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The absurdity of the Melancholy of Haruhi Suzimiya franchise is without a doubt it's most endearing quality. The use of outlandish and bizarre science-fiction characters to create what an ultimately rather mundane high school comedy has a rather cunning, almost satirical bent to it which has allowed the series to endure far longer than most other work in the genre. But more than just being funny, the set-up also provides the opportunity to explore more philosophical matters from time to time.

In Nagato Yuki-chan no Shoushitsu, or "The Disappearance of Yuki Nagato" in English the balance between the mundane and the philosophical is tipped slightly in ... the former's favour. That's not to say the science fiction elements are absent completely, but it's far more like a traditional high school harem series than the original was: far more time is spent on typical activities than before. That's not all: some of the cast members have had their personalities tweaked slightly for this series.

Yuki Nagato herself has a similar composure to the character from earlier series, being quiet and reserved, but now more closely resembles the behaviour of a real person. Her tendency to be quiet is no longer the result of a robotic mind but of shyness. She's also now a bit clumsy, no doubt in order to better cater to a certain kind of individual. Another character who has been changed is Ryouko Asakura, the murderous class representative of the first series. Her confident and slightly intimidating personality is retained, but is now concentrated on looking after Nagato. Her role is much larger than before too, in fact after Yuki and Kyon, she is the most important character in the series.

Tsuruya, the green haired ball of energy is also more important this time around, while Mikuru, Koizumi and Haruhi have been relegated to the sidelines. This shift has changed the direction of the series dramatically and even though these characters have not been altered their limited presence has had an effect on the series which is even greater than the more conventional approach. If you feel sentimental about the original series then there is a good chance you won't find this series as appealing as the others. The same goes for those who dislike the cutesy, mixed signals kind of romance that you find in other high school anime. This is a recurring theme, particularly in the earlier episodes.

But do not think that the series has become completely saccharine. On the contrary, this series raises far deeper philosophical questions than either the first or the second series do. Events conspire such that one character may be killed inadvertently to save another, a moral dilemma similar to the famous problem about an out of control trolley running down a hill. Though the set-up which prompted this dilemma are fictional, the ramifications of them are significant. The presentation of it is rather stirring too, and you may find yourself feeling rather melancholic about the whole affair when it's through.

Speaking of presentation, you may have noticed that the art style is radically different from the series which were produced by Kyoto Animation, and more closely resemble the artwork in the original light novels. The change is slightly distracting at first but the relative simplicity of it is ultimately rather charming. Though the colouring could be better: embarrassment is signalled with a change of skin tone rather than facial expression, and it feels lazy.

Mercifully, the original voice actors have been retained for this series, so no-one need worry about adjusting to a new Haruhi unless you watched the original series dubbed. The background music is pretty catchy too, but if you were expecting themes capable of rivalling the Hare Hare Yukai or Bouken Desho Desho you are going to be very disappointed, as both the OP and ED for this series are dreadful low-tier pop songs that have none of the excitement or fun that the original series themes did.

But music isn't everything, and unless you are the kind of person that can't stand the idea of your favourite characters being meddled with, then overall this series does rather well. And fortunately for us, those two legacies actually can co-exist with one another simultaneously.

It has now been several years since the controversy surrounding School Days have come to pass. The meme has faded into relative obscurity, Yandere characters are now a dime a dozen, and that very nice boat has long sailed off into the sunset. With the controversy behind us we can now begin our analysis to determine whether this cult title is a work of incredible bravery and intellectual substance as some have suggested, or the ludicrous eroge turned soap opera as others have claimed. In order to settle the dispute I have striven to make this evaluation as objective as possible, by detaching ... myself from the work as far as possible and instead exploring it in the form of a series of hypothetical questions.

School Days is an anime about a love polygon with so many faces that if you were to draw it, a grade schooler would be able identify it correctly. There is nothing wrong with this on a conceptual level, quite the opposite in fact: it's undoubtedly a recipe for intrigue, but one with a high likelihood of failure. Without taking the utmost care about the execution, the story could quickly disintegrate into pure exploitation, rather than the vivid exploration of the human condition desired by the creator.

Suppose that the protagonist of the series was a very charming, and powerful person, though lacking in integrity and moral fibre. Under those circumstances, it's not too much of a strain on the imagination to suppose they could be a cold yet seductive character, with no qualms about sleeping with multiple different partners. This would not be inconsistent with common prejudices about human interaction as if instead, a rather plain man was portrayed in the same circumstances. A man who say, didn't appear to have much in the way of a sense of humour, one who lacked any charisma, was not physically attractive or had any outstanding personality traits other than indecisiveness. Suppose in fact that he were so bland that he did not seem like a character at all, and was so generic that he came across more like a basic representation of an adult male, devoid of palpable personality traits to the degree that he feels more like a framework in which almost anyone could insert themselves if they so desired. Supposing that were the case, then it probably wouldn't make the story very convincing. In fact, it would probably feel more like a mechanism for living out some adolescent sexual fantasy, supposing that it were approached in that way. Theoretically speaking.

But there are two sides to any relationship, and perhaps it is the female characters who can elucidate what it is about this seemingly plain and rather bland figure who inexplicably never fails to leave every woman he meets stewing in their own sexual juices. It would not be sufficient to simply depict them falling in love with him again and again; there would need to be some exposition to explain what it is about this person... actually, let's give him a name. Something right off the top of my head, I don't know... Makoto Itou maybe. Yes, let's have the female characters verbally signify what it is about Makoto Itou that they find so captivating. Perhaps a whisper in the ear of "You're so handsome, Makoto-kun" in a moment of tenderness. Or a "You're so kind, Makoto-kun" after a gesture illustrating his humanity. Who knows, maybe even something like "You've got such a huge dick, Makoto-kun" would provide sufficient explanation as to why this Makoto Itou character suddenly finds him self inside every female he encounters. The specific details are not too important in the end, provided that some kind of reasoning is applied and not some redundant assertion like "You're very popular with the girls, Makoto-kun". While it's widely accepted that all women are prone to extreme jealousy and are by their very design, sexually insatiable, expecting them to make that deduction on their own is a bit unreasonable. Yes, I know that this is the only explanation that makes sense in the circumstances, but making it explicit will be necessary if we are going to create a work of intellectual substance.

It cannot be said enough that well developed characters are essential in creating a story, and that relying on plot twists alone is not sufficient. The purpose of any twist is to shock the audience with an unexpected turn of events, and in order to preserve the atmosphere where such a device is viable requires a great deal of diligence.

First of all, one must take care not to overuse plot twists throughout the story. And it goes without saying that you should not reuse the very same twist multiple times. Let's take a purely theoretical example of a main character initiating an affair with a female character. The first time this happens is likely to come as a shock to the audience and will undoubtedly lead them to invest more of themselves into the story. If that character were to then initiate another affair, while still shocking it most likely would not have the same impact on the audience as it did in the first instance. If the same character were then to begin a third affair, a sense of incredulity or even a feeling of being patronised to may eclipse the feeling of surprise. Yet another affair afterwards may even have the unintended consequence of becoming so over the top to be unintentionally humorous.

This feeling of incredulity may not be limited to the same plot device, but any new developments that may occur later on. If the patience of the audience has been stressed to the extent they are no longer able to take the work seriously, the impact of even a significant and unexpected twist may be wasted. It may even have the opposite effect of what was desired, causing the audience to laugh uncontrollably at the mess you have made.

That is, of course, assuming that creating a work of intellectual substance was your original intention. You could, of course, be perfectly content with making a harmless exploitation piece, with ambitions no further than titillating your audience before doing something a bit unusual at the end. But supposing for a moment that you really were trying to make something clever, a modern Greek tragedy say, or even a serious examination of the consequences of being sexually promiscuous or indecisive are... then you might inadvertently make yourself look rather foolish.

Imagine, if you will, that you've been transported to a fantastical alternative universe. In this world enormous creatures, resembling dinosaurs roam the landscape. Yet there are still people here: foreign looking ones though, and wearing clothes from the sixteenth century. And if all that wasn't depressing enough, your sword is considerably less sharp than you would have anticipated. Welcome to the world of Byston Well, and the exercise in terrible production that is Garzey's Wing!

Anyone who has ever dreamed of creating a work of narrative fiction: be it a film, a novel or an anime, would be well advised to watch Garzey's Wing, because ... it is composed entirely of examples of what not to do when writing. You'll find out what some of the worst possible ways of providing 'exposition' are. You'll discover why sometimes, less really is more. Finally, you'll learn why hiring amateur voice actors is a bad idea.

On the off chance you're not interested in making up a story of your own, Garzey's Wing is still worthy of your time. It is arguably the funniest anime ever made, because the people who made it really didn't have a clue. Let's take the director and original creator Yoshiyuki Tomino for example: besides Garzey's Wing, the only other noteworthy project he's been involved in is some old and obscure mecha series called "Gundam". Oh, that Yoshiyuki Tomino.

Yes, the man behind one of the most famous anime franchise of all time, and the inspirational, game-changing, original 1979 series of Gundam also made this, the most hackneyed attempt at a fantasy story ever made. It's hard to believe that Tomino didn't realise what he was doing wrong before it was too late.

The opening scene pretty much sets the tone for the entire series, highlighting all of the problems which we can expect for the next ninety minutes succinctly. A close up of an unappealing looking insect creature (a cicada) above some traffic. Our hero, Christopher Chiaka, is sitting atop his motorcycle and looking like a badass. Heavily exaggerated car horns in the background leave us in no doubt: he is, unquestionably, at the side of a road. Christopher may be a badass, but he's not stupid: he wouldn't dream of riding his motorcycle without the necessary safety equipment. Unfortunately, his female friend Rumiko didn't get the memo:

"Aren't you hot with such heavy clothing?"

Before Christopher, or Chris, has the opportunity to explain to Rumiko why wearing loose clothing on a motorcycle is potentially dangerous, she follows up with an altogether far more relevant question:

"Why do you have to go back to your hometown now? You've already failed the college entrance exams twice now."

Three sentences in, and already you feel like you've known Chris your entire life. But such economical dialogue comes with a heavy price, in that it seems totally artificial.

Rumiko's observation about Chris's clothing choice is an example of what is soon to become a trend in this anime: relentless question about insignificant details. This time it is a stupid question about clothing choice, later on it will be everything from the names of various mythical beasts to trivial questions at awkward moments. There is no reason why, amid the heat of battle, the protagonist would need to know what the name of the specific monster he is fighting at that moment. Such information may be important later, but someone with a gun pointed at their head is unlikely to be concerned with identifying the specific model before its owner pulls the trigger.

Her question about why Christopher wants to return to his home town demonstrates another failure in the dialogue: attempting to explain what is happening by asking questions retrospectively . It seems unlikely that over the course of Chris's visit with Rumiko, neither of them had the opportunity to discuss any upcoming engagements they might have in the near future. It may not be completely out of the question on this occasion, but this isn't the only example. It's unlikely for example that the Emperor of Byston Well would need to have a myth about the 'Great Baraju tree' explained to him by one of his military officers. If such information was pertinent to the defense of the realm, one would think defending it would be incorporated into their long-term military strategy.

The third line highlights the final common fault in the dialogue: the preponderance of non sequiturs. What connection does Chris returning to his hometown have to do with him failing his college entrance exams? Is he returning home because he failed his entrance exams? Was he intent on attending University in his hometown, after having moved away at some later stage in his life? Or perhaps the purpose of the trip is something frivolous, such as a class-reunion pool party?

Of course, one can look at Garzey's Wing through a critical lense and analyse it in the same way one would with any other film, but doing so undermines its more endearing properties. It's one thing to read through Rumiko's opening dialogue, but to listen to it is quite another. The voice actress who played her character seems to be unable to differentiate between 'annoyed' and 'furious'. It was obviously intended that her character was disgruntled by Christopher's sudden departure, yet the actress shouts out her lines in a loud and aggressive tone as though he had just spat in her face. It's actually hard to believe that even someone who's never acted before could misread their lines so badly. This is made crystal clear in her last line, when she lets out the positively catty remark "You're so easy-going!"

This is the first of many memorable lines from Garzey's Wing, and merely writing it down is making me chuckle. Rumiko is ultimately a minor character but every other member of the cast shares her foibles. The voice actor who plays Christopher is even worse: he is utterly incapable of showing emotion. He delivers every line in exactly the same tone regardless of situation, whether sharing the feeling of terror as he is chased by a "real army" or expressing deep sorrow that he was unable to attend his class reunion. The only variable, is volume. He shouts, and then he shouts even louder.

The story lacks all cohesion, and amid all the exposition one quickly loses track of what is important and is merely detail. The leaden quality of the acting makes it impossible to invest in the plight of any of the characters and the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing prevents you from taking anything in it seriously. At the same time it is this ridiculousness, and the cringe worthy dialogue, which makes Garzey's Wing particularly entertaining to watch. If you cannot bring yourself to watch ninety minutes of junk food anime, then I recommend at least taking the time to watch the condensed version.

There are many English idioms about third attempts. Third time lucky, third time's the charm, and I'm sure there's a third one. The first time you try something, you inevitably screw up because you've never done it before. The second time you have a better grasp of what you're doing but perhaps haven't developed the expertise yet. Surely this next time around, you'll be able to get it right?

"Evangelion 2.0: You Can(not) Advance" is the second part of Hideaki Anno's third attempt at cracking his popular magnum opus, and he'd better get it right this time. Particularly since he already managed to get it right ... the first time, and the second time as well for that matter. Indeed, so there's quite a bit of pressure for him not to screw it up completely.

The start of the movie comes out in its stride, largely because it is virtually an aesthetic improvement on the Television series. In fact, throughout the film there are a number of scenes which are lifted directly from the original television series, given a quick once over with digital animation and then presented as they were. Of course, and old car with a new paintjob isn't going to run any better unless you mess with the engine too. The most obvious change introduced is a new character, the ridiculously named Mari Makinami Illustrious, or deus ex machina for short. Her key role in the film is increase the merchandising potential by pandering to people who like crazy girls who wear glasses, and to show up for one major scene because of one plot revision. Yes, I am serious.

And even this plot revision is merely a substitution of one character with another. The same thing still happened in the original Neon Genesis Evangelion, it merely happened to someone else. Granted, this change does have rather major implications for the rest of the story and does allow the film to take a different course at the conclusion, but does this end justify the means? Introducing an entirely new character just to make a slight change in the character development of Shinji Ikari?

It may seem harmless enough, but the new character also detracts from the charm of the series. The ladies of Neon Genesis Evangelion had always been stereotypes, with Asuka the 'tsundere' and Rei the 'Kuudere', but in both cases this wasn't taken to excesses. Both characters retained a resemblance to real human behaviour, and their fan-pandering quirks only subtle. With the introduction of the Yandere 'Mari' this illusion is completely blown. Her weird behaviour becomes a distraction, and because one is clued up to know the reason behind it, it is also irritating. Mercifully she only appears a few times throughout the film before she conveniently arrives to intervene at just the right moment. All the same, the film is far less appealing than the television series simply for having her in it.

She's not the only thing spoiling the happy memories: the use of digital animation instead of traditional cell animation is, for anyone who is fond of older anime, a slightly disappointing change. That's not to say that either the art or animation is bad, because they're both excellent. But no matter how good it is, it simply lacks the charm of the more old-fashioned cell animation that appeared in the original series. But taking into consideration that the original Neon Genesis Evangelion also had very high quality artwork and was well animated, even this feels like an unnecessary perversion of an old masterpiece.

Unfortunately, the problem of remakes is insoluble. No matter how many changes or improvements you make, you will always end up being compared unfavourably with the predecessor. I am quite certain that, no matter how good this film might have been, it would never have been able to eclipse my fondness for the original. Even though the change in the story makes the same gesture more powerful, it still feels like a bastardisation. Even though the new character only appears a few times, her mere invention feels like an abomination. Even though the new digital artwork is smoother and integrates more cleanly with the digital effects, it still feels less appealing to my eyes. It's not the same, and yet it is the same.

Third time's the charm? No, if anything, three's a crowd.

Pretentious is a word which is thrown around a lot these days, even though it is a word that almost no-one seems to understand. In order for a creative work to be an example of 'pretentiousness' it needs to present commonplace ideas in an overly elaborate way, and while firmly under the illusion that what it says is deeply profound. It must have a delusion of grandeur, in other words.

There are many out there who say this about FLCL, but there are just as many who will also say, sometimes within the same breath, that it doesn't have any "storyline" or "plot" or that it ... doesn't make any sense. But if you cannot state what is being said, how can you assess whether what is said is novel or trivial? Nothing can be cryptic and conspicuous simultaneously.

As it happens, FLCL is not something which is terribly difficult to understand. The entire picture is little more than a metaphor for adolescence. This is hinted at slightly in the show, by the fact that the lead character Naota, is a young boy who suddenly becomes quite moody and irritable. Perhaps you yourself have experienced adolescence, or you know someone who has: it is the period of life where young boys and young girls begin to develop emotionally, physically and sexually. There are a wide range of symptoms, but Psychologically, they usually manifest themselves in the form of moodiness and irritability.

That is of course not to say that other aspects of FLCL can be considered part of adolescence. For better or worse, most people do not encounter fighting robots or alien bounty hunters until they enter College, or sometimes even later in life. This is an example of 'creative license' wherein creators are allowed to operate outwith the confines of observable reality and produce work purely from their own imagination. Of course, it is probable that in doing so these creations have a connection to something which does exist in the real world, acting as some kind of 'metaphor' or 'allegory'. One example of this which appears in FLCL is the character Haruko. She is the first woman which Naota looks at in a sexual way, and is very alluring despite being completely unsuitable as a romantic interest. In other words, exactly the kind of woman that an adolescent boy would be attracted to. Of course, women are beyond the comprehension of most adolescent males, perhaps to the extent they may be perceived as being 'alien' to them. I am not a literature student, but I believe that there is a term used when a writer attempts to emphasise the similarity between to things by equating them with one another. Oh yeah, a metaphor.

Another important character is Holden Caulfield, or Mamimi as she is actually known in the series. While Naota is in the onset 'angsty' phase of adolescence, Mamimi is in the 'existential crisis' phase where patients become consumed with apathy and decide to take up smoking. For Mamimi, the transition between childhood and adulthood is incomplete, and while she is sexually active she is still very childlike in her reliance on others. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, has left her behind... placing some distance between them... like the distance between childhood and adulthood, possibly... who knows?

If you are not the sort of person who is capable of lateral thought, or are intimidated by the prospect of having to figure something out for yourself, then FLCL is unlikely to be appealing to you. If not however, it is arguably among the greatest anime series ever made. The visuals are as groundbreaking as they are stunning to look at. The level of creativity demonstrated here is greater than the entire output of anime in the past five years. This anime doesn't assume that you are not smart enough to figure out abstract ideas on your own.

This isn't anime. This is art.

It can be quite easy to let your prejudices get the better of you. Opening your arms to something new, only to encounter the same things time and time again. Your expectations become lower and lower, until they become so low they no longer justify the effort of trying anything new in the first place. The reliance on the same old ideas and lack of creativity becomes so frustrating that even reading descriptions of new things annoys you. You have become a cynic.

If there were ever an anime to be cynical about, Danna ga Nani wo Itteiru ka Wakaranai Ken would be it. The series ... is about an office lady married to an otaku, and explores the conflict between these lifestyles in a light hearted and humorous way. There are quite literally no stories about otaku which do not deal with this conflict; it is the only thing which distinguishes them as a group from the rest of society. In practice it amounts to little more than perpetuating stereotypes now so sharply defined that any variation from them would subtract from their authenticity. There is nothing more that can be done in Otaku parody, and nothing about it that has been left unsaid. If that were not reason enough to be cynical about Denna, this isn't even the largest obstacle that it faces. Denna is not a full length tv series, or even an OVA: it is a series of thirteen five minute shorts. The limitations this creates are rather more intrinsic than the subject matter; producing something genuinely worthwhile in this format is an exceptionally difficult task, as is evident from previous examples. Most abandon all hope of telling any overarching story, and focus instead either on single scenes or random batches of gags. Productions in this format never amount to anything more than a minor distraction.

Who'd have thought that being proven wrong could ever feel this gratifying?

Denna ga Nani wo Itteiru ka Wakaranai Ken achieves more in its short running time than many full length series do across their entire run. It begins with an introduction to our leading characters, office lady Kaoru and her otaku husband Hajime. We expect that much will be made of their imagined lack of compatibility, and while not entirely wrong about this, there is evidence that there is more between them than meets the eye. That they are not paired for the sake of comic effect but there is a real connection between them.

The next episode introduces Tadashi, Hijeme's ambiguously gendered sibling. He has an incestuous attraction to his brother which brings the series a significant step closer to the dreaded otaku parody genre. His character appears again throughout the show, primarily as (unwanted) comic relief but also as a source of character development, providing an important link to Hajime's past and an overseer of their entire relationship.

As the series progresses, more and more time is focused on developing the relationship between Hijeme and Kaoru, which is interesting for a number of reasons. Romance stories about established couples are somewhat uncommon, as are those concerned with people in their late twenties and early thirties. Melodrama is sidestepped and instead we can examine the less often discussed process of two formerly independent people living together and eventually becoming a family, where far more is at stake and so much more can go wrong.

This isn't the only sign of a more mature romantic outlook in Denna. It would be incredibly temping for an anime like this, featuring a relationship between an 'otaku' and an ordinary person, to depict it as one sided. There is no shortage of anime which depict relationships as 'long suffering woman takes pity on unappealing male' or Hijeme as 'Almost unbearable man with a heart of gold'. While perhaps these scenarios provide some potential for comedy, they are completely removed from reality. Few people would consider marrying someone unless they believed they were in love with them. Denna recognises this and takes the time not only to explain what Kaoru sees in Hijeme, but the equally important question of what he sees in her. Because Kaoru has faults too. She smokes a lot. She drinks too much. She experiences loneliness. This focus on the emotional bond between Kaoru and Hijeme continues as the series edges toward its conclusion.

Then something completely absurd happens. Something so unbelievable, I find myself struggling to even write it down. What happens at that point is basically this: a thirteen episode series of three minute long anime shorts taking a humorous and light-hearted take on the relationship between a hardworking office lady married to an otaku, presents a more mature, emotional and real portrayal of love than most works of fiction ever do, and a fully grown man to start trying to fight back the tears in his eyes.

Though Denna's brilliance was not something I would ever have expected, fortunately it is something which can be explained rather easily: it treats its characters like people, and its audience like adults. The more these principles are followed, the more we shall get to enjoy those blissful moments. The human ones.

Self-parody is perhaps one of the easiest forms of comedy to create. The only real pre-requisite to it is knowledge and understanding of your subject matter. Determine the relevant clichés and the tropes that go along with it, and exaggerate them until you reach the point of mockery. The more niche your chosen medium is, the easier it becomes to create a parody it. When there are more die-hard fans than casual viewers to entertain, familiarity with the tropes or clichés is more widespread, and the scope for references is at its maximum. This can create an environment where outsiders unfamiliar with the medium are ... excluded from the humour, while those who understand the jokes feel that they are a part of something "special"... ironically even that they are the "outsiders" for being within the "group".

For these reasons, it is hard to be optimistic about the quality of any self-parodying anime. The medium is so ridiculous to begin with that the jokes practically write themselves, while the audience is so absorbed by their bubble lives that they will love it regardless of its quality. The object of comedy writing is to make your audience laugh by highlighting truth, not by limiting your audience and preying on narcissism. An inside joke should be kept private, not aired publicly to determine who among us are truly worthy of the "otaku" neologism.

There is little doubt that Lucky Star is padded out with innumerable references to various anime and videogames. It aired in 2007 and its references ranged from the very recent (Haruhi Suzimiya) to the quite old (Urusei Yatsura, various 70s Mecha series). The references are seldom obscure but are targeted to Japanese audiences, including shows that were not as well received in the West, such as 'To Heart' and 'Maria-sama ga Miteru'. There is much to be found here for those who are blessed with the knowledge.
But I am far more concerned for those who don't. We must look instead to the relationships between the characters, observations about everyday life and to satire for humour instead. Unlike references these possess universality, they can be understood by almost everyone. Despite its "otaku-pandering" image, Lucky Star is perhaps the only parody anime which understands this principle.

The personality of almost every female character in the series is based on a common anime archetype. These archetypes have often become so exaggerated that they no longer reflect actual human behaviour. Lucky Star takes a different approach and instead transposes the behaviour into realistic situations, before tuning it for comedic effect. The best example in the series is Kagami Hiiragi's character: a parody of the 'tsundere' archetype, she appears cold and standoffish, but has a 'heart of gold'. In many series this comes across as sweeping mood-swings and excessive embarrassment about revealing emotion. Kagami's character on the other hand is a more subtle approach of dedication to academics and emotional inexperience. Elements of the original archetype are undeniable, yet we can relate to her character and understand not just her actions but her thinking behind them.

It is a tremendous irony that a show intended to parody outlandish stereotypes should in fact produce characters who behave more like humans than the stereotypes themselves. All the same it is a paradox which serves Lucky Star very well, giving it far wider appeal than it otherwise would have. The backbone of the series comedy is the relationship between the aforementioned Kagami Hiiragi and Konata Izumi.

One of the few characters in the series not based on a character archetype, Konata is instead based on a rather peculiar idea: a self-idealised portrayal of the viewer. A similar idea is used in harem anime, where a very plain lead character exists for the viewer to 'insert' themselves into; Konata on the other hand uses the imagined personality of a harem viewer and places it in the body of their ideal girl- a woman of legal age with the appearance of a young girl. The idea is completely ridiculous, yet very effective in generating comedy
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But while the concepts for both characters are based on anime parody, the most of the humour between them is actually derived from a clash of personalities. Konata is lazy; while Kagami is hard-working. Kagami wants to be mature but isn't; Konata has no pretences about her immaturity. Konata is unabashed; Kagami is quite shy. The conflict between the two, and indeed the relations between all of the characters in Lucky Star, are genuine and the true source of comedic value for the series. While the references, however copious they are in quantity, are merely an addition in content. Familiarity with them will enhance the experience, but they are by no means a pre-requisite. It may also come as a surprise that Lucky Star can be quite sharp and biting in its comedy. Having no qualms about poking fun of controversial subjects or making harsh jokes at the expense of its own audience. Contrary to expectations, it is the most scathing anime parody since the downright mean-spirited 'Otaku no Video'.

This may come as a surprise given the bright and childish art style, which is effective, but not radical. If one were to describe it in a single word, "sugary" would be the likely choice. Hair colours come in every colour of the rainbow, and seldom any colour outside of it. The cast are very cutesy with very long, large eyes (even by anime standards) and liberal use of cartoonish expressions. It suits the show well and is very neat, but doesn't present much opportunity for interesting visuals- indeed the camera placement is standard throughout. Occasionally other art styles will be borrowed for a quick parody- examples of this include Initial D and Haruhi Suzimiya. Overall it's a work of high quality if little daring. The soundtrack is much the same, with the exception of the ending themes- karaoke performed 'in character' by the cast. Most are forgettable but Aya Hirano's version of "Cha-la, Head Cha La" from Dragonball Z more than makes up for them. SPARKING!

Separating Lucky Star from its origins as a work of parody is an impossible task. The whole series is built upon them, and one cannot analyse the series without making any references to them. But just as you don't need to know jack shit about architecture to appreciate a nice looking building, you don't need to know that much about anime to find humour in the interactions of a group of close friends.
Or tomodachis, if you prefer.

In the year 2014, and presumbaly in those that will follow it, it is now accepted by the vast majority of people that cartoons are not always for children.

Undoubtedly there are some out there who most continue to defend their love of Chinese cartoons from parental scepticism and faced high-school mockery and social isolation, but for those of who have surpassed the need for the approval of others, but not old enough to have children to be disappointd in, it is accepted that drawn pictures are not childish by their very nature.
This was not always so, and the changing tide of popular opinion on ... this matter can be attributed to several productions, primarily American Cartoons. The most well-known of course is The Simpsons, in its early days criticised for its rude content and the troubling prospect of Bart Simpson being a "bad influence" on children. This was merely a foot in the door however; it was not until the release of South Park some ten years later that the floodgates opened and cartoons were no longer just for lil' tykes. Now we have Family Guy, American Dad, The Cleaveland Show and a handful of other shows not created by Seth McFarlane. Of course, this is only a sweeping populist narrative that neglects a range of facts. There were in fact a number of different shows which appeared in the years between The Simpsons and South Park which also played their part, such as: Beavis and Butthead, Ren and Stimpy, Daria, Cow and Chicken, Space Ghost Coast to Coast... and Urotsukidoji. What do you mean, you've never heard of Urotsukidoji?

Though it has since been resigned to history, Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend has had more publicity in the West than most anime outside of the Ghibli catalogue ever will. In fact, this now forgotten film from the early 90s managed to make it into the newspapers. You may not be surprised to learn that this was not to publicise this fascinating art-form from a distant land or an appraisal of its content. Instead, Urotsukidoji found its way into the newspapers because it was in defiance of a universal truth: that cartoons are, by their very nature, for children.

At this point it is worth taking a moment out from this no doubt fascinating History lesson to put into context precisely what I mean when I say that Urotsukidoji is not suitable for children. Does it contain characters that could be considered less than wholesome? Yes, there are a few. Does it contain vulgar language, left uncensored, that may graze an otherwise innocent ear? Yes, it does. Does it contain a scene where a monster rapes a human girl with massive tentacle-like appendages? Yes, most of them.
Make no mistake, the hard drive of even the most enthusiastic and perverse torture porn aficionado would make more suitable viewing for children. Even most adults would struggle to sit through the seriously disturbing content of this film without feeling upset. There were even times that I, despite being completely desensitised to any cartoon depiction of graphic violence at this point, considered switching the video off completely, because Urotsukidoji had simply become too disturbing. You may have guessed that this graphic content may have had something to do with its media coverage.

Indeed it is so. Through a mixture of parental presumption, ignorance or perhaps indifference, at some point in the mid-nineties some children in the United Kingdom managed to get their hands on a copy of Urotsukidoji and watched it. And with that, the almighty Overfiend of tabloid journalism appeared, and set about making sure that our innocent little children shall never gaze upon these filthy Chinese cartoons ever again. The unfortunate thing is, having actually sat through it, one can almost sympathise with those out to censure it. The entire film is a complete mess.

Urotsukidoji does have a storyline behind it, perhaps even one more ambitious than other hentai, but the pacing is dire and it's not even remotely coherent. Essentially we 'ignorant humans' believe we are the masters of the world, when in fact there are three worlds and one creature which will eventually rule them all, the titular Overfiend. This raises a lot of questions about how these worlds are related to each other, how to travel between them and many other questions. Unfortunately there is little we 'ignorant humans' can do about this, because the film never bothers to explain this clearly. At one point Amano, the half-beast assigned to the task of searching for the Chojin, brings several characters through some kind of dimensional warp to the dimension of the man-beasts, but it's never made clear how this works or whether other creatures can use it. Alas, we are merely "ignorant humans".

The question of who the Chojin's host will be is another mystery. There are two contenders, the wimpy pervert and the athletic (later reformed) sex addict. The criteria for what makes someone a Chojin is that they are able to "drive the ladies wild". Don't worry, you're not alone- I'm also worried I may be a Chojin too. The test to find out is simple; you need to have sex with a woman. Oops, watch out for that plot hole!

If you are outraged that you are not the demon creature that will be tasked with fucking the world to destruction, then do not worry, there is another option available to you: become the anti-Chojin. How do you do that? You just fuck some tube that some demons will bring you. Once you're done, simply find the Chojin and consume his blood and semen to complete the transformation. Yes.

One could spend a day picking apart the problems with the plot in Urotsukidoji, but perhaps the most telling thing about the quality of story is that I feel like I have described almost the entire story of the film, yet have not gone beyond the confines of the blurb. This indicates both how thin the story is, and just how abysmal the pacing is. Then again, a shorter film or better plot would have meant less time spent on watching demon rape. Some might say that isn't a huge loss, but as connoissuers of rapey demons will testify, Urotsukidoji has the best animated demon rape money can buy, or that internet can download!
Perhaps it is because this film stands so tenuously between the boundaries of 'bizarre artwork' and 'disturbing pornography' that so much effort was put into the animation of Urotsukidoji. Or maybe because the perverts who drew it were so desperate for it to be made into a reality they were willing to work for free. We "ignorant humans" will never know the truth, but you could be surprised by the quality of the artwork. The human character designs are quite ugly (especially the female characters, oddly enough) but the demon creatures who rape them look fantastic. The backgrounds are nicely detailed if awash in dark colours, and the animation is faultless.

Urotsukidoji is yet another step on the Central Park Media grand tour of badly dubbed anime, but unfortunately it is not a memorable one. While there a few ridiculous lines like "let me see that Chojin dick!" and a few others about intercourse and its many instruments, the acting is mainly just mediocre and the script is mainly just dull. Very dull indeed. In fact once you get beyond the shock-factor, it summarises the whole film rather nicely: dull.

As I said already, Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend is a film that has been resigned to history, and that is definitely not without good reason. Be content with your human ignorance.

We have all known someone who seems to have everything go their way; Individuals who are intelligent, academically successful, outstanding athletes and despite of all that, remain kind and well-liked people. Those of us who do not possess these seemingly super-human traits can be left gazing up at them in awe, wondering why we ourselves cannot be more like them. But whatever outward appearances may suggest, ultimately these people function the same way we do, and the only difference between us and them (social class and genetics notwithstanding) is a question of motivation. Rather than ask ourselves we do not experience the same results, ... we should really question what drives us to behave the way we do, or more to the point, what drives a person to be so unashamedly approvable?

This is the question posed by Hideaki Anno’s Kareshi Kanojou no Jijou, AKA Kare Kano. It’s a romantic comedy which tells the story of high-achiever and self-styled ‘Queen of Vanity’ Yukino Miyazawa, a high school debutante who has just had her hopes of a perfect high school entranced dashed by the equally successful Souichiro Arima. Right from the get go Yukino makes her motivations clear- wanting nothing more than to be adored by others publically and acknowledged as ‘the best’. This does not work out so well when she is beaten in the entrance exams by Arima, who then becomes the class representative and takes the admiration and attention which Yukino so desperately craves. She vows to get better grades than him in the first round of exams, steal his place at the top and then rub it in his over polished face.

So begins the storyline of the greatest romance anime of all time, perhaps the greatest shoujo and maybe even the best sitcom too. The competition on these fronts is admittedly weak, but Kare Kano still comes on strong and, despite possessing a few obvious flaws, remains a stellar overall: If you want solid characters, it has them; if you want something different from the usual fare, this is a shoujo in name only; if you want something artistically interesting, then Kare Kano engages in visual experimentation that would make Studio 4 degrees C blush. In fact, if you think that Neon Genesis Evangelion is the best anime that Hideaki Anno has produced, you are about to discover how wrong you were and be amazed by how wrong everyone has been these last fifteen years.

These may seem like bold claims, but do not mistake them for embellishment or exaggeration. Let us begin by considering the typical Shoujo Romance: we start with a shy and timid, profoundly girlish high school girl as our lead. We introduce her to a teenage boy who is interested in boyish things like sports and is popular in school; his masculinity offset by his caring nature and his almost feminine good looks. He is crafted in such a way as to be desirable in every since, without being intimidating. One speculates that, if a relationship in a shoujo anime were to progress as far as intercourse (which it never does) our pretty heroines would be shocked to discover that their beloved saviour would not have any genitals whatsoever.

This criticism may seem harsh, but let’s not pretend it isn’t fare. It is actually a source of fascination that productions aimed at girls could be, almost without exception, so misogynistic.

Kare Kano is different though. As the series opens, Yukino’s character has not only been getting by without a knight in shining armour, but has been kicking ass in her own right. Her motivations are questionable of course and ultimately driven by her own weaknesses, but her outward appearance is one of strength and confidence. As her relationship with Arima develops, her character changes and abandons her old outlook on life, deciding that she and him together will live life honestly and openly. Even here though the decisions are mutual and it never feels as if the mere presence of a man is prodding the plot forward.


This mature approach to writing a female lead in a romance story is something which could easily be adopted by other anime series, and yet they continue to produce the same formulaic characters time and time again. But this alone is not what makes Yukino a great character; it is the level of depth and progression of her character while remaining true to her established personality. Attempting to completely change your behaviour and world view are not straightforward tasks in real life, and in fiction this is even more apparent. The realisation that she needs to change comes very early in the series but it is not until it nears its conclusion that this is fully realised. Every so often, when one starts to forget about her character’s desire to change, we are prompted with a reminder that it is an ongoing process. It feels very natural.

Speaking of an ongoing process, as mentioned above it is common that shoujo romance stories experience limited progression and can even seem like one misunderstanding after another. These strings of awkward situations are intended to be dramatic, but this is usually not the case if you are unable to suspend your disbelief; a difficult task if you have ever been stuck watching romantic comedies with your mother. Thankfully, Kare Kano abandons this will-they/won’t-they nonsense and progresses quickly; perhaps even a little too quickly. The pacing is similar to that of a real relationship (i.e. it doesn’t take six months for the characters to have their first kiss) and actually manages to discuss the subject of love maturely and convincingly. One particularly memorable example is when Yukino, having learned about something unsavoury from Arima’s past, says: “I love this man, this man who hurts himself for the sake of others”. It was already clear that this was not a mere puppy romance, but this line marks the point where the story unfolding is no longer some teenage fantasy, but an honest and genuine love story.

As for Arima’s character, while he does possess many of the qualities of the stereotypical shoujo male love interest (athletic, popular, girlish appearance, kind attitude) his clean cut appearance and modest abilities belie a character with a troubled past and a deep feeling of inadequacy despite his successes. While he shares Miyazawa’s drive and goals, his motivations and circumstances could not be more different and he turns out to be a rather dark horse. The son of abusive parents, Arima was adopted by his auntie and uncle and feels that he must succeed both to satisfy them and to prove that he will not follow in his parents footsteps. It is a considerably less happy back-story than Yukino’s, yet at the same time it feels just a little too... obvious. What drove Miyazawa to behave the way she does is a complex question which does not have any real explanation beyond a love of praise and special treatment, while it is very easy to pin down exactly what makes Arima the way he is. The second may seem like clearer and better storytelling, but if you consider your own personality, has it been formed rigidly by a single experience from childhood?

Arima’s character is a bit weak in contrast to Yukino, but at the same time Yukino is among the best written anime character of all time, and Arima is still an almighty cut above even the best of his contemporaries. The pair are a perfect match, and for the purposes of storytelling, allowing the audience to clearly see two different paths that could lead to highly driven individuals, both showing that such people still possess weaknesses and experiences troubles that others face, and most importantly of all, that such people are still human.



Kareshi Kanojou no Jijou, better known as Kare Kano, is a series directed by Hideaki Anno and produced by Studio Gainax. But there are no giant robots to be found, nor are there any whiny teenage boys. In fact, this series is a romantic comedy, and the characters are exceptional: intelligent, successful and popular. They are the kind of people that everyone else wants to be.

Mary-Sue! I hear you shout, but you would be wrong. Because while on the surface the cast of Kare Kano appear to be too good to be true, what motivates them and gives them the drive to succeed in this regard is that most pitiful of weaknesses; desire for the approval of others.

Unfortunately, as the series reaches its close it begins –ill advisedly- to introduce other characters, some interesting and some not, but none of which can hold a candle to the lead roles. Their introduction is made necessary as a part of Yukino’s recovery process, but alas they are but meagre archetypes concocted to fill space. Each one has their own background but they are quite predictable and feel like a distraction from the main storyline. Still, it feels that the time could have been better spent on Yukino and Arima, or even on Yukino’s family members, who as supporting cast members go are superb, providing alternative points of view neatly and punching above their weight on the comedy front. Fortunately, there is one episode towards the end of the series, a filler episode if you wish to call it that, which places the spotlight on Yuki’s youngest sister Kano. This is actually one of the highlights of the second half of the series, although its placement is bizarre to say the least. Unfortunately though it is not anywhere near as bizarre as where the series actually finishes.

There are several stories attached to the production of Kare Kano which you may or may not be aware of: the first is that the Mangaka was dissatisfied with Hideaki Anno’s portrayal of the series, and that he abandoned the production in response. Another story is that towards the end of the series, the money supply was running out, and so production values went out the window. The first of these stories is known to be true, and Anno’s directorial influence is absent from several episodes of the series. Unfortunately, the man who took his place – Kazuya Tsurumaki, who later directed FLCL, was unable to continue Anno’s vision and so things just peter out.

The rumour about the money supply may or may not be true, but I consider it unlikely for two reasons- first of all, the windfall of cash in Gainax’s coffers following Neon Genesis Evangelion’s success, and the highly experimental tendencies of the studio in both earlier episodes of Kare Kano itself, and in other Gainax productions. In fact, it could be argued that there is more visual experimentation in Kare Kano, than in productions like FLCL, Panty and Stocking, or anything by Akiyuki Shinbou.

The series manages to frequently experiment with visuals, without them becoming jarring or intruding too much on the storyline. Every episode seems to include a new and interesting way of communicating with the viewer: from Kano and Tsukino using a manga to illustrate Yukino’s complex over Arima to using puppets to review the story in a re-cap episode. These are among the more obvious sequences; some are more subtle, such as a first person view sequence in which Yukino’s sisters run up a staircase. Frequent angle changes are not easy to draw accurately, yet here it is pulled off flawlessly. It also has the effect of emphasising the characters rushing from place to place. It’s so original and so effective, it’s wonderful.

Other motifs worthy of note include the use of establishing shots to provide visual cues and symbolise the emotions of the characters. Kare Kano makes the use of pictures of industrial scenery, water pipes, and traffic lights as interludes between romantic sequences. Initially this seems like an odd choice for a romance series, but as the series progresses this becomes clear. The series also makes heavy use of printed text, reminiscent of the work of French director Jean Luc Goddard. While visually appealing, translating these shots and putting them in subtitles is a challenge and if you are unable to read Japanese then you will just have to accept being unable to read everything. Fortunately, this doesn’t really inhibit you from enjoying or understanding the series and usually the text simply paraphrases what is said in the dialogue.

On the subject of dialogue, the script is exceptionally well written. It manages to avoid sounding overly lovey-dovey or naive, a miracle for a high school romance. The voice acting in the original Japanese version is excellent on all accounts, although you may find one character -Tsubasa Shibahime- irritating if you are not fond of nasally voices. Nonetheless, the acting is of a high standard and appropriate for each character. The English dub, in contrast, is a point of contention. Some consider it to be of a high standard- in terms of acting, this is without question. All of them are capable and each line is delivered perfectly. However, as I see it there is one major problem which rather spoils the effort: Arima’s voice. Arima is a teenage boy, yet his voice is deep enough to make Barry White sound like a tenor. The acting is fine, but hearing such a masculine voice coming from someone in the middle of their teenage years is a bit too much. Ultimately though, the choice is yours to make. But what good is dialogue without music to back it up?

Fortunately Kare Kano is well endowed here too. The opening and ending themes are both catchy pop tunes that you’ll be singing along to every episode. Then there is the background music- incredibly varied and highly versatile: it ranges from happy bossa nova influenced light jazz to capture the relaxation and familiarity of both school and home, to standoffish, heavy riff based rock to accompany conflict. This is to say nothing of the touching piano melody which acts as the refrain.

Kareshi Kanojou no Jijou is not only a masterpiece, but a neglected masterpiece. It’s not perfect; in fact it is flawed in many respects, largely the product of its rocky upbringing. But from beginning to end, it is an outpouring of creative ingenuity which no other production comes close to. Neon Genesis Evangelion may have been the title that enjoyed mainstream popularity and the place in the history books, but Kare Kano is the work with higher ambitions and more radical ideas. Evangelion changed super robot shows forever; but Kare Kano influenced animation as a whole.

Evangelion is what got everyone’s attention; but Kare Kano is the production that changed the world.

If a work of fiction drags its audience into the depths of hell with tragedy, does it retain its artistic merit if the entire experience is nullified by the conclusion?

This is the principal question faced when attempting to reach a verdict on Clannad: After Story, a work of fiction which has a compelling power to manipulate the emotions of its audience: to make them laugh, to bring them to tears, and to leave their hearts warm with joy. Exploring themes such as redemption and heartbreak, it does many of these things wonderfully, but in desperation to end with a certain tone, it destroys everything it ... achieves in a single moment.

After Story is the continuation of the first series of Clannad, a harem anime which distinguished itself from its contemporaries by treating its subject tactfully and managing to be amusing along the way. This is largely because of the strength of the main protagonist Tomoya Okazaki. In a genre which is infamous for bland main characters with no purpose other than being a body the audience can insert themselves into, Okazaki is a breath of fresh air. He had a back-story, a personality, and a sharp wit. That he spent so much time around women was not surprising, because his character was charismatic and interesting. His relationship with best friend Sunohara was also like a comedy double act, and was genuinely funny to watch.


The female cast, while based on familiar archetypes and not as strong characters as Okazaki, also had more depth than their contemporaries in the genre. They had their own interesting stories and subplots, and most of these were entertaining to watch. It was pretty clear from the offset that Okazaki would end up with Nagisa, and yet these diversions from the main storyline did not feel like distractions. Those characters were important to the story as a whole and their subplots helped to develop them. Afterstory takes things to another level. While the myriad of female characters are still present, it progresses from a harem story to a pure romance. Those female characters from the previous series are retained but they become less like groupies and more like a community. Their relationships with Okazaki and Nagisa are not just on good terms, but they behave like real friends. There is no underlying sense of competition among them for Tomoya’s attention and they interact with the couple cordially.

Similarly, the presentation in Afterstory is up to the high standards of the first series, with excellent animation and a quality soundtrack. While the art style is primarily a question of taste (though I question the legitimacy of the ‘bug eye’ critique) there is no doubt that the animation is consistently smooth and polished. It’s not daring or experimental, but it is highly articulate. The soundtrack fits the series wonderfully too, tugging at your heart strings at the appropriate moment, and easing you into laughter when Okazaki and Sunohara are up to their antics. It never errs and even if the same melodies are used time and time again, they never feel repetitive, and they linger on in memory long after the series is over.

In short much of the original series’ qualities are retained; the most striking difference between the two is the storyline, which in After Story develops into something far grander than its predecessor. While the first series of Clannad works as a piece of entertainment, in Afterstory the saga evolves into a work of art that explores complex themes, principally the theme of redemption. It does not do so with religious imagery or symbolism, but by masterfully crafting a story around the principle itself. Okazaki, as is known from the first series, is dealt a fairly bad hand early in life. Despite these difficulties he strives to help others and eventually manages to take some control of his existence and improve his situation. After Story does this without coming across as moralising or feeling contrived, a difficult task for a story with such themes. The series also contains a fair amount of tragedy, and this executed masterfully. In one key scene, a blissful moment is thwarted suddenly, quickly spiralling downwards into sorrow. One cannot help but shed a tear for poor Tomoya, whom life had finally begun shining upon. The theme of redemption resurfaces later in the story, where it is played to even greater effect. After reaching a catastrophic low, Okazaki is eventually able to reconcile his relationship with a character he earlier abandoned, in a climactic and touching scene which frames the rest of the series beautifully. This scene is balanced perfectly with the tragic scene mentioned earlier, and the emotional swing between misery and bliss leaves the audience with a feeling bittersweet happiness that every work of fiction strives to instil in its audience accomplished with finesse. Then, in front of our eyes, the beauty of everything before us unravels into something unspeakably ugly.

In a decision which can only be described as madness, the story incorporates another tragedy into the storyline- one which serves no greater artistic purpose or develops Okazaki’s character further. It is merely a tragedy for tragedy’s sake. And at that point, After Story enters into the void of sentimentality and emotional exploitation. One cannot empathise any further with the characters or feel any sorrow. In fact, the most appropriate response is anger. Anger that creating something interesting or making any kind of statement was never the intention of the creators, only to toy with our emotions in the hope it would provide us with some kind of masochistic pleasure.


It is a plot development from which no story could recover; any meaning one had found in the story until that point is completely lost, and we find ourselves unable to care in the slightest what else might happen to Okazaki. It is perhaps only the desire to get the damned thing over with that compels us to continue with the rest of the series. But continuing the series is an even greater mistake, because the rest of the story serves no purpose other than to add insult to injury.

While the second tragedy is nothing more than emotional blackmail, we could say that at least it doesn’t betray the emotions we had felt prior to it. To end on another low point seems meaningless but one still has the beautiful journey reaching it to reflect upon and the opportunity to ponder over its significance. One could satisfy oneself with the fact that while the narrative was obliterated, that such unfortunate double tragedies do occur and that the story is at least ‘real’.

Yet even this is desecrated by the conclusion, in which everything preceding it is rendered moot. We are inexplicably transported to a world where all the terrible events of the story do not occur and Okazaki is able to experience the happy life he had always longed for. This is completely unforgivable.

If you read any book on writing fiction, there will invariably be a chapter on ‘bad endings’ and the most prominent of these is ‘it was all a dream’. The reason being that such endings mean any inconsistencies do not need to be explained, that no real development occurs, and that anything that did occur is now meaningless. Afterstory’s ending is more or less equivalent to this. As the story had been cohesive and logical until this point, it is unlikely they did so to cover up for any errors made previously or to escape any inconsistencies. Clannad’s underlying supernatural themes go some way into explaining how the series ends the way it does, but does nothing to justify why it should end that way.


Such an ending does have one use though, and that is making a happy ending possible despite the previous plot developments. But why do we necessarily need such a conclusion? There is an implicit point being made that the audience would be unable to cope with a sad ending, making it necessary to conjure a happy ending by any means, even at the expense of the rest of the story. This is nothing less than an insult to the intelligence of the viewer. It is disgraceful. To take the audience into their emotional depths under the pretence that there will be a message or something meaningful behind it, only to betray their sense of empathy by providing an escape no-one who faces such tragedies in the real world shall ever have. Such abuse of emotions in works of fiction can only cause harm. It only leads one to refrain from investing too much feeling into fictional characters, making them hesitant to do so in the future. Worse still, while the audience is able to take in the sadness of the situation the characters experience, the opportunity for contemplation of its wider significance is severed. The consequences mean nothing because the problem has ceased to be a problem.

In works of fiction, the conclusions you reach are not as important as the journey taken to reach them, since the journey itself is what should lead one to reach those conclusions. In the case of Clannad Afterstory this process has been, not even reversed, but completely ignored. There is no connection between the two events. The journey exists, and it is a wonderful experience. It exhibits a kaleidoscope of human emotions on a powerful level, and does so beautifully. But that journey has no bearing on the conclusions reached either by the plot, or in the mind of the audience.

Hence the dilemma posed in reaching a verdict on this series. Does one simply praise the series for what it does well, criticise its faults and attempt to find a balance between the two? This is the approach one would usually take, but when the conclusion is not only disconnected from the journey but contradicts it entirely, that is something which cannot simply be forgotten. It obliterates all meaning, it excavates all depth, it makes the whole damned thing sum up to nought. Take your wish fulfilment and intellectual depravity if you wish, but I would rather be left in the depths of hell.