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These boys knew what they were doing. Tokyo Crisis is formulated beautifully to the beats of The Castle of Cagliostro. Lupin seeks a mysterious treasure under the guard of a nefarious aristocrat; glorious chase scenes follow; an innocent damsel is tied up with the mystery; political pressure on the always-resolute Zenigata causes him to despair, yet he pursues his sense of duty outside the law; Fujiko seeks the treasure by her own means; Jigen and Goemon exist as running gags rather than as primary characters. One could accuse it of imitation, but the fate of a long-running franchise is to perpetually tell the same story. ... The key to keeping it interesting is not in total differentiation, but in the creativity of the action sequences and in the different ways one can play with the distinctive characters. After all, the audience is here for the love of the formula... and for the sheer cool factor.

G.K. Chesterton wrote in his first Father Brown mystery, “The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic.” Indeed, what would Sherlock Holmes be without a meticulous crime to meticulously unravel? We admire Holmes—or Hercule Poirot, or Philip Marlowe, or Lieutenant Columbo for that matter—for his amazing, complex deductions; but the crime is the sole reason the deduction was either amazing or complex. This was the genius of Leblanc's original Arsene Lupin tales: the reader gets the thrilling creativity straight from the artist, rather than secondhand through the magnifying glass of the sleuth. Tokyo Crisis carries on Leblanc's tradition in its anime ways; fanciful gadgets, amusing disguises, and absurd acrobatics are its raison d'etre—excuse my French. The beauty of animation is that you can bring the most whimsical of schemes to life.

Tokyo Crisis has a primary focus on the beloved, bumbling, steadfast Inspector Zenigata. Though his obsession with capturing Lupin carries his relevance to the franchise, his true duty is to the honor and justice of law. The man of wholesome integrity might just seem like a foil to the crooked master thief, if not for their constant teaming up. Though Zenigata favors order and Lupin favors excitement, they both believe in objective justice. One puts aside his institutional loyalties and the other puts aside his debauchery in order to stop the truly dastardly doings from succeeding. However, Tokyo Crisis does end—with a little help from our friends—in the success of law enforcement over the corrupt antagonist. It's a breath of fresh air from recent titles' more cynical conclusions, and a pleasing little win for the frequently disappointed Zenigata.

When the perversions, political absurdities, plot holes, and convoluted intrigues of the current Lupin III seasons fatigue you; old specials have a way of recovering one's weary fandom. Tokyo Crisis is a joyful experience that exemplifies everything that makes the Lupin III franchise great. All Lupin fans need to watch it, and can absolutely use it as an introduction for Lupin newbies. Watching The Castle of Cagliostro and following it up with a mediocre anime episode can give the impression that Miyazaki is exceptional and the rest of the franchise is empty of value. Miyazaki certainly is exceptional, but Lupin and co. can do quite well for themselves without him. I'm ready to retract my claim that heroism no longer belongs in the franchise—you just need to do it right. What a lovely reminder that writers can do things right.

Yeah, I'm spoiling it.

At the time of this writing, MyAnimeList's synopsis for Princess Mononoke concludes with the following line, “Princess Mononoke is a tale depicting the connection of technology and nature, while showing the path to harmony that could be achieved by mutual acceptance.” If you're trying to describe the film's theme to someone by distant memory, that's an understandable summary—but it's completely wrong. Miyazaki crafted a film that depicted the often brutal tension between civilization and wilderness, including a desperate yearning for harmony, but in no way lays out a path towards mutual acceptance and peace. His message is not an environmentalist or pacifist ... platitude, yet it's not a film without a resolution. Through the magnificent landscapes, romantic animism, tear-jerking warfare, and dramatic heroism, Miyazaki's end-goal is simply life affirmation.

“Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed, but still you find reasons to keep living.” So go the words of the dying leper, pleading with Ashitaka to understand the overwhelming good done by Lady Eboshi and her industrial town. The old leper's words are the words of a man who has seen the depths of human suffering and who has discovered what has liberated those same humans; dirty, unromantic business enterprise. While Miyazaki's romanticism leads him to place the forest spirits' concerns in equal value to the survival and prosperity of humanity, his wisdom as a veteran writer leads him to give human enterprise its due. Look, I've got a bit of a humanity bias. When YHWH tells Adam to fill the earth and subdue it, I'm right there with Him. Exploiting natural resources to provide for our own sustenance and comfort is kind-of our thing; a feature, not a bug. Sustaining nature is a doable task for an advanced industrial civilization, but only after an era of Iron-Town-like beginnings—mass-deforestation included. We can only sustain nature in any reasonable way after fully subduing it. Romantic yearning for equitable harmony between sacred wilderness and perpetually-growing civilization is an inane dream that would require artificial famines and otherwise genocidal policies to accomplish. Fortunately, though Ashitaka occasionally whines about it and people mistake it for the primary message of the film, achieving harmony with nature isn't actually a realized theme of Princess Mononoke.

In Miyazaki's humanist urging “to live,” Iron Town is in fact the real way forward. Subtly, it would seem Miyazaki agrees. After the dramatic fall of the great Forest Spirit, Ashitaka preaches, “He is life itself. He isn't dead, San. He is here with us now, telling us, it's time for both of us to live.” This is Miyazaki's resolution. Where do they go after that? Do they together become wandering forest-monks in worship of the omnipresent life-force? Well, San hasn't outgrown her resentment of humans and rides her wolf brother back into the woods... but Ashitaka returns to Iron Town to live permanently. He chooses impure, industrial civilization as his “to live.” If the great spirit is always with us and is embodied in life itself, was beheading him really such a sin? His rule over the forest has ended, and now his place is in the actualization of civilization—not against it. In the last seconds of the movie, Lady Eboshi calls for Ashitaka and then says to no one in particular, “We'll build a better village.” What, you think that means she'll treat the forest nicer? If it's an iron factory, it's an iron factory—the exploitation of nature will continue. She's building Iron Town bigger and better than ever, with ever greater human prosperity and freedom. You can drive out nature with a pitchfork and she'll always come back, but the same is true for civilization. Say hello to continued deforestation. To life!

So, are the themes of Princess Mononoke even coherent? Intentionally ambiguous or not, it sure is a spectacle either way. Whether a rational viewing points you towards continued industrial growth, a romantic viewing points you towards harmony with nature, or another viewing sees that entire conflict as irrelevant, boy are those landscapes gorgeous! Boy are the action scenes intense! Boy is the score sweeping! Boy is Ashitaka one cool motherfucker with that curse of his! Let's be real for a moment here, that's what this movie is really and rightfully beloved for. Aside from the briefest seconds of horrifying CG, the meticulous hand-drawn animation of unadulterated wilderness and godly battle is without compare. The sound design has me pressing my forefinger and thumb together and kissing the top. How can I describe in words the perfection of every clang of metal, every rustle of bush, every fling of arrow, every swoosh of blade? I guess I just did. And Joe Hisaishi? Man, Joe Hisaishi. Boy is this a beautiful flick.

In Princess Mononoke, Miyazaki tries for the secular humanist angle employed by his great influence Akira Kurosawa. Miyazaki appoints this theme for his main characters, but sets them in a world chock-full of its own complex themes that go unresolved. But perhaps that is the intention; merely to depict the battle between civilization and nature, human conceit and divine eternity, and leave it at that. Luckily, I have the director's own words on the matter, sounding an awful lot like that dying leper, "I am not attempting to solve the entire world's problems. There can never be a happy ending in the battle between humanity and ferocious gods. Yet, even amidst hatred and carnage, life is still worth living. It is possible for wonderful encounters and beautiful things to exist." And so, in the face of irreconcilable conflict, pursue a full life. Return to Iron Town.

A warning: this review/analysis completely spoils the whole shebang.

They give it away with the introductory text: "The advance of computerization, however, has not yet wiped out nations and ethnic groups." The techno-priests (our lovely writers) have begun their sermon with a questionable assumption that you might have read in the final chapters of your high-school's world history textbook: technological progress progressively unites the globe. Ah, but this is Japanese sci-fi. We're in for more than just generic societal unity; we're in for the cult of technological singularity—human extinction and/or computerized transcendence. And like it or not, the cult is doing pretty well for itself with ... Ghost in the Shell as its evangelist.

We begin with political intrigue. Not quite following that plot? That's quite alright, it doesn't matter that much. These sub-plots are merely the regressive vestiges of the old world. Convoluted international diplomacy as well as tension between the bureaucracy's various "sections" play as film-noir-esque background noise to the real story. That is, the gradual meeting and melding of the Major and 2501. It's built up gradually; Project 2501 being mentioned in the very first scene and being vaguely present in just about every scene to come, with or without the audience being aware. Aptly, the first real step is taken during the Major's existential uncertainty on the boat. 2501's disembodied voice whispers the biblical line "For now we see through a glass, darkly," affirming the Major's present doubts but hinting at the transcendence to come.

Here we have it: the Judeo-Christian theme twisted into Scientism. It's common among writers who believe they have intellectually ascended from the supposed naivete of religious faith. On the contrary, they have simply distorted biblical truth into something more aesthetically comfortable for themselves. Take Ridley Scott's most recent additions to the Alien franchise as one example. The theory of intelligent design hypothesizes a higher force vaguely leading evolution in a direction. An interested Ridley Scott chooses an ancient Alien civilization as a more comfortable guiding force to depict. Masamune Shirow and Mamoru Oshii are well aware of their biblical foundation, using allusions and symbolism enough to make that clear, yet likely find their science-fiction themes to be the higher truth. Ghost in the Shell has chosen the technological singularity as its highest truth, an aesthetically pleasing replacement for apocalypse and afterlife.

The suspense between the Major and 2501 follows the political intrigue artfully towards the climax. Kusanagi is interested in analyzing 2501's brain, this interest being inherently tied to her own existential crisis. As queried in her discussions with Batou, what gives her—a one-hundred percent artificial body—any truth, value, or identity as a human individual if a man-made program has gained a soul? She is lost, and searching for an answer. In a scene without the Major, Project 2501 gives an unhelpful answer: according to any and all scientific rationality, he is as much a life-form as any human. But this is only step one in the Ghost in the Shell philosophy. After some exciting highway scenes and some more near-irrelevant exposition about the political intrigue, we reach the climax. Here we have the astounding action sequence that is both intense and slow-moving; almost introspective as we're left with the Major's silent determination to reach 2501. Then, they finally meet.

"Your desire to remain the same is what limits you," 2501 drones. The Major must "ascend to the higher structure" with him. Our YHWH has found his Mary. He explains his aims to the Major, wanting to unite with her human biology in order to reproduce his existence throughout the world. Cloning is insufficient, he explains, as one bug or hack could wipe them all out at once. This is a clever call-back to the early scene in which the Major explains to Togusa why she chose him for the team: over-specialization is its own fatal flaw, and Togusa diversifies the team. Likewise, 2501 is out to diversify his existence. Here we have transcendence through singularity. Humanity becomes one with computer, "ascending to the higher structure." As the Major and 2501 unite, they are simultaneously assassinated by snipers, the bullets seen by their eyes as a symbolic, cross-shaped angel. Then, after death comes their resurrection as a higher being. Christ-like? Uh-huh.

In the falling action, the transcendent super-intelligence that the Major and 2501 have become leaves Batou behind. Quoting St. Paul, she now "puts away childish things." Though she is charmed by his friendship and romance, Batou is just another example of the reactionary holding on to his old, regressive world. His superstitious use of his out-dated ranger-eyes, Togusa's personal preference for the Mateba revolver; their "desire to remain the same is what limits" them. The Major has ascended beyond them all, and gives hope to the audience—perhaps we can ascend too when the singularity destroys the human race? Perhaps with that death will be a greater rebirth? The Major speaks, "And where shall I go now? The net is vast and infinite." Ah, true freedom at last...

Ghost in the Shell achieves sci-fi-religion like no other film. Having grown more familiar with the theory of technological singularity, its paranoid enemies, and its devoted adherents, my long-time fascination with this film continues to grow. Ghost in the Shell propagandizes for the singularity like Eisenstein's October propagandizes for the Soviet Union; brilliantly. Like most viewers, I first fell in love with this movie for its amazing aesthetic and its mystifying themes. Today, I appreciate it even more as a fantastic work of allegory and prophecy, even if I don't buy into a lick of it.

Takeshi Koike continues to churn out stylish, high-quality Lupin flicks. The recent main-line seasons (Part 4 and 5) have been chugging along at the higher end of mediocre, so Koike's intermittent additions to the franchise at the very least provide a breath of fresh air. Unfortunately, the new film loses the perfect simplicity of its predecessor (Goemon's Blood Spray) and regresses back to everything that was wrong with Jigen's Gravestone. That is, an overly-convoluted plot and obnoxious rape fetishism.

The Koike film series prioritizes high drama over the usual adventure-comedy tone that Lupin III is typically appreciated for. This works in Goemon's Blood Spray because Koike ... managed to craft a gorgeous, hyper-violent action flick; the plot stops mattering when the audience is engrossed in meticulously-animated choreography. Either the budget or the work ethic of the studio took a sharp drop during Fujiko's Lie, because those meticulous scenes are no more. To compensate for the comparative lack of real eye candy, we have Fujiko stripped and assaulted in various ways that apparently aroused the writers if no one else. Needless to say, this is a mark against the film.

The theme of Fujiko's Lie generally works, despite distractions. Fujiko gains the trust of some fellow in order to get at his cash stash, as is typical. However, thrown into the mix is the guy's son. Various challenges occur along the way of Fujiko's quest to bag her cash, and hints of a maternal nature appear in the cold-hearted femme fatale. On the surface, she's just using the boy to get at her treasure, but brief moments of motherly affection and sympathy are depicted quite genuinely (although a bath scene has an unfortunate pedophilic undertone to it). Of course, Fujiko returns to her purely materialist lady-bandit lifestyle after it's all over, but the brief glimpses of something deeper and purer in her character were nicely done.

Whereas Goemon's Blood Spray worked as a stand-alone masterpiece—despite its mystifying plot—Fujiko's Lie begins the attempt to tie the Koike series together. Shocker: the various antagonists of the films are connected by a secret organization. I hate to break it to you writers, but no one is getting excited by this mystery. We saw The Woman Called Fujiko Mine's pay-off after all of its own secret organization build-up. Let's just say, it wasn't exactly satisfying—and I have no hope that these writers (as great as Koike is) will surpass it. Mamo was hinted at in Jigen's Gravestone, but does anyone really want to return to that absurd science-fiction mess?

Now, now, it's still a solid Lupin film. The animation is still high above the main-line seasons and Koike's style remains brilliant. The antagonist's arc may have ended up lame, but his design and supernatural power carried my interest for most of the film. Though Goemon and Zenigata are sorely missed, the characters are all done right—no political screeds got shoehorned into this Lupin flick. While the cliff-hanger leaves me cold, I'm still very excited to see what Koike does next with Lupin and Co.

After Hayao Miyazaki’s iteration of Lupin the Third, the “gentleman thief” was never the same. In fact, it wasn’t until The Castle of Cagliostro that he finally grew into that title. Lupin had long been the ungrateful, voluptuary heir to the more noble Arsene Lupin character of Leblanc’s French pulp stories. Until ’79, Lupin was the perverted anti-hero of cartoon antics; not today’s charming hero who prioritizes damsel-rescuing over gold-snatching. Some contemporary writers have taken Miyazaki’s approach to Lupin and driven it to absurd lengths, transforming him into an idealist to be a mouthpiece for their personal philosophies. Others have managed to retain the deviancy ... of the original Lupin while sprinkling on some of Miyazaki’s charm in order to craft an anti-hero, but an anti-hero with likability. In any case, The Castle of Cagliostro rescued Lupin from a life of meaningless debauchery… and is a damn good movie to boot.

If you are interested in both anime and video-games, you likely know of the Persona franchise. Persona 5, a stylish JRPG that shoves nihilistic romanticism and sanctimonious progressivism down your throat at every scene, uses Arsene Lupin as an ideological symbol throughout the game. In this context, the gentleman thief is akin to Milton’s Lucifer; speaking truth to power and standing up for your own ideals. To the writers of Persona 5, the objective truth of one’s ideals is irrelevant—and actually nonexistent—as the only real truth is that which you find subjectively within yourself. Of course, as with most casual nihilists, this theory of moral relativism becomes inconsistent as they simultaneously preach about the evils of greedy corporations and nationalist politicians. Now, this is all relevant to Lupin the Third because these are exactly the themes shoehorned into many of the franchise’s specials and shows.

Lupin, as a ne’er-do-well who breaks from the norms both legal and moral of society at large, is to many writers the symbol of this self-reverential romanticism. These writers translate the selfless hero of Miyazaki’s film through an ideological lens, creating an unlikely political idealist. Thus we can find Lupin and his gang helping an Islamic monarch prevail against American-backed revolution [Part 5], assisting Fidel Castro to retain command of Cuba [The Woman Called Fujiko Mine], sympathizing with a super-AI’s mission to redistribute Amazon boxes around the globe to create an equitable society [Goodbye Partner], and saving the world from a clone of Leonardo Da Vinci—actually I don’t even remember what that was about [Part 4]. Now, is this all Miyazaki’s fault? Not quite, as long-running franchises inevitably become corrupted by ideological/bad writers. However, the stage was set by The Castle of Cagliostro by making Lupin the Third as a character live for anything more than the craving for treasure and the lust for women. Once Miyazaki made Lupin any more morally complex than the cartoon clown, the floodgates were opened to writers who take themselves far too seriously.

I’d like to rescue The Castle of Cagliostro from such an ideological interpretation. The audience sees it for the joyful mystery adventure that it is. Even the writers know that the fun simplicity of the series is what keeps people coming back, not the subtexts they impose on it. However, the subtexts keep appearing as the franchise continues through the years, and it is grating. Hayao Miyazaki created a Lupin film with a set-up subtly different from previous shows; Lupin isn’t after any riches, but is only interested in solving a mystery of international political intrigue. Greed has completely disappeared from him as a character motivation, yet he finds joy in the thrill of the heist. Spontaneously, he is thrust into a romantic damsel-rescue mission (a Lady Clarisse) by way of an incredible car chase—yet there is none of the lustful, womanizing Lupin here. Instead, he is paying a debt to Clarisse for selflessly saving his life a decade before.

It’s also clear that Lupin has more noble sentiments as he actively strives to ruin the antagonist Count—an over-the-top cruel and wealthy aristocrat akin to the original Lupin villains—not to mention the intentionally corny speech about “releasing girls about to be forced into marriage to run free in green fields.” Despite Fujiko's reference to Lupin's womanizing past, his relations with Clarisse are almost ridiculously chaste. The fact that the mysteries of counterfeit currency and the house of Cagliostro are solved is utterly secondary to Lupin’s goodwill towards Clarisse. He’s a romantic hero; a knight in shining armor who believes in the cardinal virtues—objective morality—yet who takes absolute pleasure in the arts of strategizing, infiltrating, and escaping. In short, he is a hero who thoroughly enjoys his trade; not a world-saving idealist who just happens to be a master thief on the side.

What is the genius of the Lupin III franchise? The heroism or the heists? The convoluted intrigues or the simple adventures? I think most long-time fans would agree that it’s the latter in both cases. Miyazaki managed to craft an incredible story that perfectly balanced heroism with entertaining antics, alongside a perfect score and glorious Ghibli-quality backdrops. Given many Lupin III iterations that followed Cagliostro, it’s clear that most writers can never manage that balance—Miyazaki is exceptional. The key was in keeping Lupin's heroism simple and traditional, not radical and of apocalyptic consequence. My solution for new writers would be to move away from the convoluted plots that twist and contort to fit a philosophical subtext. Instead, focus on the thrilling antics of the master thief, the gunslinger, the samurai, the femme fatale, and the stubborn detective—all the while sprinkling some of that Miyazaki charm, and maybe just a touch of Miyazaki heroism, onto the characters. Keep it simple, keep it traditional. Remember, you're writing about the Lupin gang, not about pressing geo-political issues. Don't project your political resentments onto the plot, and don't overburden it with absurd forays into the supernatural or sci-fi. Even the lamest writers can manage that. Of course, who’s gonna listen to me? They don’t read MAL.

The Lupin III franchise consistently fails at one thing: theme. The manga of the 60’s and the original show of the 70’s consisted entirely of short and simple heists that were on the literary level of pulp. The “gentleman thief” didn’t steal treasures out of any grand Robin Hood ideal, but for the thrill of the sport. It became the perfect format for a long-running franchise: Lupin and his loyal cohorts have a game of wits with cartoonish villains only to have the femme fatale swipe the prize at the end. As the decades wore on, new writers wanted to add some depth to the ... pulp. Out of this we get various pretentious specials and shows that spew philosophy and political screeds under the guise of the franchise. Sometimes it was so ridiculous that it worked, other times it was an irritating hindrance on an otherwise great format. The 2019 special Goodbye Partner achieves the classic format, but stumbles as the writers shoehorn their personal views into the story.

Anyone who watches this special can, without a doubt, tell you three beliefs that the writers hold; they are desperately paranoid about an all-encompassing internet, deeply resentful towards the United States and its most popular politicians, and hold a romantic belief in high-tech Communism. If you make your personal politics that clear through an adventure-comedy show, you are not a good writer. The “treasure” of the special is a diamond which in turn is required to make a super computer which in turn is able to hack every government system and control the global economy. Would such a thing work in real life? Probably not, but I’m quite willing to let anime bullshit be anime bullshit. Amusingly, the antagonist wants the super computer to give the United States the power to “take over the world!” Not to mention, guess what he also exclaims… “America First!” and “Make America Strong Again!” A little on the nose, aren’t we?

Worst of all is the falling action. The super AI has the typical “Destroy humanity to save the earth!” goal which, after learning about the value of humanity from the characters playing piano, transitions to “Create an equitable society by stealing boxes from Amazon and droning them to slums across the world!” By God, is this some sanctimonious shit. Do I need to deconstruct the writers’ fallacious understanding of wealth? You’re stealing those boxes from Amazon, they *exist* because the producers want a profit. Not to mention you’re probably just giving video-games and DVDs to these impoverished villagers. I’m sure they’ve all been saved from poverty because of your benevolent redistribution of Amazon boxes. The writers spew a romantic ideology of inanity, parroting the likes of presidential hopeful Bill De Blasio when he declared, “There is plenty of money in this world, and there's plenty of money in this country, it's just in the wrong hands.” Read a book, fellas.

Despite the nonsense, Goodbye Partner does achieve the classic Lupin III format and style. The opening minutes are brilliant, with a solid jazz score following Lupin escaping a sky-scraper of armed guards with the help of Jigen and Goemon. Indeed, the score is consistently great throughout the special—muted trumpet and upright bass making every heist scene that much groovier. Jigen is given one of his many film-noir-like back-stories of a past romance, Goemon is out to prove his superior swordsmanship, and Fujiko is of course doing her own conniving on the arm of the antagonist. Zenigata, as is typical, allies with Lupin in order to catch the bigger fish. Lupin ends up going for the diamond because he—one, can’t back down from a challenge; and two, wants to fuck with Jigen. All in all the characters are done quite right, making the political nonsense fairly tolerable.

Goodbye Partner is worth the watch—not for Lupin newbies or for Lupin elitists, but for those who can always enjoy the franchise as long as they get the basics right. There is an utter joy to be had in watching Lupin and friends simply take pleasure in the sport of the heist, no matter how convoluted and high-stakes the heist may be. Dismiss the politics of the special as the pent-up frustration of lonely writers, and enjoy the show.

"It's too wild for you to handle."

I long ago lost count of how many times I’ve watched Akira, but my admiration of it has only grown with each viewing. I understand the many lukewarm reviews on this webpage from those blaring the “Overhyped!” and “Nonsensical!” alarms, and I particularly sympathize with fellow manga fans who find the adaptation lacking, but I also believe that all of these detractors simply don’t get it. Akira is a superb piece of art that, despite its failure to tell a coherent story to first-time viewers, stands tall as a lasting pinnacle of aesthetic and philosophy in the anime medium.

I ... concede, I concede. Who watches Akira for the first time and doesn’t exclaim “What the fuck was that?” Nevertheless, is it necessarily a bad product if it takes multiple viewings and serious focus to completely follow? Of course, it isn’t so much that the plot is too high-minded for the casual audience but that the many facets of the plot have been congested into a feature-length film. Is the result bad story-telling? Maybe, from a technical perspective. But it’s there; every beat, every character motivation, everything. The first-time viewer just inevitably loses it all in the spectacle—and Akira is a spectacle.

Just take a look at those backdrops. Look at the detail of every insignificant frame. Watch the face of the guy sitting in a restaurant who gets slammed by a crashing motorcycle; take a look at the towering urban sprawl above Kaneda and Kei’s first conversation; make sure to catch Tetsuo’s first telekinetic slaughter of the nursery guards; watch every protrusion of flesh on the cosmic baby as they gurgle and spurt. A “fever dream masterpiece,” indeed. Akira’s unique style is evident from the first time you see Kaneda’s jacket and motorcycle. That character design, plus the Neo-Tokyo cityscapes, plus the absurd brutality, make the Akira aesthetic what it is. We’ve all seen it imitated across all entertainment mediums. Even those who cry “Overhyped!” about the plot certainly won’t feel the same about the design and animation.

Everyone appreciates how difficult a task it was for Otomo to condense six volumes into the two-hour run-time, but the greater task that he accomplished was condensing human nature into the run-time. Let’s see what we have here… a hedonist populace desperately trying to distract themselves from their empty lives with crime and radicalism, and a government split by perpetually-outraged councilmen conniving for political power. Further, a militarist crank has been striving to manipulate divine power for his own nationalist purposes. The results of all this human conceit play out in all their destructive glory. “The Fatal Conceit,” to quote a great man. Fine-tuning the natural order of things has always been an abject failure, and yet a persistently popular pursuit of elected government. Street gangs and anarchist revolutionaries have long been understood to be perverse compensation for loneliness and purposelessness, but are persistently romanticized. Akira portrays the contemporary, sci-fi appearance of an eternal human nature.

As far as the supernatural element goes, Otomo takes a pantheistic angle—as might be expected of the Japanese artist. As an interpretable product, however, there is no clear explanation for the divine events occurring in the Akira universe. The closest we get is a dull exposition by the nursery girl through her possession of Kei, haranguing Kaneda about life energy’s role in evolution. Of course, these are merely the intimations of an underdeveloped cripple who has been cooped up and drugged up in a perverse nursery-for-the-telekenetically-inclined. It seems to me that the ridiculous-looking cult of Akira is more accurate than most in worshipping Akira as a messiah. Cataclysm does come, and divinity is achieved—though not quite in the way the cultists were hoping for. Does morality play a role in any of this transcendence? Perhaps, perhaps not—Akira has no room for moralizing after spending every scene depicting the tragedy of human nature and the awesome power of the universe.

So what is Akira the film? An enduring aesthetic, a glorious spectacle, and a brilliant study of human nature. Even when the first-time viewer shuts off the movie with a blank stare and a gaping mouth, there should be no trouble in them re-watching as almost every frame of the movie is endlessly fascinating. So go on ahead, re-watch! I wrote this review not only to oppose the harsher critics but because I didn’t feel anyone on this webpage truly articulated what makes Akira a great piece of art. Its magnificent analysis of humanity's eternal failings goes unappreciated if not unrecognized by even the biggest fans.

Redline: A Personal Statement

A common criticism of Takeshi Koike’s Redline is that it chooses style over substance, to a fault. In principle, I should be against the concept of style over substance. I hold various pretentious ideas in my head about the role of art in the human experience and what meaningful purpose it might serve to God. The idea of tossing out metaphysical or introspective meaning for greater aesthetic value sounds unpleasantly nihilistic (Jesus, what thesaurus did I fall asleep on last night?) One need only play through something as mainstream as Persona 5 to encounter artists’ idolatry of aesthetic value devolving into a ... dangerously amoral philosophy. The art takes the place of God; morality is replaced by whatever *feels* right—or in Persona’s terms, whatever your “aesthetic” is. Ideas like this laid the intellectual foundation for the great despots of the 20th century.

Now in practice, that’s all horseshit. My favorite film of the decade is John Wick; the absurdly brutal, morally empty action flick with the most incredible cinematography, editing, and choreography to be found in Hollywood today. I thoroughly enjoy records from Black Sabbath to Opeth that contain literally Satanic lyrics but have damn good guitar riffs. I adore the landscape paintings of Romanticists and Impressionists, both pretentious crackpots who painted with the belief that reality was true only to each individual’s conception of it. However, they produced profoundly beautiful art. Sometimes, that’s just fine.

In Redline, aesthetic clearly reigns supreme. I avoided it for years, having heard the writing was weak. If only I could remember who I heard that from so I could, to quote a great man, sock them in the goddam face and they’d stay plastered. A Public Service Announcement to all who are still wary of watching Redline; watch it. You might even end up as one of these chumps on the MAL reviews who rated it a 6 or something because you wanted more plot; still, watch it. Even these bastards probably don’t regret a second of watching the non-stop frame-by-frame bombardment of animated beauty. We have to accept that not everything has to be a brilliant parable or an in-depth analysis of the human experience. Is it a problem that great stories are overshadowed by mindless eye-candy in the current film market? Probably. Is there welcome room for mindless eye-candy, though? Definitely, especially when it's executed as well as Redline is. Take the product on its own terms; that is, meticulously hand-drawn animation throughout an absurdist high-octane thrill ride. If it's not for you, leave it for the rest of us to adore. And boy do I adore it.

Thank God someone had the balls to say “Hey, everyone pretty much fucking knows hand-drawn animation is where the great beauties of anime film are—maybe there’s still a market for it.” Thank God they had the balls to stick it through to the end. Listen, I don’t even like racing movies. I don’t like racing videogames, I don’t like racing cartoons, I don’t like the actual racing sport, I’m not even interested in brands of cars. None of that matters when something is as engaging and animated to such glorious perfection as Redline. I imagine Koike and his team could have made a film about croquet and, with the same amount of time, budget, effort, and passion, it would have been just as much of a masterpiece. Hmm… now there’s an idea.

The moral of the Redline experience is that amoral art can be pretty fucking cool. The incomprehensible amount of skill and effort that went into the intricacies of every frame of Redline is more than enough to make worthy art. I have a little analogy to explain this: I have little respect for ancient Japan's samurai code of honor that was simply a guise for tribal warfare, but I have a deep fascination with samurai stories for the extreme self-mastery it takes to follow the “way of the sword.” As I don't care for the narrative of bushido in ancient Japan, I could not give a fuck about JP’s motivation for competitive racing or the insane intergalactic politics of the Redline universe. The narrative of the samurai code is not what is special about the samurai, just as Redline's narrative is not what is special about the film. The samurai earn my admiration for their miraculous austerity, while Redline earns my admiration for its miraculous mastery of design and animation. All praise due to Takeshi Koike.

The new Boogiepop that we’ve somehow been blessed with in 2019 anno domini is an actual adaptation of Kouhei Kadono’s original light novels, unlike the previous Boogiepop Phantom (which was an interesting offshoot that only vaguely referenced the source material.) The new show has taken as its style an inconsistent timeline to make the overly-congested plot seem more complex and mysterious than it is. Though accurately adapted, the separate novels are crammed into just three-or-four-episode arcs for each. I wouldn’t say each light novel could last a full season, but they could certainly be more fleshed out. Nevertheless, it’s a great time for those who ... can enjoy a little pretentious sci-fi in their anime.

Our hero Boogiepop is back in action to stop folks from continually trying to immanentize the eschaton; to create a transcendent utopia on earth. Despite the various incoherent metaphors and vague monologues in the show’s dialogue, the conflicts between Boogiepop and her antagonists can essentially be boiled down to that again and again. Episode 11 gives Boogiepop one of the better monologues of the show; she speaks of every human being having the potential to become an “enemy of the world.” She explains that everyone who is too “normal” lacks “resistance” when confronted with a “unique” person or idea. Translated from obscure-Boogiepop-speak, this basically means the world is full of impressionable moral relativists who can easily be set on an evil path despite good intentions. A very timely theme, given the popular political and cultural movements of our day.

Simply writing arcs based around the theme above, we could have a great story on our hands that tells all it needs to tell. Unfortunately we can’t have simple plots in Japanese media when we're faced with the duties of writing in the "psychological" genre. Although this anime actively makes the plot seem more convoluted than it is, Kadono deserves some blame as well. The so-called Towa Organization is an irritating leech weighing down every arc of the show. They’re a secret society searching the world for mutants and just causing a whole lot of destruction for no coherent purpose. Apparently they’re trying to make sure humans don’t get beaten out by “evolved” types and yet in the process create a multitude of synthetic humans to do their dirty work. Seems to me it’s a little counterproductive to exterminate mutants while creating a population of fully sentient androids who cannot be told apart from real humans. That said, I’m not entirely sure that mutant extermination was even their end goal; the exposition is that vague.

The overall production is legitimately good and lacks any of the unpleasant CG that’s been inserted into every other anime reboot I’ve watched in the past year. The action scenes are few and far between but always put a smile on my face—the combat animation is heavily stylized and always catches the viewer off guard, juxtaposed against the monotonous scenes that make up the rest of the show. The score is groovy as hell, including the opening and ending tracks. Keep in mind this comes from an individual with absolutely no taste for J-Pop or anything of the sort, yet it’s somehow endearing here. Some background tracks often sound like something you’d find in a “lofi hiphop” playlist; simple computer-generated noises that somehow work to set an atmosphere. I can’t comment much on the Japanese voice-acting given that I don’t understand the language, but Aoi Yuuki is a definite standout as the protagonist. Her soft but jolting voice gives Boogiepop an alien quality that easily separates her from her host: Miyashita Touka.

I hope I’ve redeemed myself slightly for my jumbled mess of a review for the Boogiepop light novels back in 2014. It’s worth noting that my first introduction to Boogiepop was Boogiepop Phantom, and not the novels. The source material is worlds different from Phantom in tone, and so is this new show. So if you’ve come to this series as a fan of Phantom, be prepared for a far less absurdly twisted and vile show. The morbidity of Boogiepop is always there to be sure, but Phantom was on another level of horror. Enjoy 2019’s Boogiepop Never Laughs as an often ridiculously convoluted adventure through twisted personalities, but always appreciate the underlying philosophy: mortal man cannot create paradise on earth, and any attempts to do so often result in crimes against humanity. The Tower of Babel is always short-lived.

I’m glad that Lupin III still attracts enough of an audience to fund the steady output of shows and films. I wouldn’t give the label “masterpiece” to much in the Lupin III franchise—maybe to The Castle of Cagliostro and a few of the specials from the 90’s—but I can always count on enjoyment no matter how corny the writing. I grew up on the Miyazaki film and so was destined to become a certified Lupin III fanboy. I can say I enjoyed the hell out of this season.

I struggled with Lupin III Part 5 for the first few episodes. I believe the words I ... used to describe the pilot to friends were “horseshit” and “garbage writing.” The whole livestreaming plot that this season begins with is corny as hell, but I think I was primarily pissed off by the panty shot of the teenage girl and the subsequent “Do you want to have sex with me, Lupin?” It might not have been such a problem for me if teenage characters in anime didn’t look like they were ten years old. In any case, after getting over the initial flaws the season really gets its act together. At episode 5 they hit you with a throwback episode, creating a whole one-off Lupin heist plot in the style of the pink jacket series. It’s fucking awesome, and it worked as a sort of relieving message to the audience: “We’re fans too.” This concept continues throughout the season, doing fantastic one-off throwbacks to each of the old Lupin III seasons. These were the highlights of the season for me, as they cover pretty much exactly what I want out of any new addition to the franchise: classic heist episodes.

The actual over-arching plot to this one is a serious improvement over Part 4’s. It’s your basic utopian antagonist who couldn’t care less what gets in the way of his ideals of universal peace and safety… but he’s a smart phone app designer. Unfortunately, the writers ooze out their personal politics onto some of the plot, but these moments are brief and largely irrelevant. One episode features a corrupt “anti-immigration” politician who orders fake terrorist attacks to gain public support. This is a bizarre strawman of a complex issue going on in Europe now, and so the writers’ open-borders-policy bias is made obvious. Further on throughout the season, the writers make continual reference to the "evil" ways of American foreign policy. One subplot actually ends with the success of a theocratic monarch over an American-backed revolution. Fortunately, the writers keep their politics out of the dialogue of the main characters… that would piss me off. In any case, it never got as bad as the episode of The Woman Called Fujiko Mine that out-of-nowhere started spewing Fidel Castro propaganda.

Overall, this was a really good season. The animation was on point, the plot wasn’t complete nonsense (looking at you Part 4), and the famous characters were all perfectly designed and fully in-character. There was actually some awesome character writing with tension between Lupin and his cohorts, giving Goemon some great introspection that I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen in previous series. The final episode includes Lupin expressing the sentiment that he’ll keep on being the world-famous gentleman thief as long as the audience is interested. I hope the audience remains interested for decades to come, ‘cause Lupin III is one cool motherfucker.