You're learning a ton about urbanism, but so what

One of Akira Kurosawa's films hits close to home for urbanists & community activists.

If you knew you only had 6 months to live, would you change anything? Would you feel an urge to take risks or to lay low?

Akira Kurosawa was one of the most influential filmmakers that Americans have never heard of. If you’re a sucker for samurai films like me, then you’re probably familiar with him. Ikiru is one of Kursawa’s classics that doesn’t feature any swords at all (gasp!). It’s a drama centered around a government bureaucrat who reflects on his miserable existence following a cancer diagnosis. 

I’m going to entirely spoil the movie because the final scene is an important lesson for urbanists. You’ve been warned.

“He’s only killing time. He’s never actually lived.”

Kanji Watanabe is about to retire from a boring life in a government job that revolves around pushing paper from one department to the next. His city hall in 1950s Japan has all the bureaucratic stereotypes of 2023 America. It’s just accepted among the departments that nothing meaningful gets planned or built.

These city employees come to the job because they’re paid to come to the job.

The lay of the land for Watanabe is illustrated by a group of moms who want a vacant lot full of black water cleaned out and replaced with a playground. They get shuffled from department to department, a steady stream of “I’m sorry, but that’s not my job.” They’ve been complaining for weeks and angry that their kids still don’t have a safe place to play.

At a pivotal moment in the story, Watanabe realizes he’s not living, he’s not contributing to his family or the world in any meaningful way. He’s jealous of a young employee who has a zest for life and he acts on that. He can’t cure cancer, but he can get a park built with or without permission. 

You might say what happens next is an early version of tactical urbanism. Watanabe knows who’s responsible for trash removal, plumbing, and minor construction. Process be damned, he gets a modest park built. 

Most films with a story like this would end with the old man smiling at the finished product. A group of laughing kids enjoying the park and a transformed civil servant would fade to black. But not Ikiru. 

At Watanabe’s wake, his city hall coworkers have an awakening of their own. They realize he stopped caring about the status quo because his days were numbered and he wanted to live life, not merely exist. They pledge to each other to never forget this moment of clarity and to, in modern urbanist terms, serve the public interest.

Watanabe’s follow-the-rules coworkers all wanted to become the passionate advocate their departed friend had become in his final weeks of life. Typically stoic, these planners and engineers are overcome with emotion. Glasses raised, tears shed.

Days pass and the group is back at the office.

A parent comes in with a complaint and request. “That’s not our job. You need to go to counter 8.” One of the group stands up, about to protest. He looks around the room and sees no one is going to act. He sits back down and hangs his head.

Conviction lost, business as usual.

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I was at Transportation Research Board’s annual meeting this past week in Washington, DC. More professional conferences are coming up in the spring and summer.

What are we doing with all our accumulated knowledge about creating happy, healthy communities? What are you doing with yours? 

Conference keynotes and sessions can be energizing and inspirational, because speakers are sharing demonstrated outcomes of big ideas. 

• Traffic signals converted to roundabouts and saved lives.

• Temporary bicycle lanes became permanent, giving people an alternative to cars.

• Minimum parking requirements were abolished to open up development opportunities. 

Our “boring” industry is full of transformational work. But land use and transportation reform won’t happen without disruption. You can sit at the desk as an agent of change or protector of status quo. I hope you choose ikiru—to live.