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Oct 9, 2021
***THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS***
“You’re not old, you’re a classic… Jigen”
The times, they are a-changin'
It’s been 50 years since Lupin the Third initially hit television screens, and while the gentleman thief tailored himself to each new iteration, his partner Daisuke Jigen remained the cool-headed, hard-boiled gunslinger he was since day one. The same can be said for the man behind the voice. From his first appearance in the 1969 pilot film, to the most recent Lupin the Third: the First film in 2019, Kiyoshi Kobayashi has been the voice of Daisuke Jigen. Kobayashi and Jigen have been one in the same for decades. But at the
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ripe age of 88, it’s about time that Kobayashi holstered his Smith & Wesson for the final time. It was announced earlier this year that Kobayashi would be retiring, with Akio Otsuka taking the role of Jigen for Part 6. While initially sad news, it’s great that Kobayashi was able to exit on his own terms. Besides, with the legacy he left behind, Kobayashi has forever left his imprint on Jigen. It’s time to pass the baton (or more accurately, the Model 19). And what better way to give Kobayashi a proper send off than with this special Episode 0, aptly titled, “The Times”.
Following a heist-gone-wrong, Lupin, Jigen, and Goemon end up in jail. It’s business as usual, but Jigen thinks it might be time to call it quits. This latest caper, filled with AI drones and dudes with high-tech weaponry, left a lot to be desired for the antiquated trigger-man. Things just ain’t how they used to be – maybe that’s a sign for Jigen to hang up his hat. “The Times” is a deeply introspective episode, with a meta-contextual mood that begs the question, “Why are we still doing this?”
Looking back on 50 years of Lupin the Third, not much has really changed. Sure, Lupin has changed his coat a handful of times, and the artstyle has had a few facelifts, but at its core, this series has remained true to its roots. The fact that Lupin the Third has remained relevant for half a century is a testament to the infallible characters Monkey Punch created all those years ago. No matter the time or place, Lupin is the gentleman thief and Jigen his right hand man. Goemon is the reliable rival and Fujiko the fickle femme fatale. And of course, Inspector Zenigata will be hot on their trail. These characters have outlived the word trope, ascending to their own gold standard. WE know why they’ve kept it up all these years, but in the context of Episode 0, the reason for their continued cops-and-robbers boils down to a timeless, wholesome bond between these characters.
What “The Times” lacks in plot, it makes up for as a character piece. This episode is a slow-boil with plenty of playful downtime and no-nonsense dialogue – its pitch perfect for a guy like Daisuke Jigen. Each of the token cast members gets a moment to reflect on that larger-than-life question, but ultimately, it’s Jigen’s choice whether he sticks around or not. Goemon is frustrated that Lupin isn’t more concerned about Jigen’s possible departure. Lupin responds with a poignant portrait of their relationship and why the two have remained partners in crime all these years.
“When times change, I adapt to them. That’s how I’ve always lived. But Daisuke Jigen is the only man who never said a word and just accepted me no matter who I was. He’s the only stable thing in my life. And maybe that’s why I’ve been able to stay true to myself. So it’s simple: No matter what he decides to do, I return the favor by accepting it just the same.”
After 50 years of heists and hijinks, the bond between Lupin and Jigen needs no lengthy explanation. Why has Jigen stuck around with Lupin this whole time? Well, life’s just more fun that way.
The times, they are a changin’. But Jigen baby, you don’t gotta change a damn thing.
With “These Times”, time has come full-circle for Lupin the Third’s 50th anniversary. For the newest installment, Lupin dons the green jacket once again, harkening back to the series’ origin. In the same vein, we say goodbye to the last remaining remnant of the original anime production. Thank you for all of your work, Kobayashi-san. As far as I’m concerned Kiyoshi Kobayashi is and forever will be Daisuke Jigen. With that said, I’m looking forward to Akio Otsuka’s performance.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Jun 18, 2020
"What's your secret?"
For Kakushi Goto, everything changed the day Hime was born. Holding his newborn daughter in his arms, the doctor asks Goto, "Hey, aren't you that manga artist? I read Balls of Fury all the time!" To which a nurse responds, "Oh I know, it's that really dirty one!" ... From that moment on, Goto's life of secrecy began.
From the author of Sayonara Zetsubo Sensei and Joshiraku, Kouji Kumeta and Studio Ajia-do bring us Kakushigoto - the story of a gag mangaka who has vowed to keep his job a secret from his daughter.
Kakushigoto is a lot of things. It's a meta-commentary on the
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manga industry, it's a workplace comedy, it's a wholesome family slice-of-life, and it's a mystery/drama. Despite a loaded portfolio, Kakushigoto tells its story in a succinct 12 episodes. It's a character-driven narrative backed by excellent writing, stellar voice acting, and a simple, yet charming art design.
Kouji Kumeta's appealing pop-art manga style translates fluently into anime form, but it's his writing that carries Kakushigoto. Goto and Hime are an adorable main duo, their daddy-daughter interplay is rife with lessons about parenting, communication, and learning social cues. The supporting cast covers a range of personalities and perspectives, adding many layers to a seemingly simple plot.
And that's the thing that'll hook you to Kakushigoto. On the surface, it's just a light-hearted comedy, but beneath that is a mystery that grows more suspenseful with each passing episode. By the end, I was deeply invested in Goto-sensei and Hime's story, and episode 12 offers a satisfying conclusion to that season-long build-up.
Kouji Kumeta once again proves his chops as a master storyteller. Kakushigoto was an emotional rollercoaster and I couldn't be happier with its entire presentation. The secret's out - Kakushigoto is a must-watch for 2020!!
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Mar 31, 2019
From the prolific master of body-horror manga, creator of countless classics like Uzumaki and Tomie, Junji Ito brings us a new tale of terror. An anxiety-inducing collection of stories more horrifying than any slug monsters or murderous spirits - that being the induction of one man into the world of cat ownership.
Junji Ito's Cat Diary is an exaggerated autobiography, detailing Ito's experiences with Yon & Mu, two cat's that seemingly influenced the mangaka's fear of the unknown. Each story features Ito going toe-to-toe (toe-to-paw???) with his feline flatmates, recalling horror stories of the most earthly capacity - from scratch-proofing the house, to mastering the technique
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of flailing a cat wand.
Though most readers come to Ito's works for his ability to instill fear, Cat Diary harnesses his often underutilized ability to make us laugh. Ito's beginnings as a mangaka were surprisingly light-hearted (i.e. his mischievous Souichi character becoming a big hit in Japan)
[Note: Souichi makes multiple appearances in the recent Junji Ito Collection anime, but I implore you to not watch that unfortunate train-wreck of a production. Someday we'll get a proper adaption of his works...]
Despite the jovial tone of Cat Diary's, Ito's expertise as a horror writer still lands all of their marks - intense atmosphere, intricate line work, the infamous page-turn panels, everything you know and love about Ito is still present. His ability to create extreme visual anxiety in his characters is plainly influenced from his own mental hurdles, as put on display here. (I pray for Ito-sensei's mental stability!)
Though some fans might be disappointed in the lack of otherworldly design and grotesque creatures, Ito's drawings of his cats are eerily realistic, capturing the constantly-contorting anatomy of his cat's to a painstaking degree. The imagination used in his monstrous creations are top-notch, but the passion put into capturing the mannerisms of his cats is just as impressive.
Overall, Junji Ito's Cat Diary is an excellent blend of horror and wholesome, a light-hearted read that anyone can enjoy. If you've ever been interested in his work, but couldn't stomach some of his creepier projects, this one is the perfect read for you!
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Apr 6, 2018
The Tale of Princess Kaguya review / Eulogy of Isao Takahata / the Studio Ghibli experience
It has been my goal over the last several years to slowly digest the works of the iconic Studio Ghibli, and it was only several weeks back that I decided it was finally time to watch “The Tale of Princess Kaguya”. Now with the recent news of director Isao Takahata's passing, I feel compelled to write not only a review of this incredible film, but use this space as a eulogy/send-off to Takahata-sensei.
For some time now, Studio Ghibli has been a household name not only in Japan, but in the
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West as well. Movies like Spirited Away and My Neighbor Totoro have garnered a following in the West akin to western animation such as the Lion King and Toy Story, and it's been my prerogative to share these films with my future offspring in the same way I spent my adolescence consuming these impactful stories over and over again.
And as the influence of Japanese culture and film continues to seep into every avenue of western media, there has been a common narrative related to the Ghibli library as it finds Western acclaim - and that's the imagined dichotomy of legendary duo and studio founder's Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata.
At this point, Miyazaki and Ghibli are synonymous - his fantastical artistry, mind-boggling set-pieces, humanist and naturalist motifs have all become the bread and butter of the Studio Ghibli legacy. As one of history’s most iconic filmmakers, his praise is well-deserved. The problem arises in conversation regarding the Ghibli filmography, where all too often I see Takahata pegged as "the guy that made the super depressing war movie". Those more familiar with Takahata's works will often differentiate the Miyazaki/Takahata duo, describing Miyazaki as the magical day-dreamer and Takahata as the grounded realist. While I agree that their films create this distinction at face value, I'd like to proclaim today, as I have been for years, that Takahata-sensei and his films create a magical atmosphere of their own caliber and are as important as any film made by Miyazaki.
My first experience with Takahata, as it was for many, was the heart-wrenching war drama "Grave of the Fireflies". The film explored ideas and narratives I had never seen or expected from animation, and the lasting effect of that film has weighed on my heart ever since. For many, this is the only Ghibli experience they have outside of Miyazaki's work, so the drastic shift in tone and direction can be jarring. But the more I explored this undervalued creator’s side of Ghibli, the more I saw the core values of Studio Ghibli resonating.
The dual-perspective, coming-of-age story told in "Only Yesterday" was one of the most relatable films of my college years, and the simple, daily happenings of "My Neighbors the Yamadas" created a nostalgic atmosphere of 'home sweet home' unlike any other animated family (Sorry Homer). And now, only a few weeks back, Takahata's magnum opus has given me a fuller appreciation for the late-director's craft.
The Tale of Princess Kaguya is a retelling of the classic Japanese folklore "The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter". Right from the get-go, the decision to name the film in regard to the princess was a conscious effort to establish that this is Kaguya's story. Miyazaki has been praised for his use of strong, female protagonists, but I find no greater example of an individual, powerful woman than that of Takahata’s Kaguya.
The film's watercolor paint palette is the first thing to catch the eye. Reminiscent of "My Neighbor the Yamadas", the watercolor style leaves a lot of open white canvas. The abundance of space goes hand-in-hand with the history behind this 11 century old monogatari (basically a word-of mouth epic passed down generations), as it gives the feeling that this story has been told time and time again, with room for creative liberties as the tale has carved its path to the present day.
The tale is ingrained in Japanese history, but that’s not to say the story itself should feel all that foreign to an international audience. A girl born of strange circumstances (in this case, born from a bamboo shoot) is found by a working class family, and is raised to nobility; her otherworldly birth and growth taken as a sign from a higher power that her life is one of divinity. As we follow her through adolescence, the conflicts of nature vs. nurture will consume Kaguya and her family. The setup is familiar, but the presentation of Kaguya’s inner struggles, her desire to live a simple life on the countryside as opposed to a life of calculated aristocracy, is captured brilliantly throughout.
By the end of the film, as I’m left reflecting over the grandiose, melancholic climax, I engage a familiar feeling that can further be derived from my total experience with Studio Ghibli. Whether it was Miyazaki or Takahata, the real magic of these films came in the form of the human condition.
Kiki’s Delivery Service dazzled me as Kiki took flight for the city of Koriko, but it wasn’t until I saw her struggling to exist on her own in that city that I found a deeper connection. It’s those small human moments - the Okajima family first experiencing fresh pineapple in “Only Yesterday”, the anguish in Mr. Yamada as his son grows up and loses interest in playing catch in “My Neighbors the Yamadas”, the way Mei mimics her sister Satsuki’s every move as any younger sibling would in “My Neighbor Totoro”, Kaguya struggling to accept the silver spoon her father is force feeding her throughout “The Tale of Princess Kaguya” – whether through subtle animation, emotional voice acting, timely music queues, it’s these moments of intense human experience that enchant me time and time again.
Even as one of his most fantastical projects, “The Tale of Princess Kaguya” is another of Takahata’s stories about humanity. The discord between one’s ambitions and that of their parents, the helpless feeling of a life earned through circumstance rather than effort, the inconsistent passage of time as life crawls and sprints until the very end, with no indication of a finish line. As the final film made in his time on Earth, Takahata captures that familiar Ghibli magic once again, with one of the greatest animated films to come out this decade.
It’s a shame that many will only have been exposed to Takahata’s work after his passing, but there’s reassurance that his influence will continue to expand and touch the hearts of many, many more people. Studio Ghibli has given me so much over the years, and we have Miyazaki, Takahata and all those involved in the productions to thank for these influential works.
Thank you Takahata-sensei, may you rest in peace.
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Jul 2, 2016
I'll start off by saying kudos, Flying Witch. It really took me by surprise how much I ended up enjoying this show.
I pick up a number of shows per season, and Flying Witch was the one I knew least about. I got a very relaxed vibe from the first few episodes so I stuck with it. By the end of its run I was in awe how much this magical slice of life had won me over.
The colorful cast of characters we meet over the course of Flying Witch is definitely the standout ingredient here. Your typical slice of life is bound to have 1
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or 2 unbearable characters, but I honestly loved everyone we came across over this journey; from the various witches like accidental-furry Inukai and the adorable cafe assistant Anzu, to their familiars and the various creatures inhabiting the magical realm.
The main cast is extremely strong as well. Our witch-in-training Makoto is a very endearing main character. The little quirks like her lack of directional awareness are the greatest combination of goofy and adorable. Makoto's host family is also top-notch (I never understood that, were they related? Or just like really close family-friends? eh, it doesn't really matter).
Older brother Kei is Makoto's age and has to be praised for how chill he is. I've seriously never seen a dude in anime keep his cool so well around a house full of women. And there's no tacked on relationship between Kei and Makoto either. Their interactions throughout the show are extremely genuine and enjoyable. Everyone's interactions throughout this show are very well done, honestly. Even the parents, who lack the most screen time of the whole family have things to love about them. The mom is extremely mom-like, and the dad's heavy accent always gave me a good laugh, especially when his words flying right over Makoto's head.
But I have to give the MVP to little sister Chinatsu. She was consistently the funniest and most adorable one of this show. Everything from the way she speaks, to her mannerisms and movements captured the essence of a young girl very well, and the magical atmosphere around her only heightened that great childlike sense of wonder.
I could go on about these characters all day. I'd love to talk about Makoto's rambunctious older sister Akane, or their feline familiar's Chito and Kenny, but we'd be here all day.
tl;dr: Characters - 10 outta 10.
Next, we have to talk about the art. This is one of the most beautiful shows I've seen recently, and that's coming from someone who is constantly on the prowl for shows with amazing art. The backgrounds and still-shots are impeccable. From flowing rivers with cherry blossoms overhead, to detailed close-ups of plants and vegetables, Flying Witch has some astonishingly great visuals.
Not only is the art and animation beautiful, but the designs of creatures and characters from the magic world are a sight to behold. There are some wondrously imaginative designs throughout this show. While I did sometimes get a Ghibli-esque feeling of astonishment as the various magical beings appeared on screen, my appreciation for these uniquely designed creatures was more comparable to something from Dark Souls or Bloodborne, games I highly value for their artistic direction and whimsical designs. The Harbinger of Spring's arrival in episode 2, and the Curtain of Night visiting the cafe in episode 8 both gave me that eerily creepy, yet beautiful feeling I get from Dark Souls enemies. Through and through, Flying Witch did not disappoint in the visual department.
The OP and ED are also filled with vibrant colors and breathtaking landscapes. They're both surprisingly catchy too. The soundtrack is the sweet little cherry on top of this wonderful sundae. It's very subtle, but adds tremendously to the mood of each scene.
There is no central plot or story to this show, but it really didn't need one. The lack of conflict made for a calm and relaxing ride the entire time. The small victories and natural progression is enough for the show to feel like its moving and that these characters are learning and experiencing new things.
The show is called Flying Witch, but Makoto doesn't even do that much flying, on screen anyways. The show moves forward at such a great pace, yet goes nowhere at all. We go along with Makoto each day on a new adventure, and though it doesn't seem like much, we do get to see, bit by bit, how she is coming to understand the world of magic surrounding her.
We see Makoto gently float into the air in the first episode, as the world of witches is revealed to Chinatsu for the first time. Makoto is still a novice with her broom, and we see her struggle with the way she uncomfortably rides it at first. But once episode 12 rolled by, and we drift with her over the peaceful city of Aomori, we see her riding her broom properly. There was no training montage, or countless escapades of Makoto clumsily falling off her broom. No, we see her naturally progress through the time she spent with the Kuramoto's, and as things come to a close, seeing Makoto ride her broom with such ease bears the fruits of her growth to us.
I can't say it enough how much this show surprised me. I went in with zero expectations and left with something I'll hold as a magical experience of my own. Flying Witch came and went like that spring courier, filled with bewildering mystery, just to drift away after we've only scratched the surface. There's so much beauty and history left to explore in the world of Flying Witch, and I hope there will be more of it to come in the future.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jun 16, 2016
Story: 8
Art: 9
Sound: 7
Character: 10
Enjoyment: 9
Overall: 9
My Neighbor the Yamadas is a very interesting film, even by Studio Ghibli standards. While it’s one of the lesser known films by the studio, and takes place in a more “realistic” setting, it was still one of the most magical films I’ve seen in recent memory.
When people think of Studio Ghibli, a few familiar people and films come to mind: Spirited Away, Totoro and of course, Hayao Miyazaki. Miyazaki’s praise is well-earned - every film of his I’ve seen have become instant classics in my book (fitting to his Walt Disney comparisons, I hope my children have these
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movies on repeat the way I watched Toy Story and The Lion King multiple times a day as a kid). Though Miyazaki lies at the epicenter of Ghibli’s style and success, there are plenty more creative geniuses at the Studio – in particular I speak of director Isao Takahata.
Co-founder of Studio Ghibli and Miyazaki’s right-hand man, Takahata has found his own success directing a handful of Ghibli films. His most notable work as a director was his first film, Grave of the Fireflies, perhaps one of the most powerful and depressing rides I’ve been on. Following Grave of the Fireflies, Studio Ghibli bounced back and forth between Miyazaki directed films and Takahata directed films. After the critical success of Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke in 1997, Takahata was back at the reigns with his next film, My Neighbor the Yamadas.
The transition from Mononoke to the Yamadas represents a key distinction in Miyazaki and Takahata’s styles. We move from a story of immense scale, to one the size of a small house. We leave behind vast and intricately drawn forests, and enter the 12 x 12 tatami floor space of a middle class family. Where Miyazaki shines in telling fantastical tales and creating stunningly imaginative set pieces, Takahata finds his niche in exploring the mundane existence of humanity.
And that is exactly what My Neighbor the Yamadas is.
There isn’t really an overarching story here. My Neighbor the Yamadas is a slice of life in the purest sense of the term. We follow the lives of, you guessed it, the Yamadas, consisting of Takashi (dad), Matsuko (mom), Noboru (older brother), Nonoko (younger sister), and Shige (grandma). This is no chronological narrative of their lives either. The movie entails short 5 to 10 minute scenes, highlighting everything from the classic ‘leave your daughter at the mall’ scenario, to father and son playing catch (as well as growing past such a silly game). Though it isn’t the first time an anime attempted to capture ordinary family life, My Neighbor the Yamadas is impeccably accurate and well-executed. I’ve rarely had nostalgia sensors go off as often as I did watching this movie. Though every scenario doesn’t strike a chord, there are enough representations of daily obstacles that I’d find it hard for someone to find no connection to anything the Yamadas go through.
Miyazaki is known for teaching lessons of reality through fantasy, and the culmination of his magical stories tend to reveal a hidden truth about the world, tucked behind his surreal imagery. My Neighbor the Yamadas does the exact opposite, showing its hand from the get-go.
We begin by introducing the family. But rather than beginning in reality and moving into the bizarre, we open with the bizarre - a metaphorical representation of the Yamadas, their journey through life, and in a sense, the journey of everyone. Rather than build toward some lesson or realization, the film’s intentions are made clear immediately. A monologue at the film’s start perfectly encapsulates and prefaces the rest of the movie, as well as what it expects you to take away from it. Since it’s at the beginning, I don’t really think it’s a spoiler, and I found it too important not to include, so here it is:
“Life, as they say, has its ups and downs. At times, the waves may taunt you, tossing you in their swells. But take heart. It's hard to stick with it and make it on your own. But even a couple of losers can survive most things if they're together. So listen, take some advice and have children as soon as you can. Children are the best reasons for riding out life's storms. Nowadays, people say child-rearing is challenging and difficult, but we've done it from time immemorial. Children grow even without parents. So hold them close to your heart as they crawl, then walk. They'll be fine.”
That right there is what this film intends to sell you on. The idea that life is hard, but we persevere through the strongest bond we have – our family. It’s a rather simple idea at play, but with each scene we’re reminded of the small hurdles we face every day, and the importance of family in times of struggle both big and small. Oh, also, the context of the monologue in the story is very clever, but I won’t tell you about it here
Though it remains one of the least fantasy-oriented films in Ghibli’s collection, the art style used is one of the most abstract. The transition between Mononoke and the Yamadas is also very significant on the production end of things. Following the meticulously hand-drawn process of Princess Mononoke, My Neighbor the Yamadas became the first ever Ghibli film to be created 100 percent through digital means.
Besides the new digital process, the art style itself is a big departure from the instantly recognizable style developed by Miyazaki over the years. It takes a turn for minimalism rather than hyper-detail. Characters and backgrounds retain a muted water-color aesthetic, complementing the light, simplicity of the narrative, as well as conveying a sense of hazy remembrance, as if we were taking a trip down memory lane with the Yamadas. Though not as immediately beautiful as the lush and vibrantly colors of previous Ghibli works, the basic art style used for the Yamadas is very fitting.
The rather loose style carried throughout the film also allows for some exploration. A specific scene comes to mind in which Takashi has to deal with a loud biker gang parked outside his house. I won’t go into detail, but the sudden switch in style during that part was exceptionally cool.
Mind you, this is not the most memorable Studio Ghibli movie. Especially when we have scenes like Chihiro entering the bathhouse in Spirited Away, riding the Catbus in My Neighbor Totoro, or Kiki flying along the countryside in Kiki’s Delivery Service. These scenes are a spectacle for the eyes, and perfect examples of the incredible talent at works behind the industry’s most magical studio. No, My Neighbor the Yamadas isn’t like that. The magic found in this film is of a different variety.
For Miyazaki, anime’s potential to explore the depths of our imagination is the fuel that drives his creative ventures. Bridging the gap between reality and fantasy is what makes Miyazaki’s films so enchanting, while also being so relatable. But for Takahata to take a medium like anime and restrict it to the bounds of ordinary life – there’s magic in that too.
To suddenly throw us into the lives of the Yamadas and create bonds with them is no easy feat, but humanity’s struggle is a familiar one across all places and within all people. There are low points and there are high points. Sometimes it feels like the burden of the world rests upon your shoulders, and sometimes you’re as light as air, losing track of the days as they drift by. One day you’re on top of the world, and the next it might seem like there’s no hope, but humanity has proven that we can keep going, generation after generation, struggle after struggle.
My Neighbor the Yamadas is just a little snippet of the struggles we face every day – some you’ve conquered effortlessly, some that have challenged every part of you, some that have broken you, and some that have built you up. Takahata shows us that the little details are as important as the big ones, and the most magical piece of humanity is its ability to move forward. As long as we persevere, we’ll be fine.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jul 23, 2015
The JoJo series is a very peculiar beast, one ridden with overly muscular super humans, flamboyantly stunning poses, and over-the-top battles that are sure to fill your battle shounen needs. All of these elements are turned up to 11 for Part 3, also known as Stardust Crusaders. While the first season of Stardust Crusaders helped get the ball rolling, the second season had me fully invested, excitedly awaiting my dose of weekly JoJo tomfoolery and badassery.
Admittedly, I've yet to read or watch Part 1 and 2 of JoJo(as of writing this review) [2016 Update: Caught up through Part 4 of the anime - JoJo fever
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is in full effect // 2023 Update: I've read up through Part 7, yare yare daze...]. I know that seems to throw my merit right out the door, but let me explain! Last year I was in the heat of my anime-watching routine, picking up almost every seasonal show, in an attempt to expand my knowledge of anime and stay up-to-date with current favorites. This of course, was not an easy task, as I quickly drowned in a sea of anime, unable to find enough reason in my wavering heart to drop the shows I only saw as 'okay'. Thus, I became entrapped in a vicious cycle of show-binging, simply to keep up with everything else. But there are always a few diamonds in the rough, and one exceptional outlier starred a highschool boy with the physique of an Olympic athlete and a hat that formed a union with his hair.
JoJo gave me quite the entertaining first impression. The art style and character designs were immediately reminiscent of Fist of the North Star, which was a refreshing difference from the copy-paste character designs I was getting from many other shows on-air. The story arc had been laid out plain and simple within the first few episodes, and while it was nothing exceptionally captivating, I knew already that JoJo was going to be about the journey, not the destination. Week after week, each battle became more and more preposterous, adding new levels of insanity to every consequent duel. JoJo had revealed to me its true nature - it was an outrageous satire of anime past, showcasing every lame catchphrase and ridiculous character tropes from the likes of Fist of the North Star coincidentally. While it was a satire, what made JoJo stand out was its ability to be a really freakin' well-made satire. Catchphrases were cheesy, but hilarious, fight scenes were ludicrous, but thrilling nonetheless. It didn't take long for me to jump on the JoJo train, and soon I couldn't survive the week without seeing their silly, well-toned faces.
Skip to the beginning of 2015. The year has begun anew, and soon to follow suit, another season of JoJo was about to begin. Jotaro and his fellow Stardust Crusaders, Avdol, Kakyoin, Polnareff, Joseph, and Iggy had finally made it to Egypt, the location of their decisive battle against the fabulously immortal vampire Dio. With the majority of the plot setup and character introductions behind us, all that lie ahead was non-stop Stand-on-Stand action. An issue of pacing can arise with a formula built around weekly showdowns (some special one’s made into 2-parters), but Stardust Crusaders handles this excellently with its colorful main cast and a plethora of unique enemies who stand in their way. The Crusaders themselves are one of the best groups I’ve seen in an action show for the past few seasons (I’m looking at you, Kirito and your harem brigade). Each one has distinct personalities and quirks that make their interactions with one another pure gold.
Jotaro retains the role of the tough-guy school delinquent, but he’s so physically and mentally calm and collected, that he doesn’t come off as an idiot, which is much appreciated for that type of character. His super-serious attitude can even be hilarious if given the right comedic timing. Joseph Joestar returns quite a bit older from his role in Battle Tendency, but his childish nature still shines through. Joseph is quite the card, responsible for some of the funniest moments in Stardust Crusaders; his infamous “OH MY GOD” engrish reactions are priceless. Muhammad Avdol is very serious and a bit of a caretaker to the rest of the irresponsible adventurers. He acts as a guide and cultural resource for the Joestars as they make their trek through the Middle East. Noriaki Kakyoin is a fellow student of Jotaro’s, and also one of the more serious characters, but he is also very genuine, showing signs of compassion several times throughout the journey. Jean Pierre Polnareff is the unsung hero of Stardust Crusaders, getting just about or maybe even more screen time than even the Joestars. Polnareff is your typical loud-mouth hero, who isn’t afraid to speak his mind and emote as much as he deems appropriate. But underneath his clumsy exterior is a very protective, and passionate warrior. Possibly the most complex of the bunch, his screen time is adequate in proportion to the amount of character development he needed. Lastly there’s Iggy, an abrasive dog, frequently acting on his own accord and staying relatively antisocial. While he is supposed to be with the Crusaders to aid their struggle, he seems to be more of an annoyance, especially to Polnareff, whom Iggy consistently enjoyed terrorizing. Iggy’s worth to the team comes out in small spurts at first, both consciously and unconsciously saving the group without them realizing it most of the time. This is a grade-A main cast, and Stardust Crusaders does each one justice by allotting specific episodic battle to each of them pretty equally, though I wouldn’t have complained if Kakyoin and Avdol got a little more time up front.
Even more entertaining than our heroes is the variety of enemies they face along the way. Perhaps the most enthralling part of JoJo is waiting to see what the next Stand user was going to throw at the Crusaders. There’s basically no limit to the concept of a Stand, so the amount of possible Stands and users is practically endless. We follow the Crusaders as they face a cursed sword who makes a master out of its wielder, wager their souls against a conniving high stakes gambler, and even duke it out with a Stand-using orangutan. If there is one thing JoJo creator Hirohiko Araki does exceptionally well, it is character creation. Every battle felt fresh and exciting. The fights themselves were also very distinct in how they played out. The Oingo Boingo twins clumsily stumbled through their failed Jotaro assassination attempt, which was one of the funniest episodes in the series. On the other hand, the crew’s battle with the High Priestess in the submarine was exhilarating and had me on the edge of my seat. And of course it’s hard to forget the illusionary obstacle created by the Sun Stand, which once figured out, was quickly and amusingly disposed of. While many of them were one-off characters, momentary obstacles only to be replaced in the following episode, a lot of the enemies were very well written and designed, and I found a lot of the charm in JoJo could be discovered through attachments created to these short-lived villains.
While I am fond of the macho-man aesthetic of the JoJo universe, it wasn’t the only artistic choice I was keen on observing. The palette swap during some intense fight scenes became a standard affair during the show. The psychedelic color schemes that embodied these moments were a great addition to atmosphere building, the pastel colors representing a state of confusion, letting the viewer know that something quite perplexing was at hand. The use of ‘unsound effects’ such as the words “menacing” drifting across the screen are a delightful nod to the manga, and has equal effectiveness in setting up the tone of upcoming showdowns. The show’s direction is on-point during battle sequences, as if each character were aware of their on-screen close-up, they assume theatrically stylish poses as they outwit their opponent. Dramatic pans to full character stitches are expectedly followed up with brief attack explanations or memorable one-liners, avoiding exhaustingly drawn-out details and replacing them with fast paced, concisely explained sequences. Not a moment feels wasted during the show’s combat, keeping my attention indefinitely, eyes glued to the screen the entire time.
One element of Stardust Crusaders that caught me completely off guard was the quality of the show’s OP’s and ED’s. All four songs are littered with hints about events that occur throughout the season, making their replay value astronomically high; each watch possibly revealing a detail you didn’t catch the previous time. The 3D rendered characters from the OP’s look as if they’ve jumped straight out of JoJo’s All Star Battle videogame; their designs are sleek, and animation is fluid. Both OP’s are successful at instilling hype for each forthcoming episode, especially the special versions of the OP that appear in the last few episodes. While the OP’s can effectively get the blood flowing, the ED’s take a surprisingly relaxed approach. The use of American bands for both songs was a perfect fit for the reference-centric JoJo universe, as Araki is fairly well-known for naming his characters after American musicians. The first song, “Walk Like an Egyptian” by The Bangles is a fairly obvious choice, but an excellent one nonetheless. The second ED choice was much more abstract, but all the more welcomed. “Last Train Home” by Pat Metheny Group is a sobering melody, a lone guitar howls as night falls and our heroes make their grand departure. While the song seems a bit unfit for the episodes that ended with sweat-inducing cliffhangers, it’s the perfect conclusion for some of the more heartfelt episodes, and flawlessly wraps up the season. With this perilous journey behind the Crusaders, “Last Train Home” embodies their peace of mind, leaving a final fleeting moment for reflection and remembrance of the trials they’ve overcome and the memories they’ve made together. (Fun fact: The ED “Last Train Home” introduced me to the wonderful jazz fusion of Pat Metheney, who I have since grown fond of, and I now own a vinyl of his first album, which has “Last Train Home” on it.)
Upon completing Stardust Crusaders, I originally gave it an 8, and began my reviewing process. But after further consideration, and as my review neared its end, I had several realizations which led me to bump my score up to a 9. I realize now that I had ZERO expectations going into JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure. Having no prior knowledge of its existence and setting no standards for what lie ahead, I was completely blown away by the end of Part 3. An anime I had picked up without a second thought had quickly become one of my favorite shows of the year. Even for the veteran JoJo fan’s Part 3 was handled with extreme care. David Productions really went all out; from the music, to animation, to voice acting, it’s obvious that everyone involved with the project took it to heart, and their collective effort gave us the spectacular escapade that is Stardust Crusaders.
And now, it’s about time I catch up on Part 1 and 2. ORA ORA ORA!!!
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jun 3, 2015
Opus is a very unique manga, and holds a place in my heart for several reasons. Satoshi Kon sits on a pedestal as one of my favorite anime director's of all time, dazzling me with his gorgeous Inception-predecessor Paprika, and the psychological thriller that was Paranoia Agent. About a month ago I had stumbled upon a comic store near my University and decided to give it a go, spurred on by my childhood love for comic books. While perusing the small shop I came across a pile of unorganized books, and sitting at the top of the pile was Opus. The book's bright red
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exterior caught my eye, only to suck me in further as I gazed at Satoshi Kon's name printed across the cover. I was completely unaware of Kon's work as a mangaka, and swiped up the book without hesitation, along with his Seraphim 266613336 Wings, co-written by Ghost in the Shell's Mamoru Oshii. I have always read manga online, so Opus would be the first manga I've read and completed in it's physical form, which creates a sort of sentimental value for me.
Opus spans across 19 chapters, and seemed to be made for an eventual movie adaption judging by its length, and the pacing of the story as it unfolds. It follows the story of Chikara Nagai, a veteran mangaka on the verge of finishing his life's work, Resonance. With the stress of an impending deadline hanging over his shoulders, he draws the final climactic panels of his story. As Resonance comes to a close, Opus is only beginning, and in a very Kon-esque fashion, the world of the living and the world of fiction begin to become one in the same. Nagai is transported into the world of Resonance, and is quickly thrown into the chaos created by his own hand.
Opus's story isn't the most original, as diving into a world of fiction has been used countless times in media, but the way in which it is tackled is brilliant. Far too often these stories overlook the psychological value of connecting two different worlds. As a person from the "real" world parades through fictitious lands, the fabricated characters seem to only be affected by their presence enough to shrug it off or be briefly astonished. Opus puts more focus on the affects created by this unworldly occurrence, as it dawns on these people that their lives are nothing more than a story, written by a man who's just trying to create something entertaining, and more so, finish it by the deadline. Several scenes highlight the flustered reactions of Satoko and Lin (Resonance's main characters) as they battle their willingness to comprehend or even accept the reality that lay before them.
But what truly puts this story above the rest is Kon's obsession with blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. Zipping back and forth between the two worlds, we begin to see an underlying message that Kon may have intended to provoke; one which he has explored in his previous works and seems to have had a personal belief in; that reality and fiction are not so different, and perhaps that means there is no real boundary between the two. Opus shows us that the worlds we create, can only be created because we live in this world. All of our influences, memories, desires, emotions and ambitions become translated into stories that are not identical, but share a very human, very real sensation of life within the pages. This becomes apparent as Nagai struggles within his own mind on the stability of his world and the world he has created. But one thing does become clear, and it's that the world of Resonance is real to him. These characters are real to him and the lives that he created for Satoko and Lin, though guided by his own pen, is life nonetheless. This speaks to the integrity of an artist, and is perhaps a defining characteristic of their purpose as writers, which I think Kon meant to portray as an outlet for his own beliefs.
The story of Opus is thrilling, maintaining a pace which serves to keep your eyes glued in and flipping the pages. I won't go into more detail than I already have about the plot, but it slowly climbs and climbs, building tension as Nagai, Sakoto, and Lin battle to preserve the order of their two worlds. And just as the tale is reaching its dynamic peak, I was met with a grim sight. Unbeknownst to me, Opus was never completed. As Satoshi Kon's extraordinary career as a director took off, Opus was put on a permanent hiatus, never to be completed due to Kon's tragic, untimely death. Just as swiftly as Kon was taken from our world in the height of his profession, Opus too came to a heart-rending halt, leaving so much still to be answered, and nothing more to be done. Kon was a visionary in his field, and had many years ahead of him to further lay claim to his title as a legendary director, right up there with Hayao Miyazaki. While it pains us all that such a brilliant mind was cut short from his inventive excursions, my deepest wound came when I finished Opus, physically drained of emotion, knowing this story will never be complete.
Dark Horse published the manga in 2014, with an additional chapter found in Kon's personal files after his death. The extra chapter doesn't wrap up the story in any way, or progress it to a point of satisfactory closure, but it does add a melancholic irony to Kon's legacy. I won't detail the added chapter, but it draws on a very meta idea that Kon's struggle as an artist with publications, deadlines and the state of the industry are very real, and very taxing for people of his line of work, which may have been one of the biggest underlying messages hidden in Opus.
BUT, a lack of an ending should not discourage you from reading Opus! It is still the work of one of the greatest anime director's of all time and should not be overlooked. The art itself should be enough to compensate, living up to the beauty and execution you'd expected from the accomplished director. Characters are expressive and well-detailed, but even more so magnificent are the beautifully crafted backgrounds and cityscapes. Explosions are intricately stunning, showering the page with debris and rubble. Kon's direction always had a knack for dabbling into the realm of psychedelic set pieces, and Opus is no exception. Grandiose trips through the worlds of Opus are just as visually appealing as Kon's cinematic ventures, conveying several mind-bending scenarios in just a few well-drawn panels.
Opus is a short, but exquisitely bittersweet tale from one of the industries most talented minds, and its abrupt ending is a depressingly ironic twist of fate, further driving my sorrow for Satoshi Kon's unexpected passing. But any small taste of his work is enough to make me smile in appreciation for his genius. I am so very happy to have stumbled across Opus, and I'm excitedly ready to start Seraphim. But before that, maybe I'll watch Paprika just one more time! Rest in Peace Mr. Kon.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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