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The thing about interesting premises is that, as well conceived as they are, they do not alone a great series make. There are many masterpieces of anime out there with intricate plots and layers upon layers of mystery, but there are just as many slice-of-life series in which nothing extraordinary happens, and which stand out all the same because of good execution.

And, of course, we have stuff like Kiznaiver — which starts from a good, solid scenario, but fails to live to its potential because of how clumsily it’s carried out.

Kiznaiver is a production of Studio Trigger, a name we have learned to associate ... with the outlandish and bizarre. It’s the studio first original effort after the success of Kill la Kill, and it owes to it — as well as Gurren Lagann — some character designs and themes. Hiroshi Kobayashi, who has worked in series such as Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood and Psycho-Pass, is the main director here.

Like I said, the premise is intriguing: we start with our main character, an apathetic high school student by the name of Katsuhira Agata, being abducted and undergoing forced surgery to become a Kiznaiver; that is, to be psychically linked to five other teenagers so that, when one of them suffers a wound, the whole group feels the pain. The whole experiment is supervised by a mysterious stoic girl called Noriko Sonozaki, who will stop at nothing to get the results she wants. Together, Katsuhira and his fellow Kiznaivers — overprotective childhood friend Chidori Takashiro; teenage delinquent Hajime Tenga; troubled ice queen Honoka Maki; snotty casanova Tsuguhito Yuuta; cutesy space-case Nico Niiyama; and strangely mature masochist Yoshiharu Hisomu — must learn to navigate their strengthening bond, as well as solve the enigma behind the conception of this Kizuna System.

And, from reading this last paragraph, you must have noticed what I believe is the greatest issue with Kiznaiver: way too many characters to properly develop in twelve episodes. The series would have done better in a 24-episode format, or maybe as something with a little less focus on human relationships; as it is, there simply isn’t time to go deeply into all of the Kiznaivers’ personalities, or to show them bonding with each other in a realistic way. Add to that how ridiculously impractical the Kizuna system is, and how there’s no good explanation for the people involved hold, and it’s harder and harder to buy into the story.

Since the plot relies so heavily in character work, it falls apart when said character work doesn’t follow through. The Kiznaivers face harrowing situations to strengthen their bonds but, even accounting for stress as a catalyst, it’s hard to believe they could become that attached to each other; when the characters start visibly suffering due to their relationships, the experience is undermined by the fact that they met less than two weeks ago. It’s a little bit like watching Takumi proclaim his concern over the multitude of girls he just met when every other episode of ChäoS;HEAd has shown him to be completely uninterested in the outside world — although, to Kiznaiver’s credit, it never quite reaches that level of nonsense.

(What really bugs me about this is that, while the aforementioned ChäoS;HEAd was struggling to adapt the history of a visual novel within twelve episodes, Kiznaiver is not an adaptation of anything… which means the people responsible for creative decisions did all of this on purpose. WHY.)

Now, not everything is a tragedy; when it comes to technical aspects, Kiznaiver delivers. The character design, though slightly derivative, is *gorgeous*, refined, and more beautiful than anything the studio had released before. Even if it isn’t used as cleverly as in Kill la Kill, the animation is fluid and smooth; it’s easy to recognize and appreciate the studio’s frantic, fast-paced signature style. The ending of episode 10 alone is worth the existence of the entire project. As for the musical score, I can’t remember anything in particular about it, which means it must have served its purpose without too much dissonance; I think the real jewel here is the ending sequence, with the combination of the soft-spoken vocals and the animation of the girls that hits all of the right places.

Also worthy of note is the voice actors’ work; they move the series along when the story doesn’t. As usual, Yuuji Kaji delivers a stunning performance as Katsuhira Agata, using his impressive range to move easily from a quiet voice to a yelling protagonist when the character needs him to. I was not acquainted with their work before, but both Hibiku Yamamura and Yuka Terasaki carry their characters nicely, in opposite ways; if Chidori’s speech in episode 5 hits home, it’s all due to Terasaki’s amazing voice work. The other actors pull their weight, lending voice to their characters in ways we’ve come to expect from their other performances; for example, Hajime Tenga doesn’t show all the range Tomoaki Maeno is capable of, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do his utmost to bring the character to life.

In the end, however, Kiznaiver is proof that it takes more than a good idea and cool visuals to sell a series — you need planning, coordination and, maybe, some down-to-earthness to recognize when the project is getting away from you. It’s not, like, an affront to mankind, or something that will burn your brain if you watch; but it pales in comparison with other series in the same year and even with the rest of Studio Trigger’s catalogue.

"Classic" is a word that's vague by itself, whose meaning's continually changing with time. In the 90's, when KareKano was first published, the "classic" works of shoujo were titles such as Princess Knight and The Rose of Versailles; nowadays, these mangas are still classic, but KareKano, which used to be a prime example of a modern shoujo, has gained a very different aura.

The characters of KareKano are always dealing with their own identity. Their worrying about the face they present to the world and their real self — about the difference between who they are and who they want to be — is, for ... me, what turns this manga into a universal experience, making it transcend Japan in the 90's to still be relevant twenty-odd years later.

The mangá was written and drawn by Masami Tsuda, and published in La-La magazine between 1995 and 2005. Its center is the relationship between Yukino Miyazawa, a girl who works hard to look perfect solely because of her need for attention, and Souichirou Arima, who tries to hide the flaws within himself so as not to cause problems for his adoptive parents. Together, they learn about the fear and the joy of true vulnerability, and thus, about the feeling of accepting and being accepted completely by someone else — not only in love, but among family and friends. It's a straightforward plot, and it's interesting exactly because of that: they go through problems many of us have gone through, and the narrative does not look away from the effects these things can have in a person's psyche.

The narrative does not look away from many things, actually. The regular teenage manga rarely deals well with the transition between holding hands and sex, even though this is a very important aspect of a teenager's day-to-day. This is not a problem here: KareKano does not show explicit scenes, but makes it clear that sex is present in the characters' lives, even in brutal ways. The representation of violence, physical as well as psychological, is also outstanding and right on the mark, especially when it comes to mental illnesses.

I believe that KareKano's strongest point are the protagonists. Yukino and Souchirou are built in fascinating ways. It would be very easy to take the initial setup and just extend it, make Yukino into a stuck-up tsundere and Souichirou into a jerk with a hidden "nice side" — but the story evolves, and they evolve with it. Even better: the evolution of the characters does not mean the end of their conflicts, but leads to an increase in their complexity. The manga's climax is not something that comes from punctual misunderstandings, made up in the eleventh hour; it is carefully woven from the protagonists and the natural path towards which their actions take them.

Of course, so much focus in one aspect of the story may lead to slight deficiency in others. In KareKano, I believe this manifests itself in difficulty with teenager characterization. One can justify Yukino and Souichirou's maturity on the count of their, ahem, circumstances — but it is hard to believe that all the characters around them show the same characteristics. The only character that is actually immature reaches a stunning level of philosophical detachment practically overnight. In the same group of teenagers, we have a genius writer and a genius musician, individuals who have already defined the path of their lives, relationship counselors and a girl who is so mature that, in her relationship with a 25-year-old, she is the one who manipulates and dominates everything. I haven't seen such an extraordinary group of young people together since Ouran. (And it doesn't help matters that their personality seems to vanish next to the main couple...)

When it comes to the art, KareKano is within expectatives. It's commonplace to find light and delicate tracing in such publications, and Masami Tsuda draws her bishounen and bishoujo with painstaking care. The character design I like the most is Yukino's; she looks feminine and pretty without relying on that generic blonde phenotype so many mangaka adopt (and that the author herself uses in other characters — I'm keeping an eye on you, Tsubasa), nor in that stereotype of Japanese beauty, with long black hair and mysterious eyes. Generally speaking, it's a style that's very representative of the time the manga was published, without excessive detailing and a more practical look. Even so, there are moments in which the author shines: here I am thinking about the conversations between Souichirou and his imaginary double.

I can safely say I liked KareKano. Even if it's hard to believe in the exceptionality of every single person involved in the plot, it never gets to the point that story takes a backseat to wish fulfillment. The love interests do get together and the author manages to keep us interested for a long time after. I have heard the animated adaptation does not follow the manga until the end, and that that disappointed Masami Tsuda a lot; considering that the climax of KareKano feels like the unavoidable unfolding of the conflicts in scene, I can understand where her distress comes from.

One of the many definitions of "classic" is a work that never "runs out", so to say; a work that always has something to say to the reader, even if many years have passed already. If, once, KareKano was a brilliant example of what was in vogue in shoujo manga, nowadays it can be seen as a sort of pioneer in trails that other works like Toradora! and Kimi ni Todoke have followed. It is easy to notice its influence, and the reason this influence lasts until this day; you just have to open a volume and listen to the messages it can tell. After all, it's going to be a while before KareKano stops talking with us.

When I first came across a Pluto tankobon translated to Brazilian Portuguese — it feels like it was yesterday, but it's been a year already! —, I had to stop myself from cartwheeling across the bookstore. Actually owning the physical volumes was a dream I thought would never come true, because of this manga's complicated relationship with Astro Boy; now that I've acquired the last one, I just keep staring at my manga shelf, savoring the spark of joy Marie Kondo talks about.

As I was buying the volumes, of course, I started rereading the story... And that reminded me how much I love the themes ... Naoki Urasawa works with, the complex characters he creates, the designs he uses for them. In the intervals between publications, I would remember some of his other works — mainly, the story that made me consider him the best mangaka currently in business, and that is still one of my favorite mangas of all time: Monster. Excitement and enchantment were bubbling inside of me when I finally managed to finish Futari wa Pretty Cure, and the disappointment that anime caused me bade me to look for something *good*, something that wouldn't bore me or make me angry.

That was how, three years after I had finally finished reading Monster, I decided to go through the 74 episodes of the animated adaptation.

It was released in 2004, ten years after the manga was first published, by the studio Madhouse, with Masayuki Kojima acting as director. Kojima had already worked with Urasawa's material before — he directed the adaptation of Master Keaton — and, since the first episode of the anime, it becomes clear that he and the rest of his team revere the plot; they try to reconstruct all the dialogue from the paper, adapting some scenes panel by panel. Considering the anime as a whole, I cannot recall any dramatic exclusion, and I believe I am not exaggerating when I say 99% of the content of the manga was transposed to the screen with minimal alterations.

Which leaves me with what I think is the main problem with this adaption: the snail-pace rhythm.

Monster is not only a psychological thriller series. The story also explores philosophy in general and ethics in particular, discussing concepts such as nihilism and religion to give the reader a better understanding of the characters, slowly leading towards the great finale. One consequence of this is the enormous amount of dialogue; there isn't a single volume without someone trying to explain the reasons behind their actions, or discuss the mysterious nature of Johan and Tenma. This is not an actual problem; these dialogues make the characters more complex and memorable.

It's just that the TV screen doesn't work exactly like the pages of a manga. Turning the written word into sound and intonation takes time and gives the adaptation a completely different rhythm. If, on paper, we read the conversation between psychologists at whatever speed we want to — fast, to get to the action soon, or slowly, to fully comprehend what they're talking about —, in the anime, we are forced to hear the actors enunciate everything, without being able to go back or forward.

In a manga as full of dialogue as Monster is, that means that we spend most of the 74 episodes in scenes with little action, involving long conversations and narration. Although this works on paper, the animation seems to be dragging towards the end of each episode. I believe that the creation team may have lacked a little adventurous spirit — or an understanding that, maybe, making some changes to the story of Monster might be a better way of recreating the atmosphere of Urasawa's manga.

Another aspect of the anime that bothered me a little was the dreary colors of the scenery. I don't know if that is characteristic of the studio's work, or of Kojima's own style — the adaptation of Master Keaton seems to suffer from a similar problem —, or of the technology used at the time of release; I know that the whole thing looks sort of funereal. That works well in the sequences that take place at night, inside pubs and brothels, but it seems to take some of the shine of the scenes in daylight... and Monster is, for me, a manga full of daytime dangers, made more evident by the contrast with bright, vivid, urban landscapes. This, obviously, is my own personal opinion, and not necessarily a production flaw; some people will disagree.

I find the soundtrack interesting, even if it's not in the same level of classics such as Cowboy Bebop. For me, the most memorable song is the opening theme; it creates an awesome unity of effect when played along the sequence of Tenma as a fugitive. The choir invokes the Christian allegory motifs for the main conflict of the story, and will probably still be echoing in the spectator's ears after the episode ends. In comparison, neither of the ending themes seems as strong, although the second one works very well with the illustrations of "The Nameless Monster". The songs inside each episode are not as impressive; I cannot recall any occasion of musical dissonance... but neither can I recall any occasion the music called my attention by its own merits.

As for the rest, I think the anime was fair enough to Urasawa's work. As a devoted fan, I was worried I would stumble into one of my favorite stories twisted beyond recognition, but what I found was characters dear to me gaining movement and voice. Tenma, Nina, Johan — they all have amazing voice actors, whose intensity and subtlety make us cry and laugh. I especially liked Tsutomu Isobe's performance as Lunge; I had never seen any of his roles before and I was amazed by the way he brought the inspector's obsessions to life.

It's hard to go wrong when you're closely following one of the most interesting mangas ever written; the animated adaptation of Monster is *good*. It could have been better; it could have been one of the masterpieces of Japanese animation. As it is, it will always come second to the story on the paper.

The mahou shoujo genre has come a long way since its beginnings in Himitsu no Akko-chan, and today it is almost as wide as pizza topping options. We have series that are cute and series that are dark; series with magic beams of lights and series with mecha piloting; Cardcaptor Sakura: Clear Card-hen and Mahou Shoujo no Ore. Things have changed a lot since the sixties, huh?

One of the stepping stones of these changes is Futari wa Pretty Cure (literally “We Are Pretty Cure”), which started airing in 2004. The first in a franchise that nowadays includes more than fifteen titles, this series was one ... of the first to join the idea of physical action with the concept of the magical girl. The power of friendship is discussed as a theme when applied to the way Nagisa and Honoka — the two girls in the title — learn how to connect to each other despite their different dispositions and interests.

I started watching the anime with the intention of learning a little more about the mahou shoujo genre, but, after 49 episodes, I have to say I am disappointed.

The framework of the story is simple: Nagisa and Honoka are chosen by two beings from a parallel universe called “The Garden of Light” to protect the Prism Stones, a bunch of jewels that hold the power of creation. To get those stones, the villains use evil spirits called Zakenna, which possess the objects around the Pretty Cure and turn them into monsters. The plot never really goes beyond; we don’t know where these people came from, where are they going to, what exactly are they and how things work in their world. Simplicity can often be a positive trait in a series — here I am thinking about series like Bleach, so lost in their own plot points they’re never going to get out of that mess —, but here it ends up leading to shallowness. It’s hard to worry about the destiny of the Garden of Light when we’re too busy wondering why is their queen giant and how can she speak without moving her mouth.

The episodes are mostly formulaic, intertwining problems that the girls face in their day-to-day lives with their Pretty Cure fights. That is not a negative aspect in and of itself; times were different and it was more important to have a long contract than a practical plot. What truly annoyed me about this is the way everyone — villains included — go out of their way to keep this formula, for *no reason at all*. Why do the villains care that no one at the school figures out Nagisa and Honoka are the Pretty Cure? I don’t know, but there they go, conveniently putting all the other girls to sleep before summoning the Pretty Cure to a fight.

By the way, the villains’ lack of common sense comes dangerously close to stupidity. They soon figure out the girls’ civilian identities, without any big “eureka moment” — and proceed to do nothing useful with the information afterwards. Barring a few exceptions, they never go after them at their home, only at school, and conveniently after classes. They never go straight for Mepple and Mipple; they always wait for the girls to transform and fight them. They get to the point of *saving them* from *their own attacks*, because “it would be harder to get the Prism Stones from you if you’re dead”. I’m sorry, but isn’t it easier to take something off an unconscious person?! Nagisa and Honoka are always yelling about how “they’re never gonna forgive” the villains for some reason or another, but, considering everything they *could* have done, I think the girls got off easy.

Most of the villains also lack personality or interesting motivation; they have a single funny character trait and that’s about it. This a problem with most of the secondary characters, but for one or two people (Honoka’s grandma, you’re a lighthouse in a stormy sea of shoujo). I have to acknowledge the fact that the anime tries hard: conflicts are set up some episodes before, and their consequences continue to be brought up episodes later; characters we met in standalone episodes show up again with the marks from their contact with the Pretty Cure. But, in the end, it seems like the interactions lack sincerity? To me, the big emotional moments always feel a little forced — though that might be due to the fact I never managed to get into the series’ way of doing things. (And the less we say about how annoying Mepple is, the better.)

The animation itself was another thing that bothered me. Yes, it’s pretty amazing to have magical girls punching the villains on the face, but Nagisa and Honoka fight like string dolls. Getting stronger because of the transformation is one thing — changing directions mid-jump to spin like a drill is quite another. The visual aspect of the characters is great (with the exception of Belzei, who looks like a Dragon Ball Z background character who was rejected from Freeza’s army), but the girls are often badly drawn and badly animated, even in traditionally important moments like their special attacks.

Sound-wise, the soundtrack is good; it’s comforting when it needs to be, exciting otherwise, and it probably constitutes the only interesting aspect about the villains. The opening song is surprisingly catchy, and not in a bad way; it’s easy to catch yourself singing “pretty de, cure-cure” without meaning to after watching five episodes at a time. My biggest problem was the ending song, which not only has nothing to do with the show at all, but is also filled with weird screaming in the background that totally kills the mood. The studio’s decision to keep it as the only ending theme for the 49 episodes *and* to choose it as the girls’ choir song later on probably didn’t help any.

In the end, I must say that, for such an influent anime series, Futari wa Pretty Cure lacks quality. There are good moments, but, even at its best, the series doesn’t quite catch up with other classics of the mahou shoujo genre. That said, I can see that there was an effort to build a good story, which is a point on its favor. I am sure many people have had fun with this series and many more will have fun with it in the future, but, in my opinion, if you’re looking for mahout shoujo anime that *really* makes you feel something, you should skip this one.

Mesdames, messieurs, bonsoir.

The Count of Monte Cristo is a story that has been part of my repertoire since I was a child. From the Blye Migicovsky 1997 animated movie, to the Brazilian soap opera Do Outro Lado do Paraíso (“On the Other Side of Paradise”), without forgetting my young reader version of the novel — all battered and beaten from my reading it so many times —, this tale of revenge and its characters have more than earned this place in my literary folklore. To say I’m still interested in the forms the story takes in our modern is to put it mildly.

So one can ... guess how excited I was when I heard of an anime that adapted Edmond Dantès’ story — especially because it transferred the action to outer space (which I kinda love). I had great expectations when I went looking for the first episode… and I’ve found out that there’s a lot more to this series than the summary implies.

Gankutsuou (literally, “The King of the Cavern”) takes mid-19th century Parisian society and puts it on the year of 5053. The Champs-Élysées are still on the same place, but other countries became other planets; Italy is now a city on the moon and Haydée’s Turkey is populated by half-elvish, half-octopus aliens. However, that’s far from Gankutsuou’s strangest choice.

The anime turns the classic story on its axis by showing the events from the point-of-view of Albert de Morcerf — the son of Edmond’s ex-fiancée, Mercédès, with his rival, Fernand Mondego. It doesn’t seem to be such a dramatic decision, but this little shift shines a new light on many of the Count’s actions. While the book shows the motivation and the planning that goes into the revenge, here the Count becomes a mysterious shadow of misfortune hanging over Albert and his loved ones. Add to it that, in the anime, the Count has some supernatural characteristics, and what is usually portrayed as a straightforward swashbuckling tale grows into something of a horror story, filled with tension from the first to the last episode.

The aesthetic choices make the series even more exotic. The animators behind Gankutsuou decided to fill almost every surface with what is known as the unmoving plaid, which makes it seem like we’re watching a moving collage. The Count’s hair looks like it was taken off a block of granite; we can see the kinship between Fernand and Albert because of the pattern in their hair; the clothes seem like a patchwork of weird patterns. I myself thought it a very interesting choice, as it gives the series a very unique visual identity when compared to the other works of the time — even if it causes some bizarre effects at times (*cough* episode five *cough*). But it is mainly a question of taste; some people will dislike it.

I believe that the reason why Gankutsuou works as an adaptation and as an anime by itself is how the characters are developed, especially when it comes to those that weren’t as relevant in the novel. Albert, for example, goes from supporting to main character — and in the process acquires some shounen protagonist traits that make him able to move the plot in a different way. The anime doesn’t turn him into a naïve saintly victim of the Count like other adaptations of the novel; he has flaws, struggles with them throughout the episodes, and leads the viewer to sympathize with him.

Regarding the antagonists, the treatment given to Fernand Mondego is also really interesting. Generally, Fernand is portrayed as the most irredeemable among Edmond’s enemies, and it’s hard to even understand why Mercédès decided to marry him; in the 2002 movie, for example, Guy Pearce might as well have been wearing a neon sign blinking “EVIL” atop his head. All strikingly different from the cheerful and kind man who shows up in the first episodes; unlike Danglars and Villefort, Fernand is portrayed as a loving husband and a good father, not only in reputation but in deeds. Seeing him happy with Mercédès, one might even feel sorry for the man, knowing what awaits. The anime seems bent on exploring all sides of Fernand, and the viewer that gets to the end without feeling at least a smidge of pity for him is a very hard person indeed.

I think it’s also relevant to mention the homoerotic subtext in the anime. In the novel, it’s relatively implicit that Eugénie Danglars is a lesbian — it’s hinted at by her hatred of men, her independence and her escape with her piano teacher, Louise D’Armilly. In the anime, the teacher disappears, and, with her, the implications; Eugénie is Albert’s love interest, with tsundere tendencies and the whole package. I don’t usually like this kind of erasure, but here it is balanced out by two other choices. The first is an increase of Eugénie’s importance in the story (she goes from a background character to an outstanding supporting role, and a lot of attention is given to her necessity of freeing herself from the Danglars’ household). The second is the sheer amount of subtext created solely for the show. The love that Franz d’Epinay feels for his best friend Albert is all but stated; the relationship between Albert and the Count is also filled with homoeroticism, without resorting to actual queerbaiting.

There are some aspects which the anime doesn’t develop that well. The pace is a little slow, especially for those who are used to contemporary shounen series, and the hamminess, though adequate to a 19th century novel, sometimes results in unintentional hilarity. However, the voice acting is superb (congratulations to Jun Fukuyama in his first outstanding part), the themes are well-explored, and the scenery, used remarkably to the story’s benefit. I believe that the fans of the Count of Monte Cristo will find in this anime a new way to look at the novel — I know I did — and the fans of anime in general will find a series that is well-planned, with no trace of the sloppiness and the clichés that make so many current titles generic and boring.

Attendre, et espérer!