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Texhnolyze español
Esta historia comienza con Ichise. El está metido en el bajo mundo de las peleas callejeras y debido a ciertos problemas se ve absorbido por una ciudad repleta de criminalidad e injusticias, donde hay mafias, organizaciones o sectas.Si uno ve la serie desde el exterior es una historia sencilla y simple de mafias, nada nuevo. Pero aunque sea una premisa sencilla, lo que yo valoro de este anime es su honestidad de principio a fin.
Aquí los personajes funcionan como motor o como transición para la historia porque esta historia es una escalera para ver quién llega más rápido a las puertas del infierno. ... En cierta manera el infierno o la muerte vendrían siendo un lugar muy hermoso y justo para vivir comparado con la ciudad de este anime llamada Lukuss.
Los personajes de esta maravillosa ciudad son de pocos dialogos pero cuando hablan se siente que dicen lo justo y lo necesario hasta cierto punto para no caer en la sobreexposición. Y eso es una virtud más que una falacia, porque muestra los pensamientos de los personajes no con diálogos, sino con decisiones. A su vez, aquí los personajes no crecen o se desarrollan de manera convencional, aquí se revelan con solo existir ya te estás revelando ante una sociedad podrida.

Tomemos a los pilares(personajes) de esta serie , que bajo mi juicio son tres. Estos son la base de la obra:
Ichise, un perro callejero cuyo principal objetivo es sobrevivir. En la primera parte de la serie no habla, pero la serie te muestra su inconformidad, su agotamiento y su agonía con sus propias expresiones faciales, y muestra su voluntad de querer vivir con sus acciones. En la segunda parte dialoga un poco más y se va conociendo mejor su historia.
Onishi es el jefe de la organización más poderosa de la ciudad. Es un personaje honorable y leal a sus principios hasta el final. Tiene piernas robóticas y es quien mantiene la base de toda la serie. Es el mentor de Ichise y quien más desarrollo le da al protagonista, junto con Ran, dándole un objetivo cuando antes no lo tenía.
Yoshi tiene la apariencia de un dueño de tienda vestido como pescador. Es genial no solo por su apariencia tranquila, sino porque también funciona como una crítica a la hipocresía. ¿A qué me refiero con esto? Lukuss está gobernada por organizaciones o sectas que imponen “orden”. Están el Órgano y la Alianza, las más importantes. Yoshi funciona como catalizador del caos o como crítica al falso orden de las organizaciones, creando conflictos entre ellas para que muestren su verdadera máscara y comience una matanza entre todas las organizaciones de la ciudad.
Personalmente tenía miedo de que al tener este personaje como único motor de la serie en su primera parte se perdiera la consistencia pero me equivoqué. Los otros personajes como Ichise, Onishi, los demás integrantes del Órgano o la Alianza hasta cierto punto cargaron con la segunda parte de la serie.


Estos personajes sirven como transición. Estos personajes son las columnas:
La doctora, una científica con fetiches sexuales en verdad me gusta porque es un personaje “vitalista” que cree que la evolución humano-máquina es la salvación de la humanidad, pero esta ciudad la bofetea de una manera tan realista que da hasta miedo. A lo que me refiero es que funciona como una crítica a la evolución biotecnológica.
Hay un personaje que critica esto y es el líder de la Alianza, llamado Genji Kimata, otro culto loco de la ciudad. Él obliga a la mayoría de sus participantes a no colocarse prótesis biológicas y critica la imperfección de la prótesis, algo que personalmente no había visto en ninguna otra serie.
Ran es una niña con el poder de percibir el futuro. Es un personaje que puede parecer contradictorio pero hay que analizarlo con pinzas. Ella parece aceptar su destino o el de la ciudad como lo hace la superficie: no hay manera de cambiarlo, solo aceptarlo. Pero cuando se le da la oportunidad de cambiar algo, posiblemente ella lo hace. Esta tensión entre aceptación y acción la convierte en una figura que no encaja del todo en ninguna postura clara, y precisamente ahí reside su fuerza.

Hasta este punto, la serie podría parecer una obra excelente pero no,uno de mis principales problemas con Texhnolyze es su ritmo. La primera mitad, incluso con Yoshi como fuerza motriz, se siente lenta. La segunda mitad también podría haberse condensado, y toda la serie en su totalidad se podría haber disfrutado sin perder su esencia en aproximadamente doce o quince episodios como máximo.Mi segundo problema es que algunos personajes están desequilibrados. Intentan hacer algo, pero al final no hacen nada. No son ni un techo ni escombros útiles. Entre ellos se incluyen:
La pandilla de jóvenes (llamados los Lacan), que en realidad, si la quitas de la serie, no pesa nada, porque ya con las pandillas principales hay inconformidades y conflictos, como el Órgano y la Alianza.
Kanno es mi principal problema. Alarga la historia y sobreexpone conflictos ya establecidos, mostrando lo que otros personajes ya mostraron:
1) Kanno no representa la desigualdad, porque Lukuss ya lo muestra.
2) Kanno no muestra burocracia o jerarquía, porque con las mafias basta.
3) Kanno no critica la sociedad, porque Yoshi ya lo hace, y tampoco es el detonante del conflicto, porque el lúcido de Yoshi ya lo fue.
4) Kanno tampoco critica el transhumanismo, porque una de las organizaciones ya lo hace; tampoco innova en la evolución, porque la doctora ya lo hace; ni tampoco es racista, porque la superficie(aqui es donde nace un observador como Yoshi) ya lo hace muy bien.

¿Qué función tiene el personaje?
Alargar la historia. Y el problema es que Kanno es el detonante final de la serie. Ya la serie de por sí es lenta, y ahora se vuelve obvia y repetitiva.

Conclusión
Respeto la propuesta, pero la ejecución no está a la altura. Texhnolyze es una serie decente e interesante: si buscas coherencia estructural, falla; pero si buscas honestidad, brilla. No como una luz cómoda o constante, sino como un fuego irregular: a veces ilumina con intensidad, otras veces solo arde, y no siempre sabe cuándo apagarse.


Texhnolyze English
This story begins with Ichise. He is involved in the underworld of street fighting and, due to certain problems, he ends up being absorbed by a city full of criminality and injustices, where there are mafias, organizations, or sects.If one watches the series from the outside, it is a simple and straightforward mafia story, nothing new. But even though it is a simple premise, what I value about this anime is its honesty from beginning to end.
Here, the characters function as an engine or as a transition for the story because this story is a staircase to see who reaches the gates of hell faster. In a certain way, hell or death would be a very beautiful and just place to live compared to the city of this anime called Lukuss.
The characters of this wonderful city have few dialogues, but when they speak, it feels like they say what is fair and necessary up to a certain point so as not to fall into overexposure. And that is a virtue rather than a fallacy, because it shows the characters’ thoughts not through dialogue, but through decisions. At the same time, here the characters do not grow or develop in a conventional way; here they are revealed—by merely existing you are already revealing yourself before a rotten society.

Let us take the pillars (characters) of this series, which in my judgment are three. These are the foundation of the work:
Ichise, a stray dog whose main objective is to survive. In the first part of the series he does not speak, but the series shows his dissatisfaction, his exhaustion, and his agony through his own facial expressions, and it shows his will to live through his actions. In the second part he speaks a little more and his story becomes better known.

Onishi is the leader of the most powerful organization in the city. He is an honorable character and loyal to his principles until the end. He has robotic legs and is the one who maintains the foundation of the entire series. He is Ichise’s mentor and the one who gives the protagonist the most development, along with Ran, giving him a goal when he previously did not have one.

Yoshi has the appearance of a shop owner dressed like a fisherman. He is great not only because of his calm appearance, but because he also functions as a critique of hypocrisy. What do I mean by this? Lukuss is governed by organizations or sects that impose “order.” There are the Organo and the Alliance, the most important ones. Yoshi functions as a catalyst of chaos or as a critique of the false order of the organizations, creating conflicts among them so that they show their true mask and a massacre begins among all the organizations in the city.
Personally, I was afraid that by having this character as the sole engine of the series in its first part, consistency would be lost, but I was wrong. The other characters such as Ichise, Onishi, the other members of the Organo or the Alliance to a certain extent carried the second part of the series.

These characters serve as a transition. These characters are the columns:
The doctor, a scientist with sexual fetishes, I really like because she is a “vitalist” character who believes that the human–machine evolution is the salvation of humanity, but this city slaps her in such a realistic way that it is even frightening. What I mean is that she functions as a critique of biotechnological evolution.
There is a character who criticizes this, and he is the leader of the Alliance, called Genji Kimata, another crazy cult of the city. He forces most of his participants not to place biological prostheses and criticizes the imperfection of the prosthesis, something that personally I had not seen in any other series.
Ran is a girl with the power to perceive the future. She is a character who may seem contradictory, but one has to analyze her carefully. She seems to accept her destiny or that of the city as the surface does: there is no way to change it, only to accept it. But when she is given the opportunity to change something, possibly she does. This tension between acceptance and action turns her into a figure that does not fully fit into any clear stance, and precisely there lies her strength.

Up to this point, the series might seem like an excellent work, but no, one of my main problems with Texhnolyze is its pace. The first half, even with Yoshi as the driving force, feels slow. The second half could also have been condensed, and the entire series as a whole could have been enjoyed without losing its essence in approximately twelve to fifteen episodes at most. My second problem is that some characters are unbalanced. They try to do something, but in the end they do nothing. They are neither a ceiling nor useful debris. Among them are:

The gang of youths (called the Lacan), which in reality, if you remove it from the series, weighs nothing, because with the main gangs there are already disagreements and conflicts, such as the Organo and the Alliance.
Kanno is my main problem. He stretches the story and overexposes already established conflicts, showing what other characters already showed:
1) Kanno does not represent inequality, because Lukuss already shows it.
2) Kanno does not show bureaucracy or hierarchy, because the mafias are enough.
3) Kanno does not criticize society, because Yoshi already does, and he is also not the trigger of the conflict, because Yoshi’s lucidity already was.
4) Kanno does not criticize transhumanism either, because one of the organizations already does so; nor does he innovate in the field of evolution, because the doctor already does so; nor is he racist, because the surface (this is where an observer like Yoshi comes into play) already does so very well.

What function does the character have?
To stretch the story. And the problem is that Kanno is the final trigger of the series. The series by itself is already slow, and now it becomes obvious and repetitive.

Conclusion
I respect the proposal, but the execution is not up to the task. Texhnolyze is a decent and interesting series: if you are looking for structural coherence, it fails; but if you are looking for honesty, it shines. Not like a comfortable or constant light, but like an irregular fire: sometimes it illuminates with intensity, other times it only burns, and it does not always know when to go out.

So, Biomega starts off pretty strong. You’ve got Zoichi, a synthetic human, and his partner Fuyu, going around rescuing people who are compatible with a mysterious virus. These people are super valuable, so of course, a bunch of shady corporations want to use them for their own goals.

The question here is very simple:
How far can humans go to fulfill a simple desire?

In this case, that desire is love —wanting to be immortal just to love someone forever. It’s a great idea, very human, very tragic.
But then... Nihei decides to change things up. Instead of his usual cryptic, wordless storytelling, he goes for a more “normal” approach ... —lots of dialogue, lots of exposition. From there, Biomega turns into a corporate war: some want world domination, others immortality, and some just want to protect the “virus-adapted.” It actually reminded me of the COVID era, when big pharma was racing to control the vaccines. If Biomega had stuck with that theme, it could’ve been amazing.

Like most Nihei works, the plot is linear —characters move from point A to point B with barely any development. It’s fine at first, up until around chapter 25. Then everything collapses. The pacing goes wild, the story jumps from Earth to space (right when things were interesting on Earth), and characters start appearing and disappearing like they forgot their lines.

The villain? Great motivation. But the way she’s defeated? Total nonsense. The heroes suddenly get some kind of magic lamp, wish for a happy ending, and boom —problem solved. What even was that?

I love strange and experimental stories, but Biomega is neither strange nor coherent, just confusing. It feels like Nihei threw all the coherence of the story into a blender along with five different genres, didn't bother to taste the result, recommends his readers try it anyway, and cheekily asks, “How does it taste?”

Dorohedoro is a peculiar manga, with characters that are not only strange in their design but also in their behavior, with an unusual realism. In this story, there are no true heroes or villains: everyone is morally ambiguous and acts in their own best interest. Dorohedoro begins with a fairly decent world-building in its early chapters, backed by great art and a terrifying atmosphere.
The introduction to the world of Dorohedoro is decent because everything has a purpose; nothing seems completely random. The story is told in a linear fashion, although it seems fragmented due to the protagonist's mental disability: his amnesia. Racial conflict is well ... explored, which makes you wonder: why is there so much hatred between humans and sorcerers?

The social criticism in Dorohedoro is brilliant because of its direct connection to the characters' magical powers. The more absurd the magical ability, the more wealth and privilege the sorcerer obtains. The world is described as inhospitable and deeply hierarchical. There is even a specific group called the Crossed Eyes, representing a “near-poor middle class”: humans with little magic, led by an anarchist and opposition ideal that fights against inequality. Meanwhile, humans without magic make up the poorest class, living with scarce resources, while demons are practically established as gods. Neither humans nor sorcerers are truly good or evil; they are equally cruel, trapped in an endless cycle of hatred and karma. That karma is embodied in the villain, who represents the cruelty, chaos, and inequality of both worlds. And, like a natural disaster or a bomb, all it takes is a trigger: the protagonist.

The supporting characters are entertaining in the first 60 chapters: funny, eccentric, and with personal reasons for acting violently in such a chaotic world. But my biggest complaint lies with their powers. While some powers serve as metaphors for internal conflicts (trauma, past, identity), many others do not. Instead, several characters act like "walking Doraemons," conjuring solutions out of nowhere. This obscures the perception of real danger, as another character always appears with the power to fix everything. This leads to repetition, convenient resolutions, and diminishes the weight of the world-building. In my opinion, the author shouldn't have created such powerful characters, or at least should have limited their magic to make the danger seem real, especially since the world is supposed to be dangerous and deadly.

The mystery surrounding the protagonist is initially captivating and is gradually revealed. However, the main problem is that it gets lost in the frenetic pace of the manga, which makes the events confusing and aimless. If we analyze the series, the first 60 chapters are solid: a mystery that is slowly revealed, clear objectives, and a steady pace. But as the story progresses, the pace slows down, leading to a terrible ending. Personally, I find the ending terrible: everything is resolved with the “power of friendship,” and the protagonist displays an ability that protects him from the plot to defeat the villain. The climax is anticlimactic and leaves important elements unresolved; for example, the protagonist's face remains the same as at the beginning.

The art, on the other hand, is stunning. The character design is innovative, and one of the author's greatest strengths is how each page draws you into a story full of terror and mystery.

In conclusion, Dorohedoro is a manga with a brilliant world and aesthetic, but with a flawed narrative that ruins the whole.

Possibly one of Miyazaki's best stories, although I personally consider it the best. It is a film that shows through action that no side is completely good or completely evil. This film is on par with Disney productions, which were at their peak at the time and mostly offered happy and unrealistic endings. On the contrary, Princess Mononoke conveys an honest message based on reality.


I like how nature is represented in this case, which can be interpreted as a “divine” role. For example, the deer is a being without emotions, will or human consciousness. It represents neutrality and is only governed by the laws ... (natural cycle of life and death or destiny) created by it. That rule is general for all living beings, whether they are animals, humans or plants. There is a message that Miyazaki emphasizes throughout the work, “If we were to violate the sanctity of nature knowing that we are only a small extension of it, we would be destroying ourselves.” To cite just a few examples, the destruction of the forests that provide us with oxygen, or the pollution of the seas and rivers that provide us with food and drinking water, something that helps us survive from day to day, etc.



Let’s talk about the characters. Ashitaka is the main character. While the film may seem to frame him as a savior, he really isn’t. He’s not afraid to kill to protect his ideals and his people — a trait shared across the cast. San, the co-protagonist, is an orphan raised by nature and abandoned by humanity. Although her hatred toward humans remains until the end — which is a very realistic detail — both she and Ashitaka serve as a bridge between the two worlds, attempting to make coexistence possible.

The human world, as always, is plagued by territorial wars, fueled by power struggles and gender inequality. Japan is known for its historically patriarchal society, yet Miyazaki presents both genders as equals here. Intelligence, manipulation, and strength are shown on both sides — male and female — proving that both are necessary: men to fight, women to create weapons and sustain communities. Though opposite, both genders complement one another.

The animal world, for its part, sends a clear message: don't fall into extremes, in this case, hatred. Hatred does not build, it only destroys. Animals, tired of being hunted, are consumed by rage. It's not so different from the human world: both are imperfect.

My only complaint is about the ending. Miyazaki often struggles to conclude his most profound and ambitious stories (Nausicaä and Princess Mononoke) with unsatisfactory endings. Although he says he prefers honest endings to happy ones, this one in particular feels somewhat incomplete. For example, it would have been great to see how the emperor's plot unfolded, what happened to the other nation that wanted to seize Lady Eboshi's resources, or what the future holds for Ashitaka and San. What became of Ashitaka's village? These are small but significant ambiguities that detract from the film and could have further enriched the story.

In terms of art and direction, Studio Ghibli was on the verge of bankruptcy due to Miyazaki's crazy and obsessive perfectionism, but the result was one of the best animated films in the history of anime. Visually, it is stunning. The direction is beautiful and the soundtrack is immersive, plunging the viewer into sadness and hope, and leaving us wondering whether real peace is possible or not.

Perfect Blue .

In the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s, anime began to change radically. Mass media gained influence, and Japanese studios started creating more daring stories with mature themes, moving away from the Western idea that anime was just “cartoons for kids.” Works like Perfect Blue, directed by Satoshi Kon, deeply impacted many Western audiences who were used to auteur cinema from figures like Stanley Kubrick or Alfred Hitchcock. While Kon is clearly influenced by these directors, he manages to leave his own unique mark, innovating within the psychological thriller genre with a bold and disturbing narrative.

The story centers on Mima Kirigoe, a 21-year-old ... idol who decides to leave the music world to start an acting career. This seemingly simple decision becomes the turning point in her mental stability. As the story progresses, Mima begins to experience symptoms of anxiety, depression, hallucinations, and a growing disconnection from reality. Satoshi Kon builds the entire structure of the film around Mima’s psychological breakdown, leading the viewer to constantly question what is real and what is imaginary, creating an immersive experience of confusion and paranoia.
The supporting characters —such as her managers, producers, and an obsessive fan— lack deep individual development, but they function as symbols of the entertainment industry: a machine that exploits its artists and distorts their identities. Within this environment, Rumi, a former idol and now Mima’s manager, stands out as a key player in the protagonist’s internal conflict.

“Double Bind” is a series in which Mima plays Yukiko, a young woman with dissociative identity disorder caused by childhood trauma. This subplot not only reflects Mima's internal struggle, but also serves as a narrative mirror: the line between performance and reality is blurred to the point that neither Mima nor the viewer can tell what is really happening. Kon uses false cues, time jumps and repetitions to intensify the sense of instability.


Conclusion :

In the following I will only give my interpretation of the ending where it is only one false of the many interpretations of reality where the real is only in the deepest ,disturbed (distorted or manipulated ) of the protagonist's mind because remember Identity is not fixed, and truth depends on the angle from which you look at it.





My interpretation and warning SPOILEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERS.





In Perfect Blue, Mima Kirigoe decides to leave her life as a pop idol to become an actress. While this change may seem like a natural career move, it actually stems from a deep desire to break free from exploitation, reclaim her identity, and grow as a person. However, this transition puts her under immense psychological pressure, leading to a severe mental breakdown.

Mima does not suffer from dissociative identity disorder (DID), as she never completely adopts another identity. Her condition is more akin to dissociation, post-traumatic stress, and psychotic symptoms such as hallucinations, trances, and confusion between reality and fiction. The figure of “Idol Mima” is a manifestation of her idealized past, which refuses to disappear, while her real self struggles to move forward. This internal conflict creates chaos, fear, and mental fragmentation.
Rumi, Mima's manager, ends up taking on the role of the idol and committing the murders. But there is another way of looking at it. When I watched it a second time, I came to this conclusion: perhaps Mima, consciously or unconsciously, projected her desire to erase her past self onto Rumi, turning her into a scapegoat. After each death, Mima seems to “wake up” in her bedroom, which acts as a mental safe zone, as if nothing had happened, suggesting that her mind is protecting her from guilt.

In the final scene, after Rumi is institutionalized, Mima looks at herself in the mirror, smiles, and says, "I am the real me." It’s a line that can be seen as empowering—or as a chilling confirmation that she’s buried all guilt in order to finally move on.