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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 ... 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.

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, ... 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.

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 ... 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.

Shinichi Ishizuka's jazz-themed manga series genuinely loves music and the emotional production of it. Jazz as a genre is just pure soul with roots in blues and characterized by swing, which no other discipline can mimic because jazz can also be undisciplined. Blue Giant's adaptation for the big screen translates the passion well, and actually hearing music helps. The lead character, Dai Miyamoto, is a former high school basketball player turned saxophone player. As a self-trained musician, his theoretical understanding is lacking, which he compensates for with an uncontrollable devotion to honing his skills. It's Dai that holds the writing together in its highs and lows, consistently ... remaining a symbol of unchanging motivation to be the best. Whether or not that's in his near future isn't important, although we do fast forward to a documentary being filmed with people he's interacted with in the past. They all admit to being floored by his intensity, personifying his music as sheer confidence and a loud demand for attention. Ishizuka isn't interested in the fundamentals or details of the artform and instead writes about a climb to the top using instinct and expression. 

There are equal upsides and downsides to the narrative structure, and the latter is mainly a case of being by-the-book dramatically. It's completely predictable, which leads to Blue Giant becoming less and less about stakes and more so about electric displays of jam sessions and performances. Prioritizing music in action isn't the worst creative choice if the writing isn't quite supportive of textured character writing. However, the story does still offer modest philosophies about living for a dream and devoting your all to the hardest part of success, practice. The trio—Dai, Shunji, and Yukinori—practice like hell. Their dynamic gives us slight light-hearted banter but also loosely experiments with talent, beginner's hard work, and unadulterated passion. It's difficult to fully immerse oneself in the literary mechanics Ishizuka uses to accumulate tension, especially if the viewer is familiar with the tenets of the medium. The same applies to me, although I'd argue a calculated process of hitting familiar high notes and giving the audience an uplifting feel-good rush is all a movie really needs to be a good time, which this is. An underdog journey of amateurs improvising what they lack in experience to the pinnacle of Japanese jazz venues.

Hiromi Uehara's score is phenomenal, committing to the originality of the pieces Yukinori writes for the band while simultaneously being inspired by the many jazz pioneers referenced here and there. A lot of the tracks are based on John Coltrane's later discography as well as new wave jazz. Uehara assembled more than 30 elite musicians to compose the soundtrack, beautifully reflecting the hearts of the instruments. There are numerous solos during the trio's performances, and we'll hear the drums or piano going off in their own world, dishing out joyous grooves to overwhelm the senses. The music accompanies an interesting visual arsenal from Studio NUT, and this is where I became slightly divided on animation effectiveness. Complex 2D sequences are nigh-impossible to pull off nowadays in a production time crunch, so studios will resort to CG models. The evolution of 3D integration over the years has been impressive, yet still, the reduced framerate and noticeable stiffness become an awkward moment when editing between close-ups and expressionless flailing. In the long run, it's up to the viewer to decide their stance on the visual product, which also has many standout cuts. 

The best scenes in Blue Giant sort of melt into the atmosphere, showing us nebulous keyframes blending into the audio. Director Yuzuru Tachikawa employs smears that we typically see in his work in TV animation. The film is shot almost entirely in blue, at least when it's establishing any particular location, and switches to gold when we're absorbed by Dai's powerful timbre. Satoru Hirayanagi's art direction is a remarkable aspect of the film's visual storytelling and language, including but not limited to constant glimmers or glints on the instruments, and subtle things like dented cymbals sell the satisfaction of a great performance. At the height of enlivening the animation, the rotoscoped character acting and attention to fingerwork all accumulate to a rush of freeform, often abstract transformative movement. This adaptation has integrity; even in its weaker elements, there is discernible effort to maximize the sound design's giant impact. Dai has a highly likeable personality that one wants to closely follow, and larger-than-life evocative feelings exist in his saxophone. Like jazz, Blue Giant is comfortable in its expression of freedom. 

Mari Okada's inherent knack for the melodramatic surprisingly assumes a lesser role than usual, and instead, she opts for a thought experiment of sorts, choosing to exhaust all of htrer previous ideas around pure coming-of-age thematics. maboroshi is immersed in itself, willingly sifting through fluctuating narrative focus, completely engrossed in the microcosm of identity, or rather, the search for it. I'm fond of Okada's scope in this film, and while it's not her strongest piece of individual character writing (that would be her directorial debut), this breathes new optimism into values humanity has always held in high regard. The excitement of growth and the broadening ... of one's horizons are predominant in the assertive nature of the screenplay. I would argue the film's greatest strength is firmly retaining its frenetic survivalist tendencies throughout its runtime, particularly because the leads rarely cave into the despair of circumstance. The cast is diverse; some are beyond eccentric, crafting a holistic angle on the tumultuous fantastical disaster that the quiet industrial town is faced with.

maboroshi's structure is slightly unorthodox, and the plot slowly answers certain questions at unlikely times, maybe even slipping past an unattentive viewer. It's an interesting mechanic because practically nothing is left unrevealed, albeit the bits of context may boast differing levels of clarity, yet nonetheless, there is indeed an explanation for the mental turmoil stirred by supernatural phenomena. I found the themes of divine punishment to be a clever contrast to the film also posing realistic justifications, and both sides may be mere sophistry disguising the irreversible illusion of time. The viewer's inability to discern the legitimate relationship between the steel factory and the film's ultimate premise is part of the intended goal, as we're aware of the cause and effects but not quite the tangible connection. This approach to abstract leitmotifs is far from Okada's style; on the contrary, she's literal about interpersonal struggles. Whereas this film is much more reserved for the greater part of the first two acts, underpinning a portrait of collective solitude while simultaneously redefining the term.

From what I understand, unlike her prior works that precariously explore similar areas of insecurity, maboroshi is significantly more personal. There is a sense of intimacy that she applies to the script, their blank stares, and the roaring intensity of suffocating in open space. Okada's 2018 autobiography, From Truant to Anime Screenwriter, describes herself as a truant, a common case of severe social isolation and depression. The novel's overarching message details her attachment to the past, giving form to her anxiety during a period of expected exuberance. One could argue that translating these raw emotions sways the narrative unevenly, and it's difficult to not agree with that observation because multiple instances of spontaneity disconnect the viewer with what I would argue are deliberately uncomfortable moments. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to hold the emotional immaturity against the rest of the resolution; however, the visual storytelling operates with honest splendor. The integration of relatively simple mindsets supersedes the cryptic setting.

Mappa's production values aren't necessarily the most noteworthy element; more so, the staff has managed to build impressive technical qualities. The quality of character acting in crucial segments is high, exhibiting micromovements and subtlety to highlight minor glances and moods. Both movement and freeform character animation are often present, characterizing the idiosyncracies of realism. It's weaker in the layout department, and some of the CG environments aren't blended as well as I would have liked, not to mention that I find the locations underused as a whole. Generally speaking, the audiovisual storytelling capitalizes on color consistency rather than background detail, and it coordinates scenes around the mild urbanization of the town. The audio has solid use of non-diegetic sound with varying levels of effectiveness in the score, although the incorporation of 90s tracks was a great choice. I was pleasantly surprised by the powerful performance from Miyuki Nakajima in the theme, an excellent showcase of vocalization and relevant lyrics. Mari Okada dissipates the idea of self in maboroshi, vying for a purposeful reflection on living in and for the moment.

Nabi is fundamentally flawed, narratively warped, and deeply seated within its false notion of nonlinearity. It is structurally incompetent, and regardless of whether or not one can follow the storytelling with hyper-focused attention, warranting that level of investment without the corresponding satisfaction is unfair to the reader. Admittedly, it is in part the fault of translation quality and the team's inability to use autocorrect, but beyond that, writer/artist Yeon-Ju Kim does not have the tenets of her story outlined with clarity. Throughout the greater part of the mid-section, it's borderline impossible to follow the interactions on a contextual level, rather all the unmemorable dialogue is ... akin to word padding. There's indeed a great deal of text, although, in terms of legitimate thematic value, not everything said deserves a spotlight. In hindsight, there are instances of contemplative thought that are rephrased and rehashed more than necessary, or perhaps it's needed because the reader is rarely sure how the current conflict plays a role in the transpiring events.

The series suffers from its large cast, and a combination of same face syndrome and designs choosing bizarre visual representations of shock or intimate conversation. Often, characters will be drawn with different hair colors, closely resembling another member of the cast who also happens to have similar facial features. This issue branches into many areas of storytelling setbacks, and it's apparent that Kim does not fully utilize the strengths of the medium. There are various instances where indicators of some sort would only serve to benefit the effectiveness of the many moving parts of her narrative, and she loses the reader quickly during the countless monologues that segue into flashbacks. The exposition is simply not framed well enough within the bounds of flowery language alongside a slightly unclear timeline. At certain points, a character will be referred to by their former name or a new translation of the original one, and while the scans are a matter of circumstance, denoting a visual shift is not. Refusing to use a narrator or construct a streamlined focus does not create a more compelling experience and on the contrary, it should disguise character intent, not our ability to distinguish them.

The manhwa's merits are frankly few and far between, especially scaled against the self-created clutter. However, beneath the facade of complication, the premise is relatively simple once one has caught on to the similarities across character arcs. Their respective growth treads the same pace as Nabi's political power struggle, another case of something not particularly layered being depicted with unnecessary uncertainty. Kim's grasp on the personalities of the protagonists and multiple deuteragonists is strong, remaining consistent in personal development as well as in plot roles. The story's shoujo-esque style is its primary appeal, maintaining the standard for emotional prose throughout. Internal monologues are purely poetic, and while I didn't find them all to have a convincing purpose, the painterly imagery accompanying these pieces is noteworthy. The art has fantastic spreads in the latter volumes and consistently impressive establishing shots at the cost of severely lacking paneling during action sequences. For fans of the demographic, there's minimal enjoyment unless one is solely interested in the medium itself. A rarely cohesive yet lyrical tale of grief, strife, and revenge.

It's a fleeting collection of memories, short-lived moments, and an undivided appreciation for all that exists and happens. Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou can be best described as a rudimentary stage of observational meditations, capitalizing on the short-lived nature of learning something new daily, while loosely connecting these discoveries through either recurring characters or a continuation of small adventures. Ashinano's intended feeling of relaxation is steadily present, but past the initial intrigue of rarely traveling to new places and meeting new people, it becomes a matter of sustaining the attraction of following Alpha's menial livelihood. Certain chapters legitimately challenge our perception of Earthly attachments, questioning how one ... would continue to find purpose in a post-apocalyptic future, soon to be submerged under water. Then again, the series' best component is this deceptively idyllic setting, yet not nearly enough time is spent exploring, which gives rise to a relatively common issue, repetition that forcibly wanes interest.

As much as I've claimed that the narrative's mild ennui is dependent on Alpha's inactivity, she's also the singular foundation of why any of Ashinano's concepts work, more specifically, her carefree speech pattern and extremely friendly readiness to interact. Structurally, the majority of the stories are sourced around her curiosity or chronicle an acquaintance of hers, who often introduces her cafe to a new character. The constantly moving, circular rotation of almost every prominent personality arriving for a cup of coffee at the humble shop is a satisfying intersection of paths we assumed would cross at some point; it's a small world if you will. Alpha's keen view of behavior throughout the series sparks the bulk of the reader's engagement, as she contemplates where a gynoid's similarities lie compared to the human inspiration for her design. It's a shame the science-fiction principles are hardly addressed, as there's enough material regarding ridiculously high intelligence and sense of emotion for a humanoid robot for a sequel. The technological element is limited to fan service, occasionally posing a theory about how consciousness can be harnessed and replicated.

Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou's scenic value is largely credited to the texture-first approach to backgrounds, accentuating the emptiness of expansive rural areas. The landscapes are picturesque, maintaining distance and detailed intricacies in panels that are slightly more condensed. Coastal drawings experiment with characters swimming, sometimes evoking the sensation of soaring through clouds, visualized by dark ink-shaded streaks. However, Ashinano gives little attention to the actual dystopian parts of the worldbuilding, likely to remain on the lighter side of mystery, but I find the impending danger of water in a seaside environment a necessary geographical insight. There is no consistent plot or direction here, rather it's thoroughly engrossed in laid-back immersion, unable to be intellectualized nor extended beyond the comfortability we've already experienced. The minimalist sentimentality is exciting while it lasts, highlighting communities and living in the present.

The elusive insecurities of adolescence are an ever-popular area of exploration, and supposed relatability, although all of that is entirely dependent on the author's ability to reinforce their characters as emotionally symbolic individuals. At a glance, Asano's subject matter is somewhat accessible, depicting acts of intimacy through the lens of a trauma-induced need for a companion. Nevertheless, his composition of such dramatic trappings isn't as thematically potent as a topic of this nature would benefit from. Naturally, the ages of the cast holds a major role in this narrative obstacle, limiting the story's directional complexity. However, that's hardly a justification for the lack of momentum, the inherent aggregation ... of ideas in a piece of fictional writing. More specifically, the characterization here is underwhelming, and of course, the length of the manga plays a part, but not allowing the reader to gradually immerse themselves in interaction is a disadvantage. It's worth wondering why the two leads interact at all or any character for that matter, exhibiting baseless aggression and simply ridiculous instances of misguided intensity in the narrative's atmosphere. 

In a sleepy seaside town, there exists resentment for an invisible entity, a burning rage toward the idea of being confined to the same realities. Asano's portrayal of the community's dissonant relationships and imminent suffocation is a far more intriguing concept, barely touched upon in the final few chapters. Creating a parallel harmony between the location, disillusioned youth, and their sexual experimentation would be borderline novel. The latter has become a representative feature of this manga, perhaps for the wrong reasons. The scenes of intercourse are not erotica or even meant to be cases of character arousal, and I say that to emphasize the difficulty of capturing a depressive mutual relationship, regardless of the type of explicit acts or the ages of participants. That itself is the strongest merit of Umibe no Onnanoko, even if the provocative expressions are dictated by impulse rather than believable curiosity. In a town this small, around people this familiar, one's sense of self comes into question, and the desire for physical or emotional validation is rampant.

The classy sport of boxing holds many entertaining merits for the average viewer, exhibiting technical precision amongst the most primal physical activity, effectively casting a shiny aesthetic over devastating injuries and sacrifice. Rikudou, like many sports media, attempts the delicate balance between violence and what one could argue is an art form. The manga follows Riku Azami, a boy from a tragic background, who discovers a light of salvation in the combat sport. In his search for purpose, there lie trials and tribulations, but more importantly, Matsubara contains the dramatization within tenets of real-world struggles. While some of it may be telegraphed around coincidence, the ... bulk of it is indeed character growth through stimulating masculine desires. The very idea of pummeling an opponent's face seems like savagery, yet the trained eye will notice beautiful combinations of fluidity, which is depicted here in impressive detail. There is elegance in spilling blood on the canvas under the limitations of merely being allowed your two hands.

As a character study, the series excels in creating consistent parallels across multiple deuteragonists. The intersecting paths to glory is a recurring theme, and Matsubara emphasizes the element of achievement. Unfortunately, it's also occasionally a detriment given the number of boxers introduced, where one will remember a face merely because of a one-liner. Nonetheless, the major takeaway from Rikudou is successful in emanating why athletes even bother staking their lives, and it's noteworthy that the idea of keeping one's fight record clean is discarded early on. Initially, it spends a fair bit of time exploring the middle ground of Riku's past and how he can harness those experiences, although, after the shaky beginnings, the narrative settles into stronger points of archetypes, simultaneously rejecting talent or even hard work as what dictates the direction of a fight. The fights have their fair share of predictability, but ultimately, the outcomes intend to carry personal weight.

Matsubara's visual style has all the right traits for action, be it exaggerated movement or distinct impact shots. The musculature and metaphoric imagery combined with dotted shading make for solid blacked-out X-ray effects. Admittedly, his paneling is not friendly for newcomers to either the medium or the sport, and that's partly due to the terminology not being supported by ample context. There is a lack of exposition that may create varying levels of understanding among readers, specifically during quieter sequences, where techniques like feints and defense are simply implied without the sweet science behind them. My knowledge of the sport compensated for anything the storytelling lacked in clarity, however, I'm willing to acknowledge that targeting Riku's training more attentively might have given the series a better impression in its premature stages. Rikudou intentionally contains itself in the hungriest challenger mindset, perpetually encouraging those who dare to be great.

Shuuzou Oshimi's allegorical notion of happiness is flimsy, not necessarily the literal implications, but it's crafted as an overview of sinister events that occur, merely lingering in the vicinity of supernatural horror. The manga is somewhat conflicting, as it's difficult to acknowledge what it manages to accomplish and simultaneously ignore the dilution of the aforementioned successful elements, often forcing the reader to lean toward the latter by a constant association between storytelling that gravely strays from the narrative's original direction. The early chapters have structural merit, painting a mildly unsettling picture of careful paranoia. Makoto Okazaki's pushover life takes a startling turn after he's attacked ... by the modernized version of a mythical creature whose name one could easily gather from the synopsis, and this unwanted burden segues into a web of similar incidents that indiscriminately traps family and friends alike. His forthcoming misfortune is in part the subject of Happiness, although it's closely attached to maintaining an ensemble cast, which irreparably complicates the story's mechanics.

There would be significantly more value in approaching only Makoto's troubles, a series of personal crises among identity and belonging. After introducing the full breadth of protagonists with varying importance, their characterization is disappointingly undermined by the scattershot dramatic turns struggling to prove their relevance to the initial purpose of finding the titular happiness. It's not as simple as Oshimi just tackling more than he can account for or there not being enough chapters, rather he limits his thematic repertoire, strangely disguising his existentialist message behind heaps of gratuitous violence and psychosexual hinting that is very soon forgotten. I would've greatly preferred a darkly romantic tragedy over the cumulative method of lightly referencing dangling plot threads to solely highlight a new conflict with underwhelming overtones. Happiness is never overbearing, quite the opposite, each arc boasts confused direction, and the gradual momentum is unable to decide who or what should be antagonized, and how the reader will likely interpret deep-seated gaps in progression/worldbuilding.

The art is consistently captivating, strategically employing homages to post-impressionist and surrealist artists. Oshimi's influences vastly dictate the prevalence of certain visual motifs in his works, and while it may hinder the writing, the picturesque representation of any given mood or deliberation is considerably elevated through mimicking styles, expressing admiration. The skies in Happiness are depicted using the bold spirals of Van Gogh; in one instance, the panel experiments with Edvard Munch's mental dread as well, forming a psychological response. Makoto's uncontrolled delusions are visualized in Dali's distorted imagery, a bizarre face of shock and anxiety. The attentive reader will notice inspiration in a few more areas, like the angle of religious criticisms intertwined around adolescent insecurities. Even his advanced shading alternates between solid blocks and crosshatching, so it's a genuine shame that this level of quality is wasted on exhumed ideas from a saturated subgenre. An indirectly perverse search for self.