May 16, 2020 Recommended
Emilia spent 25 episodes and one hour-long OVA as the demure yet bromidic object of Subaru's affections whose only defining traits - her glacial color scheme and glamorous costume designs - were perfected at the concept art stage, with only the matter of Rie Takahashi's voice requiring any movement beyond the drawing board. For hours, she sat in the background with all the depth of the boisterous fruit seller from episode one, waiting to be written into an actual character and leaving us to wonder what could possibly sway Subaru to such undying devotion - and, more importantly, what grounds he has to make
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Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Apr 20, 2020 Recommended
Rascal Does Not Dream of Bunny Girl Senpai walks a tightrope that few other high school anime can master: it depicts high school life without giving in to the temptation to coach its target audience about what the world is like and, more importantly, what they themselves are like. While the dryly ribald protagonist, unenthused take on teenage social conventions, and endless supply of ingénues with supernatural ailments chain AoButa to series like Bakemonogatari, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, and even Clannad by way of comparison, with plenty of Oregairu for good measure, AoButa’s refreshing honesty and humility imbue it with a creditable sense
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of identity.
Several spoilers follow. By now, the high school setting is more synonymous with anime than giant robots and untenable power-scaling. The medium is saturated with characters who share one significant characteristic with the majority of intended viewers: they are all in the midst of a period of discovery. Navigating high school – or the teenage years, more broadly – has always been a critical personal struggle, and many shows have naturally, perhaps unconsciously, adopted the goal of offering advice to help with that struggle. Whether it’s delivering a meat-and-potatoes “power of friendship” spiel, making a pep talk about finding one’s passion, or waxing philosophical about what it means to be a certain type of person and how that type of person should act in a given situation, few shows can resist the opportunity to sit the audience on one knee and explain just how the world works. This is every “there are two kinds of people” maxim, every “that’s not the real me” entreaty, every explication of how “when people feel X, they do Y.” It’s like catnip to a whole sector of society that doesn’t quite know how it feels, what it wants, where it’s going, how it should act – growing up is confusing, and nobody can do it without help. Though acknowledging the uncertainties of adolescence can add dimension to a work and allow for a crucial connection with consumers, beyond a certain point that acknowledgement turns into lecturing, then pandering, and then utter tedium. AoButa diverges from its compatriots at this juncture, choosing to stop at acknowledgment without dispensing clichéd advice or enforcing its own hollow interpretation of youth. Each arc in this series deals with a realistic problem, an eternal adolescent issue spun out into a supernatural affliction to examine that issue under the lens of extremity. Things like bullying, peer pressure, and self-hatred cannot be solved with a simple set of step-by-step instructions; there is no quick solution that would have been great if only every kid had just thought of it at the right time. Sakuta Azusagawa cannot tell you, the viewer, how to overcome your problems by using the Girl of the Week as a straw man, and he knows this. While he might act as a catalyst to solve the supernatural aspect of each arc, Sakuta distances himself from the personal element, leaving the ultimate fix in the hands of the victim. When it comes to tackling the internal problems, all Sakuta does is listen, prod, and provide support. Without any great speeches explaining their personalities, without any grand showing of caring or not caring, he demonstrates concern for his friends in a natural, modest, and healthy manner, and that is the very soul of this series, the thing that makes it great. His wily banter and crude frankness might disguise it, but Sakuta cares about the people close to him, and his sister’s harrowing experience with Adolescence Syndrome – which left him literally scarred – has made him sensitive to such problems and mindful of how to handle them. Futaba can give him only the high-flung theoretical science behind each scenario; he has a taste for the complexity of their human motivations. Sakuta’s mature approach to helping his friends works in tandem with the show’s understanding of a teenage perspective to create a much different, more emotionally astute feeling than most similar shows are capable of. Koga’s arc provides perhaps the best illustration of these two distinguishing elements. During her time with Sakuta, she admits that she has gone through great efforts to change herself: disguising her accent, putting on makeup, going to a stylist, dressing more fashionably, etc. We see the immense expenditure of energy that this requires on a daily basis, and the cliché self-confidence-PSA response is to want Koga to “be herself” – but when Sakuta asks her about it, Koga states that she is happy with who she is now. Just because Koga used to be a Hakata bumpkin with frizzy hair and her head in the clouds does not mean that that’s her “true” self and that she should stay that way; she might have changed herself a lot and one consequence of that was falling into a less-than-ideal social circle, but changing herself was not a bad thing that separated her from who she “really” is. Koga wants to be beautiful, cheerful, and likable, and she works hard for that goal; Sakuta appreciates this and lets her alone without resorting to presumptuous lecturing about who she is. Koga does pick up some less beneficial habits: she remains constantly attached to her phone, fraying her nerves just to please her friends, concerned with how things will appear to others more than with how they affect herself or Sakuta. Her desperate preoccupation with staying up to date with the conversation and the shallow cattiness of her social circle raise red flags for the audience, who can tell that Koga has gotten locked into an unhealthy situation. But her fixation on her phone is an issue not simply because it takes her out of the moment, because she isn’t paying attention to Sakuta, because kids today spend too much time on their damn phones; it’s because the effort required not to lag behind the social pace of her environment takes a great toll on her. If you miss a single day of gossip, jokes, and cute animal videos, you have suddenly fallen out of the crowd and you can no longer relate to the people around you; this is the hazard of life in a society with such a short attention span and such high expectations for collective engagement, and this is something that younger generations must grapple with. That’s also why Sakuta presses her about her activity – not because they’re supposed to be on a date and her mind is elsewhere, but because the pressure to stay involved forces her to act to her own detriment. To some extent, the resolution to Koga’s arc abides by tropes and anime fantasy: Sakuta rushes to her defense at his own expense, she falls in love with him instead, they promise to remain friends, and Koga gains a new, healthier friend group with the stereotypically plain, shy girls who will undoubtedly forge more meaningful bonds together. While Sakuta plays an important part, however, Koga eventually realizes for herself the harsh standards of high school society, the lies and improprieties that everyone will buy into, and the hopelessness of subjecting herself to such frivolous pursuits. She takes herself out of that loop and surrounds herself with people who value her for who she is – without sacrificing the effort to live up to her own ideal of urbane beauty, which might have been demanded by a show that mistook its own message of valuing what’s on the inside over what’s on the outside. Futaba undergoes similar trials, feeling such strong dissatisfaction with her own desire for attention that she splits into two versions of herself: one that dresses casually, keeps to herself, and backs away from the spotlight, and one that dresses provocatively, plays up her feminine appeal, and tries to get herself noticed. Again, while the risks and imprudence of Bizarro World Futaba’s after-school hobbies are apparent to the audience – and likely to Sakuta – Sakuta doesn’t take it upon himself to choose Futaba’s path for her. He stabilizes her and guides her away from her risqué behavior, but he doesn’t invalidate the side of her that genuinely wants to be noticed as an attractive, semi-normal girl – mostly by Kunimi, but, failing that, by anyone. He pointedly dodges the question of which Futaba should be considered the real one and refuses invitations to make the choice for her; he accepts both versions, recognizing that each version reflects some part of the original Futaba’s real nature. Keeping one and losing the other would mean sealing away a piece of Futaba; just because she never acts that way doesn’t mean she never feels that way, and the only viable long-term solution is for her to come to terms with her own feelings, not to pretend that she is something that other people believe her to be. Sakuta may be impossibly articulate for a teenage boy, but he kindly refrains from echoing the trope of the long-suffering nice guy who will undertake any kind of unnecessarily histrionic bloviation to the benefit of his friends of three-to-six weeks. His involvement comes not from Angelic Protagonist Syndrome but from a place of sincerity and empathy; it may be disguised by jokes many teenage boys only wish they had the courage to voice, but his “dourer Kyon” persona balances his helpful streak to make him both more likable and more believable than a run-of-the-mill anime protagonist. When Nodoka questions him about his relationship with his parents, all he can muster in response is “I don’t know. They’re my parents.” It’s a dumb and unhelpful answer, but it reflects his grasp of life’s complexities, and it sure beats yet another clever aphorism that boils down the ineffable to a simple catchphrase. If anything, his blunt admission is more useful to the struggling Nodoka than all the hard answers in the world. Life just isn’t one way all the time. How does anybody really, truly capture the essence of their relationship with their parents? Why do we continue to insist that it is possible and even desirable to do so in a two-sentence onscreen exchange? Sakuta himself is one of AoButa’s most valuable assets, and he also happens to make up 50% of another: the relationship between himself and Mai Sakurajima. In only a couple of episodes (well, give or take), AoButa accomplishes what so many hundreds of anime can only hint at in the finale: the two main characters enter into a committed romance. They ease into their arrangement so naturally, too, as if they really do complement each other perfectly. Their relationship is supportive, even familial; conversations may be dominated by Sakuta’s irrepressible raillery and Mai’s callous repartee, but each exchange is built on genuine affection, devoid of affectation. Their unquestioned acceptance of and concern for each other – not to mention each other’s families – is a better model than most shows will ever provide, even if the exact nature of Sakuta’s wit makes the surface level of their banter dangerous to try at home [note: Sakuta is a trained professional with a team of screenwriters behind him and these remarks should not be tested on female acquaintances in real life]. With a refreshing attitude toward the problems of adolescence, a pair of leads with great chemistry, and acerbically funny scripts, AoButa feels like a revelation of some new path for high school anime. Unfortunately, the technical execution has yet to catch up to the concepts. The animation is typically mediocre; at best, it manages not to detract from important scenes, but most of the time it keeps to a minimal and unremarkable standard, with characters occasionally going off-model or moving clumsily and no real watershed moments that show off the stockpiled budget. The backgrounds and general visual direction are nothing special either; this is one area where it seems a little unfair to compare AoButa to the Monogatari series, which prizes its avant-garde visual style over all other elements and stands up to just about every comparison, but given how much of an Ararararagi/Senjougahara expy the main couple is and how similar the basic premise is, it’s hard not to be disappointed by how colorless and dull AoButa is. And that would be true if AoButa were compared to a lot of shows, but the disparity is exacerbated when put next to the show’s main inspiration. The character designs likewise could fit into any number of shows. That’s not to say that they’re unattractive; they’re just plain. Oddly enough, the metaphysical concepts that get tossed around like beach balls suffer from a similar lack of distinguishing features; it’s awfully convenient that Sakuta has Futaba around to name-drop some famous thought experiments (and THAT is why Sakuta solves his time loop in a few days and not 600 years, thank you very much, not out of any inherent superiority in reasoning ability), but it’s not always clear how exactly the scenario at hand implements quantum mechanics - at least, not enough to warrant an exposition dump. The explanations are vague, kind of tacked on as a form of lip service to establishing some kind of mildly plausible basis for Adolescence Syndrome. Futaba’s contrived expositions don’t add anything revelatory to the plot and mostly serve to muddy the waters with pseudo-intellectual posturing – and this show is otherwise intelligent enough not to require this angle, which makes it something of an irritation. The show has a small array of dramatic devices in its arsenal, one of which is characters spontaneously collapsing. The interjectory faint serves as an efficient bridge between scenes when tensions run too high and the situation cannot be resolved without an improbably melodramatic caesura, but eventually it is necessary to learn how to write transitions that do not involve characters waking up in bed after a dizzy spell. It seems as though the show can’t run for three episodes without somebody keeling over from exhaustion, fever, or coming into contact with more than five milliliters of below-room-temperature water. Of course, it’s not anime if none of the characters contracts a life-threatening case of the narratively convenient sniffles, and in a show based around mysterious maladies that strike the psyche, maybe it’s more excusable… it’s just that it also seems more prevalent and a little more hackneyed each time. Overall, the flaws are serious enough that I don’t think I could in good faith call Rascal Does Not Dream of Bunny Girl Senpai a “great” show, but its strengths are both sufficiently significant within the show (did you hear that OP and ED?) and significantly challenging to the standards of high school anime that the show is worth holding in high regard. It’s like Sakuta himself: it may take digging through a few layers of jokes to uncover its simple emotional motivation, but it won’t take great pains to hide it from you if you care to look.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Mar 21, 2020 Mixed Feelings
For an OVA that ought to be 60 minutes of fun-generating characters spending brazenly narrative-free and trope-adjacent off-hours in each other's company, Memory Snow is disappointingly barren of charm. Though I have mixed feelings about the parent show, Re:Zero at least refuses to accept its mediocrity without a fight, and this OVA strips away each of the most potent weapons in the show's arsenal. Kenichiro Suehiro's Morricone-influenced score is largely gone, for starters. Being a laid-back side story means no startling brutality, which means that the "Return by Death" mechanic is also ruled out (although it really didn't have to be).
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Most of all, at some point in the jump between parent series and OVA excursion, the entire cast underwent some rapid Flanderization that reduced them all to a handful of punchlines - most of which aren't worth the cost.
Ram and Beatrice can always be relied on for a few good put-downs and reactions, but there's no sign of the charismatic and dedicated Subaru who carried the series, and the perfunctory relegation of Rem from "legitimate romantic interest" to "the obsessive member of the harem" feels like nothing more than a shallow mischaracterization for the sake of some dead-weight gags, and that's not worth my time. Emilia suffers from the same problem as in the parent series: she's simply out to lunch all the time, and beyond a sweet voice and impeccable dress sense, it's difficult to determine why Subaru holds her in such esteem, let alone detect any significant chemistry between the two of them. This might be the kind of material that ought to have been workshopped and farmed out to Isekai Quartet, if someone wanted to take Re:Zero for a little ride around the glibbest joke formulas in sight. Perhaps it's asking too much of an OVA to deliver something on par with the main series, but at an hour in length, it does not seem terribly unreasonable to expect - at the very least - something either more substantially romantic or consistently comedic. Memory Snow isn't equipped to fill out that much time; even with a few different scenarios that are rife with opportunity, so much of the run time drags. If the creators had simply bitten the bullet and pulled out a hot springs episode somehow, sinking into that familiar register might have explained away the general lack of concern for quality, but an hour's worth of promised date time with Emilia amidst a winter wonderland really ought to have delivered more than this. Even setting aside a few sweet moments and a few jokes that land, a lot of this OVA is just dead air.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Mar 29, 2019
Kyoukai no Kanata
(Anime)
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Mixed Feelings
Kyoukai no Kanata strikes me as a classed-up counterpart to Love, Chuunibyo & Other Delusions: light entertainment resting on pillars of cute characters, enlivened by the prospect of romance between two improbable candidates amidst supernatural mischief, wracked by a story insufficiently cultivated and a world insufficiently explored, plagued by inferior writing and tepid humor; animated and directed with the assiduous attention to punctilios that has become the bread and butter of Kyoto Animation, but anchored to the dramatic language of light novels.
The male protagonist, Akihito Kanbara, lives an ordinary, unoccupied life in which he demonstrates no depth beyond the basic running gag ... material, in this case a megane moe and a mortifying mother. Only a tumultuous past and supernatural abilities (real, at least, compared to Chuunibyou) distinguish him from the extras. Likewise, the female protagonist, Mirai Kuriyama, is a phenomenon of adorable magnetism in every respect, but beyond her own tumultuous past and supernatural abilities, the dominating aspect of her personality is "dojikko," with a healthy dose of social anxiety and naive vulnerability to ensure that she will not drive the plot any more than Kanbara. Our supporting cast features such genre staples as the single teacher who can't get a man, the reptilian siscon upperclassman who looks like he should be voiced by Hiroshi Kamiya, and the loli who’s actually an ageless demon. Mitsuki Nase escapes the pigeonholing relatively unscathed - the Naoko Yamada-directed episode 5 in particular allows us to glimpse a layer underneath her surface personality that makes her seem more human than her companions - but she still lacks the narrative importance to pull the story away from its mediocre tendencies. The writing is a strange blend of explication and implication, a testament to the risks of tackling fantasy world-building in the same register as a teen comedy; episodes that in one moment communicate an important concept through succinct visual means will in the next run the gamut of expository dialogue, hanging context out to dry with a parade of "as you and I both know"s and "like I already said"s. Tedious, clumsy humor bogs down the slice-of-life scenes; while some jokes could be rescued with tighter timing, a quicker trigger, and some general sharpening - lessons from a gag anime would do wonders - far too often the punchlines are labored and predictable, quickly draining the fun from the exchange. This show has only so many jokes in its arsenal and rarely ventures beyond scenarios set up in the first episode, remaining willfully ignorant of the fact that character traits exist to create depth and not to propagate memes. Some of the more egregious aspects of the show's writing and tone evaporate as the story moves into its final act, only to be undercut by slippery pacing and the full bloom of the undercooked conflict. Mirai's dazzling acrobatics are almost TOO fluid; she slides from attack to attack in a display of animating acumen that is thrilling to watch but does nothing to explain the stakes or parameters of the action, and once the various battles have sped to their finales in those last couple of episodes, it is difficult to explain what exactly has happened and why. The show drops hints about its endgame in several earlier episodes, but when the last quarter suddenly unveils the deciding conflict, events move so quickly and with so little accumulated momentum that the resolution doesn't feel real when it arrives, and the shower of pathos certainly doesn't feel earned. The finale truly feels detached from anything the story has been driving towards, such that the absolute deus ex machina with which the series tips its hat doesn't rankle me in the slightest: whatever the show wants, I will allow, for the logic behind every aspect of the scenario eludes me equally. Combine these compositional missteps with a level of risque fan service that is somewhat unusual for Kyoto Animation - whose own brand of audience pandering typically aims for the kawaii-moe-uguu bracket rather than simple titillation - and Beyond the Boundary comes out feeling not only unfulfilling but mildly distasteful. From a studio with such high standards, in a project staffed by such creative talent, applied to characters with such potential, it's hard not to find Beyond the Boundary terribly disappointing. I have become accustomed to much more personal and well-considered content from Kyoto Animation. Episode 6, the “idol episode,” perfectly exemplifies the show’s greatest flaws. In between an episode that grasps the fragility of the characters with tender understanding and an episode that examines Mirai’s traumatic past comes a ramshackle space-filler drastically at odds with the material surrounding it. The ridiculous premise itself doesn’t bother me – the central performance is well animated, nicely choreographed, and accompanied by a catchy song. I won't trouble over a hasty excuse to get the characters into an improbable getup in most cases. The writing again proves to be an Achilles heel, however; the dialogue is peppered with riff after riff on the same exhausted catchphrases to the greatest extent of all, and the explanation of this bizarre conceit arrives so clumsily that it strains to the point of failure any good will that might have been built up over previous episodes. Had the idol concept been a tighter gag couched in a broader world-building episode instead of a pathetically transparent attempt to exploit the show's fan service potential as much as possible, had the writing pursued some new comedic ideas instead of falling back on old standards that weren't funny the first time, had this episode done something, anything at all, to bridge the tonal gap between the two episodes that bookend it instead of completely ignoring the show's development, there could have been something here; it still would have sat in an awkward place between two relatively personal and weighty episodes and, truthfully, might not have been worth salvaging at all, but it would have been fine. It is instead an example of Beyond the Boundary at its worst: bypassing the untapped strength of its characters and world to prostitute its own potential for cheap, superficial appeal. Narrative and conceptual flaws aside, Beyond the Boundary excels as an aesthetic work; with its mouth-watering fight scenes, consistently perfect lighting, and gorgeous colors, it ranks among Kyoto Animation's most impressive works of animation to date. In fact, the ED animation, occasional gentle tone, and spellbinding, cinematic visuals present here flourished in Taichi Ishidate's next directorial project, Violet Evergarden, which holds the crown at present (among series, anyway). Even the sumptuous color palette described by the episode titles is a sensory treat; truthfully, I could stare for hours at the Blu-ray menu's lash of black/pink text over an orange sunset scene with Minori Chihara's distinctive mellow voice crooning out the enrapturing OP - I've probably spent more time sitting in the show's ambiance that way than actually watching it. I love that feeling and I know that this show is capable of recreating this atmosphere on a series-wide scale. Ishidate's attention to small personal details and typically insightful character animation bolster the sense that the series is a lot smarter when it doesn't open its mouth. KnK is cute, no doubt - Mirai and her counterparts certainly succeed there, if nowhere else - but unrewarding outside its stylish dressing and disappointing for how its core fails to live up to that creative splendor. The day may come when that style becomes enough for me; there are some excellent individual episodes, it's true, and the series is usually entertaining at the very least, so I know for a fact that I will be watching it again and I don't regret spending money on it. Still, I never thought I'd rate a Kyoto Animation show so low, but wanting a show to be good, and even enjoying it in spite of its flaws, does not make it good.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Mar 19, 2019
Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu
(Anime)
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"Legend," "Galactic," and "Heroes" are the only three words grand enough to capture the scope of this series. It isn't just the galaxy-spanning stage; it isn't just the fathomless well of supporting characters; it isn't just that this is the longest OVA ever or that it contains the largest cast of any anime or that its initial run, accomplished in installments over nine years, was itself an extensive undertaking. Legend of the Galactic Heroes taps into the rich vein of historical inspiration, crafting an epic saga with an acute grasp of the follies of humanity; its immersive, fast-paced narrative makes 110 episodes feel
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like only the smallest fraction of the full story, yet at the same time seems to span aeons and worlds. This is indeed a legend.
Like any epic saga, Legend of the Galactic Heroes folds all manner of archetypes, story arcs, and events into its narrative, an ever-mounting climax underpinned by inexhaustible stores of characterizing detail and world-building exposition. Incisive understanding of the origins and directions of major societal shifts grants this series an authoritative voice - open up a history textbook and bountiful precedent armors the plot with realism. Legend of the Galactic Heroes serves as both one individual history (as a summary of specific events in a specific timeline) and a meticulously refined microcosm of human history as a whole (as a model of how nations will rise and fall given certain immutable circumstances). There are magnanimous rulers whose edicts change half the cosmos with a single signature; there are loathsome, insignificant toadies whose petty vices throw a wrench into well-intended progress. The galaxy evolves sometimes at the hands of one powerful individual, sometimes through a random act by one forgotten pawn, sometimes as the result of unexpected natural disaster or the convergence of ideological tensions or uncontrolled mob rule; conspiratorial machinations, silver-tongued maneuvering, and something as simple as an all-out fist fight can the turn the tide. The future is sometimes malleable according to the whims of a few, sometimes inevitable because of the momentum it accumulates. One day, Yang can change the fate of civilization. The next day, he can't. Such is life. Everything depends on more factors than any individual or nation can harness and exploit: history, prejudice, idealism, vices, fortune, tragedy, greed, miscommunication, hope, ignorance, politics, religion, terrorism, nationalism, patriotism, inequality, geography, technology - the full range of facets that contribute to the human condition. Even when the next-episode preview lays out in no uncertain terms the main event of the next installment, it seems impossible to predict exactly what will happen, to say nothing of how events will spiral outwards from that point; the thrill of watching things play out is undiminished by foreknowledge, no more than knowing how a 200-year-old war ended makes it any less interesting to read about. And further still in the manner of history, the story never seems to end. Each government gives way to a new power; each armistice crumbles before achieving true peace; each tiny ripple yields unforeseen consequences. A bold claim it might be, but these 110 episodes contain no filler; the overstuffed narrative absorbs nearly every scrap of spare time. The flood of events is constant, and every moment is seen through the lens of a future chronicler, each pitched conflict and personal aside contextualized for future generations by an omniscient narrator who serves the function of a university lecturer putting pieces together. That's not to say that Legend of the Galactic Heroes is dry; on the contrary, such a rich and nuanced world requires appropriately equipped characters to tell a story. Though its tightly wound plot structure and insatiable demand for action would seem to stifle any opportunity for more personal, character-driven scenes, Legend of the Galactic Heroes succeeds brilliantly in developing its protagonists. In Yang Wen-li and Reinhard von Lohengramm, the series lays claim to two of the most human, most magnetic, and most phenomenal characters in the medium of anime: two singular, monumental identities, flawed, yet seemingly invincible; uncertain, yet charismatic; socially inept, yet beloved; ignorant, yet omniscient; mortal, yet divine. Yang, with his hangdog expression, soft eyes, and laid-back demeanor, always scratching his head and napping with his boots on his desk and his beret over his face; Reinhard, with his icy glare, stern convictions, and calculating mind, always at war within himself. As the story tracks these two eponymous heroes in their rise from the ranks into glory-studded leadership and popular approbation, they grow and adapt, gain allies, suffer loss and defeat, fall in love, endure hardship, and strive for universal goals. In all the time spent with them, not a moment goes to waste; even the tiniest glimpses of domestic life in between battles contribute to valuable characterization. Likewise, many of the other faces who populate this world bring with them outstanding personalities - once again belonging more to the realm of timeless archetypes than to the shallow pool of stock characters found in so many works whose superficial trappings eat up all the effort. The fidus Achates Siegfried Kircheis; the earnest prodigy Julian Mintz; the steady supporter Frederica Greenhill; the sagacious adviser Hildegard von Mariendorf; the stalwart soldier Wolfgang Mittermeier; the prideful tactician Oskar von Reuentahl; the amoral serpent Paul von Oberstein; the dashing warrior Walther von Schönkopf; the irreverent Lothario Olivier Poplin; the insidious pragmatist Adrian Rubinsky; the shameless opportunist Job Trünicht; the reserved veteran Willibald Joachim von Merkatz; the slippery codger Alexander Bucock; the impulsive braggart Fritz Joseph Bittenfeld; dozens upon dozens of characters, even hundreds, make Legend of the Galactic Heroes a rich, vibrant, and altogether fascinatingly human world, from the smallest bit players to the chief protagonists. The series has its surges of triumphant action and satisfying demonstrations of prowess, but it's the characters who make every moment bear fruit. Three of the series's most outstanding (spoiler-free) moments are as follows: 1. Yang asks Frederica whether she is feeling unwell. 2. Attenborough imparts the gift of the universal answer: "Oh, yeah? So what?!" 3. Admiral Eisenach is mistakenly served two cups of coffee instead of one glass of whisky. Seemingly insignificant, yet revealing. In the midst of galaxy-spanning intrigue, while genius commanders marshal herculean strength with grandiloquent strategizing, LotGH intersperses small, humanizing anecdotes of the sort an indulgent biographer would momentarily set aside his hagiography to relate. The memorable character designs - both realistic and striking - and excellent range of performances complete the circuit needed to bring this series to life. From Ernest Mecklinger's calming bass to Mittermeier's impassioned exhortations, from Oberstein's mechanical deadpan to Poplin's whimsical repartee, from Freiherr Flegel's pompous whine to Annerose von Grünewald's soft benevolence, all are inspired - though no one is to outdo the most important of all, Kei Tomiyama's portrayal of Yang. Sensitive, wise, self-effacing, principled, capable of gentle humor, loving concern, and righteous anger, Tomiyama's Yang is a perfect performance. The spacefaring era in which the series is set serves two major purposes: first, to exponentially increase the scale of the story; and second, to illustrate the cyclical nature of history - that is, while the series is set some centuries into the future, viewers may recognize narrative elements from current and past events, an insistence on the part of the series that certain familiar trends plague unappreciative civilization in every epoch no matter how far it advances. Given the distinction between "hard" and "soft" science fiction, LotGH could be said to favor the soft side, so much so that it almost shirks the mantle of science fiction entirely; the battlefields may be star systems instead of plains, the fleets may be composed of starships instead of oceanic vessels, the fortresses may be planet-sized marvels instead of stone walls, and the handguns may shoot lasers instead of lead, but Legend of the Galactic Heroes approaches world-building without concern for technological wonder, alien races, evolutionary concepts, dystopian predictions, and other hallmarks of science fiction that might distract from the point. This is a series about the intransigence of human values, after all. A Germanic empire enforces a rigid social hierarchy among its peasants and nobles while across the corridor its loosely federated, democratic rival languishes in a familiar state of lazy, corrupt decadence. Pen and paper still suffice to take notes; axes and halberds dominate hand-to-hand combat; lords and ladies wear waistcoats and gowns and breeches to balls thrown on their country estates, designed in neoclassical style; even in the Free Planets Alliance, whose culture and society are not as wedded to (now ancient) tradition as the Galactic Empire, the elements of futurism are token Star Wars references much of the time. Truth be told, there is a third major motivation behind the futuristic setting: it's cool. As a rule, this is a series that sets more stock in realism than aesthetics, but "style and capriciousness" is something of a mantra for these characters, and few things are more stylish and cool than being the Kaiser of the Galactic Empire, commanding a Teutonic Death Star analogue, or amassing fleets for a space battle. From a visual standpoint, Legend of the Galactic Heroes does vary greatly in quality; some episodes contain competently fluid action sequences, whereas in others one can practically see the cels sliding over each other. The age shows frequently, but the success of the series rests very little on the actual animation quality, and for the most part it is by no means inferior - merely indicative of an older style. The aforementioned character designs still contain so much personality; the more recent incarnations absolutely pale in comparison. Musically, too, the series follows a style not often found in anime today, if at all, choosing quiet vocal pieces for the OPs and EDs and painting the backdrop with flourishes of symphonic dignity: altogether fitting for something older and more imperial rather than something futuristic or, indeed, animated. Over the span of its 110 episodes, Legend of the Galactic Heroes incorporates interstellar warfare, political intrigue, and social observation, usually delivered with commentary in a serious and dignified manner, but not devoid of humor and light-hearted digressions. The tale of how the Galactic Empire and the Free Planets Alliance came to be weaves in and out as their ultimate evolutions take form. Part epic war story and part political/historical drama, the series is perfect for any viewer who loves to memorize names, faces, and places. It may, admittedly, be a difficult venture for those who do not share a predilection for memorizing data, but the powerful characters and enrapturing story make the series more than worth the effort. Viva Democracy. F*** the Kaiser.
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Jan 2, 2019
Wotaku ni Koi wa Muzukashii
(Anime)
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Recommended
Wotakoi exudes the refreshing confidence of a story that deals with working adults rather than high schoolers. When dealing with amatory matters, Wotakoi is a damn sight more graceful and insightful than anime treatments of romance tend to be, the result of following characters with greater maturity, perspective, and experience than the standard oblivious teenagers. Nonetheless, while it establishes its central relationships with frank efficiency, the show doesn’t always convey the depth and warmth in those relationships that would make the statement in the title resonate. Love is hard for Love is Hard for Otaku.
With the youngest of the four protagonists ... being Narumi and Hirotaka at 26, Wotakoi’s quartet is comfortably lodged in adulthood already. These characters are settled into their hobbies and are well-invested in them; Koyanagi has an established reputation as a cosplayer, and Narumi enjoys some success as a doujinshi creator. They have inveterate tastes that they exhibit with the ease of people who have been otaku for the better part of two decades instead of just a couple of years, with Narumi functioning as the fujoshi, Hirotaka the gamer, Koyanagi the cosplayer, and Kabakura the guy who is deluded into thinking that he is comparatively normal but still loves Yuru Yuri at the age of 28. They all have regular office jobs (the same one, apparently) and can financially support themselves and their extracurricular activities. The lack of classrooms and uniforms and homework is, if only replaced by offices and business attire and overtime, a breath of fresh air. Koyanagi has a self-possessed coolness that frequently rings hollow in younger characters, Kabakura’s seniority grants him some measure of actual authority, and Narumi’s infectious fangirl passions can drive her into 18+ territory without, as we might find in high school anime, vague suspicions that this might be inappropriate content for the characters. Even Hirotaka, a familiarly nondescript and inexpressive character, comes off as a purposeful recluse who does take note of himself and his environment to a greater degree than we might think, whereas a traditional high school context might have made him more of a caricature. No one is safe from miscommunication, self-deception, oblivious behavior, and petty disputes, but Wotakoi’s characters can handle themselves and their issues more adroitly than the usual cast of inexperienced adolescents. In addition to the “adult” side of its characters, Wotakoi grasps the “otaku” side with understanding and aplomb usually absent from attempts to capture the quirks and feelings of a particular subculture in media (even if it’s that medium’s own subculture, there’s no guarantee of success). The games that Narumi has to play to sniff out fellow otaku at work, Kabakura’s stubbornness in maintaining his preferential integrity, Hirotaka’s uncharacteristically playful text-speak with Narumi, the jarring gravity well of encountering a regular person after too much time in the esoteric hobbyist sun, and the freeing therapy of having friends around whom you can express your true self are all true-to-life by my reckoning, and the numerous scenarios pulled from everyday life as a nerd, as well as references to properties like Evangelion and Cardcaptor Sakura, demonstrate some firsthand knowledge and love on the part of the creator(s). With each of the four leads representing a different subsubculture, as mentioned above, Wotakoi has plenty of opportunities to explore the habits and proclivities of its audience. Where Wotakoi falters is in its amorous aspects. It’s true that Hirotaka and Narumi have excellent chemistry: they open up to each other right away and from then on become an inseparable and complementary duo. Likewise, though Koyanagi and Kabakura launch into shouting matches at the drop of a hat, their underlying affection never evaporates. What we don’t see are the big questions, the real fights, and the serious romance, which are only hinted at or glossed over in the show and need some presence if Wotakoi wants to distinguish itself as “Love is Hard for Otaku” instead of “Friendship is Easy for Otaku.” The title of episode two asks, “Are We Now Dating?”, and that’s a question whose circumspect response only approaches closure at the end of the series. In a pair of pairings that seem to have formed out of convenience – convenience for the characters, not for the story, which is a good thing – questions arise regarding the exact nature and future of these relationships. Love really IS hard for otaku: in the case of Koyanagi and Kabakura, each party has made compromises to maintain a relationship with someone who can put up with their hobbies, and in the case of Narumi and Hirotaka, the two seem to hang out because they support each other’s pursuits and can facilitate the other’s professional success, as if it were an expedient business practice (Hirotaka’s first-episode “confession” was certainly more of a business proposal than anything else). Being part of such an active, obsessive subculture can make relating to outsiders difficult, or at least tiresome, so it’s not unrealistic that people would gravitate towards each other based on these superficial similarities. Those connections make for great friendships, though not necessarily lasting relationships. I wish that the characters displayed a bit more interest in each other as partners rather than pals. Koyanagi and Kabakura, a veteran couple whom we know have been dating for about a decade now, don’t have much problem being affectionate with each other, relatively speaking; we see Koyanagi stealing kisses, Kabakura making clumsy but well-meaning gestures, and the two of them spending a lot of time together in the quiet manner attributable to couples who feel at home simply doing nothing in the same place. They’re clearly comfortable enough to trade vitriol when they’ve wheedled or casually insulted each other too much (with Koyanagi cutely shouting “BAKAKURA!”), and they know where to hit to make it hurt and how to placate the other side when it’s all over. But the show passes up many opportunities to look beyond the surface level and explore what makes this a fundamentally stable, loving partnership. In episode 4, a distraught Koyanagi tearfully demands to know if Kabakura has “settled” for her; knowing that she isn't his “type,” she harbors doubts about whether their relationship has any firm foundation. Showing her in such an uncharacteristically vulnerable state, Wotakoi proves itself willing to ditch its often contented perspective to dig into some problems unique to the premise. Yet as Koyanagi breaks down, venting these insecurities that have apparently plagued her for a long time, Kabakura keeps his lips sealed. He gently chastises her for causing a scene, essentially dismissing her frustrations as drunk talk – not that he’s mean to her, because he is clearly sympathetic, but he totally whiffs on demonstrating his love for his long-term girlfriend. We don’t get the heart-to-heart where they express how they actually FEEL about each other. We don’t see them acknowledge that they’re together because of mutual love, not just mutual pastimes. Maybe the two of them have been through this before, but the audience hasn’t. To let Koyanagi’s entreaties go unanswered is to leave us wondering if she has stumbled upon an unfortunate truth that sours the tone of the show. Narumi and Hirotaka have a different sort of relationship: one that leans toward platonic companionship. We almost never see the two of them in any kind of romantic context; they’re always joined by Koyanagi and Kabakura, or they’re playing video games like they did as kids, or they’re sabotaging through their own awkwardness the rare personal moments they do find. The shared interest in otaku culture, even broadly, is a big part of their chemistry – Narumi and Hirotaka can be themselves while they’re around each other, they understand each other’s peculiarities, and they can support each other’s dungeon crawling and Comiket preparations – and these things are very important, but where does the “love” in “Love is Hard for Otaku” come in? Narumi might get jealous of Hirotaka’s popularity or flustered by his occasional forwardness, but such scenes feel like obligatory reactions, not reflective of Narumi personally; she did walk into this relationship unexpectedly, it’s true, so this might be a lot to ask, but I had hoped that an anime about adults would be a little less anime about everything. Hirotaka has been crushing on Narumi for years, as a few melancholy flashbacks establish, so his feelings are reasonably clear. Narumi has a few affectionately shaded moments, but little to suggest that she returns Hirotaka’s feelings. It feels like the two of them are masquerading as boyfriend and girlfriend because they each need someone to fill that role and they get along well, rather than because they’ve found legitimate life partners in each other. Sure, that’s how some relationships are in real life, and that’s really how the first episode presents it, and it’s not as though a close friendship itself is insignificant – but I don’t want to watch a romantic comedy about people who will hang out for a while because they’re good company and go their separate ways once the fun has been had. I want to see Hirotaka de-unrequite his love. Narumi has found someone who accepts her for who she truly is, and now I want to see something greater come from that. If we’re meant to believe that, however hard it may be, love – not brotherhood – between otaku is ultimately sustainable, I want to see evidence of a future in this relationship. I want to hear one character say the words “I love you” to another. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Hirotaka is 26 and he can’t hold his girlfriend’s hand. Maybe this is set in high school after all. Still, Wotakoi does throw us a bone now and then. The characters go on dates, they buy each other gifts, they spend quality time together, they acknowledge each other as girlfriend and boyfriend... I wish that things could be clearer and more satisfying, but as I opened this review by saying, this show still has a serious leg up on most of its competition. Overall, I’m thrilled with the easy companionship these characters have with each other and the fun that they share. Visually, Wotakoi has middling production values: generally good, with nothing that stands out as being egregiously under-animated; the episodes vary in quality and some scenes are just a little off-model or bare-bones. Nothing matches the OP in terms of quality, though it is an unusually great OP, with some very fluid (and infectiously adorable) dance routines from the starring couples set to a cool, catchy, relaxing tune that matches the tone of the show. The color scheme of pink, blue, green, and orange is a little weird at first, but it works well for the characters. In a cast that includes Miyuki Sawashiro, Tomokazu Sugita, and Yuuki Kaji, it’s Arisa Date who steals the spotlight as Narumi. Her eccentric, spirited delivery spans all the rapid tonal shifts and quirky affectations that would be characteristic of an energetic girl like Narumi, especially when gushing about her passions to her close friends. Taking a very close second is Aoi Yuuki, whose clipped, husky reading of Kou’s lines makes for the most painfully accurate expression of social anxiety I’ve seen this side of WataMote. Kou is hands-down my favorite character and it is a true shame that she only gets introduced in the second-to-last episode. I am ready for my three-cour spin-off anime about Kou’s daily life. I want to see a Kou-On! that’s just about Kou sitting around, playing video games, and drinking tea. Overall, Wotakoi is a great series, and in spite of a few unengaging story lines, some potential for better production, and how long I’ve spent bemoaning what I perceive to be its shortcomings, it offers an all-too-rare alternative to the billions of cookie-cutter high school romance anime that for all intents and purposes characterize the medium of anime in its present form better than almost anything else.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Nov 3, 2018 Recommended
My biggest problem with Chuunibyou has always been its dogged insistence that there is nothing really wrong with Rikka's fantastical persona. In spite of the fact that season one shows us that her delusions are a coping mechanism for unaddressed trauma and season two shows us through Shichimiya that continuing the charade only leads to hardship, we still see Touka pegged as the villain whenever she suggests that Rikka grow up and we still see Yuuta rush to Rikka's defense, enabling her to continue this behavior that has a demonstrably negative effect on her relationships, her grades, her social standing, her future, and her
...
ability to function in an adult society. Episode after episode passes the buck and tries to keep things lighthearted with the promise that Yuuta will let Rikka do whatever she wants and if nobody understands, that's their own problem. Saying nuts to reality is a favorite pastime of anime, but that works to varying degrees depending on the context, and Chuunibyou's situation should not allow for reckless disregard for the cold truth.
The task of taking a hard stance on Rikka's future then falls to Take on Me, the film that puts a bow on these conflicts once and for all. Spoilers aside, I think Take on Me handles its resolution in about the best way we could realistically hope; personally, I wish that Chuunibyou had taken itself a lot more seriously in the end (which may seem like a stupid thing to say on its face), but the ending with which Take on Me leaves the series is likely the most substantial and satisfying that could have been achieved without Kyoto Animation bending over backwards to give us another Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya (for a franchise that, all things considered, might not have been able to sustain such a dramatic scaling up). There are times when the film veers dangerously close to various other endings that would have left the series in a much different place - some for better, some for worse - but it winds up with a solution that feels like a promise of maturation. Even if I don't see it in front of me, as much as I would have liked to, the knowledge that things will, in fact, work out serves as enough of an ending in this particular case. As for Rikka's and Yuuta's actual relationship, the conceit that Yuuta has barely found himself capable of h*lding hands with his live-in moe-blob girlfriend of 6+ months is outrageous; perhaps not unrealistic, given the fact that Yuuta is an awkward teenager and both parties are shown to be particularly shy, but I wish this franchise had picked much more satisfying places to play at verisimilitude. Yuuta's stalling and blushing verge on the intolerable. Take on Me doesn't do a whole lot to advance that relationship, at least in the conventional sense. With a typically unsatisfying romantic angle eating up most of the time and a plot that's otherwise fairly predictable, underpinned by animation that lacks the characteristic gif-ability of the series and writing that matches, it's the slapstick antics of Dekomori and Nibutani that make much of the film worth watching. Really, this was Beating Around the Bush: The Anime. I felt I was watching people mess around while waiting for the real development to happen - development that would only be implied in the final minutes, of course - and even if that assessment comes off in a harsher way than I intend it (I still give this straight 7s across the board, after all), I do feel that in the end Chuunibyou never lived up to its full potential, and that's frustrating to me as someone who wanted very badly to get something out of this similar to what I've gotten out of so many Kyoto Animation shows. This finale is passable, acceptable, but not ideal. Side note: I award 5,000 bonus points for the scene where Yuuta decides that Rikka does not make for a good little sister and that, as someone who actually has two little sisters, there's no way he could have any interest in that sort of thing anyway. Once again, KyoAni goes above and beyond the call of duty in making other anime look like garbage.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Oct 25, 2018
Hisone to Maso-tan
(Anime)
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Recommended
Hisone to Masotan is an easy show to get attached to, thanks to its unique and lovable visual climate. Its plush and cartoony animation style, with its smooth, round shapes, thin lines, and pleasant colors, suits the semi-fantastical, semi-grounded nature of the show. The character designs, typically simplistic and soft, achieve a similar effect, mostly possessing a chibi-like quality well-suited to the show's playful side, but also adaptable to numerous expressions and situations. That pliability proves to be a boon, for the characters are the show's greatest strength, especially the titular Hisone Amakasu.
Hisone: wide-eyed and noseless, not fully free ... of youthful aimlessness, balancing confusion and a lack of confidence with a compulsion to say whatever comes to mind, no matter how impolitic. She makes for an interesting protagonist not only because of her uncommon personality type, but because of her uncommon position: she is an adult in the workforce, and a woman in the military at that. From the first episode, Hisone demonstrates an endearing sense of being overwhelmed by her responsibilities and a tendency towards brutal honesty that makes her easy to identify with and to love as a main character. Even if the rest of the show suffered much more severe setbacks than it does, Hisone's presence would make it impossible to stop watching. On the path to divining and accepting her own feelings, Hisone hits some very familiar beats (most of which involve denying that she has any feelings), but she pulls off an expert reversal thanks to her perpetual frankness. Once she grasps the nature of her attitudes towards her peers, Hisone expresses herself casually, forcefully, bluntly - in whatever way the situation calls for - and, during the show's climax, she engages in a strange confessional tirade that is as satisfying as it is unconventional. The show ends too early to develop a proper romance (despite multiple perfect opportunities to do so, which does leave me rather frustrated), but its willingness to discuss the possibility and show some of the steps along the way still sets it apart from the norm. Standing by Hisone through her experiences are the combative Nao Kaizaki; the serious, professional El Hoshino; the dry, reclusive Lilikos Kinutsugai; and the elder sister-like Mayumi Hitomi. At first glance, each of these pilots seems to embody some familiar archetype, but given the uniqueness of the setting, that deceit can last only so long; as the show progresses, each pilot reveals a different side not so easily summed up in a handful of glib, cliched adjectives. Lines of dialogue here and there, accompanied by brief scenes interspersed throughout the show, round out the pilots' personalities and establish them as thinking, feeling beings who, much like Hisone, face their own internal conflicts and have their own troubling circumstances to deal with. El most of all defies typical anime pigeonholing, as a character who could exist only in a show like this: she is a tireless worker driven to overcome the barriers in front of her and become the first female fighter pilot, but finds herself derailed by circumstances outside her control. Faced with multiple options that lead only to personal failure and criticism from her male superiors and peers, El suffers mental and emotional anguish over her placement with the dragon pilots, allowing the show many opportunities to comment on the treatment of women, especially career-driven women, in the workplace and how they are perceived by society. Strong performances all around, and in particular excellent turns from Misaki Kuno (Hisone) and Satomi Arai (Lilikos), liven up an already endearing cast, and Romi Park really gets going in the tail end of the series, to amusing effect. In the midst of a fantasy-based story, these characters and their situations give Hisone to Masotan some real substance. The show is half-ridiculous, but also half-serious; the last episodes take a dark turn that seems to be rather sudden - until a step back reveals that this show had always had a cruel side. All throughout this series, characters manipulate each other, deceive each other, and subject each other to crude, inhumane trials that can sometimes be explained or laughed away by the bubbly animation but resonate a little too deeply with real-world circumstances to be dragon-level fantasy. The crushing animosity of careerism towards personal relationships is frustrating and unjust, as it should be - perhaps blown out to strange proportions and approached in a weirdly literal way here, but no less real and no less dire. It takes a plucky protagonist like Hisone to reject such a system and pursue both of her dreams, if such a thing can be achieved. For all this talk of character, however, the lack of it in the OTFs themselves runs contrary to the show's intentions. By the end of the show, Masotan is no more of a character than he was in the beginning - a voiceless, amorphous figure more akin to a pet than a sentient being - and yet Hisone's attitude towards him has changed significantly, indicative of a deep understanding between the two that never fully comes to light and is presented as something the audience should take for granted after a certain point. Although the show's themes and figurative readings depend on Hisone's position as a dragon pilot rather than on Masotan himself, the narrative relies on Masotan as the true object of Hisone's affections; a lot of the conflicts and resolutions fall on his shoulders. Absent any clear basis for the relationship between dragon and pilot, aside from a vague sense of Masotan having "chosen" Hisone and Hisone having "accepted" her role, it's hard to believe that Hisone’s and Masotan’s companionship is as important as she claims it is and as important as the show needs it to be. Dragon Pilot's "all-pilot, no-dragon" approach works for me. As a nonhuman entity with neither a literal voice nor a figurative one, Masotan can only be so expressive and so nuanced a character; the subtextual (and textual) conflicts endemic to human relationships will always be more interesting to me than How to Train Your Anime Dragon. The show recognizes this truth as well, for the most part, spending most of its time with Hisone as she interacts with colleagues and navigates adulthood. Where this strategy falters, however, is in leaving the premise underdeveloped. After 12 episodes, the mechanics of piloting OTFs remain as cryptic as ever, and while the shock of the OTFs' true mission isn't insurmountable, their actual role comes out piecemeal. Certain details are withheld for dramatic effect, it's true, but there could have been at least a little more exposition to prepare. Nothing concrete seems to come of Iboshi's role and his poetic language; several of the conflicts in this show wind up looking like bumps in the road that could have been avoided, and though the wilder twists of the plot don't feel too jarring in the moment, looking back, I can't say that everything came together as cleanly as it could have. Perhaps events on such a grand scale were necessary to underscore the absurdity inherent to some of the themes, but from a purely narrative perspective, I think the show could have been better as an open-ended, slice-of-life-type show with no need for an "endgame" in this manner. The characters themselves could provide enough drama and intrigue to sustain a full series. Hisone to Masotan bids farewell on an uncertain note. On the one hand, its endearing cast survived multiple unexpected diversions untarnished; the show has several important things to say about sexism and personal responsibility while also reserving space for examining love and duty from a more adult perspective than what anime audiences are likely used to. On the other hand, the show never quite followed through on the potential to be daring and different that it announced on its arrival, becoming mired in an array of seemingly unnecessary twists and succumbing to unfortunate conventions in leaving things open-ended or unexplained. As confusing as some of the specifics are, however, the show's style, sense of humor, and lovable characters all make Hisone to Masotan worthy of recommendation and of revisiting.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Sep 29, 2018
Eromanga-sensei
(Anime)
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Not Recommended
Before I say anything vaguely substantive, I feel that the three most appropriate words to summarize this show are “tasteless,” “incest,” and “cancer,” so here are the lyrics to “Tasteless Incest” by Cancer.
Old man, sick in the head Daughter's children on his bed Twisted ways rule his life Forging deceit, bred to lie From the decades he has lived He's never stopped, where it begins Rapes his family when they are young Hoping they would carry on ... Keeping in the family Human disgrace The younger one's first He thinks nobody minds Tasteless incest Senseless lust Satisfaction, sickening trust Led to believe that it's alright Young boy cries into the night He will never change his way When he's dead, he may repay Hate is burning in young eyes When they're older, evil will rise I am confident that this ranks among the worst media I have ever consumed in any format. The stuffiest fustian of verbose Victorian vapidity I trudged through in high school pressed less distressingly on my attention span. The most deranged demonstration of depravity and the most grotesque glorification of gore unstomached by Takashi Miike would feel less inimical to my sense of basic human decency. The most flagrantly fetid farce of a one-man basement black metal demo exudes more respect for its medium and a more professional grasp of its own capabilities. No first-year art student on a deconstructive Dadaist bender could alchemically assemble something so calculated and hateful in its diametrical opposition to the very concept of artistic quality. Had Caligula, Gilles de Rais, and Albert Fish spent a weekend torturing their way through the red light districts of Sodom and then hired Zhu Yu and Eli Roth to document their exploits with a soundtrack from GG Allin, the resulting film would have been less overt in its moral repugnance than Eromanga Sensei. From the studio that muddled through Sword Art Online and the author who inexplicably kept paper and pen together long enough to write Oreimo comes an abominable affair of misery, woe, incest, sexual misconduct, and insulting levels of inanity and incompetence. This is a pathetic and pedophilic tragedy, an akratic assault on thousands of years of ethical development, the medium of animation, and the intellect, conscience, and aesthetic sensibilities of any viewer possessing the mental capacity to open up Crunchyroll and run a search for “Eromanga Sensei.” Talents such as Yui Ishikawa and ClariS were wasted on this show as a Stradivarius would be wasted on Kotomi Ichinose; talents never showed up to fill most of the other important roles. Aside from that catchy OP and the solid ED, there is nothing redeeming about this show. Not one clever bit of directing, not one unexpected gag that lands, not one moving swell of emotion; even the fan service is completely incompetent, and thank goodness for that. Forced memes, forced drama, forced humor, and characters forced into uncomfortable encounters of a sexual nature (either by the script or by each other). A setting completely devoid of respect for the physical constraints that surround productivity in writing, publishing, and selling. Supposedly god-tier erotic art that bears more resemblance to perfectly average light novel insert pages. Shallow characters, shallow conflicts, shallow backgrounds, and shallow... themes? Are there any? Hollow and glib misrepresentations of the life of a hikikomori so off the mark that the premise gets bungled before you can say, “This looks like trauma-induced agoraphobia and she should probably see a doctor.” A protagonist so milquetoast and devoid of personality that he makes the standard harem anime hero look like the singular and nuanced love child of Charles Foster Kane and Motoko Kusanagi. Relationships so unhealthy, manipulative, and downright abusive that 50 Shades of Grey looks like the world's greatest G-rated romantic comedy by comparison. This show is a cesspit of anime tropes reduced to their basest, least interesting, and most offensive levels. You may think that you have seen enough anime to understand what Eromanga Sensei is doing; after all, the harem structure, brother/sister complex, and the sexualization of underage characters are hardly uncharted territory for anime. Frankly, the most standard and innocuous elements of Eromanga Sensei are already in themselves lazy tropes that we shouldn't have to tolerate in our entertainment, but the things that this show does it does almost exclusively worse than anyone else. The way these characters act is only ever monumentally stupid or completely inappropriate for normal, functioning humans or both. I close by recalling the immortal interjection with which T.E. Lawrence opened The Mint: “God, this is awful.”
Reviewer’s Rating: 1
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Aug 5, 2018 Recommended
Rarely have I encountered something that seemed so unremarkable conceptually and worked so hard to make up the lost ground in its execution. Though beset with flaws, Re:Zero struggles against its mediocrity. Not all is forgiven, but I have at least been convinced to think of Re:Zero as its own distinct entity and will remember it for a long time to come.
Any show adapted from unfinished source material bears the burden of questions left unaddressed and story arcs left uncompleted. For those series that serve as big-budget advertisements for their source material, offering complete closure has no place among the storytelling ... priorities, but even for an adaptation of an ongoing light novel, Re:Zero leaves too much to the imagination. As the series progresses, accumulating subplots, side characters, and other narrative elements, it becomes increasingly difficult to divine how they are all meant to fit together and why we are exposed to them. For so many objectives to be introduced and then waylaid across 25 episodes, the span of the series's complete world and story arc must be substantial. Perhaps presented with the full picture, I could appreciate the dedication to world-building. Given only these 25 episodes, however, I see a series of stories that get introduced and then dropped into the background once Subaru makes it to his next “save point.” It is jarring to “finish” an arc, look back six or seven episodes into the past, and realize how far-removed the show’s concentration is now. Due to the nature of the show, we do wind up seeing a lot of these characters and situations many more times than we ought to according to their ultimate significance. Of course, Return by Death presents an interesting mechanic that, broadly speaking, Re:Zero employs in a more intelligent fashion than might be expected, but it makes grasping the true scale of the series quite difficult. Keeping track of how much time has passed, the characters’ relationships, and who knows what in each timeline puts undue strain on the audience; by the end, I have no idea how long it has been since Subaru arrived in this world from the perspective of everyone else, but I often had the impression that relationships developed and events unfolded in hours or days where they ought to have taken weeks or months – even years. To complicate matters, I don't find the world we are in particularly interesting. I have not personally watched enough shows of the isekai genre to say that I have grown sick of them (only of hearing about them and seeing them everywhere), but this fantasy world environment, aside from allowing for some entertaining instances of unrealistic combat and, somehow, a looser social structure, holds little appeal for me. Being forced to ask so many questions about the state and nature of the world, the government, the characters, their factions, and so forth only serves as a source of annoyance. Beyond the conceptual and into the tangible aspects of the world, there is nothing particularly impressive about the animation, generally speaking, nor the art, minus the astute observation that pink/purple/silver and blue/black/white are very workable color schemes. Subaru does suffer from a mild form of Kirito Syndrome. Despite being introduced as a hikikomori, his social skills appear undiminished, and even better developed than the average teenage male. If not a perfect physical specimen, he is at least in shape and knows a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat even before finding opportunities to receive proper training in the new world – and to the extent that he does receive training, we never see it. We see Subaru take a sword to some veterans time and again to get himself a royal whipping, but the show devotes almost no time to explaining his facility with a sword and magical arts; even if he is still a beginner by the other world’s standards, by Subaru’s world’s standards, he should have no reason to be so skilled. Is his unique strength his tenacity? Is that what he brings to this world that no one else has for some reason? His success makes him seem like an embodiment of a trope that’s wearing a bit thin. Conversely, the Return by Death mechanic is fairly intriguing. Subaru’s repeated deaths take a serious toll on him; it isn’t like a video game, wherein Subaru could die and respawn painlessly and ready to jump back into the fray. Over time, the constant failures and gruesome ends wear on his mind – it’s a shock he doesn’t have full-blown PTSD by the end of the show, though he seems to get pretty close on a few occasions. ReZero deals death with a strong hand. When people die in this show, they DIE with all the screaming and blood and insanity and stomach-churning grimness that that entails. Ordinarily I might consider this tactic crass and exploitative, but the sheer brutality is necessary to illustrate the desperation and trauma that plague Subaru – and to illustrate that Return by Death is as much a curse as it is a gift. Forced to relive terrible endings and find his friends, his loved ones, and himself butchered time after time, it becomes clear that this power is not an easy answer to any problem Subaru encounters, but a specter hanging over him and waiting for him to slip up. He must put serious effort into avoiding this end at all costs, even if he can start over from scratch if he does not succeed, and this drain on his sanity, combined with the progress he makes in his relationships with certain characters, does add needed tension to a story in which the hero is apparently undying. The soundtrack is easily the most praiseworthy aspect of the show that doesn't have blue hair. The chilling Return by Death cues, sobering combat themes, and reflective mood pieces work wonders in selling the tone and tension of the show, more so than any visual counterpart. Ennio Morricone's influence is palpable, particularly in the aforementioned Return by Death cue and in the final episode. It is lamentable that the OPs and EDs received so little play, for they fit the mood of the show quite well (and are simply great songs). Overall, however, the characters are where ReZero’s strength and passion come through. With such a large cast, even if their storylines are often neglected and tangled, there are a number of interesting faces that all seem to have a greater individual mythos behind them. Be it Crusch, Felt, Wilhelm, Julius, etc., I find myself wondering why we can’t have at least a short OVA explaining some of their back stories. Petelguese is undeniably pulled straight from Metalocalypse. There is no other explanation. None. Subaru himself works tirelessly at being the protagonist to end all protagonists; he’s a bit of a chump, but his dogged persistence is admirable. His unflagging good nature and tenacious devotion to Emilia tend to come off as inspirational rather than tiresome, set against the backdrop of his numerous violent deaths and his apparent ability to change the course of the future where no one else can. While he may be the victim of flawed writing sometimes, more often he has personal flaws integrated into the storytelling. He screws up, often quite seriously, and he might take several episodes to learn from his mistakes; we get the sense that, beneath his smiling exterior, he struggles to be a good person – but he does struggle, and ultimately I think he pulls it off. Emilia starts off as a very promising character and would make for an excellent love interest – if only she avoided being absent for half the show, developed beyond the point where we first meet her, and weren’t overtaken by a sudden late-game power play by Rem. Emilia still manages some touching character moments, and Rie Takahashi’s performance is nothing short of divine. Still, the true MVP is Rem, whose complete 180 (or 540, or 875, or whatever) turns her into something unanticipated. Of course, one can always count on any female characters to fall into the spectrum of potential love interests, so that development in itself is not surprising, but the scope of Rem’s Hail Mary play outstrips whatever competition there might be elsewhere. I found myself quite taken aback – for all the grating ubiquity Rem enjoyed during the show’s airing (and still now, to a more modest extent), she earned her place as the true heart of Re:Zero. What Re:Zero will do with these characters remains to be seen (hopefully in a second season of anime for starters). More than likely, the series will suffer from the same stagnation and neutered romance that grip most anime. Even if Re:Zero has higher standards than that, the prospect of injecting genuine fire into the relationship between Subaru and Emilia – enough to overtake the unprecedented waves of devotion emanating from Rem – is incredibly daunting. How do you manage that kind of outpouring of emotion twice? The most likely scenario is that you don’t and Re:Zero fades back into the tapestry of animation as a pretty good show with some strong personality and some noteworthy flaws.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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May 16, 2020
Emilia spent 25 episodes and one hour-long OVA as the demure yet bromidic object of Subaru's affections whose only defining traits - her glacial color scheme and glamorous costume designs - were perfected at the concept art stage, with only the matter of Rie Takahashi's voice requiring any movement beyond the drawing board. For hours, she sat in the background with all the depth of the boisterous fruit seller from episode one, waiting to be written into an actual character and leaving us to wonder what could possibly sway Subaru to such undying devotion - and, more importantly, what grounds he has to make
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Mar 21, 2020
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Mar 29, 2019
Kyoukai no Kanata
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Nov 3, 2018
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Oct 25, 2018
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Before I say anything vaguely substantive, I feel that the three most appropriate words to summarize this show are “tasteless,” “incest,” and “cancer,” so here are the lyrics to “Tasteless Incest” by Cancer.
Old man, sick in the head Daughter's children on his bed Twisted ways rule his life Forging deceit, bred to lie From the decades he has lived He's never stopped, where it begins Rapes his family when they are young Hoping they would carry on ...
Aug 5, 2018
Rarely have I encountered something that seemed so unremarkable conceptually and worked so hard to make up the lost ground in its execution. Though beset with flaws, Re:Zero struggles against its mediocrity. Not all is forgiven, but I have at least been convinced to think of Re:Zero as its own distinct entity and will remember it for a long time to come.
Any show adapted from unfinished source material bears the burden of questions left unaddressed and story arcs left uncompleted. For those series that serve as big-budget advertisements for their source material, offering complete closure has no place among the storytelling ... |
