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Apr 6, 2025
Tetsuji Sekiya's Bambino follows up-and-coming chef Ban Shogo, a college student looking to make a name for himself in Italian cuisine in Japan. The story navigates his trials and tribulations in restaurant Trattoria Baccanale, involving things like rivalries and newbie hazing. It's a fine entry into the Italian niche of cooking manga, although often it struggles to situate plot devices without the atmosphere appearing as the author forcing the story to move along once the self-realization occurs that too much time was spent deliberating in a story arc. It's worth noting that Bambino isn't about cooking as much as I'd have liked it to be.
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The series spends a great deal of time characterizing Ban's growth as a chef, but typically through forcing him to participate in either non-cooking tasks or cooking things that aren't pasta-related, his specialty. It intentionally beats around the bush, aiming to develop his customer service skills because management thinks he has potential. While I do find that aspect somewhat original and necessary, the lengths these arcs go to turn into melodramatic fare, insisting on shaping Ban using menial assignments that have supposed hidden value.
When it's not immersed in drama, Bambino's devotion to the ideal Italian meal is respectable. There's one such instance where the resolution to an arc is Ban learning that he can elevate his waiter etiquette by using his knowledge of cuisine preparation as entertainment. That's refreshing, not just for the customers but for the reader as well, as something that entices the palate for the dozens of pasta variants on the menu. The series approaches pasta dishes with the same speed that is required to make them, encompassing the kitchen environment with a ruthless hierarchy and foregrounding that there's quite literally no time to breathe. In the mix of things, Sekiya retains the true nature of a training arc, and Ban learns, repeats, and learns some more. There are ample descriptions of ingredients and the delicate touch a chef needs, although it's rarely in the way of listing recipes. The cast typically highlights the quality of preparation and the chef's skill, making the difference when the same ingredients are used.
Bambino's one hefty downside, however, is its approach to rising action and execution of narrative turning points. Sekiya's notion of dramatic conflicts is haphazard, and while it rightfully resembles people's lives changing at a moment's notice, he spares no time to digest the aftermath of these decisions. Often, a character's career motivation may change in a single chapter without precursory development, and it harms the story's fluidity given that the structure very apparently sidelines cast members that were previously somewhat important. Despite the clumsy interpersonal writing, the series has innate charm when presenting Ban's harsh career trajectory as an underpaid rookie chef. Sekiya's elongated art style relies on comfortable angles for many of the restaurant panels, but the art is generally a consistent blend of expressions and food. Bambino explores the breadth of Italian cuisine, among other food industry politics, albeit it mainly sets the stage for Ban's leadership role in the sequel.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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Apr 2, 2025
cocoon is structured as an excerpt of a larger wartime chronicle, sectioning a particular piece of the struggle and centering on a specific person's minor development. The scope of the one-hour film, while small, establishes its visual identity well enough to distinguish itself, given it's an NHK TV movie and all. The original source is based on the real story of the Himeyuri students, also known as the "Lily Corps", a girls' high school turned into a nursing unit during the Pacific War. They were mobilized by the Japanese army under false pretenses of impending victory and safety; however, as the film depicts, the girls
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were subject to harsh work in caves turned into makeshift hospitals and executing medical tasks in life-threatening conditions. cocoon follows Mayu and San among a band of other Okinawan girls constructing safehouses and soon having to assist at the hospital while constantly in fear of aerial attacks. The dialogue among the girls does an especially solid job in slowly isolating them and decreasing the available land in their own country, usually by indicating they must continue to head south although logic tells us one can only go south for so long. Once the girls have realized this futility, more drastic measures to die an honorable death become tempting.
Mayu and San's inferiority complex-ridden relationship is an underlying theme behind the wartime catastrophes. Mayu is an older girl and the subject of admiration among the group, a symbol of leadership. That goes for San too, who looks up to Mayu and sometimes sees her as a proxy for thoughts she's unable to confidently voice to the group. This becomes a recurring mental conflict and ultimately the obstacle San must get past to increase their chances of survival. One of the key metaphors drawn in parallel to San's low self-esteem is that of a "Kaiko", referring to silkworm pupae. The Japanese silk moth is evolutionarily fascinating because it has wings but is unable to fly. Similarly, San is a thoughtful, bright girl unable to express herself for fear of rejection, leaving many things unsaid or undone, unlike the moth, who will crawl forward endlessly through willpower. The insect is initially pitied by San, but soon her perseverance to survive gives new perspective on crawling when flight isn't possible, taking the road less traveled.
cocoon's metaphoric strengths are further visible in its approach to bloodshed and death. The girls were relatively sheltered and knew how to study, and while labor is difficult, witnessing the gore of mangled bodies is easier heard about than seen. Mangaka Machiko Kyo disguises blood and death as flowers, a way for San to cope with the trauma in the moment. In the story, this is Mayu's idea, and the imagery of multi-colored petals sprouting from a missing limb is startling, bloody or not. The idea of these teenagers being exposed to these scenes is harrowing by nature, but even more so when we envision San desperately trying to imagine petals in place of death. Despite its strong sense of visual storytelling, as an overall ode to war it gets as far as one hour will allow it, which is not that far. Politically, there is little substance, and in the ways of optimism, it sort of falls into a daze of inevitability. Unavoidable death and unavoidable stragglers who manage to survive. I'm more inclined to remember some of the conversations related to false patriotism than the teenage angst, and it would have benefitted from an open ending as well as slightly less political ambiguity.
The film's simplicity strikes two different chords, an emotionally resonant one and an admittedly surface-level exploration of heavy ultimatums the girls are faced with. It's hard to necessarily hold it against the film's runtime, but it limits its thematic output when we cut in and out of climactic segments that are otherwise central to the Japanese side of innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. In the premise of the film, the girls suffer not only from the enemy but from their brethren too. There's no upside to the battles for anyone in the midst, a motif omnipresent in each tragic event happening one after the other. cocoon becomes emotionally potent when sacrifices are made, throwing the two leads into questioning why they should bother living when the future is so uncertain and bleak. It cleverly circles back to the silk moth, personifying why the girls refuse to take the easy way out, arguably showing more resilience than the soldiers in a deluge of blood. This is where its simplicity highlights what the writing leaves for thought, and regardless of it cradling the ethical crimes, the distilled apocalyptic scenes bear value, even if only for remembrance of a war past.
Veteran Studio Ghibli animator Hitomi Tateno serves as the animation producer here in collaboration with studio Sasayuri. Her usual work is checking in-betweens, and in cocoon, her taking on a supervisor role works well in service of developing the picturesque look of a rural area. Visually, it does resemble a Ghibli-esque style, but it's not so much inspiration as it is Tateno's experience. The distinctive line art, color selection, and even expressions are presented impressively, and while the digital process reduces background detail, the dynamic layouts often show depth. Many of the static shots were my favorites, when the peripheral movements in the frame are in focus and add to the mood. Kensuke Ushio's tranquil jingle and piano score seem to fit the film appropriately, and while it may run short on fluidity here and there, the audiovisual traits embody an undeterred hope. In commemoration of the 80th anniversary of the end of World War 2, cocoon wriggles past the agony of staining the Earth.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Jan 29, 2025
Izo Hashimoto’s and Akio Tanaka’s Shamo, later solely written by Tanaka, is an amalgam of identity. It follows Ryo Narushima, a felon, a man who committed parricide as a teenager. A societally unforgivable act, rightfully so, and a permanent mark on Ryo's social status as a human worthy of respect. Having been sentenced, prison taught Ryo about pride, and karate became his outlet for anger. The framing of martial arts in Shamo is complex, finding arrogant shades of confidence underscoring the elegance of talent. As the story progresses, this conflict between the two approaches to the same discipline increasingly becomes a foregrounded theme, often shifting
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the scope of the manga past Ryo and into martial arts politics. While the narrative usually finds its stride when studying Ryo's psyche, as a sports series, there is value in its presentation of intimidation and the intangibles that may sway the outcome in combat sports, a completely unpredictable result that's hinged on something as spontaneous as the human body and mind.
Shamo particularly excels at Ryo's character study, effectively designing a complicated and confused man. He is very clearly an anti-hero, and interestingly enough, there is never a shred of sympathy for him throughout the narrative. Not that he deserves it as a convict, especially given his crime, but in terms of writing a holistically interesting character, it can be difficult to avoid giving the cast an inclination for pity. Tanaka successfully steers clear of any form of justification for Ryo's crimes, and, contrarily, he's constantly the subject of hatred, even in a place like prison. The narrative is perpetually about him navigating the scrutiny, and again, Tanaka doesn't offer a semblance of compassion. Ryo is sometimes an angry, seething young man, and other times, he will show tough kindness. He's a dynamic presence, immersed in his mind and contending for dominance over his instincts for violence. The violence that created his infamy and would soon prove to be his unmaking.
The narrative structure phases through a set of ensemble casts and doesn't necessarily target them individually, but as an entity. The number of characters isn't inherently important because their purpose is what threat they pose to Ryo's psyche. It all goes back to when he committed the crime of murdering his own blood, leaving his sister and him as orphans. We never truly understand his reasoning for that act, and I would argue Shamo is rough around that storyline. Tanaka describes it as an impulse, a suffocation that Ryo felt in the comfort of his life that he had to escape from. It's vague, and while I think the pretext could have been addressed in more depth, the implications are frequently well-portrayed. The cerebral rage pumps his brain with adrenaline, and once he's off that edge, sinking into the fear of death, he's reborn as an assassin. A messenger of viciousness sent to brutalize his opponents by any unethical means. This is vividly illustrated in each of his fights, either on the street or in the ring, by an equally savage man capable of fatally injuring any adversary.
The combat sequences in Shamo are beautifully depicted with heavy brush strokes. Power and impact are key points in Tanaka's art with a keen focus on masculine anatomy. The reader is privy to many singular panels putting a body or muscle frame into display, making the weight difference in many of Ryo's fights graphically apparent. Characteristic for its mature material, the manga also employs sexual violence to an extent, and while some of it created conflict, there are moments where it was undoubtedly unnecessary. Despite my misgivings, Shamo consistently surprises with its knack for orchestrating and creating hype before a main event. Across the story, a lot of the variety can be credited to the many martial arts techniques used, some more far-fetched than others, but wholly unique, even including a weapons arc. The analysis of Ryo Narushima is arduous, and he is often a martyr symbolizing the source of others' misfortunes, supposedly stemming from their mere interest in him. A shadow of misery trails him as we witness the breadth of being human.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Jan 13, 2025
Institutional corruption is prevalent in many systems, and one such prominent example is the medical field. Present day, one would think such is no longer the case, but as recent events would have it, it is very much an issue. Akira Nagai's Iryuu: Team Medical Dragon takes a fair shot at bringing this injustice to light, displaying the supposed traditional Japanese values that are upheld at the cost of human life. It's easy to get lost in the trappings of immersion when consuming fiction, and as per course, separating reality from it is an important distinction. However, when the subject matter is acutely insightful, it's
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just as essential to look past the dramatic disguise and accept the criticism for what it is, be it against a medical system that no one person could change. The manga follows Ryutarou Asada, a genius surgeon recruited by Akira Katou, vice professor of the cardiothoracic department at Meishin University Hospital, to join her Batista research team that will produce enough results to cement her leadership position. The Batista procedure is an experimental heart surgery with an extremely low success rate to mitigate the effects of dilated cardiomyopathy.
Iryuu: Team Medical Dragon takes its medical subject matter incredibly seriously. It is obvious not only in the various procedures and techniques that are named, but the tension of discussion is present when we see doctors engaged in conversation. Mangaka Akira Nagai was a successful doctor, and the accuracy in the story finds a fantastic combination of fiction and education without turning into textbook fare. The learning aspect extends further when we see procedures that reuse certain techniques or apply information the reader may have seen, and now that we are able to recognize these things without being guided, it is inherently fun. A great deal of our introduction to the various dynamics in a hospital workplace is through the eyes of Asada, a carefree man confident in his skills with a knife and seemingly unbothered by anything unrelated to his practice. He's an interesting character because we still know relatively little about him by the end of the story, and the reason is how Nagai has intentionally written how prodigious people are viewed.
In the hospital, Asada is put on a pedestal, a larger-than-life presence to the intern he forms an unlikely partnership with. Unlike the usual direction this archetype goes, Asada isn't framed as some kind of self-described fraud or troubled individual. Contrarily, he is uniformly flawless, and thus he rises above being the lead into being a vital character device. This literary mechanic excellently structures the narrative around the people he willingly influences or those simply inspired by him. The character writing in Iryuu: Team Medical Dragon is consistently compelling, often dancing with the many hypotheticals that spawn during a procedure and the repercussions that affect a team. Emphasis on teamwork is the primary motif in the first half of the manga, as the Batista team follows Asada's lead in believing they are the locus of control during a surgery. Subsequently, everyone but Asada is now the main character, or rather, the team itself is. The regular shift in who the spotlight falls upon makes for what can loosely be described as an exciting ensemble cast.
When we're not at the heart of surgical terminology, no pun intended, the focus on hospital politics underscores the daily critical surgeries being performed. The corruption that gnaws away at patient finances and turns a blind eye to malpractice is what Katou aims to radically change. At one point, the manga is completely engrossed in the power struggle, and while it could be argued that the time spent could be shortened, I felt it was a worthwhile endeavor. Nagai shows that outside of patient-doctor relationships, the health system is fundamentally a filthy business when power is centralized. This arc sets the stage for an important thought about career trajectory, and it's not often that we see this topic assessed correctly. Earning a promotion is a means to ambition, but for someone like Asada, rising through the ranks may not be as appealing. The dialogue pertaining to stifling medical careers and lack of ability to practice when one is a student is perhaps the most societally dense part of the narrative. Nagai targets the misconceptions and anxieties through an intern, a cog in the medical wheel.
Tarou Nogizaka's art in Iryuu: Team Medical Dragon is constantly high quality, with special emphasis on shading. It's heavily incorporated into the manga's ability to highlight expressions during serious climactic moments. However, it's lightly spaced across a wide area, typically using cross-hatching to establish the faces of shock or relief. An especially impressive aspect of the art is the clearly different designs, making it impossible to mistake a face among the numerous characters that come and go. The storytelling frequently uses metaphoric imagery to isolate the degree of surgical precision on the panel, and coupled with the genuine optimism present throughout the storytelling, the manga is life-affirming. Even in the apparent evil forces that oppose the lead characters, the antagonism isn't overbearing to the point of disbelief. Neither are most of the medical procedures that are undoubtedly coincidental, but again, plausible in comparison to the miracles real doctors perform all the time. A captivating criticism of healthcare that avoids being maudlin through its positivity.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Jan 12, 2025
The Sword Art Online: Progressive duology is essentially a repackaging of the same story. For the anime's 10th anniversary, this is meant to be an expansion of the events that occur in the first few floors that were either glossed over or skipped entirely previously. As far as I can tell, for good reason too, given the tedium of the storyline. Across Progressive, we cover the emotional rapport between Asuna and a new character made for the two films, Mito. Once it has shifted away from their relationship, particularly in Scherzo, it's as though the plot has completely forgotten the objective of the game and
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gets into the RPG guild mechanics far too much. The first film, Aria, leans into sentimental mush that was better off ignored, like the original series, and in Scherzo, we're deep into upcoming lore without evidence of a sequel or anything conclusive for the duology itself. This retelling from Asuna's point of view barely serves a purpose outside of readvertising the IP—something of a legacy sequel considering there is almost no elaboration on the things that made SAO original. On the plus side, Progressive makes it clear that A-1 still has heaps of animators throwing away their talent on insignificant projects.
Reviewer’s Rating: 3
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Jan 10, 2025
A culmination of song and dance can be enchanting, even more so in a film, presenting both in musical form. Musicals, when crafted with heart, complement the cinematic fantasia well. Masaaki Yuasa's Inu-ou captures the fresh spirit of historical interpretation, and while there is some sacrifice, it is granularly joyous. The marriage between Japanese Noh and rock opera reinvents the presentation of musical theatre in animation, visually justifying the grand scale of each and every successive performance. Inu-ou follows the titular Inu-oh, a high-spirited, deformed boy born with a curse, and Tomona, a blind biwa musician. Both have a chance encounter one night and find harmony in Inu-oh
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creatively dancing to Tomona's music. To successfully break the curse, the two band together, showcasing their talents. Their relationship is fascinatingly unique, something like a promoter and an artist. Except the promoter, Tomona, is equally as talented, as he writes original lyrics to advertise the one-of-one shows that Inu-oh will put on.
To understand the film's holistic intentionality, our focus should be on the two character studies that are simultaneously occurring. Inu-oh has been shunned his entire life, unable to interact with his family, who have a history of being renowned Noh performers. Perhaps witnessing this or being born into the legacy is the source of his interest, but his talent for it is undeniable, even in the face of being rejected by his father. Ostracism fuels him to find individuality, and the supernatural element of the film kicks in to give him stories to tell. Not just any stories, but the truth. Heike spirits communicate their tales of great feats to Inu-oh, and the narrative uses this to recount historical accuracy. It's conveyed through song to mesh different disciplines, and Yuasa frames him as an icon to the commoners. The modern-day equivalent of a celebrity arriving at a venue near you. During the concerts, we notice the audience imitating dance moves that have now become trendy, so to speak, and Inu-oh works the crowd by having them sing along. His dramatic growth throughout the course of the film, parallel to breaking the curse, is like witnessing the birth of a pop culture sensation, which is obviously anachronistic but all the more exciting.
Inu-oh's partner in entertainment, Tomona, is a former shipwreck diver turned blind musician. He's just as much of a performer, if not more. The angle Yuasa takes with his character is indie, a small-time artist increasingly finding their stride and personality. The viewer watches Tomona alongside his rise to stardom, boasting incredible stage presence, a genuine rockstar. This description can be visually seen down to what he's wearing (huge platform sandals) and using makeup, hinting at slight queer messaging. His songs are typically promoting Inu-oh's backstory in an effort to spread not only his fame but also encourage listening to the unabridged Heike stories. Tomona remains in the shadows for much of the film but arguably has more compelling character complexity. While Inu-oh searches for a calling, Tomona wrestles with identity, not quite fitting into the general perception of biwa musicians. We begin to see experimentation in his live music, incorporating various circus acts in the vicinity to amplify the audience's fear of missing out on either his or Inu-oh's vastly unique spectacles.
Music is a central theme, narratively and structurally. Composer Otomo Yoshihide crafts a hybrid soundtrack, a fusion of traditional instruments, modern vocals, and historical lyrics. The compositions are comprised of various visions Yuasa had for Inu-ou, a classical rock opera. No artistic aspect of the film is meant to be tied down to existing tenets; rather, it is as contemporary as possible. The choreography using break dancing is an instance of Yuasa finding a throughline, and Yoshihide casts a rock veil over biwa instrumentation. Abandoning the idea of anachronism is the objective, and the score makes this apparent in its combination of glam-rock operettas with the timbre of a resonant biwa. Avu-chan's (Inu-oh) vocal performance, while great, feels a bit trained and is hard to pin down as a teenager. On the other hand, Mirai Moriyama (Tomona) has a raw range that perfectly matches the metal inspiration one can hear in the intonation. Sonically, Inu-ou is at its best, bringing forth strong riffs out of ancient instruments.
One of the sacrifices Yuasa inevitably makes to achieve these stylistic liberties is within character-centric territory. The dynamics between characters, or even the phases of their development, are all but snuffed out under the many moving pieces. As stunning as the two leads are when under the spotlight, there is a subtlety to their writing absent. Some of the momentum drags in the contextual first act, but it's really about the interactions between Inu-oh and Tomona being as limited as they are. Individually, they shine, but the lack of a visible relationship for the latter half of the film is noticeable once there are considerable stakes at hand in its closing act, not fully convincing the viewer of what is lost on their path to glory. I have my doubts about to what degree this is intentional due to the heavy musical numbers compensating for gaps in story cogency in the natural flow scenes shimmering in a fragmented reality of colors, culture, and sound. So even amongst the audience being strung along, taking a step back is required to appreciate the magnitude of novelty in this semi-fictional time period.
Yuasa's distinctive animation is the final component of what feels like a hallucination at times. Admittedly, I don't believe this is the height of his usual transformative impressionism. Inu-ou undoubtedly has the qualities we've come to expect: a beautifully freeform technique of movement. A clear visual downside in the subject matter of the film is that the odds of reused animation are high. In part, it's not abnormal to see the same choreography repeatedly in a dance, but there are definitely areas where I would've preferred a change in perspective or shot selection. Though these are relatively minor qualms in the scheme of the expressions Yuasa exhibits through punk rock attitudes. This project has his personal tastes at the forefront, and it is a closer look at his stranger ideas that are perhaps lying dormant. Each frame includes peripheral characteristics that constantly work to reinforce storyboarding continuity, like something as simple as Tomona having his own security detail during a concert. Inu-ou is a courageous ode to music, identity, and uncompromised artistic freedom.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Jan 4, 2025
Music videos become synonymous with the tracks themselves, and for viewers or fans, it becomes increasingly complex to differentiate between the two as time passes. It stems from the nature of human memory, remembering sounds when associated with images. Thus, music videos become an essential piece of the holistic aural experience. They also serve another purpose, and this is more fundamental at the level of interpretation. Upon creation, the video has now birthed a concrete visualization of what were otherwise lyrics that could be spun in tons of ways. If a director has not operated with fidelity to the artist, they are misconstruing meaning, and
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this control has the ability to permanently make or break a track. Suu-funkan no Yell wo follows this creative ambition through a boy named Kanata Asaya who encounters a teacher, Yu Orie, who has abandoned her musical dreams. Conceptually, there should be plenty to explore here about the dimensions of imagination and the diverse relationship between music and, in this case, animated music videos. In reality, the film severely undercuts its potential, and part of the reason is its confused vision.
Suu-funkan no Yell wo is director Popurika's first feature; in fact, it's his first project beyond trailers, music videos, and ending track animation for Kawaii dake ja Nai Shikimori-san. His style is clearly suited for the music videos that his production studio Hurray! is accustomed to, and there are many telltale signs he's new to films. One such obvious instance is the uncanny pauses between scenes or even edits, and there is an unusual lingering silence that can't be categorized as intentional given the absence of expressions or any change in body language. It almost appears as a delay, and there are a number of minor details that are more appropriate for music videos, which aren't focused on emphasizing every second of motion graphics. However, it's indeed impressive that most of the film's production was done in Blender. That's a massive undertaking, and the film being in 3DCG is not inherently a downside, but it does harbor qualities below the standard for any CG production.
Elements like shading greatly suffer in 3D models, and it is difficult to establish a perfectly consistent technique like in 2D. One such issue in Suu-funkan no Yell wo is lackluster lighting, where the two variations are either very bright or utter darkness with a lamppost to direct focus. There's also no real opportunity to show shot composition due to the nature of the camerawork, emphasizing pans and close-ups. On the occasion that there is a different angle, it's either corner-mounted or shaky—akin to a real music video. This redundant combination works when the priority is musicality in a four-minute song, not a feature-length film. Blender is strong in creating assets, but ultimately, outside of landscape shots, the backgrounds here are sterile or out of focus. It's apparent Blender's NLA editor was used for character animation, which is largely one-note movements. The inadequate textures don't provide interesting layouts or equip characters with flesh to make expressions, resulting in a film where everyone has the same face for an hour.
Narratively, Suu-funkan no Yell wo engages in middling melodrama. Set in Ishikawa prefecture, the setting is often near the water at the beach. Kanata is trying to elevate his artistic talents, and there is a minor theme of jealousy when faced with greater talent. However, the main plot pertains to discovering how to accurately depict Yu's song. Kei Sugawara's vocal performance, as well as the lyrics by VIVI, hold an emotional vim and vigor that redeem parts of the film's shortcomings. Storywise, it began with a relatively straightforward approach of enthusiasm, although soon, for the sake of conflict, there is ham-fisted noncommunication between Kanata and Yu that simply does not exist between real directors and artists. It forces the storytelling to plod forward momentarily in place of opting for a wholeheartedly optimistic screenplay from beginning to end. There are some unique visuals in the third act where we witness a live representation of animation layering using action strips, and I can't help but wonder about the idiosyncrasies of 3DCG that Popurika could have playfully presented if most of the film weren't a staring contest. Suu-funkan no Yell wo serves as a solid advertisement(https://youtu.be/OKuuD3VwV2k?si=YMCY4jxH2c2b6igS), and like many advertisements, there is nothing of substance.
Reviewer’s Rating: 3
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Nov 27, 2024
Tatsuki Fujmoto's one-shot Look Back serves as a love letter to the creative artistry behind manga. The short story follows two middle schoolers, Kyomoto and Fujino, two names that form a portmanteau in Fujimoto’s own surname when split. Fujino is a popular kid and happens to draw 4-koma manga strips for the school newspaper, and this success bolsters her ego through the roof. Until she sees Kyomoto's work published in the same paper and is in awe of her rival's artistic talent, an obsession to be better grows. As the saying goes, comparison is the thief of joy, but in this case, competition is directly
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correlated to improving her skills. The film shows her hard work as taxing, harming her studies, and such, but ultimately, it is clear to the viewer that she had fun. It's exciting to have a goal, something to chase. This contrasts Kyomoto, an agrophobe yet incredibly skilled at background design. Look Back essentially chronicles their unlikely partnership, then subsequently a friendship.
The film is narratively thin, although that's not inherently a downside, just a mere fact. There isn't much to work with given the nature of the concept and the emotion-centric storytelling. Whatever material director Kiyotaka Oshiyama has, he presents with fidelity. A large segment of the film is montages, probably one too many. It mostly works though, typically characterizing the two girls as well as the shift in their dynamic. Each of these sequences depicts various facets of the craft as well, showing them putting months upon months of work into a manga. While the combinations of successive shots condense time, the backgrounds show the sun rising and falling as the seasons change. The layout of Fujino's room becomes increasingly cramped, but as long as they have a desk to work on, the drawings continue. A number of the montages parallel each other in the same timeframe but characterize different aspects of the two girls' relationship. Evidently, the connection they develop is the central focus, particularly how attachments should be avoided by professionals. The only thing constant is change, and it is inevitable that a creator will want to hone their abilities, thus creating distance from those around them.
Look Back is studio Duran's first feature-length project since being founded in 2017, and while Oshiyama (co-founder) has a plethora of experience under his belt, he hasn't been at the helm in years. It's important that we address the quality of the film because it becomes an indispensable part of the experience. The color grading in the film bears a tremendous weight in shaping the mood of a scene. Take something as simple as Fujino grabbing Kyomoto's hand and running down a street, for instance. A moment as simple as this has the backgrounds muted out in slow motion as Fujino and Kyomoto happily jog. This is standard for most films with scenes of that nature, but the innate inclusion of peripheral movement allows the mise en scène of the rising action to stand out. We see this during montage sequences often, such as light refraction, or a potent example would be the first shot of Fujino brainstorming at her desk. The body language shows an acute attention to detail like ticks that mangaka may have, and something as trivial as pen spinning adds a bit more personality. Oshiyama opts for rotoscoped character animation, leveraging the technique in prolonged shots where facial expressions sell the emotion.
Much of what Look Back offers points to a capable adaptation, and I would identify it in that light for the better part of the film. To put it bluntly, it could have been shorter. That includes accounting for all the material and not cutting corners. A shorter runtime doesn't solve a great deal, but there would be less thematic elongation and would subsequently create slightly more interpretation. Then again, if we zoom into the root of the narrative's bewilderment, it is clearly the third act. That style of incorporating a brutal turn of events has become the norm lately, so it has now become exactly what it opposed: a derivative plot device. Personally, I'm neutral on the storytelling pathing in that direction, but I fail to see any level of effectiveness in it. The story can operate without that act or even mimic the same sentiments with a vastly divergent conclusion. This trend of tearing down reality has felt increasingly cheap to me, a method of forcing the viewer to cherish the past. It doesn't help that the film's foreshadowing is extremely heavy-handed, which again is generally fine if it were content with introspecting the lives of young girls vying to be mangaka.
Criticism aside, Look Back does have genuine watch value. There's one specific part of the writing that stands out, a thread that I would assume Fujimoto intentionally overlooked. Kyomoto is established as an artist, a visionary desperate to grow her skills. Fujino is never given that title, and it's consistently ambiguous as to why she draws manga at all. Originally, it was for recognition, maybe money, then jealousy, and lastly, perhaps for Kyomoto. Naturally, these are all perfectly valid reasons, and it's just as fine if none were true. Drawing because she doesn't know what else to do or isn't talented at anything else. Fujimoto's angle here hints at the universality of a job being just that, a job. And that is okay. In that same vein, the film has many feel-good messages to offer, painted in bright, warm hues. Composer Haruka Nakamura, who I've been familiar with for a long time now, is proficient at building up a string and piannisimo crescendo. He performs well here, and Oshiyama appropriately uses the score or douses a shot in silence. Look Back, even with its ups and downs, especially for a debut project, puts studio Durian on the map. If anything, it's a testament to Oshiyama needing longer original work. The opening shaky rotating shot is almost out of a Gaspar Noe film; similarly, the technical virtues positively overshadow narrative gaps. Art is cruel, and humans are like water in the face of it, moving whichever way the flow takes us.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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Nov 25, 2024
Uzumaki is Junji Ito denouncing the theory of beauty, namely the golden ratio itself. This divine proportion, typically proved using the fibonacci sequence, mathematically establishes the repetition of spiral perfection in all things of nature. It's considered objectively beautiful due to the sense of visual balance that comes with that coiled formation of illusion and harmony. In the series, Ito negates our notion of spirals, and the grim shape is now a source of confusion and horror. The anime adaptation captures the eeriness well I feel, although like any other entry into this genre, animation doesn't lend itself to horror like live action would. Thus,
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my expectations for it were more so the unsightly and strange, which is exactly what is offered, visually at least. Across the four episodes, it's clear that various story arcs are concatenated to maximize content over necessarily cohesion. It discards complete coherency, with countless instances of the story veering off on its own without the viewer's attention. I'm willing to partially overlook this given the length of the adaptation and the fact that it works as an anthology-like collection of stories within the same town, affected by the same curse.
That aside, the adaptation primarily suffers from its apparent inconsistent production. Most gripes stem from a comparison between the pilot episode and the rest of the adaptation, but on a more overall note, my qualm is the odd choices of where the animation quality returns to decency. The second episode is by far the biggest disappointment of the bunch, whereas the final two are more or less among the average expected output from most seasonals. My takeaway here is that producer Jason DeMarco should be out of a job, particularly given his recent track record. In any case, the rotoscoping dies down past the opening arc, and from there, the animation is centered around highlighting phenomena over character acting. Regularly, the models will stray off in accuracy, although Uzumaki gets by on imagery rather than concurrent movement. Colin Stetson is a major asset here, and his soundtrack compensates for some of the dreary experience that may have been lost. The audio is like a string waltz, looping as to sonically translate spirals. Stetson's instrumental distortion creates a madness in the score and has listening value independent from the series.
Narratively, Uzumaki has little to no clear direction, and it appears that the goal was to have rapidly paced storytelling spiraling out of control. This is less convincing in view of the production, but one could argue that it's a fair claim in the context of the town decaying. There are very few lingering connections between the events episode-to-episode outside of recurring characters. The staff opted for covering material at the expense of palpable tension, leading to numerous scenes of supernatural things being shown without capable framing of the central theme. Spirals are not the dominant motif; they are a device to imply commentary on anti-perfectionism and the relationship between isolated towns and the larger world. While the dizzying pattern is omnipresent, the characters are outlets for cosmic body horror. A longer adaptation doesn't solve any of its issues because Ito's plot structure is built around the escalation of paranoia, not developing a cast. This is purely a case of needing a better production timeline with an actual visionary director. One can only hope that the monochrome concept inspires other Ito adaptations to be daring in style or unorthodox in presentation. The spiral is relentless until all living things have intertwined as one, and perhaps that itself is beauty.
Reviewer’s Rating: 4
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Nov 25, 2024
Breakneck speeds on a race track are symbolic of many things, usually the emotions of the race, perhaps the racer, but always the larger than life goal of competition. Competitive racing isn't limited to rivalries between the athletes; often it's a challenge against oneself and their psyche. They battle turbulent passions on the long strip of asphalt, feeling alive only when experiencing the thrill of barely making a corner. The fiery hunger for speed lies in the heart of F as a series, firmly holding onto that pathos throughout dozens of volumes. It follows a hot-blooded youth from the countryside, Gunma Akagi, an egotistical wannabe
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racer who has lost his position in a wealthy upbringing. Gunma, estranged from the Akagi household, has only his talent, a genius mechanic friend, and a lofty dream to race in Formula One. The highlight of the story as it unfolds is undoubtedly Gunma's growth as a man, and the representation of his masculinity shifts from flashy technique to composed courage. F symbolizes the many facets of his character, evolving into a fictional racing icon and challenging the best of the world for Japan. Needless to say, behind the glory, he's driven by less than pretty circumstances.
There's a fascinating theme that reappears throughout the story, and the characters will even verbalize this fact that misery makes Gunma faster. That idea further branches off into a number of possibilities, all of which are intentionally not particularly established. Maybe he's faster as an escape, or his troubles usher away his fear of death, but most likely of all, his concentration has always been on something not really as tangible as the aforementioned. That mystique shrouds the storytelling, and much of the characters are aware of this phenomenon in theory. However, as the reader gets a glimpse of the racetrack, at some point, Gunma's death-defying racing convinces us that everything is swell until conflict comes knocking once again. Generally, that's the structure of the series, where each arc stacks an additional layer of mental pressure upon Gunma that he must come to terms with. Even so, the plot avoids repetition by virtue of moving up the ladder of racing prestige and increasing what's at stake, from racing for hardware to proving a point to oneself. Admittedly, the climactic moments in certain arcs are slightly bogged down by instances of senseless evil that border beyond the realm of reality, but they remain far and few between in the midst of a search for purpose.
F's real beauty rears its head when its immersed in the technicalities of the circuit and inexplicable speed. Formula One is the highest class of international racing, and even in the lower classes, the machines are all more or less equal in capability. Power output doesn't create much of a gap at that level of competition, and that is when it's left to the driver's ability to push the car past its limits. The series describes it as a racer reaching a scope outside of casual comprehension—120% of the engine's capacity. Noboru Rokuda skillfully personifies these abstract concepts through opponents, or Gunma, even bringing about the question of why we race. Not just the origin, but more along the lines of our primitive instinct in open space. The circuit is a closed-off loop, and the passion to drive faster is sparked by a desire to return to the start faster. It sounds obvious, although lending thought to the idea reveals that our brains are wired around achieving a personal sensation of perfection, and there is very little as raw as driving through the same track hundreds of times and merely shaving off miliseconds to grasp at idealism.
Rokuda's depiction of racing is like revenge against open space. It exists, so it must be conquered by any means. The emphasis of sacrifice to reach such heights elevates F, as we witness not only Gunma but many racers gambling their very lives during accidents. I would argue the element of tragedy secures a spot for this series among the best of the genre, freely experimenting with the lethality of dangerous but necessary racing prowess. The narrative strongly symbolizes the vanity of dreams, a momentary chase that we cannot avoid. It's holistically a rousing drama barring my issue with the extent of sexual violence present, mostly unnecessary and overbearing in glossed over suffering. However, when we shift our focus to the constantly evolving ups and downs of Gunma's career, F becomes a love letter to racing, often referencing real Japanese history in the sport. Rokuda's art illustrates the circuit with a great deal of detail, where many of the panels are full-blown spreads of location and mechanical precision. Humanity harbors a hunger, going to great lengths to tame the wind.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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