Nature at Aichi World’s Expo 2005

I have good memories of Expo ’67. My family drove to Montreal from the suburbs of Chicago, pitched a tent in a field with thousands of other visitors, and spent several days wandering the fairgrounds marveling at it all—the great cinematic 3-D effects, the enormous Bucky Fuller dome, Moshe Safdie’s Habitat. Canada’s paper industry fed us propaganda that I happily swallowed (I’ll never forget that hornets’ nests are a miraculous form of paper found in nature, but I can’t quite remember the song). When I got home I told my fellow fourth graders of the wonders I had seen.

Today, no one needs to drive hundreds of miles to glimpse a global high-tech future, which leads to a question: Is there still any point to world’s fairs? Clearly the formula has become strained. As the collapse of colonialism has been followed by the slower collapse of a colonialist attitude toward nature, heavy-handed displays of technological might, industrial abundance, and national ingenuity have given way to the less dramatic themes of environmentalism and global cooperation.

I paid a brief visit to Aichi World Expo in Japan in June 2005 to see how nations and corporations would shape the new message of environmental unity. I brought along my then eight-year-old son, hoping he would be as dazzled as I had been as a child in Montreal. I came away mildly impressed. My son enjoyed himself but afterward told me he preferred water parks.

Forest Grandfather and Forest Child Will Guide Us

A world’s fair theme or slogan must please multiple users, corporate and otherwise. Aichi Expo chose “nature’s wisdom” as its main theme, with “nature’s matrix,” “the art of life,” and “development for ecocommunities” as subthemes. This cluster allowed exhibitors to ignore ecology if they wished and to offer up instead national culture, vague ideas of progress, and celebrations of breakthrough technologies.

The malleability of Aichi’s slogans makes them difficult to assess. Alan Bryman, in his study of Disneyland as a sourcebook for global consumerism, points out that theming involves “clothing institutions or objects in a narrative that is largely unrelated to the institution or object to which it is applied, such as a casino or restaurant with a Wild West narrative.”{1} Determining to what extent world’s fairs as institutions relate to such unifying themes as “progress and modernity” or “environmentalism,” a newer favorite on Bryman’s lists—that is, distinguishing them from mere theme parks—requires murky moral calculations. It is not easy to isolate monolithic intention in a production with myriad authors—including the fairgoers.

As Aichi was being planned for the hillsides outside Nagoya, near Toyota headquarters, environmentalism may have been at first a theme of convenience, a form of camouflage. But in 1999 local environmentalists noted that the construction plans for one large wooded hill—the Seto area of the expo—would disrupt goshawk nesting sites and destroy much of the woodland and old farm plots. Protests followed, and in response new plans were drawn up that minimized development in Seto and transferred the bulk of the fair to the adjoining Nagakute site, which had already been lightly developed as a “youth park.” The protected Seto site would feature crafts and outdoor activities such as guided tree-climbing. Far from the goshawk nests, Nagakute would be dedicated to corporate and national pavilions.

To its credit, this was not a development that erased the landscape. The Aichi Expo grounds were written lightly onto the hills, although not organically interwoven with them. Nagakute mixed humble nature vistas with fairly humble architecture. To borrow Robert Venturi’s binomial scheme for classifying architectural forms—the “decorated shed,” a functionalist building with embellishments, and the “duck,” a structure of highly symbolic outer form—Aichi was loaded with sheds but featured only a few scattered ducks.{2} Aichi’s decorated sheds, it should be noted, highlighted green technologies and were built to be dismantled after the fair.

Ultimately, the elevated boardwalks that connected the sheds proved to be Aichi’s architectural highlight. Designed to allow fairgoers to appreciate the beauty of the landscape, they also held us separate from it. Moving along these breezy walkways above the forest (and the roadways for the self-guided buses) created a utopian mood. One could loiter on the main paths and gaze down at the ponds or at Expo Plaza’s large lawn with its enormous video screen, or stroll down side paths into the woods and among more ponds and gardens. When I suggested to my son that we follow one such nature trail, though, he said, “but there’s nothing out there.” A walk in the woods is not the most obvious choice after paying a $40 admission.

Even as mundane nature lulled, Aichi offered representations of Nature to please our imaginations. Before the fair opened, its promotional efforts featured both a recently excavated mammoth and one of modern Japan’s cultural mammoths, animé. But the marketing emphasis quickly tilted toward the fair’s two cartoon mascots, Kiccoro and Morizo. These shaggy green cartoon characters are of a sort now fairly common in Japan, called kimo-kawa or “ugly-cute.”{3} Kimo-kawa is a pop rendering of the older aesthetic categories of the sublime and the beautiful. The much-loved Totoro from Hayao Miyazaki’s 1988 cartoon Our Neighbor Totoro, for example, is too big to be simply “cute,” and his teeth are too large and his roar too threatening to let him seem harmless.{4} Nature, overseen by demons and gods, can never be cute (kawai) in this land of typhoons, earthquakes, and mudslides.

Numerous short cartoons featuring Kiccoro and Morizo aired on NHK, Japan’s public station, before and during the expo. The pair are forest dwellers. Morizo (Forest Grandfather), who looks a bit like a shrub, has a low voice, talks slowly, and often nods off. He keeps an eye on Kiccoro (Forest Child), a bubbly, high-voiced adventurer who looks a bit like a shaggy acorn and often needs rescuing. In the NHK cartoons they interact with such characters from Japanese folklore as the Tanuki—a raccoon that is regarded as a trickster—and various indigenous demons, or Oni-tachi, who also have a loveable trickster aspect. There is no real environmentalist message to these cartoons, but they convey the beauty of the forests and celebrate Japanese folk culture. As at Disneyland, plenty of costumed Morizos and Kiccoros wandered the Aichi boardwalks providing photo opportunities to visitors. The gift shops were also packed with Morizo and Kiccoro dolls, videos, keychains, mugs, tee-shirts, and paper fans and notebooks (made of recycled paper).

Packaging the Apocalypse

Like the happy-go-lucky Kiccoro, the news at Aichi was upbeat. With few exceptions, the message that came through at the national pavilions was that with the wise stewardship of Morizo-like leaders (fortunately already in power) plus new technologies, serious ecological crisis would be averted. The traditional world’s fair theme of progress and modernity lived on.{5}

Of course, a truly bleak vision, emphasizing human greed and folly while denying any promise of a saner world to come, would have been out of place. Yet the celebration of technology was muted. Many displays drifted toward an apocalyptic motif built into environmentalism: a corrupt, out-of-balance world must be made anew, and technology alone will not suffice. Many of the pavilions, playing on the fair’s overarching theme of “nature’s wisdom,” also offered the notion that a deeper spirituality could come to humankind’s aid in resolving our social and environmental woes. Such message, for example, was promoted at the Indian pavilion, patterned with great skill around a “tree of life” motif. Scattered among videos of religious rituals and environmental projects were curious images of modern urban India, speeded-up films of pedestrians streaming past McDonald’s periodically interrupted by sudden brief appearances from dancing, many-armed divinities. Rather than the “old mixed with the new” cliché of National Geographic photo spreads, these videos offered a strange, witty, liberating mix.

The American pavilion held fast to a secular vision. Befitting the global hyperpower, it also emphasized an “all is well” message. Less ideal for propaganda purposes was its modest scale and funding; the Unites States, it seemed, had better things to do than put on a big show near Nagoya. Outside, attendants cruised around on donated Segway scooters, to the amusement of Japanese children. The role of mascot for the U.S. was filled by Benjamin Franklin. While he is an appealing historical figure, the choice evaded the expo’s environmental theme. Old Ben—artisan, scientist, statesman, civic leader, with a penchant for electrocuting turkeys to be served at “electric picnics” on the Schuylkill—was no John Muir.

The pavilion’s centerpiece was a film in which Franklin, played by the actor Joe Ochman, was brought to life as a lively, optimistic, curious visitor from the past. A solid rival to Kiccoro, he even danced. Complaining more than once that he had been born too early, Franklin dwelled on the glories of the history of technology and stressed the progress made since his time. “What an age I’ve missed out on!” After rocking out with hip-hoppers of color and white alternative rockers, Ben affirmed that the American system of democracy was spreading to all the nations of the earth and that more wonders were coming. Satellites, he noted, helped us “see our own precious planet” and its needs. Like the Native Americans, we would have to learn from nature and so develop new technologies. Fuel cells and nanotechnology, in particular, would easily take care of all environmental problems. A lightning storm at the climax of the show included a spray of mist from the ceiling and “tinglers” in the seats; it ended with a rainbow and Franklin, ever upbeat, wishing he could see “what wonders you will create next.”

Despite the heavy-handed message about American democracy and the film’s dubious expression of faith in nanotechnology, Ochman’s performance won over most of the audience, myself included—my son and I were the only spectators to request English-language headphones during the showing. Leaving the theater, we could view a replica of the Wright brothers’ early glider, see vintage photos of their flights, and browse among pictures, reconstructed landscapes, and landers from NASA’s Mars missions. The lesson, whether specifically planned or not, was that we were on a flight together, full of adventure, and steering clear of disaster.{6}

If the American pavilion declared that the golden age was now, the Japanese offered a harsher and more honest assessment. The many bridges built into their national pavilion, mirroring those that dotted the fairgrounds, seemed appropriate: the bridge is a common stage element in Japanese Noh theater, often used for entrances, exits, or to represent long voyages, including passages to and from the spirit realm. Entering the pavilion, one crossed a crooked bridge to Zone 1, titled “Crises Mankind Faces,” as disorienting images of crowds and water flashed on two hundred video screens depicting overpopulation, acid rain, melting glaciers, global warming, drought, and desertification. Zone 2, “The Origins and Changes of Japan,” provided a historical context for the environmental crisis, contrasting images from the Japan of fifty years ago to the dense population and concrete landscapes of the contemporary nation. Statistics highlighting increased demands on electricity, water, coal, oil, and other natural resources flashed onscreen.

A moving sidewalk then carried visitors through a long tunnel past dioramas showing the interiors of typical Japanese homes of different eras. This journey began in the early twentieth century, with its charcoal braziers and tatami mats, moved on to the 1920s (phonographs and jazz records), and then through the ensuing decades and their technological trappings—gas stoves, electric refrigerators, and a myriad of other goods including robot toys, appliances, and computers. A “Blue Comets 66” Japanese surf-rock record and an air conditioner marked the rapid economic growth of 1961–70; arrays of cell phones and flat-screen computers littered the most recent archeological level. But this was no cornucopia of progress. If anything, these aspects of material culture revealed life becoming more complicated, more gadget-dependent, and more disposable through the decades.

Cure followed critique. After passing through various displays describing the dangers of global warming, visitors stepped into the Earth Vision Theater to be whipped into a state of wonder. We stood on a transparent bridge within a spherical screen to view a film that zoomed from the microscopic to the macroscopic, leading us from cities out to a forest, up a waterfall, through a rainbow, undersea, and then into outer space, past the Moon, Earth, and to the stars. It was exhilarating, like a shaman’s vision flight, a stunning use of technology to evoke awe. A new world was dawning. Visitors then followed a curving ramp down to a simulated Japanese forest replete with forest scents, mist, and displays of sustainable technology—many of them design features built into the pavilion itself.

Of Globalism and Obsolescence

Perhaps fittingly, in light of its overarching theme of harmony and balance, Aichi was at its worst when it offered technological bombast. Global House, which hosted the remains of the mammoth, offered a prime example. It was designed, necessarily, for the masses; while it was impossible to visit many pavilions without booking reservations months ahead, as the fair’s centerpiece Global House had to be available to everyone. While they waited to get in, crowds were treated to a long advertisement for Sony’s laser technologies. Then a group would be herded into a cold theater (“chilled air” had been one of the big promises at the 1933 world’s fair in Chicago) featuring a ninety-meter-wide flat digital screen (also by Sony). It was big. Very big. The image was sharp. And the sound system was loud. But the film that swelled on the vertiginous screen, titled Know the Earth, Love the Earth: Our Earth Story, might have been better named: The Earth, Wow! A camera swooped over glaciers and primeval landscapes, crowded cities, open deserts, animal herds, flowers, the ocean, and outer space. The moral was quite similar to that at the American pavilion: “One Planet, Our Planet—Bon Voyage!”

Next we were led into an area, in which small video displays explained the recent excavation of the mammoth in Sakha, Siberia. While this was undoubtedly a serious scientific expedition—unlike the frozen mammoths unearthed in the early twentieth century, this one was not served for dinner at a gourmet club—the exhibition was Barnumesque. After being transported via another moving sidewalk past a deep-freeze container holding the mammoth’s head,one foot, and curled tusks on a wooden slab, and then deposited outdoors, I felt as if I had just been hurried past the Fiji Mermaid. It became clear to me why we all preferred the fictitious Morizo and Kiccoro to the very real and well-preserved mammoth corpse. We were able to spend more quality time with them.

At that moment, I could not help wondering if the world’s fair is not a concept appropriately nearing extinction. As Michael Sorkin pointed out in his 1992 essay “See You in Disneyland,” in the 1950s Disney improved and fixed eternally the basic world’s fair package, with its simulacra of travel and transportation systems and its smorgasbord of world cultures.{7} Bryman, like Sorkin, has since pointed out that Disney’s strategies are now commonplaces at malls, museums, zoos, airports, casinos, cruise ships, theme restaurants, and other tourist zones worldwide. Do we need these grand celebrations of globalization any more?

Environmentalism is the concept most likely to carry the world’s fair as an institution successfully into the future. The old catechism of Progress—national pride, human ingenuity, the splendors of scientific and technological advance—no longer serves. Environmentalism is new-time religion, preaching humility, harmony, an end to hubris. But Aichi served as a reminder of the downside to maturity. For all its uplift, the green future just doesn’t have the appeal of the older offerings. It just isn’t as much fun. Aichi’s green was not the fierce fire that Aldo Leopold watched fade in the eyes of a dying wolf, or even the light that served as a beacon to Gatsby at the end of a Long Island pier, but the calm green glow of a light-emitting diode.

{1} Alan Bryman, The Disneyization of Society (London, 2004), 2.

{2} See Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas (Cambridge, Mass., 1972).

{3} My thanks to Yumi Nishijima, my research assistant at Doshisha University in Kyoto in 2005, who introduced me to this concept and also combed the Japanese dailies for clippings about Aichi.

{4} As a testament to the enduring popularity of this animated film, Satsuki and Mei’s House, a replica of the old summer house where the girls first meet Totoro was one of the expo’s most popular attractions.

{5} Many of the pavilions, for example, featured Japanese robots. My son’s favorite pavilion was Robot Station, where different industrial robots were presented, including a “childcare” robot, a garbage-collector robot, and a security robot. Several were cutesy, or humanoid, but others, like the garbage-collector, had a utilitarian design that also appealed to him.

{6} Rod Armstrong, the pavilion’s publicist, indicated that, working with a small budget, the American planners were happy to take whatever artifacts or models corporations or individuals were willing to donate. Interviewed 9 June 2005.

{7} In Michael Sorkin, ed., Variations on a Theme Park (New York, 1992), 205–32.