Keith Vincent and Dawn Lawson's translation of psychoanalyst and cultural theorist Saitō Tamaki's Beautiful Fighting Girl (Sentō bishōjo no seishin bunseki) is a welcome addition to the growing body of English-language scholarship on Japanese media and its consumers. In this study, Saitō analyses the figure of the beautiful fighting girl in anime and manga in order to shed light on otaku sexuality, which in turn elucidates the way in which popular fictional narratives of Japan are consumed, interpreted, and reproduced. Beautiful Fighting Girl is thus of interest not only to students of Japanese popular culture but to anyone interested in issues of narrative consumption, gender performance and representation, and cultural politics.

In his preface, Saitō explains that he was inspired to consider the icon of the beautiful fighting girl, or bishōjo, after being introduced to the work of the American "outsider artist" Henry Darger, specifically his Vivian Girls, young women who fought evil on a global scale in the same manner as the bishōjo of anime, such as Sailor Moon. Saitō explains that exposure to Darger's work allowed him to formulate the central theory of Beautiful Fighting Girl, which is that the "thoroughly fictional" bishōjo have attained a reality of their own through the sexual desire and narrative consumption of otaku, a subcultural community of Japanese media consumers (5).

In his first chapter, "The Psychopathology of the Otaku," Saitō begins by listing several common assumptions regarding otaku, such as "otaku are immature human beings who have grown up without being able to let go of infantile transitional objects such as anime and monsters" (9). Saitō rejects such assumptions and attempts to define the otaku through the writing of preeminent otaku theorists such as Okada Toshio, the self-proclaimed "Otakingu" (king of otaku) and author of An Introduction to Otaku Studies (Otakugaku nyūmon). Saitō observes that otaku are characterized by their attachment to stories and characters that they know are fictional. Saitō claims, however, that otaku do not privilege reality over fiction. They do not avoid reality, as is often assumed, but rather do not consider the reality of their daily lives to be any more "real" than the reality of the stories they consume. Because fictional characters are therefore just as real to them as flesh-and-blood human beings, otaku are able to develop sexual attraction to celluloid bishōjo.

To better understand otaku sexuality, Saitō entered into correspondence with a male fan of bishōjo. In his second chapter, "Letter from an Otaku," Saitō reproduces edited excerpts from this correspondence, in which Saitō's otaku interlocutor speaks frankly about masturbation and defends erotic interest in anime characters. Saitō's correspondent strongly asserts that people who express their sexual attraction to fictional characters through masturbation or erotic fan art are "otaku first and foremost and not sexual perverts" (39). What Saitō takes away from this correspondence is that Japanese otaku are defined by their attitudes towards fiction and reality, particularly when these are expressed in sexual interests and activities focused on fictional female characters.

Saitō's third chapter, "Beautiful Fighting Girls Outside Japan," is a survey of non-Japanese otaku that Saitō conducted by contacting people involved with university anime clubs and anime-related websites via email. In his analysis of the responses, Saitō differentiates between "beautiful fighting girls" and "Amazonian women warriors," with Western examples such as the protagonists of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Xena: Warrior Princess falling into the latter category. In the second half of the chapter, Saitō quotes two responses from former members of the Harvard University Anime Club in order to emphasize two of the main points of his study: namely, that beautiful fighting girls are not to be equated with attitudes concerning real women, and that otaku enjoy anime featuring bishōjo because of their fantastic quality.

"The Strange Kingdom of Henry Darger," Saitō's fourth chapter, is a description of the early twentieth century American artist's multi-volume illustrated fantasy epic In the Realms of the Unreal, as well as the conditions under which Darger composed this work. Saitō argues that Darger's beautiful young female protagonists, who are pure of heart yet extraordinarily capable on the battlefield, are highly reminiscent of Japanese bishōjo. Furthermore, Darger himself possessed a mentality not far removed from the Japanese hikikomori (social recluse). Despite the parallels Saitō draws between Japanese bishōjo and Darger's Vivian Girls, however, his purpose in discussing Darger's work is not immediately clear, except to perhaps suggest that, like Japanese otaku, Darger was not "mentally ill" but rather "a neurotic like the rest of us" and somehow fascinated by the figure of the beautiful fighting girl (80).

The following chapter, "A Genealogy of the Beautiful Fighting Girl," is the longest chapter of the book. In this essay, Saitō provides example upon example of bishōjo characters, drawing upon television series as varied as Cutie Honey, Princess Knight, Urusei Yatsura, and Serial Experiments Lain, as well as Studio Ghibli films such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke. Saitō's main point is that "Japanese fighting girls are beloved precisely for the purity, frailty, and sweetness they evince at the height of battle" (93). In his brief overviews of a number of anime, Saitō discusses the virginal sexuality of the beautiful fighting girl, as well as the appeal of the weak triumphing over the strong, which he compares to the psychological process of trauma and repetition.

The most focused expression of the thesis of Beautiful Fighting Girl is its sixth chapter, "The Emergence of the Phallic Girls," in which Saitō interprets interest in beautiful fighting girls not as an indicator of sexual perversion but rather as a manifestation of a different understanding of reality. Saitō structures his argument around three key terms: atemporality, multiple personality space, and high context. By "atemporality," Saitō means that anime and manga downplay the progression of chronological time—characters do not age or do not act in an age-appropriate manner. By "multiple personality space," Saitō means that various aspects of one personality (presumably that of the artist or director) are often distributed across multiple characters in the same anime or manga. By "high context," Saitō seems to mean that a narrative can be transferred from one medium to another (i.e., from manga to anime) and that the level of visual representation in these narratives is highly stylized and symbolic. Such abbreviations in time, characterization, and visual exposition place anime and manga narratives deeper into the realm of the symbolic. According to Saitō, symbolically represented objects of sexuality began to explode across these narratives beginning in the early 1980s. The goal of the otaku creators and consumers was "an autonomous object of desire" that did not belong to any reality outside of anime and manga (151). Therefore, anime babes were never supposed to stand in for real women—for otaku, the appeal of these characters is their very fictionality.

Saitō's argument is important not merely for our understanding of sexualized images in anime and manga but also for our understanding of the consumption of anime and manga as narratives. He differentiates between the reality of the phenomenal world and the perceived reality of the fictional narrative by referring to the former by the Japanese word for "reality," genjitsu, and to the latter by the English world, riariti. For the otaku who lives in both genjitsu and riariti, "real (riaru) fictions do not necessarily require the security of reality (genjitsu). There is absolutely no need in this space for fiction to imitate reality" (156). The unrealities of this reality, such as omnipotent girls who never seem to age, are not only the products of a reality untethered to the phenomenal world but also are the very factors that ensure the continued existence of this world in the minds of otaku. Such beautiful fighting girls neither reflect nor are meant to inspire the empowerment of women in the real world. They simply have nothing to do with the real world (genjitsu); the world they create and inhabit is a world that exists only inside the mind of otaku.

Unfortunately, organizational issues disrupt the coherence of Beautiful Fighting Girl. The transition between chapters is often abrupt, and the chapter on the work of Henry Darger in particular seems irrelevant and extraneous in its lack of cohesion to Saitō's main argument. Furthermore, Saitō's use of psychoanalytic terminology is loosely anchored to his subject matter. For example, bishōjo are identified as phallic virgins without explanation of this term or why it is significant. Also, the otaku attachment to these bishōjo is repeatedly referred to as an enactment of trauma, the exact nature of which is never detailed, even in the most cursory of terms. Moreover, despite the highly gendered nature of his subject matter, Saitō fails to address the oft-cited phallocentrism of Freudian psychoanalytic theory.

This particular failure is a symptom of a major problem of Beautiful Fighting Girl, the persistent focus on a heterosexual male perspective. Saitō repeatedly claims that bishōjo have nothing to do with real women, as they exist solely within the imaginations of their male creators and consumers. Although Saitō occasionally acknowledges the existence of female fans of boys' love, he ignores both the women who create bishōjo characters (such as Takeuchi Naoko, the author of the Sailor Moon manga) and the women who enjoy and are inspired by these characters. By arguing that bishōjo exist solely in an imaginary world (riariti) for male otaku, Saitō fails to take advantage of the opportunity to examine how images of fictional women may affect the reality (genjitsu) of both female and male consumers of popular media. Thus, in insisting on a clear divide between genjitsu and riariti, Saitō removes real, flesh-and-blood women from the bishōjo equation altogether. Therefore, Beautiful Fighting Girl seems at times one-sided and claustrophobic, as the male gaze Saitō applies to the bishōjo remains unchallenged by an alternate set of interpretations inspired by the possibility of a female gaze.

Also included in the translated edition of Beautiful Fighting Girl are two short Afterwords by the author and a four-page "Commentary" section by Azuma Hiroki. The main addition to this translated volume, however, is Keith Vincent's introduction, "Making It Real: Fiction, Desire, and the Queerness of the Beautiful Fighting Girl." In this introduction, Vincent summarizes Saitō's main points and connects them directly to many of the issues currently under critical investigation in the field of Japanese Studies, such as the representation of gender in popular culture, the ways in which fandom interrogates texts, and the evolution of fictional narratives in a postmodern digital culture. Despite Saitō's focus on the male otaku consumer of bishōjo, Vincent proves that his theories of reader and viewer identification with fictional characters may easily apply to female otaku, or fujoshi, as well. Vincent also situates Saitō's work within the context of a larger discussion on otaku sexuality carried out by cultural theorists such as Okada Toshio and Thomas Lamarre. Most intriguingly, Vincent ends by suggesting that Beautiful Fighting Girl is capable of providing a unique counterargument to the idea of "melancholic heterosexuality" laid out by Judith Butler in Gender Trouble. This introductory essay thus encourages readers to find applications for Saitō's main arguments beyond the scope of Saitō's own work. Beautiful Fighting Girl has the potential to open exciting new paths of inquiry in the study of Japanese popular culture and transnational fan communities, and we owe Keith Vincent and Dawn Lawson an enormous debt of gratitude for making it available in translation.

I recently got around to reading Beautiful Fighting Girl by Tamaki Saito (originally published in 2000 as 戦闘美少女の精神分析, lit. ‘A Psychoanalysis of the Beautiful Fighting Girl’). Despite its status alongside Hiroki Azuma’s Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals as one of the landmark publications on “otaku theory”, Beautiful Fighting Girl has made considerably less inroads in English-language scholarship, partly because the English translation only came out in 2011, and partly because Saito’s scholarship is very obviously flawed.

Nevertheless, I thought Beautiful Fighting Girl was a really fascinating read that helped stimulate my own thoughts about otaku sexuality. Saito’s argument that otaku culture is rooted in sexuality is something I find intuitively appealing, not least because I’ve made some similar observations in the past. So in this post, I’d like to critique Saito’s analysis directly, while also building on his more interesting ideas. In this way, I hope to develop a more workable theory of otaku sexuality, or Why Do People Love Their Waifus/Husbandos?

A Brief Overview of Beautiful Fighting Girl

Beautiful Fighting Girl was first published in 2000 and is quite explicit in its defence of otaku. This was in response to the public’s lingering negative image of otaku in the wake of the infamous serial killings by “otaku” murderer Tsutomu Miyazaki. If Saito comes across as too eager at times to convince his audience that anime fans lead “normal” (read: heteronormative) sex lives outside of their otaku hobbies, then there is a clear reason for that.

Saito’s basic argument is that the male otaku skillfully navigates between reality and fantasy through his ability to (put bluntly) masturbate to fictional girls. There is no easy distinction between the fantasy and the imaginary and the otaku is quite aware of this. Contrary to the stereotypes, you don’t need mental impairments or extreme social awkwardness to feel attraction towards 2D girls.

Our world is incredibly media-saturated these days, so it’s quite natural to moralise about it. What if we lose touch with reality and what makes us human? But so far in human history, that hasn’t actually happened. Sex and intimacy persist in technology-mediated environments, and otaku culture is merely another facet of this.

One aspect of otaku culture that doesn’t get commented on nearly enough is the community that it builds. Many geeky people might be naturally introverted, but they manage busy social lives through their hobbies. Of course, while Saito comments upon this, his primary focus is on deconstructing the “beautiful fighting girl” that captures the imagination of so many otaku.

Criticisms and Applications to Queer Theory

Here is where Saito’s analysis begins to get shaky. Not only does he argue that only Japanese can be otaku because of Japan’s “unique” attitude towards sex, he focuses entirely on the male psyche. He might mention that female otaku exist, but fails to incorporate them into his analysis. So while he writes critically about objectifying women, his analysis itself is very objectifying. His insistence that the objectification of anime girls is not related to the objectification of women in general comes across as rather unconvincing.

The scope of his analysis is also too narrow to have much of a broad application. His account of the development of “beautiful fighting girls” across time relies too much on Japanese particularism and ignores major factors like changing technology. I much prefer Thomas Lamarre and Hiroki Azuma’s more nuanced accounts in The Anime Machine and Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals respectively.

Nevertheless, aspects of Beautiful Fighting Girl remain extremely valid and have only become more relevant with time, which the translator J. Keith Vincent expands upon in his excellent introduction to the text.

Saito’s theories have interesting implications for queer theory. Specifically, he stresses the otaku’s process of consuming and creating his own narratives. He writes:

[Otaku] know that the objects of their attachment have no material reality … And knowing all of that, they still enjoy the game of performing for each other their passion. (pg. 19)

The word “performing” in this context should bring to mind Judith Butler’s theory of gender performativity. Loving your waifu or arguing about Best Girls are exaggerated actions, often proclaimed for the benefit of those around you rather than exclusively for your own benefit. One might even describe it as self-reflexively ironic. In this way, otaku “perform” a sexual identity while not being exclusively defined by it.

The fact that an otaku’s sexuality is often perceived as perverse also has connections with queer sexuality. While Saito stresses that most otaku are heterosexual in daily life, Vincent points out that Saito is not saying that it need be so. The otaku’s sexual interests are potentially radical and subversive on a broader scale. We just haven’t quite gotten there yet.

And finally, Beautiful Fighting Girl touches on the interplay between fantasy play and reality. What one might desire in the realm of fiction does not necessarily correspond to desire in reality. Vincent quotes the queer theorist Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick here: “Many people have their richest mental/emotional involvement with sexual acts that they don’t do, or even don’t want to do.” (pp. xix-xx)

I think that certainly helps explain the appeal of NTR, at any rate.

The reality of otaku sexuality is, of course, more complicated than Saito has made it out to be. If the debate were as simple as “Does watching anime turn you into a serial killer?” then the stigma would be entirely groundless. But it isn’t groundless, because otaku culture quite literally treats women as objects to be consumed.

It’s similar to the ambivalence with which the public regards video games. No, video games don’t turn you into serial killers, but somehow they always get brought up whenever a serial killer happens to enjoy them. And on top of that, there is a growing body of feminist critique which points out that many video game tropes are sexist and that gamer culture is unwelcoming towards female gamers. Even if games are mainstream these days, all it takes is a single controversy for public opinion to sour (See: the aftermath of the Gamergate controversy.)

In terms of partisan politics, (male) otaku culture is in a double bind here. Conservatives don’t like it because it’s seen as perverse and morally corrupting, and feminists don’t like it because it infantilises women.

To what extent is the stigma deserved?

There’s a troubling undercurrent in English-language anime criticism that takes it for granted that Japanese society is “more sexist” than Western society. Where gamers kick and scream and send death threats to Anita Sarkeesian for daring to suggest that their Eurocentric games are sexist, English-speaking anime fans take it as a matter of course that the fanservice in Japanese anime is problematic, so much so that it hardly needs commenting upon.
This anime is sexist? No way!

This anime is sexist? Impossibiru!

For example, when Stilts commented on the chauvinistic bent of Danmachi, one of the top-voted comments said: “Anime tends to be a tough sell to feminists. While I understand your criticism, I don’t really see how that applies here more than to the other numerous-as-the-stars LN titles which pretty much round up archetypical women into a nice little garden for the male lead to pluck.”

Theories about the sexist tropes in anime often delve into amateur sociology. Otaku have a purity complex because the Japanese are patriarchal, because they are sexually repressed, because they can’t handle independent women, and so on. Even if there was some truth to such observations, all too often it’s presented as essential traits. Anime is weird because Japan is weird. This angle of interpretation completely ignores the many Japanese feminists, especially the ones that write about anime (e.g. Mari Kotani, Kumiko Saito).

On one hand, I take it as a positive sign that English-speaking anime fans tend to be self-aware about the potential sexist messages in anime, but on the other hand, the implicit cultural hierarchy on display really bothers me a lot. I can’t help but get the impression that some fans are quite willing to admit that anime is sexist because they see it as a product of a less enlightened culture.

Still, that doesn’t answer the central question – whether it should be socially acceptable for otaku to “consume” anime girls the way they currently do. And that, I think, remains an open question. Theoretically, it should be possible to love fictional girls ethically and responsibly, but in practice, that comes with inescapable cultural baggage.

Personally, I think of myself as a “feminist otaku” because I don’t think otaku are really all that strange or perverse. I think that destigmatising otaku sexuality is a necessary first step towards critiquing it usefully through a feminist point of view. Of course, many people I respect disagree with me on that count.

Contextualising Female Otaku Sexuality

Perhaps one of the reasons anime criticism is relatively more accepting of feminist critique is because female anime fans have had a considerable presence in the fandom for many years now (both online and offline). While still understudied compared to male otaku, female otaku have been receiving more and more attention in recent years. I’ve written my own two cents about yaoi fandom, identifying anime fandom as a place where women can safely explore and express their sexuality.

One of the most useful things about studying female otaku is that it reminds you that otaku sexuality is in no way a unique phenomenon. As I wrote in my post about K-pop, anime is a cultural hybrid. The pretty boy aesthetic is appealing in many countries outside of Japan, and slash fiction has its place in most fandoms (see, for instance, Star Trek and, more recently, Sherlock).

In addition, female otaku fandom is not homogeneous. Not all female otaku are into BL, for instance. (This is a rather pervasive stereotype.) And there is plenty of disagreement over whether the BL fantasy is empowering or if it simply perpetuates heteronormative gender roles through its strict delineation between seme and uke. Is it empowering to love one’s husbando? What kind of female characters are empowering figures? How does anime explore non-heteronormativity? While there is a tendency among users of social media to oversimplify these discussions, feminist critique is providing powerful new insights into the relationship between sex and the media.
Female audiences responded to the fanservice in Kill la Kill in extremely varied ways

Female audiences responded to the fanservice in Kill la Kill in extremely varied ways

When we theorise about otaku sexuality (or sexuality in general, for that matter), female sexuality should never be ignored. Male sexuality is not the default. It would simply be a lie to claim that women are not as interested in sex as men are and don’t have complicated relationships with their bodies.

Before I finish this post, let me make one observation about the performativity of otaku sexuality. Despite my asexuality in real life, I have always been drawn to anime girls. Ecchi and harem anime interest me in a way that pornography does not. After spending a great deal of time with female anime fans, I began to find myself more attracted to anime boys.

From my own personal experience, then, I can attest that sexuality is fluid and that anime culture provides its fans with ample opportunity to explore queer sexuality. I reject the simplistic moralising stance that otaku sexuality is perverse or that otaku should “grow up” and face reality. Tamaki Saito’s core framework in Beautiful Fighting Girl makes a lot of sense to me, even if I think his argument itself is deeply flawed.