peak, Saitama floors him with one punch, and all
the dramatic tension built up over the last several minutes evaporates.
The same thing happens with Genos in Episode 2.
As he fights Mosquito Girl we learn about his character.
His desire to minimize collateral damage establishes him as a good guy.
"When I first spotted her, I confirmed that there were no living beings within 500 meters in all directions."
He perseveres, even when Mosquito Girl claims one of his arms.
Despite the admirable qualities we’ve discovered in Genos, Mosquito Girl is too powerful for him.
But Genos has one final move: he plays the martyr and prepares to self-destruct and save
the city.
"I let my guard down, I have no chance of winning, all I can do is self destruct. Forgive me, doctor."
We’re trained to recognize this as the emotional climax of the episode.
But just as he’s charging up for his big moment, Saitama arrives, and destroys the
villain with ease, rendering Genos’s struggle irrelevant.
Every creative writing student learns early in their education to avoid this kind of narrative
bail-out.
It’s called a deus ex machina, a plot device whereby a character, object, or event swoops
in to solve a problem that had appeared unsolvable.
For example, in War of the Worlds, a seemingly unstoppable alien race decimates the Earth
for the entire film, only to drop dead en masse at the very end because they can’t
handle Earth’s bacteria.
Saitama is a human deus ex machina - when the situation is at its most dire, he just pops
in to save the day with his unbeatable punch - over and over again.
When a conflict fizzles out like this, we don’t only lose the narrative momentum.
We’re also deprived the opportunity for catharsis.
Catharsis is the emotional release of repressed emotions, and it’s a big part of how we
relate to stories.
We connect emotionally to narratives.
We celebrate the hero’s victories and commiserate at their defeats.
By the time we get to the climax of the story, we are set up for a big emotional payoff.
Did you tear up when you found out Quill’s mother called him her little Starlord?
"My little starlord."
How about at the end of Toy Story 3?
Of course you did - you’re not made of stone!
We respond emotionally because we relate in some way to the character or the predicament
they’re in.
In his essay “Narrating Pain,” philosopher Richard Kearney
discusses how story permits us to “repeat the past forward.”
Through the actions and personas of characters we can revisit our own lives and past experiences.
We feel sympathy for Genos, whose sad story may remind us what it’s like to lose a family member.
"He even took the lives of everyone in my family."
Our feelings of encouragement for the Mumen Rider may stem from our own experience trying
to measure up to someone that’s bigger, smarter, or stronger than us.
We don’t simply feel empathy for these characters, we’re working out some of our own issues too.
We see particularly good examples of this in Japanese media.
In post WW2 Japan, for instance, the father of Japanese professional wrestling, a guy
named Rikidozan, would fight American wrestlers styled as cheaters and villains.
Watching Rikidozan struggle, persevere, and ultimately beat the American fighters allowed
the Japanese to release some of the emotions associated with the war.
To some extent, kaiju movies such as Godzilla, which depicted mass devastation akin to the
havoc wreaked by the atomic bomb, served the same function.
And it’s not just a Japanese thing.
Following 9/11, American cinema produced numerous films that tapped into the emotions associated
with terrorist attacks.
One Punch Man is precisely the opposite -
"My acid breath will melt you into a pile of fleshy pulp."
it’s the anti-catharsis.
Sure, it LOOKS like some of those Japanese kaiju movies on the surface.
But since Saitama can destroy any enemy with minimal effort, we don’t feel the drama
of those threats in the same way Japanese filmgoers did when they watched Godzilla stomping
all over Tokyo.
We just shrug it off, like Saitama does after destroying the meteor.
"Stop worrying about it. I think we kept the damage to a minimum. Since no one died we should just call it a win."
The show has a lot of fun playing the role of emotional spoiler.
It goes out of its way to push our buttons, priming us for a big release...then depriving
us of it.
We root for the Mumen Rider because he’s an earnest underdog, clearly less powerful
than the big bad S-class heroes.
I mean he rides a bicycle for god’s sake.
"The Bicycle is for justice!"
When he works himself into a lather before a crowd of cheering onlookers, and attacks
a powerful foe despite the inevitability of his failure, we’re supposed to root for him too.
"It's not about winning or losing, it's about me taking you on right here and right now."
"You're the cyclist for justice! You can beat him! I believe in you!"
When the Sea King beats him down, instead of some recognition of the drama of the situation,
we get:
"Nice fight man, you should be proud of yourself."
Totally anticlimactic.
Of course, all this is supposed to be funny, and it is.
But the show isn’t just playing for laughs.
It’s highlighting what’s missing in a life without conflict.
Japanese theorist Masahiro Morioka has observed the way our civilization’s drive to minimize
pain and discomfort has actually drained value from our lives.
By and large, life is easier than it’s ever been.
On the surface, it may seem that our ability to reduce pain is good, because it’s enabled
us to increase our pleasure and comfort.
But to Morioka, in doing so we gradually “lose the opportunity of experiencing the joy of
life that comes from encountering an unwanted situation and being forced to transform ourselves
to find a new way of thinking and being…”
The show provides a great illustration of Morioka when Saitama recalls his first battle
against Crablante.
The win means something to Saitama because he has to struggle to achieve it.
Flash-forward three years, and we see Saitama considering some pre-packaged crab at the
supermarket.
This juxtaposition perfectly depicts how modern life has managed to iron out any hardships.
Clearly, Saitama would prefer to work for his seafood.
Through the lens of Morioka, we see that Saitama’s frustration stems not only from boredom, but
from his inability to change and progress through failure and pain.
This is clear from the first episode, when Saitama defeats Vaccine Man and experiences
not triumph, but frustration.
"Not again. All it took was one punch. Daammnn itttt!"
Without any meaningful hardship, his life has become devoid of purpose.
Just as a story requires conflict to progress, so does a human being.
The idea that ease detracts from life’s value is articulated again when Saitama reacts
to the Paradisers’ manifesto.
"We will continue to riot until food, clothing, and shelter are provided free of charge for those who do not work."
"Sounds pretty boring."
For these villains, paradise means success with no effort.
Saitama has this, and he thinks it sucks.
"I've become too strong."
Morioka agrees, writing that “a civilization without pain and suffering seems to be the
ideal of the human race.
However, I wonder if people might end up with losing sight of joy, and forgetting the meaning
of life, in a society pervaded by pain reduction mechanisms and filled with pleasure.”
In the last episode of season 1, it appears that Saitama may have finally met a genuine
challenger - finally, an enemy who can take a punch!
Even multiple punches!
"Consecutive normal punches."
But it turns out that Saitama’s been holding back the whole time.
"In that case I'll use my own final move. Killer move serious series. Serious punch!
Yup, life’s still meaningless.
"You're just too strong."
And so, in the dead fish stare of Saitama perhaps we find a warning: don’t get too
comfortable.
Be grateful for your failures, and embrace your pain and suffering, because without it,
life has no meaning.
"Oh come on. I'm back to one punch again? Daaamnn ittttt!"