What's the ultimate sign of a "bad anime?" For some, it's a poorly written script, for others, it's a lack of effort on the audiovisual front. It could even be something trivial, like a personal gripe against certain cliches or tropes. Whatever the reasoning may be, we all have ways of coming to our own conclusion.
As for me, the ultimate sign of a lousy anime is not what that particular work does by itself, but how it forces me to retroactively reexamine other terrible works in the process. When the show in question is so bad that I have to commend the efforts of
...
bottom-tier shows that, at the very least, "tried," to me, that's the ultimate sign of a piss poor project.
Hand Shakers is that kind of anime. A show so baffling in its inception that calamities of years past—such as the infamous Absolute Duo or Terra Formars—manages to appear "decent" by virtue of comparison. The degree to which this show fails is actually pretty impressive. In a way, it's a masterpiece at fucking up. From fundamental production issues that could have easily been fixed to writing butchered beyond the point of repair; what we have here is a perfect swan dive into brain-dead content.
Whatever the lowest score you've ever given a title may be, proceed to raise it a point higher so that you have a level solely dedicated for this gem. It has earned the right to reign unchallenged on its shit-tier podium.
The first thing that would jump out at you is the overall presentation. It's been a while since I saw a show where the issue wasn't it being under-produced but actually the exact opposite. Hand Shakers is overwrought with so many art-style, animation, and filmmaking techniques that it's nauseating trying to process it all. I'm sure you've seen people mockingly say that something is "headache-inducing" before but with Hand Shakers, it isn't just a snide remark to make in passing, it's the actual truth. There are certain parts of the show where you feel like you're on the verge of getting a migraine. And this goes beyond the obvious issues you'd expect from a poorly put-together anime. The issues here have almost taken on a life of its own due to its aggressive application of everything occurring all at once.
Firstly, let's run over the obvious one that immediately sticks out to most people, the presentation:
Everything is constantly bathed in an oily opacity filter. Random 360 camera panning with fisheye lens distortion at a moment's notice. 3D rendered landscapes with 2D constructed characters with no spatial awareness given for any of it to breathe. A complete disregard for blocking, leading to a whirlwind of poorly thought-out motion and distracting object placement. Unmoving plaid animation technique (best featured in cartoons like Chowder and anime like Gankutsuou) that are randomly used with no true purpose. Enough lens flare to make even J.J. Abrams blush. Digitally rendered clothing layered with a feathering sheen effect. Random micro sparkles fluttering around everywhere. Shots riddled with dead space while simultaneously being cluttered throughout other parts of the scene. Jarring post-production CGI blended with cel-shaded animation that moves at a completely different frame rate from everything else. Lighting and shadow casting that doesn't account for its light source. Layered in live-action dust and flame effects placed on top 2D drawn objects. Random Dutch angles, top-down view shots, dollying shots, dolly zooms that transitions into handheld camera point-of-view scenes; all this plus more that could occur back-to-back at a moments notice—none of which used with any purposeful intent. Spliced-in insert shots that highlight pointless information. Multiple occasions where the 180-degree rule is broken. A complete disregard for motion vectors, resulting in discombobulated action scenes. And the list goes on and on.
And this was just a conservative list of what I've spotted. If someone were to actually sit down and dissect it all, I'm sure there are more structural and presentation problems just waiting to be unearthed.
It's a dizzying vaudevillian display of one terrible idea after another, with each aspect desperately vying for your attention.
It's one thing to apply bold presentation choices to make your project stand out, and it's a complete other to compound it to the point where it becomes the equivalency of throwing shit at the wall. Not only does this show run the gamut of every possible shortcoming on a presentation standpoint but it fails at utilizing any of it in an effective manner. And perhaps even worse is the flippant disregard for basic editing and filmmaking techniques, despite the creators' desire to overuse it.
Here are just a few simple examples. Establishing shots are used to give the viewer a sense of location, time, and space as it relates to the destination of the story or the scene being brought to one's attention. In Hand Shakers, establishing shots are reduced to cobbled-together reused scenes or random point of views done merely for a "cool" shot, defeating the purpose of giving the viewer any sense of placement. If you use the same cutscenes or go bat-shit crazy with camera angles to establish a multitude of things, it's no longer serving its purpose. All that does is leave your audience disoriented, giving them no chance to find their footing in your world. On top of that, spatial awareness is lost here as well. Rooms and locations can get bigger or smaller from scene to scene. Characters appear and relocate in their positions within any given shot, something that occurs every time the show attempts to show a relation between the environment and people's positions in them—and no, this wasn't a purposeful artistic choice like it is in the Monogatari franchise. The director and creators of this show are either inexperienced or overcompensating for material that doesn't deserve the excessive theatrics being allotted to it.
There are many movies and TV shows where the intent is to create a feeling of disorientation, as is the case with Satoshi Kon's Paprika, where it created a visually augmented existence between dream and reality or with live-action movies like Natural Born Killers and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, where they wanted to simulate a drunken fever-dream-like experience to heighten the adrenaline-fueled intoxication that the characters found themselves reveling in. If done with proper care, this kind of visual inebriation can be a fun experience, but the dizzying effect that Hand Shakers has throughout its run isn't of that pedigree. It's creators seeing "cool" things and then converting it into parlor tricks in a piss poor attempt to emulate it. It's the unholy matrimony between improperly used filmmaking techniques and lousy art-style decisions.
You see, the truly mindblowing thing about this entire production is that it's an ANIME, NOT a live-action film. No really, think about it for a moment. You don't have to puppeteer between makeup artists, lighting crews, prop departments, stunt performers, movie extras, cinematographers, actors, construction crews, auditors, modeling supervisors, food catering services etc. The advantage that anime has over live-action is that the daunting tasks associated with live-action have been diminished to a degree where the creative technicians involved are usually significantly less, making it far more manageable as a result. In layman's terms, there's less joggling required. Just compare the staffing of any live-action blockbuster film against that of any anime project. 2015's One Punch Man vs. Age of Ultron for example. The amount of people involved speaks for itself. Ultron's staffing is practically 50x larger than that of One Punch Man's. So how Hand Shakers manages to have the frantic feel of an overworked production cycle, while not having to worry about most of the issues associated with an overworked production cycle, is beyond hilarious. And honestly, pretty fascinating, if only for how bad the finished product ended up being.
But enough about the production, if I were to discuss all the issues found, we'd be here all day. Instead, let's try to comb over the show's screenplay without dying of embarrassment.
You really can't expect much content-wise from a show whose premise and name sounds like an awful pun gone too far, but let's try to find something worth discussing anyway. Produced by studio GoHands—HAND Shakers, Go HANDS, GET IT!?—the story follows a limp-dick, pussy protagonist named Tazuna Takatsuki, who, through a series of events, find himself coming into contact with Koyori Akutagawa, a fair porcelain-skinned complexioned girl who's been in a coma for a long time. In her dainty state, Koyori reminds Tazuna of the little sister he once had, and through the miracle of "da chosen one," she awakens to his presence, grabbing his hand as they start their journey together as newly formed Hand Shakers.
When he isn't busy being an ideal self-insert beta-male, Tazuna uses his Shirou Emiya ability to fix mechanical devices of any kind, being something that's both a passionate hobby of his and means to test his acquired skills. But after becoming a Hand Shaker, all that changes, as he's pitted against multiple opponents who have accepted the call, each coming with their own unique fetish to meet the expected checklist of your routine fantasy empowerment show. From sadomasochism and pop-idol worship to vanilla incestual love and lolita complex; this anime is your one-stop shop for all your harmless fanservice needs. Using powers they could summon called "nimrods," the duo fights off their attackers one by one, with each conquest becoming friends in the end because "reasons." And really, that's the extent of what you need to know about this show, trying to give you a more detailed description of it would only lead to numerous contradictions later on, as the show doesn't follow any of its pre-established rules whatsoever.
Whether the issues spotted as the story goes along was just a case of excessive retconning mid-production or just a shitty draft treatment that was turned into a screenplay without any sort of revision, honestly, it's hard to tell the difference with this show. Just be prepared for several inconsistencies and accept it for what it is.
Accepting things as is also extended to specific scenarios and plot details as well. This is a show that cannot exist without treating most the characters involved like dimensionless NPC stand-ins, because the moment it does bother to make its inhabitants fully functioning human beings, is the moment that the show's logic begins to collapse in on itself. Take the following scenario, for example:
Because of Koyori's health condition, she cannot let go of Tazuna's hand, in fear of her life being lost in the process "because reasons." But since Tazuna is still a high school student, he needs to find a way to attend classes with this dilemma, as well as a means to go about his daily life. So how does the show accomplish that? By just turning his classmates and parents into unquestioning oafs! Tazuna bringing a Rei Ayanami knock-off into his parents' household is treated with no confrontation at all, in fact, it's greeted with a celebratory welcome home. Even if we ignore the fact that he's not letting go of her hand the entire time he brings this stranger into their household, he then proceeds to take this strange girl into the shower and bedroom with him. All of which happens with his parents' complete acknowledgment of these events. With a flimsy off-screen explanation given to explain this, we're just supposed to accept that these are the world's most accepting parents, in a culture like Japan that's built on strict decorum, where shit like this will never fly. This is the level of nonsense we're dealing with here.
And how do they solve the issue of him attending school with a girl continually holding his hand? Well, same shit. No one bothers to question it. The show quite literally turns an entire population into brain-dead idiots just to sell its cutesy fantasy empowerment concept. You could just feel the power of the scriptwriter's pen dictating every aspect of this show's logic, making the entire thing unbelievably stupid. At no point can you buy into any scenario presented, as it's all incredibly forced. I could only imagine the conversation for this show's plotting going along the lines of:
Studio head: "We need to get point A to point B, I don't care how you do it, just make it happen."
Scriptwriter: "Don't worry my nigga, I'll just write some bullshit and make everyone accept it."
Studio head: "That works for me."
-throws up gang signs, crip walks out of studio office-
And really, that's all this show is, an excuse to have a self-insert pussy protagonist hold the hand of a cute, dainty girl, from what came into existence from a dumb word pun. At least that's what I'm hoping the joke floating around in the studio office was, because if this was seriously pitched like a legitimate idea, then may God have mercy on us all. Thankfully, the gimmicky scenario was mirrored throughout the conversations had by the characters, leading to my first conclusion being acceptable enough to stomach. The dialogue scenes, for the most part, were composed of 40% information dumps, 50% "OMG, they're such an adorable couple!" and 10% "I like to fix things, hurr durr!"
It's one of the most blatant fantasy empowerment/escapism shows, not only in the 2010s but also in the past decade. Hell, maybe even an all-time contender.
To help sell this experience, we're given what could best be described as cheap elevator music for a soundtrack, xerox copy character designs, and a demo-quality opening theme that's chopped together with scenes of all of the occurring events seen throughout the series. And before we go on any further, can we just quickly acknowledge how funny the naming choice of "nimrod" is in this series?
Given that the other dimension that the Hand Shakers battle against each other was referred to as the Ziggurat, it's safe to say that the show was using the old biblical text definition of nimrod; a person who was known as a skilled hunter in the old testament. Which, by itself, isn't a bad idea to use as the basis for a classification of weaponry... except for one problem. In modern-day semantics, most people define the word "nimrod" as a dumb person. So keeping that in mind, every time the characters' weapons are brought up in the show, what was intended to be a badass moment where two opposing Hand Shakers clashes just ended up becoming a comedic one. If you view it with the understanding of how this word is primarily identified by most people, head-to-head battles can almost be seen as a fight between who the bigger idiot is. The last anime I recall watching with such unfortunate naming choices was Tomino's Brain Powerd. And if you haven't seen Brain Powerd as yet, consider this an endorsement to check it out. It's basically the autistic version of Neon Genesis Evangelion.
But anyway, back to Hand Shakers.
Hand Shakers is a title I found value in, although, that value had nothing to do with any successes it may have had. As for what message this anime may be trying to sell the audience, the only thing I could come up with was some tacky moral statement of "separated we are weak, but together we are strong." Other than that, I'm drawing blanks here.
But despite all my negative comments towards this project, it may surprise you to know that I love this anime, or rather, I love titles that are this bad. Shows that everyone, regardless of viewing habits or taste, can collectively acknowledge how terrible it is. These are the kind of shows that bring people together. Where we can all join hands spewing out diatribes like a kumbayah cleansing ritual, declaring in one voice that this anime "is shit."
If you're aspiring to do anything with editing or the process of filmmaking, Hand Shakers could be seen as the best visual example of what not to do, serving as a sort of warning sign on how doing too much could be just as bad as doing very little. Other than that, if you just wish to have a good ass time laughing or being baffled for a few hours as you watch something fail at everything it attempts, Hand Shakers is a great drinking game entry to view with a few friends.
As for me, this anime is a marvel. A new defining point of a particular kind of pathetic. A spectacular failure that has redefined my idea of what cancerous presentation looks like. Weirdly enough, I'm thankful for Hand Shakers's existence. Through it, I have a newfound appreciation for other shows I once quickly disregarded, softening my stringent criteria of what I consider "acceptable" in the process. There's always something worse out there, and Hand Shakers became a martyr to prove that point.
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Mar 28, 2017
Hand Shakers
(Anime)
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Not Recommended
What's the ultimate sign of a "bad anime?" For some, it's a poorly written script, for others, it's a lack of effort on the audiovisual front. It could even be something trivial, like a personal gripe against certain cliches or tropes. Whatever the reasoning may be, we all have ways of coming to our own conclusion.
As for me, the ultimate sign of a lousy anime is not what that particular work does by itself, but how it forces me to retroactively reexamine other terrible works in the process. When the show in question is so bad that I have to commend the efforts of ...
Reviewer’s Rating: 1
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Dec 24, 2016
Fune wo Amu
(Anime)
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Mixed Feelings
As a reviewer, there have been numerous occasions when I struggle to find the right words to convey my thoughts. This isn't to say that I didn't know what I wanted to express to others, but rather, I wanted my message to be as clear and concise as possible. The right words can often make all the difference in how a reader interprets what you have to say. Words are capable of setting the mood, giving off tone, and in some cases, changing the very temperament of those on the receiving end. They're vehicles used to communicate feelings, painting a picture for the reader, and
...
naturally, when the right word, the right expression, is used, a connection between the writer and the reader can be formed.
Having constantly tested my hand at writing think-pieces and reviews, I've slowly developed a knack for conveying my thoughts to others. Of course, there are still ideas that are hard to make tangible, but through constant diction retooling and communication with others, I've made strides in closing that gap. And for many, the dictionary has been an asset in aiding in this process. Well, that's what I would have said 15-years ago. Today, the dictionary—and by extension, a great deal of printed media—has almost been made obsolete by the internet and advancements in technology. Every possible definition, both contemporary and antiquated, is just a click away. But like anything that had a home in humanity's cultural development and upbringing, there are still those that cherish the ways of yesteryear. As convenient as it is to have hundreds of books stored on a tablet, nothing beats the feeling of pages between your fingers as you flip through a good book. Any MP3 nowadays can house thousands of songs on the go, but there are still those that champion the personal touch of vinyl. Saving a moment is only one phone pic away, yet the Polaroid camera still has millions of hipsters and enthusiasts alike shaking images to life. But those are just the popular examples, ones that most outsiders looking in could still comprehend the sentimentality behind it. But what about content that doesn't register with most? Appeals, that, at first glance, feel very obtuse. Fune wo Amu, The Great Passage, basically explores one facet of that kind of unique appeal, but instead of limiting it to the object of affection alone, in this case, the dictionary, it instead dials back to the core reason for why someone might cherish it, in the first place. An understandable position once you peer into the headspace of the main character Mitsuya Majime; a man who can barely mutter his thoughts out loud without clamming up, despite his devoted fascination for semantics. A bashful man with an obsession for wording and their meaning, yet unable to utilize this talent verbally. A unique passion that runs contradictory to his very closed-off nature. I know what you're thinking, an awesome setup for a story, right? Well, almost. You see, as fascinating of an idea that this may have been, when it boils down to it, the subject matter was about as exciting as the subject itself. There's a passion for dictionaries that are clearly there, but like the actual object itself, this passion was sterile and lacking in emotional range. And for a story about words and the various expressions that it can convey, that's a crying shame. But before we go any further, let's make this clear, Fune wo Amu is by no means a "bad" show, it's just a very lackluster one. In fact, it contained some of the more realistic character depictions in 2016's anime lineup, deciding to leave behind erratic personalities and commonplace archetypes for a more grounded performance in a world that's pretty much aligned with our own. Where portrayal of emotions in anime are usually capped off with exaggerated interpretations, this title instead chooses to substitute that with nuances in both their mannerism and body language, effectively defining the individuals on screen without degrading who they are. Even the changes in vocal inflections are accounted for, a detail that most shows neglect altogether. And as if that wasn't enough, to further sell these characters as proper representations of adults, the show adopted body models that are more anatomically accurate than what's usually given by the medium, recruiting the talented Haruko Kumota, the artist responsible for the look of Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu's cast, as the original character designer. For all intents and purposes, given this dedication to craft Fune as an adult-orientated slice-of-life drama, the final product should have been something I adore. It checks off all the boxes for things I seek out in works of this nature. Shouwa Rakugo was one of my favorite anime entries of 2016 for that very reason. So when I give Fune the cold shoulder, know that I'm doing so out of genuine concern for its lack of vision. For everything that Fune could have aspired for, it ultimately veers off into ho-hum territory. Following the footsteps of an unimpressive, mild-mannered klutz named Mitsuya Majime, Fune gives us an insider perspective, as Majime makes his way through a crowd of disinterested faces. Each one of these people in the ever-shifting collective makes up the busy prefecture that hosts as the stomping grounds for Majime's unsuccessful business venture as a salesman under Genbu Shobo's publishing firm; a job he seems to be all at once perfect for, given his skill-set, but terrible at due to his personality. Passive to a fault and cumbersome in every verbal exchange he has with others, Majime is far from the ideal image of Japan's working class. With nothing to draw back on but his love for words, there are very few applicable situations where he's needed. What good is it to be a word-smith when trying to hold a conversation leads to awkward jibber-jabber? Trapped with a burning desire to express himself but not gifted with enough gusto or social tact to do so, Majime makes no reservations about his limited usefulness, as he willingly keeps his head down to avoid any further degradation. So when he's approached by Kouhei Araki to fulfill a soon-to-be-vacant editorial job for constructing a new dictionary, the stars couldn't have been more aligned. With a task that's tailor-made for his dilemma, Majime was finally given an outlet to unload his passion constructively. And in the process of doing so, was also given a chance to warm up to people in a manner he thought was previously impossible for the likes of him. With a setup that could carry with it the same potency as 2010s The King's Speech, while allowing for a more grounded backdrop due to its quaint, smaller-scale setting, Fune had all the makings of a humbling journey with promises of catharsis scattered along the way. It's the kind of screenplay that would go on to become Oscar-bait material in the hands of any veteran director, and for anime, another testament to its strength in crafting maturely handled stories. And in some ways, Fune does count as another entry in that category, just one that wouldn't register high on my list of exceptional examples. The story of this dictionary taking form was ultimately just a container to help examine the cast of characters in various stages of growth in their lives. Because of the daunting 10-year production cycle needed to create a dictionary, this time allowed the viewers the opportunity to pick apart the things that made the individual characters tick, as well as a chance to examine the small pockets of interactions that occurred among themselves, including how they all chose to deal with certain situations along the way. So in essence, Fune wo Amu, The Great Passage, was quite literally "the great passage" of these regular peoples' lives. Instead of following the accomplishments of someone destined for a space in the annals of history, Fune shifts its focus to an industry that gets no standing ovation from anyone. The unsung "heroes" in their publishing field. But despite that angle, it's never really about applauding their efforts, as it's more about showing unison of the ways of old with the changing times of new. And with a dictionary used as the vehicle to express that idea—with a young, soft-spoken protagonist who's out of touch with the rest of the world being used as a conduit to deliver it—the initial message became far more significant than any single person involved by the time we reached the final resting stop. Now, if the show had translated this idea as well as it sounded on paper, I would have been here today singing its praises, but as I've expressed before, that's not how it worked out. If I wanted a maturely handled cast of adult characters who expressed various emotions and understood their situation with sobering clarity, while at the same time being genuinely engaged with what was being displayed on screen, there are animated movies like Only Yesterday or TV series like the aforementioned Shouwa Rakugo around to fulfill that need. Both of which operated within a familiar playing field like Fune but done so in a way that any person of intended age could take seriously. Fune doesn't share in that quality in the way that you'd expect it to, coming off more milquetoast in a miscalculated attempt to be adult in quality. So despite its ability to demonstrate restraint to allow for natural human behavior in its cast, the actual content itself felt unrealistically lopsided—an issue that's easily identifiable once you key in on the kind of agenda it's trying to push forward. Fune wants its content to remain within a limited operating capacity of expression, as if it's afraid of being too playful as to lose the audience's respect. There are attempts to alleviate this problem, with characters such as Masashi Nishioka, who's the "life of the party," constantly prattling to entertain the group while also using it as a defense mechanism to keep from having to express his concerns truly. Or even with the tack-on middle sequences in every episode, that saw the series use chibi dictionary caricatures as cut-scenes to help alleviate the monotony of the constant unassertive tone. Personally, I found it distracting but the intent behind it was still understandable. When the show was in danger of being too dull, this became its defense tactic, but when it came time to demonstrate any other kinds of real emotion, it diverted from having to do so in ways too apparent to truly ignore. For example, when our main character found himself infatuated with a woman, instead of using it to explore facets of himself—as what usually occurs when we find ourselves attracted to others—it chose to take the easy route by having a romance predicated on one word of cluttered dialogue exchange and a letter chock-full of convoluted word passages. This robbed the chances for any genuine relationship to blossom over a period of time. Yes, he took the initiative to get to that point, but for a show dealing with adults in a somewhat realistic setting, the conclusion was only viable in something pumped out by a sappy Disney/Pixar production. The show has the humanistic aspect nailed down but skittishly avoids the endeavors that truly make us humans, human. The essence was missing. The struggle was removed by diverting the content away from it or by skipping any natural rough-stage altogether. Would The King's Speech win the Oscar for Best Picture by avoiding the uphill endeavor of the main character to express himself out loud? Probably not. Where other titles would display the gradual growth that molds the main character, in Fune, that struggle, that humanity, was quite literally time-skipped away. And as a result, we get content that's more suited to pacify the audience than something that you could fully take seriously. The investment was gone. All emotional range removed. A bad mixture of realistic characters given escapist solutions, making all conflict rendered pointless, no matter how much it tried to dissuade the audience from taking notice. It being so maturely handled wasn't to its benefit, it became the problem, because, at the end of the day, it wasn't realistically portrayed in all facets of adult growth. Instead of presenting the full-color spectrum of life, it chose broad monochromatic brushstrokes of melancholy and tender passages of satisfaction to box all of its content within. The only time the show doesn't suppress itself was at the very end, where it had scenes that loosen the vice grip on the characters' feelings to freely exhaust that pent-up emotion that should have been there all along. And even then, these moments of cathartic release are still registered with halfhearted resolve since the momentum to them was practically nonexistent. And again, Fune is not a bad show. It's all of its strengths that make the weaknesses too hard to look away from. You really want the best for it. You really want to put it on the pedestal as the exception to the rule. But with content that only half commits, it's frustrating to have to give it a back-handed compliment instead. From using the Ferris wheel as a motif to express the connectivity of life in a slow cyclical motion, to the very earnest appeal of its cast, Fune was a show that I wanted to fully get behind. Clocking in at 11-episodes, it's something you could finish in just one sitting. With Amazon Prime's abysmal marketing of this series, it has mostly gone unnoticed by many. And despite all of my qualms, I would still like it to receive a far bigger viewer base than it currently has. It didn't accomplish as much as I wanted it to, but the show was still able to muster up all of its efforts in the end. This all culminated towards an uplifting conclusion that sees life going on with words bringing connection from one generation to the next. This may not be much of an endorsement given how much I've put the title down, but I still think Fune has something that shouldn't be so quickly discarded. And if only for that reason alone, Fune wo Amu gets a light pass from me.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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Dec 23, 2016 Recommended
Morioh, an insignificant town that sits out in the sun for anyone to visit and the new home for the never-ending battle carried out by one family. Somewhere in this scrambled slice of suburbia, we're introduced to the latest member of the Joestar lineage, as we encroach on what would be one of many fights to come.
A new enemy Stand makes its entrance; veins protruding through swollen biceps; wrinkled brow plaster the expression of a robust figure; eyes fixated on the opposition; pompadour takes aim, a tangerine sky hanging above; onomatopoeias floods the screen—BAM! MENACING! RUMBLE!—with wall-to-wall color dancing around on the border of psychedelia ... and pop art. Head titled, shoulders rolled back, chest puffed out; an epic pose is struck. A feeble old geezer hunched over in the background, hands clasping his cheek, lets out a compulsory "Oh my Gawd!" in Engrish. A powerful aura exudes from the frame of the young Joestar. A muscle-bound, apparition clad in lavender emerges from within him, as he lets out a herculean roar: "CRAZY DIAMOND!!!"..., Gritted teeth, fist wound up, body arched back—fades to black..., trumpets blare, cue intro, welcome to Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 4: Diamond is Unbreakable! Since 2012, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure has been spearheading a campaign to bring GAR and all things manly back to the limelight; introducing newcomers to an anime staple that's been underrepresented in the 2000s, while also shamelessly serving as a form of fanservice for veteran viewers who self-indulge in all things retro. For those people that miss the blockbuster era of beefy action heroes that were deep-rooted in the product of 80s Americana. With a dedicated following that only grows bigger year after year, Jojo's crusade for "manly ass men doing manly ass things" has proven to be a successful one. A fact that's made all the more surprising when accounting for the current cultural shift in anime that favors infectiously cute shows or those garishly showered in 2edgy4u content. Jojo stands firm, pressing forward to the beat of its own drum while giving sensitivity the middle finger as it flexes its biceps in the name of awesome. But perhaps the strongest aspect of Jojo isn't this flippant disregard towards popular trends, but the way it goes about expressing itself within it. There are a few cardinal rules that most writers try their best to abide by, one of which is maintaining some semblance of plausibility within the realm of the written work being presented. Whether the story in question is grounded in reality or contains plenty of fantastical elements, maintaining some level of plausible "cause and effect" is what helps the audience experience immersion. Even in a fictional universe that contains many otherworldly themes, there are still constants that are expected to be maintained. In the same way, the theoretical law in our universe remains consistent no matter the time or location; the same is also expected with works of fiction. Anything that doesn't uphold established in-world laws tends to be perceived as poorly constructed or just outright "bad writing." We may not always identify it up front, but somewhere in our subconscious, the "bullshit" meter is going off. And yet, even with this unspoken rule in mind, there are some stories that purposefully leave common sense at the front door. They're shows that are propelled by nonsensical conclusions, improbable physics, and pure absurdity. But somehow, despite this, or perhaps because of it, they have been adored the world over. Jojo's Bizarre Adventure is that kind of show. A show driven forward by madness, adrenaline, and a gratuitous amount of machismo. It embraces the "Bizarre" in its namesake to the utmost extent, doing whatever it pleases with total conviction and never looking back at the body count trailing behind it. And like the hyperactive installments before it, Part 4 continues to keep the ball rolling, following the lineage of the Joestar family and all the inherent problems that come with the blood-line. This brings us to the next Joestar tasked with carrying on the legacy, the ever-fabulous Jousuke Higashikata; a man of few words, unless the words addressed to him are insults directed at his ultra sleek Greece Lightening hairdo. Unlike the hard-boiled demeanor of Joutarou, Jousuke actions are driven by hot-tempered impulses, choosing to punch first and ask questions later. He wears his heart on his sleeve, an attribute that would usually be perceived as weak in the testosterone-filled world of Jojo, except for the fact that Jousuke kicks all kinds of ass with his Stand, Crazy Diamond. A Stand that grants him the ability to restore any damage inflicted to something back to its original state or alter it to its base elements. Pairing that with his hair-trigger personality makes for a formidable combo, something that many enemy Stands find out the hard way. As the aftermath surrounding Dio Brando begins to settle down, remnants of his misdeeds are still spreading when the Bow and Arrow—the weapon used to create Stands—ends up in the wrong hands. Because of this, Joutarou finds himself traveling to the town of Moriah where his illegitimate nephew Jousuke calls home. And as the Joestars team up to rid the town of Stand users hellbent on causing harm to the citizens, they find themselves encountering greater threats along the way. With a narrative that solely exists to have as many physical encounters as possible, Part 4 manages the impossible task of circumventing the trappings of episodic content while using that exact structure to create bottle episodes filled with high-octane battles. Whether it's pounding the snot out of an enemy Stand or simply going to a restaurant to eat, Part 4 is continuously pressing down on the gas peddle. For those that don't like stagnation, this sequel is a Godsend. There's no calm moment of clarity to reflect on the situation at hand, all that's left on display is brittle logical leaps followed up by gonzo wall-texts flying in with a flurry of saturated color. It's vivid, it's spastic, it's a mural hacked up on PCP. And while this commitment to never slowing down may seem like a detriment for any other show, for Jojo—a show that's as straightforward as the content being displayed—there couldn't have been a better marriage of purposeful storytelling. Jojo's brilliance is in its simplicity. It isn't a show that's out to have an intricate story-line filled with multifaceted themes, nor does it try to craft layered personalities that appear 3-dimensional. Jojo personifies the mindset of a neanderthal, where problems are solved with fists and beating enemies into submission. Loyalty is proven with actions and not half-baked words. And motivations that's as explicit as the expository dialogue being used to express them. The only thought process being taken is assuring that they properly utilize their Stand abilities to defeat their enemy with optimal results. These muscle-bound brutes painted up like Easter eggs leave no room for interpretation, what you see is what you get. This isn't to say there's no thought placed into Jojo's production. The show is littered with inventive encounters that overlap Stand abilities to create a chess game of wits, seeing both sides constantly fighting for the upper hand over one another. Matches that eventually dissolve into pissing contests to see who would cave in first. Each Stand ability is accounted for, creating interesting back and forths between the combatants. And with there being countless possible Stand abilities that could manifest in someone, the end result is no two fights being the same. The battlefield is forever morphing, with something as simple as the changes in partnership or location altering the very course of a how a match can turn out. It's this very ingenuity that demonstrates that behind the burly men clashing fists, there's still a thought process keeping the madness together. This also includes the more straightforward parts of Jojo's production, such as the naming of the characters and the reasoning for its brightly-colored world. If you've made it all the way to Part 4, then this should come as no surprise to you that Hirohiko Araki, the creator of the Jojo manga, has consciously decided to name characters after musicians and songs, mostly from western pop culture. It's an inconsequential bit of trivia that doesn't do much for the long-haul but despite that, adds to the overall appeal of his work. And with French post-impressionist artist Paul Gauguin being cited as an influential person in his approach to color theory, there's always a sense that Jojo was much more than just a whim being held up by simple admiration for a particular era. If you've ever felt like the colors used was oddly at home despite the constant clash of sassy meet gusto, that's because of this conscious effort on Araki's part to blend the two. This well-cultured sensibility is what gives Jojo such a distinct personality from its counterparts. It's an entity birthed outside of typical circular influence, having a unique appeal while winning the admiration of a broader market in the process. But let's not mistake all this appraisal of Jojo as the show being a flawless creation, it does suffer from its fair share of issues. For one, because of its straightforward approach, there's never any questions posed at the actions being taken. And as such, this is an anime that only works because of the universe pre-established before it. Had we not seen the impossible happen time and time again, Jojo would have never worked. Its absurdity disallows genuine immersion in the circumstances taking place. You're entertained but never for a second buy into the ridiculousness of it all. It's a show where you laugh at the nonsense and take enjoyment out of how committed it is to seeing it through, despite the apparent shortcomings of said actions making close to little sense. Jojo's Bizarre Adventure is always entertaining but never something to be held up as proper literature. It's the show's greatest strength but sadly its greatest weakness as well. This issue also means that all of the characters are usually dwindled down to becoming internet memes or lovable caricatures. No one is looking onto Jojo for enriched characterization. All that's expected out of it is hyperactive personalities with cool abilities trading blow for blow in an environment that allow these occurrences to go on undisturbed. This is usually the trade-off for dumb-fun entertainment. Finding a balance between the absurd and tightly written is a rarity that escapes Jojo. But what it still has is an unshakable commitment to do everything at 110%, so even when you question the logic of a scenario, it doesn't take long before you accept it for what it is to continue seeing the Joestars pummel enemies into submission. And if this fact can be accepted for what it is, then Part 4: Diamond is Unbreakable should be nothing short of an entertaining ride for most fans of this bizarre adventure. With more epic poses, more stands, more cool ass character designs, and too much awesome shit to know what to do with, Jojo Part 4 has been one hell of a ride. And with this being another successful adaptation by David Production, here's hoping it's an adventure with many more iterations to come. -Sepia bathe the screen, title card cropped in an arrow: To Be Continued-
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Dec 22, 2016
Yuri!!! on Ice
(Anime)
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Mixed Feelings
While 2013's Free is considered many things but perfect, its role in broadening an avenue in mainstream media for other fanbase-dubbed "manservice" works is undeniable, rekindling a bygone genre only previously seen by those who sought it. Yaoi isn't exactly new to the medium, the ever-ceaseless late 2000s cultural shift contributing towards LGBT acceptance's decay from a taboo to mundane facet in media. Just in 2002, t.A.T.u.'s "All The Things She Said" music video was banned by several broadcasters and countries for its "controversial" content where two women kissed. And today, Miley Cyrus dry humping everything barely merits a shrug from most people. If being
...
desensitized has done anything positive to our current society, it's allowing others to express themselves openly without it being harshly shut down by a majority rule, which also carts over to anime... well, kind of.
Anime has always been pushing the boundaries of what's considered acceptable content for decades, striving in its brazen depiction of whatever it chooses to highlight. And no, I'm not just speaking on the mid 2000s boom of lolicon fetishism, I'm talking about all the way back to its humble beginnings, with titles like Belladonna of Sadness making waves in 1973 with its phallic imagery and sexually charged content that could still be seen as provocative, even by today's "no boundaries" standards. Content that ultimately went on to inspire the works of many creators, with one notable example being acclaimed director, Kunihiko Ikuhara; a man who's also credited for bringing an artistic touch to themes of sexual liberation through his various hyper-stylized works. Sexual decadence and open expression have always been a part of anime's arsenal, the only real change is how frequently they're being used. Which brings us all the way to Fall season 2016, which alone has 4 to 5 anime titles that either overtly or hinted at homoerotic relations in some way or another, while just a decade ago, receiving 4 to 5 titles with these undercurrents in it within a year's time was considered a milestone. As the 2010s pass, our increasing rate of connectivity, information sharing and understanding of others has diminished miscommunication and heightened acceptance of alternative preferences, sexual or otherwise, resulting in a largely overlooked trivialization of sexual content in anime. In some ways, Yuri On Ice could be seen as another byproduct of this trend, if only to a much more abrasive degree, positioning men in suggestive poses while participating in a sport used as a vehicle to portray who they are as people. And where something like Free boasts eye-grabbing swimming sequences, Yuri On Ice capitalizes on ice skating scenes that dwarf the efforts of most animated TV productions. Too bad it isn't enough to distract from the fatal flaws that plague the entire production. You see, Yuri on Ice tries its damnedest to shed light on its cast; a cast that is constantly reduced to doujinshi deviant art-bait clippings despite its honest efforts to mold them into believable personalities. But the question is, does Yuri on Ice justify it? Is there a base purpose for its shounen-ai fluff to be there? I may not be Ikuhara's fan, but there's no denying each of his works deliver provocative, purposeful messages. There's always a constant need to stress freedom of expression with homosexuality itself just being another extension to further emphasize that idea. Self-indulgent at times but justifiable if you care for what he's trying to say. But what about Yuri on Ice? Does it actually justify these men's intimate devotion for each other or is it just trying to fetishize everything to draw out a marketable audience that usually takes in this content at their own leisure? Is there a purpose here outside of being titillating manservice? What I'm trying to ask in the most ignorant and offensive way possible; is Yuri on Ice just being gay for the sake of being gay? — Views episode 6, guy figure skating grabs his ass "I think I'm gonna come"— Well... I guess that answers my question. Yuri on Ice is a harmless fanservice pastime dressed up as a coming-of-age story and cut from the same cloth as any other sports tournament anime, let's stop pretending otherwise. The sooner we kill the pretension that it's something more profound than that, the faster we could sit back and enjoy it for what it is; a fun, easygoing yaoi-bait show with pretty boys trying to balance characterization and fetishism on the same pedestal. And as yaoi-bait entertainment goes, Yuri on Ice is definitely a show stopper when it comes time to take the games to the ice. Brought to life by Mappa, a young studio renowned for their presentation and audiovisual prowess, Yuri on Ice is yet another notch under their belt, boasting ice skating scenes so free-flowing that at times it's easy to believe that they might have been rotoscoped. It's this selling point that got most to give Yuri on Ice the stamp of approval, and understandably so. You don't really get this much effort from an animated TV production on a regular basis. But do I think that's reason enough to warrant all the appraisal it has gathered? Of course not. Those 5 minutes per episode aren't a saving grace for the other 15 minutes, especially when those 15 minutes often spend its time being a mishmash of basic fanfare for literally every sports story ever conceived or a roulette spin of yaoi/comedy for those who care for it. Half of the ice skating involves numerous elements, like panning around the competitors in a news camera fashion with occasional audience reaction shots to round it out. When you realize that the actual dances are being overlaid onto different backgrounds with minor, sparse tweaks to delude, you find the show's highlights disappointingly operate on a limited dispensary. They retain their integrity as the show's highlights, but they're not all they're cracked up to be. And honestly, that aspect of it doesn't even bother me since the changes make every encounter fresh. What does, however, is its half commitment towards its characters in one direction or the next. Trying to build legitimacy for its characters while simultaneously reducing them to objectified pretty boy specimen for the sake of manservice has left Yuri on Ice in a gimmicky realm where all of its achievements could only muster up to being "that show with the really nice ice skating scene," a sentence worse than death for anything looking to stand the test of time. From nobody's fault but its own, this anime has effectively built itself a glass ceiling that it could never surpass. But enough of me taking the piss out of this show, let's go over the basics that it chooses to cover and what good it was able to do. In the world of competitive figure ice skating, Victor Nikiforov stands as the person to beat, being a beloved and envied figure throughout the sport's industry, as well as a person of inspiration for newcomers trying to break into the field. With an elegant physique that exudes self-confidence and a natural knack for the sport, Victor is the complete package. One of the countless people that adore him is our main character, Yuuri Katsuki, a novice ice skater who idolizes everything about him, to the point where his sole dedication to the sport of figure ice skating derives from the infatuation that he has for the otherworldly reigning champion that's always occupying his TV screen. Through dumb luck and perfect timing, Yuuri is presented with the once in a lifetime opportunity to study under his mentor, the story subsequently dedicating itself to their blossoming relationship as it coincides with the world tournament that wraps everything up within it. Yuri on Ice's flamboyant characters are given simple reasons for their ambitions, the show's format complementing its cast; ice skating being both the engine of characterization, every character's idiosyncrasies expanding on their personalities, and a divider granting those characters undisturbed time in the limelight, the story's short, 12-episode tournament format spurring frequent ice skating characterization and an inexorable sense of movement toward a definite finality. Ice skating characterization examples include Chris Giacometti's lowbrow episode 6 exhibition relaying his sexual and methodical confidence in appeasing the audience versus the protagonist's quick flashes that redeem his low sex appeal, Victor's unworried nonchalance regarding his envied, exceptional technical skills, Yuri's eccentric, soft style despite his fiery personality and even minor characters like Jean-Jacques, the show's JoJo stand-in, whose cockiness translates to a showboating spectacle. The theatrics, choice of techniques, tight turns, and loose gesture all coalesce into a final form that define who that person is on and off the ice rink—this characterization the show's biggest strength. And perhaps this very thoughtful decision to characterize the characters' personalities is also the reason I find the whole thing to be a waste. Because despite itself, Yuri on Ice was a show that was never meant to appeal to me. So where I would usually outright dismiss something like this, it just so happens that there were nuggets of detail within it that I found appealing. An appeal that required me to drudge through content that I couldn't psych myself into caring for no matter how hard I tried. And really, it didn't have to do much to make me like it, just either muffle the shounen-ai content down to a realistic degree or stop dancing around the idea and just fully embrace it. The show is suggestive of the possibility of there being an actual sexual interest between the main leads but at the same time, it only cock-teases this idea to maintain the illusion of the fiction it wants to sell. And once again, excuse my politically incorrect wording but if you're going to be gay, be all the way gay goddammit. Stop pussyfooting around. I don't need some full blown orgy like Sausage Party's celebratory ending, all I want is a clear yes or no for where they stand, none of this "just gay enough" gray area. Is it so hard for a male homosexual relationship to be taken seriously for once? Now with all that being said, is Yuri on Ice worth the watch? Yes, but only if you have nothing else in your catalog. As it stands, it's not something I see any need to jump into. Yuri on Ice is that intermediary show that you pick up to pass the time on your way on to better ones. What it has that works is its wonderful ice skating scenes and the usage of it to inform the audience of who the characters are, as for everything else, it's either standard for its genre or serviceable to a very niche market.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Sep 30, 2016 Recommended
"Revenge is a dish best served cold."
This is the cornerstone expression that drives 91 Days. An expression that it lives and dies by, down to the very fabric of its being. One that we're quickly made aware of from the opening act that plants us into its world. The arms of the clock tick in reverse, as we travel back to the days of the prohibition era. It's a cold night in April, and our young protagonist, Angelo Lagusa, enters frame. In the warm glow of his household, behind the thick wooden walls that push the harsh cold out, he's at ease with the comfort ... of his family filling in the spaces of his living quarters. Cushioned by a blanket of security, Angelo and his little brother, Luce, awaits their father's return, hiding away in anticipation for the moment he walks through the door. It's a brief hallmark moment, the siblings' father cheerfully calling out their names, waiting for a likely response to ring out from within the closet. But little does Angelo know, that everything he's known up to this point is about to come to an end with the sudden knock of a visitor at the door—dun! dun! dun!—... and so it begins. Three burly figures draped in thick trench coats steps inside. And just like that, the warm radiance that once filled the house is immediately sucked out. In its place, the thick stench of malice creeps in, seeping through the floorboards, suffocating the very air around them. Something is about to happen, and every beating heart in that room could feel it coming. Angelo's father lounges forward, blade in hand and his little brother bolts out the 2'x8' coffin to come to his parents' aid before Angelo could even react. Stifled by the linen hanging behind him and the fear of what he's witnessing in front, our young protagonist is left frozen to look on, powerless to take action against the chaos looming right outside his hiding space. Peaking through the wooden panels of the cramped closet, he bares witness to a sight that will forever haunt him. Bullets leave their chamber, the thunderous clap marking their departure, as they tear through the flesh of what he once called family. This is it. This is the event. This is the anger that fuels him. This is the removal of normalcy. This is the motivation that keeps him going. This is the beginning of something sinister. This is the landmark moment that will forever pave his path with blood stains of burgundy and the sulfuric stench of gunpowder. "Revenge is a dish best served cold" and Angelo is determined to deliver it, even at the cost of innocent bystanders that are oblivious to his vendetta. The cost of him ever living a normal life. And at the cost of what little shred of humanity was left during that cold winter night. When he goes through with this, there's no turning back. No one to turn to. No one to pray for his godforsaken soul. And so we depart with him, down the topsy-turvy course of trust and betrayal, with a hit list in hand and a determination that refuses to yield. He begins his journey; the first steps are taken, day one begins. Bearing a similar tone and structure to projects done by movie heavyweights Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola, 91 Days plays out like a love-child of these two worlds being brought together. This is immediately felt with the sultry musical backing, soft piano keys being carted off by bellowing brass instruments, stylistically cropped with titles cards and blood-curdling violin strings, as the camera slowly pans across the landscape. Traversing the fledgling stages of a city aiming to shoot their infrastructures towards the heavens, we're made aware of this place that's aptly named Lawless; a nesting ground for those trying to carve out a living for themselves, as well as the mafia families that make up the seedy underbelly of the booming alcohol smuggling trade. After laying low for seven years, Angelo makes his return to this city, reborn under the alias Avilio Bruno. Here he set the plans in motion for his revenge, enlisting the help of his childhood friend, Corteo, using his talents as a brewer to get closer to the crime syndicate that massacred his loved ones on that cold night in April. And as his plans begin to unfold, everyone is slowly entangled within it. A sprawled-out web that's inhabited by family feuds over the dominion of the city and pretexts made at a moments notice to insight altercations. A breeding ground for mutual partnerships and calculated backstabbing, with Avilio fanning the flames whenever he sees fit. These warring family factions include the Vanettis, Orcos, and Galassias. All of which participate in this codependent dance of charades that are set to the music of a zero-sum game. With lots of twists and turns scattered along the way, every chapter adds a new piece to the playing field. This, combined with the brisk, yet methodical pacing, made 91 Days a title that constantly had you wanting to see what would happen next. There were no guarantees on who will live or die, only the falsehood of plot armor that's immediately revoked when two opposing parties meet. This became one of the show's greatest strengths; suspense backed up by tangible results. Revenge stories that slowly taper off as it pushes forward aren't uncommon. There have been many examples of this occurring across several storytelling mediums, with the usual morality message regarding the perpetual state of hate being the star attraction set on display. Thankfully, 91 Days isn't another statistic. It sets the stage early on and delivers on its promise from beginning to end. There aren't any trade-offs made to extend anyone's relevance, if they're ensnared in a situation that they can't walk away from unscathed, they receive their just desserts like everyone else. There are still explicit messages regarding the cost of revenge, as well as themes that come default with these scenarios, but the story doesn't bend at will to adhere to the warnings of it. Revenge isn't just worn as a shiny badge before flipping the script to see the apparent wrongs of the actions being taken, no, in 91 Days, revenge is carried out without compromise. And nowhere is that made more prominent than with the cutthroat mentality adopted by the main lead, Angelo "Avilio" Lagusa. If Angelo were summed up with one word, it would be merciless. An empty shell that lives solely for his objective, Angelo knows nothing else, adjusting his life around the need to make his targets pay. He isn't just satisfied with merely killing them; he wants to crush everything that they stand for. Dismantling the very foundation of their family's name by orchestrating events that will see them tearing each other apart. He's determined to see his plans through to the end, becoming another cog in the machine without so much as flinching at the prospect if it benefits his cause. Step by step, he draws closer to his end goal, the phantom resemblance of a smile just below the surface as bodies begin to fall. It's an obsession that borders on madness. And it's this same obsessive state that gives birth to paranoia among all camps of the conflict. Men hunched over in their local speakeasies, glancing over their shoulders in fear of other families taking them out. Restless faces marked off by bags under their eyes, dispatching hit men before someone else gets them first. And standing in the cross-hairs of this chaos is Nero Vanetti, a man deeply devoted to his Don and father, and the extended crime family, and unfortunately, another name on the checklist to be snuffed out. Where Angelo is driven to dismantle everything around him, Nero is committed to keeping it together, who, like Angelo, is obsessed with his cause, but instead of being duty-bound to some vendetta, he instead wants to maintain the integrity of his family's name. A task that proves nigh impossible with Angelo offering a handshake in comradeship, while the other hand carries a pistol erected in his direction. A give-and-take relationship where one man stumbles in the dark, oblivious to the other's malicious intent. But not everything in 91 Days compliments this gripping narrative. For one, the art direction and presentation often fell short of expected standards. Instead of becoming an animated series that could go toe-to-toe with the giants it patterns itself after, it only manages to measure up by the skin of its teeth. By no means should anyone approach this work expecting something on Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, or Quentin Tarantino's level. When I said, "similar tone and structure" that was the extent to which I think this anime achieves when pulling from its influences. At best, it's a slightly better rendition of the 3rd movie in the Godfather franchise, which admittedly isn't much of an accomplishment, but still, I'll give it credit for where credit is due. Regarding general scriptwriting, cinematography, and fully developed personalities, 91 Days remains an imitation of these great creator's works, but still a gripping imitation nonetheless. The lack of eye-grabbing textures, unique shot compositions, color saturation, or other presentation nitpicks could be ignored if you're invested in the story. Although, some aspects might stick out far too often to turn a blind eye to. Such is the case with characters like Fango, who might have been an honest attempt at creating a sadomasochistic individual, but ended up resembling an off-brand Joker villain instead. Where every character involved aimed for an early Film-noir performance set in the 1920s, Fango came flying in like a man transported straight from the 1970s; complete with the general attire and appearance to boot. And as detracting as his antics were at times when placed in a setting not meant for him, after a while, his role in the story meshed in more effectively. It May have been too late by then, but at least the effort was there to course-correct the problem. There are also a few character dynamics that could have benefited with a bit more time dedicated to it, like Angelo's connection to his childhood friend Corteo, which felt too much like an afterthought at times, only there to get his foot in the door and serve as a catalyst for certain events to happen. With a bit more meat to their relationship, pivotal narrative moments could have become emotionally gripping ones as well. There's an excellent storyboard there, just not enough attention-to-detail in-between plot points to make it moments with long shelf-lives in the collective conscious of the viewership. And despite this list of shortcomings, 91 Days remains a welcomed addition to its niche genre appeal, because when everything is said and done, the self-respect in which it carried itself made it far easier to forgive where it may have stumbled. We've had a fair share of mobster-inspired works before this, from the more character-centric ones like Gungrave and Gangsta to the rule-of-cool beat-em-ups of Darker than Black and Baccano, but there's never been a more faithful rendition of the traditional mafioso story in anime up to this point. Where those titles are riddled with supernatural occurrences that are dipped in the flourishings of the mobster lifestyle, 91 Days trades this in for a more grounded approach, containing characters that draw closer to real-world personalities than the more zany ones found in some of its contemporaries. It may not have the energy of Baccano, the fully developed characters of Gungrave, the well-choreographed fights of Darker than Black, or Gangsta's—... oh wait, Gangsta sucks. But what it does have is an appreciation for the classics that preceded it and the commitment needed to see its vision through.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Sep 26, 2016
Mob Psycho 100
(Anime)
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Recommended
Funny, whimsical, charming, and oddly enough, thoughtful.
Mob Psycho 100 is another comedic/action endeavor brought to us by author ONE, the mind behind 2015's breakout hit, One Punch Man, and like that success story, this also carries with it his signature flare for cool action set-pieces, theatrical displays of goofball antics, an art presence that's immediately eye-catching, all while being peppered with an obtuse sense of humor that's interwoven to form the finished product. And while it started out in a manner that felt like a subsidiary of its much more recognizable older brother, as it ventured on, it has proven to be more than ... capable in earning its own identity, deserving of the same level of respect as its predecessor. Where One Punch Man was all about being bullheadedly direct with everything it hits you with, Mob Psycho 100 instead chooses to blare the same kind of energy upfront, before coming in with a sneaky left hook; one that not only rattles off a few bells to the unexpected viewer but also lands the first blow of the show's claim to autonomy from unnecessary comparisons to determine its own self-worth. And with that being said, let's get the obligatory comparisons out of the way first, if only for the sake of those viewers who simply came for just that. •Both Mob and Saitama are characters with regressed emotions, but where Saitama's emotionless state comes from sheer boredom from a life with no true obstacles, Mob's state derives from a completely different reason. He's socially inept and insecure about his inability to make meaningful connections, while at the same time, mindful of his immense power, choosing to suppress them, and in the course of doing so, suppress his feelings as well. But when he could no longer keep those emotions in check, the show's namesake becomes clear as day, but we'll address that later, for now, hold on to that thought. •They contain fights that are equal parts wacky and inventive. Where OPM chose a more polished look to exemplify everything, MP100 decided to go the opposite route, staying faithful to the source material, while maintaining the level of quality expected from a work of its stature. •Mob looks like Saitama with a wig. Alright, with the comparisons out of the way, on with the review! The first thing that would immediately jump out at you is the art itself, which could be described as a fever dream filtered through a barrage of psychedelia, along the lines of a visual interpretation of an acid trip. With neon reds and blues swirling around disproportionate character designs, and animators that look like they're trying everything within their power just to color within the lines, this anime could get quite intoxicating at times. An accomplishment in wacky cerebral distortion that hasn't been seen since 2008's Kaiba. And it's this very warped production that helps drive the narrative along, and for many, this aesthetic appeal would have already been enough to get them through all 12-episodes. But thanks to some meaningful passages being brought up to supplement this nutty art-style later on, to many, the presentation only became a secondary reason to stick around instead. And with a story as frenetic as this one, this style of presentation felt like one of those "why haven't anyone done this yet?" kind of moments. Mob Psycho 100 is X-Men meet Ghostbusters. Shigeo "Mob" Kageyama, residential egghead and harborer of immense power, is our protagonist. As he bobs along with an expression that makes it clear that he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he enters the office of his employer, Arataka Reigen. When he isn't busy stealing your wallet to sell it back to you, Reigen and Mob forms a ghostbusting duo that runs around town exorcising evil spirits for profit. And when I say they exorcise evil spirits, I mean Mob does the work while Reigen thinks of new ways of swindling some sap out of their hard earned paycheck. And had that been the only thing going on in the story, there wouldn't be much here to discuss, but thankfully, that's only a jumping off point to what's really important. A dive headfirst into easily digestible symbology and subtext. While adored the world over by critical thinkers and any reviewer worth their salt, allegorical content is usually received with mix reception by the general audience, in large part to the fact that said material requires a keen eye to make what's being digested more engaging. Indie films don't rake in big box office returns, the big brand-name Hollywood blockbusters do, and understandably so. The general audience simply wishes to be entertained, and where one requires more fixation on the details of the plot and what certain things may mean, the other promises none of that, instead offering an experience that's as straightforward as the images on the screen would have you believe. In a way, that's the difference between OPM and MP100; OPM makes bullet-point statements with no hidden agenda, while MP100 has fine print written into its spastic portrayal. And let's not make any quick assumptions here, that's not bad at all, simple programming is equally as needed as something with a bit more bite to it. One services everyone, while the other offers a second helping for those that want a bit more. But then there's that weird breed of content. One that's as direct as the big blockbusters, but at the same time, manages to slide another layer in for those that pick up on it. Something that appears to be a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, but when bitten into, has the texture and taste of something a bit more high-end. We've seen it with anime titles such as Gurren Lagann, Gunbuster, Abenobashi, and FLCL, and now MP100 has seemingly stepped up on the mantle to join their ranks, if only on a scale that's not as far-reaching. This unexpected layer is found in the humorous scenarios, quick "blink and you'll miss it" commentary, and the relationship Mob shares with his brother, Ritsu. Being hidden within the folds of blaring orchestrated set-pieces, comedic jabs at the situations that the characters are placed in, and the occasional factoids pertaining to the state of certain issues, you'll find very quick cheeky retorts that draw into question the very nature of these kinds of narratives that are simply accepted by the masses. Where mini-boss battles are simply accepted as side conquests for smaller characters or obstacles that the protagonist has to plow through to meet the head honcho, in MP100, that very idea of thinking is sideswiped with a swift punch to the face and characters that are practically voicing the audiences' concern of "just get to the boss battle already." Where the presence of a villainous organization full of henchmen being operated haphazardly is simply shrugged off as a byproduct of superhero stories, MP100 makes that very notion its reason for doing nothing short of walking through the front entrance without so much as a scuffle. And where we never questioned why megalomaniacs all come off as infuriatingly disturbed manchildren, MP100 doesn't even think twice about having someone say "These guys who are seriously talking about taking over the world are children who failed to grow up." Every jab towards these trends are delivered with pinpoint accuracy but never in a mean-spirited way that feels like the writers are cynically lampooning them. ONE has proven to be a fan of these accepted tropes and cliches but doesn't shy away from addressing it for what it is. I can go on and on about moments like these, but the point is, MP100 is fully aware of the lunacy populating the very landscape of contemporary trends it has become a part of, while still fully embracing it to tell its own kooky version of the same kind of story. And while this very tongue-in-cheek manner that MP100 operates on is worth discussing in lengthier detail, the true heart of the show's content lies with Mob's mental state and the relationship he shares with his brother. Mob, as a brother, is too dense to see the anguish felt by his little brother, Ritsu, while Ritsu himself is too focused on trying to surpass Mob that he loses focus on the fact that he's admired by him, for reasons even someone as powerful as Mob himself can't obtain. It's the "grass is always greener on the other side" saying, but instead of them being delegated as enemies, they're simply misunderstood. Each seeking a quality that the other has without registering the actuality of their own self-worth. Where Ritsu fosters all of the qualities of a well-acclimated socialite, his brother, unfortunately, possesses the charm of Bozo the Clown. A trait that's only worsened by the increasingly negative reception that his powers tend to draw from others. What was once seen as an astonishing gift to some, was now only registered with blasé responses, or in worst case scenario, something that could endanger the lives of others. As a result, his already simple demeanor was reduced even further to a state that's almost autistic (and no, I'm not saying that in a joking manner), since the one thing that made him unique was now bastardized, effectively boxing him into a corner with nothing left to turn to. But where others shunned or ignore him, his brother saw otherwise. He saw a gift he yearned for but couldn't have. Despite being accepted by society, something his brother was robbed of, he still harbors a feeling of inadequacy when Mob levitates objects like it's no big deal or causes his dinner spoon to bend like playdough. Just the very duality between these brothers was enough to dissect already, this doesn't even address the elephant in the room; Mob's powers themselves. The title of Mob Psycho 100 quite literally refers to his power and what they mean, as it's shorthand for what's going on whenever he uses them. No one could suppress their emotions long enough before they hit a breaking point, and that's essentially the idea presented here. But where that "final straw" is usually only presented through someone emoting, in MP100, it's seen by a radiant burst of energy that exudes from every fiber of Mob's being. A burst of energy that's presented by a percentage scale that's occasionally flashed onscreen, when the number hits 100%, this power manifests itself upon release with the emotion he was suppressing. Whether that be the guilt he feels for putting others in harm's way or the animosity that boils over when someone dares to endanger his loved ones; every pent-up emotion is externalized into a colorful display of energy, feeling, and chaos. It's simple ideas like this that adds a certain charming layer to MP100's content. It doesn't boast about its ideas nor does it tell you to take them seriously, it simply presents it for what it is and chooses to let the viewer take from it what they will. A kind of earnestness that goes a long way after witnessing other titles that flamboyantly boast their basic accomplishments. It's a small change in approach, yet it makes all the difference. And that's what this is as well; a simple idea but done so in a way that adds new meaning to what's at face value, another beat-em-up with superpowers. And with the understanding of these basic ideas, physical encounters become much more than empty fists clashing, they become a fight for something. Not all share in this quality, but for the ones that matter, there's a reason for the audience to be genuinely invested in the outcome. In the schizophrenic world of MP100, it's these very humanistic ideas that keep everything anchored behind the layer of jokes and satirical jabs. Even characters like Reigen that would usually remain pigeonholed as the sleazy money-grubbing con-artist types are given a surprising amount of humanity by the time everything comes to its final stop. This doesn't come from excessive showboating, it comes from observations made after seeing similar things play out. ONE's innate understanding of tropes has allowed him the ability to work them into something straightforward and fun, yet clever without the need to reinforce that fact. Don't get me wrong, this isn't to say that the show is subtle; on the contrary, it's very much on-the-nose 100% of the time. But what it is is humble about its ideas, not expressing some inherent birthright to be taken seriously just because it has something to say. This is the kind of landscape that ONE seems to be paving with each new undertaking, helping give birth to a mini-cultural zeitgeist in the medium. One where not taking yourself too seriously could be a commendable approach, while still having ideas that could please those interested in them. Simplicity delivered with a new flare. A compromise that could give rise to fun, yet thoughtful, projects like this one. It may just be a direct response to the superhero genre that's dominating pop culture, but with results like this, I'm in full support for it. And with that in mind, Mob Psycho 100 is a welcomed addition to this blossoming trend.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Sep 25, 2016 Recommended
Adorned with lush textures of green and wrapped up in the endless blue horizon of the summer sky, Orange rests softly on the lips like a faint drop of nostalgia just waiting to be recollected. Approaching the quiet slice of countryside that remained dormant over many winters, we're flung back ten years to where it all began. The place where two paths collided but only one was allowed to move forward. A place tucked away behind walls of foliage, cradled in a valley older than time itself. There it resides, a small town that carries with it a sense of cultural simplicity that only the
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exclusion of the outside world could allow. Under cover of low hanging branches, the sun pierces its way through, lighting the path where a group of friends walks side by side to a future that lays bare before them. And in this huddle of jovial faces, we find Naho; a soft-spoken girl that has within her grasp a letter. A letter that will forever alter the course she takes and the fate of the ones huddled around her.
And with the arrival of a new student named Kakeru from Tokyo, this quiet little town perks up, and so does the latent curiosity residing within Naho. A spark ignites as these two worlds collide, their fates forever becoming intertwined in the process. And so begins the tale that unravels before us. A tale of bittersweet consequence, regret, and seeking solace in the embrace of others. Breathing new life into what many would consider being a worn out formula, Orange proves that any set-piece could be spun into something wholly immersive under the right care. By only giving events a gentle push when needed, this anime found a way to offer freedom too noticeably absent in other works. A way to let things run their course. To give characters chances to emote in ways that feel at home with who they are and not what the screenplay strongarm them into being. To let what must be, be. With acclaimed director, Hiroshi Hamasaki, the man behind such works as Steins;Gate and Texhnolyze, taking the helm, this is immediately expressed with the first soft brushstroke that gives the world of Orange life, as things come into focus and we're formally introduced to the story it wishes to convey. After opening a letter addressed to her, Naho is rendered speechless by the contents written inside: "I'm writing this letter ten years in your future." Was it a practical joke? Her friends leading her on for harmless fun? Or perhaps it was something more profound... and maybe, just maybe, the words addressed to herself, from herself, was real? And as the day transpired the unlikely answer became truth and any doubt that might have lingered faded away with the realization of what she held in her hand. This letter was no mere trick; this was real. "This is the one day I don't want you to invite Kakeru," she didn't listen before, but now she heeds those words. Now she knows that this far-fetched truth isn't something to disregard. Whether it be something as grand as divine prophecy or merely an elaborate setup she's incapable of figuring out, what is for certain is that the letter wasn't wrong—a window into the future was given. A truth beyond comprehension. But what she does understand is her friends. The clique that always welcomes her with open arms. Free to look on at their antics in silent bliss: Hitaga's larger than life persona, as he fends off comments, being playfully antagonized constantly by the quick-witted Azu, taking pleasure in seeing him fluster behind his thick-framed glasses, while Suwa towers over them amused by the "married couple" squabble taking place. Takako hanging back instigating with Azu complying gleefully, as they all crack a smile enjoying each others company. Trailing behind them with a small gesture of content, Naho doesn't ask for anything more than this. These are the moments that she lives for. The moments that Naho feel at home. And with Kakeru being brought into the mix, it's these moments she never wants to let go of. Despite being indoctrinated into the group with ease, Kakeru remains the anomaly. He flashes a reserved smile, accepts their gestures of friendship, humors them when they tease each other, and even participate on occasion. But just behind his gentle expression, there's a feeling of distance. A wall that keeps them outside from the truth that's eating away within. A mind that's off somewhere else, a lonely place that only his thoughts are allowed to occupy. And staring back at him is Naho, fixated on the truth behind the smoke and mirrors. The truth she now possesses. Kakeru isn't going to be around for long if he follows this path, an idea that saddens her to the core. The pain of carrying that burden alone. A life resting in her hands. A life she cares for immensely, yet can't express without the fear of rejection, or perhaps even more unnerving, the fear of being loved in return. Determined to save him, she's forced to open up. A girl who's not confident in her self-worth having to muster up enough courage for both of them. And though she may fumble over her words, go about nervously even to make eye contact, afraid of being adored by another, scared to death at the thought of being yearned for, she still presses on. Whether she manages to surpass the regret of her future-self at one minute only to fail by the next, every fiber of her being wants to keep Kakeru alive. A love that's equal parts selfish and unquestionable; a love she feels guilty for, ashamed at the thought of pressing for answers that she knows will hurt him to express. A pain of caring too much to see him go but being too bashful to say what's needed to make him stay. Regret. Suicidal tendencies. Adolescence. Young love. Life-altering decisions. Self-acceptance. Self-awareness. Selfish desire. Deceit. Earning trust. Learning to let go. Accepting defeat. Perseverance. A whirlwind of dilemmas heaped onto her lap the moment she decided to take action to stop the inevitable. But is it alright to change the future, to listen to herself ten years ahead? A 26-year-old Naho, willing to change the decision of her reserved younger self for a future that would rob her of the life of a newborn child, nestled in the bosom of a loving mother's arms and a man who's in his own right the right match for her? This decision becomes about much more than saving someone, it becomes about weighed sacrifices. Nothing could be gained without the loss of something else. Is it right to gamble the happiness of others, and possible life of another, just to fulfill a want to preserve someone else's? Even the most trivial of occurrences could tip the scales in one side's favor. Fate doesn't choose favorites. The slightest swing of the pendulum determining the outcome and love of those involved. A fragile web that's only held in place by the desire to mend wounds not yet made and save a life that's not yet lost. The summer breeze caressing her cheek, sunburnt hair fluttering ever so gently, with eyes of emerald looking outward to the unforeseen outcome of her actions. Was it right for her to challenge destiny? Was it her call to make? Pensive feelings only interrupted by the presence of a partner. Resting his steady hand on her shoulder, a caring look of reassurance offered, Suwa eases the burden; don't worry, I'm on your side, no matter the decision—A silent exchange that says everything. These are the moments that are brought to life by the talented team staffed with seeing the vision through. With vibrant earth tones protruding through brushstrokes of greenery, a rustic, yet polish look that's acid washed in Hiroshi's unique stylistic choices; everything displays a delicate touch, fine-tuned by people who care about the projects they're working on. With character design credit given to Nobuteru Yuuki, the same man that lent his talent to Kids on the Slope and Paradise Kiss, it all comes together into one cohesive piece. Carrying this off is a soundtrack that gently chimes in, with the soft stroke of an acoustic guitar, the gentle thumping rhythm of drums, and doled out piano keys that occasionally makes its presence known when the time calls for it; everything here has its place. It's a soundtrack that doesn't drown out the actions on screen but instead works in synchronicity with it. Choosing to be a supporting actor than the main attraction. This aspect was also true with the opening and ending themes, with "Hikari no Hahen" by Yu Takahashi capturing the essence of what's seen when you visit the world of Orange, and "Mirai" by Kobukuro capping it off with a bittersweet performance that embodies the underlying emotions that makes itself more apparent the further you venture in. The two—art and audio—found a space that they both occupy with complete acceptance of the other, creating a true sense of symbiosis. This wasn't to say that the presentation was always consistent, there were certainly moments that faltered, but when it counted the most, it found a way to drive things home. Orange takes school rom-com setups and elevates it beyond the stereotypical trappings and downright formulaic reactionary content it's usually infamous for. Where most school-orientated anime see fit to typecast characters with a small stock selection of personalities to choose from, often being identified by garishly colorful hairstyles and borderline caricature appearances; Orange broke away from this cast-iron mold, going against typing and the very notion of limited range for what's supposed to be considered as "relatable" characters. Instead, we're given teenagers that look and act as teenagers should. There's no token tsundere or mullet-sporting high-school delinquents, only different people with their mannerisms and personalities being brought together under one roof. This unit all compliment each other, in a manner that's done without so much as outright stating it. We simply see it in their daily interactions. The socially inept know-it-all Hitaga's stubborn outward gestures against Azu's teasing, the two practically joined at the hip, refusing to address the source of their partnership. Takako's level-headed outlook on her friends, eons ahead of them all in maturity but won't hesitate to join in on "girl talk" if the chance presents itself. Naho's reserved nature, a person too kind to say no, satisfied with just being able to see others happy. And then there's Suwa's adopted role as big brother, putting aside his happiness to aid the happiness of others. He willingly becomes the anchor and bearer of unrequited love, harboring his feelings to allow another to blossom, all while doing it with a smile on his face. Each of these friends existing independently of each other but choosing to pool together where they have others that complete whatever they lack. Good on their own but better when there's a shoulder to lean on, someone to share their happiness, troubles, and existence with. The very idea that frightens the outsider being accepted within their circle. Kakeru admires but fears the very idea of their friendship. A lingering thought that he carries with him, afraid to open up to let others in: "I don't deserve it. I haven't earned it. I'm not good enough. No one understands me. If I get too close, I will only hurt them in the end. How could anyone care for me after what I've done? I shouldn't be allowed happiness." He sits there, eating away, wanting to reach out but pulling away out of fear. Out of guilt. But whenever he's had enough, ready to end it all, there's always a voice ringing out in the distance. His name being called out by the short-statured girl with sunburnt hair. A girl that tugs at him to stay. A girl he wants nothing but the best for. Orange isn't filled with characters spouting out summations of themselves, nor does it bother to hammer home points not expressed explicitly through dialogue. It lets the actions, the expressions, the mannerisms, the scenes, the camera, the color, the music, the very nature of the show itself, to do all the talking in its place. And while I've expressed nothing but the utmost praise for Orange, there's still a lot of issues that plague it. For one, details about the conflict itself. Admittedly, the romance aspect can get clumsy at times. There are occasions where it's awkward, and that doesn't count scenes when it was done so on purpose. With the density of some characters pushing it, especially when considering their giant progressive leaps forward in the latter half of the show, it does wane on you a bit, if only temporarily. A big confessional scene could be truncated for awkward teenage crushing by the next episode. A kind of regression that felt like it served just to pad out the schedule running time than it did to service the material at hand. While some of these issues could have been credited with the fact that they're teenagers and are not fully capable of expressing themselves to the best of their capabilities, it still doesn't magically make the feeling disappear. But of course, that's an excuse I'm sure many have grown tired of hearing, despite the fact that it inherently holds a great deal of truth about any youth in the middle of their teenage years. It's not always an answer we like, but it's still one that's acceptable for the sake of immersion. And then some viewers would address the issue regarding time-travel. Let it be known that there wasn't any need to try to explain the mechanics of the time-travel used since time-travel was nothing but a narrative tool to set in motion what mattered: the characters. But even with that being said, it doesn't negate the fact that that element of the show was never adequately explained in a meaningful way. Given the fact that this aspect of the show came in the form of a letter required some suspension of disbelief as to why more wasn't done to take full advantage of it. However, I believe downplaying the time-travel aspect as something that's not needed to drive its narrative or be used as a means to reset mistakes if they fail to follow through on the words written the first time, was the best decision to make. Had they been able to repeat critical events constantly, it would have diminished the regret and success of their efforts throughout the course of the show. The letter was merely a timeline for them to follow, but the actual legwork, struggle, pain, happiness, lessons learned, and obstacle conquered, was done of their own accord. And when their efforts, or lack thereof, diverge from what's written on the letter, it disproves any omniscience to control the course of time or predict it flawlessly, which makes this an example of a plot device not being readily abused. And when accounted for how often that isn't the case for anime that include time-travel, or other forms of media for that matter, that's a great accomplishment. And in a nutshell, that's Orange's greatest strength; taking things that are quickly disregarded, such as school rom-coms and time-travel setups, and turning them into something that could be engaging and level-headed. If time-travel is readily abused in most stories, don't make it a central focus of your narrative, use it as a guideline instead. If school rom-coms are infamous for having color-coordinated dimensionless personas, take a subdued approach that pulls from the same core values yet brought to life with personalities that feel far more believable. Orange takes the basics and proves that with enough care it could be reacknowledged as a viable means of storytelling. With the right amount of passion interjected, what would usually stop as just characters on-screen, backdrops for 23 minutes of entertainment, and a quick conversation of some piece of media, can now be transformed into a lasting impression that people could carry with them. One that could offer fond experiences for moments you've wished for, and passing instances of nostalgia you've never had. And as we depart, leaving the world of Orange behind us, zooming past the aged walkways, green linen jackets worn by adolescence; back through the cracks of the skyline hidden behind a wall of leaves hanging above, we know that we're leaving a place with a memory to take away from it. And as we become less aware of its existence, going about our routines, the world of Orange and its inhabitants continues on, living their day to day lives, making memories of their own and looking up in bewilderment at the endless blue, pondering as to what their future may hold.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Sep 19, 2016
Amaama to Inazuma
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Mixed Feelings
Growing up, I'm sure many of us have consumed one too many sugary sweets during our childhoods. We gouge down, smacking our lips, lapping up the remaining sticky stains that pepper our face, slurping the sweet syrup that coats our fingertips, savoring every last drop like sweet-tooth bandits. But after a while, that sugary delight leads to an unwelcome stomach ache, where we're left bloated and forced to endure the rightfully earned scorn of our parents:
"I told you not to eat all those sweets at once!" Their words a guilty sentence we don't even bother fighting against, as they march us off to the restroom to ... brush away the very thought of potential cavities taking refuge between the crevices of our underdeveloped molars. It's the right of passage for us kids, for us mischievous sweet-tooth bandits. And if not for the proper guidance by our parents to keep us in line, we'd more than likely be sporting a smile with teeth weathered by decay. Sweets are good, but overindulging in them tend to lead to this inevitable end result. And as you've undoubtedly figured out what's being alluded to by now, Sweetness and Lightning suffers a similar fate. A show that barrages you with all the cuteness that the namesake would imply—and on that end, it certainly delivers—but doesn't offer enough levity to let any of it settle in. It's all dessert without dinner, every child's wildest dream in theory, but in practice, a very tiresome endeavor that turns sweet-tooths rotten and palates too soaked to ask for more. Sweetness and Lightning shares in our delight for all things sugar-laced, but unlike the reprimanding we received as kids growing up, when this show overindulges, there aren't any parents around to scold it. And for an anime that centers around parenting, this becomes an issue that even the smile of a bubbly little girl couldn't dissuade you from taking notice of. There really isn't much here to talk about, despite what the premise would have you believe: a man left to cope with the pain of losing a loved one while also raising a daughter, taking on all the motherly duties that he had once taken for granted. And during this adjustment period of serving both parental roles in his daughter's life, Sweetness used food as a catalyst to catalog his parental growth, as well as a common means for the father and daughter to become closer. With a premise that could serve multifaceted purposes—parental bonding and culinary infotainment—Sweetness and Lightning was practically gift wrapped for the creators. It wouldn't have had to do much in order to foster a lighthearted show with sobering life lessons sprinkled throughout it. Just simply display the culinary aspect as a vehicle to showcase the parental bonding; it's almost foolproof. And yet, even with this hand-delivered premise placed right in their laps, very little of it went beyond the occasional reminder of a motherless household and dishes reminiscent of a happier time in the father and daughter's life. Parenting was placed on the back-burner for food montages, which isn't necessarily a bad thing if that's all you came looking for, but when you take into consideration what ingredients the anime had at its disposal, the decision to divert from that path felt like an act of complacency than any intentional artistic statement. But there's also something else that the show's setup alluded to. Something that isn't as important as the themes it skipped over but still a desirable promise nonetheless. And that promise was a cute mascot. And boy, did this anime ever deliver! Tsumugi is, with little dispute, one of the most adorable kid characters to have been conceived in the 2010s since the likes of Naru from Barakamon. She's cuteness that transcends regulatory standards. Cuteness that bursts past the stratosphere. Cuteness that almost hurts. Tsumugi is cuteness incarnate. And dear I say it, the sole reason for this show's existence. Without Tsumugi, there wouldn't be a Sweetness and Lightning worth discussing. Which, quite frankly, became a double-edged sword if you were watching the show for any other reason beyond its flagship character. Because when it comes to everything else that this anime attempted to offer, the act of slouching in disinterest became far too common of a practice. As far as the rest of the cast goes, there's really no other character worth mentioning beside Tsumugi. Everyone else was simply introduced to feed off her energy. To say she's the star attraction would be an understatement. The very foundation of this show's existences is made impossible without her inclusion. She's the poster-child of Sweetness and Lightning. The very thing people will remember the show for long after they forget the events of the show itself. It's the kind of character whose reputation would outlast the source material it's attached to. She's the Yuno Gasai, the Haruhi Suzumiya, the Holo, the Major Kusanagi; the very legacy that the source material will leave behind. This isn't to say that the cooked meals and other characters introduced weren't interesting, just that in the backdrop of a show that's taking things slow and steady, all its efforts are lost in translation to the little girl twerking on the floor, practicing her cooking dance charms to make the food delicious. And when you pair that eccentric personality with that of an unkempt, mild-mannered man who's constantly lost behind the bushy top hairdo and frame of his glasses, whose only defining trait is being soft-spoken... well, what you ended up getting was a recipe for amnesia-inducing content. If I was placed on the spot to recall the events of any given episode, the best I could come up with would be: "They cooked food, Tsumugi was being cute, they ate, and went back home." Not really the lasting legacy any creator would want now, is it? Whether premeditated or not, the show became one big blur when it effectively repeated the same scenario every single episode. Which brings us back to the pestering question: why was there no focus on parenting? It's an aspect the show seems to hint at on several occasions, but whenever it gets too close to crossing that line between happy-go-lucky to something sobering, it skittishly pulls back and retreats to the kitchen to avoid confronting the elephant in the room. For what I could only surmise as the creators making the decision to keep the same bubbly tone throughout, we're forced to only stand at the edge of parental responsibility. We could see the themes just lying there at the bottom but could never make the plunge due to the show's refusal to make that leap of faith. But I guess for those that do love this carefree disposition, that isn't necessarily a bad thing at all. And if you're one who likes this more syrupy type of storytelling, then Sweetness and Lightning will certainly deliver. This routine cycle I spoke of sees Kouhei, the doting father and full-time teacher, befriend one of his pupils named Kotori, a girl who's constantly on pins and needles with a mannerism that's best described as a series of micro-personality ticks and perpetual flustering. Together these two form a mutual friendship centered around their need to cook different kinds of dishes, as well as a means to keep each other company. And the source of influence that they both gravitate towards is, of course, our poster-child Tsumugi. And as the synopsis states, the rest of their time was spent cooking tasty treats while Tsumugi entrances the viewer with a barrage of cute antics. And as if the point wasn't made clear already, even the moments that don't focus on Tsumugi just ends up surrounding her anyways. The creative team behind Sweetness and Lightning are simply obsessed with their gooey gumdrop of a mascot. And by the looks of it, so am I at this point. Tsumugi is adorable, but perhaps more important than that, she isn't sexualized; which to any outsider of the anime medium may seem like an odd thing to say about a child, but let's face it, Japan's obsession with sexualized lolis isn't something that just magically disappears when we don't pay attention to it. In the absence of World Masterpiece Theater's praiseworthy depiction of children, the "moe" boom of the early 2000s had created a paradigm shift that brought with it this current dilemma. So in that sense, Tsumugi is a HUGE breath of fresh air when the only other option for kid characters these days tend to be morphing them into moeblobs or letting a gust of wind expose their pantsu for purposes I think Jared from Subway would take far too much satisfaction in viewing. So until the current social norm for children characters changes in anime, Tsumugi stands as an example of one done right. And I'm sorry if I'm droning on and on about Tsumugi, but that's literally all the show leaves you to talk about. What was initially described by many as "Barakamon meet Usagi Drop," simply became one facet of that idea when all aspects of parenting (or progression for that matter), had quickly abandoned ship. And so, with nothing else worth addressing, it's time for us to part ways as well, as I bring this review to its final stop. "Too much of a good thing" is the phrase that comes to mind when I reflect on this show. With a cute tyrant running rampant and a timid father trailing behind her, Sweetness and Lightning mostly became Sweetness and Pushover. Despite wanting the anime to take a leap into the parental aspect that it kept hinting at, I can't say I was displeased with what I got instead. If I had known that parenting wouldn't be an important aspect beforehand, I would have still watched the show for the sheer enjoyment of its meditative programming. Yes, it got a bit underwhelming and tedious at times. Yes, it could have done more to change up the formula. But, when all things were said and done, I still walked away with an adorable pint-sized bundle of joy that left me with a smile on my face. And at the end of the day, that sweet treat was good enough for me.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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Sep 18, 2016 Not Recommended
Ahh, the reviewer. The first line of defense to quell the flames of irrational thought and often the bearer of bad news for those of the general public. They're the Buzz Killingtons that take it upon themselves to blow the "no fun" whistle and send the partygoers back on the hype-train that they rode in on. It's a thankless job, one that doesn't reward anyone besides the smug satisfaction of the man with the whistle, tipping his top hat and waving "adieu" at the fanbase, outraged that someone had the audacity to bring an analytical lens to the "totally bitchin party, bruh!"
And as the seasonal ... lineup ends and the hype-train chugs on to the next destination to start the cycle all over again, the reviewer, Mr. Buzz Killington, slaps his final verdict in the form of a nasty wall of diatribe, as he carries on his endless crusade to educate would-be viewers, one party foul at a time. Now, before I go any further, I'd like to put all my chips on the table. I don't plan to campaign for Re:Zero's public standing, nor will I bastardize its name for the sake of winning the appeal of dissenters. What will be written from here on out is simply one man stating his viewpoint. If that means dispensing the full-range of my vocabulary like a snobby know-it-all, then so be it. As long as my assessment is clearly understood, whether you choose to sling mud at my remarks or practice diplomacy is of no concern to me. And without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, weeaboos and pseudo-elites, I, ZephSilver, will serve as your Buzz Killington for the evening, as we take a tour through anime's latest mistake, Re:Zero, or as I like to call it, Re:packaged goods. Writhing in pain it doesn't understand, with paint-by-number personalities that desperately try to express it, Re:Zero is a gaudy, yet entertaining, blowhard that stumbles upon an ingenious formula for mainstream success. In a cynically calculated ruse, Re:Zero combines snippets of set-pieces from other works to create a Frankenstein that's built to be a surefire hit, regardless of how much manipulation is required to keep the circus act up. By capitalizing on the ever-increasing demand for MMORPG inspired settings, time-travel narratives and well... a gratuitous amount of shock value, it captures the general populace's attention with ease. And really, who could fault it? The anime industry has within its grasp a foolproof method to gain the public's ear. A method that's figured out, down to a science, thanks to countless trial and error. It just so happens that this 'foolproof' method is predicated on sales and popularity, whether it receives critical acclaim or not is secondary. Dangling its bait right after the success of works with similar setups, it was inevitable that many would bite. Re:Zero offered many fan-favorite arrangements all in a convenient, one-stop package: a smorgasbord of goodies to satisfy a wide range of palates. And if that wasn't enough to seal the deal, it marketed a premise that potentially subverted the MMORPG formula into something dark and decrepit, capturing any stragglers that might have avoided the bait in disinterest with the promise of something "re:freshing." The rest was simply a matter of word of mouth. The match was lit, and all that was left was to sit back and watch the wildfire burn. With viewers exalting Re:Zero as "smart," "bold," and "enthralling," ignoring this show's existence became nigh impossible. An anime that was built to be popular. An anime that was predestined to become the centerpiece discussion of every anime-related thread during its run. A wonderful monstrosity concocted in a lab by a board of executives, perfecting their latest endeavor to siphon money out of people's pockets, without so much as making the intent noticeable. I know we all want to hold an optimistic view on this situation but I advise that we take a step back before purchasing the snake oil. Re:Zero is to White Fox what Kabaneri was to Wit studio: a proven investment, disingenuous or not. Seriously, think about it for a moment. What were White Fox's most successful outings so far? Akame Ga Kill, a show about gruesome deaths in a medieval fantasy world, riddled with the underpinnings of political intrigue, a setup that deviated from typical shounen fodder, and a broad range of colorful personalities that inhabited its universe. And Steins;Gate, a show about time-travel being used to save your loved ones after a conspiracy was discovered, forcing the protagonist to revisit key events to find the best path to save everyone. Putting aside how you may feel about those shows individually, the fact remains that Re:Zero meshes these two appeals in a fashion that seems far too perfect to be simply a case of coincidence. When you look back at the shows that garnered the most attention in the last handful of years, how could you not feel that Re:Zero is a product of the machine? There's being at the right place at the right time, and then there's simply casting your fishing line after analytical charts and focus groups indicate that the waters are ripe with hungry prey. So after stating all this, it may surprise you to know that I fully recommend this show to anyone that confronts me about it. Why may you ask? Well, to be honest, it's pretty entertaining. Whatever my stance may be regarding the title, it cannot be denied that the show is easily digestible. With plot twists at every turn, bloody fatalities being dished out at a moments notice, and cliffhangers guaranteeing your return for more, Re:Zero is a binge-worthy viewing experience. However, my reasons for full-heartedly endorsing the show are probably not the reasons that the creators would probably like. For now, just hold on to that thought, we'll discuss why later. And with that long-winded preface out of the way, it's time to continue our tour. Stepping out of a convenience store in modern day Japan and being transported to a medieval fantasy world for no more reason than the writers saying, "We need to start the story somehow," our main protagonist, Suburu, enters Capital City; the epicenter of commerce for this foreign land of Lugunica and the place that would mark his burial ground on several occasions to come. After he comes in contact with a mysterious silver-haired girl named Emilia, he finds himself caught up in a web of deceit, hidden mysteries behind every corner and a bad case of groundhogs day that's marked with the end of his life. And so goes the rest of his journey, constantly being respawned at key locations similar to game save checkpoints until he conquers a life-threatening obstacle. Death, birth, repeat. A rat churning cream to avoid drowning and hoping its efforts would create butter, allowing for solid ground to escape its entrapment. Some might refer to this as "torture porn" or a snuff film in animated form. And while I might find these sentiments to be a bit overstated, I still can't help but feel like there's an underlying truth to that way of thinking. There's always a feeling that gnaws away at your subconscious when you watch the show. Something that many viewers may not be able to pinpoint but that they know is there, like the nuisance of a small object stuck in the sole of your shoe or a lingering thought that's just out of reach. I believe this feeling derives from the way the show presents its ideas. Themes that are supposed to be profound but end up taking on a whole new meaning when highlighted in neon lights and announced over a loudspeaker. Suburu doesn't just die; he's butchered in the most gratuitous way imaginable. A newly gained tactical advantage isn't just implemented; instead, it's buffered through excessive expository dialogue. Character arcs don't just happen naturally; they're highlighted with drastic presentation changes and streams of confetti. In the words of Urban Dictionary, Re:Zero has no chill. Re:Zero falls victim to sensationalizing things that it thinks would be considered poignant, as is the case with most shows that are said to 'subvert' the formula they're a part of. And by doing so, it indirectly counteracts that notion. A narcissistic protagonist being humbled by the realization that life doesn't revolve around him isn't a great revelation if the show goes out of its way to constantly point it out. Being mentally exhausted from the toll of dying constantly isn't eye-opening if the show literally has to tell you it is. Subtext ceases to hold meaning if the creators have a habit of making its intent obvious. This is the problem that many high-strung shows have, where they don't trust the viewer to pick up on the clues themselves. 2001: A Space Odyssey wouldn't be praised as a sci-fi classic if it had its ideas being pointed out with Blue's Clues paw prints. Se7en wouldn't be a great mystery/thriller had Dora the Explorer show up as a movie guide. Point being, good subtextual content is only good if the creators don't over-extend their control over how easy it's discovered. Like Erased from winter 2016, Re:Zero's attempts at something far beyond it only backfires when this issue plagues every facet of its existence. It's trying to be symbolic; it's trying to interweave motifs; it's trying to create intrigue; it's trying to tinker with psychology... but, it's doing so in the most ham-fisted way possible. It fully rejects the idea of subtlety in every aspect imaginable, instead choosing to holler everything in an ostentatious display that's borderline masturbatory. A premature celebration of its accomplishments that's mired in the stench of hubris. Setting tone and forcing tone aren't the same things. You can't give birth to natural reactions by simply pumping your content full of steroids to make it blossom faster. Anything worth having should come to fruition on its own merits through the course of the narrative. Re:Zero is simply too impatient for proper grooming, and as a result, we get villains that are essentially godforsaken hybrids of the Joker, Batman V Superman's Lex Luther, and the wacky waving inflatable tube men located outside of used car dealerships, snacking on their fingers like crispy chicken tenders. We get characters that deviate from common anime tropes to simply fall victim to yet another trope instead. Re:Zero's biggest enemy is itself, a show that can't be subdued even if it comes at the cost of its own integrity. But what about the people that don't see these issues? What about those who are genuinely enthralled by Re:Zero's efforts? Those who, despite the obvious blare of ‘trying-too-hard’ fireworks, don't pick up on the show's underlying meaning until further inspection? What about the people who push the agenda of the show being "smart," "bold," and "enthralling?" The foot soldiers that perpetuate the show's self-worth, finding depth where others see beyond it? Surely they're not mistaken. What do they see that others don't? As it turns out, the real question isn't what they see, but what they choose to give the show credit for. It's the interesting themes that Re:Zero flirts with throughout its narrative. The outer shell that masquerades as in-depth concepts. If there's no prior contact with the ideas that Re:Zero presents, this kind of perception is easy to understand. First exposure to something that insinuates a deeper layer could cause any viewer to wax philosophical. And there lies the difference: those that have seen the laminated copy, as well as the genuine article. When the same concepts are seen done right, suddenly that laminated copy starts to become all the more noticeable. And so is the case with Suburu's supposedly "broken psyche." Like the case for Gakkougurashi of summer 2015, another show proclaimed as a 'deconstruction' of its genre, Re:Zero also takes pleasure in tinkering with delirium, but refuses to truly dive into it. It glorifies the main character's mental breakdown, turning it on and off at the whims of the scriptwriters. With something as easy as a pep talk and hug from LoveInterest#2 being all that's needed to make things better, it's really hard to justify the "psychology" that Re:Zero boasts about. Want to truly show a mentally broken state? Then have the line between past existence and current life be obscured with each reincarnation, and don't fix it. Just imagine how amazing it would be if the memories of all respawned events were compressed upon each rebirth, to the point where Suburu is no longer aware of the difference between them. It would truly demonstrate the anguish that Suburu suffers through by making the consequence something that's not only visual for the viewer but also something that implies that deeper layer that the show so desperately seeks to obtain. Instead of simply being the laminated copy, it could have been like other animated works that truly dive deep into this concept, such as Satoshi Kon's Millennium Actress and Perfect Blue. Both featured films containing women who slowly lose their minds and grips on reality as they descend further into a fever dream of delirium and jumbled memory. It didn't just carry around psychology like some fashion accessory, but it made it a very real thing for the viewers looking on and the characters that took the plunge into the never-ending spiral of irrational flatlining. See that the protagonist suffers a loss that he can't simply fix with a jump off a cliff. Have stakes. If respawning to checkpoints is the only way to advance the narrative, the very least the creators could do would be to place Suburu at the crossroad of a decision that would allow advancement only if someone else were to perish. Let there be permanent blood on his hands, not just a never-ending clean slate. Don't resolve psychological trauma like it's just some phase people get over after a few days. Don't just wave around psychology like it's a toy. People don't simply undo damage because the plot demands a rational mind in a given scenario. This shouldn't change even for Suburu. Embrace it fully. Let go of safety nets if you truly want something that's "deep" and not just another copy of something other creators (Satoshi Kon) have proven is possible to achieve. And really, this is just covering one aspect the show chooses to claim as its own. The same level of commitment is expected for every aspect of Re:Zero, not just some half-assed effort. With these nebulous concepts about redefining a protagonist's importance and exposing inner truths that felt entirely too heady for something as simple-minded as Re:Zero to muster up in any meaningful way, the only chance that the other half that doesn't see the show as "smart," "bold," and "enthralling" could buy into it, is if the show stops trying to find compromise that's easy to live with. It may seem "smart," but it does so with an air of smarminess while also over-pronouncing its efforts. It may seem "bold," but it never takes any risks that could be seen as irreversible. It may seem "enthralling" for advocates, but for everyone else on the other side of the aisle, it's just dumb schlock-entertainment. And if there was anything that made this half-ass commitment more apparent, it would have to be the presentation that it was given. Re:Zero is that kid that just learned a new 3-syllable word and just spews it out at every opportune moment in a sad attempt to appear intellectual. There're some elements here that demonstrate some semblance of writing chops, I would give the show that, but the way the writers flaunt their ability to come up with said ideas comes off as conceited, especially when these moments wallow in content that's tantamount to idiotic orchestral displays. It's a proud peacock, flaunting its ideas, while strutting around with toilet paper stuck to its ass. As it navel-gazes, everyone else looks on in amusement. When I said it points things out with neon lights, this is what I mean. “Hey, the camera is shaking excessively. Hey, we're giving Suburu a manic expression, one step away from having him foaming at the mouth. Hey, we literally added a 10% darkness opacity filter to Suburu's color scheme. Hey, all of these scene compositions literally bathe Suburu in a constant shadow. Hey, his eyes are big and bulgy. HEY, HEY, HEY!! Do you get it yet!? Hey, are our actions to paint him in an obscure light after a big altercation with Emilia not made clear yet? Please reward us. Please tell us we're smart. I learned a 3-syllable word today! Please applaud my efforts!” Evil can't be expressed without outlandishly warped expressions. Happiness can't be felt without copious amounts of animated tears, a gust of wind, and painted on blushes. Insanity can't be expressed without darkened eye bags, manic expressions, and rape faces. Everything is calculated. A stage play executed with no blemishes. A play that remains a play. Art that imitates the art of others. Re:Zero wants to be a real boy, but its growing wooden nose tells the truth it doesn't want to admit to itself. If the warped face of anger looks forced, then guess what: it's forced. If the happy moments felt a bit too inflated with random rose peddles flying around and kawaii-level faces, then guess what: it's inflated. If sadness felt unauthentic with instantaneous waterworks and elastic expressions at the drop of a hat, then guess what: it's unauthentic. You're not interpreting it wrong. That pang in the back of your head that tells you this is kinda overkill isn't "just you." Deep down you know what you're seeing is over exaggerated, and after time has settled and you reminisce about key events, that would become clearer than ever. Re:Zero is a novelty act that blinds you with flurries of action and plot twists, but the moments the spectacle is over, what would remain is the realization that what you held dear was nothing more than snake oil sold by a quick-witted businessman. Even things like auditory cues can't help but feel like the show signaling excessively to get your attention, an example being a high pitched hum, like angelic beings from a choir taking a laxative-laced shit. It could be seen as "chilling" to some, or you could be like me and think it's the angels of heaven passing a kidney stone in orchestic unison. Point being it's played only to signal a disturbance. And seeing that the show is all about disturbances, it just ends up exacerbating a problem that didn't need any more highlighting than it was already getting. What needed more attention, however, were the characters and environment that the story took place in. For a show that's supposed to be genre defining, it does very little to prove it. We get characters whose defining personality trait is being a loli with a speaking habit, I suppose. Beatrice and the rest of the loli cast could fuck off, I suppose. But I suppose since half of Re:Zero's main cast is lolis, getting rid of them would leave very little, I suppose. Stereotypical roles don't suddenly become better by simply switching them to another stereotypical role. A visual novel maid character doesn't gain depth by making her “waifu-bait” contestants. And this extends to every other character Suburu comes across on his journey. They're all just there to fill in expected roles, like a bunch of NPCs that are brought to life. There's no sense of culture. No ethos to pull from. Nothing that defines the world that Suburu is tossed into. Just snippets of ideas cobbled together to serve as yet another medieval fantasy world that draws from the same well as any other. Were Re:Zero the only anime to tackle high fantasy, this wouldn't be a problem, but sadly for it, Escaflowne exists. Rage of the Bahamut exists. Berserk(1997) exists. Moribito exists. There's nothing here that defines Re:Zero. Even trainwrecks like Akame Ga Kill had a better-thought-out universe. And for whatever it does try to establish, it's either extremely overbearing or missing things that could be attributed to half-assed resolve. To go into specific cases would require spoiling some events, so join me in the spoiler section to go over them if you've already seen the show. As for everyone else, skip past for final thoughts. **** brief spoilers**** (scroll down to avoid) Naita Aka Oni (The Red Ogre who Cried), is a popular Japanese children tale that teaches kids the cost of assimilation and what it means for loved ones left behind to gain it. This is shown with a red and a blue ogre. Re:Zero attempted to use this story to insinuate the relationship shared between Ram and Rem. But like everything else that the show highlights unnecessarily, this parallel drawn was also made blatantly obvious, with Ram and Rem's hair color being pink and blue, which obviously alluded to the red and blue ogres, respectively. This wouldn't have been a big deal had they kept it at just that, but like I've already stated, the show doesn't trust its audience to pick up on the subtext implied. Instead, we get the arc with the inclusion of both sisters being superimposed with a symmetrical balance of pink and blue at every turn. It beats you over the head with the symbolism it's trying to present. This also included Suburu stating to the sisters that they're “fanatical like demons” with their reactions indicative to their origin as literal demons. It's this kind of obviousness that shows like Erased demonstrate when they highlighted everything in red to insinuate danger. Attempts at cleverness that's just painfully juvenile. And now this same kind of forcefulness is being carried over to Re:Zero. And 17-minutes into episode 11, Suburu states, "You know, Rem, you keep putting Ram on a pedestal and undermining yourself—," while the camera unapologetically focuses on blue and pink flowers, both literally sitting in a vase (pedestal) of equal height. These are the kinds of things that Re:Zero does repeatedly that demonstrate its lack of restraint. Constantly drawing attention to your symbolism only defeats the purpose of it, to begin with. Symbolism and motifs alike are supposed to be discovered, not spoon-fed. And this is the problem with this show: it can't simply let things be without intervening with forceful resolve. And then you have ideas that are used only to add detail to the universe or serve as a new plot reveal to keep the story exciting, but that are never properly thought out. Like the battle against Moby Dick, a beast with the ability to erase the memory of people's existence consumed by its fog. We get an example of this when Rem sacrifices herself to save Suburu and is immediately forgotten by everyone who knows her. But yet, when this incident occurs again during the heat of battle against a battalion in episode 20, the powers don't work the same way. Where in the case of Rem her very presence and existence was erased, in this battle, soldiers only forgot the names of the soldiers lost in the mist but are still aware of the fact that people are missing. So how do people remember a whole platoon going missing during battle when they're consumed when prior cases of the whale's mist made it clear that you wouldn't even be aware of the lack of anything missing? This is just one of many small plotting issues littered across the show, and the only conclusion is that the creator needed another plot twist to hook viewers in, but fell victim to a plot hole later on when it no longer served a purpose. Suburu is said to smell like the witch to a few people, yet, from all accounts, no one has ever encountered the witch face to face, so how do they know this assessment to be accurate? So the statement: "Do I smell like the witch?" is no better than saying: "Do I smell like the thing you've never seen or come in contact with in your life?" The entire show is just built on one unanswered question after another. How did he arrive in this world? How does his respawning ability work like a save point? In episode 24, he was shown to restart after getting past the whale and into the mansion, but then he could conveniently go back to the point where he defeated the whale as a save point after he dies at the village? It's obvious that this was done only to bypass having to reset the progression he made with Rem in episode 18. A moment where the show bends its own rules by going beyond simple retconning, instead, rewriting the very nature in which the resets work. How could he speak their language and be understood but not write their assigned text? It's minor things like this that demonstrated that they wanted to appear insightful, but in actuality had only half-baked ideas… half-baked ideas that gave way to a show riddled with plot inconsistencies. And then there're just scenes that are supposed to be tragic but just come across as ludicrous. Episode 15 contains the biggest culprit that comes to mind. This is where we met joker-inflatable-tube-man, who proceeded to break Rem's neck and limbs, and yet, somehow, she crawls over to Suburu and uses magic to free him… and this is supposed to be tragic? Nothing about this moment makes any sense whatsoever. And to top it off, it also demonstrates a moment where the writers switch Suburu's mental breakdown on and off whenever it suits the story. This isn't some "deep" moment; it's bullshit. Re:Zero doesn't know the difference between mental anguish and parading characters around for personal amusement, nor does it understand that tossing ideas and lifting entire passages from other folktales don't mean it would work as a cohesive piece. There's a reason there's no cohesiveness between arcs; all it does is pattern storylines from works that preceeded it. A fairy tale whose identity can't exist without leaching off of others, and whose attempts at something different result in the aforementioned problems. *******end of spoilers******* When Hayao Miyazaki said that people "don't spend time watching real people" with industry, in-house anime creators being "humans who can't stand looking at other humans,” this is what he's referring to: shows that can't find inspiration outside of their own anime tropes because the people working on them don't see anything beyond anime. Re:Zero is a self-indulging anime with no worldly influence to speak of. Shinichirō Watanabe, Satoshi Kon, Mamoru Oshii, Yoko Kanno. What made these industry giants well-known was their ability to draw inspiration from influences outside of anime. They brought something new to the table, a claim that shows like Re:Zero can't prove. It's a product of its environment. Anime feeding into anime. It's Ouroboros incarnate. Remember that thought I told you to hold on to, as to why I still suggest this show, regardless of how I feel about it? Well, this is the reason why. This is what it all boils down to. Re:Zero is an embarrassingly pompous try-hard that's fun to gawk at. It's a show that has proven to be a source of entertainment for those unconcerned with the finer details and who simply want to be amused for 20-minute intervals, as well as a comical mess for those who do see beyond the smoke and mirrors and enjoy dissecting silly shows for purposes of discussion. It's a show that takes itself dead serious while being oblivious to the fact that it's anything but. It's the Elfen Lied, the Mirai Nikki, the Akame Ga Kill, the [insert your own example here] of 2016. A show that could appeal to everyone, regardless of how they view their entertainment or how much thought they place into the pixelated images flooding their peripheral. It's the "M. Night Shyamalan" of animated works, a name big enough to fill in seats on opening night, but consistently funny enough for critical thinkers to jump in knowing they'll experience something amusing, even if unintentional. Everyone wins. The studio heads make their profit, the majority get to be entertained, and the critics get a new punching bag for their inner circles. The world needs titles like Re:Zero. Titles that everyone will see. Cynical cash grabs will always come and go, but if I'm given a choice in the matter, I at least want my price of admission to be a show that's still entertaining. And with Re:Zero, that's what I got, a good ole dumb time. Re:Zero is a great show if you don't care for subtlety, think 2-D waifus are laifu and are impressed by characters emoting in boisterous ways. But in terms of actual quality, this is an anime that puffs its chest out, holding its breath for as long as it can, with the slightest release exposing it for what it truly is: hot air. I could count on one hand the number of shows I've ever used the forbidden "pretentious" word on without so much as second guessing my stance and I would unequivocally state here and now that Re:Zero became one of them. A show that strong-armed me into using a buzzword that I promised myself I would use only as a final ultimatum. And in a way, I guess that could be seen as an achievement. So congratulations Re:Zero, a show where only the cheapest blow every self-respecting critic dare not to resort to, could be the only appropriate response left available. But in this case, it's worth it. No other shows I've seen in recent years deserve the rare honor more than this. Take the mantle Re:Zero. You’ve officially become the most conceited MMORPG-inspired anime to date. Re:Zero is spray-on tan psychology with peel-off sticker-tattoo themes. It's the kid on internet forums who are constantly saying "90's Baby," with a 1999 birth certificate. Its out-of-touch executives googling anime-related search results in an attempt to assure their product is "totally dope.” It's an anime that's rallied in on a stage sponsored by corporate suits, with "best waifu" pillows and other merchandise already pre-made upon launch date. Re:Zero is shallow, plain and simple. A skim off the surface of whatever topical events stick their noses out far enough to be noticed by those too busy counting the zeros in their bank account to dig any deeper. But you know what? That's fine. I watched it, laughed and had a good time. And if people could cherish the laminated copy with the same vigor that others do the genuine article, who am I to stop them? Shows like Re:Zero will always come and go; you could either fight it or say "fuck it" and simply kick back and enjoy the nonsense on screen.
Reviewer’s Rating: 4
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Aug 1, 2016 Recommended
Hot breath dissipates into the cold night air, with muffled grunts escaping the shape of shadowy figures. Under the moonlit sky, nothing is seen but the stark red glare of a misshapen beast. Nothing is heard but the synchronize march of a predatory unit on the prowl. Nothing is felt but the lifeless icy grip of steel, held firmly by the dispassionate monstrosity as its crimson gaze locks onto its target. And nothing is smelt but the cloud of gunpowder, the pungent sting of sulfur assaulting the tongue, as the mist hovers over dispensed chrome casings smeared in the blood-soaked remnants of The Wolf Brigade's
...
prey.
And as the moon cascades into its slumber and the sun perches itself on the thinly veiled horizon, a new figure emerges. Under the pitch-black headgear and ghoulish red frames, the wolf reverts back to its original form. The predator is gone, leaving a man in its place. This is the tale of Jin-Roh. The tale of a lone wolf. Like an urban mythos being brought to life, Jin-Roh wisps the viewer up and sends them jettisoning into the unknown. A place where alternative Japan find itself in a state of civil unrest. Tension builds, tempers flare and riots break out in the damp decrepit streets. In an endless pursuit of unattainable justice, the people has had enough and violence is the only ultimatum that would voice their grievances. But standing between them, the bureaucrats that dip their probing fingers into their pockets and the satisfaction of unadulterated vengeance, are the Kerberos Panzer Cops: an elite counter-terrorism group tasked with oppressing and carrying out capital punishment against any individual or organized body that threatens the stability of Japan's government. With swift precision and unwavering conviction, they descend upon the detractors. Giving no time for pause and leaving no room for sympathy, once their fangs sink in, there's no letting go. No pleading for mercy. No hints of empathy. Just the transparent hand of the pack delivering the gavel with a devastating blow. But despite the atrocities committed by this unit in the name of justice, when their impenetrable armor is removed, what's shown are people that turn out to be surprisingly human, sober in their awareness of their cutthroat methods and expected duties. And it's this unmasking that introduces us to Kazuki Fuse; a man who isn't completely unified under the pack's objective, and the one we follow after an incident brands him with a hellish memory that he cannot erase — witnessing a girl taking her life by self-detonation right in front of his eyes. He could wash away her blood stains but he can't rinse away the permanent scar left on his psyche. And so the wolf is ousted from the pack, shedding his animalistic tendencies in search for answers far greater than himself and for a truth far crueler than the actions his pack partakes in. More often than not, the best stories of fiction tend to be the ones that tell universal truths. These are the stories embellished with themes and life lessons that beckon back to real world scenarios. They adhere to primal instinct and timeless constants, making them tales with longevity beyond the topical comings and goings of contemporary media. Fairy tales are by far the most elementary example of these kind of stories. Originally starting out as a form of storytelling intended for listeners of all ages (as its original German term of "Märchen" meant "little story"), it's only in recent centuries that they've been narrowed down to being featured primarily in children's literature. And while not very common anymore, we still get rare cases of fairy tales being aimed towards a much older, intellectual crowd. Jin-Roh is one of these rare occurrences. It took the basic structure of the folktale, Little Red Riding Hood, and retrofitted it into a gripping tale of betrayal, yearning desire and fulfilling one's purpose. But the movie is about much more than that. It's about coming to terms with the choices you have to make. Forgiving yourself, even when doing so only serves as self-pity for the defendant. It's a story about humanity's sins and how we go about dealing with it. But perhaps more important, Kazuki Fuse's sins and his willingness to carry that cross, even if it means discarding what little humanity he has left in the process. And in an almost ironic twist of faith, Fuse find himself coming face to face with a woman bearing a striking resemblance to that of the suicide bomber that set him on his journey to begin with. And so begins the warped tale of their uncanny relationship and the dreaded path they're destined to follow. Originally intended to be a live-action film from Mamoru Oshii's Kerberos Saga manga, it was later decided that it would undergo the animation route instead, with Oshii hiring, who was at the time, an up-and-coming key animator and future frequent collaborator, Hiroyuki Okiura, in what would become his directorial debut, to help see Oshii's vision through. This decision to switch from live-action to animation was perhaps the best move that he could have taken for the project, as it allowed the movie to flourish in ways that only the boundless freedom of anime could allow. But since the screenplay was intended for the live-action treatment, we're given techniques and refined storytelling that's often reserved for that medium in particular. Jin-Roh, as a result, was an animated film that took the best of both worlds. This was immediately noticeable with the hyper-realistic anatomical structure of all the characters introduced, the dark hues and lush layered color of the matte paintings that loomed in the background, the meticulous attention to detail to even the most minuscule of objects that found itself littered throughout each scene, and in the movement of the shifting environment that our characters find themselves traversing across. All of these attributes placed Jin-Roh in a realm rarely achieved by other animated features. It's a lived-in universe independent of the viewer's gaze and awareness of it. An almost tangible form that's just out of reach. Scattered with motifs that beckon back to the classical Red Riding Hood folktale and other parables that were gracefully interwoven between these time-stamps of unkempt tranquility, Jin-Roh rides the thin line of heady content, while still being an enthralling thriller planted firmly in the realm of theater. It walks this tightrope effortlessly, stringing us along with it. And with the violins slowly creeping into the mix and the unnerving thump of drums that echoes the heartbeat of the city, the time spent here becomes symbiotic with our living quarters. Immersion that blurs the line of augmented reality and the screen that keeps us staring through the looking glass. But the truly memorable moments blossoms when everything else takes pause, leaving the audiovisual cues and actions on screen to do the legwork. It's the mechanical thud of the Brigades' footsteps ringing out in the distance. The heavy breathing and frantic staggering of the prey, feet sloshing through the echo chamber of the sewage canal. Wind interspersing between follicles of hair, faint glimmer of cold sweat hanging off the chin. Beady eyes jutting frantically at its final glimpses of color, right before the thunderous clap of gunshots ring out, metal slugs tearing into the soft tissue of an unwilling participant. These are the moments that Jin-Roh becomes more than just a movie; it becomes an experience. Moments that keeps us under its spell, only to find ourselves snapping out of it when the credits begin to roll and our reflection enters the frame. In-between all of this, we're given several stories meshing together into one cohesive piece. One of which is a game of cat and mouse carried out by several law-enforcing agencies within the government. Fuse finds himself caught up in the power struggle due to his connection with the Wolf Brigade — a secret subsidiary of the Kerberos Panzer Cops. Each of these agencies partakes in this charade of comradeship with fingers crossed and daggers pointed at each others' backs. But the Public Security division gets more than what they bargained for when their prey bites back. Political subterfuge is met with bloodshed and Fuse find himself at a crossroad that will forever alter his course. A decision rests in his hands. Forbidden love or the special armed garrison that makes up his pack? Would he challenge the narrative, that red thread of ill-fate that binds the wolf and red-hooded woman? Or will he succumb to the natural flow of the world and snuff out the warmth he's found? And here we're forced to stand, in the ironclad boots along with Fuse, as the weight of his decision presses down on his shoulders. Hard-body wrapped around the soft, warm embrace of fragility incarnate. Time is up. An answer must be given. And we're all held hostage to hear the final verdict. Jin-Roh never lets up, it keeps the viewer entrenched in the underpinnings of its universe. No stone is left unturned. No emotion is left unaccountable. It presses forward, taking us down every avenue along the way. By the time we're met with our final destination, every nook and cranny make itself known unto us. The world of Jin-Roh shows its hand without so much as flinching in its decision. We're left mentally exhausted but amply rewarded. And while there's no comfort assured to us at the end of the journey, there's a feeling of finality that gives us a chance to exhale burden-free. But that blessing isn't extended to our man-at-arms. Despite his best efforts, Kazuki Fuse will always be an outcast. He could walk upright, intermingle with the faceless masses, carry on trivial conversation and be just another sheep guided by the invisible hand of bureaucratic meddling. But when all the masquerading is over and the sun retires for the moon's return, Fuse finds himself facing the truth once more. The sheep's clothing is tucked away, blood-lust coats his throat, and his true nature, the wolf, is revealed once more. Jin-Roh stands as one of the most visceral and haunting viewing experiences I've had in all the years I've spent consuming titles in the anime medium. There are moments here that still leave me with goosebumps from just reminiscing about it. Oshii's prowess for strong, uncompromising storytelling and Okiura's dedication to seeing it brought to life, made this a pairing on par with the unified work of other established duos in the medium like Yoko Kanno and Shinichirō Watanabe. It was a cerebral experience that knew when to land the emotional punches and when to rein it back to let the impact settle in. And as far as an anime goes, Jin-Roh's shadow dwarfs the efforts of most animated films I've seen up to this point. There are even moments that I believe outshines Oshii's magnum opus, Ghost in the Shell. It's truly impeccable craftsmanship. A title that won me over with its opening sequence alone. "We are not men disguised as mere dogs. We are wolves disguised as men." Haunting, relentless and often contemplative, Jin-Roh brands its viewers with an unflinching look into the hidden folds of humanity's perpetual sin. It's a powerful romanticizing of a classic tale but done so with a modern twist. With powerful imagery that becomes ingrained into your subconscious, and a potent message that opens up the channels for meaningful discussion, Jin-Roh will go down as an unsung classic that will be appreciated by those fortunate enough to experience what it has to offer.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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