The History of Mushi Pro – 05 – Farewell to Tezuka (1970-1972)

Part of Mushi Pro’s history could be summed up as Osamu Tezuka’s long defeat and loss of agency. The mangaka had initially conceived the studio as a “group of artists” in which he and his companions would do experimental animation. Things began to change as soon as Tetsuwan Atom’s production started and Mushi initiated industrial modes of production. Then, they came to a head in 1965-1966, as the conflicts that arose during W3 and Jungle Taitei led to the emergence of clearly defined pro and anti-Tezuka factions. A precarious balance was kept during the years that followed, until the production of 1001 Nights in 1968: the Animerama films would be Tezuka’s occasion to move towards feature film production, pursue experimental animation on a wider scale, and claim artistic credit for the studio’s new success.

From a Tezuka-centered perspective, the legacy of the Animerama films is difficult to assess. They were certainly pioneering, but the studio had to pay a heavy toll for that, and the mangaka grew increasingly estranged from his own staff. Things went slowly, but Tezuka gave up on Animerama after Cleopatra and, soon, on Mushi Production as a whole. The manga department which he had split off to create Tezuka Production in 1968 acquired an animation division and initiated PR and CM work in summer 1970; one year later, in June 1971, the mangaka resigned from Mushi [1]. Tezuka and his studio would go their separate ways: among the symbols of that split was the so-called third Animerama movie, Kanashimi no Belladonna.

Tezuka’s film?

1001 Nights had brought Mushi Production to its knees. The production was the hardest the studio had ever known, led to the departure of many key staff members, and failed to solve Mushi’s financial problems. However, from producer and distributor Herald’s point of view, it was an unmistakable success. So, as soon as 1001 Nights premiered, Herald managing director Saburô Hatano asked Tezuka for a follow-up. Tezuka happily agreed, as he was actually dissatisfied with the film: he considered it imperfect and resented what he considered to be a lack of visible presence on his part. 1001 Nights was bold and experimental, but it went in too many directions at once, and Tezuka’s own individuality didn’t express itself as much as he would have liked [2]. The mangaka initially suggested adapting the Chinese novel The Golden Lotus, but Hatano rejected it because it lacked action and instead suggested doing something on Egyptian queen Cleopatra [3].

The next film would be centered around Tezuka. This was a result of the mangaka’s wish, but also of the circumstances within the studio: most of 1001 Nights’ team transferred to Yasashii Lion, a project carried by the former’s character designer, Takashi Yanase, and then moved on to Ashita no Joe. Among those left, few were ready to try the experience again. Eiichi Yamamoto reluctantly agreed to co-direct, even though he had just left Mushi [4]. He was one of the only members of 1001 Nights’ main staff to remain alongside sound director Atsumi Tashiro, composer Isao Tomita and main animator Kazuko Nakamura.

As in the previous film, Tezuka did not do the character designs himself and had them done by adult manga artist Kô Kojima. But he did most of the rest: the synopsis (revised into a proper script by playwright Shigemi Satoyoshi), story boards and storyboard [5]. As could be expected, he was very slow and set the schedule off from the very start: production officially began in November 1969; the script was ready by early 1970, but the final storyboard wasn’t completed until April [6]. With this done, Tezuka stepped back and let Yamamoto handle all the on-site work, which took place in studio 2.

The production was organized in very much the same way as it had been on 1001 Nights: the cast would be made up of live-action and theater actors and the sound pre-recorded. The animation would be split between “main”, character animators and “guest” animators. In fact, it seems that the animation organization was very similar to Tôei’s “seconding system” used until the early 60s: main animators had their own teams of second key animators and in-betweeners, and each team worked relatively independently from the others. Kazuko Nakamura resumed her position from 1001 Nights and animated most female characters, notably Cleopatra. In her team were most of the women on the production, such as Yoshiko Watanabe or Sumiko Asato. Alongside her was not Sadao Miyamoto, who had left for Tatsunoko, but Masami Hata, who notably animated Cesar and Antony. Ionius and Lupa were animated by Teruhito Kamiguchi’s team, Octavian by Nobuyoshi Sasakado (who was sent to gay bars to collect reference and seems to have been quite popular), and the effects by Mikiharu Akabori [7]. Akabori was an ex-Tôei animator who had worked under Yasuo Otsuka, arguably the inventor of effects animation in Japan; following in his master’s steps, he became Mushi’s effects specialist and made some impressive work on Cleopatra.

The “guest” animators were Renzô Kinoshita (in charge of the time travel scene), Tatsuo Shimamura (Cesar’s triumph), Hideo Furusawa (Cesar’s kabuki-style assassination) and, of course, Gisaburô Sugii (the film’s two sex scenes) [8]. They were all personally selected by Yamamoto [9], who knew their abilities outside of classic cel animation: Kinoshita had started independent, experimental production in 1967, Tatsuo Shimamura was a CM animator and used many different techniques, Furusawa was known as one Tôei’s most experimental animators, and Sugii was Yamamoto’s go-to animator for expressionist, almost abstract sex scenes. Unlike 1001 Nights, Tezuka did very little animation himself – perhaps only the musical number before the battle of Actium.

With the storyboard complete in April 1970, and the film coming out in September, animation, cel painting and photography work were rushed. According to Atsumi Tashiro, when dubbing started, the movie wasn’t completed and he had to dub the Actium scene before the cels were painted [10]. Things were undoubtedly difficult, but no horror stories like those from 1001 Nights seem to remain: Cleopatra in fact seems to have been a quieter, less troubled production – which was probably in part due to its smaller scale and ambition.

Indeed, a comparison between 1001 Nights and Cleopatra reveals the huge differences between Yamamoto and Tezuka. As Sugii said, Yamamoto was obsessed with “collage”: he wanted to experiment at all times, juxtapose styles and techniques, and didn’t mind if the final result lacked any visual unity. Accordingly, he seems to have been the one who suggested using live-action footage on both Animerama films. On the other hand, Tezuka’s method was “orthodox”. For him, animation essentially boiled down to drawings: he would also experiment as much as possible, but always within the confines of 2D cel animation [11]. As a result, Cleopatra appears far less radical – but is also technically far more consistent and solid.

In a typical Tezuka fashion, Cleopatra is both a parodic, pop-cultural war machine and, for all its absurdities, an incredibly efficient drama. This comes out through the animation, sometimes realistic and lifelike, at other times cartoony and modern – it is in Cleopatra that the influence of UPA and US design-focused animation on Tezuka comes out most clearly. Moreover, in his storyboard, Tezuka crammed in as many references as possible: 2001, A Space Odyssey in the opening scene, various characters from other manga, Western painting, kabuki theater… Since it’s not mentioned by any member of the staff that I know of, it’s hard to tell what was the influence of the 1963 Hollywood Cleopatra – besides the subject matter and a few design similarities, there are no obvious signs.

If we dismiss the biggest differences – the SF parts, anachronisms and parodic tone – a notable deviation in Tezuka’s film is its understanding of Cleopatra’s character. Feminist themes had already been introduced in 1001 Nights in which women are always victims of men’s desires and machinations. In Cleopatra, things are more nuanced as Cleopatra has sexual agency and uses it, but remains a tragic figure, whose life and individuality are stolen from her – in that sense, the manipulative relationship between Apollodoria and Cleopatra is one of the strongest elements of the movie. Particularly interesting as well is the anti-imperialist discourse, which must have resonated quite strongly in the middle of the Vietnam War. Far more explicit than the metaphors of Tôei’s Hols, Prince of the Sun, it makes Cleopatra one of the first really political animated feature films in Japan.

Tezuka’s departure

Although not as huge as 1001 Nights, Cleopatra seems to have worked quite well and deepened the relationship between Mushi and Herald, which would soon ask for a third film. But, by the time Cleopatra came out in September 1970, the conditions in Mushi had radically changed, and the chain of events that would directly cause Tezuka’s departure was set in motion.

Within Mushi Pro, there was probably the issue of Ashita no Joe. While it wasn’t the studio’s first non-Tezuka work, it was the first adaptation of a non-Tezuka manga – rather than just an unrelated property. Moreover, Tezuka and Tetsuya Chiba were polar opposites. For the former, having his studio adapt the latter amounted to a straight rejection of his work [12]. Tezuka Pro opening its animation branch and the start of Ashita no Joe’s broadcast being almost simultaneous is surely no coincidence. When, in mid-1971, Tezuka’s protégé Yoshinobu Nishizaki brought a broadcast contract for Fushigina Melmo, the mangaka decided to produce the series outside of Mushi Pro and stepped down from presidency in June, partly to dedicate himself to it [13].

Then, there were the circumstances in Mushi Pro Trading. As told in previous articles, the subsidiary’s attempts to produce its own animation series backfired and put it in debt. The company largely depended on its two magazines, COM and Fanny. With the death of publishing department chief Kuniyasu Yamazaki in March 1970, morale suddenly dropped and never quite recovered [14]. COM’s circulation started decreasing and Fanny stopped publication. Trading’s president Imai decided to dismiss all of Fanny’s editorial team, but this only increased tensions and labor disputes flared up, leading to Imai’s resignation in June 1970 [15]. There was nobody to replace him, so Tezuka took up his functions. He was of course not fit for the job, and aware of it: he therefore appointed Yoshinobu Nishizaki managing director. Nishizaki had just been recruited, but he was ambitious and confident in his ability to save Trading from impending collapse. However, that meant breaking off from Tezuka: in the end, Nishizaki only contributed to exclude the mangaka further from the staff of Trading and Mushi proper [16].

At this point, the tensions in Trading had reached the main company. On March 20, 1971, 119 employees formed a labor union – this was more than half of the studio’s workforce, which counted between 200 and 230 members at the time [17]. If the union gathered so much support so quickly, it’s because it did not come out of nowhere: since at least 1967, employees had gathered in weekly get-togethers termed the “Tuesday Meetings”. There, they voiced their discontent and created various support structures – it was, in other words, an informal union, without the official status and power that went with it [18]. The events in Trading accelerated the situation and, as soon it could, the new union entered negotiations with management on how to improve working conditions. “Management” meant the president, Osamu Tezuka. Yûsuke Nakagawa identified very well why Tezuka was absolutely incapable of leading such negotiations: he had never considered himself above the rest of the staff, but was instead one of those who worked the hardest in the studio – even if that meant causing trouble for everybody else [19]. Tezuka only had good intentions, but he was completely out-of-touch – most revealing in this aspect is Aritsune Toyota’s claim that Tezuka had had the idea of creating a union in the early 60s, with himself as chairman [20]. I don’t know what the contents or results of the negotiation with the union were, but by the time they were over, the mangaka felt completely betrayed and could no longer look away from the hostility that had built up against him for years.

The ultimate trigger for Tezuka’s departure was largely coincidental, but it tells volumes about the mangaka’s attitude. One day, veteran animator and close friend Kazuko Nakamura presented her letter of resignation to Tezuka; upon seeing it, the mangaka said that he’d quit with her. On June 21st, 1971, he stepped down from presidency. He was replaced by veteran producer and studio n°2 Eiichi Kawabata, who took the occasion for restructuring and expansion: Mushi’s capital was raised from 2 million to 10 million yen [21], and a new wave of recruitment started.

As this “expansion” illustrates, we should not overestimate the impact of Tezuka’s departure. For one thing, he did not cut all ties with Mushi: he remained president of Mushi Trading and, from that position, maintained a degree of contact with the main company. Moreover, as I explained, it could be argued that Tezuka’s direct control over the studio had kept decreasing over the years, and that leaving was just acknowledging a situation everybody was aware of. The main consequence, then, does not relate directly to Tezuka but to Mushi: its initial business model and its perfected form under the Anami system had now definitely collapsed. With Tezuka gone, the studio would have no new IPs of its own to manage and would only serve as a subcontractor for TV stations. It seems that, in Kawabata’s mind, this was the occasion to reconstruct Mushi from the ground up, on a healthier organizational and financial basis. In the short term, this ensured continued survival for Mushi, if nothing else. Under Kawabata’s helm, and with Nishizaki’s grand plans for Trading, the studio’s future looked less dark than it had for some time.

Mushi’s last masterpiece

Kanashimi no Belladonna was made in the midst of these troubles: as it had done after 1001 Nights, Herald approached Mushi not long after the completion of Cleopatra, around November 1970 [22]. By this point, Tezuka was already on his way out, and he was in common agreement with Herald and Eiichi Kawabata to stay out of this new project, which would be left entirely in Eiichi Yamamoto’s hands. It was also determined that this new movie would be different from the two that preceded it: its budget would be much lower (between 30 and 40 million yen), and it would be distributed through arthouse circuits rather than in usual theaters. It would also be aesthetically different: somewhere in-between European art films (Yamamoto cites Fellini and Bergman) and Western experimental animation, such as George Dunning’s Yellow Submarine [23]. In such conditions, what would become Belladonna was not distributed under the “Animerama” brand but a new one, “Anime Romanesque”.

The general parameters and inspirations for the production were therefore quite clear, but it took some time for the film to start in earnest, with Yamamoto describing the planning stage as “the most difficult” part of Belladonna [24]. Indeed, it took multiple months, and it wasn’t until “early summer” 1971, probably just after Tezuka’s departure from Mushi, that Yamamoto submitted his plan for an adaptation of Jules Michelet’s The Witch [25]. At this point, the main staff had been gathered: Yamamoto would be assisted by Gisaburô Sugii on animation direction and illustrator Kuni Fukai on art. It was decided early on that the movie would be mostly centered around the latter’s illustrations. Fukai and Yamamoto therefore worked closely together on the synopsis, script and story boards. The first experiments in that direction were made in the 5 minutes long pilot film, which consisted of Fukai’s image boards being put over Santana’s Black Magic Woman and narration by voice actor Taichirô Hirokawa [26].

Once the pilot film was approved, production began in earnest. Release was settled for February 1972, and a dozen people gathered in a small, rundown studio in Shakujii, apart from Mushi’s main location [27]. Although experimental, Belladonna was not a particularly ambitious production, and there were none of the tensions or difficulties Yamamoto and his team had gone through on the Animerama films. Ironically, however, the film ran into precisely the same issues Tezuka had caused: it would never be completed for the deadline set by Herald. Although Fukai had some assistants, he was basically in charge of creating most of the film by himself: the task was too heavy and, in late February 1972, only 1/4th was completed [28]. According to Yamamoto, nobody in either Mushi or Herald had ever believed that the film would be done on time, and so negotiations for a new date resumed without difficulty. But it was nevertheless the beginning of a complex revision process, similar and just as fatal as what had happened on 1001 Nights.

Mushi was starting to severely lack money, and needed Herald to pay for Belladonna as early as possible, which could only happen once the completed work was delivered. Yamamoto was therefore asked to finish it by the summer. This was completely unreasonable, so producer Makoto Motohashi suggested a way to buy time: a “dummy film” would be delivered to Herald to obtain the payment and, once that was done, Yamamoto would ask for retakes and rework the movie so that it would be as he wanted it to [29]. Mushi was so desperate that they were ready to lie to Herald; but, if Yamamoto is to be believed, he ended up being the one lied to: in August, the dummy film was completed and delivered. Herald was perfectly satisfied with this version and, when Yamamoto asked when he could resume work, Motohashi and Mushi’s producers acted as if they didn’t know anything. 

But then, in September 1972, the situation changed yet again: Mushi was still in need of funds, so president Eiichi Kawabata told Yamamoto he could now go to Herald to ask for retakes and the funds to make them – basically, to go beg for money. This worked somehow, and Mushi got 500,000 yen out of the deal [30]. It would save the film, but not the studio – according to Yamamoto, Belladonna’s final production cost was double its initial budget [31]. For some, it was this debt, alongside the late decision to show Belladonna in regular theaters and the spike in distribution costs this entailed, which put the final nail in Mushi’s coffin and finally led it to bankruptcy [32].

The fact is that, even if the movie had worked well enough to recoup its costs, – which I doubt was the case – its release was strangely delayed to June 1973 even though it was completed in December 1972 [33]. Some say it was the fault of Yoshinobu Nishizaki, who wanted to make more room for his own project, the TV series Wansa-kun. It might make sense, given that Yamamoto was director of Wansa-kun and that Nishizaki was, by this point, in a good position to pressure Mushi, which was almost completely dependent on his loans. But I must confess I have a hard time believing this rumor. Another possible factor may have been because Belladonna was screened at the Berlinale Film Festival just before coming out in Japan. Whatever the cause, Belladonna came too late: Mushi Trading declared bankruptcy in August and was followed by its parent company in November.

On top of the dummy version, Belladonna is a film that kept changing, which Yamamoto kept editing over the years. According to the DVD box booklet, there were 5 versions in total. The first is the dummy, which was presumably much shorter than what we know today and moved even less, as most of the animation staff had not joined yet. Then, there is the second version including the retakes, which was shown at the Berlinale: it included a 5-minute live-action sex scene shot by photographer Daidô Moriyama and ended with the devil laughing in front of Jeanne’s pyre. However, Belladonna didn’t get a good reception in Germany, so Yamamoto decided to cut both scenes at the last minute for the third version, released in Japan in 1973. Then, in 1979, so-called revival screenings were held and a new, so-called “highschool girls version” was made with the most explicit sex scenes cut – thus the nickname, as the movie was now appropriate for “art-loving highschool girls”. It was at this stage that the French Revolution references were added to the ending and that Yamamoto put his name under the “script” credit. Finally, the version we now know was completed in 1986, for the LD release: most of the changes were made to the pyre scene, on top of which music was notably added [34].

Belladonna is often considered to come at the end of a long aesthetic evolution which covers the entire history of Mushi Pro: the development and increasing experimentations with “limited animation”. In the continuity of Aru Machikado no Monogatari and Tetsuwan Atom, it would in some way be the realization of Tezuka’s own artistic objectives. In my opinion, nothing could be further from the truth: Belladonna is in many ways an anti-Tezuka work.

Fukai’s art was modern, as were Yamamoto’s counter-cultural ambitions – he claims to have been closely following the hippie movements happening in the US since the late 60s [35]. It was not just a reaction to contemporary artistic movements, as the ever-anxious Tezuka was prone to do at the time, but a commentary on and an attempt at contributing to them. Moreover, Tezuka had always been preoccupied with movement – his Mushi and Tezuka Pro era “experimental” films show that well enough. On the other hand, Yamamoto’s Belladonna is about the absence of animated movement in its traditional sense. This meant going further in the aesthetics of collage and laying further aside the predominance of cel animation.

Some of Fukui’s original art for the film. Pieces measure respectively 33x108cm and 37x108cm. From a February 2023 exhibition held at Somsoc Gallery, Shibuya, Tokyo.

Indeed, most of Belladonna isn’t on cels – Fukai’s illustrations were made on wide sheets of paper and painted in watercolor. Movement is then created largely through the use of the multiplane camera: long pans over the drawings, or the addition of cel elements on top of them. In the film, what moves and what doesn’t is almost ontologically different because it is, at the core, materially different – the difference between cels and paper, what is in traditional anime the foreground and background. This is, for example, particularly striking when the Devil first approaches Jeanne – he is “normally” animated, a cel element overlaid on top of still illustrations. Otherwise, traditionally-animated sequences, or even moments when the entire screen is on cel, are the most narratively or thematically significant, the movement of objects becoming synonymous with the movement of the story and of emotions.

For these reasons, Belladonna counts among the masterpieces of cel-era photography. Not only because camera “movement” – pans and zooms – play such an important part, or because working with Fukai’s oversized drawings must have been particularly difficult. It is also because blurring, lighting, shading effects are omnipresent, adding yet more occasions to recreate motion in new, unprecedented ways.

It’s also interesting to consider Belladonna alongside the two Animerama films. Admittedly, such a comparison isn’t as obvious as the “trilogy”’s legacy would have it – since it is not a trilogy. Despite the comments I just made about the differences between Yamamoto and Tezuka, and despite Belladonna’s undeniable originality, one could argue it followed the same ideas as its predecessors and pushed them further. First, in its production: whereas 1001 Nights and Cleopatra had both required the services of someone outside the anime industry for their designs, Belladonna was almost entirely devoted to Fukai’s art. The difference between “main” and “guest” animators seemingly vanished as all animation would be a sort of “guest” to the illustrations that make up most of the film. Then, there is the writing, with its loose Western inspirations and focus on sexuality. It admittedly goes much further than the two previous films, but even its feminism – quite radical for the time, especially in animation – builds upon the themes of oppression and freedom that had been playing in the background of 1001 Nights and Cleopatra. If Belladonna appears far more radical and powerful, it is perhaps because of Tezuka’s absence: perhaps he cared for these ideas as much as Yamamoto did, but he diluted them in convoluted stories and eclecticism. Yamamoto, on his own, produced something far more focused and efficient – so much so that it became the crowning and, in a way, last achievement of his career.

Indeed, Yamamoto’s post-Mushi career is quite unlike that of his friends, colleagues and disciples – people like Gisaburô Sugii, Rintarô, Dezaki… Although the first two nearly quit the anime industry in the mid-70s [36], all three kept directing and developing a rich body of work which would retrospectively give more weight to Mushi’s image as the training place for anime’s greatest geniuses. On the other hand, following his involvement in the Yamato series, Yamamoto progressively disappeared from the animation scene, rather working on documentaries (although no information seems to be readily accessible about them). He would occasionally direct a movie or OVA throughout the 80s, but his career was clearly over. Instead, his biggest contribution to Mushi’s legacy would be his autobiographical novel, The Rise and Fall of Mushi Pro.

Conclusion: the “Animerama trilogy”

For good or bad, the Animerama films work as a sort of summary of Mushi’s history and its issues. All throughout their creation, we witness how the ambitions of creators – chiefly but not exclusively Tezuka – came crashing when confronted to reality, and how Mushi was almost perpetually falling under its own weight. They also embody the complexities of the anime industry, where commercial concerns, distribution and promotion structures and production systems form an inextricable network out of which, sometimes, come genuine works of art – but always at a cost.

The three Animerama films are deeply imperfect, and whatever their impact on Mushi’s fate – and notably the question of whether or not Belladonna was the last nail on the coffin, which I can’t answer – it’s difficult to estimate their historical impact on Japanese animation as a whole. They were, certainly, among the most radical works released in Japan when they all came out – and, in a way, each new film went further than the one before. But after Belladonna, the well seemed to have dried up: no studio would ever take the risk again for some time, and the doors that had opened between commercial and independent creation appear to have closed again. The lack of distinction between “art” and “entertainment” is something that both Sugii and Yamamoto have defended, and I believe it originates in Tezuka’s own vision. But that vision was gone now. As I will show, some of Mushi’s “successors” – mainly Sugii’s Group TAC – tried to keep the fire going and succeeded to some degree. Still, Japanese animation would have to wait another decade, with the birth of the OVA format and the true rise of animated feature films, for “adult art animation” to truly come back on the scene.

Footnotes

[1] Nakagawa 2020, pp.342 & 358

[2] Yamamoto 1989, p.271; Yamamoto 2003; Yamamoto et al. 2004b; Nakagawa 2020, p.338

[3] Mushi Production 1977, p.8

[4] Yamamoto 1989, p.270

[5] Yamamoto et al. 2004b

[6] Yamamoto 1989, p.277; Nakagawa 2020, p.338

[7] Yamamoto 2003; Yamamoto et al. 2004b; Sasakado 2008, p.283

[8] Sugii 2004; Yamamoto et al. 2004b

[9] Sugii 2015, p.276

[10] Yamamoto et al. 2004b

[11] Yamamoto et al. 2004b & 2004c; Sugii 2015, p.276. In the Animestyle interview, Yamamoto attributes the idea of using live-action on Cleopatra to Tezuka, though both him and Sugii imply in other instances that he was the one who wanted to use such hybrid techniques

[12] Tezuka 1996, vol.2, pp.61 & 77; Makimura & Yamada 2015, p.26

[13] Makimura & Yamada 2015, p.27; Masami https://blog.goo.ne.jp/mcsammy/e/e3303f514ed4064dd74b35c9720d7e3d

[14] Shimotsuki 2011, p.115; Makimura & Yamada 2015, p.21

[15] Makimura & Yamada 2015, pp.21-22; Nakagawa 2020, p.351. Sadly, nobody describes exactly what these “labor disputes” consisted of exactly. There seems to have been no union proper, but the possibility of a strike can’t be excluded

[16] Makimura & Yamada, pp.28-29

[17] Yamamoto 1989, p.289; Nakagawa 2020, p.358

[18] Tomioka 2015, p.244; Sunrise World 2017, https://sunrise-world.net/feature/feature.php?id=7708 Tomioka mentions that the Tuesday Meetings were already in place at the time of Goku, thus making their existence attested by at least 1967; I have found no more information on when exactly they started.

[19] Nakagawa 2020, p.358

[20] Toyota 2020, p.56

[21] Yamamoto 1989, p.289; Nakagawa 2020, p.360

[22] Yamamoto 1989, p.283

[23] Yamamoto 1989, p.283; Yamamoto 2003; Sugii 2004 & 2015, p.228. Sugii is the only one to give details about Belladonna’s budget, but alternatively gives 30 or 40 million. I’m not sure what to make of these numbers, since they don’t seem to be that much lower than 1001 Nights’ initial budget

[24] Yamamoto 2003

[25] Yamamoto 1989, p.291. In the audio commentary (Yamamoto et al. 2004c), Yamamoto mentions that he first had the idea for adapting a French novel (?) whose title (Ojo Monogatari – Princess Stories?) I couldn’t understand or identify. However, he failed to obtain the rights and it’s only 6 months later that the Witch adaptation project was approved

[26] Yamamoto 1989, pp.292-294; Yamamoto et al. 2004c

[27] Yamamoto 1989, p.294 & 296; Cinema Novecento 2020, p.163; Nakagawa 2020, p.415

[28] Yamamoto 1989, p.298

[29] Yamamoto 1989, p.303; Yamamoto et al. 2004c; Sugii 2015, p.230; Nakagawa 2020, p.416

[30] Yamamoto 1989, p.308 & 324

[31] Yamamoto 1989, p.331

[32] Sugii 2004; Yamamoto et al. 2004c

[33] Yamamoto 1989, p.326

[34] in Yamamoto et al. 2004c; Yamamoto 2004 also discusses some of the changes

[35] Yamamoto 1989 p. 283

[36] Sugii 2012, p.115 and following: in 1974-1975, Sugii dropped everything (notably the series Manga Nippon Mukashibanashi which he had initiated and made a pilot film for) to make a long trip all around Japan; Rintarô 2009, p.54: although his career knew no blank, Rintarô was ready to quit animation at the time of Kum Kum in 1975 and only kept working to sustain himself