The Animation of Anne: Japanese Anime Encounters the Diary of a Holocaust Icon
Ramachandran, Hema, Post Script
This essay focuses on a close analysis of the Japanese anime feature film Anne no nikki ("Diary of Anne Frank"; dir. Akinori Nagaoka, 1995), and is part of a substantially larger project whose aim is to find out if there were any sustained responses to the Holocaust--the systematic mass murder of Jews in Europe by Germany's Nazi regime--from non-Euro-American subject positions. (1)
My initial research concentrated primarily on Asian responses to the horrors of the Final Solution, and I specifically did not include Japanese reactions since part of the impetus behind the project was to establish whether responses to traumatic historical events necessitated the participation or implication in the historical event of the responding parties.
Clearly, I was hoping that substantive human outrage at genocide and injustice would not be determined solely by whether or not the responding parties were directly or indirectly tied to the event(s) in question. The speculation or premise driving this research agenda was that new perspectives on the Holocaust, especially those not having any sort of direct or indirect (as in the Japanese case) association with it, might contribute to broadening the scope of the discussions on this nightmarish event and might perhaps lead to questioning in a constructive manner certain taken-for-granted senses of aspects of the event that are in wide circulation today.
Preliminary research, although exhaustive, does not indicate the existence of the kind of sustained response that I had in mind. The only significant Asian response is from Japan and it can be schematically designated by three categories: Anne Frank, Chiune Sugihara (the Japanese diplomat stationed in Kaunas, Lithuania, who saved the lives of many Jewish refugees by issuing illegal transit visas), and Steven Spielberg's Schindler's List.
Anne Frank's diary was published in Japan in 1952 (at the same time that the American edition was published) and it has since had a wide readership. However, as Matoko Otsuka has pointed out, the Japanese in general tended to identify with Anne Frank as a war victim, and did not see the Holocaust as the cause of her victimization. By the 1990s, as Otsuka indicates, the situation has changed substantively with the appearance of more publications on the Holocaust, the widespread popularity of Spielberg's Schindler's List, and media attention to the Sugihara story. In 1995, the Holocaust Education Center opened in Fukuyama City, near Hiroshima, originally initiated by Otsuka following a meeting with Otto Frank in Israel in 1971. The Center was founded with the help of Israel's Yad Vashem and is primarily designed for children, with all the exhibits placed at their eye-level and with clear and simple explanations (Otsuka 1-8). Two months after the Center opened, an "Anne Frank" exhibit was inaugurated in Hiroshima's Peace Park, a site dedicated to atomic bomb victims.
It is not very surprising then that given this new interest in the Holocaust and its uptake in the media that the country's most popular film industry today, the anime (or animation) sector, should attempt an adaptation of the most widely read Holocaust story written by a young girl who perished in the Final Solution and whose iconic status as the representative of the Holocaust has been widely noted and, not unjustifiably at times, strongly criticized.
Japanese anime is one of the country's most popular exports and for those international viewers who have had limited exposure to the genre, there are some features that immediately mark it as unique and distinctive. Japanese anime films cater to a wide variety of audiences and many of them are often serious in theme and tone, and in making an explicit appeal to adult audiences, they defy the conventional notion that animation is primarily a children's genre. So, with this characteristic in mind, one does not feel impelled to react in disbelief when one hears that Anne Frank's diary has been adapted into a feature-length animated film. However, there are other features associated with anime films that might give one serious pause when considering such adaptation. One expects narratives that are fast-paced, have bravura editing and camera work, a good dose of violence and sex, and rather frequent metamorphoses (The medium of animation is in general eminently conducive to the deployment of this latter device.) (Napier 10). These characteristics indicate a certain aversion to realism and a leaning toward excess.
Further, one of the striking, and even disturbing, aspects of Japanese anime, especially of the more popular sci-fi films, is the visual representation of characters, who tend to assume "western" features, idealized and not real, even when the context is Japanese. Napier suggests that anime characters have a distinctive physiognomy of their own, something that can be characterized as "anime style," rather than being imitations of so-called western looks (25). The point at issue is that anime characters lose all the physiological markers that one associates with social-cultural specificity: the good guys in particular invariably sport unbelievably huge eyes, indistinct facial features, flowing light-colored hair, and in this respect, seem not to differ greatly from cartoon types.
This is not to suggest that there are standard representations of "race" or ethnicity or that all people belonging to more or less "homogeneous" societies or to particular groups look alike. Rather, it is to simply note the unnerving absence in anime films of those material sensuous markers of the body that lead one to recognize that this or that human being belongs to this or that setting or has some connection to it. Such an awareness of and even desire for the indexical in visual representation does not necessarily have to be grounded in stereotypical notions of "race" or ethnicity; rather, it indicates primarily the desire to connect the human form to a string of contexts ranging from the rootedness of the local (not good or bad in itself) to the displacements of the translocal (not good or bad in itself).
Given this creation of special anime features for characters that removes them from the realm of the recognizably human, one might have balked at any proposed adaptation into anime of Anne Frank's story. Not because the Franks or their friends bore any uniquely "Jewish" features--to support or prove any such notion would be to engage in completely unrealistic and crude stereotyping, of the very kind, in fact, that facilitated the Final Solution--but simply because most viewers who've read the diary and delved into related material have a rather well-formed mental image of how Anne Frank looked since the famous photograph of her face with dark hair parted sidewise, barrette on one side, and wide shy smile with dimples graces the covers of most editions of the diary or appears somewhere inside. Many of the editions also contain photographs of the entire Frank family; some have archival pictures of the Van Pels and Pfeffer, too. It is at this very specific level of recognition that anime with its generic idealized representations might appear to be the mode most unsuitable to show Anne Frank's story on screen. Moreover, the very real horror of the immediate and larger historical context in which the diary was recorded does not ask for any irrelevant stylistic excess or technical fireworks.
Nullifying all such expectations (and fears), Anne no nikki surprises by the quality of the restraint that runs through it from beginning to end. In a radical departure from the vast majority of anime films, the character design is remarkably realistic (Yoshinori Kanemori's designs): the animated version of Anne has dark wavy hair with the trademark side part, and bears recognizable likeness to archival photographs as do, for example, Otto Frank, Margot Frank with her glasses, van Daan / Pels and Peter van Daan / Pels.
In lieu of anime's bravura editing and cinematography, we find that this film is very restrained, bearing more of a resemblance to Yasujiro Ozu's live-action films. The pace is slow and measured and the editing is contained, with different segments connected to each other by means of straight cuts. (Anime films, too, feature straight cuts but the expectation around which these are structured is different: the cuts function to motivate viewers to use their imagination to fill in the gaps and to confer continuity on the narrative (Napier 20); while the cuts in Anne no nikki impel viewers to use their knowledge of historical reality to fill in the gaps.)
It is only where exuberant action is depicted in keeping with the demands of narrative fidelity to the source text that we find a livelier technical display as, for example, in the scenes depicting the air raids and the advancing movement of the Allies. There is restraint in the gestures and movements of characters, in speech and dialogue, as well as in the music (composed by Michael Nyman). Anime's usual fast and furious action adventures replete with metamorphoses and heady cinematography give way to the depiction of the domestic everyday with the focus on Anne's intimate relationships with family members and the other inhabitants of the secret annex. This is what, I argue, history does to film: it simultaneously denatures the genre and expands its scope, and redefines audience expectations in the process.
The realism of character design and the restraint of the film subordinate generic conventions to the demands of history, provoking us to redefine the relationship between film and history. At present, there appears to be an implicit consensus among historians regarding the status of history as representation. History is considered a representation as are other media like film and television. Although history as record of the event is located squarely within the realm of representation, its preeminence over the other media remains firmly entrenched, for, the primary question that is still posed when discussing the relationship between film, for example, and history is: What do film and other media like literature and television do to history? The Japanese anime version of The Diary of Anne Frank forces one to ask the opposite question: What does history do to film? In other words, the film's departure from the norms associated with anime moves us to examine how the historical reality and record of the event, the Holocaust in this case, transform film form and aesthetics, and what implications this transformation has, in its turn, for viewer expectations.
The film opens on a misty blue-gray landscape with a long shot of a bridge in the background while a boat enters the frame from the bottom right and zips its way smoothly toward the bridge. The elegiac tone is then established right from the beginning by the image as well as by the instrumental piano music on the soundtrack. The camera then tracks to follow the flight of a group of white birds, rising slowly to get a very high-angled bird's eye-view shot, as it were, of their flight as they trace the movement of the boat. The written title--June 12, 1942, Amsterdam--establishes time and place (June 12 is Anne's birthday and the year obviously recalls the historical realities of the time in Europe). This opening sequence is recalled in the penultimate shots of the film as the inhabitants of the secret annex are carted away in a covered truck to the Gestapo headquarters in Amsterdam, along the same route but in a direction opposite to that of the movement of the boat and flight of birds.
Repetition with a difference is a strategy that is adopted throughout the film to emphasize the inevitable and incomprehensible movement of historical horror. In the beginning of the film, Otto Frank is on his way home from work, with Miep's and Kleiman's gifts for Anne tucked under his arm. In the street, a point-of-view shot from his perspective shows an older man and a young girl (father and daughter?) being boarded by Nazi soldiers into a covered truck, just like the one that he and Anne will be forced into toward the end of the film. The final shots of the empty annex rooms in disarray recall the contrasting empty shots of the neat and ordered interior of the Franks' apartment at the film's opening, suggesting that the safety and tranquillity of domestic life have been radically ruptured by historical events.
It is by means of repetition again that the increasing closeness to their doom is powerfully evoked by the scenes that depict Anne's successive birthday celebrations: in 1942 in the security of her own apartment, in 1943 in the annex when hope still animates the inhabitants, and finally in 1944 when circumstances have taken a turn for the worse--the inhabitants do not know what awaits them but we, with our extra-filmic knowledge, are aware that they will be betrayed and arrested on August 4 of that year. It is the tension between our awareness of the events that are about to transpire shortly and the relative lack of such knowledge on the part of the characters, who still live in hope, that adds to the poignancy of the final sections of the film.
The film is divided into two parts: the first part ends with the celebration of Anne's first birthday in hiding (June 1943) and is relatively upbeat and filled with hope; the second part begins with squabbles among the incarcerated inhabitants, with scenes depicting the effects of food shortage and threatening incidents that lead ultimately to their betrayal and arrest. The penultimate shots of the film that show the covered truck carrying the former inhabitants of the annex winding its way along the banks of the canal contribute to closure that is not quite closure. Since the movement of the truck mimics the movement of the boat and the birds at the beginning of the film. these shots would have served as perfect and symmetrical formal conclusion to the film. However, history intervenes to refuse the film any such neat conclusion. It is the two following sequences that form the conclusion proper of the film. After the inhabitants are taken away, a series of empty shots takes us through the different spaces of the annex, evacuated in a hurry and left in a state of disarray. The screen then fades to black, followed by a fade-in with a lit candle occupying the right portion of the frame with the red and white checkered diary on the left. The voiceover, that of a young girl, announces that she is Kitty (the name Anne had given her diary), that war ended nine months after the arrest of the annex inhabitants and that out of the eight only Otto survived, that nobody else came back, and then Kitty falls silent. Titles appear, telling us where each former inhabitant of the annex perished, in Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Mauthausen, and so on. Kitty's voice resumes, stating that many years have passed but that Anne's wishes have not yet come true, that wars and discrimination still abound but that she, Kitty, will not give up. Anne's image appears superimposed on the diary while Kitty is making these concluding remarks. The close frontal shot of the diary and candle then widens to include the entire room, followed by exterior shots with the very final shot holding on to the tops of buildings in Amsterdam in a very long take as closing credits roll down the screen and instrumental music and song take over the soundtrack. Instead of the sense of matters having found satisfactory resolution, the viewer is left with a feeling of acute loss, evoked by the shots of empty rooms and also by the titles that inform us of the senseless deaths of eight innocent people including our heroine, Anne. The elegiac assumes proportions that overflows the bounds of the merely aesthetic, with the reality of historical trauma spilling over into our present, erasing the security provided both by our distance from the past and by the fact that what we are consuming is nothing more than a representation.
The elegiac tone pervades the entire film and is not uncommon in anime films. Napier, for instance, has noted that it figures among the three principal expressive modes in Japanese anime, the other two being the festival and the apocalyptic (12). Indeed, the elegiac or the mournful sense of the transience of things has a strong presence in Japanese culture at large and is particularly in evidence in Ozu's films. The aesthetic practice referred to by the elegiac sense derives from the traditional Japanese concept of mono no aware (variously translated as the "sadness" or "pathos" of things).
The deployment of traditional aesthetic concepts in this animated film serves to effect a y double displacement. The concept is thoroughly historicized, as the elegiac does not merely refer to some general notion of "resignation" or "acceptance" in the face of fate or destiny but to the specific sense of loss activated by the representation of the historical reality of the Holocaust. Such historicization, in turn, effectively unmoors mono no aware from its Japanese cultural context to embrace a non-indigenous historical event. As a result, the Holocaust itself is subjected to the representational strategies of a social-cultural context far removed from its original location. The sort of remapping and relocation of the Holocaust evidenced in Anne no nikki preserves the fidelity of the event and of the source text, while, at the same time, indicating the usefulness of such redeployment in educating and inviting empathetic identification of viewers located in non-Euro-American social-historical contexts.
A second culturally specific concept that is deployed in the film's construction is mu, or "emptiness as presence," from Japanese Zen aesthetics denoting that in any work of art the empty spaces between the materials that constitute it are as important and equally integral to the work as the materials themselves, and usually referring to the spaces between flowers in the Japanese art of flower arrangement (Cook 587-8).
The film deploys the aesthetic practice of mu in its empty shots. These shots have the usual conventional function: they indicate spatial and temporal transition as when they connect shots of the interior of the annex with incidents in the streets or when they are used to indicate the passage of time. However, the most notable use of these empty shots is to refer to offscreen space, a practice very much in evidence in the films of, for instance, Yasujiro Ozu. As Cook notes, in Ozu's films there occur moments of stillness or stasis when the camera holds on to empty shots of rooms after the characters have departed from them, generating an awareness of offscreen space which primarily functions to indicate the presence of the world outside the frame, a centrifugal force that draws viewers' attention to the offscreen diegetic world as well as to the larger world outside the bounds of the cinematic frame (588-90).
In Anne no nikki, the use of empty shots indicates the offscreen space of history as such. I have noted the use of empty shots of the annex after the arrest of the inhabitants; here, the traditional aesthetic concept of mu assumes a significance that goes beyond reference to cultural particularity or to the film's diegesis alone. In a move that simultaneously extends, relocates and historicizes all these concepts of tradition, diegesis and cultural context, these empty shots function as signifiers of the event of the Holocaust. They indicate rather ominously and very effectively the offscreen space of not only the fate of the arrested former inhabitants of the annex, but also the larger historical context of mass arrests, deportations and industrial killing of Jews in the Nazi Final Solution.
Another powerful deployment of the empty shot occurs at the beginning of the second part of the film. Shots of Otto going down the stairs to investigate the source of footsteps, of Peter's cat overturning the candlestick on the landing, and the openmouthed horror of the annex residents at the top of the stairs are followed first by an exterior shot of Miep with her bicycle witnessing the arrest of the friendly greengrocer for helping Jews and then by an interior shot that shows her informing Otto about the incident while they stand framed in long shot at the bottom of the stairs. These series of foreboding shots are followed by an empty landscape shot where the camera holds in a very long take on to the still-life image of a dark, mist-shrouded segment of canal water with a tree and boat in the left portion of the frame. The static, flat, two-dimensional shot brings us back briefly to an awareness of the form of the film--the flatness and lack of depth of animation--when all the narrative events thus far have succeeded in making us forget that we are watching an animated film, devoid of the realism inherent in live-action. The defamiliarization thus effected, in calling our attention to the facticity of the film, to its status as representation, paradoxically works to return us to the actual historical events in the diegesis and beyond as this shot functions to give viewers time to assimilate the implications of what's happening onscreen and what's about to unfold to relate these diegetic events to historical reality. The affectless, depthless quality of this empty shot serves in its very failure to maintain our attention as a potent container for historical awareness, as it were. Viewers are enjoined to remember historical reality and to accept the representation's intimate link with such reality.
The most poignant deployment of empty shots in the film occurs after the celebration of Anne's last birthday, her fifteenth anniversary, in June 1944, which is also the final turning point in the film. The shots of this final birthday celebration emphasize the impending doom signaled by the decrease in presents and by the somber mood that prevails, although her family and the other residents are very kind and go out of their way to give her gifts that they value. After the celebration, there is a shot of Anne sitting at her desk, writing in her diary. Her voice on the soundtrack addresses Kitty, telling her that she received wonderful presents but that the best gift, her voice states, is that people are so wonderful.
A series of empty shots follows that signify the pathos of the moment: a shot of the silhouette of a windmill in left foreground, with a sunset landscape in background (once again, instead of the Japanese cultural signifier of, for instance, cherry blossoms, we get a transposition of the practice of mu to a different context, the Netherlands, where windmills signify geographical and cultural specificity) is followed by a shot of sunset landscape alone. The rest of the shots in this sequence appear in the following order: a brook bordered by trees, green grass and small white flowers on the banks; the facade of a cozy house in the background, with huge yellow flowers (tulips) against a fence in the foreground; the tops of buildings framed against blue sky and white clouds; a shot of windmills in middle and backgrounds with their arms moving in the wind and long reeds swaying gently in the foreground; and the final nature shot is that of white birds describing circles in a blue sky filled with powder-puff white clouds. We are then returned to the shot of Anne sitting at the window of the attic in the annex.
This extended sequence closes with a shot from the outside of Anne's face framed against the attic window, as her voiceover asks Kitty insistently: "Life is wonderful but why do people hate and kill each other, Kitty, tell me why?" These empty shots are not diegetic if we understand the term to mean the story world of the film, strictly speaking; neither are they point-of-view shots from Anne's perspective in the narrow sense of the term. However, they do succeed in powerfully evoking the pathos of the moment; they become the containers of Anne's desires and hopes, as well as conduits for the unsaid, for the unsayable of history. As I have noted earlier, although the film uses empty shots as transitional elements to indicate passage of time or to bridge events taking place in different locales, the most striking function of these shots when held in a long take by the camera is to suggest a historicized transcultural use of the traditional Japanese aesthetic concept of mu. They function as container shots that serve to release emotion, sympathy and identification with the plight of Anne and the other characters, and by extension, with the huge numbers of victims of the Holocaust.
The complex play of cross-cultural aesthetic practices in the film might have easily led to de-specification in regard to the identity of the characters. That is to say, the Jewishness of Anne, her family, and friends might have receded into the background or not been mentioned at all. However, the film, within the limitations imposed by its scope, which is also a function of the nature of the source text from which it is adapted, is quite explicit in its reference to the Jewishness of the victims. The film has preserved the diary's own recording of what was happening to Jews in Holland and elsewhere in Europe, all related in voiceover in the internal diegetic mode as Anne confides in Kitty. There are street scenes that show from different perspectives the reality of those times. The Nazis are ubiquitous and they are clearly demarcated as oppressors, primarily by their uniforms and the weapons they carry as well as by their wooden expressionless faces with slits for eyes. Not just the mise-en-scene but all other cinematic techniques including camera work refuse to permit identification with the Nazis. These oppressive figures are shown in ominous low-angled close-up or medium shots in marked contrast to the techniques that compel us to identify with Anne, the other Jewish characters, and their friends. Yellow stars are displayed prominently on the clothes of all the Jewish characters in the film: on the clothes of the schoolchildren and the math teacher in the classroom of the Jewish school, and on the coats of Anne and her family as they make their way to the annex.
In one particularly evocative scene, Anne is on her bicycle in the street and as she passes a group of Nazi soldiers, she slows down, her head and eyes droop, and, at the same time, she tries to hide the star on her jacket. Right at the very beginning of the film, after Anne's birthday celebration during which she's been gifted with the diary, her mother Edith makes explicit reference to the Nazis, to concentration camps and to the fate of Jews in Europe in her conversation with her husband Otto which she concludes by wondering if Anne would have anything good to record in her diary.
There is, too, a very effectively rendered nightmare sequence where Anne, asleep in her bed in the annex, dreams that her friend Jopi is being shut up by Nazis in a cattle car heading for a death camp. The nightmare sequence opens with a black-gray shot of people walking in slow motion behind a sharp barbed wire fence followed by a shot of a cattle car with a huge star in the center of which is inscribed the word "Jood." The next shot is one where a young girl (Jopi) is pushed into the cattle car and as the door shuts on her, her hand reaches out in a plea for help, at which point Anne screams out loud and Otto comes running in to comfort her. The concluding titles of the film leave viewers in no doubt as to the fate of the arrested annex residents--in a roll call of horror, the names Auschwitz, Mauthausen, and Bergen-Belsen appear on the screen. Even those viewers with little or no knowledge of the death camps and gas chambers might be moved because of the well-structured, affective engagement of the film with Anne's story to educate themselves concerning the details of the monstrous crime of the Holocaust.
Jewishness as tradition is depicted in the scene where the residents of the annex celebrate Hanukkah. A medium shot frames Otto Frank, seated at the head of the table, as he carefully sets up two candles on the menorah, lights them, and quickly extinguishes them again. The following shot captures all eight residents seated at the table as Otto says, "this is our tradition." Before the Hanukkah celebration, the dentist Dussel (Pfeffer) is shown actually carving the candelabrum from pieces of wood available in the attic. The film links such explicit reference to ethnic and religious identity with the close family relationships and friendly, caring exchanges (for the most part) of the Franks, the van Pels, Dussel, and their helpers. It is such linkage that most effectively enables, I would argue, cross-cultural empathy and identification.
Some Holocaust studies scholars have tended to look on the huge popularity of Anne Frank's diary with some uneasiness if not outright dismay (Marcuse 201; Cole 23-46). They attribute the enormous success of the diary to the fact that Jewishness takes a back seat in the diary, that Anne writes from a thoroughly assimilated perspective, and that the real horrors of the Holocaust are absent in the diary even while they acknowledge the impossibility of finding in the diary details of the gruesome practices in the death camps since the last entry was recorded before Anne and the others were arrested and deported to the camps where they perished. Such a critique might be thoroughly valid in a Euro-American context but in those geographical-social contexts where there is not a significant Jewish presence, the problem of Jewishness versus assimilation simply does not arise in the same manner or to the same degree. In the very specific case of Holocaust pedagogy in non-Euro-American contexts, the perceived antagonism between the particular (that is, Jewishness) and the universal (that is, the human predicament) is rendered unproductive if not an entirely false problem. What I mean is that in such contexts the universal or identification on the basis of shared human characteristics and values across cultures facilitates an awareness and understanding of the particular or the specificity of a group as it links its own socio-cultural practices with that of humanity at large. This dialectic is rendered even more complex and vital by the fact that even within particular groups, smaller units such as the family or the individual might entertain vastly different relations with and perspectives on their particular group identity.
Anne Frank's story engages cross-cultural empathy because of several factors, any of which might assume prominence over the others in different spatio-temporal locations. That her diary records her growth into a young adult, her relationships with her family, with the other members of the annex, especially her blossoming romance with Peter, that she writes of everyday experiences with a verve and sense of humor that enchant, all these factors Contribute to successful reader-viewer identification and empathy with her plight. Her Jewishness is part of who she was but she was not Jewish in the same manner or to the same extent as other Jews (a point that can be made of any individual belonging to any ethnic-religious grouping).
It is my hope that the kind of analysis attempted in this essay of this rather remarkable film works to shed new light on the relationship between the particular and the universal. Instead of privileging the one over the other, a productive engagement with complex social-historical reality that successfully engages positive cross-cultural identification would hold on to both the universal and the particular, rerouting the one through the other, the direction of the flow to be determined by the specificity of the context of dissemination. Anne no nikki is remarkable in that it engages all these different aspects of Anne's story without reducing the complexity of her identity, thus opening up new ways of looking at some of the knotty issues in the vital discourse of Holocaust Studies.
(1) This essay is an expanded version of a paper I presented on the panel: "Relocating and Remapping the Holocaust," War and Genocide Area, War in Film, TV, and History Conference, November 11-14, 2004, Dallas, Texas.
The "and" implies that history is considered a representation as are other media like film and television. Anne no nikki is the second Japanese animated film based on The Diary of Anne Frank. While this second version is a feature-length production that saw theatrical release in the country, the first anime version of The Diary was aired on Japanese television (Anime Encyclopedia 89).
Both versions were impossible to obtain through the usual channels including libraries, media organizations, rental and sales stores in the United States. It was suggested to me by David Barnouw, co-panelist and well-known expert on the Anne Frank phenomenon, that the Anne Frank Foundation that controls use of The Diary found the Japanese anime version to be too sentimental and thus not appropriate to be approved for wider international circulation: Fortunately, however, a small one-person independent distributor in the United States, Random Masters, provided me with a video copy for my research. I would therefore like to acknowledge Jonathan Hertzog of Random Masters, and thank David McInteer of the University of Kentucky's Anime Club for putting me in touch with him. I would also like to thank Lawrence Baron of San Diego State University and Philip Krummrich of Morehead State University for their help in facilitating this project.
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Anne no nikki=The Diary of Anne Frank. Dir. Akinori Nagaoka. Designs Yoshinori Kanemori. Music: Michael Nyman. In Japanese with English subtitles by Random Masters. KSS and the Madhouse Studio, 1995.
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Publication information: Article title: The Animation of Anne: Japanese Anime Encounters the Diary of a Holocaust Icon. Contributors: Ramachandran, Hema - Author. Journal title: Post Script. Volume: 24. Issue: 1 Publication date: Fall 2004. Page number: 71+. © 2009 Post Script, Inc. COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group.
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