Back to Pursueth's Profile Pursueth's Profile

[Review for the entirety of Fate/Zero]

"And then… So fervently that, even on the brink of death, I was jealous. He said, 'Thank you.' That he was glad he’d found someone. That by saving one person, he had saved himself."

Idealism stripped down to its infantile dispositions—a utilitarian mindset of sacrificing the few for the greater good of many—collides with the reality of its emotionally stunted practitioner. A man embarks on a hopeless quest for a miracle that can validate his exhaustive efforts to reconcile with his grief—a child thrust into a world hostile to his empathy. A priest's bubbling psychopathy bursts forth as unchecked hedonism stains ... the land. Parental negligence ignites unseen repercussions, while nameless children become mere instruments in a ploy. The inorganic object meshes with the organic soul. A wildcard of psychotic murderers, a bond of pure brotherhood—linkages spanning time and dimensions.

In a soliloquy between kings and their subjects, all end with the death of their unattainable ambitions. There is no glory to be found beyond the horizon. A world of invariable hope crumbles and nihilism rises from its ashes. A gloryless reality of tragedy abounds. Die by your principles, or be consumed by the reality of your zealous ideals.

Urobuchi, I was not familiar with your game.

If the first season was a séance between the undead myths and the mages of the present—an essential, season-long establishment of motives, methods and mutuality—then season two erupts into an outburst of controlled chaos that sheds any pretence of valour and goes straight to the heart of the matter.

The battles between Saber and Berserker, as well as Kiritsugu and Kirei, can be juxtaposed to highlight stark contrasts in their presentation, showcasing the show's innate understanding of the stakes involved in different scenarios. Saber's conflict reflects a journey from curiosity to impending dread and ultimately to acceptance. This realization is veiled as a clash of swords, with her dialogue providing keen insight for both the characters and the audience, justifying the need for constant dialogue during the fight. In contrast, Kiritsugu and Kirei, while also uncovering uncomfortable truths, represent two sides of the same coin—nature triumphing over nurture and nurture triumphing over nature. A battle to the death between cold blooded killers. This fight's acclaim comes from two things: its immense production value and, in my opinion, the use of diegetic monologues. In a typical anime, a fight like this would be bashful, loud and completely audible to the opponent, which makes it both unbelievable for the audience and feels like a pointless venture. Zero circumvents this by eliminating the need for verbal exchanges between the two during their fight. Any dialogue uttered is entirely diegetic, intended solely for the audience itself, shifting the focus from their monologues to their physical movements.

In Unlimited Blade Works, visual splendour and dialogical intersections are vehicles used to paint its world and eccentric ideologies. In Fate/Zero, a spin-off prequel to UBW, Urobuchi uses dialectics not only to reveal the various truths and lies about the characters’ dispositions but also to weave a larger narrative in the background. Pleasure and sin mesh with blasphemy and worship as kings enter a dialogue about the nature of their existence. There's always a battle of semiotics and ideologies that takes precedence over the loud clashes of swords and spears in Fate/Zero. While this may seem laborious to some, Urobuchi's narrative manages to offset that aspect by being consistently engaging throughout, which is entirely due to the meticulous construction of personal convictions and ideals.

Take, for instance, the episode dedicated to the exploits of a young Rin Tohsaka. While it may be disingenuous to claim that her UBW counterpart is less realised, it's undeniable that there's a palpable maturity to her portrayal in this single episode that is rare elsewhere. UBW and F/Z are both shows that employ similar storytelling modes, i.e., long bouts of exposition. However, Miura's UBW fails to deftly employ this device, as his direction merely utilises this for stuffy jargon with zero emotional tangibility and nothing else. Fate/Zero is remarkable because the same ideologies are framed not as verbal vomits but as extremely competent dialogues between emotionally well-realised and charismatically distinct figures. The thematic groundwork laid here about the nature of larger purposes, both regarding the Holy Grail War and the summoned heroes from the past, is passionately realised through the heartfelt outpourings from Rider, an immediate favourite amongst an already stacked, memorable, and intelligently written cast, and echoed in the interactions between other heroes.

While Fate/Zero's cinematics may seem "inferior" to its more bombastic visual effects sister, this doesn't mean that F/Z's action plotting isn't intelligent to the point of Machiavellian. There's a sense of free-flowing expression and depth to the actions here that simply aren’t present in UBW. This is largely thanks to the excellent direction by Ei Aoki, who previously directed the brilliantly atmospheric 'The Garden of Sinners Chapter 1: Overlooking View'. Aoki’s brilliance is evident in Fate/Zero, where there's a lot more emphasis on oppressive atmospheres and creative cinematography. The battles are tactically engaging and are reflective of the characters' psychological states'. Character countenances are highlights in these battles and incite a sense of awe that cannot be mimicked by mere visual effects galore.

This series stands as a compendium of profound ideological follies and nigh-machiavellian battles of dialectics. Insurmountable woes and cataclysmic tragedies spanning from ancient mythos to contemporary assassins. Fuck me for ever doubting you, Urobuchi.

Realistically I could yap for 3000 more words about every single character in here and how poetically they all tie in together when it comes to constructing the larger thesis of Fate/Zero a la an unfair world kind to those who deserve it least, but I don't have the energy to continue + this show has been discussed at length by far smarter people than I. All in all this far, no clue about the VN, but this outshines its original anime. It's not even close, except maybe when it comes to sound design. They're both equally good in that regard.

9/10

You are not immune to empathy.

"The art of Rakugo is about creating empathy"

Descending Stories. The hook is the promise of a homage to an obscure artform. The content is a devastating character drama inflicted on all sides, throughout generations.

Rakugo Shinjuu has always been fascinating. There's no clear connotations you can attach it to, no description or definition you can box it into. It's an everchanging, sprawling tale about life and humanity. Encapsulating a fragment of emotional complexity and spiritual dexterity within the decaying art form of Rakugo. It presents a poignant case study of the burden of love—be it for art, family, or friendship.

Yotaru bring ... us back to where we left off, revealing that it has been, to his surprise, an entire year of bowing his head down, coinciding with the time it has been since I last watched Shinjuu Rakugo. The show is nice enough to present us a skilful recap in the form of a rakugo. But it expects us to be familiar with all the rakugo it introduced and the connections it had crafted beforehand. Every frame is purposeful, evoking a distinct emotion or a recollection, whether through the synchrony of Yota’s imitation to that of Sukeroku’s or the distinct bond between a performer and the performance. Every iota of information is intentional and builds off of the introductions we were given in the previous season.

Take the opening. It’s a quiet, dreadful meditation on what’s to come. The images subtly foreshadow an episode’s content. Notice Sukeroku’s eyes in Episode 5’s opening, or the CD disc with Miyokichi in the cover in Episode 7’s sequence and how they connect with the events pertaining to those episodes. It’s a bold, meticulous statement on how thoughtful, intricate and deliciously realised all of its components are to the point were a single missed frame means an important piece of information lost.

This isn’t to say Rakugo strives to confuse or overwhelm its viewers. In fact it does the opposite. The story takes a linear approach navigating a drama that is considerably less intense (for the first few episodes at least) than its predecessor. Which has confused many into thinking this is weaker or a less worthy sequel. But it's here where the overarching narrative of “Descending Stories” truly reaches its thematic climax, offering profound resolutions to its myriad threads. This is better, and better as in not-even-close better.

Yotaru’s task this season is extremely daunting. Where the previous season was navigating the shifting landscape and decaying interest in Rakugo, this one places the sole burden of revitalizing it on poor Yota, the jovial protégée of the cold and distant Yakumo, who has nothing in mind but to wither away with the art he has devoted his life to. (But… why?) There’s a great deal of emphasis on minor characters fleshing out and and influencing the mindset of both characters and audience alike. Higuchi is someone who is outwardly keen to preserving, or rather, evolving the trade of rakugo by writing new stories, which Yakumo is unsurprisingly against. Matsuda is sweet and an almost kindred spirit that has been a companion to our cast since the very beginning. Someone who has seen these lives unfold and lives to tell the tale to others. An intimate witness like us. I love that immortal old man.

Rakugo's minimalist presentation belies its complexity. It is necessary to note the difference between animation and cinematography, because despite boasting almost static animation, it is genuinely one of the most beautifully storyboarded shows out there. Tiniest of mannerisms are taken into consideration to craft holistically compelling performances. Which complements the core idea of rakugo, of evoking emotions through presentation and voice.

The voices carry an immense burden. Not only because they have to sell the emotions of a story, but because they have to sell the characters doing it too. And characters in this show are antonyms of static. Yotaru is perhaps the most striking example of voice acting being imperative to a character, because the same voice actor has to vocally paint his journey from a loud, coarse, naïve but ecstatic voice of rakugo to one that can transform into the colourful cast of the story he tells. Any semblance of progression absolutely hinges on the voice actors far more than it would in any other story, and they are beautifully captured by the unseen talent.

It’s incredible how deliveries, not just tone, can be so varied and still contain the essence of the same story. Jugemu’s comedy is told as a poem by Konatsu, whereas Yakumo’s approaches it with technical skill, Sukeroku with personal biases and Yotaru with sincerity.

Higuchi reveals that the stories themselves are products of modernity (the original ending for Jugemu is in fact gloomier than the revised text). He is right in his argument that any artform should be willing to accept change if it wants to remain relevant in a modern society.

I would love to dissect and present flaws from this show. But I’ve been thinking about it for a while and nothing about this feels wrong. Even the controversial hinting towards Shin’s father makes sense because rakugo or storytelling is, more than anything, a deception. For a brief duration you are susceptible to the whims of a storyteller. Futatabi-hen's shattering revelation was the unreliability of Yakumo’s narration. Who’s to say this doesn’t apply to Konatsu as well?

In the end, the knowledge Shin’s father doesn’t matter, because his actual father is Yotaru. Where Konatsu was conceived by Miyokichi as a rebellious act, Shin acts as a revitalization of Yakumo’s existence and by extension, Rakugo’s.

Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu: Sukeroku Futatabi-hen is a mouthful. But the title is apt. A tradition descending through generations is bound to change. It’s the idea of change that makes Yakumo unwilling to let go his craft that has become almost unanimous with his existence. But it is also the difficulty of letting go a craft that has brought him so much despair, hope, lose, tragedy and ultimately, family. How can you trust something so deeply imbedded in your being to a world that is continually becoming disinterested? A world that considers it a relic?

Each character has a different relationship with Rakugo that is amplified through the generational mindset. Yakumo is tragically bound to it, Yotaru was given meaning through it, Konatsu as suffered through it but ultimately accepts it and Shinnuske is the incarnation of the hope of its succession for the foreseeable future.

Death is not the end. Any spiritual thought will argue that death is but a bridge towards a destination. A beginning rather than an end. The death of Rakugo is not the death of memories, of the love it brought when it touched others, of the tragedy that was born of it. It is rather a rebirth.

Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu is Yakumo’s story more than anyone else’s. He is the personification of his craft. A boy estranged from his dreams of being a dancer by his leg injury is given a chance with a “lesser” trade of verbal performance arts. Negotiating his talents and realising them all the same. His the idea of his loss is so monumental that is reverberates throughout the entire country. Eventually when he does pass away, we’re not given a traditional ceremony but a reunion in a buddhist afterlife. Cementing the idea of death not being the end, for Yakumo, Sukeroku, Miyokichi and even Rakugo itself.

“I never worried for a second that we’d ever lose rakugo. After all – something this good could never go away!” - Yotaru's final benediction.

The amount of painstaking details poured into this show is, despite what I may have said earlier, immensely overwhelming to the point where I feel like no matter how much I write I’ll fail at properly addressing the sheer brilliance that this show operates with. It is a tremendous journey, one that continually challenges you to keep up with its twists and turns, its human contradiction and blossoming ideas. Every moment I have spent with this show has forever etched itself onto my being. I am eternally grateful to this show and to everyone who has worked on it.

Thank you.

10/10

Baffling reputation but also weirdly charming in its unrestrained lunacy. Writing takes a backseat so hard it becomes impossible to digest the story without banging your head on a desk to shut your brain off. You could argue that, insofar as anime is concerned, it's the quintessential experience: tropey characters, quippy beats, and unabashed edge. It's as 2000s as it can get. Hellsing is such an odd blend of gothic edge and interjecting banter that rarely feels like it breaks the immersion. Yet the banal melodrama frequently reaches severe breaking points and the hammy monologues can get really tiresome. It's completely devoid of logic and ... rides that cooledgeTM factor like its life depends on it. There's some genuine artistry poured into its bloodied canvas of frantic violence and unseemly acts of vice, but it's also equal parts if not more, a complete vacuum of intelligence with so much repetition you can confuse these guys for broken records. It definitely has its moments like when Alucard kamikazes an SR-71 Blackbird into a ship full of nazi zombies. But dear god this thing is so dull and repetitive despite being edgy and cool on paper.

Again I really don't understand why the general consensus is so positive. This shit is consistently ranked as "one of the best anime ever" and no one can explain why except drones that go "it hath gore and cool vampire action 🤓" like is the bar in fucking hell or something?

Absolutely unhinged piece of work. 6/10.

I am moved. Kyousougiga emulates so many works that I am deeply fond of. From Eva's unconventional character build-ups to FLCL's signature humour, adding in bits of Gainax's flair and even hints of Shaftism. But perhaps the most noticeable analogue is Ikuhara's Penguindrum. Not just in the way Kyousougiga swaps background characters with literal cardboard cutouts, but mainly in the themes it shares surrounding family and how, in the face of inexplicable ideas like fate or, in this case, divinity, that familial bond triumphs over all else. It's a confounding and conceptual but ultimately an immensely profound journey.

Kyousougiga firmly follows the idea that "rules are ... meant to be broken" both in the story and the series itself, to the point where it eschews conventional narrative structure in favour of doing more with less. Throughout the 10 episodes, characters are recontextualized both in the eyes of the audience and in the eyes of other characters, creating an air of mystique that could only be achieved through said defiance of rules. Yet despite all this, I still believe that, in my humble opinion, Kyousougiga never trespasses into the incoherent territory that most shows experimenting with such formats tend to find themselves in. There's a clear vision behind each idea laid out, some definite, others more interpretable, but each complements the core tenet that is constantly built upon from the very first episode. Rie Matsumoto's direction is impeccable. Her style and manner of storytelling have clear influences, yet she also has this originality. Each frame is inspired and gorgeously composed. Each character design is expressive and unique. I don't hesitate to say that this is one of the best-shot anime of all time. The opening and endings, aside from being complete bops, complement the show well. A single melody carries the weight of a thousand words. Recurring riffs of hope overwhelm the dread as every episode ends with a pronounced "so fight!"

Underneath the layers of glitter and confusion lies an equally compelling narrative. It's a timeless family drama set against a backdrop that is vastly Japanese in its cultural and religious references. Special episode 5.5 goes deep into exploring the show's various historical influences. Ideas of Buddhism and Shintoism, death and rebirth, but it also has nods to Alice in Wonderland, particularly in its ideas of escapism. Escapism from responsibility, duty, and even life. As such, Kyousougiga forms a triad of influences between Japanese folklore, Buddhism, and Alice in Wonderland. The basic idea of each is imperative to understand what Kyousougiga is trying to convey.

As I mentioned before episode 5.5 explored the influences behind the series. A pair of guard statues can be turned into characters. Ancient buildings can act as settings for the story. Ancient scrolls called Chōjū-jinbutsu-giga, from which the show derives its title. Two geometrically simple shaped windows, one a circle and the other a square, one a window of enlightenment representing the universe and the other being the window of delusion representing the suffering of human life, respectively, can completely elevate your characters and scenes, while some dude from the 1200s called "Myōe" who made Kōzan-ji temple (of which the only existing building is Sekisui-in) and was the first man in Japan to make tea (???) is used to model your character after, who is also called Myōe and lives in that temple as well. Like bro, even his wooden dog made it to the show as a real one, and so did his painting that he considers his mother that gave Koto her body (he was a little weird, methinks). This is a testament to how strong ideas can live through generations via different forms.

One of the numerous distinct attributes about Kyousogiga is this flavour of nostalgia it carries. It's a retelling of a classic story of a girl walking into the looking glass, which is a story we all grew up with, but it's also because of its depiction of home. Your home, my home. It also carries this scent of longing. Eventually, as we grow older, our families are split across hundreds of miles. There's this tinge of sadness that follows, but not without this comfort that even as we drift apart, so too will we stay together.

For there to be loss, there first has to be gain.

Myoue's empty shrine is first inhabited by a rabbit granted a human body named Lady Koto, who brandishes him with love. Then Yakushimaru, the war orphan, their youngest son and a human. Kurama, the eldest son and a drawing. Yase, the middle daughter and an Oni (demon). Together this eccentric family lived happily, yet they were still bothered by the capital. To continue living a carefree life Myoue simply creates a new one called Mirror Capital, a wonderland where nothing ever dies and nothing is ever born. In short, nothing ever changed. Unfortunately, things never can be so simple, and with Lady Koto's contract up the parents decide to leave their children with only the memories of their time together and the promise that they'll one day return.

There are two ways Kyousougiga explores its fable: one is through a single-character focus, and the other is through a family focus.

The series opens with Inari/Myoue longing for the days shared with his loved ones. The sun shines on the past, the future is clouded in mystery while he remains stuck in the present. Kurama wants to break free from this world. He embraced it as a kid as it allowed him to do as he pleased. But now he wants to see the outside world and thinks of this one as a prison meant to keep him in until their parents return. Yase clings to her material memories, storing them safely. She hates the station opening because it threatens to pull these away. She is the unwanted thing left behind. She too liked the Mirror Capital because it was unchanging. All she cared about was spending time with her mother. With Lady Koto gone, she latches onto any pieces of her she can find. Child Koto feels like she missed out on that past. She longs to find the family she never got to experience. Looking forward to the future so that she can look back. If you have no past, and all you have is the future, which is so uncertain, then who are you? Koto keeps moving forward in search of her answers, breaking into Mirror Capital in search of her mother. Yakushimaru has to take on the name, appearance and role of his father. He had given up on life after losing his initial family, but Myoue gave him a second chance. Despite viewing it as a curse, he came to love his mother and appreciate his place within the family. The promise he made to his father ties him to this place where time seems to stand still. The younger Yakushimaru's arc illustrates the weight of expectations parents place on their kids. An almost predetermined pressure to follow in their footsteps.

It's interesting to note that what essentially makes this family dynamic work is their perfectly normal relationships, despite their outward peculiarities. Who knew a show about gods and drawings that come to life would be one of the most human tales in anime?

These episodes featured direction that was far more subdued compared to the ONA, and even in those quieter moments, it added so much through its phenomenal compositions. It's a complete visual treat that doubles as meaningful imagery. Establishing an entire universe (while keeping a few secrets, of course) without feeling overstuffed. Something as simple as a cup is used to breathe life into a character while also keeping an emotive atmosphere intact, or a pomegranate acts as a heavy motif. It feels boundless in its ideas.

The pomegranate is perhaps the most striking symbol in the show. It makes its appearance in episode 5. At first in a flashback, cut in half and bleeding in Yakushimaru's hands, and then later in a train as a whole with the rest of the "unneeded items" to be discarded (notice how there's an elderly woman on that train). The young, gloomy Yakushimaru later understands the connection Koto has to his parents, whose appearance changes the tone of his flashback completely. He then hands his bleeding pomegranate to young Koto, who eats it and smiles at him.

It is a symbol of his life. It does, at one point, beat when Yakushimaru holds it near his heart. At first, it was bleeding when he committed seppuku and lost his family (half of his pomegranate). After his adoptive parents eventually leave, he finds himself in that same position yet again, but this time instead of bleeding literally, he is bleeding emotionally, with the other half of the pomegranate missing yet again. Yakushimaru is handing over his "heart/life" to Koto and asking her to kill him once they find his mother, to free him from his "immortality". The pomegranate on the train could be symbolic of Yakushimaru's wish for death. His desire to discard his life away. This is also supported by the conversation between Yase and Kurama earlier in the episode. Apart from the train metaphor, their conversation about the dog waiting for its dead master until it dies itself very much mirrors Yakushimaru's purported trajectory at this point.

The second half then zooms out and explores the family dynamic as a whole, which happens as soon as their mother, Lady Koto, returns. This half features some of the most tender and heartwarming images of a family you could ask for. We were already told they loved their parents, but seeing them whole and together accentuates how important parents are in a family. There's a noticeable flow of gestures of love. But this proves to be inadequate, the kids realise that they didn't just long for their parents, they longed for their pasts. Things have changed just as much as they have remained.

Lady Koto asks her daughter to save her father from the dream that traps him, the dream to create new worlds and find purpose. Koto breaks down in front of Yakushimaru. She feels she has been mostly viewed as a tool rather than a person with needs and wants of her own. Parents often yearn to vicariously live out their dreams and reverse their failures through their children. That's why Inari splits his ability between Yakushimaru and Koto, his first and his last, the power to create and the power to destroy. How do you become your own person, if you're carrying the responsibilities bestowed upon you by your parents? Not only do Yakushimaru and Koto suffer from that weight, but so does their enigmatic father, Inari.

Inari, at this point, has gone through yet another rebirth. As a god, a priest, a father, an observer, and now just a man. In every era of his life, he has struggled with understanding his place in the world. He has grappled and ultimately rebelled against his father. Creating a Mirror Capital that should never have existed. In the end, Inari himself is still a child. Toying with the laws of the universe on his whims to fabricate his sense of purpose.

"You're like a child. You don't know how to control yourself. Everything you do is overly extravagant. You're free, selfish, uninhibited. Self-centered. A cold-hearted monster. Yet, you know how to demand attention. A proud man, who can't bear to be alone."

This comes as a shock to Yakushimaru. Kids view their parents as infallible beings. As they grow older and become adults themselves, they realise everyone, parents included is still a child at heart. They're as flawed as any. Yakushimaru always looked towards the past, keeping it frozen in place until his parents returned. Kurama tells him that the world doesn't change until you do. Yakushimaru refused to grow up, as such their worlds stayed the same. Yase and Kurama found meaning in being his playmates made to comfort him, but Yakushimaru could never find his. You look towards the past too much and you'll become rooted in it. It's always better to look ahead than to look back. As Kurama steps out of a cave he notes, how much brighter it is above, outside than in a hole. The future may be uncertain, but it is the only way forward. Besides, your past is always there with you. Better to build on it than be satisfied with it. To do so is to rot in a hole.

"Let’s be happy! With everyone, if we can, for as long as we live... and for that, I’m sure we can start over as many times as it takes!"

As we progress further into this deep unravelling of abandonments that goes back generations, we see a bloom of love. Love is not just doing things for the sake of others but also wanting to be there with them and spend time with them. Both Kotos have to slap sense into Inari.

"Laughing, crying, getting angry, being happy... We did all that together, didn’t we? That’s what love is!"

Koto punctuates "That's love!" as she lists off the small moments of her childhood to her father. Life is a responsibility, unbound by any specific purpose. Koto wants her father to stay here with her, alive. She doesn't want him to selfishly leave off while also passing his problems onto others. Family comes from the small. It's in those inconsequential everyday moments, meaningful in its triviality. It's about being together, even if you're not together. The value of it is in its very existence. At the end of it all, Kyousougiga asks,

“What’s wrong with just being here?"

Kyousougiga paints a picture of a fractured, found family that learns to come together again, lean on one another again, and trust one another again. It’s a story about love and the burdens of expectations. The most important thing, despite their broken past and ambiguous future, is that right now, at this moment, they are together and happy.

In Love and Rebirth, Kyousougiga ends the same way it began, with a shot of a particular, yet also, regular family.

10/10.

"Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living."

Grim, long, and an utterly complex epic. This is arguably Miyazaki's most striking work both visually and thematically and for someone who's mainly known for creating soft, comfy films it's understandable to see why.

It's easy to look at Princess Mononoke as an allegory of naturalism vs industrialism, and to an extent it seems that is what Miyazaki had in his mind while he was creating the film. But I'd like to think that Miyazaki rather wanted this to explicitly be a film about how human beings collectively look ... at nature and the blatant lack of gratitude we have towards it. Rather than solely being a clash of opposing ideologies between two extremes with a centrist protagonist, to me it's like giving the voiceless nature a voice. Manifesting ideas like life and death and giving them literal forms in a world that very much like our own would still be driven to gain from it. Our lack of empathy doesn't necessarily come from the lack of visualization, it's from a lack of knowledge of consequences. Perhaps that is why Miyazaki allows Lady Eboshi to live. To serve as an example that even perpetrators of said rampage sometimes do so without knowing the full picture, rather than pure malice as we would often associate them with and maybe they too, can learn to heed and grow.

I also love how Miyazaki writes his female characters. They're not written to belittle their male counterparts as most modern "feminist" works would tend to depict. "Equity" and "equality" are often conflated and Miyazaki perfectly illustrates how women can also be an active part of different societies whether it's physical work or not. It's a great subversion of how we expect "strong" female characters to be written as male supersedes rather than their own individual characters. San, Eboshi, Kaya, and Toki are all part of various archetypes that work harmoniously well to colour the full female spectrum (at least it comes somewhat close to it). The cast in general is filled with definitive characters, which is one thing you can never deny about Miyazaki's films.

Technically, this film is perfection. Almost everything about it from the gorgeously animated sequences and backdrops to the incredible score is just immaculate.

The ending is what truly sells this. This isn't a film with answers. You're not going to leave with a profound realisation about nature or reality or whatever. It's more so a seeping thought that swells from within. The more you think about it, the more it sticks with you.

Miyazaki is truly a fascinating mind. Undeniably one of the great artists of all time, ever.

Don't let Sunghoo Park's sublime, albeit at times choppy, direction distract you from the fact that the source material is in fact pretty mid. They did somewhat elevate it structurally by splicing in scenes and dialogue from the main manga, but it's just not enough to make this work neither as a standalone nor as a series addition. It's mainly trivia. Yuta is a fascinating foil to Yuji, but outside of that and the gorgeous backdrops, I don't really see the appeal of this. Even the fights were better directed in the main show (the choreography is still there), but that may be bias on ... my part.

No hate to Megumi Ogata she's incredible and all but every time Yuta spoke I felt like smiting him with the power of a thousand burning suns.

A vapid portrayal of forbidden love and loneliness, paired with hollow imagery and feet for some reason.

You've gotta love Shinkai and his obsession with establishing shots. If "Your Name" was any indication that he lacks the skill of directing meaningful imagery, then "Garden of Words" is a full on confession that he absolutely has no idea what he's doing. His writing in Your Name was completely absurd and out of touch, but here it's just non-existent.

There's a lingering feeling of chronic loneliness that follows our two main characters. The rain itself symbolizes loneliness. The irony of the film is that these characters only seem to ... find each other's company during the rain. The problem arises when the film has no idea how to develop these ideas on screen. Even if this is an understated, character-driven narrative, there always has to be some sort of conclusion or a culmination of sorts. The closest thing to a climax is that the guy makes her a shoe in the end, which he doesn't even give her.

This is Shinkai at his most amateur and aimless. The final scene is supposedly an emotionally charged one, but the lack of any proper build-up, the sappy nature of Shinkai's writing, and the sudden melancholic soundtrack just make it one of the most unintentionally funny/annoying scenes I've seen in an anime. ("you saved me" ugh just kill me please). The girl (I can never remember any of Shinkai's characters) never has a proper arc and neither does the guy. We're just left at the end with a brief understanding of their situations. The girl has moved back to her home town and is teaching again, and the guy is still trying to make shoes. We end up exactly where we started. There's no progression at all. There is a hint that the guy will try and meet her again once he learns to walk, but what's stopping Shinkai from actually showing emotional growth rather than implying it? This is such a poor excuse for the "audience creates their own meaning" situation.

The only reason why I would consider this above Your Name is because it's short and isn't as much of a torture to sit through. There's also the questionable morality that Shinkai depicts in a 27 year old teacher and a 15 year old boy falling in love with each other. Of course, you could argue that they don't sleep together, so it isn't as bad, but still, what's the idea behind including this? If the main idea is about these characters finding each other and giving comfort during their low times, why include romantic elements? If he wanted to show how love comes unexpectedly and in different shapes, sometimes outside of societal norms, why not pursue it further instead of giving it a half-baked conclusion?

The visuals are stunning. There are so many random shots of rain, skyscrapers piercing the skies, trees and lakes greener than green, people cutting up vegetables, and SO MUCH GREEN. Every shot is either of Tokyo drenched in rain or a 4K resolution shot of someone's feet. The visuals quite literally overshadow the characters, which only take up about 30% of the screen time. Aside from the animation, what Shinkai manages to capture so well are the little details of living alone. When you're up past midnight studying and the only company you have is the table lamp. For food, preparing cheap meals like ramen or rice is the go-to. Commuting the distance by train and noticing how someone distinctly smells. It's these moments where Shinkai shines. Not the overt, mawkish romance. He has a perceptive understanding of how normal people live from day to day, especially those in isolation. His worlds are a mimicry of reality, but obviously heightened. Unfortunately, inanimate objects feel more real and believable than actual characters in Shinkai's works.

Too bad nothing actually means anything in this 45-minute trailer of a film.

2/10

Sometimes you don't need a big budget to create a hilarious and heart-warming film. All you need is vision and a good understanding of the cinematic tools at hand (and a lot of time and dedication). This is a 71-minute film that took seven years to complete with a crowdfunded microbudget of nearly 40,000 dollars. Kenji Iwaisawa drew over 40,000 frames on his own. The minimalist art style, oddball characters, and deadpan humour grew so quickly on me that by the end I was craving for more and more. It did make me yearnful for the idyllic days of the past, even though it wasn't ... exactly that long ago that I was in high school, aimless but full of youthful joy without a care in the world. A world of possibilities is brought to life by the power of music. Also, the music genuinely rules, and the set pieces blow my mind. On-Gaku: Our Sound isn't exactly a big investment of time, so if you're willing to check it out, I'd say go for it. It's a living, breathing example that anyone—truly anyone—can create art.

“The work, which becomes a new genre itself, will be called.… COWBOY BEBOP.”

“I think it's time we blow this scene, get everybody and the stuff together... okay, three, two, one, let's jam.”

I can't even begin to try and put into words what Cowboy Bebop as an experience means to me. It's legitimately above almost every show I've ever seen. Every character here is so human and organic that they don't even belong to any archetypes. The show breaks every trope and flushes it down the drain like it's nothing. It's unfathomable just how unique and masterful every episode is. Every minute detail is given attention. ... Animation becomes a playground for merging genres. Score goes above and beyond even by film metrics. In every category Cowboy Bebop is a soaring hit. Perfection embodies itself with every set piece, frame and musical note.

In 2071, an era where interstellar travel has become as common as traffic jams in Manhattan, takes place the story of 2 legal bounty hunters, Spike Spiegel and Jet Black drifting through the lonely cosmos as they hunt bounty heads. In a series of events Spike and Jet on their journey end up with 3 more lonely characters with their own unique stories to share. This completes our ragtag group of bounty hunters that we all know and love. Jet Black, a former police officer and the owner of the Bebop ship. Spike Spiegel, the cool guy(I can’t think of a better description for him). Faye Valentine (marry me, please) is introduced as the typical femme fatale and seemingly tokenistic female character whose main purpose is to serve as fresh fanservice for the audience. Edward Wong Hau Pepelu "Ed" Tivrusky IV is the happy go lucky genius hacker kid of the show for younger audiences to connect with and Ein is the cute little genetically engineered Corgi for marketing purposes. Bebop does a great job of establishing these familiar archetypes and uses them as springboards to delve into deeper topics of chronic loneliness, inability to escape from one's past and existentialism through boredom. It also references concepts like capitalism and environmentalism. (there's a whole episode with a Unabomber inspired character)

Through bounty hunting the show is given space to explore a variety of villains/antagonists. Each session there's either a new bounty to be caught (which rarely gets cashed out) or a new niche of Bebop's universe to be explored. Crime syndicates, terrorists, a deranged serial killer and even an actual American Cowboy confront Spike and co. The way Cowboy Bebop switches genres so effortlessly and executes them to near perfection always blows me away. I can never get tired of watching another Bebop session; it's just always so effortlessly phenomenal.

Music, sound, animation everything is crisp, catchy and a visual treat. Bebop frequently blends film noir with westerns. What's really cool about it is how much it values little details and always adds them here and there without making it totally explicit. For example how Spike's suspicion of that old lady in "Gateway Shuffle" was conveyed by subtle expression in just one frame. Blink and you miss it. This is one of the weaker episodes in terms of writing, yet the direction was just on point. The whole hyperspace sequence was stunningly animated. It also doesn't rely on exposition to create tense scenes like most sci-fi works would. When they're told that the gates are being shut down, the consequences of being left behind are not stated until after they manage to escape by a hair's breadth.

Most of Cowboy Bebop's episodes are light-hearted, chalk full of humour and filled with references to other works like 2001. The main cast sometimes aren’t even in the spotlight, it's the one-off characters that take centre stage. Through these characters we get a deeper understanding of The Bebop Crew. Each member of the crew gets their own “centric” sessions.

In "Sympathy for the Devil'', Spike definitely seems to connect with Wen's dying words, "I see..I can finally die. I feel so heavy, but...I feel so at ease now. Do you know? Do you understand? Do YOU..." To which he replies, "Like I do." Both the flashback at the start and this last interaction give us a clue about the weight Spike carries with him. Spike tries to blow on his harmonica but gets no noise out of it. In the background however, "Spokey Dokey'' harmonica plays. He then throws it in the air, points his finger at it and says the iconic line "bang." Truly a spectacular resolution. "Waltz for Venus" is a perfect film noir episode that furthers Spike's characterization while offering us two wonderful characters, Roco and Stella. Roco's final moment is heart-breaking. Not only his moment of progression is stolen from him, the plant withering away perfectly compliments his arc. Desperately holding onto his inherent goodness until it shatters and withers away. Stella's exchange with Spike makes for another tragic scene. I teared up, man. Exquisite writing and phenomenal world building as well. This show is not normal. There's also a Bruce Lee reference here as well.

These are just a few examples. Most of these characters are ever mentioned again, yet their impact on the show cannot be overstated.

"Ganymede Elegy" is about Jet, the unsung hero of the show who confronts his past. Here we get to see Spike sympathise with Jet as he encounters his ex-lover, Alisa who left without saying goodbye, leaving just a watch and a note behind. The watch represents the relentlessness of time. It’s a profound and simple episode that by the end sees Jet happy to put the past behind him. “My Funny Valentine” details the origin of Faye and gives us a glimpse into what happened in her past. And here we find out that Faye isn’t mysterious by her own choosing, she literally doesn’t remember anything from her past. Sessions like “Speak Like a Child” and “Hard Luck Woman” sees her getting more pieces of herself and understanding of her past. Her resolution becomes that much more impactful by the end. Ein and Ed’s centric episodes are more light-hearted but they still tell us a lot about them. Ein’s intelligence and how the only person who ever understood him was Ed. Ed actually has a future to look forward to unlike the rest of the Bebop crew tied to the past. Masterclass episodes are the norm here.

Its episodic format allows room for bebop to experiment with its style, create tension by virtue of there being no linear storyline and increase rewatch value tremendously. It's just conceptually phenomenal. Akin to none in structure and ideas. Cowboy Bebop through every session keeps on climbing the ranks as one of the greats until it truly and finally cements itself as a cultural touchstone and one of animation's greatest milestones with the final stretch of episodes.

Bebop doesn't have any "peaks" per se. Yes the best episodes of the show are the final three but Cowboy Bebop always maintains a consistent level of quality throughout the run of each and every one of its 26 episodes. This is again possible because of the episodic format and lack of focus on a central storyline. Each episode is its own self-contained story with its own unique ideas to explore with even separate genres and style. Music in this show acts as a backbone to everything on screen, instead of just an afterthought. Even at times replacing dialogue entirely as you absorb the visceral experience through the brilliant music composition alone.

There's also Bebop's phenomenal worldbuilding. Wormholes, spaceships, syndicates, intersolar police, hyperspace gates, the numerous professions side characters have, bounty hunters, cowboys and the list just goes on and on. The world of bebop is dense. None of the pseudoscience makes a lick of sense yet the detail with which the world is painted creates an immersive experience. In fact, every episode is unbelievably dense. I deliberately took a month to finish this show because there’s just too much contained in every episode. A binge watch couldn’t possibly allow me to fully appreciate the extent of bebop and even now I doubt I’m any closer to uncovering the endless layers this show presents. It's such a profound work of art.

Cowboy Bebop is ultimately a show about nothing. Specifically how in the grander scheme of things human life can seem rather meaningless and insignificant. Yet despite this we keep on living and bring purpose into our own lives in a universe that is seemingly devoid of any meaning. The idea is reflected in the structure itself. How there are long stretches of our characters just being human. Bickering, eating and travelling. No rush to do a task because the show demands it. It’s just organic. Everything in this show is organic and real. The dialogue in this show can range from playful jests to beautifully melancholic interactions.

Speaking of melancholic, the last 3 episodes of bebop are bona fide masterpieces. No joke, some of the greatest tv episodes ever aired. In "Hard Luck Woman" seeing Faye curl up into a ball at her destroyed house, Ed's bye bye message, when Ein looks back at bebop almost as if contemplating if he should really leave with Ed or not and not to mention Spike and Jet just eating their feelings away as "Call me Call me" plays in the background... I felt so hollow. It's such a bittersweet moment.

"The Real Folk Blues" is an ever satisfying 2 parter that pulls the impossible job of ending a series like this perfectly. Every character's arc comes to a satisfying conclusion as the show signals the beginning of the end. Drawing the curtains to a classic unlike anything we have ever seen before or will ever see again. One final word to end it. One final moment to cap off an extraordinary journey of space cowboys and cowgirls.

"Bang."

Watch this show if you wanna treat yourself. Don't expect the world from it, that's disgustingly low. Expect more. You won't be disappointed.

And well, if you are disappointed by the end of it then...
"Oh well... Whatever happens, happens."

Now it's just me, depression and a folder with 5000 screenshots of Faye.

What happens when you create a story about storytellers?

Rakugo is a dying art form in the face of modern entertainment. This is a story about how it struggles through the ages. Most of the series takes place in the past as a backstory. In a drama that plays out like a novel, you watch the absolute worst and best come out of the characters. You cheer for them, you reject them, but ultimately there's a feeling of bitterness and despair that always follows them around, despite never being a "dark" show. Yota, Konatsu, Bon/Kikuhiko (later known as Yakumo), Hatsutaro (later known as Sukeroku), Miyokichi all ... of these are different people, maybe even living in different times. Yet they all have one constant in their lives, Rakugo. It's either passion, hate, or bitterness, but they are connected by it. They find meaning because of it, some have died because of it, some have been hurt by it, and others have found homes and families because of it.

Kikuhiko and Hatsutaro have the sweetest friendship. Their rivalry feels natural and palpable. A classic "hard work" vs "talented and lazy" where the show strikes the perfect balance in showcasing the limits on relying on just one of these traits for success. As the series progresses, they meet Miyokichi, a geisha and a former prostitute, who quickly becomes Kiku's love interest, but later on is dumped by Kiku because he wants to solely focus on his art. After being left behind so many times in the past, she was obviously devastated and heartbroken. She finds solace in Sukeroku's arms, who was facing his own rejection with his master, and has a child with him named Konatsu.

"People can't understand everything about each other. And yet people still live together. The love of sharing trivial, meaningless things with others is human nature. I suppose that's why humans can't stand to be alone."

Miyokichi finds herself fed up with Sukeroku because of his rakugo, probably because it reminded her of Bon, and leaves him and the child. When Bon sets out to find Sukeroku. Eventually Miyokichi comes back to meet Bon, clearly still in love, and tries to commit a lovers' suicide. Fortunately, Sukeroku manages to stop her in time. An emotional confession follows and Miyokichi begins to resent herself. As these characters reach their emotional climaxes, the wooden balcony collapses and Sukeroku, in a desperate attempt to save her, falls with her while Bon holds onto Sukeroku's hand. Sukeroku, in an attempt to prevent Bon from falling with them, releases Bon's hand and falls with his wife. Effectively leading to a lover's suicide. It's an emotional scene and quite perfect. While many consider Miyokichi to be the sole person in the wrong, that's anything but the truth. All three of them and their selfishness contributed to the culmination of this tragedy.

"I was so determined to live alone, and yet... Why must a person's nature be so foolish?"

The production is also charming. The opening, aside from being an absolute bop, is filled with foreshadowing both in visuals and lyrics. The animation is poetic; the colours are sublime and the atmosphere immaculate.

“All the good, all the bad… your rakugo has given me every emotion imaginable.”

The main thing, and I keep coming back to this, is how great rakugo is used to tell the story here. Foreshadowing in episode 12 for example or how the same story changes when it is narrated by a different storyteller. Every time someone comes up on stage I can't help but feel captivated.

"An entertainer is only worth something if they're seen. What do you have to hide?"

It's a tremendous and beautiful series. Deceptively simple, rich and layered. A phenomenal story that unfolds with the utmost delicacy. Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju is a riveting tale of a dying art form. With visual poetry to match and a memorable score that feels earnest. It starts with one of the strongest pilots in anime, slows down in the middle as it navigates the lives of Yakumo and Sukeroku (both of them tend to change their names throughout the series) then picks right back up with so much emotion and warmth you don't know whether you should cry your heart out or smile ear to ear.

It's funny just how much I ended up admiring this even though I had zero knowledge about the existence of Rakugo. The more I watched, the more I fell in love with it. Just like Ping Pong the animation or even Haikyuu where you don't necessarily need to understand the sport to fall in love with it, Showa Genroku offers a similar experience where a completely unfamiliar concept is made familiar and intimate. The only difference is that instead of the thrill or rivalry of a sport on display, there's instead this lingering feeling of losing something beloved. Something that has a rich history and is dying out because of the lack of accessibility. Something that the everyday person doesn't find interest in anymore. Something that can be easily replaced.

The imminent "death" of an art form.

There's a lot more ideas to explore, an uncertain future to watch and maybe a blossoming romance? I do like Yota and Konatsu's pairing. I hope they actually become a thing.

Let's see how the next season fares in comparison.

"Is that end enough for you?"

NO IT'S NOT

9.5/10