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Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Where Psycho-Pass in its first season was an intelligent examination of the balances between societal control, justice, and idealism, it has with this film truly devolved into a mess of incomprehensible plotting featuring empty husks of characters with incoherent motivations. Other reviewers that disliked this film seem to also harbor harsh feelings toward season three, but I believe that to be mostly unfair. In fact, I would argue that consideration of the third season would be a good and quick way to identify what exactly is missing in Providence that made seasons one and three so much more memorable than ... this drivel: good dialogue.

Psycho-Pass is probably the talkiest cop show that actually warrants being taken seriously, a trait that is somewhat diminished in season three but almost entirely absent in Providence. The real key here is what is being spoken. With season one, the subject of discussions usually pertained to questions surrounding the push and pull between those three aforementioned topics; the cases being handled were mostly simple and were made even clearer to the audience by removing the whodunit factor by following the criminals around. One could even argue that these cases’ procedural details were largely irrelevant on a thematic level; how is a psychopathic high schooler murdering her classmates and posing them in grotesque homages to her father’s art even remotely pertinent to those debates of security and freedom? Short answer: it isn’t. The point of these murder cases is to demonstrate how criminality and, in tandem, judicial practices have changed in the world presented. This is actually what drew me to the series way back when: if the world is ostensibly a utopia, why are there still such horrific crimes being committed? That line of thinking is needed to dive deeper into the franchise’s central debate of security versus freedom, especially in the latter half.

Season three was more of an episodic mystery show, meaning the perpetrators’ identities and methods were what were frequently explored in the dialogue. The reason this did not bother me but, in fact, kept me engaged week-to-week is that those topics were all in some way indicative of flaws in Sibyl; the point of these cases was that only a human would or even could have identified something as being problematic or the result of foul play, thus affirming the franchise’s thesis of the need for humanity’s individualistic agency, the value in having people control their own fates. That each case indicated different cracks in the system and society at large kept the season feeling routinely fresh, the other primary reason being that different characters were given the spotlight in each arc (with mixed and limited results, though I still respect the effort).

But here we have Psycho-Pass: Providence, the entry where very little (especially of actual substance) is spoken. To pull back a bit and see how it contrasts with films as a whole, this is not inherently a bad thing, even if it is new to Psycho-Pass; I see this effort to inject longer bouts of silence as an attempt to be more contemplative and emphasize characters’ emotions more than developments in the world presented. Providence is really trying to be Blade Runner, a film where, even though the plot is paper thin and the dialogue is sparse and mostly uninteresting, the story is remarkably well-conveyed; there are few other films that utilize atmosphere and mood so effectively (see also Three Colors: Blue). All this is to say, however, that Providence is not the kind of film that employs atmosphere, visual fidelity, and shots of people watching life pass them by to great effect. This film fails as a psychological and emotional examination of quiet characters and their (in)humanity because both the franchise (most of it, anyway) and this film have always been more about the world and far less about the people in it. Providence tries to have it both ways and fails both ways; the few attempts at connecting the interpersonal, intrapersonal, and investigation-relevant problems the characters face to the franchise’s thesis of individualism, this time through religious metaphor, feel extremely forced in addition to being, in some ways, a retread (see the Sybil worshippers in season three).

I should note that I don’t think it’s fair to call the film’s plot scattershot or even overly-convoluted. It is, however, damn near incomprehensible during an initial watch because the head of Psycho-Pass’ dialogue and characterization has never before been quite so firmly and deeply up its own ass. Those that have read critiques of season one will know this to be an actually rather remarkable feat. Providence has this idea in its head that the characters’ mere act of speaking like the Renaissance-era people they cosplay should automatically make them smart, and yet all the dialogue succeeded in doing was upset me by making once-interesting intellectual characters totally insufferable. This issue of extremely clunky dialogue is dwarfed, however, by the fact that, with all those contemplative silences, not enough is actually said about what is happening or why it matters. There is a wealth of missing information here that only serves to make the experience annoyingly confusing. Why characters do the terrible things they do was never quite clear to me, yet all these actions warrant further explanation beyond the fact that Psycho-Pass has a history of being grim-dark. The tragedy is that it’s now grim-dark with whatever points intended by the creators frustratingly muddled by the film’s shoddy presentation.

If that was not bad enough, Providence also falls victim to the practice of not leaving well enough alone e.g. Kougami. To be fair, the problems with his characterization really started with his decision at the end of the third Sinners of the System film to effectively be an Enforcer all over again except for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, meaning he would be fighting foreigners and would use guns rather than Dominators (as such, the coolest sci-fi element of the franchise is largely absent from the film, dumb black hole gun notwithstanding; not exactly a great marketing ploy). The question I have is this: why is Kougami doing a bunch of 007 nonsense on behalf of a government for which he has no love? Here’s his arc across the franchise: in season one, he’d already fallen from grace, having resigned himself to being a state-sanctioned stone killer but who then proves himself to be an egotistical murdering bastard by the end. Psycho-Pass: The Movie and the third Sinners of the System film have him feeling tortured over his decision to execute Makishima; he wanders freely around Asia without any direction beyond wanting to do right by people, perhaps even in atonement for his sins, before making the boneheaded decision to return to Japan and be a state-sanctioned killer again because… freedom wasn’t what he thought it was? I bring all this up because Providence actually touches on this negation of his entire arc; he says that his current job helps people, which doesn’t make any sense considering he is still just an executioner for Sibyl. The film, in contrast to its attempt to be more emotionally introspective, makes no effort to have Kougami actually reflect and change or even effect healing within the people he had hurt with his betrayal. He calls up Akane, ostensibly to apologize (and only at the prompting of Professor Saiga), but instead tells her he regrets nothing. This is never brought up again. When this happened, I immediately laughed, cupped my hands around my mouth, and called out to my TV, “Nice apology, dicknuts!” Sure enough, Akane herself pretty much says the same thing after he hangs up. Though I had already suspected it, that moment was when I really knew this film was too dumb for me to enjoy.

On the topic of 007 nonsense, I have a bit of a bone to pick with the action sequences in this film. I think the proper word to describe them is “overdone”, the reason being that they bill themselves as extremely climactic and lethally consequential but carry only a minimal amount of actual dramatic weight or narrative tension. To compare this to seasons one and three/First Inspector, confrontations between the detectives and criminals felt engaging because they were significant; characters and audiences both endured harrowing journeys to get there. That these scenes also made the effort to put the franchise’s themes front-and-center was competent writing. In Providence, none of the ideas being spouted during the confrontation had been examined in ways that really affect the characters and how they feel; the film plays catch-up in these few minutes on all the things it should have been doing with its dialogue and character interactions throughout the majority of its runtime. But no, it had to pretend to be more like Blade Runner while still appealing to the crowds who just want to watch characters and machines fight and blow up during a way-too-long climax with four different POVs running concurrently. It doesn’t help that there is also a feeling of diminishing returns with these action sequences. All of them look strong (even if the sound mixing goes completely out of whack, which I found annoying), but the sheer frequency and duration of these set pieces made them feel less like the integral next step of the story and more like fanservice in a way only a superhero film could be.

And usage of the word “fanservice” is a decidedly apt choice to function as a segue to discussing the ways in which this film contributes to the setup of season three. Or, more accurately, should contribute but doesn’t. The long and short of it is that I found nothing in this film to explain anything in season three other than why Akane is behind bars; you’re probably not going to get any cathartic “Oh, that’s why!” kind of moment in relation to Shindo and Ignatov’s family history because what is provided doesn’t actually have any thought-provoking conflict behind it. Maybe I’d need to research this to know for sure, but I was too busy trying to parse out Shindo's father’s motivations to really notice anything of import (hint: I failed. Miserably). There is something that does bother me, though: why does Chief Kasei bleed after getting shot? Is she not an android avatar of Sybil, as evidenced by the fact that she was clearly an entirely mechanical being in season one? Or is Akane actually a murdering lowlife shitheel like Kougami now?

If that's the case, then I called it back in December 2019: Akane Tsunemori is criminally asymptomatic.

Chances are, though, the production team added the blood just to fool the in-universe press. Joke’s on them because they should have tried harder to fool me! Hahahahaaaaa!

Although… I paid forty-five dollars preordering this shit from Crunchyroll, so…

Ahh… fuck.

- LC

When I contemplate Kenji Kamiyama’s Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex (heretofore “SAC”), I’m reminded of the ending lines of the morning routine monologue from American Psycho:

“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense that our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”

Coldness aside, it’s as though SAC itself spoke these words to its audience. For all its flair, for as meticulously ... crafted, honed, and maintained as it is, and for as much as it presents itself as something especially valuable through these specifically material lenses, there is an underlying emptiness there by design. This is a show that lacks immaterial value, a work of art with little to no actual artistic statement at its core; in other words, SAC is mostly devoid of a soul. That does not mean it is without any value, seeing as it is generally good fun, but it strikes me as odd that a series held in such high esteem by so many would be one that engendered such minimal emotional attachment from the audience to its characters, at least in my experience.

I don’t believe it’s fair to compare SAC to the Oshii film (“GitS”). I respect that these two works exists alongside each other and are designed to be consumed differently (TV versus film), even if not necessarily by different audiences; they have real-world purposes distinct from one another that inform the style of their stories as they have been put to the screen. Where GitS is a film rooted in its lead character’s mind, functioning as a psychological deep-dive that ponders the fluidity, strength, and capacity of that element labeled an individual’s “humanity”, SAC is mostly unconcerned with these concepts and just wants to be a fun cyberpunk conspiracy-thriller show into which audiences tune every week.

And doesn’t that ever sound familiar. In my last review (on Tiger & Bunny), I mentioned that Witch Hunter Robin skated by on its aesthetic and atmospheric value in lieu of presenting engaging characters. I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t also give a nod here to Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress, a series that, while having more heart than either SAC or Robin, in my opinion, very clearly puts the brunt of its effort into looking as good as it can for as long as possible. Both Robin and Kabaneri are shows that I enjoy and even afford solid ratings. I’m no hypocrite; SAC deserves the same fair treatment.

Even so, I have to admit an inherent bias: I feel a net loss upon observing just how removed SAC is from GitS in every meaningful way while retaining the same now-ill-fitting name. The fact that it seeks to fly through that film’s jet-stream in spite of sharing only aesthetic elements and general character profile makes SAC read as an attempt at cashing in on brand popularity. This is only my cynical and reactive gut feeling; my conscious mind instead argues that SAC stands on its own merit both in style and substance. While the main story is not one I found very affecting, ditto many of the standalone episodes, all are effectively told with some moments being memorable enough that their tension remains. This is a tough feat to accomplish and yet an essential one in a show that could have weeks between episodes relating to the main story; that Kamiyama and his team did it so deftly is a testament to their capability. But this ability to craft and maintain suspense does not necessarily make SAC a great show.

Where is the drama, the emotional conflict? We get pieces here and there of hearts in the standalone episodes, but these stories are rarely well-written; episode 16’s “I’m the one with the blind spot” line made me and my brother almost die laughing. The emotional climax of the episode should not seem so ridiculous. GitS may not have been quite so willing to shed a tsunami of tears or scream loudly with feelings, but it presents itself as a film with a palpable mood. I think back to when the Major is being assembled while eerie vocals flood my ears, or the Major floating upward to her reflection in a moment scored with what I can only describe as aural serenity, or the time when she wakes up in the morning and opens the blinds to let in the ghostly daylight and we hear nothing at all. As much as I do believe that GitS and SAC should be taken on their own merits and flaws, that they are not comparable works, I think that emotional resonance and a willingness to build empathy within the audience is something inherent to all works of art. My philosophy is that to be effective requires being affecting, and SAC doesn’t have that.

And it’s this absence of a beating heart that takes me back to that quote from American Psycho. There is something fundamentally missing; in spite of all of its attempts to reach the audience, it doesn’t seem to succeed or even really try when it comes to connecting in ways that matter e.g. touching the hearts and minds of viewers. All that I can say about SAC is that it is fun, has great art, animation, and music, and showcases solid ability at crafting a suspenseful conspiracy thriller; hats off to you, Kamiyama. SAC can be a good choice of show to watch an episode of with your friends or whoever after a day at work, but it does not function well as a drama, and this is a recurring pattern in Kamiyama’s oeuvre. He’s like the J.J. Abrams of the anime world for all the good and bad that entails.

I don’t think it is fair to not recommend the show given its merits, so I will instead leave you all with this: really consider what you hope to get out of something before devoting your time to it.

Happy watching!
- LC

Something unique that struck me about Tiger & Bunny is just how much of its strength does not come from its visuals. The fact of the matter is this: by and large, most anime series tend to put most of their effort toward the art and animation fronts. Notable examples aside, it is, specifically for anime, rare for the writing to outclass production quality, regardless of how well-written the work is. As seen with Samurai Champloo's hip-hop vibes, FLCL's groundbreaking animation, or design elements like Psycho-Pass' absurd cancer guns, well-written anime such as these present visual elements that (historically have proven themselves to) remain in ... the viewership's consciousness far longer and more strongly than the actual story being presented. In actuality, this is also true for those with more middling production value e.g. Serial Experiments Lain; the animation may not be great, but, boy, did Yoshitoshi ABe strike diamonds with Lain's design. Tiger & Bunny doesn't quite have that special sauce in its aesthetic, competent though it certainly is. Masakazu Katsura's designs are all memorable enough, ditto the city of Stern Bild, and while I can imagine plenty of fan art of the characters (especially from the fujoshi), I don't see any of those elements propelling T&B into selling absolute gangbusters like those earlier examples. The only-moderate population count here on MAL should make that very clear.

Again, though, that is okay. In lieu of devastatingly viral visuals, we have consistently good episodes and a wonderful flow between them to match. I was struck by how effectively T&B balanced the episodic elements with larger story arcs. Admittedly, Witch Hunter Robin, GitS:SAC, and Heat Guy J all did this almost ten years earlier, but suffered by shifting in decidedly more jarring ways. The smoothness in which T&B accomplishes this balance is the cornerstone of its achievement of "having good writing" and I feel that this really sets it apart from most other anime (or shows, period, for that matter). Again, though there are a few flaws, the stories presented in these episodes are strong, both when taken individually and when tied together. What drives the story is a persistence toward asking the core question of what makes a hero in a world where heroics are commodified. The answer T&B leans toward is that heroic deeds should be considered ends unto themselves, where the individual conducting them is not concerned with whatever manufactured value follows (be they increased popularity, higher-paying endorsements, etc.) but prioritizes the net positive effect of conducting heroics i.e. saving lives and thwarting crime. An idealistic view, for sure, but the writers are very much aware of that; there is some harsh realism at how much it takes from these people to balance being heroes with their personal lives, whether it's by showing how much Wild Tiger is missing out on watching his daughter grow or how Barnaby, sorting out the mysteries behind his trauma, doesn't really have room for a personal life to begin with. And while all that is great, the episodes that stick in my mind are those featuring Blue Rose and Origami Cyclone which demonstrate the characters' struggling to balance idealism against their role's commodification, primarily because this is the series' decidedly atypical stamp (at least, until The Boys came along and made this commodification mainstream). Being a hero is analogous to being a product and advertisement for companies with priorities as follows: are the logos plastered on their product's costume visible, and does that product make said companies appear credible by proving itself to be a worthy investment? I'm getting flashbacks to RoboCop when I think about all this, and I would bet there was a story arc drafted that had a similarly dark (if potentially too obvious) premise and was left on the cutting room floor. And darkness is not something to dissociate from Tiger & Bunny. Episode 16 certainly stands out in this matter, showcasing seedy bars, a sleazy and fearful atmosphere, and tragic stories of domestic abuse, serial killings, and violence against women. I personally didn't have a problem with any part of this episode, film noir fan that I am, but both the content and the tonal whiplash alike can be problematic for some.

Beyond all that, there are also stories dealing with justice, mistaken identity, and whatever else that have all been seen in other works. Batman: Mask of the Phantasm alone covers both of those specific examples. To be fair, these topics are handled well, if not always with perfect grace; how many times do we need to hear Tiger rant at Lunatic about the latter's immorality? Thrice in two episodes? Come on, buddy. I also feel I should mention the Dragon Kid episode, often considered the black sheep and with reason. I've heard it said that this episode is incongruous with that theme of what constitutes heroism, and I agree that Pao-Lin "needing to appear more girly because she's a girl and her **** manager says so" is stupid and irrelevant, but I also believe that there is a (generous) reading of that episode discussing how kids view their parents, which is at least relevant to Wild Tiger's character. One could say that this episode does something to help make a few of the characters seem more like fully-realized humans, which is always good, and the episode is thankfully entertaining enough. But another gripe I have is that we don't get a dedicated Fire Emblem character-building episode (some flashbacks were seen in the "eh ¯\_(ツ)_/¯" sequel film, as I recall) and the more damning problem is the show deciding to go with that nasty trope of conflating flamboyance and queerness with predatory behavior. Not okay. At least Fire Emblem is an otherwise fun and engaging character, and I do appreciate that.

And I really mean it when I say that the show is fun. It had me laughing in earnest or sporting a big, dumb grin quite often. I'd actually argue that there is something for almost everyone here: a beating heart of emotional drama, lighthearted and whacky antics, smooth superhero action, seriously threatening villains, decent production quality with few shortcuts (notice how Wild Tiger's family van was never CG, although that one CG banana looked ridiculous), and a solid, if overly-repetitive early on, musical score. I think more people are familiar with the first opening, given the group performing it, but I found the second opening much more impressive on a technical level. It was like the staff had really found their footing by that stage and I didn't skip it even once (unlike the EDs, which I found unremarkable). The English dub is also very good; no complaints there.

All told, Tiger & Bunny is a truly strong show, and I'm really happy I scored the Blu-rays because I will definitely keep coming back to this. I feel it even deserves the label of "modern classic", a little unsung though it may be. Here's hoping that will change!

Happy watching!
- LC

It’s time to break the rule of “avoid telling how you came to watch” because, goddammit, this is a special case and I dare MAL and everyone on it to challenge that.

Less than an hour before I started writing this review, I learned that Nicholas Dupree of Anime News Network, who wrote the weekly reviews for Mayonaka Punch and thus brought me to this series, tragically passed away at the very young age of 31. I had been reading those weekly entries and noted with concern his recent mentioning of being in poor health. With that revelation, the surprise factor of reading his dedicated ... “In Memoriam” page on ANN was mitigated… though the gut punch somehow felt harder. I could not help but feel a little piece of myself shatter because I really loved the personality of his writing, but I cannot, of course, feel anything close to the heartbreak his friends and family must be suffering. I wish mercy and patience upon all of you who knew him personally. May he rest in peace.

I’m not the kind of seasonal anime viewer who gives every show a shot and it is for this reason I put a decent amount of value on reviews of new anime, mainly those from ANN. So, when Mr. Dupree saw fit to label Mayonaka Punch as a bright, if overshadowed, entry this season on account of it having an engaging understanding of YouTube and internet culture, I was intrigued and checked it out.

I really must thank him from the bottom of my heart. I would never have given this show a second glance if I hadn’t read that review. But because it was there for me to read, I was ultimately afforded the opportunity to enjoy something that I found funny, cute, genuinely heartfelt, and rather beautiful.

And, make no mistake, this is a series to enjoy subjectively more than any other way. Yes, that is largely because some jokes won’t land depending on the audience (though they generally did for me), but I mean this through the dramatic scope as well. Beneath the veneer of YouTuber-themed comedic hijinks starring a bunch of vampires because why not, Mayonaka Punch is a character study about a woman who can’t contain her ego, doesn’t know how to heal from her past experiences, and, like most loners, is desperate for a family to love her.

While most of that has been done, even in anime, what set this series apart for me was the heroine’s age; Masaki is in her twenties meaning she is well past her immature high school days and is supposed to have her life together by this point. Instead, the show opens with her having tanked her “NewTube” career in a single fell swoop and now spending her time meticulously reading all manner of mean-spirited comments about her before continuing to hurt herself by getting hammered in a bar and walking around drunk. A state of abject immaturity-borne misery like this is among the best ways to start a story that is ultimately about learning to be kind to and honest with oneself.

The Masaki we observe in this opening is incapable of maintaining relationships with people. If she hadn’t fluked her way into finding the vampires, she’d probably become an alcoholic, continuing to deny her own flaws and insisting that she did nothing wrong all while knowing the truth deep down and hating herself for it. There is a problem with Masaki’s characterization, however, and that pertains to the series’ pacing. It is true that we get insights into Masaki’s personality over the show’s course; the episode where she argues with the team about the right way to edit the videos is a highlight in that it puts front and center both Masaki’s ego-centric inflexibility and mean streak. However, I felt that Mayonaka Punch fell short in refusing to clarify until episode 9 that Masaki always struggled with making and keeping friends. Introversion is a pretty important trait given this character’s story; leaving it out removed a lot of interesting nuance for most of the show’s run, at which point its reveal almost feels like too little, too late on that front. This is someone who wants friends and a family but can’t stand being around other people, probably mostly out of fear. No doubt many a viewer can relate to this; I know I certainly do.

But it would be wrong to harp on the pacing of the dramatic character writing because I found Mayonaka Punch to be veritably packed to the gills with fun moments and jokes. I had a great time watching this series and I feel it balances the comedy and drama particularly well in that it allows for the impactful moments to send the audience reeling after being disarmed by good-natured fun and earnest idiocy.

A single word that can be used to summarize Mayonaka Punch would be “sincere”, and, coming off of Oregairu, it’s a welcome breath of soothing, kind-hearted air. I hope you all enjoy it at least as much as I did!

Happy watching!
- LC

Having watched all of Oregairu, I can safely conclude this about author Wataru Watari: he truly believes in this story with all his heart.

I feel that this is an important, even foundational, point to establish for this review given the show’s story is about the pursuit of what is genuine. For an audience member such as myself to finish this series believing that Watari approached this project with that very same mindset is, I think, an accomplishment, if only a subtle one. Whether or not the story is affecting is an entirely separate (and subjective) question. I’m just trying to give the man some credit ... here. He told his story, he told it in earnest, and those are achievements I will always champion.

I will even throw the fans of this series a bone and say that I don’t think there is anything particular that went wrong. Dare I say that this show is competently written? I almost can’t believe it, but… yes, it is. This series is not an unstructured mess. To stick with any core idea to the degree and duration for which Watari did is evidence of his ability to plan out the story effectively.

So if nothing went wrong with the show, then what exactly do I think is wrong with the show? Most other reviewers will point to the dialogue being inane, cryptic, and totally unrealistic, and they’d be right. Maybe some others will point to the overblown flirtatiousness between far too many female characters and the male lead. Or how about when, just to make it seem like something of interest was happening, the show breaks into an embarrassing rap battle? All of these points are valid complaints, but they don’t speak to a more fundamentally broken element of this series. I am writing, of course, about how Oregairu considers and deals with that unknowable creature we call “the introvert.” And make no mistake: Hachiman, Yukino, and Yui are all very much introverted.

This is not necessarily a bad choice. Plenty of story beats revolve around these characters not communicating effectively, bending way too far for another’s sake, etc.: all very introvert-y behaviors and all in line with the theme of people being true to themselves. What is a bad choice is Watari’s decision to relentlessly bludgeon these characters (and thus the viewer) with a toxic combination of backwards logic, ten-dollar words, and some good, old-fashioned mean-spiritedness, all done in an effort to help these poor kids sort out their problems which unfailingly results in confusing them (as I’m sure a therapist would totally agree is a proper method of counsel). I found myself repeatedly infuriated by some (not even parental!) characters’ shamelessly torturing children verbally and emotionally while they rationalize such harm as being necessary for the victim’s development.

And our three leads are just that: children. Even if they weren’t pained introverts who feel empty, they’re not going to know how to effectively navigate every social situation. In the real world, that’s fine; learning to deal with these problems is just a part of growing up. We learn to let go, to stop dwelling on the more regrettable outcomes. But in this show, the kids are put down, insulted, and made to feel worthless, incapable, and utterly weak for not adeptly handling every one of these situations. In other words, they are punished for being children. And everybody wonders why they feel such intense anxiety about growing up. If it’s not clear already, this is a subject matter that makes me very angry. It’s unfair and immoral to treat anybody this way, especially when the victims are just kids.

As bad as that is, what I would argue is more damaging to the actual story is that we’re not given much information as to why these kids are so introverted in the first place. Yukino is the clear exception with her difficult-to-please mother and evil sister, but Yui’s troubles seem to start and end with her mixed feelings for Hachiman; her mother seems to be a supportive parent, so I’m not sure what makes Yui feel so othered by everyone else. Hachiman is the really problematic one here. We never meet his parents, who I assume are perpetually absent, and he has a very unrealistically well-adjusted younger sister. How did he turn out the way he did and she didn’t become something similar? Were they raised by different parents? There are many pertinent questions like these that remain unanswered. Hachiman’s journey from being an arrogant, insensitive, and judgmental loner would have so much more weight if we had any sense of what was keeping him from being better, what programmed those behaviors into him. Instead, the only adult figure in his life is his teacher, who is ostensibly his mentor but is exceedingly unprofessional. She opens the show by slugging him repeatedly a la your typical tsundere, is frequently flirty with him during the show, and ends the show lying on top of him when they’re alone. And she smokes (in school!) right in front of him. Not exactly great role model material, but I guess that’s to be expected from harem anime waifus.

In the end, what we have is a show about these kids trying desperately to grow up because they are punished for not doing so, all while receiving mostly bad advice on how to actually go about doing this. I am absolutely positive that there are people in these kinds of situations and I’d even bet that Watari was probably one of them at some point or another. There is nothing wrong with this premise; in fact, I’d say it’s a solid one if the show is going for a dark, dramatic tone with a less-than-happy ending. As you may guess, though, the problems arise when the show decides not to commit to that darkness. It wants a happy ending, waifus, a love polygon, and a high school setting with as few adults as possible. It wants to preach without any repercussions, it wants to play into this fantasy of these kids having almost-superhuman social and analytical skills, and it does NOT want to get real.

And that’s the part that really bothers me. I recall reading way back in a review that the dialogue in Oregairu was something brilliant because it went to emotional places that other shows hadn’t; it was honest and raw and unafraid to talk about messy feelings. It’s true that this series is frank with the messiness of emotions (see also Mari Okada), but it feels wrong to take such an analytical approach to topics that, purely as a result of being emotional, defy logic. This is why I felt far more attached to Yui as a heroine rather than Yukino, who is really just a female version of Hachiman. To make that pairing work, Hachiman wouldn’t just have to bring himself to talk with her (hard enough for an introvert); he’d have to learn to put things in words she understands, offering words that invoke feelings rather than just rambling analysis. He would have to <gasp!> actually become a more balanced person in order to communicate with her!

There’s a reason why opposites attract; difficult as those relationships can be at times, they allow people to improve themselves and address their flaws. I imagine Hachiman and Yukino will have to fight very hard to not remain stagnant and to find genuine fulfillment in their relationship. If their pairing is not evidence of how much of a fantasy this series is, I’m not sure there is a more convincing piece to be found.

The message I read from their being made an item is this: if you have difficulty being around people, you’ll find the most happiness being with the person most like you. Loving someone like oneself is not wrong or bad; at the very least, it could potentially help someone learn to love and accept themselves. That said, couples who are less open-minded (e.g. the series leads) run the risk of not facilitating growth in each other and remaining the same. Considering people who struggle to socialize tend to not like themselves much, the idea of these people changing very little (or changing too much, for exploratory types) over the course of a relationship seems less like a recipe for happiness. Again, the show ignoring all of this just makes it feel like a total fantasy.

What breaks Oregairu even further, however, is that it doesn’t even seem to be all that interested in fully realizing its lead characters. I can’t help but feel that the show's portrayal of our introverted trio is skewed, tone-deaf, and even ill-informed. Just take a look at any of the opening themes; it seems that the only way the storyboard artists want the characters shown when they’re alone is in a state of abject misery. There’s no indication of anything in the leads’ lives beyond the dumb teen drama we observe. Contrast this with the first opening from Carole & Tuesday: the girls are certainly introverted, but like many introverts, they have truly vibrant, passionate inner lives, even before they meet. Where is the passion in Oregairu’s characters? What are their dreams? What does Yui do with all that energy? What do Hachiman and Yukino do with their time? Read? Just stay bored?

I know I was certainly bored watching it, which is why I switched to listening to the dub while replaying Death Stranding. And then I stopped playing that game because I realized I wanted to spend my time exploring and having new experiences rather than doing the same thing again and again. I love that game, but there need to be limits if I want to be a well-rounded individual. I was hoping Oregairu would be a show that pushes a similar message, but that is not the case. It’s content to play into an obviously teenage fantasy of a super-powered loner while injecting some very confusingly-presented emotional drama all wrapped in a harem show where the winning girl is just the hero made female.

Two reasons why Saki is Best Girl:
1. With her bartending skills, she can mix some drinks that will hopefully get me drunk enough to forget that I wasted my time with this.
2. She seems like more of a real person than anyone else.

Anyway, watch something else. Or just go out and live life!
- LC

Ah, Kenji Kamiyama. Your work since GitS:SAC season 1 has yet to fail to disappoint me.

Blade Runner: Black Lotus is the latest Kamiyama-directed title I have reviewed here on MyAnimeList, following Eden of the East, GitS:SAC 2nd GIG, and GitS:SAC – SSS in exactly that order. At the end of my Solid State Society review, I said I would make the smarter decision and avoid GitS:SAC_2045 based purely on my past experience with the directors’ work. The Blade Runner films being personal favorites of mine apparently superseded my better judgment, however, when it came to Kamiyama’s second outing as the frontrunner for a CGI anime ... series, so here we are.

The pleasure I gleaned from this show only became guilty in the last pair of episodes. For most of the first ten or so, I was pretty genuinely having a good time, but that enjoyment was so obviously in spite of the show’s few attempts at being a serious and thought-provoking cyberpunk story in the same vain as its predecessors, attempts that virtually entirely fall flat. I say this because there is a massive emphasis on action sequences and nailing the audio-visual aesthetic which completely overwhelms any and all but the most barely-dramatic moments that create only the most barebones emotional connection between the characters and audience. Credit where it’s due: Black Lotus pulls no punches in being a series that looks and sounds amazing with design elements and environmental details that are absolutely to my taste, but it’s not a stretch to say I felt basically nothing for these characters. It isn’t even necessarily because they are poorly defined; they just don’t do anything really dramatic. The final pair of episodes are just all action all the time until the narrative weight drained away and I just wanted it to end already. And, make no mistake, I was only referencing the core cast when I said the characters are not that poorly defined. Side characters show up and vanish as quickly as snow on a warm day usually without even half an episode of on-screen presence for the show to utilize their somewhat unique positions to provide new perspective on the setting.

So, if the side characters are mostly relegated to the background, there is nothing done to explore the setting further, the (few) main characters have very, VERY little in the way of meaningful dialogue, and the audience has basically no emotional attachment to anybody at all for the vast majority of the show’s run, then what are we left with? A completely by-the-numbers revenge story with a heroine that is basically invulnerable and targets that are both unabashedly reprehensible and as destructible and threatening as paper airplanes. This is all set to a backdrop involving only the most rudimentary science-fiction elements taken from the Blade Runner films with basically nothing new introduced. Once most of the very barebones drama is ironed out by the end of episode four, the story all but limps from one action scene to the next until the end of the show. Episode ten is the oddball here, being both a brief reprieve from the violence and one of the strongest outings in the series because it actually has some measure of emotion, a pulse of sorts. Unfortunately, it still culminates in a finale that does little to actually end the narrative with any satisfactory arcs for the characters and, having seen Blade Runner 2049, does even less to serve as a prequel (to a film that already had four if you count all the canon shorts).

In the end, the best that can be said here is that Blade Runner: Black Lotus looks and sounds great. Just like its predecessors, it leans more heavily into film noir than science fiction, something of a welcome contrast to the very technobabble-heavy atmosphere-lacking Ghost in the Shell franchise. But, for as much praise as I can and will continue to shower upon the production quality, Black Lotus leaves much to be desired when compared to other shows let alone its own forerunners which have cemented themselves as classics that captured the essences of their respective eras and translated them into the most beautifully-realized dystopian worlds. Perhaps no other work had done so since another Philip K. Dick masterpiece, The Man in the High Castle. It’s a tall order for a series, or any work, really, to match that level of cultural importance or even to be as well-made. I have no doubt that Kamiyama and co. were incredibly anxious and stressed when trying to come up with a story to tell on top of getting all the aesthetic details right. I think, at the end of the day, the overall effort is highly commendable; there was clearly an immense amount of love, passion, and hard work put into making Blade Runner: Black Lotus feel as close to the originals as it could feel, and many people, Kamiyama included, deserve a standing ovation for realizing such an ambitious goal so impressively. However, the fact is that this series is not well-written. Its characters and story are almost entirely uninteresting and the only engaging aspects of the setting are lifted from the works for which it is clearly banking on the audience having immense appreciation and nostalgia. It deeply and truly saddens me that, in spite of having that appreciation, I cannot recommend this show. If you want hardcore film noir and science fiction but also aren’t afraid to encounter the surreal and weird, then I would instead recommend checking out Serial Experiments Lain. Maybe I’ll review that next.

Happy watching!
- LC

In my reviews of Kenji Kamiyama’s GitS:SAC 2nd GIG and Eden of the East, I made the case that the director, in spite of his flair for visual presentation, continuity, and aesthetic detail, is a hack writer that crafts intriguing scenarios but frequently bookends them with poor and inconsistent character motivations and overly complicated plots. With Solid State Society, Kamiyama has once again proven his writing hack-ness, but there is a twist this time! In addition to an incredibly convoluted story, this film more prominently showcases his inability to portray his characters with even a modicum of growth or dynamism.

And who better to be the ... poster child for flat and thoroughly uninteresting characters than our leading lady, Major Motoko Kusanagi? The end of 2nd GIG saw her lose someone important to her and leave Section 9 as a result, and it’s stated that in the two years since then, she basically took up the role of the Laughing Man from season one: surfing the Internet and dealing out vigilante justice, although somehow without anyone (not even from Section 9) noticing her actions or even keeping tabs on her. During the film, the Major is her usual stoic self, never talking about anything in her past with anyone and focusing solely on the task of catching the Puppeteer. I won’t spoil the ending to that plot thread, but suffice it to say that, just like the 2nd GIG finale, it rests entirely on the Major being an idiot for not noticing something crucial and laughably obvious. At the end of the film she has a heart-to-heart (in her underwear, of course) with Batou, musing about how she had felt lost during those two years pretending to be Aiden Pearce from Watch Dogs (himself a Laughing Man enthusiast), but began to feel whole when she worked with Section 9 to catch the Puppeteer, implying that she will rejoin the team.

Here’s another million-dollar question for Kamiyama: why don’t we ever see the Major struggle with those feelings of emptiness rather than just talk about them at the end as though they were at all relevant or even hinted at? If this movie is trying to be the first movie from the 90s, why couldn’t it revolve around her intrapersonal conflict, just like that one? The original GitS film was all about the Major’s search for her own sense of self while the villain (the Puppet Master) was someone who wanted to experience humanity and is thus complementary to the Major’s own inner turmoil. SSS’ Puppeteer is clearly cribbing from the Puppet Master, and yet the former’s identity, despite it being a major plot point, has basically no impact on the Major, nor should it for how poorly it’s explained. Couple that with the fact that the only thing tying him to that totally removed conspiracy plot involving child abductions and elderly care is some meaningless sci-fi babble the audience could not possibly understand even if Masamune Shirow wrote a companion manual and you have an antagonist that fails to be either narratively or thematically important. What I am getting at is that this film's attempt at carving a new identity is to lazily mash the first season and the first movie together. We are thus left with a mystery plot that is less fulfilling than the Laughing Man arc and a (virtually) entirely dissonant character piece that is an insult to the legacy of the original Mamoru Oshii film.

I will be clear about this: Kamiyama has intriguing ideas for conspiracy-thrillers and a knack for capturing suspense with his style of direction, so why not try to marry his skill at conspiracy-thriller writing and high-tension filmmaking with a more personal story revolving around a single individual or small set of characters rather than this Frankenstein’s monster of previous GitS material? Here’s an alternative idea: during her time Aiden Pearce-ing around the Internet, the Major's emotional state gets more and more volatile due to her inability/unwillingness to grieve. This leads to the Major making a mistake in one of her investigations, nearly causing the Section 9 members to be killed (leaving them all incapacitated). She and Batou, who barely escaped, are then branded fugitives (again), and it’s now up to the Major and Batou to clear their names, solve the conspiracy, and find the perpetrator(s) while she strives to finally allow herself to heal, her closest friend helping her along the way. That’s all there needs to be for a standard structure. Fill it in with some introspection, proper metaphors and symbols for narrative-thematic cohesion, give the characters real vulnerability, deepen the bond between the two, complete their respective character arcs, and whammo, you have an entertaining yet emotionally rich and fulfilling action-thriller that, more simplistic story aside, is right up Kamiyama’s alley. He shows his deftness in crafting suspenseful thrillers with SSS, and it really is a genuine shame that the film’s overly complicated plot makes it difficult to follow.

Kamiyama’s good directing is helped along by a production quality that is distinctly better than that of 2nd GIG, even if it’s nowhere near on the level of the original film. Despite that, the character designs are sharp and the coloring is greatly improved over season one (fixing its overly-saturated hues). Yusuke Takeda’s art direction impresses again, giving us some fantastic background work. There really isn’t too much character animation, unfortunately, and, although that face-morphing bit was seriously well-done, the film comes off feeling a little stilted and unmoving outside of action scenes. Additionally, a problem I have with said action scenes is the obnoxiously disproportionate sound mixing that would feel right at home in many a Christopher Nolan film, with sound effects completely overpowering both the vocal and musical tracks. I was lucky enough to get the Bandai DVD from my local library so I could enable the subtitles while still hearing the English vocal track (and I do recommend the dub). This poor sound mixing can, at times, be a disservice to Yoko Kanno’s soundtrack which is a shame. Outside of a couple scenes where the music is just too upbeat and jazzy, the music is both fantastic and well-utilized. Kanno especially nails the suspenseful hospital scene, and I found myself listening to the track "Solid State Society" quite often.

Ultimately, there is enjoyment to be had in Solid State Society, but it would be more entertaining to watch season one and the first film seeing as they both do what they separately set out to do far better than this film does with either of their material that it so callously stole. It may not be the most apt comparison, but I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the last film I reviewed, Psycho-Pass Sinners of the System: First Guardian, and I see some similarities to SSS: good art direction, not-stellar-but-still-solid animation, great music, a conspiracy plot, and Production I.G.’s brand of science fiction. Some things are actually done better in SSS, primarily in how it gives some scenes a much more palpable and nail-biting sense of tension, but it just falls so much shorter of First Guardian from a narrative standpoint. Where SSS, at the end, shoehorns in some struggle the main heroine supposedly went through before the film took place and isn't even mentioned throughout the majority of the film's runtime, First Guardian spends almost all of its runtime exploring the hero’s struggle in a flashback and ends the film with him demonstrating how much he grew by making a key decision. First Guardian is dedicated to making its characters and world more interesting while furthering the overarching narrative of the franchise whereas Solid State Society is content with just taking two highly regarded entries of the GitS franchise, poorly combining them, and calling it a day. It has its moments, but I won’t be revisiting it anytime soon, if ever. As usual, Kamiyama’s writing unfortunately disappointed me, so I think I’ll make the smarter play and not give SAC_2045 a shot.

Happy watching!
- LC

Having seen the Psycho-Pass: Sinners of the System trilogy, only First Guardian stood out to me as being worthy of a rewatch, and I enjoyed it even more the second time around. I think much of that stems from my own predisposition to noir films, because First Guardian absolutely hits that nail on the head, following all of the genre’s cardinal rules: a flawed protagonist, a femme fatale, a less-than-happy ending, and the bad guys getting what they deserve. Genre trappings aside, First Guardian provides a cinematic experience that’s good for the casual viewer but truly great for franchise fans, completing a dark and compelling ... narrative with meaty helpings of character-building moments, all gift-wrapped in an engaging and well-polished 60 minutes.

I do want to stress just how much First Guardian fits the noir genre because, while it’s not for everyone, it allows for a certain brand of market appeal, namely in having strongly motivated, highly emotional, (of course) attractive characters in a suspenseful, often violent plot. Psycho-Pass veterans will immediately see how this formula applies to the first season. However, while First Guardian does well to really capitalize on some of the tropes of the genre, the film does have its flaws.

I’d say that the femme fatale aspect of First Guardian is easily the film’s weakest link. The bond between Rin and Sugou is rather lacking and it’s difficult to even say that they’re friends. All of their interactions indicate nothing more than that they work for the same people, Rin is the wife of a close friend and comrade of Sugou, and they both struggle with maintaining their “mental stability”. Their relationship is definitely dramatic (they have to deal with the loss of their mutual loved one), but that drama is not fully utilized in the context of their interpersonal relationship. It would have been interesting to remark, even offhandedly, that they were instructed to avoid each other so as to not drudge up their emotional distress and raise their crime coefficients, demonstrating and commenting on how adherence to the Sibyl System can strain relationships. But we don’t get anything like that; there’s almost no conflict or tension between them, and her slapping him that one time just felt weirdly surficial given how little time they spend together.

While Rin and Sugou’s relationship is woefully underdeveloped, this lack of interaction between them allows the film to maintain a greater sense of momentum. Specifically, instead of dwelling too much on his and Rin’s emotional turmoil, Sugou has bigger problems to worry about i.e. the military-conspiracy-thriller plot of which he’s caught in the middle, and here is where Sugou’s fatal flaw comes into play: his undying loyalty to his military superiors. I mentioned earlier that the drama Sugou and Rin go through after her husband goes missing did not really change their relationship in an interesting way; it does, however, play into this theme of loyalty to morally bankrupt people. It’s never explored whether or not Sugou would have sided with Rin if he had the same information she did, and I think that was a smart writing decision because it makes the entire incident more impactful on Sugou’s life, causing him to reflect more intensely.

And personal reflection is a core concept in this film; it tells most of the story as an extended flashback. The present time introduces a new recurring character, Frederica Hanashiro of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (with which the military is affiliated; she basically represents the C.I.A. and Homeland Security rolled into one). Her offering Sugou an operative’s position with his previous (and previously corrupt) employers’ ministry is used as a framing device for him to look back on how he lost all his friends, met Masaoka and Aoyanagi of the Ministry of Welfare’s Public Security Bureau, was betrayed by his bosses, and became a latent criminal. All of these aspects influence his decision at the end of the movie of whether or not to join up with Hanashiro's outfit. If you’ve seen season 3 of Psycho-Pass, then you know that his choice really just serves to symbolize his feelings toward the Ministry of Welfare, but it’s an important moment that helps flesh out a character that, both before and after this film's release, is otherwise underdeveloped and underutilized.

And while on the topic of fleshing-out characters, we now get to mentioning everyone’s favorite grizzled, one-armed, kick-butt, old-timer detective, Enforcer Tomomi Masaoka! In the interest of letting you potential viewers experience those juicy scenes for yourselves, suffice it to say that I’m glad his character was done justice. First Guardian truly does function well as a swan song for not just Masaoka, but also for the actor who portrayed him, Kinryuu Arimoto, who passed away shortly before the film’s release. Rest in peace, sir. As for voice acting, there’s nothing new to say about casting and voice direction in Psycho-Pass. It’s totally standard fare for the franchise, that is to say fantastic and top-of-the-line. It was nice to hear Akira Ishida return as Kagari and Kenji Nojima bring out Ginoza’s previously edgy self again. The same can be said for the music; Yugo Kanno’s score kicks just as much butt as in the franchise’s other entries with some notable tracks (see “The State of My Life”, "A World of Contradictions", etc.) returning in full swing. The remixed opening and ending also work for me, but I’m really just a big fan of Masayuki Nakano’s electronica style. BOOM BOOM SATELLITES forever, baby.

As for the visuals, Production I.G. did not disappoint. Characters aren’t quite as emotive as in season 3, but there are plenty of fluid action sequences, sharply angled shots, solid usage of CGI (the sounds also worked wonders here!), and some beautiful backgrounds.

Putting it all together, First Guardian makes for an easily digestible and enjoyable watch. Some of its flaws are not exactly surface level, but they are very few and easily overlooked. Seeing as I am not much of a proponent for Psycho-Pass: The Movie or the other Sinners of the System films, this entry in the canon provides a more pleasant and recommendable theatrical experience; First Guardian is, in my opinion, a highlight of the franchise’s release history between seasons 1 and 3. It’s a film I’ll keep coming back to for a long time to come. I doubt it’ll ever get an English dub, but here’s hoping.

Happy watching!
- LC

This review covers the whole series and will not have any major spoilers.

I remember wondering how Code Geass ever managed to take off considering how jam-packed it is with annoying bullsh*t and ridiculous plot devices. I ultimately thought the whole thing pitiful; it’s a series with the foundations for a genuinely revolutionary political narrative that is unfortunately brought down by its creators’ penchant for truly awful story beats and shoddy writing.

But then I learned that Kazuki Akane, our favorite bird-loving anime director, had made a spin-off OVA series, Akito the Exiled. This was immediately intriguing to me for a few reasons: 1) I really enjoy ... some of his work, 2) political thrillers aren’t really his thing as far as I know, and 3) while he certainly has a flair for aesthetic detail and action sequences, Akane excels at crafting scenes that explore characters’ emotional turmoil and trauma. Clearly, these don’t exactly gel with the politics-dominated stone-cold Code Geass of old, but they really aren’t supposed to. As soon as I had seen his name in the role of director, I knew that Kazuki Akane had not directed the “Code Geass but without all the bullsh*t” series for which I am sure some fans were clamoring, but an intensely emotional character piece encapsulated in a war drama. With giant robots. And lots of blood. Sound familiar? I hope so, because, at its heart, Akito the Exiled is a redux version of Escaflowne: A Girl in Gaea, and I kind of love it for that. You can read my review of that movie later if you like, but, for the purposes of this review, suffice it to say I gave Akito the Exiled a higher rating. Also, note that, from this point on, the term “Escaflowne” will refer to the aforementioned film, not the series it retold.

It’s almost baffling just how many analogs there are between Akito the Exiled and Escaflowne. With regard to characters, there’s a Van Fanel, a Folken, even a Dilandau (yay!), and they even got Maaya Sakamoto to voice the main heroine and sing the themes (SUPER yay!), but we can’t forget the similarities of the series’ narrative, especially its ending. Herein lies one of the biggest reasons why the writing of Akito the Exiled works whereas that of Escaflowne fails: pacing. Escaflowne is a film with a shorter runtime, so while it is paced well in terms of action and entertainment, most of its characters don’t have adequate time to be explored and subsequently grow. This runs directly contrary to Akane’s greatest strength of slow, emotional, and cathartic introspection. Instead of leaving Escaflowne with incomplete character motivations and story beats, the attempted solution was to dumb those motivations and story beats down so hard that they became either completely ridiculous or even insulting. Akito the Exiled has its share of cringe-worthy or questionable moments, but, aside from some scenes of sexual harassment, which are, of course, tastelessly played for laughs, I would be reluctant to say the series is insulting to the audience.

Most importantly, though, I would be remiss to not mention the parallels in core theming. Both Escaflowne and Akito the Exiled adopt a message of saying “yes” to life, with all its joys, pains, and everything in between (which Evangelion already did, albeit differently, but whatever). Where Akito the Exiled surpasses Escaflowne is by allowing room for character growth, but also in the conveyance itself; instead of the message just being outright told to the audience (even though it is), there is usage of metaphors and symbolism with the contrasting Geass powers of the characters, thus weaving the themes into the narrative itself. It’s sad that this is where many Code Geass fans were frustrated; read just about any of the reviews with the score 2 out of 10 and you’ll find that those reviewers are hyper-fans of Code Geass that denounce Akito the Exiled as being a garbage fire that betrays the original’s core narrative ideas and power mechanics. While they may be correct in that this series does stick to a more grounded story, distancing itself from many of the more fantastical elements of its predecessor, I can’t help but see that the fans are missing the forest for the trees… a part of that forest being the frequent idiocy of the original series’ writing.

Code Geass was never about creepy eye-superpowers that completely break realism and/or the narrative. It was about societal control, keeping peace among diverse masses, how irrational hatred incites violence, and the nuances of maintaining morality in the face of corruption. That’s why asinine plot developments like Lelouch accidentally eye-zapping Euphemia completely undermine broader, more thematically rich conflicts like Lelouch’s commitment to vigilantism against Suzaku’s law-abiding path, and the ethical debate therein. Code Geass is to anime as Ubisoft’s Watch Dogs is to video games; there are two halves to each of them: one that is full of truly great, intriguing philosophical ideas and another half that actively seeks to undermine the audience’s ability to enjoy the other.

Akito the Exiled actually manages to at least touch on just about all of those grand ideas that Code Geass so poorly spoiled with its annoying bullsh*t. We have a main hero that has lost faith in humanity and the possibility of moral governance to the point that he is damn-near suicidal and resigns himself to being a cog in a machine that is designed to grind people of persecuted minorities like him into dust. Thankfully, he is open-minded enough to maintain the hope that he can be a part of a movement to build something better. Our main villain differs here; his hopelessness causes him to devote himself fully to living a life without any ambiguity, only willing to see black and white, even if that means becoming an agent of evil, chaos, and destruction. Contrast these characters to the main heroine, someone who has unwavering faith and believes wholeheartedly in the value of life’s nuances. She recognizes possibility in the freedom they provide but is willing to risk her life standing against those who would restrict that freedom, ultimately coming to see and respect the ambiguity of concepts such as “moral governance”. What Akito the Exiled does is successfully marry Escaflowne’s narrative beats, (newly-developed) characterizations, and themes with the world and themes of Code Geass. That is an incredible feat, and it’s apparently one that only diehard fans of both Akane’s work and Sunrise’s history can recognize and thus appreciate.

But, obviously, none of this (mostly) high-quality writing would be worth a damn if nobody watched Akito the Exiled, which means it needs market appeal. Thankfully, this series fares well on production quality fronts. Character designs are good, staying true to the long, slender look of CLAMP’s original designs while abandoning the meme-ably sharp jawlines. That said, the characters’ costuming can sometimes be disorienting or even wildly inappropriate, and it’s here where we see the fanservicey roots of Code Geass; skirts, plunging dresses, and (for both sexes, so the ladies have something to look at, too) bare midriffs and skin-tight pilot suits are all prevalent, for worse, in my opinion. It can be difficult to take racist comrades-in-arms seriously when I’m wondering why they’re deriding the characters’ being Japanese rather than making some crude comment about Ayano’s pilot suit being unzipped down past her navel with her entire chest exposed, but, hey, at least it’s not giant robots cooking pizzas or… (gag)… high schools. Clothing choices aside, the character art is, thankfully, very consistent and, while I think other works have better character animation, there are some nice moments of fluidity and very few shortcuts taken. Additionally, outside of a big, sweeping, CGI background shot in the first episode where trees are very poorly rendered, the art direction is pretty top-notch. There are some beautiful still backgrounds that suit Akane’s grandiose and symbolically dense storyboarding style, but also showcase well-detailed, varied CGI environments for the dynamic and frenetic action sequences.

On the topic of those action scenes, I’m not the biggest fan of CGI robots, but I found myself quite entranced by the fluidity of their movements and the wild, swinging camerawork. The Knightmare designs themselves are all very detailed; true, the golden centaur robot was completely ridiculous (it even neighs!!!), but it’s not the first giant robot centaur I’ve seen. Looking at you, Iron-Blooded Orphans. That aside, I was pleasantly surprised by how agile the robots are given that I am, as my reference just then would attest, more used to Sunrise’s Mobile Suit Gundam franchise with its often weightier movements (see Gundam Unicorn or Char’s Counterattack). Sure, the very notion that 30-foot robots can do insane backflips, cartwheels, and gymnastics is totally ludicrous, but I found it all quite entertaining once I quickly overcame that realism curve. Also, for some reason I can’t pin down, the robots’ crawling animations just looked cool as hell. Now, THAT is what Leopardon should have been able to do.

Let’s also not forget the music; Ichiko Hashimoto may not have many anime credits, but she does a damn good job with Akito the Exiled. It’s especially in the action sequences where she brings the thunder by letting her jazz roots shine. Ironically enough, the style of music presented here is so frantic that I probably wouldn’t sit and listen to it out of context, despite my love for jazz, but that high-octane, nail-biting, redlining vibe perfectly captures the chaos of the battles, complementing them exceptionally well. It’s like if you took “Bad Dog No Biscuit” from Cowboy Bebop, dialed it to eleven, and made it the main battle theme, only I’d say it’s even better. There are, of course, more melodic, orchestral themes, usually reserved for those quieter moments of introspection, but they too are very well-suited because each piece carries as much weight as the scene’s induced feelings and dialogue, spoken or otherwise.

And that’s a good enough segue to the dialogue. More than a few times, the lines can come off as immature and lacking subtlety, definitely to the detriment of the more serious subject matter, and a couple times it descends into science fiction jargon that doesn’t matter in the slightest, but it’s serviceable for the most part. Characters could stand to crack a few more jokes, but no character ever felt grating, and a lot of that is helped by pretty solid vocal performances. Now, okay, I watched this series subbed, but I did at least sample the English verison, and in spite of some flaws, I can’t fault it for ambition. I like that a few L.A. actors and actresses were cast in this Funimation dub (something of a callback to Lupin III: The Woman Called Fujiko Mine, for which Hashimoto composed the opening theme), and not just in the very minor roles of Suzaku, Lelouch, and C.C. Our main heroine, Leila is voiced by Jeannie Tirado (Carole and Tuesday, My Next Life as Villainess), who does a pretty decent job. What’s more ambitious, I think, is the decision to direct many of the actors to use accents in their lines, and while that occasionally does impede their ability to inflect and employ greater range, the good consistency of their accents is something to note.

So, in the end, do I recommend Code Geass: Akito the Exiled? Semi-surprisingly… yes. I went into this series with rather low expectations as a result of my not caring for the Code Geass of old, but it turned out better than I had hoped, a worthy entry in Kazuki Akane’s repertoire that I would recommend over Birdy the Mighty: Decode or Stars Align. While Code Geass fanboys may not find much of the original show’s spirit here, Akane fanboys like myself will find the Escaflowne redemption he wanted to tell and I didn’t know I wanted to see. That artistic license likely isn't meant to be deliberate hostility toward the Code Geass fanbase, but in my own personal little meta-headcanon, I see Akane writing the script to Akito the Exiled, smiling to himself, and saying “those fanboys won’t know what hit them.” Redemption and open-mindedness are important ideas in the narrative of Akito the Exiled, so while I see the redemption arcs speaking to Akane himself over the literary shortcomings of Escaflowne, I also see the open-mindedness idea intended for those who hyped themselves up for more Code Geass and got a more somber, grounded, and emotional piece instead.

I think Akito the Exiled is designed to be a healthy dose of variety in the Code Geass franchise and, in some measure, an attempt to further diversify the fanbase from the raving lunatics that fanbases for uber-popular works often are. That’s one of the only reasons I can think of for why Sunrise let Akane run wild with this series and make what (I believe) he genuinely wanted to make. It just so happens that what he wanted to make is what I wanted to see, but let’s stay objective for the rating; the visuals are pretty-well polished, the music is great, the scenes are beautifully and smartly crafted, and the voice acting is solid, but the costuming and dialogue could be a bit more mature to suit the mood of the series. Also, the core message, while meaningful and well-integrated into the narrative and characters, is a bit less than original. All of this comes to an enjoyable mid-7 out of 10. It’s not as good as The Vision of Escaflowne, but it’s a definite improvement of Escaflowne: A Girl in Gaea, for which I wrote a review. Please read it; I promise it’s not as long as this one!

Happy watching!
- LC

Well, folks, it’s a landmark moment. We’re finally reviewing an original work written by the queen of normie melodrama herself, Mari Okada. I do think that emphasis on the term “original” is needed; from ToraDora to Blast of Tempest, Okada has done her share of adaptation work in the anime medium, each of them infused with her characters’ token super-charged emotions. However, in the spirit of attempting to truly understand creators through their own creations, here we are with Kiznaiver, which Okada wrote entirely herself. While it isn’t Okada’s first original series, it certainly has many hallmarks of her other work, so that makes it ... a worthy candidate for this case study.

Okada may be known for her style of drama, but a common trend across many of what I have seen of her screenwriting credits is a healthy dose of comedic hijinks, and this is ultimately what kept me from dropping Kiznaiver inside of the first episode. The cast is full of dumb caricatures (including a Kamina knock-off, because Trigger) who can’t think logically or grasp the fact that the drama between them is ridiculous, and herein lies the decently entertaining comedy; they make fun of each other’s idiosyncrasies and personality traits, coming off less like a group of friends (which they most certainly are not) and more a dysfunctional group of complete tools we love to watch fail at just about everything they do. Unfortunately, the strength of Kiznaiver’s comedy is undercut by its most glaring weakness. This series shares its biggest problem with many of Mari Okada’s teenage romance-dramas, and that is an unparalleled devotion to taking its love polygon seriously. And there is ALWAYS a love polygon.

I want to make this as crystal clear as can be: drama only works when the writer deliberately and meticulously establishes WHY the characters feel the way they do. In the case of Kiznaiver, it’s as if the characters’ feelings were just magicked into them upon birth. The biggest exceptions to this are Honaka, who has her entire backstory explored, and Noriko, the main heroine, but the latter’s reasons for her (lack of) emotions are so totally external to her i.e. she had no agency in the matter because of the dumb sci-fi crap that her entire arc falls completely flat. I skipped my way through some seventy percent of the last episode because absolutely none of the setup was even remotely investing, the “payoff” felt so contrived, and there was next to no comedy to carry me through the experience. It’s not impossible to have a tense or meaningful drama injected with lighthearted moments, but what’s seriously odd is that while Kiznaiver absolutely believes the hype surrounding its own drama, its comedy takes every opportunity to undercut that drama’s weight. On no less than two occasions does the show actively make fun of itself, plainly stating how utterly ludicrous and laughable its love polygon is, and, even though I was laughing my head off, it was exactly at the first of these two moments that I knew Kiznaiver was starting to lose me. From episode 8 onward, that feeling only grew; I could practically see a curve showing how the comedy-to-melodrama ratio was nosediving, and my interest along with it.

Perhaps I don’t understand how Okada’s brand of melodrama is appealing or why there is a market for it. Apparently, people want to see characters with completely overblown emotions with no logical basis for why they have them exhibit exaggerated outbursts. Is it supposed to be a vicarious expression of the audience’s own pent-up frustrations? I’d hesitate to say that for a very specific reason: NONE OF THIS LOVE POLYGON DRAMA IS REMOTELY REALISTIC. Regardless of how cheap it is, people want to see this drama because it matches their favorite perfect characters together with a saccharine smile while pretending to be complicated and way smarter than it is. That’s what I find really annoying; there is never, EVER a point to any of this drama. What message is to be found in a four-plus-way unrequited love story? Nobody in-universe cares that these kids are “hurting” because everyone knows it’ll all just blow over. Tween romance, in real life or otherwise, usually has next to no foundation; that is, idiot teenagers “fall in love” with each other because they think the other is at worst physically attractive and at best a worthy friend. Never someone with whom they communicate effectively, never a candidate for a lifelong partner, never someone with whom they can see themselves having a future, and only very, VERY rarely because they genuinely understand each other. Kiznaiver is not an instance of the latter, despite how hard it wants to be.

This series suggests that by understanding one another’s pain we can form lasting bonds, but, again, it undercuts that message at every turn. For example, take the final arc, where there’s so much sci-fi crap that explains the reasons for a character’s pain that it makes the whole “people getting hurt” thing feel almost entirely alien. And even when that isn’t really a factor in the narrative, the resulting bond doesn’t seem to be based off of that mutual understanding, instead still adhering to that tween “liking” of someone of the opposite sex for no other reason than that person is there and fits some kind of attractiveness profile. I’m going to chalk this up to Okada trying to maintain appeal to the tweens by forgoing better writing i.e. having her cake and eating it, too. The resolution to Kiznaiver’s love polygon is entirely unfulfilling because it lacks any dramatic weight; characters shouting and crying loudly about their perceived “suffering” is not moving because the reasons for that “suffering” are laughably underdeveloped and the characters have no discernable reason to find solace in the partners they ultimately choose. The only quasi-exception is Tsuguhito because he made an honest effort to try and figure out what was bothering Honaka, but even then his reasons for pursuing her in the first place never evolve past “she’s pretty” and into genuine empathy.

And that’s what is lacking from Okada’s works: empathetic characters. A cast full of sociopaths and head cases has the potential to be material for good comedy, and to Kiznaiver’s credit, that is well-utilized, but this cast does NOT suit an emotionally super-charged romance, and Kiznaiver is arguably the worst offender of Okada’s repertoire. For a series about feeling other people’s pain, feeling sympathy, there is a staggeringly small number of heartfelt moments where genuine care between two characters is on display. And if you want to read into these situations a bit further, you’ll find that it’s always the male figures who are portrayed as being the saviors, the ones who point out the problems and do all the work to find the solutions. Way to progressively eschew gender norms, Okada.

Kiznaiver is a train-wreck of a romance drama. Its characters have enough life to make for good comedy but are repeatedly killed whenever the show dials up the serious factor. They become hollow shells that only serve to play into Mari Okada’s idealized unrequited love fantasies. In a single phrase, this is bad fan fiction, and that is a genuine shame. A series that had this much love put into its production deserves better writing; the animation is great, the background work is solid, and, while some of the designs are ridiculous, the character art is consistently high-quality. The music is a bit all over the place, but I welcomed its electronica beats, and let’s not forget the English dub, either. Sometimes characters pause when they’re speaking, but I found the voices very entertaining most of the time. This was a now-rare effort by Ocean Studios up in Canada, and although they don’t have the best track record with regard to anime dubs, I was happy with the results.

Do I recommend watching Kiznaiver? Yes, but only for its visuals, comedy, and English dub. There is basically nothing else to enjoy, nothing worth returning to in this show, no deeper meaning to dissect, and no metaphors to explore that haven’t already been hammered into the audience’s skull, either in this show or any other Okada original work. It’s highly derivative, completely contrived, and fails to live up to the quality of some of its parts. I strongly urge you to consider passing it.

Happy watching!
- LC