“Michael” — A Family Story, Dreams, and Fantasy

Me and Michael

　I watched the film Michael. “Michael” refers to the entertainer Michael Jackson, who burst through the late 1970s and ran all the way into the 1990s.

In this film, there were several scenes where I felt as if Michael Jackson had returned—and I found myself in tears. I felt this wasn’t simply a biographical movie, but rather a kind of “translation” of a message from Michael Jackson.

　I wouldn’t call myself a passionate fan of Michael Jackson. And yet, before I knew it, he was there at the turning points of my life: the voice of the theme song from the movie Ben; the lead vocals of the Jackson 5 that sounded like a child and an adult at the same time; and “Billie Jean” on MTV—the moment I gasped, That kid is him?

Watching the film brought back the fact that I, too, lived through the same era. If Michael Jackson were alive today, he would be 67. Instead, he died far too young at 50, in the midst of scandal.

　His beautiful, vital skin tone—African American beauty and vitality—was, according to reports, altered as pigment drained away because of systemic lupus erythematosus and vitiligo. I couldn’t help but feel the pain and suffering that accompanied his global success.

　“I’ll Be There,” “Ben,” “Beat It,” “Thriller,” “We Are the World,” “Bad”… In the busy rush of a dual-income life, his music unquestionably gave me moments to breathe and reset.

My daughter, in her teens, grew up watching MTV. She watched Michael Jackson and Diana Ross in The Wiz, and played Dorothy at a school arts festival.

And apart from those personal connections…

“Michael” as a Family Story

　The film unfolds around the conflict between a father who wants nothing but success for his family and Michael, who wants to unleash the expression of his overflowing talent.

　There were moments that truly landed for me—how Michael begins to see himself as an ally of children, as Peter Pan who cannot become an adult, and as Peter Pan who defeats the pirate captain he recognizes in his own father. Thanks to the　actors’ extraordinary performances, this metaphorical thread came through with real force.

A live-performance scene that suggested a parting from his father was so immersive that I found myself holding my breath.

　Filming in a room modeled after Michael Jackson’s music room; a bedroom overflowing with stuffed animals and toys; Michael holding Bubbles, the chimpanzee said to have been his friend; the gentle way he interacts with children and sick children—these scenes made his kindness feel unmistakably real.

Legendary stages and costumes were recreated in full, and I could sense the crew’s devotion.

　The lead actor, Jaafar Jackson, is Michael Jackson’s nephew. Even though he grew up with his uncle’s presence close by, Jaafar reportedly spent more than two years preparing for the role.

 As Michael turns his face in profile while walking toward the stage—there were moments when that face overlapped with the Michael I remember. I doubt I was the only one.

After the End Credits

“The story of Michael continues.”

When those words appeared in the end credits, I found myself thinking:

That’s right—my story continues, too.

Seventeen years after his death, I never imagined we would be able to see him again in this form.

  The director is the African American filmmaker Antoine Fuqua, and Michael’s family and children cooperated in the production (though I did not see Janet Jackson’s name).

The message—to connect the world through music, beyond race—may reach even those who think of Michael Jackson mainly through scandal or as a success story.

The Imagination We Need to Live — Fantasy

  The “power to dream” that Michael kept showing on stage may not have been mere entertainment. It may have been imagination itself—the very thing people need in order to live.

  In a world exhausted by war, inequality, division, and daily hardship, this film offers an opportunity to think again about what we so easily lose: the power to dream—fantasy.

In later years, scandal and drugs cast Michael as a kind of dark hero. And yet, on stage, he continued to express fantasy as an entertainer.

   According to what I found in searches, the audience number for Michael reached 4.17 million by day 41 of its release. That’s not a figure driven by nostalgia alone.

I left the theater thinking that this film—showing Michael pressing forward with undeniable force—may be striking a chord with younger generations as well.

Peace Begins with Understanding Each Other’s Frame

 

Peace Begins with Understanding Each Other’s Frame

  My understanding of American society began to change when an African American became part of my family.

My grandson, now a middle school student, sometimes reminds me of Denzel Washington. Through his father—my son-in-law—I started to see America from a perspective I had never experienced before.

  One day, he told me something simple but striking: what many people think of as the “ideal American system” may actually represent only one cultural viewpoint, shaped historically by white America. That comment stayed with me. It made me curious about the history and culture of African Americans. I began reading books and listening to artists like Nina Simone, whose songs carry both pain and dignity.

  As I reflected on these experiences, I found myself asking a question:

How does the experience of African Americans in the United States compare with Japan’s own history of discrimination? Thinking about this question led me to a concept I often use: frames.

  Every society lives within certain invisible frames. These frames shape how people see difference, how they respond to injustice, and even how they express emotion.

In the United States, difference is often visible. Skin color marks the boundary clearly. Because of this, American society tends to confront discrimination through expression—through speech, protest, music, and public debate.

Japan has historically developed a different frame. In many cases, differences are not visible. As a result, society often responds with silence rather than direct confrontation.

From these different frames, very different cultural energies have emerged.

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  Every society contains the seeds of discrimination. The instinct to notice difference—to separate “us” from “them”—may be part of human nature itself.

What matters is not whether those impulses exist, but whether we learn to recognize them and guide them with wisdom.

  Perhaps peace begins with something simple: recognizing the frame we ourselves live within, and trying to understand the frames that shape the lives of others.

History has given different societies different ways of responding to difference. In the United States, the response has often been expression—voices raised in music, protest, and art. In Japan, the response has often been silence—a sensitivity to what is unspoken, a search for harmony within relationships.

  Both expression and silence are human responses shaped by history.

Yet the future may depend on our ability to look beyond the limits of these frames.

Japan’s historical discrimination grew from occupational divisions. The history of African Americans reveals the impact of slavery and the economic desires of the Western world.

Humanity still faces the question of how to live with the consequences of that past.

For me, the question is also personal.

   I simply hope that my son-in-law can live in Japan with happiness and a sense of belonging. And as a member of his family, I want to do what I can to make that possible.

Perhaps peace does not begin with governments or treaties.

Perhaps it begins quietly—within families, within everyday life—when we learn to see the world through another person’s frame.

A wish for peace gentle footsteps.

Cloths of heaven NO.1
2019
by M.Kaneyasu

 During the global pandemic, when the world grew quiet and movement became restricted, I found myself returning to a simple gesture: drawing circles in ink. What began as a repetitive act slowly became a way to breathe, to create space, and to hold fragile hope within uncertain days.

I create space by drawing circles in ink.
As I enclose various thoughts within each circle, the act of drawing feels deeply comforting.

These four paintings were created during the global pandemic, when our movements were restricted and a sense of confinement filled the days.

From my small room near the Tama River, which flows south of Tokyo, this was the sky I saw.

Around the time I completed these four works, I encountered the poem “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by W.B. Yeats.　「Tread softly because you tread on my dreams」

Cloths of Heaven  No2
2019
by M.Kaneyasu

Perhaps I wanted to entrust some quiet hope to the clouds hanging in the sky—and to the poets who have looked up at it before me.

The sky is always infinite. It gently envelops humanity scattered across the world as one.

I hope there will be no war.
As Yeats wrote in his poem, I wish that we might tread softly—gently—upon this world.

                                   

                                            

Is sumo just a sport, or something more?

　Sumo wrestlers and Gladiators both push the limits of human strength. But one seeks the divine, while the other fought for survival. In an age of frenzy and noise, have we lost the "sacred silence"?

　Sumo wrestlers’ physiques are often referred to as "chanko bodies." 　The history of sumo runs deep. In Japan, sumo was traditionally regarded not only as a display of physical prowess but as a sacred contest of strength and strategy. By grappling chest-to-chest until one was forced out of the ring, wrestlers sought to delight the gods and the rulers of the era. I believe that cultures treating physical strength as something sacred are not unique to Japan; they exist all over the world.

　Consider, for example, the gladiators. In their world, the use of strength stood in direct opposition to the sacred; it was a brutal, life-or-death struggle for survival. It served as entertainment for Roman citizens while remaining a desperate reality for the warriors themselves.                                                                                                  

　Both sumo and gladiatorial combat involve pushing human physical limits. Both wrestlers and gladiators possess muscles that look ready to burst. The only difference lies in the direction in which that power is aimed—a direction ultimately decided by the society of the time.

　While gladiators no longer exist in the modern world, their legacy of "flaunting strength" lives on.

　In recent years, the atmosphere surrounding sumo has shifted. The frenzy over wins and losses, the heckling, the throwing of seat cushions, and the shouts that disrupt the tachi-ai (initial charge) have become frequent topics of concern. Once sumo loses its sacredness, strength becomes nothing more than raw power.

tachi-ai

To me, the most compelling moment is the brief, unified tension that fills the arena just before the initial charge. It is in that fleeting silence that people of the past may have felt a divine presence. This concept of the divine is different from the Western notion of a distant, singular God; it is something felt in the moment.

Beyond the accumulation of "swords" or military might, we must not lose the ability to sense and respect the invisible powers of humanity and nature. To me, "protecting Japan" should mean exactly that: preserving this sense of reverence.

The Power of Frames: How We See the World?

　

 Firewood :frame 1   

　One drawing is the original sketch of a branch. The other two show the same sketch, but the "frame" has been moved to change how it looks

Firewood: Frame 2 

　

Firewood  by M. Kaneyasu

　

Three sketches, one branch, and three different worlds.　

  By shifting the frame, a single branch can look like part of a massive tree, or it can look like it has been split in two. In reality, it was just a simple piece of firewood—something ordinary, easily overlooked. When I look at my own work, I am also questioning my own frames. These three sketches show us a powerful truth: how we see things depends entirely on the "frame" we use.

  In our daily lives, we also rely on frames to understand the world. We use labels for people's looks—like "cute," "handsome," or "chubby." We do the same with politics, using labels like "LDP" or "Ishin" without looking at what they actually do.

  It is hard to take off these frames and see the raw truth. But if we use our imagination to wonder, "What would I see if this frame were gone?", we might start to see a completely different world.

LDP: Liberal Democratic Party(Japan)

Ishin no Kai:  Japan innovation  Party

 

  

旅懐 Thoughts on a Jouney

 

 月華星彩坐来収 

   獄色江声暗結愁

  半寄燈前十年事

 一時和雨到心頭

　                          作：杜筍鶴

　                               書：金安菱雅

The moon’s light and the glitter of the stars gather as if dozing upon the seat,

the color of the mountains and the sound of the flowing river darkly knot grief within the heart.

At midnight, before the lamplight, I look back on the state of these past ten years,

and for a spell the sound of the rain softly echoes all the way into my heart.

                                                                                                    Poem:Du  Xunhe 

                                                                                                    Calligraphy: Ryoga Kaneyasu

Du Xunhe was a poet of the late Tang dynasty. Having failed the imperial examinations many times, he became a wandering poet whose travels were his way of life.

In his poem “Traveling Thoughts” he layers the pure light of stars and moon over the mountains sinking into darkness to express both the loneliness of his own circumstances and the quiet, inward-descending state of his heart.

The beauty of the starry sky, and the loneliness that nestles beside it—

The AI selected poems that resemble Du Xunhe's “Traveling Thoughts”: Seamus Heaney’s “Postscript,They are poems by Japan’s Bashō, Iran’s Hafez, and Germany’s Goethe... For me, it was an unexpected introduction to these poets. I will read them. There is a sense of a new encounter waiting.

Across time and cultures, people have looked up at the same starry nights and moonlit skies, and have felt their hearts tremble in the same way.

Their beauty still, even now, quietly continues to cast questions into the inner lives of those who know it.

And yet, why is it that humanity tries so little to understand one another?

 

            

 

What is the social energy that can replace violence?

 

What Is the Social Energy That Can Replace Violence?

Requiem and Silence as Alternatives to Violence

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Giri, Ninjō, and Moral Responsibility in Japanese Culture

In traditional Japanese society, human relationships were shaped by two ethical concepts: 

giri and ninjō.
Giri refers to social obligation—the duty to repay kindness, loyalty, and support.
Ninjō expresses human feeling: empathy, compassion, and emotional closeness.

Unlike Western moral systems that emphasize individual rights, Japanese ethics historically placed greater weight on mutual responsibility and emotional restraint. These values helped sustain social harmony for centuries. From this cultural background emerged distinctive forms of storytelling and popular culture.

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From Feudal Ethics to Popular Cinema

After World War II, Japan experienced rapid modernization and social disruption. Many people felt disconnected from traditional values. During this period,  ninkyō  films—chivalry movies about yakuza figures—became popular.

Although centered on criminals, these films portrayed their protagonists as tragic figures bound by giri and ninjō. Like Western westerns or gangster films, they dramatized conflict. Yet they differed in that moral duty often outweighed personal desire. Through these stories, audiences found emotional stability in an unstable era.

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When Moral Stories Collapsed

By the late 1960s and 1970s, audiences began to lose faith in idealized heroism. Political unrest, social movements, and generational conflict weakened traditional moral frameworks.

Filmmakers shifted toward “true account” films that emphasized chaos, corruption, and raw violence. The influential series Battles Without Honor and Humanity rejected heroic myths and depicted crime as morally empty. With the deaths of major actors and producers, the genre gradually declined.

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Outlaws Without Codes

In today’s media, criminals are rarely portrayed as figures bound by ethical principles. Instead, they often appear as purely self-interested individuals.

“It’s the victim’s fault.”
“Might makes right.”
“Rules are meant to be broken.”

Such attitudes reflect a worldview shaped by competition rather than responsibility. While Japan is internationally known for safety and politeness, hidden forms of violence—bullying, fraud, exploitation, and addiction—continue to harm ordinary lives.

Physical confrontation has decreased, but psychological and economic violence has grown.

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Where Crime Begins

Outlaw behavior does not arise in isolation. It is influenced by poverty, educational inequality, social isolation, rigid expectations, and fragile self-esteem. In a society under strong pressure to conform, failure and exclusion can silently accumulate. Crime is often a symptom of deeper social fractures.

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Violence and Memory: A Personal Witness

When I was a student, during the period of campus protests in Japan, I once witnessed an elderly professor being beaten by students. My heart began to race, and my mind went blank. I felt as if all the blood had drained from my body. Even now, more than fifty years later, I can recall that scene as vividly as if it were a moment from a film. I did not know the professor. I did not know the students who attacked him. Yet the violence carved itself deeply into my memory, without my consent. It left a wound not only on the victim, but also on those who merely witnessed it.

Sometimes I wonder: What are the children who run through today’s battlefields seeing?
What images will remain with them for the rest of their lives?

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What Can Violence Really Solve?

  Violent films once offered audiences emotional release. Through dramatized conflict, people temporarily processed frustration and anger.

  Yet unabsorbed social tension often returned in real tragedies, such as political extremism and collective violence. History suggests that violence—whether fictional or real—never resolves fundamental problems. It merely postpones them.

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Requiem and Silence as Paths to Renewal

Ink sketch after Noh “Atsumori”
by Michiko Kaneyasu

There is no such thing as “small” or “large” violence.

Violence is, at once, an expression of rejection toward others and an expression of losing oneself.

What, then, can replace it?

I believe the answer lies in requiem and silence.The true alternative to violent expression is art that connects human hearts through mourning, and prayerful silence that honors suffering.

Only through such practices can individuals and societies begin to recover from violence.

In Japanese culture, silence has long been valued not as emptiness, but as a space for responsibility, memory, and compassion.

Requiem and silence do not erase pain.
They transform it.

Perhaps genuine social energy is born not from confrontation, but from listening to the wounded, remembering the forgotten, and enduring together.

In that quiet space, the possibility of peace slowly takes root.

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Study after Dürer / Pencil on paper
by Michiko Kaneyasu