I had a long conversation with a friend over Discord voicechat two days ago, and I said something during the course of it that seemed to catch him off-guard. When we were talking about our favorite anime of the year up to this point, I made the point of mentioning *CITY THE ANIMATION* and, more specifically, that while it didn’t always make me laugh, I’d readily call it one of the best things that had been released in 2025 thus far. My friend took issue with this stance, saying that it was ridiculous to say that since, for all its aesthetic prowess—and even he admitted
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that there was plenty to be had—a comedy’s first and foremost job is to make us laugh. If it doesn’t do that, a comedy isn’t doing its job properly. He didn’t find its humor funny, such to the point that whatever other potential gifts that lay within just weren’t worth calling it a show worth watching. I understand why this mode of thinking exists. The word “comedy” is supposed to carry with it the inherent implication that it should make us laugh, and if it doesn’t, we more-readily say that it’s a bad comedy.
But over the years since I started watching anime regularly, I feel as though I’ve undergone a personal reshuffling on two fronts that are relevant for talking about *CITY THE ANIMATION*: one, that my sense of comedy is less about making me laugh and more about having fun overall, however if manifests. And two, that the anime is, like lots of Kyoto Animation work, part of a larger pattern that I’ve become more aware of both by watching and learning more about anime and anime production specifically.
I’ll talk about the latter later, but let’s start with the former and a simple question: did *CITY THE ANIMATION* make me laugh? Yes, and no. In its crazy, noisy, bizarre town, there’s no telling what kind of crazy, noisy, bizarre oddity will arise from somewhere within it, making its residents have to deal with that something. And in a place with so many people from so many walks of life, who’s to say what will cause what to transpire? Whether it might involve Naguno being recruited to run like an absolute madwoman and make a soba delivery and chase down a thieving cat, Captain Obina having the football team standing at attention like in the army while remarking that they’re borderline useless without their star player, or Makabe and Ecchan having a conversation about eternally transforming money into counterfeit and then traveling home in-montage while avoiding a giant bear as part of the journey, the underlying philosophy is always the same. Do what you can to be wacky, and if in the process you make someone laugh, then that’s a happy consequence! There is no “plot” in the more all-encompassing sense because the overall sense of mood is the plot and the point.
The mood can be glanced by just casually glancing at what’s going on. Essentially any episode at any timestamp will give the impression of a manic energy suffused running throughout the anime. Because each vignette generally speaking is anywhere from about 8-10 total minutes, every small story within the superstructure requires a flow of motion. That doesn’t mean that it’s always screaming itself red or having a magical explosion of animation at every given time (that would be closer to something like *Dead Leaves* or similar), because there are indeed many times where it calmly lets the mood set before flipping the table and letting all hell wonderfully break loose. Everything was so tightly composed that laughing as a reaction to a thing that was happening somehow felt irrelevant. It was always offering something brimming with confidence and abandon that I couldn’t help but love. It’s a circumstance where, both on the technical front and the comedic front, the fuse is always waiting to go off, and when it does, it never feels out of left field even as it pulls a gag or a non-gag moment that could be taken as out of left field.
But what is definitely of left field is just what exactly went into this from the production front. According to an interview with Ishidate (special thanks to kViN for providing some details on the matter), he had hoped for an adaptation of *CITY THE ANIMATION* back in the summer of 2022, and was surprised at the near-immediate approval of the work. Kyoto Animation already had experience with Arawi through adapting *Nichijou*, and likewise, Arawi couldn’t contain his own excitement as he eagerly jumped at his editor’s suggestion to adapt *CITY* into Kyoto Animation’s hands. Ishidate and Arawi apparently laughed like idiots at a writing camp as they shared ideas about how to make the anime realized on the small screen, and Arawi directly worked at the studio rather than speak through an editor or proxy. The process was so infused with vitality that showed a kind of communion between creator, creative staff, and creative product. It’s why talented people like Ishidate can direct something like *CITY THE ANIMATION* after having worked previously as director on *Violet Evergarden*, a series on the clear opposite side of the spectrum to *CITY THE ANIMATION*, and why the studio’s staff handle both types of aesthetics and moods. Ideas, and the people who make them come to life, thrive in an environment that can actually accommodate them.
And the anime industry needs more stuff like this happening.
This may be a bit of a revelation or shock to any relative newcomer to, or more-casual fan of, the medium reading this (hello there! Tell me what you like!), but if I may take a quick second to be rather uncouth, the anime industry is a fucking terrible place. As animators and studios find themselves descending into ever-thicker and more unpleasant webs of production issues, tight deadlines, and now the encroaching reality of AI and how it risks putting out of work all those people in the ED credits who do thankless / seemingly-invisible work that we don’t learn the names of (assuming they get credited at all, which is another problem altogether), anime is a business enterprise concerned about getting content out the door moreso than making any artistic statements. Especially in the current climate of the Reiwa era, seasonal listings are flooded with shows we won’t remember within a couple of months, or shows where the titles are more than enough to make someone think twice about tuning in to the first episode.
*CITY THE ANIMATION* may not be the funniest thing under the sun, but its existence is a symbol that sometimes, there are more-significant macro-level concerns and understandings of how an artpiece orients itself into a grander design than whether a bit involving takoyaki in episode three had me laughing my head off (it did, for the record). But isn’t that a navel-gazing philosophy? I don’t think it is. Kyoto Animation is one of the last bastions of giving its ideas the chance to not only develop gradually, but also see their realization while actively trying new boundary-pushing and active training, as has been their longstanding tradition. They, and *CITY THE ANIMATION*, are an odd duck of the best variety, one which helped the studio codify their moe aesthetic through the 2000s, wildly influenced the moe aesthetic of the early 2010s, etc. And here in 2025, they haven’t come close to exhausting their creative juices yet. They didn’t need to make a physical diorama for episode five and have these practical non-animated moments, but they did it anyway – the idea of “Let’s try it just because we can, and let’s see if it works” is beautiful as a thing in and of itself that I can’t help but be thankful that it exists, even if I found it an unfunny husk begging for death (it wasn’t, for the record). When a piece of media vibrates at just the right frequency, it radiates warmth even in its moments that affectively “don’t work.”
Why does this matter? One of my university students asked me at the end of an academic year what’s the point of praising something, however “new” or “interesting” or “ingenious / ingenuous” it might be, if it doesn’t move us personally? Why praise that which doesn’t reach all the way? I couldn’t help but remember this in light of the conversation with my friend from a couple of days ago. Years later, and with a lot more media consumption and instruction under my belt, I have a better answer (I hope). To that, I say that it is important to recognize that there are, at times, greater perspectives to consider than one’s own ego for whether “thing funny” or “thing not funny.” It is more about one’s own ability to understand that a different mode of thinking is sometimes required for watching something you realize on some level is truly special, even if it doesn’t completely coincide with what you want or like. It is about making YOUR effort to reach the creative energy on its own terms rather than waiting for it to “reach you.” It is actively broadening your own horizons into territories you didn’t dream of or didn’t think you’d ever chart or learn, and how through that, you will be remade into something newer and more beautiful, even if you still come out the other side not actually liking the thing in question.
Is that not worth celebrating?
But let’s also not overstate the case – this anime will be, as it is in the here-and-now, endlessly compared to its earlier progeny, *Nichijou*, both stylistically and structurally, and elsewhere with other comedies of similar swagger (and arguably even *Lucky Star* in the Kyoto Animation canon). It also is likely not going to rewrite any book anytime soon, both in terms of how to create comedy-centric anime or industry practice. The anime industry will be as problem-laden as it was before this anime existed, if not moreso as it lumbers into its (un?)certain future as Kadokawa prepares to adapt whatever is going to be its next *Long Light Novel Title with a Highly-Specific Gimmick That Might Involve Reincarnation in Another World While Maxing Out My Vigor Stat*.
But for thirteen Sundays over the summer and into the beginning of autumn, a kind of unrestrained vibrancy, happiness, and joviality shined. And it was called *CITY THE ANIMATION*.
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Sep 28, 2025
City The Animation
(Anime)
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I had a long conversation with a friend over Discord voicechat two days ago, and I said something during the course of it that seemed to catch him off-guard. When we were talking about our favorite anime of the year up to this point, I made the point of mentioning *CITY THE ANIMATION* and, more specifically, that while it didn’t always make me laugh, I’d readily call it one of the best things that had been released in 2025 thus far. My friend took issue with this stance, saying that it was ridiculous to say that since, for all its aesthetic prowess—and even he admitted
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Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Aug 1, 2025
Takopii no Genzai
(Anime)
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In 2012, director Joshua Oppenheimer directed a film called *The Act of Killing.* In the course of the documentary, Oppenheimer interviews perpetrators of the 1960s mass killings of alleged communists and those who opposed the New Order regime in Indonesia. There’s a paralyzing, depressing candidness with which the killers (many of whom at the time still retained power of some sort decades later) describe the killings they committed, sometimes citing violent movies as inspiration, and in how they go about casting people to re-enact the murders. It’s as though they’re trying to evoke memories of a better time through recollection and fondness defined by bloodshed
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and spiritually recreating it. In juxtaposing this candidness with both reality and surreality, the film makes the case that the people who carry out such horrified actions are not monsters in the abstract, but human beings. Given the right circumstances (such as backing by Western governments), they will manifest, flourish, and linger. We cannot say “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” when they most certainly know what they did, and seem to celebrate it.
But therein lies an important distinction – staring in the face of evil is not the same as condoning evil. It’s the kind of space that allows media to depict truly unpleasant subjects in ways that, at least hopefully, demonstrate a clear difference between what occurs in the text versus the intent behind the action. *Takopii’s Original Sin*, as directed by Iino Shinya relies on its audience understanding this distinction and navigating through the gross inhumanity of everything inflicted by responding with revulsion. When Marina laughs at Shizuka’s expense, or Azuma’s mother spews such disparaging words of unacceptance, or Shizuka’s lips finally curl into a sincere smile as something horrifying transpires, the show does not argue that these are good things. If it truly wanted to advocate that violence was the ultimate solution to the characters’ problems, it wouldn’t spend so much of its time having those same characters disgustingly and grotesquely falling further and further into their own deep, dark whirlpools. For the viewer, it’s violence absent catharsis. Every punch, slash, self-affliction, and emotional manipulation makes the characters wholly commit to their own atrocities, all while making them mistakenly think that salvation lies at the other end of the tunnel vision. It’s not difficult to understand why these children would internalize to such an extent that this is the case, as such an ideology is not born from nowhere. With the overwhelming presence of violence in the children’s everyday lives from those who are supposed to take care of them, a seemingly immutable truth is conveyed: violence is the response to circumstances beyond a character’s control, a survival strategy born from malice and for the purposes of self-preservation. It is witnessed through the parents seeing the world they want to have crash all around them and not knowing any healthier ways to channel that frustration beyond the end of their sociologically stunted fist or broken glass bottle. Violence, however revolting, allows them to have a degree of control over something markedly more helpless. It is not that the children are the actual cause of the adults’ problems (or in the context of Marina, Shizuka as the cause), but it’s that they’re within the closest proximity. It’s mapping a despairingly simple solution onto a complex problem, and that by doing so, things supposedly don’t have to be so bad. Inflict violence on another person who is reasonably within your reach, and it makes you, your convictions, and your life better. Takopii, the adorable little pink octopus alien, bears witness to this deliberately misapplied, abjectly horrific simplicity. Themselves a simple creature with a mystifying sense of misunderstanding human concepts or morality, their initial mission to help Shizuka smile (unable to because of the victimization by Marina) primes the audience for their subsequent bludgeoning. The disquietingly naïve outlook Takopii has deliberately contrasts with the cold reality that Shizuka lives in every day, situating the story tonally in a continuous suspense. Laughter that the show produces tends to be more from discomfort and foreboding than finding something genuinely funny, admittedly a small levity. Takopii’s involvement is the ultimate glue that keeps the story’s cohesion. As Takopii violates their own cultural taboos to help Shizuka survive, they themselves embody the perspective of the outsider, taking it upon themselves to makes sense of the seeming senselessness of it all, like a news anchor inevitably asking the same old question about the newest American school shooting. They react with panic and horror, experiencing for themselves how far gone some of these characters are in their violence-inducing worldview. Without such responses, it would be easy for the series to fall into its abyss and never recover. In part because the show on the whole is animated so vividly, even in moments where something is implied off-screen, *Takopii’s Original Sin* comes dangerously close to poor taste, excessive purely for the sake of shock. The bluntness of each blow (and the affect on the dramaturgy) is held back from truly unobstructed impact by Takopii’s own sense of the conflicts. Almost Brechtian in how it forces the audience to see this particular world as it is, it makes the case that each child and Takopii is a multifaceted creation of their environment, taking on new “roles” in the story as time is reset or as Takopii’s understanding grows ever thornier. Even down to its seemingly magical resolution, the final intent is not about fostering hopelessness, but demonstrating that it is precisely through moving through alienating action as witnesses that empathic connection is even possible. In that spirit of empathic connection, *Takopii’s Original Sin* is not a contest of “who suffered more / who should I feel more sorry for” or whose punishment is “deserved / undeserved.” The questions may have a way of unintentionally sneaking up because of the show’s overall structure. The anime’s (and the original manga’s) short length simultaneously lets the story maintain its tight focus on a select few people to highlight its destructive path, as well as minimize the chance of overusing its own contrasts. The consequence of this though disproportionately highlights the actions of certain characters more than others, giving the appearance of certain children embodying the classic image of The Antagonist™ more than others. The story wants to show Shizuka, Azuma, and Marina as victims of the same generalized imposition, and it does, though some of the narratives later attempts to do this pass as rapid overcorrections moreso than intended. *Takopii’s Original Sin* never could have fully broached the broad subject of violence in only six episodes. There’s perhaps even something to be said for the fact that it didn’t necessarily delve far enough into the particulars of the how or when the parents and children concluded that they should be violent themselves. Less physically gruesome viscera, more mentally gruesome viscera. Would the story be stronger if it had done so? That possibility exists, at least in the abstract. But when you cannot settle for addressing the whole of an issue, sometimes the best approach is to hyperfocus on one element in particular, and as the old saying goes, actions speak louder than words. The irony is that the story, in a sense, wounded itself so that it could give the subject the justice that it deserved. Considering the story’s ending, there’s a bizarre poeticism to that. The series made its choice – children as abuse victims processing that abuse through inflicting abuse, on each other and themselves alike, as coping mechanism. *The Act of Killing* made the point of saying that if real people could slaughter hundreds of thousands simply for being suspected communists or sympathizers, and that the violence they committed could be rationalized as acceptable, then there might be no depths to which people will not sink. Yet even in the midst of its examination of “humanity rejection,” it also made the case through one of its participants, Anwar Congo, that not only is an end to the personal glorification of violence possible, but that it can seem like magic unto itself. That, itself, is also human. *Takopii’s Original Sin* shows bluntly how despairingly grotesque violence is inflicted, internalized, and inflicted again, a cycle that can only break through understanding and a seeming miracle taking place, however it manifests. If a naïve pink octopus alien can understand that everyone loses in violence like this, especially children, then maybe things don’t have to be so bleak after all. *CLICK!*
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Jun 24, 2025
Apocalypse Hotel
(Anime)
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Before I review this, let me put on my shower cap!
In a world destroyed and depopulated, there would be but a few actually meaningful pillars left standing that somehow provide evidence that it was once teeming with life. In a series that wanted to treat such an apocalyptic scenario with the stone-cold seriousness of what such a situation would demand, it might opt for a museum or library, places designed to preserve and protect the records of humankind. And perhaps then it could provide some kind of grand introspection about how the true meaning of such records was that, though humanity or the planet has ... entered its twilight, they were here at one point. It's rather telling therefore that two such “after the end” otaku properties primarily involve robots and places that don’t involve any of that. When Ashinano Hitoshi wrote *Yokohama Shopping Log* back in 1994, he imagined a world that was dying, but it was one I would gladly live in. The people (and Alpha, the café-running robot) have accepted the end and choose to spend the remainder of their time enjoying the peace and tranquility. The sea rises, Misago spends time with the children, and Alpha wonders if her master will return. But until such time, she’ll pour a cup of coffee with a smile on her face, gazing at the sun, and take photographs of a moment in time. And I can think of no higher compliment that I could give *Apocalypse Hotel* than I would give anything to check in to a room there for a time, or perhaps even work there as an employee. To be clear, this anime is not directly a successor to *Yokohama Shopping Log*, but it likewise is informed by its influence even in the midst of all its differences. Standing eternal watch over its microscopic corner of the planet, the Acting Acting Manager robot Yachiyo spends every day at the check-in desk of Gingarou Hotel, waiting for the moment that humanity will return through the doors generously opened by the Doorman Robot (assuming he doesn’t need water splashed on him again). Everything until then will be meticulously maintained, and even as the number of robots on “indefinite leave” increases over time, Yachiyo always stays steady…or seems to, anyway. That kind of steadiness spreads itself into the setting: in a 24 June 2025 interview which involved series writer Murakoshi Shigeru, he mentions the deliberate attempt to make Ginza the location for the series. According to him, Ginza as a real-world setting walks the line between the past and the future, with Edo-period traditions intermixing with Western culture and influence. Fashioning a futuristic fictitious hotel out of a real department store, all while occupying the same general space as an old kabuki theater or small shrine in-universe, certainly seems like the way to do so. With such a backdrop, one might think that a *NieR: Automata* approach of exploring each landscape or location and feeling the ephemerality through the wind and quiet expanses would make the loneliness of Yachiyo, her workers, and the still-shining Gingarou Hotel even more poignant. The series generally chooses not to do so, and there’s something so dismaying and delightful about such a framing. Despite all the literal decay of the surrounding buildings and the “decay” of the overgrow consuming the rubble, *Apocalypse Hotel* hypercondenses the “life of Ginza” into this one single location, an inherent juxtaposition between the traditional manner of Japanese hospitality and caring for guests against a bunch of robots that follow their orders to a silly degree. Like true robots, their rigidity is nigh-absolute. So, imagine the likewise-absolute worry that ensues when a shower cap goes missing, or Doorman Robot cannot fulfill his singular duty of opening a door. Life at Gingarou therefore happens in bursts of things that could be rectified rather simply, but MUST occur with over-the-top abandon because “that is how it is supposed to be.” Similarly, it is because Gingarou is the last vestige of meaningful activity on the planet that its guardians must honor and protect it – under the circumstances, there is no greater dynamic than polishing that floor or taking care of that central tank. Perhaps it is the fate of robocentric fiction that such things cannot remain that way forever. Sometimes by deception and other times by sheer happenstance, guests arrive and Gingarou begins to become a more colorful place, and as such, the comedy itself takes on increasingly colorful dimensions. As fun as the robots are in their eternal quest for perfect maintenance or aggressively checking the environment can be, they discover rather quickly that serving or “living” with others (especially those who are decidedly not humans) is not something that can be so easily written into a rulebook or programming. Their lives get harder, no doubt. But on the sweeter upside, their lives get more enriching as a result…or at least, as far as enriching can be felt by an unfeeling(?) robot. With such a lack of interaction from non-robots for so long, is it any wonder that Yachiyo would temporarily forget herself and just act like a giddy child when it seems like all that waiting will at last pay off? But a melancholic overhang still exists, no matter how funny the show may be at any given moment. Any apocalyptic story, even one as warmly conceived and realized as *Apocalypse Hotel* or *Yokohama Shopping Log*, carries with it the knowledge that “the time before the point of no return” in-universe will not return. The show doesn’t run away from this; the earliest minutes tease the idea of what if indeed nothing happens and Yachiyo and company are trapped within real-life purgatory, perhaps themselves damned to be on “indefinite leave” like all those that came before them. Even as the show progresses and Gingarou becomes more bustling both guest and employee-wise, there’s no complete escape from that question. Acknowledging the overhang however is part of the appeal. It’s precisely because the mortality and “mortality” of the Gingarou employees, their waiting, and its hotel exist that the comedy can itself crackle. There’s an old saying that it’s only when it’s darkest that you can see the light, but that doesn’t mean much unless you look beyond the light and see why it’s even shining in the first place. *Apocalypse Hotel*, in a way similar-but-not-too-similar to *Girls’ Last Tour*, argues with a smile that the darkness itself is the source of that light. As such, the most crazed and bewildering ceremony atop the hotel can take place and not only have it feel completely at-home within the show’s context, but also walk the line and evoke the kind of laughter that only stuff that goes just a bit too far in its oddness or perverse sense of humor can manage to do. In that same interview with Murakoshi, series director Shundou Kana remarked on the difficulty of his first true directorial debut, saying that he caused problems due to his own lack of experience. Perhaps his own work as assistant director for *League of Nations Air Force Aviation Magic Band Luminous Witches* and its production problems lingered in his mind as a potential sign of his own inability. It hardly shows. With great control over everything in sight, every episode works wonderfully in throwing a new obstacle at its cast and its setting, sometimes challenges of their own making or things or from an outside influence. It treats itself seriously enough to give room to breathe and dwell on the inherent ridiculousness of a moment, then doesn’t break any sweat—not that robots can sweat, anyway—as it gives Ponko and Yachiyo a moment to themselves later. With *Apocalypse Hotel’s* completion, CygamesPictures has now made two robot-centric original IPs in the past two years, the first being the wildly bizarre and awesome *Brave Bang Bravern*. If there’s anything to glean from these efforts, it’s that they have an intuitive sense of what it is about robots that people love, find endearing, and cannot help but laugh at. Like Mizushima Tsutomu and most of his output that involves derangedly playing with his toys, whoever is in charge of story development and scouting at CygamesPictures has a keen understanding of trope and convention, seamlessly intermixing it with setting, tone, character, and larger paratextual ambiance. Stories like *Apocalypse Hotel* make anime a better place not necessarily because they “say something” about who we are as people or grappling with larger themes inherent to life. Rather, they recognize the inherent fun to be found in taking an idea and following it to the end of the rainbow. Gingarou happened to be where the rainbow led. Who knows where it’ll lead next?
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jun 24, 2025
Kidou Senshi Gundam: GQuuuuuuX
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“Gundam is a series that has a long history. I watched it as a child, and it has continued on. It’s been around a long time. However, the generation of fans has really been extended. We now have many young generations who have never even watched the first Gundam. I think the first Gundam is extremely interesting, so I really want the young people to watch it because I know they will find it interesting as well. Thankfully, we have subscriptions where you can watch it anywhere, anytime. In the past, if a show was no longer on television, you could no longer watch it.
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I hope that the new generation could also watch the old Gundam as well. If that is materialized, I would be really happy.”
~Tsurumaki Kazuya, asked about what he hopes *Mobile Suit Gundam: GQuuuuuuX’s* legacy would be within the franchise, excerpted from a Gizmodo interview with Isaiah Colbert, 29 April 2025. Tsurumaki’s remark is as insightful as it is low-key hilarious. If we imagine *GQuuuuuuX* as a kind of giant trolling to get people to watch the original *Mobile Suit Gundam* (either in its original TV format or the truncated trilogy films that arguably saved the franchise), then calling this a failure is a lot harder to sell. I cannot speak on behalf of everyone, but I did happen to notice an uptick in the number of times someone catalogued the original series in some form or another. I found myself talking about lore or characters in this franchise with people who had never expressed an interest in it beforehand, and found my own intrigue in it delightfully rekindled. To possibly an even greater extent than Sunrise / Bandai Namco’s own attempt to do so with *The Witch from Mercury*, interest in *Gundam* was earnestly considering the historical object that it is, a thing that existed back in the late 1970s and has endured throughout all its sub-universes and timelines, directors, and Tomino Yoshiyuki depression. Lord knows that two others and I pestered someone in our groupwatch to “get on with” watching the trilogy films before our *GQuuuuuuX* sessions began—and he did, though it took a while! And through all of it, people like Tsurumaki latched onto *Gundam* as a thing to love. Earlier in the article, he mentions some of the conflicting images of *Gundam* that have cropped up, using his own production staff as a test sample. Everyone knew of and loved *Gundam*, but not for necessarily the same reasons. As for what those reasons are? Only they know, and we can only guess. Yet, it is precisely because of *Gundam’s* long lifespan that it even has the privilege to be viewed with this kind of plurality. The underlying themes of war, children, violence, and space as planes of existence for mankind’s uncertain future will always exist within the franchise, but they’ve likewise always been packaged in bizarre forms. Sometimes, those forms have been compelling. Sometimes, they’ve really sucked. Sometimes, they’ve been quirky. Point being, all of these are indicative of an attempt to make sense of what *Gundam* does and means. This was even true at the start, considering it was marketing and toy-selling that ultimately saved the franchise and any ideas within it from fading into obscurity. So, what exactly did Tsurumaki and his fellow creatives do? *GQuuuuuuX* is true *Gundam* in the sense of its holding fast to emotional cores and throwing its characters into the deeper ends of the outer space swimming pool, where fighting against something seems to be the only way they know how to live or form connection of any sort. Caught within the quagmire of trying to survive economically or spiritually, Amate Yuzuriha and Nyaan find themselves thrust into underground battles in a post-One Year War time where Zeon won and life continued along that trajectory. Crashing through the manufactured skies of Side 6, a fabled Red Gundam intrudes itself into the lives of everyone involved, chased by the titular GQuuuuuuX. And Shuji, a zombie of a soul, seems to pathologically bond with the Gundam and inserts himself (like the songs do during battle) into the dynamic between Amate and Nyaan. A found family in the oddest sense, they’re people who recognize that they are attracted to one another but cannot necessarily articulate why. The piloting of the Red Gundam and the GQuuuuuuX is itself the articulation – impulsive, bombastic, and perhaps stupid. Home is the cockpit, because even if the chance is the tiniest bit remote, they at least have some kind of respite from the outer forces they cannot control. But with one another, or through one another? Maybe salvation is possible. Granted, that’s not to say that it does not have problems, even taking that into consideration. If *GQuuuuuuX* was to be analyzed like it were plain text on paper and divorced from just about everything else (which is a habit we must break), it would indeed appear that things kind of happen seemingly out of nowhere. How could the characterization appear to be so vague? Why even bother proposing some kind of multiverse / alt-timeline if you won’t give it more time? How could it rely so heavily on nostalgia key-jingling for its audience, as “hype” as those moments could be? How could it do this? For those who may long for the days of 50-episode *Gundam* sagas and the so-totally-straight-amirite interpretation of its characters or actions, *GQuuuuuuX* seems to run (and not just in the OP) afoul with reckless abandon. Maybe it would be nice if every single moment along the way had a clean explanation that could be found by pointing at a screenshot. But what would that actually achieve? Not much, I don’t think. Reason being, the series is not trying to hit upon something that neatly maps onto a conventional narrative structure. With any franchise that has a long lifespan, there reaches a point of acceptance as a fan when you long to see things get a little weirder or get a little crazier, coherence to the narrative be damned. *Dragon Ball DAIMA* may not have done the idea of worldbuilding in its universe or “the lore” many favors, but it had a grasp on the inherent silliness of its setting and followed through, barely giving any concern to “canonicity.” Tsurumaki and his team have created something that exists in pure enthusiasm, something born from underlying love and affection, and that’s not easily mappable onto a story that we did not ourselves take part in creating in regards to writing or developing. But tonally? It’s there in every swooping camera shot, Amate or Nyaan getting mad, Shuji being the aloof dork wunderkind, or Kycilia wearing her mask and executing the people who hate her while she sits right there, watching it all unfold. *GQuuuuuuX* as a piece of media is not to be analyzed in the typical way that we do with caring so deeply about plots, characters, or any of the other ways we exercise as media consumers / interpreters of media. This series pointedly does not exist in a vacuum; it exists entirely because of the original’s existence and the profound influence it had on Tsurumaki and everyone else who ever thought about its universe, dressed like Char for an anime convention (and hopefully didn’t think his “drop a meteor on it” philosophy was a good idea), or saw Fa running in the ED of their dreams. Is the series nostalgic? Unapologetically. Is it a mess? Unapologetically. Was it made with love? Unapologetically. And I suspect Tomino would be okay with this. When Tomino created *∀ Gundam*, it was a declaration that all kinds of ideas about what *Gundam* was up to that point were accepted with his blessing. In keeping with that optimistic spirit, that show’s very existence was also a way of saying that, in a way, *Gundam* no longer belonged to him. In drawing upon the language of universal quantification for the show’s title (∀), he was likewise giving a blessing to those who sought to see what *Gundam* could do from then on. Tomino is in his 80s at the time of this writing; he has more years behind him than ahead of him. He cannot keep making *Gundam* forever, so it must be left in the hands of those who love the material so much that they would want to do something, anything, with it beyond token marketing. That is, ultimately, what Tsurumaki and his team have done. Even if they have never themselves experienced war like those of the past, they love *Gundam* and what it means, and given the chance to take the keys from Sunrise / Bandai Namco, they allowed their juices to flow with a kind of freedom that many creatives wish they could be afforded. They knew this process, and the product that would result, would be an alienating one, but it’s a risk they took on with full knowledge of that. *Gundam* at its best has always taken risks, be they narrative or metatextual. And here now, I find myself more enthused than ever for what lies ahead. Like its many models, or debates over whether the Rick Dom or GM were stronger according to Tsurumaki’s interview, *Gundam* will continue into whatever bizarro version of itself it has in store. Tomino's *Gundam* is not coming back in the strictest sense. It was forged during a time when increasingly-dying-out people were old enough to remember--or live in the aftershock of--Japan's most horrifying traumatic event. I highly doubt anyone would say that such an event needs to be experienced again just so another installment can be made that "has actual meaning for my fellow Newtypes." War is always a stone's throw away (and as such, war fiction will forever be in vogue), but there are other battles to be fought as time and its protagonists sprint forward. *GQuuuuuuX* is not like old *Gundam*, and that’s how it should be. Because, now in the year 2025, it makes the claim that, even in the midst of circumstances you cannot make heads or tails of, humanity's ability to cling to SOMETHING, or even perhaps anything, is the first step in taking your own future by the reins, even if that something is acknowledging your own malaise or frustration. Tsurumaki wanted to make people watch *Gundam*. He had that something, and he did something with it. And if you ask me, that’s pretty dope.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Jun 21, 2025
Shoushimin Series 2nd Season
(Anime)
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Recommended Well-written
“Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them using those wits which it may please you to bestow upon them and not placing reliance on nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence or Act of God?”
~The Detection Club Oath When the mystery novel was establishing its own inner circle of authoritative figures, there were several rules which the “masters” insisted upon. Knox’s Commandments, as they were so-called, have been clung to not necessarily as immutable absolutes, but rather as a true way to “play fair” with the reading audience, that it is in ... fact plausible to always present the reader with the chance to solve the mystery by making the game itself adhere to clear standards that should not be infringed. Therein lies a particular kind of glamour for both the story and the audience, that the detective exists beyond any emotional matters other than the sheer fun or love of “the chase” or “the answer,” and that the reader can congratulate themselves on staying on-track with the author or outsmarting their friends who are reading along as well. In this construction, the mystery novel is the greatest ego test as a reader. The consequence, however intentional or unintentionally it might be, is that they are ironically free of any consequence. The fiction and the reading experience became so much about “solving the mystery” that the detective assumed a lofty place both in and over the narrative itself. They were so untouchable as both an intellectual figure and an actual person inhabiting the story. The ego is unchecked. To put it in other terms, the detective is involved, but only insofar as supreme judge in light of the facts. The Oath may have spoken about avoiding “Divine Revelation” and “Act of God,” but the detective as a figure was itself divine. Yonezawa Honobu clearly loves detection club mysteries, but if *Hyouka* was any indication, he is not nearly so concerned with the whodunit aspect. That’s not to say that it’s unimportant (each mystery both in it and *Shoushimin* does have an answer that follows “the rules”), but rather that it’s not the point. Yonezawa loves clawing through the actual DNA and structure of mysteries as a larger phenomenon, understanding their pieces, people, and how they do, do not, and perhaps most significantly, how they SHOULD interact. It’s not for an answer – it’s for a meaning. *Hyouka* positioned Oreki Houtarou as someone who learns that mysteries occupy the everyday, and however mundane they may be, it’s always worth looking for The Future before it becomes The Past. He optimistically moves from impersonal to personal. Involved. In that spirit, *Shoushimin* seasons one and two not only are more than worthy to stand alongside *Hyouka* as one of anime’s great mystery narratives, but I’d daresay that it’s perhaps an even grander display of Yonezawa’s dissection. In its ever-thicker and ever-thornier knotting, it doesn’t take long to get there. Caught within the aftermath of the kidnapping plot that closed season one, Osanai and Kobato have reached an impasse and gotten themselves involved with others, Urino and Tokiko respectively. Old habits die hard, as each aloof smile from Kobato or Swiss-clockmaker-precise dessert bite from Osanai so indicates. Fires break out, property gets destroyed, and Urino eyes an opportunity to investigate! And all the while, Tokiko tries having some kind of normal relationship with Kobato, but why the hell can’t he stop smiling or be even marginally upset? *Shoushimin* season one prided itself on its intensive insularity. Regardless of whatever was happening at any given moment, mystery or otherwise, almost everything concerned its two leads (and occasionally Dojima). With the two leads now apart, the world opens to aerate the closed room, and with it, we see the sense of just who these two people are in reference to others. They do not exist in a vacuum, divorced from the weight of their words and consequences. Characters get mad. One-sided displays of affection are nearly acted upon. There’s a candid phone call about how a friendship is probably ending when the night is over. *Shoushimin* season two cares about how the detective perceives themselves and their interactions with the universe as actual tangible objects and spaces. It says that if you’re a detective, you are involved simply by existing as a detective (and a human being before that), and like it or not, things are royally going to suck for at least one person—if not more—in the midst, whoever they are. Compared to the days of Knox’s Commandments, the detective is, and causes, a mess, facing consequences for their relentless pursuit of the truth. You found the truth, but what actually happens here? Mysteries have never looked so glamourous with such deliberate lack of glamour. Being a detective, by necessity, brings friction, which Yonezawa and director Kanbe Mamoru exploit to deliciously tizzying ends. The cast glimpse mysteries with the same kind of innate thrill, but the vibrations in the air chart perpendicular courses. Urino’s full-fledged and unapologetic charge to find the arsonist setting all those fires is stoking not only his own ego, but likewise burning many others he’s coming across. As Dojima says point blank in episode one, “You’re too quick to jump the gun.” And given how irked Urino is that the greenhouse fire is small-scale, he has to follow the trail in the hope that it validates his own effort and time sink. Shouldn’t EVERYONE want to get behind him, to stop such damages? And besides, it’s not as though the fires are his fault since he’s so unconnected. After all, he’s just the detective! But for all the supposed non-involvement of The Detectives™, *Shoushimin’s* visual language pointedly involves them with their detached constructions of reality. There is a certain kind of perverse pleasure in Gifu as a setting: it is physical and with the thickest of tight art direction but, paradoxically, empty. Its spaces, its denizens, and even its denizens’ memories are employed as tools to reconstruct the closed room reality of the mystery, the real world treated itself like toys. Brazenly theatre-driven blocking with abstraction and lighting staging (something that I readily confess an aesthetic weakness for), freezing reality, and observing horror from a distance with a kind of calmness and pristinity too weird to be normal. It is in this realm that *Shoushimin*, driven by Kanbe’s sheer confidence in its ideas and theming, claims its territory. So long as any of the characters feel some kind of detachment, they can be at home here. The time there is fleeting though, and eventually, you or somebody else will have to answer for all the tinkering you did there. In Kanbe’s hands, Yonezawa’s story splays everything in both the macro and the micro, allowing its slew of mysteries and detectives to chart their courses and dirty the sandbox. The fate of Tokiko and Kobato’s relationship may not have the same gravitas as fires sprouting everywhere and the eager beaver gumshoe springing into action, or an incident that happened several years ago seemingly repeating itself. But wherever there is a mystery, there is someone trying to solve it, and it’s only a matter of time before the world itself or its people get effected because of the detective. An arbiter or investigator of justice, ready to point the finger at “the answer,” must by necessity dirty themselves. A popular light novel series once said that the detective was already dead. *Shoushimin* says that the detective, or ANY detective for that matter, simply existing causes problems. Just don’t let one of those problems be messing with Osanai, okay?
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Mar 27, 2025
BanG Dream! Ave Mujica
(Anime)
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Recommended
The end of *BanG Dream! It’s MyGO!!!!!* showed Togawa Saki appearing to move past her memories of CRYCHIC and work behind the scenes to get a new band started with the help of the shy and melancholic Mutsumi. Contrasted with the long performance debut in which the onstage cast are treated like dolls by the edgy script, Saki returned home to a small, dark apartment and a sorry excuse for a father full of beer, often finding himself escorted back from the police station, and going nowhere. The reason for Ave Mujica’s creation therefore seemed less like the whims of a rich girl who was
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bothered by something as-yet unknown (though that was still quite true) and more as a coping mechanism for a life that was, by all accounts, horrid.
As if exorcising her own demons in the only way she knew how, Saki’s vision for her new band was defined. Underneath the gothic costuming, stark lighting, and trying-way-too-hard-to-be-metaphorical attitude, Saki seeks an escape. That coping mechanism function the band provides transmogrifies for each member, and it becomes more obvious that as time goes on, not everyone within Ave Mujica’s group sees the band in the same way as Saki. Uika, Umiri, Mutsumi, and Nyamu need the band for their own selfishness, too. It is shortly after they perform for the first time that pushback against Saki’s perception of how the band should function begins to take shape, throwing the band’s idea of secret identities out the window in a gesture that leaves Nyamu smiling and most others shocked. The narrative takes what would on the surface appear to be its main concern, that of maintaining secret identities as stage personae, and throws it out the window. In so doing, it plays its hand early – the personae on stage are at odds(?) with the personae that wear the masks in the first place. It is a clash of dualities on multiple fronts, ego against ego, The Stage against The Real. With duality as a binding tether, just about every character in *BanG Dream! Ave Mujica* is split or tinkering with their own inner convictions. Even here, there is a duality between how the members perceive the band and how they use it accordingly. On one hand is the cold materialistic nature of the music industry and the success that Ave Mujica’s early theatrics bring. Nyamu, evident from her behavior at the end of *BanG Dream! It’s MyGO!!!!!*, is willing to do just about whatever it takes to become a viral sensation, and it’s her rashness that forces the band to reconcile their first real problems. Her materialistic approach with a “whatever happens, happens” treats the band as a thing to be used for her fame rather than a group to be lived in. How else to explain her enthusiastic adoration of Mutsumi’s famous mother, fawning over her with idolatry that we viewers see as shallow and vain? Umiri fails to recognize the band as anything more than a job, one of the many that she’s involved in (like a true session bass musician) and recognizes the group’s capacity to become a bigger splash. She’s dismayingly oblivious to what transpires around her as the threads come undone, doing what she’s “supposed to do” instead of stepping in proactively. On the opposite are Saki, Uika, and Mutsumi, all three of whom rely on Ave Mujica for some kind of mental grounding, therapy be damned. Either as a retreat from their ails or a putting off of what must be faced, they cling with broken nails to the precipice hoping it doesn’t give way under the weight. A crash is inevitable from the very start. The old adage may say that “opposites attract,” but that doesn’t mean they’ll get along. With Ave Mujica’s status as a band that also does short dramatic plays, arguments both onstage and backstage are played out in vivid detail, replicated for audience members who may be none the wiser to the actual venom being laced. It’s all too real, but under the veneer of the theatre. By the time a few episodes are complete, it becomes clear that all potential stage markers have been replaced with metaphorical chalk outlines instead, the world of The Stage and the world of The Real intermixing with, at times, barely any distinctions. It’s through these disparate parts coming together and colliding that poses its own duality between this series and its prequel. In my original review of *It’s MyGO!!!!!*, I stressed that that series separated itself both tonally and in the construction of its band from nearly everything that had come before in a bid to be new. Despite all those changes, it still seemed at least somewhat concerned with the real world rather than masquerading as a particularly heightened version of reality. It seldom opted for abstraction if it could help it. Almost like a counter, *Ave Mujica* commits the full dive into its melodramatics, often abandoning logic for the most-deranged idol soap opera imaginable. Given the bombast and superpolymegadeathcorehellmaidens quality of its theatrics both in-universe and as representation of character psychology, to expect anything less would be to uphold a standard of *BanG Dream!* that was cast aside more than a year ago for this newer take. If *It’s MyGO!!!!!* wandered into the ocean, *Ave Mujica* deliberately drew in its breath before surfacing, basking in the sensation of water filling its lungs, and loving every second of it. As such, *BanG Dream! Ave Mujica* treats many of its events as earthshaking and monolithic, pulling back layer after layer of defenses for its characters until the only thing left is the empty melancholia and how to deal with it. Every character, often violently, is in a new place from where they started, and even if it cannot give the fullest time and attention to everyone, it rarely misses. Director Kakimoto Koudai, main series writer Ayano Yuniko, and music director Fudanotsugi Taiki knew that in order to sell *Ave Mujica’s* central ideas, it needed to give every scene a heavy and focused intensity that constantly flirts with toppling over. The result is anxiety within the viewing experience through wondering whether it will fumble, within the text itself through things and imagery only getting more abjectly horrifying, and paratextually through a series made by people loving what they’re doing and abandoning the old standard that tied them down before. By performing as a *BanG Dream!*, they have moved into a new realm altogether. It is precisely because they love *BanG Dream!* that they have “killed it.” Lovedeath. We cannot pretend that this series (and the franchise as a whole) is not made for the purposes of making Bushiroad a truckload of money. Most entertainment, especially of gacha properties, acts in this way. *BanG Dream! Ave Mujica* is a reminder that even if the everlasting hunt for the bottom line looms overhead, you can still create something new and truly distinct within yourself and show that it can succeed after all. Flirting with disaster every step of the way, it dared, it committed, and I adored the ride through and through. As Uika proclaims, “Welcome to Ave Mujica’s world!” What a welcome—and what a world—it was!
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Dec 22, 2024
Love Live! Superstar!! 3rd Season
(Anime)
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Not Recommended Funny
On some level, I have always been able to enjoy *Love Live!* as the crude otaku capitalistic black hole that it is. The franchise has never been one to have grand aspiring messages aside from what could be easily commodified in cute mannerisms, bubblegum song-and-dance routines, and wisped happy feelings that come from a “follow your dreams” narrative structure. No matter what my overall thoughts on the previous seasons were (and they vary widely), every installment at least had something within it that either attracted me in terms of its visuals, its music, its direction, its camaraderie, or whatever it could claim as unique and
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interesting, even if just at the conceptual level. The original *School Idol Project* was the point when the franchise had not quite yet determined what did or did not work, throwing its ideas at the wall to see what stuck and, ironically, giving it a freshness that got increasingly less as each new season took hold. *Sunshine!!* and *Nijigasaki,* being installments that I never really liked and each one subsequently feeling more calculated in its moe-dification, at least tried reframing either the franchise or the larger diegetic universe into something that could be molded into newer forms.
What this indicates is not only an acute awareness of what the franchise signifies, but also that any significant deviation from the established formula was not going to be welcomed. The modern anime industry is increasingly wary of riskier gambits that may not pay off, even for something as seemingly surefire as school idols. Particularly in the rising of other properties like *BanG Dream!* (just to list one example), *Love Live!’s* hold on its niche is far less stable than it was even four years ago. This matters because *Love Live! Superstar!!*, at least at first, seemed to stand poised to push the series in a direction it wouldn’t have thought of before. Rather than a band of nine or more girls in its ensemble, it had only five. It also eventually appeared to adopt something akin to a genuine antagonist character in Margarete, unlike previous rival groups such as A-RISE or Saint Snow, or individuals like Lanzhu, where everyone was still friendly with everyone. Particularly with teasing the idea that Kanon would not be present in Japan for the show’s unique third season opportunity, *Superstar!!* consistently stood at the threshold to do something so daring that, even if it failed, I could at least applaud the effort to do so. And then, it never did. The warning signs were early. From the second season onwards, the show seemed to play itself like the creative team (including longtime series writer Hanada Jukki and director of the original *School Idol Project* Kyougoku Takahiko as two examples) received a memo from Bushiroad’s executives that immediate “corrections” were needed. The cast was expanded from five to nine, hastily needing to ingratiate new commodifiable kohai to a pre-established group dynamic. Margarete, herself so antithetical to the idea of idols as understood within *Love Live!*, was perpetually kept in the rearview mirror until her entire existence hinged on Kanon’s future. The end of season two with the Vienna school opportunity suspended and Margarete moving to Yuigaoka slammed the door so tightly that, in a bizarre twist of fate, the franchise that so often sings about idols and dreams within those idol ideals was to be caught in a perpetual nightmare. That nightmare comprises what might be charitably called the “Love Live! Civil War arc,” with Margarete trying to create a new idol group from within Yuigaoka to dethrone the champion Liella!. Any inherent intrigue within this premise is immediately torpedoed by Kanon’s idea to join Margerete’s group before the first episode is finished. Such an action isn’t just a paltry attempt to artificially create false conflict within the show. Part of the reason why Margerete’s defeat stung her so badly was that it was the FULL team of nine that stopped her. Kanon no longer being in Liella! means that the group that she’s actively trying to defeat is no longer as it once was, and while the rest of the group can say that they’ll keep trying hard without Kanon, it is Kanon who is the main embodiment of everything that Margerete wants to surpass. This is likewise why most of her dialogue in season two centers around Kanon as opposed to Liella! as a whole. If Kanon joins her, then what is Marguerete accomplishing by beating Liella! now? The reality is that she wouldn’t accomplish anything by doing so. To spare her that humiliating realization, the story chooses to have Margerete eventually be brought to the “good guys” with Kanon playing this absurd 4D chess. That is not a spoiler – it is the truth that *Love Live!* always abides by. It therefore comes as no surprise that the newest character in the whole of the season, Natsumi’s sister Tomari, should likewise fall in line with inevitably realizing “happiness is found in Liella!” as truth. It’s destiny; her performance in episode two spares the narrative from having to demonstrate her capabilities (compare this to Keke in season one, who had barely any endurance to speak of), so she doesn’t need to “try” at all. Any barriers she has are purely ideological, and in her case, the extent is almost comical to which she seemed to hurt Natsumi for the purposes of “keeping her safe.” So, when her buckling against the torrent of happiness dawns, it’s both abrupt in how quickly it takes place and late, only after most of the other characters have had their previous plot threads picked up and doubled down upon. At eleven characters total by the time of season’s end, the notion that even more exploration for those we have already seen and which the narrative reconciled makes for a grand misuse of time. In moving through these motions, it is as though the show is trying to convince itself that this was the right path all along and silencing its own doubts through the characters feeling old doubts return. Maybe it should have listened. *Love Live! Superstar!!* season three is essentially a declaration that *Love Live!* cannot actually have anything stand in the protagonist’s way except through the most abstract forces possible. In prior installments, it was the threat of school closure and trying to prove the brilliance of individual idols (by reducing them to caricatures of whatever realized self the show was claiming they were and failing to distinguish them from the group) by making their personal problems vanish under the veneer of “growth.” Here now, with a desperate need to validate the existence of new characters and re-validate the old ones, Liella’s! position as last year’s titular Love Live! winners trying to defend their title lacks any meat or meaningful substantiation. At its core is a center with no color. The music plays, but it means nothing. Perhaps unintentionally, *Love Live! Superstar!!* is the most overtly clear that Bandai Namco / Sunrise and Bushiroad have been about the franchise up until this point. They are an ex that promises at each reconciliation that they can change and become better, but always ends up defaulting back to the same behaviors that you hoped to never see again. What dream is there to be had in being the same? I suppose that consistency is admirable in a sad, cynical, perverse kind of way. While it may proport to be about fun and happy times, the dismaying implication of *Love Live!* is that it champions conformity clothed within the pageantry of self-identity. The characters may have a quirk or singular “thing” that distinguishes them, but the assembly-line construction of the groups at each new iteration lacks the soulful parts that add to their adorable dances. It has reached the point where it no longer hides the illusion. *Love Live!* has never been about idols – moreso than many other properties that are of similar spirit, it has been about trying to capture vague feelings that are perfectly calculated to generate the impulse to consume. This is a franchise that, at this rate, will never grow and never change, no matter how many new school idol groups it forms. This is effectively my graduation from *Love Live!* – whatever the franchise has coming next (because we know it’s coming), I’ll have already moved on.
Reviewer’s Rating: 2
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Sep 18, 2024 Mixed Feelings
There’s a moment early in *Alya Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Russian* when the titular Alya / Alisa Mikhailovna Kujou takes off her wet sock, making Kuze Masachika uncomfortable. Noticing this, she devilishly chuckles to herself and uses Kuze’s own discomfort for her flirtatious amusement, asking him to fetch another sock and put it on her leg. But an ill-advised remark about Kuze’s supposed cowardice (lyingly translated from Russian by Alya, which Kuze is all too aware of) prompts Kuze to immediately turn the tables on her, and now Alya suddenly finds HERSELF in great discomfort as Kuze does what he was asked, accidentally grazing
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her nethers in the process. A quick kick in the face and hasty evacuation leaves them both in, arguably, a worse state than they had been in just a few moments ago. It’s an interaction that lasts for all of two minutes, yet says much about when the series shines at its best, and makes its subsequent detouring all the more disappointing.
*Alya Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Russian* loves making its characters disoriented, such to the point that it wears it like a form of armor. Looking beyond the sock incident, there are other similar interactions among the show’s cast that, either directly or indirectly, make a point of knocking the characters off from any supposed positions of authority or superiority. The calm and cool Alya is thrown constantly into insecurity regarding her own feelings for Kuze, not helped in the slightest by her older sister Masha playfully teasing Alya for feelings that are brazenly obvious, dismissive as she might be. Yuki’s own sheltered and posh upbringing gives her smarts to slyly navigate her high school’s upper crust by disarming and endearing with charm, yet she can turn that off like a switch to indulge in her own uninhibited hijinks and jokes. And then there’s Kuze, dealing with a rambunctious sister, trying to disassociate himself from what he once knew, and reconciling Alya’s own truths—for you *Umineko* fans out there, “I’ll say it in Russian!” Informing that lies the show’s central gimmick – Kuze is fully aware of what Alya is saying when she speaks Russian, in part because of his own impassioned study of Russian thanks to a girl he once knew and loved many years ago. When Alya thinks she’s being secretive, Kuze holds more cards than she realizes. Situations between Alya and Kuze allow the sense of hiding one’s true feelings to be subverted to move the story forward, an intriguing take on a tired old miscommunication convention. This therefore leaves both Alya and Kuze alike in a strange twilight zone of both understanding the other and, admittedly frustratingly, holding one another at an impasse – they’ll be able to grow closer both platonically and romantically by spending time with each other, but they’ll never cross that final confessional threshold until either Alya says her feelings in Japanese or Kuze admits that he knows everything that she’s been saying in Russian. Either way, someone will have to bear the brunt of the final embarrassment, and it’s difficult to not wonder why Kuze doesn’t just clear the air, even given his mental and emotional hangups. But perhaps that’s fine. Alya’s rougher exterior isn’t consistently up and violently striking down Kuze at every perceived sleight or blunder. Kuze himself understands just how important Alya’s pursuits are in her academic life, and is more than willing to put any goofiness aside. *Alya Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Russian* manages the magic act of having it both ways – comedically flirtatious and slapstick-like, and putting the jokes on hold to have a conversation that’s actually important. What blooms is a more amusing relationship, oscillating between moods, ideas, and episodes with a blush and a smile, ultimately reading as more sincere than it might have been otherwise if it had remained wholly committed to something more dynamically restrained. The final “endgame” might be put off until volume whatever-the-editor-demands, but to see Alya and Kuze play off one another is to constantly ask which one will come out the other side more disoriented than the other, and rarely in a way that feels unpleasant (with a couple of notable exceptions). Especially considering that Alya is playing with the deck stacked against her since Kuze knows everything that she’s saying when speaking Russian, seeing Kuze be thrown off-kilter in some fashion offers its own brand of pleasantly surprising satisfaction. Though the serious discussions between Alya and Kuze “three-dimensionalize” their relationship, from where some of those discussions manifest undercuts the material’s own innate delight. Wrapped within the romance is the larger political current of their school, and the student council offers Alya the chance to establish a station for herself beyond just the treasurer. However grand the pursuit, *Alya Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Russian* makes it clear that her own ability to navigate the school’s landscape is haphazard at best (not helped by the underlying “ethno”centrism of the student body being averse to outsiders) and dismally outclassed at worst. Against the larger figures within the sphere, Alya stands adrift. It reframes and disorients Alya as one of the central protagonists; the girl we’ve seen tickle and be tickled by Kuze fails to prove her own capability for independence, framing her as a woefully inept political figure who seemingly can do nothing without Kuze’s interference or long-term planning. Social ineptitude befits her characterization – nothing is inherently wrong with Alya failing at something, nor the implication that she will improve over time (as she begins to do). Yet, its scale as presented comes at the cost of her character position within the overall picture. Seeing Alya stumble so badly, even under the auspice of improving over time, comes across as unengrossing. It robs the zest that makes the two leads’ dynamic work well. Though to say that the show has “two leads” is, itself, rather misleading. Both in Sunsunsun’s original story and Itou Riyota’s direction of the adaptation, the material with commendable insistence implants Yuki into the thick of both the romance and the political drama. Though I mentioned her slyness and propensity for explosiveness of comic sensibility, she stands in Alya’s way on all fronts, both as popular darling for student council presidency and for putting up barrier after barrier to Alya and Kuze’s potential happily-ever-after. Yuki, when viewed through Alya’s eyes, is the construction of everything that Alya aspires to be – popular and with Kuze. Though she stands at the meeting point of both the political and romantic plots, she is not an antagonist in the strictest sense of the word. That does not mean that it would not be open season on Alya and Kuze. Lord knows that Yuki gets her jollies out of a little trolling. It therefore makes it unfortunate that her strongest impression is that of the meta-aware character, frequently breaking the fourth wall in spirit by offering a comedic reward for directly pointing out something about otaku media and culture that fans would inherently recognize. She’s the successor in a long line of characters doing this (recently brought back into larger consciousness with Cid Kagenou in *The Eminence in Shadow*) and it seems that it’s a trend that’s here to stay. It’s already long outlived its welcome, although its half-life can be prolonged—albeit temporarily—by the sheer weight of Yuki’s consuming on-screen presence. Though, each time a joke of this nature was made, it seemed to call more attention to the balancing act the show couldn’t quite manage. All that transpires within *Alya Sometimes Hides Her Feelings in Russian*, in terms of the political matters, the Kuze and Yuki family dynamic, and whatever romantic fate awaits Alya and Kuze, hints at developments that see ultimate payoff down the line. Despite all that promise, as presented with this season, the series succeeds with more finesse and fluency in its more lighthearted romantic affairs rather than its indulgences in something beyond the sociopolitical scope of its romantic duo. When characters pondered about how to respond to whatever student council matter was on the table, images of clothes shopping, a school dance, and botched Russian pronunciation asserted themselves in memory. One question does remain, however – will Alya ever get used to spicy food? «может быть...» It means “definitely.”
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Jun 30, 2024
Hibike! Euphonium 3
(Anime)
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From the first episode all the way up through *Ensemble Contest-hen*, Oumae Kumiko’s journey has been one through reconciling her own feelings and trying to become more self-actualized. It’s been a long road getting from there to here, complete with many frustrations, contradictions, confusions, angsts, and apprehensions both from herself and from others that she is privy to hearing about or experiencing. Back then, she was just a student, mending her old relationship with Kousaka Reina and learning to appreciate just how much her senpai Tanaka Asuka meant to her. Here now, at *Hibike! Euphonium* season three, she fully assumes the role of her predecessors
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as the president of that band, taking on a new level of responsibility to the group to propel them to winning the gold at Nationals, the prize that has consistently eluded them.
With a new year and new leadership however comes new rigor—Reina IS an executive now, after all—and with that also comes new urgencies. It’s not just about winning gold; as Kumiko is so reminded by both her family and her teachers (if not also the occasional conversation with classmates), she’s a senior now, waiting on the doorstep of whatever potential and likely-collegiate future might await her, and needing to decide about such things. But not all decisions need to be made straight away; besides, Reina’s dream of performing with Kumiko at Nationals is only getting closer and closer until, of all things, a euphonium sound coursing through the air catches Kumiko’s ear. It’s only a little later that we learn who made the sound: a new girl transferring to Kitauji High School, sporting a navy-blue uniform and a silver euphonium of her own, Kuroe Mayu. Change isn’t on the horizon – it’s right there, as plain as the reflection on Mayu’s euphonium and Kumiko being taken by the sound that comes from it. If *Hibike! Euphonium* season three had anything that it could plant during the interim between *Chikai no Finale* and the first episode’s lead-up, it was that you could take certain things more or less as a given that they’d occur. The narrative has always followed Kumiko as the point of orientation (with the notable exception of Yamada Naoko’s masterful *Liz and the Bluebird*), and that much has not changed. But, with her now needing to assume greater responsibilities to the ensemble as a whole, it likewise necessitates a major shift in orienting the view of that ensemble. As a student, Kumiko was a participant in the exercises for marching and listening to Taki’s instructions on how to improve a practice’s performance. But in a position of authority, she must take a more centralized birds-eye view of the ensemble (and we, the audience, likewise follow suit), being the person that others would come to with problems and grievances and be expected to navigate through them. That shifted perspective regarding the ensemble accompanies a shift in the music’s usage within the season. In-part because of the single cour’s truncation, there are not as many overt “performances” in the course of the thirteen episodes – there are decidedly fewer times that we see the band collectively working together either in practice or in actually performing before the listening audience, and likewise for the viewer. *Hibike! Euphonium* season three however understands that the performances themselves were never the actual attraction for the series. It’s not that they were outright unimportant or anything of the sort, but rather that they were not the point. The melodrama of the season serves as the ensemble’s true performance, allowing both discordant countermelodies and high emotion to come through as complements to the tone rather than the showboating they might have been otherwise. All of this is realized through its masterful visual-acoustic storytelling and episode directing from some of Kyoto Animation’s most important figures like Kitanohara Noriyuki, or newcomer to the directorial side Miyagi Ryou, who began their career on *Hibike! Euphonium* season one and now gets to take a driver’s seat role for its final act. But Mayu is the final, and arguably most important, ingredient to this general reorientation. Her euphonium playing and coming from a previous school known for its prestigious music program brings its own problems into the fore. Mayu heralds that Kumiko’s place as the “one true eupho” is on far shakier ground than she might have anticipated. It’s not just because she’s good, but rather also due to Mayu’s general demeanor of friendliness and wanting to not rock the boat clashing with the inherent approach that Kumiko has in mind. The prior experiences with the trumpet solo audition from freshman year and Kanade from junior year were signs of needed changes. Those changes manifested in the form of Kumiko and Reina working to make Kitauji’s band a place where, regardless of one’s status as an upperclassman or underclassman, the best performances rein and have the privilege to perform at the competition. It’s a doctrine that reads as the ensemble’s credo, and one that Kumiko especially believes is best for everyone. Mayu’s behavior thus makes for a rather ironic response to Kumiko’s own perception of Kitauji’s meritocracy. The entire notion of competing in Nationals means, in-part by virtue of how audition processes work and having only a finite number of players allowed, that not everyone can be satisfied or be having fun. Mayu’s reticence to replace anyone expressed early in the season serves as a challenge to that meritocracy ideology, questioning its legitimacy and whether everyone sincerely feels that way, and her continued insistence provides a point of consternation for Kumiko who just can’t realize how to respond to this peculiar obstinacy. It’s not that Mayu doesn’t want to win gold at Nationals, because she does – otherwise, she’d never have voted to do so. Yet, it’s a heightened form of Kumiko’s own desire to not have anyone drop out that she’s essentially confronting, a reflection of the passive version of herself from previous seasons that she thought she had moved beyond, but now has to confront from a new angle. Confronting Mayu’s insecurity means confronting Kumiko’s insecurity, creating one of the major thematic threads for the season. Mayu and Kumiko’s perspectives are thus each chasing a metaphorical rainbow that run parallel; they may be headed in the same general direction, but they can’t cross. Because of this fundamental inability to see eye-to-eye, they cannot connect as easily. Mayu’s apprehension is just as despairingly resolute as Kumiko’s belief that what she herself believes in is the truth of how she honestly feels. Yet as each episode progresses and we see that perhaps Mayu’s apprehension seems all-the-more to be coming true, it gives dialogue and entire sequences a particular weightiness to each word and interaction. Emotions run higher and tensions run thicker not just because the stakes have increased for the main cast with increased auditions and graduation drawing nearer, but rather because the ensemble collectively is carrying this sort of held breath every time, with confidence wavering in confusion. I mentioned before that the melodrama within the band is the true performance of the season, and it subsequently manifests in inner-band friction both collectively and between individual members that is true *Hibike! Euphonium* spirit. And that spirit of conflict always has its inverse; that of optimism and understanding. Between Kumiko’s presidency, Mayu’s apprehension, Reina’s perfectionism, the new freshmen, Tsukamoto providing insights of his own, Kanade’s own rounding out of her edges, and everything else, *Hibike! Euphonium* season three is juggling a lot of ideas within its thirteen episodes. It would be easy to assume that it would crumble under the weight of it all, yet like magic, it doesn’t. The endgame for the season is more or less a surefire conclusion, but the route it takes to get there walks the twilight between crushing and soaring. No matter how much it may pull out some brutal pathos punches or moments of sheer deflation, it never tries to leave its characters out in the cold forever; there will always be something to pull them back from the precipice. That may just be its most optimistic message of all for its audience, and one that the series has been comfortingly saying since the very beginning with that flashback that started it all – there will be hardships and times when you have to come face-to-face with your own disappointment, inability, or uncertainty. Sometimes, it may seem cruelly unfair, or you may feel like you’ve taken two steps back for every one step forward. But underneath it all lies the tenderness of love and friendship, bonds worth holding onto no matter how late they may have been forged. If this is indeed likely to be the final installment of this franchise I imagine Kyoto Animation would want to move on to other properties to develop and see what lay within their imagination), then it could not have chosen a better way to finish. Its characters left Kitauji High School better than when they came in. They bettered themselves not just musically, but personally. That’s the true finale that the series had been building to since the beginning. All the desires to improve, all the tears, all the notes, all the drama, all the smiles, and all the goodbyes – season three is the culmination of everything *Hibike!* in the end. Let YOUR next piece begin.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jun 24, 2024
Shuumatsu Train Doko e Iku?
(Anime)
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Director Mizushima Tsutomu isn’t concerned with making the next “hit” – if anything, he’s concerned with making the next “concoction.” A look at his filmography will show that he has directed several projects which involve the heavy collision of various ideas that, on paper, seem like they should get along like cats and dogs. How, for instance, is the idea of cute girls doing cute things in a tank battle setting supposed to work? Why would anybody expect a lowbrow teenage sex comedy that also functions as a prison escape flick to mesh together, and somehow have that work? Crazy, right? But crazy is the
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point, as lo and behold, *Girls und Panzer* exists, as does *Prison School*.
And those are just two examples! Mizushima’s understanding and approach to genre is to take what it is about each that people enjoy, and bend or twist them into new, almost-unrecognizable forms. Mizushima doesn’t care about having something to “prove” as it were, mostly because he gets his jollies out of being weird rather than being artful in the way that other directors are. And in an anime landscape where fresh ideas seemingly are in shorter supply, it’s at the very least worth considering just what he’s cooking up at any given moment. It therefore makes perfect sense why *Shuumatsu Train Doko e Iku? / Where Does the Doomsday Train Go? / Train at the End of the World* functions as it does in its weirdness. It is quintessential Mizushima, in that it feels like a sensible next step in his handling of preposterous entertainment ideas. Our foursome of heroines all embark on a post-catastrophe science-fiction screwball road comedy journey through a topsy-turvy funhouse world of strange landscapes, bizarre people, and way too many bitter lemons to eat. Each stop along the path to Ikebukuro comes complete with its own warped or finagled place, where the people there are just as mystifying. One stop has a serious shroom problem (to put it one way), while another location has a miniaturized military. But where could the adorable Yoka be, the person who accidentally got this whole 7G Network mess started when she pressed the button and screwed everything up? Can the world return to normal? From the first minute, *Shuumatsu Train* doesn’t pretend to be concerned with giving fully fleshed-out character biographies to Shizuru, Nadeshiko, Reimi, and Akira and assumes you’ve seen enough cute girls doing cute things anime to know this rigamarole already with who is who. The immediate need-to-know particulars of who they actually are comes through in the quick conversations and colliding personalities about incidentals and the grand design, and expects you to “get it” already so it can “get on” with the real point – the journey. Any development or more-dynamic character building will come not from the native environment that they know, but instead by venturing into the yonder. And if cute girls doing cute things has often been the gravity surrounding fixations on hobbies / “the main thing” that could be considered either abnormally obsessive or unusual (we all can list at least one show in which the cast revolves around a niche activity that more or less defines them), then *Shuumatsu Train* takes that gravity and maximalizes it to the universe itself. Each location does indeed have its own central “thing” that distinguishes it from every other stop, almost like the different levels of a video game in which each location has its own puzzle to crack before opening the door. It provides a sheer unpredictability to each setting even when the outcome inevitably ends with the train pulling out of the station and moving on. Sometimes, they’re simply passing through and commenting on how weird something is because…well, sometimes something is just weird and there’s not much more to say. Other times, the ridiculous level of micro and macro analysis needed to get through is itself like an overstuffed shogi board ready to collapse under the weight of its excess pieces. Yet, miraculously, it never falls apart because it never stops being fun. The inherent appeal of the screwball road comedy is in the varying locations and peoples, and how the characters are forced to interact with both in order to make heads or tails of what’s happening. Using post-catastrophe science-fiction as the backdrop allows any crazy idea to be applied without needing to spend all this time and energy explaining why something is the way that it is. Any such explanation can be chalked up to “LOL 7G” (its activation in the first episode makes a further lack of explanation all the more acceptable) and instead put resources into making each stop more tangibly present. Beyond the “trait” that each place possesses, each also presents obstacles that are distinct enough to require different solutions rather than a single tried-and-true method. As such, the variety in the settings complements the variety in the situations. But that maximalization I spoke of does not occur often with the heavier drama, though drama is certainly present. Tone-wise, the show rarely makes actually sincere attempts to divert away from the comic because the attempts that appear on the surface to do so are, in and of themselves, far too deliberately silly or tongue-in-cheek to take too seriously. Yokote Michiko’s series composition lets you know who is doing what and how they are functioning within the show’s overall universe either as a force for, against, or within the main foursome, but never to the point where it forgets or misplaces its popcorn origins. This is only broken with Yoka and Shizuru, the ones who got the metaphorical train running in the first place. As a result, the show’s inner structure is quite bare-minimum, but the color explodes every time, coming with some genuinely-impressive layouts and animation displays that go far harder than a show like this would reasonably be expected to have. Coupled with the understanding that Mizushima’s Twitter account over the past several weeks has been talking about train stuff from facts to fascinations, including other incidental things about the production or locations used for making it, he clearly got bitten by some kind of bug and decided to just run full-tilt with it. He’s created something with the full awareness of what it is and avoids the pitfalls of derailment, even if it couldn’t escape production problems with its final episode. The whole is an unusually free-spirited anime, chugging along its merry way and always prepared with a fun little something to whet the appetite. There is no room for normal on this route; *Shuumatsu Train* takes delight in its oddness, and that’s the way it should be.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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