We've Seen You Again, Space Cowboy: The Timelessness of the Anime Cowboy Bebop
Written by Andreas Babiolakis
We all know why this article is here. Not only is the Netflix live action version of Cowboy Bebop being released on Friday, but it is also presently being eviscerated by critics. The series has been described as a hollow, surface-level take on an anime classic that understands its visual, hip nature, but completely misunderstands the heart at the core of Shinichirō Watanabe’s show. Instead of dwelling on the negative (we’ll have some Netflix Cowboy Bebop analyses soon), let’s get nostalgic and look backwards: what made Watanabe’s Cowboy Bebop so endearing? Even viewers who aren’t privy to anime works have shown admiration for this science fiction neo-noir, and this is perhaps the reason why a live action offshoot has been worked on for a while (unfortunately, we must now face disappointment). For a series that is meant to show the disastrous future of civilization, Cowboy Bebop is oddly nostalgic.
The year is 2071, and it looks like society has gone backwards a little bit in this future that looks more like the wild west than a promising utopia (albeit a western landscape full of metal and broken-down technology). You can slam the steampunk label on Cowboy Bebop in the slightest sense, but the series isn’t going for anything nearly as well-assembled. Bebop only gets as cool as its musical influences, ranging from the titular jazz style (think Dizzy Gillespie) to the rock and roll ego that exists throughout every sequence; every episode is named after a song or pop culture connection of some sort (including some Rolling Stone references like “Sympathy for the Devil”, but even a Jean-Luc Godard shoutout with the title “Pierrot le Fou”). Nonetheless, Cowboy Bebop is not a music-focused show, and this is just one element of the entire experience: a piece of the puzzle that adds up to the intended focus on something much more universally appealing.
That fascination is with the misery of existence, and the major theme that exists throughout Cowboy Bebop and the majority of its viewers. There’s something here that really cuts right to the hearts of audiences, like the memory of a familiar song or the perking of one’s ears at an identifiable reference. It’s the understanding of loneliness, even when others are present around us, as if we are locked up in an invisible cage and nothing will ever act as the key: not alcohol, the thrill of bounty hunting, lust, or the smallest glimpses of hope. Every episode tells a similar story: Spike and his fellow bounty hunters get wrapped up in some case that expands what the universe in 2071 looks like. This includes random ways that contraband, crime, and the underground operate: corgi dogs containing extremely valuable information, parasitic sabotage, and computer viruses and hacking holding entire economies and worlds at a standstill.
These worlds are created through the anime medium: a go-to for many storytellers that feel like live action couldn’t tell the same stories (like how director Satoshi Kon felt when making films like Perfect Blue and Paprika, although auteurs like Darren Aronofsky and Christopher Nolan certainly tried their hands at translating his visions). Something like Cowboy Bebop can express more than just what can’t be captured by props, sets, or CGI: it can get right down to the pits of abstract feelings. If anything, a show like Neon Genesis Evangelion went straight to the point by deconstructing itself within its final episodes: a daring achievement of post modernism that really couldn’t have been captured in any one way. Cowboy Bebop is not quite as self destructive, but it’s just as expressive through its own means. We can stare at any lone ranger in a space western with his cohorts and those he chases after, but this specifically is Cowboy Bebop: a specific sensation that many other stories have tried to achieve ever since. Who is to say that a live action version would fare any better?
This is precisely the case with the remake. You can mimic exactly how Spike looks, his surroundings, and everything else (without resorting to looking like a cosplay as well), but that doesn’t mean you’re going to achieve the same je-ne-sais-quoi that the anime possesses. There’s a reason why such a short series has enough staying power to be considered quite possibly the anime series of anime series (it’s certainly one of the best I have ever seen). There’s a comfort in the original, within the corridors of existential hopelessness, badassery, and vision. Parroting all of this isn’t guaranteed to have the same results; this isn’t a recipe one can follow, but the aimless pursuit to try and capture a singular sensation again. There isn’t any way for a viewer to place themselves within the Netflix Bebop like they can the caricatures and engaging art of the anime. There’s no empathetic bonding watching an already-existing-sensation being reenacted. Even if the Netflix Spike and company go on new adventures, there’s far too much of a lean on a series that managed to just be itself in a way many others never knew how, and that seems like the biggest mistake the live action series could make (if it could even exist without the ability to be compared, anyway). The anime Cowboy Bebop is one of the greatest creators of painful nostalgia in a cathartic sense, like this awful future is able to understand our tortured pasts. The Netflix Cowboy Bebop is more of a forced memory: a friend trying to coax you into remembering something that maybe never even happened. Timelessness can’t just be regurgitated from old foods: it has to be earned through innovation and other creative miracles.
Andreas Babiolakis has a Masters degree in Film and Photography Preservation and Collections Management from Ryerson University, as well as a Bachelors degree in Cinema Studies from York University. His favourite times of year are the Criterion Collection flash sales and the annual Toronto International Film Festival.