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What does it mean to be human? It’s not a revolutionary question by any means, but Time of Eve’s execution of it is gentle and unassuming.

Directed by Yasuhiro Yoshiura, Time of Eve (2008) is a six-episode ONA set in a near-future world where humans and androids that look, sound, and act like people coexist. Except, of course, for those halo-like glowing rings over their heads; a dead giveaway for “what” they are. Social norms demand that androids remain tools, not companions, and certainly not equals. But there’s a haven, Time of Eve, a café where the only rule is: No discrimination between humans and robots.

The ... Café
The café is warm and inviting with its amber lighting and retro-modern aesthetic, it stands in as the show's helm. The characters, both human and android, are sketched out with a delicate precision and empathy, allowing their struggles to draw you in naturally.

Take Rikuo, the protagonist, whose teenage-like skepticism about his family’s house android leads him to the Time of Eve café. His journey is as much about questioning societal norms as it is about unraveling his very own underlying prejudice. Then there’s Sammy, his android, whose motives and emotions are seemingly ambiguous. Other café patrons like: Koji and Rina (two unknowing androids), carry a relationship riddled with irony and linearity, not so different from the human experience.

The Art of Restraint
Where most sci-fi leans hard on exposition, Time of Eve takes the opposite approach. Its storytelling is minimalist, trusting the audience to infer meaning through visuals, character expressions, and conversational dialogue.

And then there’s the animation. It’s soft and fitting. Whether it’s the subtle shifts in facial expressions, the video-game style POVs, a quiet clink of coffee cups, or the glow of the setting sun streaming through the café’s windows—it all works together, building a calm for the world.

The OST, composed by Tohru Okada, deserves its flowers, too. Sparse yet evocative, a soft piano melody and drony hums, a contemplative lullaby for the viewers.

Themes/Takeaways
If you’re hoping Time of Eve (2008) will grace you with some groundbreaking thesis about artificial intelligence or the nature of humanity, you’ll be left with an empty mug. You see, Time of Eve (2008) was never here to preach. Instead, it offers you a cup of coffee and maybe a mosaic of perspectives too. So what do you think?

Conclusion
So, if you’re in the mood for something short and understated yet admirable, pull up a chair, the café is open. Let Time of Eve brew you a cup of quiet reflection.

Dandadan: The Neon Playground—what a tease

Frustratingly average; I just can’t get those words out of my head. With a soundtrack, aesthetic, and sound design better than most new-gen shōnens, Dandadan (2024) has all the cards for a great 2020s anime. And yet, it falls flat. Even when the series plays with satire at just the right moments–when it’s on the verge of breaking the mold, the author frustratingly falls back onto the same old regurgitated storylines and plot beats that have plagued the shōnen world for years.

I’ll start this with our two main characters. First we’ve got Momo Ayase, our feisty female lead who is ... fine, I guess. She’s got that certain archetype of modern teenage spunk and supernatural intrigue that many new gen series exhibit. Then we have Ken Takakura (Okarun), the nerdy male counterpart who isn’t that much better. He’s a walking trope: awkward, earnest, and tragically predictable. And the dynamic between the two? Sure, it’s cute at times, but it’s also as if someone took the blueprint for a quirky anime duo and just decided to control c, control v without bothering to tweak it.

Now, I’ll give credit where credit is due: the sound design and aesthetic are exceptional. The atmosphere is honestly better than it has any right to be. Neon, shimmering throughout an alien infested playground, a place where kinetic energy feels like it’s being harnessed via raw unadulterated serotonin. The soundtrack too, is a standout. Tracks pair together and thread the needle between high-energy beats, haunting extraterrestrial synths, and slap-stick bumpers, pulling you into a world that, for all its narrative faults, feels genuinely alive.

How about the story? The premise—a mix of ghost hunting, alien encounters, and supernatural brawls, I’ll give it to them, it is undeniably unique. It’s like someone threw JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (1986), Mob Psycho 100 (2012), and a splash of Urusei Yatsura (1978) into a blender; except what we get is a chunky, lumpy mess. The story jumps from one outrageous set piece to another, barely giving you the time of day to digest what exactly just happened before they decide to throw another golden curveball at you. And while aimlessly swinging the bat is fun for the first few episodes (and when done right, can get you the holy grail of anime: FLCL 2000), the novelty wears off quickly. By the midpoint, I started craving something more substantial from the series (and no, that half-baked Jujutsu Kaisen (2018) style character (Acrobatic Sarasara) doesn’t count).

The satire, when it’s there, is sharp, witty. They’ll have you thinking they are deconstructing genre norms and poking fun at its contemporaries. But then it will revert to tired tropes and clichés, like it’s afraid to commit to its own ideas. I feel manic watching the damn thing.

I’ll admit, there are moments of genuine enjoyment scattered throughout Dandadan (2024). I mean there is a genuine charm to the absurdity of it all. But charm only gets the series so far. Without narrative coherence and a proper amount of time rationed to each character the series will struggle to leave any sort of impact.
PS: Hoping for more in the next season

Let’s talk about the first Studio Ghibli movie, Castle in the Sky (1986). It's a foundational piece, sure, but every time I think about it, I just can’t shake that sour taste from my mouth.
The movie starts fine. Pazu and Sheeta are these wide-eyed adventurers. They’re scrappy, earnest, and their chemistry is endearing. But as the story moves along, the hollowing effect widens. It’s hard to pinpoint at first. Maybe it’s the villain, Muska, whose whole thing is being a “stock bad guy.” He’s power-hungry, sure, but where’s the meat on that bone? There’s no complexity to him. He’s evil because the movie needs him ... to be. Compared to a character like Lady Eboshi in Miyazaki’s later film Princess Mononoke (1997), of whom balances industrialization with a genuine care for her people, Muska feels replaceable.
And the themes? I mean, they’re there. Like many Miyzakaki movies we have technological advancements versus nature. But that’s just it, they are JUST there. The film wants to talk about humanity’s hubris and the dangers of self-indulgent ambition, but it never really throws you more than a bone. Instead, it opts for a more visual approach, albeit stunning. The airships, the sky, the crumbling ruins of Laputa, they’re all gorgeous. But beauty alone only takes you so far.
Then there’s the castle itself. When Pazu and Sheeta finally arrive, those nine minutes of exploration are everything I wanted this movie to be. There’s a real ethereal feeling to it all, an earnest discovery, like stepping into a dream you can’t understand. But the magic is over like that, just nine minutes. And the rest of the film can’t match that magic. Instead, we’re back to explosions, chases, and a villain rambling on and on about power.
It’s frustrating. Castle in the Sky teases greatness, brushing by you, just a little too late– then you look back just to get a taste of these glimpses where Miyazaki’s future brilliance really begins to form. But it never self-actualizes. The movie is safe, sticking to a straightforward tale of good versus evil, where the heroes are unambiguously good and the villains just as unambiguously bad. There’s no moral gray.
Don’t get me wrong, I get why people love this one. It’s a main entree at Ghibli’s dinner table. But for me? I wanted more.

“I don’t think I had a dream as a child. I just wanted to live a slow life.” - Masaaki Yuasa

There’s something intoxicating about the way Masaaki Yuasa bends reality. I mean, Cat Soup—the title alone drips with a strange, offbeat irony, begging you to ponder the possibility of boiling a cat into soup. It comes off as grotesque, but what if it wasn’t? What if the story is an eccentric recipe uniting the absurd and the tragic? A chaotic stew of life’s catastrophes bubbling below the clumsy gaze of cosmic forces; oh, and boiling cats too!

In Cat Soup, Yuasa’s signature blend of warped imagery ... and narrative ambiguity is in evidence. His worlds are more like lucid dreams than traditional narratives. The haunting short film lures you in with its simplicity, a story about a brother cat named Nyāta trying to recover his sister’s lost soul after abruptly dying. Nyāta quickly finds himself on a surreal journey that’s both beautiful and unsettling. Watching it is like getting transported through a kaleidoscope, where each fragment shifts with your emotions, changing the meaning and impact of every scene.

At its core, Cat Soup is a film that doesn’t spill its moral guts right away. It lets you decide whether it’s a quiet tragedy or a muted celebration of life. Nyāta’s quest to reclaim his sister’s soul could easily be seen as a bleak reflection on mortality and the fickleness of fate. But then again, its playful humor and moments of stunning visual bliss transform it into something else entirely– perhaps a reminder of the arbitrary joys of existence.

One of the film’s strengths is how it alternates between crushingly sad and oddly hopeful, utilizing the viewer's emotional state to grant its perspective. With no neat lines to separate the black from the white, a gray area clearly exists. For instance, when Nyāta loses his sister to death early in the film and retrieves only half of her soul she becomes a shell, a husk drifting through their bizarre world without any awareness. With a pessimistic lens, this could be seen as a brutal reminder that once lost, innocence can never truly be restored. But then there’s Nyāta, persistently dragging his sister along with a determination that can only be described as heroic. That persistence in the face of futility is heartwarming, a preface that love and loyalty can carry you through even when your own world is ridden with distortion.

Even as the siblings encounter the most absurd of beings and dangers—being swallowed by a pig, being prepped for stew or drowning in an endless ocean, there's still an uncanny beauty and humor in how these events are presented. Like a children’s sketchbook come to life, Yuasa’s fluid animation style teeters between innocence and horror. Like when Nyāta cuts a pig in half and Yuasa presents the scene as a cross-section of meat and organs, the effect is riddled with a toon-like style. Should I gasp? Should I giggle? It’s this kind of tonal snap that makes Cat Soup feel like such a delicacy: One small mistake and you’ll overpower the stew.

But what really defines Cat Soup is its mastery of controlling your emotional response through its pacing, sound and visuals. Yuasa and Satō are experts at creating a sense of unease, where even moments of calm feel riddled with a potential for mayhem. Like the scene where Nyāta and his sister encounter a god-like figure who turns a knob, flooding the entire world. At first you’re granted a beautiful, tranquil visual where the waves shadow over everything; an orange aurora of water icing the reset button on the universe. Yet, there’s a void rooted in it too. An understanding that this god doesn’t care what or who gets washed away. It’s inevitable and uncontrollable, a dainty decision off a whim.

These beings, powerful and indifferent, use the universe as their own personal sandbox. With a detached expression, they turn the knob that causes the flood, and just as effortlessly, they turn it off, restoring everything as if nothing happened. There’s no malice, no kindness in their actions; just children playing with building blocks, stacking them up and stomping them down. This moral ambiguity is unsettling, making it impossible to see these beings as saviors or villains– but that’s the point. In Cat Soup, higher powers are not bound by human (cat) concepts of right and wrong. They simply exist. They create, destroy and reshape the world according to a logic that they know nothing about. It’s terrifying, and there’s no comfort in the idea that the universe is ruled by beings who might erase your existence without even noticing. But it can be freeing. If the universe is governed by such chaos, then why not find your own meaning?

This sense of unpredictability extends to the very world that our main characters trek through. The landscapes feel sentient, colors bleeding into each other, shapes like a funhouse mirror, like the world is alive. It’s a place where everything is on the verge of transformation. It’s as if the environment itself is reacting to the heroine's presence. In one moment, they are sidewinding through the desert, the next, the sand is personified; in another, a circus tent blooms like a spring flower, swallowing them into a realm of disorienting oddities. Yuasa’s depiction of nature isn’t static; it’s a living, breathing figure, capable of beating the drum of its heart without warning.

The animation style gives life to this world as well. Loose and liquidy, bending and distorting. A reminder that nothing is fixed, not even the rubble beneath the characters’ feet. Everything can be undone and remade in an instant, much like Nyāta’s final act of turning a knob and seemingly erasing the entire universe. Is it Nyāta smashing the reset button? Or maybe an act of hopelessness? A playful gesture even; and when that screen goes black and the film ends, you are left with an unnerving hollow ache, like turning the lights off when you’re home alone.

But back to that bowl of soup! Like the broth, its meaning is hard to pin down; it ebbs and flows depending on how you engage with it. Whether you see it as a reminder of life’s fragility or a testament to resilience, it is a reflection of the personal journey the film takes you on, shifting with your own perspective as you follow a red string through a bizarre world.

[SPOILER WARNING, SPOILERS AHEAD]

"Devilman Crybaby" is a psychedelic exploration of human nature, love, and the age-old philosophical debate surrounding morality and the ambiguous nature of good and evil. Directed by Masaaki Yuasa, the series brings to life the iconic characters from Go Nagai's original work in the 70s, while also adding its own unique twists and interpretations.

The characters of Akira and Ryo serve as powerful symbols, each embodying contrasting worldviews that propel the narrative of the series. Akira Fudo, the protagonist, starts as a compassionate and gentle soul. His empathy and kindness are evident in his relationships and interactions with others. However, his transformation into ... Devilman brings forth a spiraling internal conflict. The merging with a demon granted him both power and exposure to the brutal realities of the world. Akira's struggle to retain his humanity while embracing his newfound abilities forms the emotional core of the story. On the other hand, Ryo Asuka’s nihilistic beliefs and cynicism drive him to challenge conventional notions of morality. His character embodies a dark, manipulative force that seeks to tip over societal norms and expose the underlying darkness within humanity. Throughout the series, Ryo's actions blur the lines between right and wrong, forcing viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about human nature. The dynamic between Akira and Ryo serves as a narrative climax, highlighting the complexities of moral decision-making. As Akira grapples with the consequences of his actions as Devilman, Ryo's influence constantly tests his convictions and beliefs. This tension leads to countless moments of introspection and self-discovery for both characters. Moreover, DMCB masterfully uses its dark, visceral imagery and intense storytelling to depict the harsh realities of a world besieged by demons and human malice. Themes of prejudice, violence, and existential dread permeate the narrative, mirroring contemporary societal issues and adding layers of social commentary to the overarching philosophical discourse.

When first going into this hashing of “Devilman” the thing that always pinned down my interest was the director's creative liberties. Yuasa AGAIN shines through with his interpretation of the classic story. With the addition of new characters like Miku and the incorporation of the Baton/track aspect, which significantly contributes to the interconnected themes of the series. These elements allow for the story to no longer come off as dated while continuing to bring fresh perspectives to the story's core themes of identity, belonging, and sacrifice. Miku's character serves as a pivotal addition to the narrative, offering a glimpse into the ordinary lives affected by the supernatural events unfolding in the series. Her presence humanizes the story, providing a relatable perspective for viewers and highlighting the impact of the supernatural on everyday individuals. Miku's relationship with her friends and her struggles with personal challenges add layers to the overarching theme of identity, as she grapples with her sense of self amidst chaotic circumstances. The Baton/track aspect introduces a metaphorical layer to the series, symbolizing the interconnectedness of the characters' fates and the cyclical nature of their struggles. The track becomes a symbol of the journey each character undertakes, with hurdles and obstacles mirroring their internal conflicts and external challenges. Thus adding depth to the storytelling and reinforcing the themes of perseverance, determination, and the quest for self-discovery. This modernized approach to “Devilman” enhanced the viewing experience in my opinion, allowing for a more accessible exploration of the themes and character dynamics while giving us a peek into the creative genius of Yuasa’s mind.

One of the most striking aspects of the show is the stark contrast between Ryo's distorted perception of love and Akira's genuine and altruistic love for others. Ryo's version of love is characterized by his insecurities and beliefs, which are heavily influenced by his hazy past and his transformation into Satan. His love is tainted by a sense of superiority and a desire for control, leading him to manipulate situations and people to achieve his goals. Ryo's love is possessive and destructive, driven by a warped sense of righteousness and a misguided belief that his actions are justified for the greater good. Contrary to Ryo, Akira's love is portrayed as pure, selfless, and empathetic. He cares deeply for his friends and is willing to sacrifice himself to protect them, embodying the essence of unconditional love. Akira's love transcends boundaries, breaking down barriers of fear and prejudice. His ability to love wholeheartedly is the main source of his strength.Additionally, DMCB doesn't shy away from exploring the darker aspects of love, highlighting how it can be used as a weapon of manipulation and destruction. Ryo's twisted love ultimately leads to tragic consequences, highlighting the dangers of unchecked desires and misguided intentions.

The final moments of DMCB are one of my favorite moments in fiction, a communal pool of the series' themes, displayed for all by Akira's decision to sacrifice himself for the greater good showcased his resolve, empathy and compassion, highlighting his understanding of the interconnectedness of all beings and his willingness to take responsibility for their actions. Whereas Ryo, who experiences a moment of clarity and remorse, he realizes the extent of his actions and the pain he has caused. It is as Ryo witnesses Akira's selfless sacrifice and the devastation it brings, that he is confronted with the reality of his choices. The tears he sheds are tears of remorse and regret. It's a moment of profound vulnerability and self-awareness, as Ryo comes to terms with the pain he has caused and the lives he has shattered. It humanizes him in a way, representing a breaking down of his emotional barriers, allowing him to confront the depth of his own suffering and the suffering he has inflicted on others. It's a powerful visual representation of his internal struggle and his journey towards understanding the true meaning of love, empathy, and sacrifice. Ryo's tears also serve as a thematic conclusion to the series. They highlight the overarching message of the potential for change and redemption (even in the literal DEVIL), a reminder that no one is beyond redemption and that genuine remorse and a desire for atonement can pave the way for personal growth and transformation but will still not be accepted with open arms (as seen by God's retaliation). In Yuasa’s retelling of “Devilman,” he takes us on a visual rollercoaster of human nature, love, and morality, proving that even demons and devils can shed a tear or two...but don't expect divine forgiveness anytime soon!

Rating: 9/10

"Mind Game" is an expansive journey through the complexities of life, beautifully brought to life through Yuasa's experimental and psychedelic animation. The film delves into the theme of embracing life's endless possibilities, showcasing how even the most insignificant of lives can transform with self-expression. The protagonist, Nishi, initially portrayed as a “loser” with unfulfilled desires and somebody who lived through life in a disassociated manner as expressed by his work of being a mangaka. Nishi embarks on a surreal adventure after a brush with the Japanese mafia. Through twists and turns that take him to heaven, Nishi discovers profound truths about existence and the subjective ... nature of our perceptions. One of the film's standout features is Yuasa's daring use of creative liberties, employing vibrant imagery and symbolism to convey deeper meanings. The animation style constantly shifts, keeping viewers engaged and reflecting the unpredictable nature of life itself. Despite its abstract narrative, "Mind Game" manages to deliver a cohesive message about overtly connectedness of our lives and embracing life's uncertainties. It's a visually stunning and thought-provoking experience that encourages viewers to appreciate the diversity of human experiences and the boundless potential within us all. As for this next section it is spoiler heavy as it touches on my love for the final scene. You have been warned!!! In the final scene of "Mind Game," as Nishi and his companions run up the towering wave in the sky, we are given a mesmerizing montage that encapsulates the film's central themes with stunning visual symbolism. This sequence serves as a culmination of Nishi's journey and the interconnectedness of all lives, emphasizing the boundless potential and infinite possibilities that exist within us. The imagery of the wave itself is symbolic of life's challenges and the constant flow of change. As the characters ascend the wave, it represents their determination to confront past obstacles and embrace the unknown. The wave also carries echoes of traditional Japanese art, representing the need for resilience within the scene. Lastly, the montage showcasing snippets of different lives intertwined further reinforces the film's message of interconnectedness. It draws emphasis on how every individual, no matter how seemingly insignificant, contributes to the never ending encyclopedia that is life. "Mind Game" is truly a testament to Yuasa's innovative storytelling, this is unlike anything I have experienced. This is a movie that truly made me want to live my life, thank you Yuasa.

Overall Rating: 9.5/10