Preface: “Why do so many Japanese people make the two-finger ‘peace sign’ in photographs?” is one of the perennial What’s Up With Japan questions. Sadly, the answer given usually derives from a half-assed Google search in which most of the pages found are just quoting Wikipedia anyway.

This article attempts to summarize what is reliably known about the matter at the present time, with links to related information online where possible. Readers are invited to add any evidence of their own, including verifiable sources, in the comment thread.

Part A: V for “Victory”

A1. V-sign for “Victory” (Europe): Promoted by various Allied groups during WWII to symbolize local cognates of “victory.” Gestural V-sign made famous worldwide when adopted by Winston Churchill.

A2. V-sign for “Victory” (Japan, post-war): Churchill-style V-sign hypothesized to have been introduced into Japan by Allied occupation. Evidence scarce.

A3a. V-sign for “Victory” (Japan, pre-Bubble): Enters popular consciousness in late 1960s via baseball manga/anime Kyojin no Hoshi 『巨人の星』 (”Star of the Giants”). Hero Hyūma believes father has not come to say goodbye at train station as he departs for Kōshien, but father appears at last moment and throws up V. Hyūma recognizes it as “the V-sign of victory!” (”Shōri no V-sain!“) and resolves to win.

A3b. V-sign for “Victory” (Japan, pre-Bubble): In 1969, creators of girl’s volleyball manga Sain wa V 『サインはV』 (”V is the sign”) are inspired by A3a to drench product in V-sign — like early hip-hop producers taking only best part of drum break and repeating over and over. Sain wa V adapted into live-action drama and, like Kyojin no Hoshi, became leading hit in ongoing “sports grit” (スポーツ根性, スポ根) boom. Meaning of V-sign is spelled out in opening lines of theme song: “V, I, C, T, O, R, Y/ Sain wa V!”

A3b-supplement. Comment from Jimbo Shirō 神保史郎, writer of original Sain wa V manga:

I respected [Kyojin no Hoshi writer] Kajiwara Ikki. He was the sort of writer I wanted to become. The scene in Kyojin no Hoshi when Hoshi Hyūma is about to set off for Kōshien, and then his father appears and thrusts out that V-sign made a big impression. In a meeting with the editors, I suggested that we call our new story V Mexico, since the Mexico Olympics were coming up and all. After a lot of debate, we decided that Sain wa V was more straightforward and worked better. (Source: Inose Naoki 猪瀬直樹’s Mikado no kuni no kigōron 『ミカドの国の記号論』 (”Semiotics in the land of the Mikado”), 1991.)

Part B: V for “Peace”

B1. V-sign for “Peace” (USA): Exact origins unclear, but seems to date from 1960s’ U.S. counterculture, and in particular, anti-Vietnam War (= pro-peace) sentiment. Gradual dilution to symbolize solidarity in struggle against The Man as well as simple “peace.”

B2a. V-sign for “Peace” (Japan): As elements of counterculture spread to Japan, so does V-sign. Adopted by student radicals of late 1960s as well as relatively apolitical followers of foreign fashions. (Possible inspiration for A3a?)

B2b-supplement. Many sources cite Japanese popularity of Janet Lynn, U.S. figure skater and heartwarming dojikko, during and after the 1972 Sapporo Olympics as likely inspiration, claiming that she was often shown in the Japanese media flashing the peace sign. No evidence located.

Part C: V for “Cheese”

C1. V-sign in photographs: “Victory” (?) (Japan): Current oldest known example in poster for 1960 film Oku-man choja 『億万長者』 (”The Millionaire”) clearly shows Nakahara Hitomi 中原ひとみ making V-sign and smiling at camera. (Discovery credit: Kepel-sensei.)

C2. V-sign in photographs: “Peace” (Japan): In 2007 episode of Downtown DX, Inoue Jun 井上順 claims to have popularized V-sign in photographs via 1972 Konika commercial, in which he ad-libbed use of the V-sign by photographed persons, inspired by anti-war movement.

C3. V-sign in photographs: “Cheese” (Japan): All sources agree that by 1980s, use of V-sign in photographs was unremarkable and spreading slowly up the age scale.

Part D: Conclusions and unresolved questions

D1. Timeline synthesized from information above:

• V-sign becomes powerful, positive gesture during WWII
• Use of V-sign as part of photography pose dates back to at least 1960
• Revitalization of V-sign as counterculture “peace” sign in ’60s/’70s coincides with period in which Japanese youth was both interested in U.S. youth culture and had means to import its artifacts and habits
• However, early connection to “victory” was not forgotten: use of V-sign to mean “victory” had extremely high visibility in youth-targeted media around 1970
• Thus, at this time, “victory” and “peace” meanings may have reinforced each other, raising profile of gesture still higher. (E.g. Inose suggests that Kajiwara was inspired to write Kyojin no Hoshi V-scene by strong media presence of V-flashing anti-war demonstrators.)
• Meanwhile, rising incomes and many Japan-based camera makers meant more photos by non-professionals → space for photography folkways to develop (encouraged by camera companies, e.g. Inoue Jun’s CM story)
• Post-1980, gesture has lost emotional resonance and becomes part of “camera pose,” eventually to develop into modern variations that flatter face shape, emphasize eyes, highlight nail art, etc.

D2. Further questions:

• Could long /i/ sound in “peace” have made it particularly attractive to photographers looking for a hipper version of “cheese”?
• To what extent can the in-photo popularity of the “peace” sign, whatever its origins, be attributed to its nature as a widely recognized performance, protecting the subject from visual capture at an awkward or vulnerable moment? (cf pouty MySpace poses, throwing the horns, etc.)
• No relation to U.S. bunny-ears photo prank? (Would one not expect such horseplay to be much more common than bombastic Churchillian V’s among occupying GIs?)
• Did GHQ in fact use mind control or genetic engineering to impose “peace” sign on Japanese nation, as reportedly hypothesized by Igeta Seiichi (aged 17)?

Ozu Yasujirō. Terayama Shūji. Mizoguchi Kenji. Just a few of the legendary directors whose cinematic oeuvres we cheerfully ignore on our way to the screwball comedies and yaksploitation flicks. No more pretending: it is time to acknowledge — nay, revel in — the pleasures of… Lowbrow Classics of Japanese Cinema.

The obvious follow-up to our holiday coverage of ’80s ski classic Watashi wo Ski ni Tsurettete! — the Orient’s answer to Hot Dog…The Movie, if you will — is its official follow-up from creators Hoichoi Productions: Kanojo ga Mizugi ni Kigaetara 『彼女が水着にきがえたら』. A proper translation of the Japanese would result in the relatively sexy “When she changes into her bathing suit…” but alas, they stuck on their own blander English title: Urban Marine Resort Story. Between the original Japanese wording and the ad campaigns, viewers probably expected gratuitous and invasive close-ups of starlets prancing around in skimpy bikinis. What they got is something as austerely unerotic as the phrase “Urban Marine Resort Story.”

I guess I should describe the nominal plot holding together this full-length product placement extravaganza: two rich men battle over women and honor on the seas of mythical Shonan in yacht and sailboat, respectively. These old fellers have a tradition of playfully stealing women off the boats of the other. On one luxurious yacht outing with regally-perverted “Bad Guy” Yamaguchi (Ibu Masato), two members of this holiday weekend’s Team Chattel — virgin Tanaka Mariko (Watashi wo Ski ni Tsuretette!’s Harada Tomoyo) and whore Ishii Yasuyo (Itoh Kazue) — get separated from friends on a SCUBA dive (complete with a ten-minute choreographed DPV-swimming scene) and end up discovering the location of a lost Korean War plane, which we later find out is filled with riches. (The superficial friend Yasuyo notes that she could buy a Chanel suit, a Bulgari watch, and an Audi with that kind of money.) When they finally surface, the girls are miraculously rescued by sailboat “Good Guy” (I forget his name) and his young sidekick Yoshioka, played by nearly-heterosexual Oda Yuji. Mariko and Yasuyo are then whisked via helicopter back to Yamaguchi’s boat by the Good Guy’s seventh wife, who apparently is happy playing accessory to his crazy woman-stealing adventures on the high seas.

Later, Yamaguchi’s yacht — the Amazon — is host to a semi-formal cocktail party (I guess Team Chattel brought a wide array of dresses for the three-day weekend.) As everyone is pairing off and settling into what should be a very, very long make-out session, the Good Guy sailboat team comes with a rubber motor boat and steals away Mariko and Yasuyo. Bad Guy Team Jr. pursue in matching uniforms on jet skis. Finally, the gum boat hits the shore Face/Off-style, and then: Exit Pursued by a Personal Hydrofoil. Bad Guys run into obstacles Speed Racer style, and then things unfortunately return to the airplane plot. Soon hordes of Chinese Mafia wearing identical black suits with red lining are storming upon Tokyo to find the location of this plane and its riches. They also pursue our heroes in jet skis. They are willing to use any wretched means to get the treasure — except actually kill any of the main characters with the deadly weapons they brandish.

I don’t want to ruin the end of the movie, but let’s just say that it reaches dénouement with giant harpoons. The main couple also finally consummate their budding relationship with an underwater stunt-double SCUBA kiss.
Continued »

After the television series Superdimensional Fortress Macross debuted in Japan on October 3, 1982, the fantasy lives of Japanese geeks would never be the same. Originally conceived as a slapstick parody, Macross eventually evolved into an iconic sci-fi drama brimming with now-classic anime stereotypes: the introverted protagonist who’s a total klutz with the ladies, apocalyptic imagery, grand space battles, and the first portrayals of transforming robots that felt realistic. As one of the very first anime productions created by and for hard-core fans, the success of the series played a major role in defining and legitimizing the otaku as a consumer demographic. (A demographic, incidentally, that never tires of gleefully pointing out that the premier episode of Macross contains the very first use of the eccentric second-person pronoun “o-taku” [お宅] in an anime.) Most importantly, the series and its subsequent theatrical follow-up offered an updated take on the relentless rehashing of the Japanese World War II narrative: consumer culture as an antidote to militarism.

The basic plot: in the far-flung year of 1999, a massive, uninhabited spacecraft of extraterrestrial origin crash-lands on the fictional South Ataria Island located in the Ogasawara Island chain. The continually-warring nations of the Earth lay down their arms to study and rebuild the mysterious craft, code-naming it “Super Dimensional Fortress 1” for its apparent ability to “fold” space-time. Exactly a decade later, the once quiet island is home to a bustling metropolis of scientists, soldiers, and workers who are involved with the SDF-1 project. Although the re-construction effort for the ship was ostensibly funded by a global organization called “UN Spacy,” the social culture on-board the space fortress is unmistakably Japanese. The bridge crew is staffed by a bevy of energetic and uniformed office ladies, overseen by an absentminded, pipe-smoking ojiisan named Captain Global, while the ship is defended by all-male squadrons of stalwart “Valkyrie fighter” pilots who are portrayed with salaryman-esque dedication to their jobs and “country” (i.e., the SDF-1 itself).

The story starts on the day of the SDF-1’s official launching ceremony. Now re-christened the “Macross,” apparently in reference to its huge size, the ship is about to take its maiden flight under human control when the island comes under attack. An enormous fleet of alien invaders appears in the skies over the city, intent on reclaiming its lost property. During the confusion, the rookie crew activates the SDF-1’s as-yet untested Hyperspace Fold Drive, sending the ship to the edge of our solar system along with a huge chunk of the city, island, and ocean. Although temporarily safe from enemy attacks, the fold drive “folds in on itself” and vanishes during the process, stranding the ship in deep space with tens of thousands of civilian refugees on-board.

The situation of the Macross could be seen as an apt metaphor for the shock and sense of drift Japan must have felt at the end of World War II. The inhabitants of the SDF-1 end up reacting in the same way as the families of the animators nearly four decades earlier: by rebuilding. Before long, “Macross City” has been almost perfectly reconstructed within SDF-1’s cavernous interior. The city inside the SDF-1 is microcosm of Tokyo life as seen through the eyes of the show’s young creators. Romance blossoms in video game arcades while giggling ladies linger over panty purchases at lingerie shops. The streets are lined with toy stores, restaurants, and nightclubs. Fans queue for the concerts of comely teenage idol-girl Lynn Minmei, whose fluffy tunes tackle close-to-home issues like “zero-G love” and flirting with fighter pilots. Nary a nursing home, hospital, supermarket, waste-treatment plant, garbage dump, or anything remotely outside the scope of a teenage or twenty-something otaku’s interest makes an appearance. Many anime are set in vaguely-defined foreign locales. Not Macross: the portrayal of life aboard the SDF-1 is almost defiantly Japanese, an attempt by the creators to re-cast the narrative of Japan’s role in World War II within the context of their own comfortable modern consumer lifestyles.
Continued »

Ozu Yasujirō. Terayama Shūji. Mizoguchi Kenji. Just a few of the legendary directors whose cinematic oeuvres we cheerfully ignore on our way to the screwball comedies and yaksploitation flicks. No more pretending: it is time to acknowledge — nay, revel in — the pleasures of… Lowbrow Classics of Japanese Cinema.

The year was 1987. Thanks to the Bubble Economy, Japan was awash with money, gadgets, and van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” The Onyanko Club had broken up but the first Final Fantasy was still a month away. Japanese pop culture was poised, waiting to pounce on the next big fad — preferably one that involved conspicuous consumption.

Enter Watashi wo ski ni tsuretette! (『私をスキーに連れてって』, official English title: Take Me Out to the Snowland!). The plot’s core values of love, friendship, and company loyalty converged with up-to-the-second consumerism and product placement to create an irresistible tonic for the optimistic Bubble generation. Not only did Watashi wo! kick off a mammoth ski boom that’s arguably still going strong, it’s credited with popularizing an in-flight catalog’s worth of electronics — from CB radio to waterproof cameras. The characters live in a world supersaturated with material goods, wanting for nothing. The bar scene where friends taunt the hero may appear at first to be a cliché, but when the friend’s mockery is delivered through a sampler-synthesizer he just happened to have on hand, you know that you are somewhere special.

So Watashi wo! is a wonderful time capsule — but does it still measure up as entertainment? Oh yes. Mikami Hiroshi is handsome and believable as earnest young salesman Yano Fumio, and Harada Tomoyo is in fine idol form as his romantic foil — shy, conservatively-dressed, and just incompetent enough to make Yano’s impromptu ski lessons appropriate. Mikami’s friends are rowdy in a wholesome way, and his antagonists (particularly Takenaka Naoto) are deliciously fiendish. Non-skiiers may feel that the story drags towards the end — with the tacked-on final race against time/advertisement for ski equipment — but this itself is just more enticement for audiences to become highly-involved and highly-consumptive skiiers.

One more thing about Watashi wo! that sends it into classic status: this montage of goof-off skiing tricks over Yuming’s milquetoast-rock holiday masterpiece “Koibito ga Santa Claus.”

“When you’re an adult, you’ll understand too, one day… my lover is Santa Claus!” The words of Yuming’s “trendy o-nee-san who lived next door” ring out in shopping malls across Japan every December. If you want more insight into the curious mixture of innocence and materialistic eroticism these lyrics possess, you could do worse than to see them in context, in Watashi wo ski ni tsuretette.