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Rarely do we get shows who can hook you in immediately with their introduction, before proceeding to live up to those expectations all the way through. Even rarer, however, are the shows whose nondescript façade allows its ingenuity in execution to shine even brighter. Every season, we subconsciously write off the myriad of moe slice-of-life series as generic and unimaginative, and we're mostly right - a few narrative quirks diversify the lot, yet their core structure and appeal seldom wavers. Bocchi the Rock! (BtR) seems no different from these duller predecessors, but one episode is plenty to prove its technical and directorial finesse.

Despite the ... derisive connotations of a show’s success being reliant on its animation quality, it only goes to show how strong its visual direction is, a fact BtR makes no effort to hide. While its plot acts as a strong emotional foundation, what fills in the gaps between major arcs and keeps us engaged is its absurdist style of comedy. Though similar gags are used throughout its runtime, such as Bocchi’s social anxiety or Ryo’s stinginess, humour is produced in different ways, facilitated by the usage of hyperbole. Take Bocchi’s mental catastrophising as an example – while her tendency to fret over the extreme worst-case scenario is one of her key character traits, the disasters manifested in her mind take on wildly varying forms based on concept, animation, and art style. Most of her mental images are wildly illogical from concept alone, ranging from being offered the death penalty for the inability to work to… being offered the death penalty for a lack of energy during sports festivals, thus evoking humour in combination with similarly ridiculous facial reactions. However, a more impressive layer of comedy arises from BtR’s ability to logically chain a sequence of events together to arrive at a conclusion far diverted from its narrative direction. A clear example lies in Episode 8 – a lively post-gig celebration takes a dark turn as Bocchi overhears the lamentations of an overworked salaryman with an unhappy family situation. This turns into her skipping college, failing at her marketing job, and ending up as a NEET, unable to muster the courage to join her family for dinner. Never mind the absurdity with which her job is portrayed; (why would she be selling agar door-to-door?) the unpredictability in timing and execution of her anxious outbursts keeps its jokes constantly fresh and funny.

BtR’s willingness to change animation and art style on a whim crafts its more noticeable distinctions from other comedy anime. Bocchi dramatically counts down the number of people she can invite with VR hands in Episode 5, is the centrepiece of a stunning Claymation sequence in Episode 7, and flings herself into a wall in Blender’s 3D interface in Episode 11, just to name a few unique animation techniques used. Monochromatic line art constructs the world of dinosaur Bocchi in Episode 4, while an art style reminiscent of older anime is shown in 4:3 aspect ratio to further sell its effect. With incredible technical mastery and creative attitudes towards the comedic potential of even the simplest of scenes, stark visual changes produce the same abrupt and unpredictable humour. ‘Abrupt’ is key – BtR has a strong sense of comedic timing, utilised to maximise the effect of its jokes. In some cases, a delayed punchline works best, as seen in Episode 3; Ryo tells Bocchi she can only afford to eat weeds, an exaggeration brushed off in the moment as Bocchi and Kita continue to converse and practice. As Ryo enters, the camera focuses first on her shoes and back, and it’s only when the two turn around that the joke is unveiled. In other cases, sudden cuts to over-the-top reactions and sound effects, like the Picasso references in Episode 10, make us burst out laughing in an instant.

While creativity in the body and presentation of its jokes serves as BtR’s key point of distinction, that can’t fill up 20 minutes of airtime a week on its own, given the need for the plot to progress without excessive diversion. As a slice-of-life anime, character interactions are the heart of its narrative direction, keeping us interested in watching their antics and invested in their more serious moments, a principle BtR equally excels in. As each member of Kessoku Band plays off one another in everyday interactions, their group dynamics prove comedic in their own right. Ryo’s cold wit and sadistic sense of humour often clashes with Nijika’s tsukkomi role, who’s also forced to deal with Kita’s obsessive tendencies towards Ryo and Bocchi’s crazed fits. This evolves over time as Kita grows in significance within the group, serving as the mediator for Nijika and Ryo’s quibbles and the extrovert outlier in Episode 9. While Nijika’s deadpan attempts to rein her schoolmate in is sufficiently humorous on its own, the way each member reacts to Bocchi’s idiosyncrasies adds more depth to their chemistry. Ryo’s detached, matter-of-fact observations form a strong contrast with Kita’s genuine concern, bridged together by Nijika’s desensitisation over time. This catalyses a normalisation of her plight across the group, as they grow better able to predict the sources and solutions to her woes – see the sandpapering of her face in Episode 8 or the realisation that spontaneously doing the samba is typical Bocchi behaviour in Episode 10. And this doesn’t even mention the bluntness of her family towards her antisocial nature! As such, the creative insanity of Bocchi’s mental manifestations becomes additionally amusing through the actions and reactions of those around her.

Don’t be fooled, though – BtR is not solely a comedy anime. Throughout its runtime, homage is paid to a range of musical genres, styles, and bands, from its traditional J-rock inspirations to psychedelic rock. Five fully animated performances, excluding the street performance of Episode 6 and Sick Hack’s performance in Episode 10, carry a significant technical burden that is masterfully fulfilled. While moe and absurdist elements dominate the show’s ordinary moments, realism is the focus with these live displays, setting up the darker atmosphere of Starry and the usage of stage lighting with meticulous attention to detail. BtR goes beyond the baseline of animating accurate fingering and rhythm, demonstrating their intricate full-body movements along with the music they play. Be it Bocchi’s hunch and sway as she steals the show with her solo in Episode 8, or the evolution of Kita’s guitar playing from stiffness in Episode 5 to confident flair in Episode 12, these details aid in audience immersion, selling us on their effort and growth. Music is more than the notes they play, however, and the show remains aware of its characters even when their instruments take a break, as Ryo pulls away from the mic during lull periods and Kita claps along with the beat at the start of Episode 12. A litany of J-rock influences can be further found in Kessoku Band’s songs – its EDs are composed by members from popular bands like Kana-Boon and The Peggies, while Bocchi sings a cover of Asian Kung-Fu Generation’s “Rock’n Roll, Morning Light Falls on You”, a fitting end to the show. A question surely remains: How is it possible that high schoolers are able to compose and play so professionally? While not fully realistic, attempts are made throughout BtR to justify the members’ prowess, mostly on Bocchi’s part, as is best demonstrated through the positioning of Episode 6. By stripping the song they later play in Episode 8 to an instrumental duet, we familiarise ourselves with the melody and capabilities of our performers, making its future appearance more memorable as we’re better able to identify the lead guitar’s contributions. In these ways, BtR’s music is firmly grounded, allowing us to appreciate Kessoku Band’s talent.

Growth is a concept most moe series vapidly grapple at, often choosing to focus on maintaining their status quo as opposed to drastic plot progression. Those who successfully seek it out make use of their slice-of-life elements to introduce gradual change, a tactic BtR is no stranger to. Rather than forcing Bocchi’s character development through exposition or contrivance, she naturally stumbles upon new experiences and opportunities, discovering new sides of herself and emotions she’d only dreamed of prior. Episode 5’s audition makes her reconsider her motivation for playing the guitar, but a major milestone is achieved in Episode 6 as she learns to look past her anxiety and embrace the confidence that comes with acceptance; in her words, “Everyone’s smiling. Will I see more if I keep on performing?” The key is subtlety – Bocchi starts off fearing the unknown, but eventually normalises what she’d previously considered impossible, like talking to strangers and playing her instrument in front of others. The ability to see her thought process enables this growth to feel additionally realistic, as she motivates herself to serve drinks for Nijika’s sake in Episode 3 and pumps herself up to perform in Episode 11.

Side characters aren’t neglected either; as Bocchi becomes more confident in her abilities and interactions, she meaningfully impacts the lives of those around her as well. This is clearly seen in Episode 8, with Nijika declaring her as her hero, though it is best developed in the evolution of Kita and Bocchi’s relationship. Bocchi starts off intimidated by Kita’s extrovert aura, freaking out from the sheer gap between their social lives in Episode 4, but is placed in a position of superiority as her guitar teacher, a role whose significance to Kita is genuinely brought out in Episode 6. Kita’s respect for Bocchi changes her attitude towards the band over time, and she’s eventually able to return the favour in Episode 12, supporting her solo and caring for her afterwards. Despite merely mentioning how “fun” Bocchi is purported to be around, Ryo’s selectiveness in friendships and social interaction makes that a glowing compliment, embodying Bocchi’s emotionally resonant maturation by the end.

Such genuine character development is supported through BtR’s competent grasp of a realistic environment. With good voice acting and naturally flowing dialogue, convincing small talk sprouts out of nowhere, helping to link events together. Episode 7 starts with two uninterrupted minutes of conversation between Nijika and Kita, as talk of going to Bocchi’s house moves to the purpose of their visit, the absence of Ryo, and a humorous interlude on her absurd excuses, transitioning smoothly into the episode’s true focus. Similarly, a simplistic concept of conversation topics in Episode 2 is spun into an entertaining introduction to the struggles and operations of amateur bands, while mention of quotas and production timelines is organically linked to the need for part-time work and Bocchi’s lyrics respectively. Characters don’t just talk realistically – detailed animation of the smallest of actions, from Nijika’s slight swish as she walks forward to Kita’s lively head movements as she speaks, complement that natural feel.

With a light-hearted tone dominating most of its runtime, BtR remains versatile in pivoting to heavier exchanges. These tend to tap into moralistic clichés – Nijika speaks of treasuring the customers in Episode 2 and Ryo despises music with a commercial focus – but prove effective given a well-executed atmosphere, best exemplified by Bocchi’s conversation with Nijika in Episode 8. The darkness outdoors sets a melancholier tone, while the lack of background music and the faint glow of the izakaya adds a realistic touch. Nijika’s story is poignant without turning overdramatic, impressing on us her maturity and emotional resilience, making that earlier cliché about treasuring Starry and wanting to make it big significantly more impactful. Of further interest is the usage of the drink counter as a ‘serious’ zone: In Episodes 2 and 3, Nijika and Kita open up there to Bocchi about their feelings regarding the band, while Episodes 5 and 8 feature Seika’s tsundere attitude, coldly rejecting Nijika’s appeal while concealing her worry for their live performance.

These points summarise BtR’s strength as an adaptation – despite barely moving forward narratively speaking, it’s able to stretch out its limited source material and keep itself visually engaging through creative gags, random tangents and ordinary conversations. The manga does contain some bizarre reactions, but a majority of BtR’s visual strengths are anime-original. While this invites criticism of being repetitive or directionless, the evolution of Bocchi and the band as a whole firmly suggests otherwise.

It would be a prevarication to claim that BtR is flawless, however. Its storyline remains fairly simplistic, extending to the development of some scenes – Bocchi being forced to serve customers in Episode 2 obviously signals her eventual growth, and their group outing in Episode 9 is predictably ridden with mishaps, only to have a happy ending. In order to bring Kessoku Band together, Bocchi and Kita are recruited through overly convenient means, having been merely spotted or overheard. Furthermore, the show suffers from generic moe character designs, with samey faces demanding our cast to be distinguished by hair colour while extras are forgettable and mostly greyed out. Perhaps most damning of all is the overuse of its main jokes towards the end, like Bocchi’s loneliness or Ryo’s material obsession, especially when they’re not animated with the same finesse.

Bocchi the Rock! ends on an intriguing note. The band’s growth in confidence is concretised as they move from tension in their audition to flair in their festival performance, and group dynamics are satisfactorily wrapped up through Kita’s pledge to continue supporting the rest. Despite this, Bocchi herself doesn’t reach any new milestone, something we’d expect as a logical ending for a wholesome show about overcoming social anxiety. That’s exactly the point, though; Bocchi isn’t aiming for something as unrealistic as shedding her lifelong fear, she’s learning to live with it. Drastic change doesn’t happen in this final episode. She’s still scared of public speaking and talking to shop employees, but subtle growth has already taken root. That’s what the show chooses to end on: “I still have work today.” Reluctant, but with neither horror nor aversion – just acceptance.

Lycoris Recoil is undeniably clichéd. Hackers who infiltrate state-of-the-art technology and find restricted information from just the furious tapping of keys. An all-girls cast of secret agents filling the standard checklist of personality tropes and character designs. At the centre of it all, a duo who meet under reluctant circumstances, only to become inseparable by the time a chance to return to their lives prior arises. But it is unapologetically clichéd, and therein lies its primary charm.

For an original series, it's surprising how simplistic the plot remains in both premise and execution. The show does open on a fairly complex note, outlining the unnatural ... peace that governs their world while subtly hinting at its extrajudicial roots. Beyond these initial depictions of the DA and the Alan Foundation, however, the general plot direction becomes incredibly predictable, with villains that must fall and heroes that must live. The reasons why Lycoris Recoil succeeds and fails thus prove instructive as to how formulaic slice-of-life and action anime can work, through strong presentation and detail.

The show appears to be split into two distinct parts, with the former detailing the fluffy moments that bring our main duo together, and the latter focusing on the triangular clash between Chisato, Yoshimatsu and Majima. It is in this first segment where the show's formula seems at first glance to be clearly exposed. Roughly following an episodic structure, every week brings a similar plot skeleton to the table - a problem is introduced, LycoReco investigates the locations and perpetrators involved, the issue escalates in urgency, and Chisato either saves or is saved by her team. Woven into this are a plethora of activities seen countless times in media of the same genre, as the two go shopping, hang out at malls and sightsee around tourist destinations. As tends to be the case with the opening few episodes of a slice-of-life anime, our cast is painfully one-dimensional, Chisato's boundless energy warring with Takina's cold despondency regarding anything unrelated to her return to the DA. From description alone, this show could range anywhere between a forgettable CGDCT and the legends of KyoAni.

What ultimately differentiates Lycoris Recoil is the technical strength of its production. Praising a show's art and animation amidst studios with modern levels of talent seems a foregone conclusion, but the effect of cute, cleanly animated characters cannot be understated especially given more predictable plots. The outfits and scenery used throughout the show are colourful and vibrant, maintaining visual engagement through any scene, while the sheer quantity and quality of casual wear keeps every outing fresh and exciting. When considering how a majority of this diverse wardrobe is worn on the shoulders of our main duo, even the most stereotypical cast could shine. From the now-iconic 'sakana' pose Takina makes in the aquarium to the many sly and sheepish faces of Chisato, creating two lovable central characters goes a long way in retaining viewers through duller times. Of further note is the importance of solid sound design; Takina's voice actress sells us on her role as a rigid task-focused assassin, and Chisato's absolutely nails her carefree nature while adding key accentuations to show her boredom or seriousness. We never get the full 90 seconds of visuals for the show's ED, but the upbeat instrumental lead-in serves as an instant boost of optimism, enabling the happy ending of Episode 3 when Takina breaks out of her shell to play board games with the other patrons. These strengths serve as the show's make-up and safety net, softening any pitfalls and elevating any peaks.

Picturesque lives and budding relationships grind abruptly to a halt as Lycoris Recoil delivers a major turning point in Episode 9. While not as big a shift in tone, given the exploration of more serious conversations with Yoshimatsu and Majima in Episodes 7 and 8, major stakes in the form of an ultimatum threaten LycoReco's fragile peace. There are attempts to emphasise the impact of this scene - removing the background music entirely, Takina reacts with convincing disbelief and denial, the orange glow of sunset adding to a melancholic mood. Despite this, key mistakes in establishing atmosphere limit its strength as an emotional twist. Without changing art styles or the usual expressions of its cast, the overly childlike faces of Takina and Mizuki clash jarringly with the gravity of the situation, crafting a more lighthearted atmosphere that sells the ultimatum short. Takina's decision to run away after her emotional outburst seems almost petulant for this reason; how can we treat the prospect of Chisato's death seriously if the scene as a whole is set up to signal the opposite? Worse still, the simplistic nature of conflict resolution in later episodes exacerbates this flaw. When Kurumi is able to find the existence of another artificial heart through laughably unrealistic attempts at hacking, and when the Lycoris are saved by her questionable propaganda video, we realise that all must eventually end well, undercutting endeavours at building tension.

The importance of proper setup thus exemplifies the inconsistency of Lycoris Recoil's last arc. When scenes are well constructed, with an appropriate atmosphere for carefree and poignant moments alike, the show shines with maturity and confidence. Look no further than the episode right after - while Chisato maintained her happy-go-lucky persona after the revelation to the annoyance of Takina, she reveals subtle vulnerabilities in her conversation with Mika in Episode 10. With a similar lack of background sound, our attention is fully focused on their small talk over the counter, making the patches of pensive silence between their simple responses far more illuminating. In contrast to the show's usual focus on facial expressions, they are rarely displayed throughout this sequence, Chisato's frown momentarily shown in contrast with the smiling pictures in front of her. A wintry cold dominates the scene - minimal movement occurs on camera as Chisato's exit and entry to the café are shown through cuts rather than action, impressing on us a still, lifeless gravity. Lights are slowly switched off, mirroring a fading sense of hope, before a turnaround finally comes with Mika's proposal for further conversation. As the lights turn back on to highlight Chisato's signature grin, we know that everything is back to normal. This isn't limited to softer scenes; Lycoris Recoil's final episode proves a masterclass in action sequences. The bright glow of Majima's phone serves as the only light source in a dying sunset, centering our attention throughout their constant movement. Motionless, both Chisato and Majima suddenly burst into explosive action, their fight interspersed with shots of Takina's ascent and a rearranged version of the show's OP, carving the mood of a truly epic showdown. The bench in Episode 8, the snow in Episode 9, the sunset in Episode 10 - these setups are unquestionably clichéd, but when changes in art style, tone and lighting are weaponised to their fullest, their impact cannot be understated.

While serviceable for comedic purposes and thrilling shootouts, a majority of the cast lacks nuance and development by the end of the show. While not as significant insofar as characters like Fuki and Kurumi fulfil their role in driving the plot forward, the tropes that they clearly fall into are hard to ignore. Takina is the cold raven-haired beauty, Sakura is the cocky newcomer, Kurumi is the token loli - these clichés ultimately limit our attachment to their respective characters, finding less reason to be interested with what similar shows have offered. In contrast, Chisato proves an intriguing amalgamation of different concepts, an overpowered heroine with compassion towards enemies mixed with classic airheaded optimism. As the show progresses, she gains additional nuance, with her newfound lifespan and powers revealed to come with an obligation that clashes with her fundamental values, placing her in a state of moral indecision that prompts Takina to attempt killing on her behalf. While such increased complexity is admirable, it is in these very developments that underlie the flaws in her writing.

Takina's attempts to help Chisato kill Yoshimatsu and his assistant in Episode 12 plunge her into mortal peril when they strike back, placing Chisato in a beautiful dilemma between saving her friend and betraying her identity. When Chisato squeezes her trigger, a red patch ballooning across Yoshimatsu's chest as she screams in horror, it seems like she has finally faced some level of consequence. Not so lucky - the wound isn't fatal, and he limps away, allowing Chisato to escape another sticky situation. This reflects a major issue with Chisato's character development: There are no stakes associated with her actions. Despite the natural expectation that her immense power would eventually meet some limit or repercussion, she continues to use the same abilities with reckless abandon, saving whomever she wishes and achieving her own happy ending. Even as push comes to shove in the show's later half, we can tell at an instant that she will never die or lose to Majima. More concerningly, as the show puts Chisato wholly in the spotlight, everything is centered around her, reducing Takina to her servant and stifling her unique personality consequentially. Now dedicated to saving Chisato from villains and heart failure alike, she joins the DA, leaves during their crucial mission for nothing but a flippant promise to protect her and bursts onto a firefight twice to miraculously turn the tides of battle. As Chisato is placed on the pedestal of a heroine, Takina suffers the ignominy of second best.

Majima gets it right when he talks about heroes and villains with Chisato in Episode 13. "Reality is filled with heroes of justice. "Good people" are punching each other out." His words reflect the trend of how Lycoris Recoil's three other parties - the DA, the Alan Foundation and Majima - are portrayed, often lying somewhere in between good and evil. From Episode 1, despite glowing words of praise for the DA's role in safeguarding peace and prosperity, we immediately sense something wrong with their cold murders and misuse of orphans' lives. Similarly, while the Alan Foundation starts off as our primary antagonist considering the shady crimes they commit behind the scenes, we are simultaneously introduced to their positive effects on award-winning athletes and Chisato herself. These 'nuances' are fairly simplistic, merely showing two polar opposites to muddy the waters regarding their intentions, but without a clear bastion of goodwill, we are kept guessing which will triumph in the end and which we should support. Majima proves the most nuanced of the three: He's initially introduced as a terrorist that kills many Lycoris in a surprise shootout, forming an underground threat to LycoReco's future safety with his plans to take down the DA alongside Robota. As his villainous nature grows more pronounced, our fear of him heightens when he sets his sights on Chisato, but their meeting ends up being surprisingly cordial as they bond over their shared status as Alan children. By defending Chisato from Yoshimatsu and through his candid conversation with her in Episode 13, our opinion of him shifts drastically, especially given his charismatic ploy to expose the immorality underscoring the DA. He's still a mass killer with little regard for human life, but his burning desire to have a good fight with the one he fears most has an epic ring to it, keeping him likeable and well-balanced between hero and villain. While occasionally superficial, Lycoris Recoil thus demonstrates a good understanding of manipulating viewer perception regarding its equally flawed stakeholders.

Time and time again, a simple truth has been proven. People may remember a show for its stellar writing and creative direction, but people will certainly remember a show for its girls. Zero Two from Darling in the FranXX, Mai Sakurajima from AoButa, Rikka Takarada from SSSS.Gridman - the popularity of these girls and many other flavour-of-the-month heroines outspanned and outlived that of their parent series, often becoming synonymous with them for non-viewers. If this show's skyrocketing popularity and positive ratings across the season are anything to go off on, Lycoris Recoil has certainly struck gold, a shining nugget with pale blonde hair and an infectious smile. Some may find Lycoris Recoil's simplistic and fluffy nature boring, while others may find it comforting, but it cannot be disputed that A-1 Pictures has succeeded in what it sought to achieve: A rebellious, lovable duo changing the world in their own ways.

7/10

Anyone who's seen Hibike Euphonium knows that one scene in S1E12. Kumiko walks, then breaks into a desperate run, tearfully galvanising her competitive spirit into action. One sentence stands out in that outburst.

"Umaku Naritai!"
"I want to improve!"

As Kanon proclaims, in front of her entire school and town who've been standing behind her all this time, that "I want to win!", the same chill went down my spine. It's a pity I'll have to wait more than a year for this story to continue.

Episode 1 immediately hooked me, not just because of Kanon's wonderful solo, or Keke's antics. What really got me was its final 4 ... minutes. A gleaming quill settles into Kanon's backpack, as cherry blossoms dance in her wake, and she spontaneously breaks into passionate song. I've rewatched this clip way too many times, and a lot of that is thanks to the brilliance of its art and OST. The town that this series is situated in is so, so well drawn - its shopping district, teeming with families and students alike, gives such a cozy and warm feel that makes us immediately at home. Not only are these backgrounds detailed, but the liberal use of bright colours and natural elements (just look at Kanon's family cafe!) sell us on a perfect, pastel world with its own tight-knit communities, a setting that comes in handy much later on in the series. I don't usually pick up on OSTs during a TV series too, but the orchestral tracks that support some of the show's more climactic scenes are difficult to miss. And that isn't even mentioning how good their songs are!

3 songs in particular stand out to me. Tiny Stars, with its subtle nods to Keke's roots, its catchy melody and heartwarming choreography that concludes a fairly emotional arc of friendship. Nonfiction, for being an absolute banger with the most impressive choreography I've probably seen in an idol show to date (and for giving off very strong Sagajihen vibes!!). And my favourite out of them all, the show's main ED. Not only is it fully animated, with different solo, duo, and group versions that reflect the events of their respective episodes, it is so incredibly warm. I love EDs whose instrumentals begin even before the episode is over, and the way Episode 2 transitions into it is cheesy, but oddly perfect. When that first titular line comes, the show finally feels complete.

But if its art, soundtrack, songs, and story are all so captivating, why isn't this an 8 or above? A severe limiting factor to Superstar!! is its characters, and how specific arcs are developed. Consistently, the solution to overdramatised problems is to talk it out, and tease out the underlying reasons behind a character's actions. While this worked for its initial few episodes, the same formula was applied to increasingly contrived conflicts, making their cheesy resolution seem painfully hackneyed. A certain character was the worst offender of this - not only was her turnaround jarringly rushed, but the change in her perspective came from an incredibly unrealistic chain of events that made me wince. Her arc felt like 3-4 episodes compressed into 2, and its rushed pacing seriously impacted my enjoyment of her involvement for the rest of the series. The dialogue eventually got on my nerves for how childish and unrealistic it sounded (no one talks like that to their close friends?!), especially when the girls were discussing their love for their school, or a suitable group name. Maybe I'm just being overly cynical, but I couldn't really buy into the suffocating levels of optimism that Kanon showed towards connecting the entire school through the power of music. Love Live! is a franchise that frequently dabbles in such extremities, but I imagine it would be even more off-putting for newcomers to its power-of-friendship copouts. And even though the CGI was markedly better than its three predecessors, some performances still looked stiff and unnatural, breaking my immersion in its atmosphere.

With all that said, I'd be lying if I said those flaws were fatal. Maybe it was the power of Kanon's voice, or the vibrancy of its art that kept me going to the end, but this was a show that I genuinely felt excited about after every episode. Quality and enjoyment often come hand in hand, but for Superstar!!, though I had constant qualms about the originality of its writing and the execution of its drama, that flame of anticipation was never extinguished within me. That's what I admire about Superstar!! the most - in every performance, frame, and detail, the passion of its creators shines brighter than anything else. Its makers poured their heart into delivering a new generation of characters for us to love, and love them I shall.

There is no reason why Promare should work. Its story makes little to no sense - the overly convoluted explanation for how the Burnish came to be feels like a 9 year-old's creative writing piece, and it probably isn't helped by the 2.5 minutes of pure exposition that reveals a whole new side to the story more than halfway through. If Promare's scriptwriters wanted to create a cliched story of good triumphing over evil, why did it waste so much time creating a boring (the show became self-aware when it showed Galo falling asleep!), logical explanation to its chaos? Why didn't it develop the sisterly ... bond between Aina and Heris more? And what on earth was the last 15 minutes??

But it does work, because it masters the art of fun. Watching Promare made me confused, and at times wince at how over-the-top its characters were, but it never lost my interest. From its incredible opening sequence to the visual masterclass of its climax/resolution, Trigger's animation singlehandedly carried the whole movie. Who cares if the plot sucks? As long as it gives us enough to hype up the next fight, or change our viewpoints towards our main characters, it would have done its job, and it sure as hell delivers. I can say without hesitation that Promare's usage of CGI and camera movement is the best out of any anime movie I've ever watched: even with its more simplistic and exaggerated art style, Trigger went all out to make this movie as colourful and bombastic as possible. Epic fight in an office building? We get MULTIPLE fluid camera shots that follow our duelists from within, to the rooftop, to across the city skyline, and we are able to catch everything that's going on, despite how cluttered its visuals may be. Calm conversation by a lake to slow down the pace? Nah, let's just animate a beautiful spinning shot of one of our main characters skating across its frozen surface. Art is a solid 10.

And while not as outstanding as his work on other action series like AoT and 86, the soundtrack slaps. The obvious attention-grabbers are the Superfly songs (which are seriously awesome), but Hiroyuki Sawano is so talented at creating tension, and releasing it at the perfect time to enhance key moments. Even from the opening song, backing a really cheesy "the gang's all together" rescue mission, the movie already radiates passion and positive energy (and very distinct Lego City advertisement vibes). In its technical arrears, I really can't find much to criticise.

Promare may not be a masterpiece, and you shouldn't carry any expectations of that kind when going into it. Expect perfection, and you'll leave disappointed. Expect fun, and an all-around good time, and you'll leave with a smile.

This movie sounded amazing. Evan Call's soundtracks really elevated some of the more emotional and dramatic scenes, and Eve never ceases to amaze me with how good their songs are. Studio Bones absolutely nailed the animation too; from super detailed (and really cute!) characters to beautiful scenery shots, they certainly brought their A game here. 9/10 for both Art and Sound, for sure.

Unfortunately, the positives kinda stop there. What followed from an enthralling premise and a breathtaking first half-hour was a runaway train towards narrative disaster. I really wish I could tear into how poorly executed its dramatic lows were, but I want this review ... to be as spoiler-free as possible so I can hopefully warn potential watchers on what to expect.

Story - 2/10

It's your run-of-the-mill romcom, sure, and it is fairly cute and heartwarming at times, but don't expect any form of realistic or sensible drama. Everything in the story conveniently happens to push the sickeningly cliched plot forward, to the point where its ludicrosity transcends into comedy. Even ignoring that, the general plot direction is so boring that I could name a dozen similar, but better executed shows. Bunny Girl Senpai's movie comes to mind - the dramatic climax and aftermath is pretty much identical, but the build-up to that in this movie was far shallower and more contrived. The movie then becomes obsessed with digging the drama hole further and further, layering more and more tragedies onto the characters until it barely feels tragic anymore. As if it couldn't get worse, this is followed up with the cheesiest rendition of 'Hopes and Dreams will Save the World!' that I've ever seen. Ah yes, hopes and dreams are able to resolve physical and practical impossibilities. As long as we believe, we'll get the perfect relationship out of an extremely frayed and toxic one just 10 minutes prior! But that leads me on to...

Characters - 3/10

No, Josee making snarky, rude quips at random points in the show does not make her a well-written character. She is exaggerated past any reasonable point - I get the defensiveness and spite towards the world around her, but the movie is so quick to make 180 degree switches between that and her completely happy and trusting side so... anything gives? The male protagonist gives me heavy harem MC vibes - dense, overly nice for no reason, and somehow every female in the show falls in love with him, despite completely missing backstories for some of them. Speaking of which, the side characters were somehow done even worse. Not a single one managed to remotely stand out, and got so little development and screentime that I couldn't even remember their names. The characters are only marginally better than the plot, but that's honestly because nothing can get worse than the plot.

Overall/Enjoyment - 5/10

All in all, it's not all bad. The story occasionally hints at the start of potentially good ideas, and its latter half makes some attempt to link to its promising first half-hour. But virtually everything that made that first half-hour stand out - the main duo's hobbies, constraints, and budding friendship (which was actually really nicely developed) - gets thrown out of the window once the drama hits. For such a talented production team, it's a real letdown. At least I got a couple nice additions to my playlist out of this.

As of writing this, I've rewatched this movie around 5 times. But rewatching anime films is nothing out of the ordinary. Nor is picking up on new details and artistic touches each time; I've spent a similar amount of time picking apart the meaning behind Naoko Yamada's other masterpieces, Koe no Katachi and K-On. Unlike those two, however, Liz and the Blue Bird manages to stay fresh every time.

Firstly, to get this out of the way: Liz is, in my opinion, a functionally standalone film. Some knowledge on how Nozomi and Mizore's conflict played out in Hibike! Euphonium Season 2 may help, but it's not ... necessary.

Considering the almost laughably minute scope of Liz's plot - one setting, one ephemeral friendship, one tiny time frame - the idea of it being able to produce continuous novelty and excitement seems far-fetched. Liz's workaround, cliched as it may sound, is to dive into the micro, rather than the macro.

Nowhere is this more prominent than in Liz's opening sequence. Koe no Katachi starts with bombastic youthful exuberance, a slideshow of Shoya and his friends living the time of their life backed up by a charming 1960s hit. K-On's movie chooses a similarly intriguing way to begin, subverting our expectations of the band before revealing it all to be part of a prank. But Liz hits a far different chord, with only one short exchange occurring in 6 minutes of otherwise narrative silence, supported by Kensuke Ushio's "wind,glass,bluebird". For a movie about music, these wordless 6 minutes were as much an introduction to the main cast as a display of cinematographic and directorial flair. Nozomi drops her indoor shoes carelessly onto the ground, while Mizore elects to softly lay them down. Nozomi spins on the spot before entering the music room, but Mizore stands still, watching her friend walk further and further away into a gradually whitening screen. And that's JUST the first SIX minutes.

At this point, Liz has already shown its hand. There are no major plot twists, no world-shaking drama, no big objective the characters must struggle to, but inevitably achieve. Life is rarely so outspoken and clear-cut, after all.

Rather, Liz stakes its hopes on touching its audience with a humble, realistic depiction of youth. No one has the answers to everything, not unless you're an edgy 14-year old with the ability to hack a VR game from within. No one is ever confined to a stereotype, and no one ever really knows the true consequences of what they are doing. By placing such great emphasis on each action and reaction, we are able to grasp how the actions that one party regards as typical can be perceived by the other as monumental. Characters lie to the camera just as much as they lie to each other, appearing to respond in one way, but showing minute cracks in their facade which point towards another. Truly, nothing can really be condensed down to concepts as simplistic as "tsundere", or "happily ever after". We must learn to respect the different perspectives and emotions that everyone around us faces, lest we hurt our friends in ways we may not even be aware of.

That attention to detail isn't just limited to our main duo either; Yuuko, Natsuki, and Ririka could've been lazily written solely to advance the plot, but through the difference between their interactions with Nozomi and Mizore, we see how differently the two are perceived by their closest friends, and the delicate ground everyone must tread.

It goes without saying too that Liz would not be nearly as outstanding without its music. The composition of the titular piece, "Liz and the Blue Bird", is beautifully sad in its own right, but by scattering snippets of it throughout the film, its emotional payoff is that much more significant. Kensuke Ushio does just as good of a job in Liz as in Koe no Katachi, with individual tracks like "reflexion,allegretto,you" heightening the emotions evoked by their accompanying scenes, while changes in musical tone indicate shifts in emotional states and perspectives. For lovers of Liz's parent series, Hibike! Euphonium, this attention to musical detail would come as no surprise.

Liz respects its characters. Liz respects the modest scope it starts with. Liz respects the uncertainty that clouds everyday existence and interaction. It would've been so easy to invoke "the power of friendship", creating rifts in Nozomi's and Mizore's relationship while introducing a larger challenge they had to overcome together so they would necessarily advance towards a happy ending. If one looks at the general plot outline of Liz, that may very well be the conclusion drawn. What does a "happy" ending mean, though? There's no clear goal achieved at the end of the show. No one's life has been significantly altered, and Nozomi's and Mizore's relationship barely changes from the movie's beginning.

What's been achieved, however, is infinitely more important than some tangible victory. It is mutual understanding and acceptance, and in our day and age, it's something we all need.