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Puella Magi Madoka Magica is not your typical magical girl anime. On the surface, it might appear to follow the standard genre tropes: it has cute character designs, bright visuals, and an innocent tone. But don't be fooled. Beneath its sweet façade lies a dark, intensely psychological narrative that completely goes against expectations. You've probably heard of the "three-episode rule"—the idea that you should give an anime three episodes before deciding whether to continue. That rule was established by Madoka Magica. And for good reason.

The first few episodes may feel painfully ordinary. Yes, you may find them slow, overly familiar, even boring, with standard magical girl cliches and predictable character interactions. ... But there's a reason behind it. The show deliberately lulls you into a false sense of security, only to pull the rug out from under you in spectacular fashion at the end of episode three. This moment marks a significant tonal shift, and it's just the beginning. By the time you reach episode eight, the full scope of the story begins to unfold, recontextualizing everything that has happened up to that point. It serves as a masterclass in delayed gratification, rewarding patient viewers with a narrative that is both psychologically intense and intellectually rich.

Visually, Madoka Magica is just as daring. While the core animation style is clean and minimalist, each witch's labyrinth is rendered in an entirely different aesthetic. They are all collage-like, chaotic, and surreal. These segments feel more like avant-garde art installations than traditional anime scenes. They create a dreamlike, almost psychedelic atmosphere that leaves you disoriented, captivated, and a bit uneasy, which perfectly complements the story’s descent into darker territory..

The characters are initially deceptive. At first, they may appear one-dimensional or even annoying, but as the plot unfolds, they become much more complex. Each girl harbors hidden emotional wounds and moral dilemmas that are gradually revealed in a heartbreaking manner. As these layers are uncovered, you start to understand their motivations and struggles, and your empathy for them increases significantly. By the end of the story, you may find yourself caring deeply for characters you initially overlooked.

One of the series' most powerful moments occurs when the show cleverly subverts its own opening credits. In the episode where the major twist is revealed, the opening theme is moved to the end. Hearing the cheerful, upbeat song now infused with context and sorrow gives the lyrics a haunting new significance. This small yet brilliant storytelling device highlights the show's attention to emotional detail.

As the final episodes unfold, the tone becomes increasingly grim. The central concept—when fully revealed—is deeply disturbing, touching on themes of exploitation, despair, and the crushing cost of idealism. The last four episodes are emotionally brutal and almost relentless in their portrayal of suffering and hopelessness. But it’s not nihilistic for the sake of it. There’s a purpose to the pain.

At its core, Madoka Magica is a philosophical exploration of consequences and choice. “Anything that goes beyond reason will without fail cause some sort of distortion. It's only natural that this would result in disaster”. The idea that a selfless wish can spiral into tragedy is not just a plot device but a reflection on human desire and the unintended effects of good intentions. In this world, every wish has a price, and that price must be paid.

And just when you think the story has reached its inevitable, tragic conclusion, Madoka Magica delivers one final, game-changing twist. This twist redefines the concepts of sacrifice, destiny, and hope. What begins as a bleak tale about despair evolves into a story about resilience and the strength to endure. This last revelation doesn’t just provide closure; it invites viewers to revisit the series with fresh eyes and a deeper understanding of what was truly happening all along.

In the end, Madoka Magica isn’t just a deconstruction of the magical girl genre. It’s a haunting, profound meditation on the cost of hope in a world built on suffering. It’s the kind of anime that stays with you long after the credits roll. And perhaps most of all, it reminds us that even in the darkest moments, hope can still shine.

Chaos, Cringe, and Cult Classic Potential

Dan Da Dan is one of the weirdest things you'll watch in a long time. There’s just no predicting where the plot will go or what bizarre, awkward, or downright cringy moments you’ll be subjected to next. It’s trippy, chaotic, and often so over-the-top that by episode three, you’ll probably consider dropping it (despite it being only 12 episodes long).

But somehow, it keeps you glued to the screen. Maybe it’s Okarun’s ridiculous charm. Maybe it’s the surprisingly compelling (if kind of mid) romance between him and Momo. Or maybe it’s the OP, which is an instant cult classic. Seriously, you ... will be singing “dan-da-dan-dan-da-dan-dan-da-dan” for days. It’s that catchy. And the art of the OP just hits different.

As for the story? I won’t even try to summarize it. Just know that it's probably the most over-sexualized and perverted plotline I’ve seen in anime. The sheer absurdity of what’s on display—aliens, ghosts, spiritual genitalia (yes, you read that right)—makes me question how this became popular or, more like, what world we live in. But clearly, over-the-top insanity is trending.

Is Dan Da Dan a good anime? Not really. Is it entertaining? Absolutely, if you can endure the wild tone shifts and the utter nonsense of some episodes. One minute, it’s slice-of-life teen drama; the next, it’s a crazy alien battle or a golden ball hunt. I still haven’t fully processed what I watched.

But maybe that’s the point.

Every so often, you stumble upon an anime that hits you in places you didn’t know were vulnerable—something that quietly redefines what you want from a show. For me, Erased was that unexpected gem. If you haven’t seen it yet, you’re genuinely missing out. It’s short, powerful, and emotionally engaging, and it features one of the most fitting and atmospheric opening themes I’ve come across.

The plot hooks you from the start and keeps the tension simmering. It’s engaging and mysterious and moves at a satisfying pace. That said, the mystery element isn’t flawlessly executed. The identity of the killer becomes fairly predictable early on—by episode ... 3, I had my suspicions, and by episode 6, I was sure. There are also moments where the protagonist, despite being a 29-year-old man in a child’s body, makes questionable choices or misses painfully obvious signs. Still, the overall story is compelling, and if not for the rushed and underwhelming conclusion in the final three episodes, this could’ve easily been a 10/10.

The characters are a mixed bag. Some are underdeveloped, while others come across as one-note. There's even one character who’s set up as a genius but contributes very little in any meaningful way—a missed opportunity, for sure. And yet, there’s something heartfelt about them. Spending time with these characters gradually pulls you in. Kayo may initially feel like a narrative device, but her smile, her quiet resilience, ends up leaving a mark. Satoru, the protagonist, shines through his relentless drive to help others, even when it puts him at risk. His empathy is deeply moving.

The supernatural element—Revival—is intriguing at first. It’s mysterious and full of promise, and it raises the stakes beautifully. But it’s never explained, and by the end, it feels more like a convenient plot tool than a core part of the story. It opens doors, but they’re left unexplored, which slightly diminishes its impact. You’ll likely find yourself wondering: Why now? Why here? And yet, the concept still adds a unique flavor that makes Erased more than just a drama or thriller.

And then there’s the opening theme. At first, it might seem boring. But as the story unfolds, it clicks. It captures the anime’s essence perfectly and by episode 4 you won't ever skip it.

But where Erased truly excels is in its visual storytelling. The art direction is stunning. The snowy, gray-toned sceneries and dimly lit and lonely streets evoke a deep sense of loneliness, isolation, and melancholy. And yet, in the midst of that cold stillness, the anime finds warmth: in friendships, small acts of kindness, and moments of quiet connection. The contrast is memorable. Few anime manage to create such a specific, almost cinematic atmosphere.

Erased isn’t perfect. It’s not S-tier. But it is something special. It delivers moments of genuine tenderness and emotional weight. It reminds you that behind every quiet, withdrawn child, there might be a story no one has bothered to hear. The anime paints a painfully accurate picture of the cruelty of childhood social dynamics: how easy it is to isolate the “weird” kid, how hard it is to go against the grain, and how important it is to do so anyway.

At its core, Erased is a story about empathy. It's about stepping up for someone when it’s easier to stay quiet. It's about fighting not just for others but to preserve your own humanity in the face of indifference. It shows that kindness doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful and that sometimes, the smallest gesture can save a life.

It’s heartbreaking that it takes a grown man in a child’s body to do what most kids—and many adults—can’t. But that’s also what makes the story so hauntingly real. Erased is about seeing the invisible pain in others and choosing to act. And in that, it’s one of the most human anime out there.

If you go into Another expecting a horror anime packed with thick mystery and a compelling plot, you will likely walk away disappointed. It's not a bad anime, per se—there are some solid ideas, intriguing concepts, and promising twists. But ultimately, it all collapses under its own weight, ending in a frustrating letdown. If I had to sum it up in four words: So much wasted potential.

⚠️ Spoilers ahead—don’t read on if you haven’t seen the series!

The first four to five episodes are honestly just irritating. The dialogue feels like a broken record:

“Welcome, new kid. You need to follow the rules or else...”
“Okay, cool—what are ... the rules?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Wait, what? Why not?”
“Just... no.”
*someone dies*
“Look what you did! It’s your fault!”
“What? How?”
“You didn’t follow the rules.”
“Alright, I’ll follow them now. Can you tell me what they are?”
“Nope. Too late.”
*more people die*
“AAARGH, YOU IDIOT! …Still not gonna tell you anything though.”

Yeah… not exactly gripping. The first half leans heavily on vague mystery and tension-building, but the way it unfolds is so clumsy that it becomes laughable. Every time we're on the verge of learning something important—RING RING—a phone call interrupts everything. And somehow, the protagonist immediately forgets the conversation and rushes off to wherever the plot demands. And don’t even get me started with all the phone calls suddenly dropping due to poor connection just when some important information was about to be shared. I’m not even kidding—the phones in this anime might as well be the main antagonist in the first few episodes.

Then, finally, we get some answers. The deaths get weirder, the stakes get higher, and the last two episodes go completely off the rails. Suddenly, it’s Lord of the Flies, anime edition. Everyone loses their minds. People start killing each other without rhyme or reason. Chaos erupts. And nothing makes sense.

Why do the hotel managers suddenly turn violent? Why did the hotel catch fire? Why does everyone descend into a murder frenzy? Why does Misaki keep hiding the truth while bodies literally pile up in front of her? And why are the death scenes so bizarrely hilarious?

Seriously, these deaths are so over-the-top and outlandish that it's impossible to take them seriously. The anime plays out like a visual novel called 100 Ridiculous Ways to Die. Characters don't even have to do something stupid. They literally just exist, and out of nowhere, they are wiped out by the most random, improbable accidents. I get that it’s supposed to be supernatural and unnatural, but these deaths are so staged that you can't help but laugh or roll your eyes.

What makes it worse is that I might’ve cared if the characters had any meaningful development. Or if they had any personality or *character*. But the first five episodes waste so much time setting the mood and teasing secrets that we never get to know anyone enough to be emotionally affected by their deaths.

And what is with these poker face people? Why everyone keeps acting normal and lead their lives as if nothing happened even though so many people die in so shockingly gruesome ways? There are fun and games, laughs, even a beach episode. Why doesn’t the school close, why do they all keep having their classes? How does that even work? All the deaths don’t really have much emotional impact on the viewer (aside from the fact that children die) but it seems they have no impact on the other characters at all.

In the end, Another isn’t the worst anime out there. There are some genuinely interesting plot threads, and a few characters face real moral crises. The premise had potential. But instead of exploring it meaningfully, the show devolves into an over-the-top bloodbath with a rushed psychological-thriller twist at the end that barely connects with what the rest of the story promised.

It could have been great. Instead, it’s a stylish disaster.