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People evolve. We venture beyond our comfort zones, adapting and adjusting to new environments. In the end, we become better versions of ourselves. However, for the shirogane (masters of magical puppets), this is not the case. Defined by their silver hair, slim figures, and seemingly ageless bodies, they’ve been fighting monsters for hundreds of years. Their reasoning for this lies within a traumatizing event from long ago; this event permanently affected them. While the seasons change, the shirogane stay the same. It's apparent in their fighting style (the manipulation of puppets). With the issues they confront, the shirogane insist on an approach that’s not only ... unreliable but is also (more or less) outdated. To me, the shirogane are frozen in time.

The same can be said of Karakuri Circus. Like the shirogane, this show is from a bygone era. July 9, 1997 was when Karakuri Circus first emerged, as the brainchild of mangaka Kazuhiro Fujita. And although it was recently adapted into an anime (thanks to Studio VOLN), the premise is typical of the era it hails from. At the outset, we’re introduced to Masaru Saiga (a timid soul with a big heart and a photographic memory), alongside his companions Narumi and Eleonore. Loyalty is established (and romance blossoms) as they voyage through a coming-of-age tale involving daddy issues, the power of friendship, and eventually saving the world. This did not grab my attention (at least, not at first). For me, the overarching story is redeemed when it connects to its various subplots, specifically the shirogane’s struggles against the automata.

Here's where the magic unfolds. Masaru’s journey may be this show’s backbone, but it’s in the feud between these two factions that Karakuri Circus comes alive. Their various showdowns are engaging to watch, mostly thanks to composer Yuki Hayashi (he’s the brains behind the soundtracks for Haikyuu and My Hero Academia). It’s because of him that, for each action sequence, viewers are blessed with a colorful array of accordions, drums, and guitars. And the fights themselves are quite impressive. The puppets that the shirogane weaponize and maneuver are rendered in stunning CGI. Gaudy explosions often follow the attacks these fighters unleash (at one point, a column of fire erupts as lightning bolts dance around it). And the battles end stylishly; it’s mesmerizing to watch the automata crumble piece by piece, under grey ooze and hissing steam.

Fight scenes are this show's pride and joy. However, what's said during these fight scenes isn't always as inspiring. As far as dialogue is concerned, there are certain areas I enjoy; the one-liners here are very much appreciated and the soul-stirring speeches are genuine highlights, especially in the final six episodes. On the other hand, this show is held back by a hamfisted screenplay; the dialogue is both excessive and redundant, often emphasizing the most obvious ideas. Karakuri Circus provides character development but not without pointlessly detailing the process. It presents ingenious tactics but not without long-winded explanations of how they work. It features personality traits (like Eleonore's weaknesses or a hospital patient's hobbies), but not without an extended monologue about them soon after. For most shonens, infodumping is a recurring issue, and Karakuri Circus is no exception.

Ideally, these monologues would be reduced (if not removed entirely). Studio VOLN, though, were occupied elsewhere, with modifying the manga’s overall storyline. Looking to comply with the 36-episode format, they condensed the events of the source material, disposing of specific plot threads in the process. Among others, the Beast Tamer arc and the Kuroga Village training period were axed. Although it caused complaints (especially from fans of the manga), the differences, for the most part, aren’t too severe. To be clear, the editing process and the end result are by no means perfect, but they don't detract from the overall experience. By holding onto the original’s ideas and themes, Karakuri Circus remains true to Fujita’s vision.

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It’s a mess. The table is cluttered with mess; it's practically submerged in folders, calculators, pencil shavings, ink stains, and rough sketches. However, Kazuhiro Fujita and his three assistants ignore this. An idea has caught their attention instead. “Aren’t there idiots who get excited just from being on a cliff?” Fujita wonders aloud. He then rises from his chair, gesturing with his hands to emphasize the point he’s making. After doing this, a voice intones, “For Fujita-san, if he’s not talking to people, then it appears he cannot progress in his work.”

Kazuhiro Fujita is a featured guest on “Urasawa Naoki no Manben,” a 2015 documentary series that captures a mangaka’s journey in creating their material; it’s intended to provide a glimpse into the process’ inner workings. In the documentary, Fujita and his assistants are filmed at work for four days. When this is finished, Naoki Urasawa (Manben’s host) and Fujita convene to examine the footage.

While doing so, they discuss a variety of manga-related topics. Naturally, the conversation shifts to detailing the early stages of Fujita’s career. At the age of 25, he was hired by Shonen Sunday and soon after he reviewed what they had to offer. Fujita scrutinized the magazine’s catalog, a lineup of sports stories and romantic comedies, and he wanted to invigorate the ranks with something new. In order to succeed, he derived inspiration from his childhood influences.

Ever since his days growing up in Asahikawa, Fujita loved reading manga, especially shonens. At the time, he was entranced by series like Shotaro Ishinomori’s “Kamen Rider,” Go Nagai’s “Devilman,” and Ken Ishikawa’s “Getter Robo.” However, out of all his childhood influences, there was one that towered above the rest: Rumiko Takahashi’s “Yami wo Kakeru Manazashi.”

“It was a short story with regular humans that fought the weird and won. I thought ‘Oh, I am really glad she drew something like this.’ Like, ‘This is just the kind of thing I want to read!’ It was the kind of thing that made me think ‘Manga’s amazing!’ And I think it was the thing that turned me on to doing manga”, - Kazuhiro Fujita

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This idea would define him. Throughout his career of thirty years and counting, Fujita waged war against the unknown. In his stories, he would maneuver his everyman leads into confronting opponents of unnatural origin, like evil spirits (in Ushio to Tora), fairy-tale denizens (in Moonlight Act), and sentient haunted houses (in Souboutei Kowasubeshi). With Karakuri Circus, it’s the automata that adopt this role. However, there’s a crucial difference between this show and the rest of Fujita’s works. Beneath the speeches, the references to Chinese culture and the slapstick comedy lies Karakuri Circus’s true intent: to find common ground between the shirogane and automata through their goals. For the shirogane, that goal is learning from the past. After centuries of failure, they finally abandon their age-old stubbornness, which causes them to evolve both in combat (with a wider range of styles and tactics) and outside of it (with more openness in their personal relations). As for the automata, their purpose isn’t as detailed. There’s a backstory here but it’s a strange one, almost impossible to make sense of. Regardless, this show succeeds in providing both sides a cause worth fighting for. It’s not much but having this makes it easier to understand the automata.

However, this show fails to humanize them. Excluding the Les Quatre Pioneers (the four oldest automata) and a few others, there's no reason for anyone to care about them. These guys are cartoonishly evil. They kill for sport, getting off on the worst of bloodbaths. In battle, their signature move is to take the children and slap them around before using them as bargaining chips. If children aren’t nearby, they’ll resort to removing women's clothing and gloating about it afterward. The automata are caricatures, plain and simple; they’re card-carrying villains, cruel for cruelty’s sake, cackling at the chaos they’ve created. And they’re not the only ones like this. In Karakuri Circus, almost every antagonist is written the same way. From Zenji Saiga (Masaru’s uncle) to episode 16’s suicidal samurai and even the main villain himself, they’re all reduced to stereotype, burdened with bloated egos and creepy facial expressions.

This black-and-white worldview cripples the show's storytelling. It's also an issue that's appeared in Fujita's writing from the start.

People evolve. We venture beyond our comfort zones, adapting and adjusting to new environments. In the end, we become better versions of ourselves. However, for Kazuhiro Fujita, this is not the case. Defined by his haunting imagery, two-dimensional villains, and references to Chinese culture, he’s been drawing manga for thirty years. His reasoning for this lies within a short story from long ago; this story permanently affected him. While the seasons change, Fujita stays the same. It's apparent in his writing style. With the stories he creates, Fujita insists on an approach that’s not only flawed but is also (more or less) outdated. To me, Kazuhiro Fujita is frozen in time.

The same can be said of Karakuri Circus. Like Fujita, this anime is from a bygone era. And it shows, what with its archaic sense of humor and its bright-red line between good and evil. There's little room for nuance here, the shades of grey few and far between. However, what Karakuri Circus lacks in subtlety, it compensates with heart. The stories here truly inspire. They are love letters to the human spirit, songs of triumph over our past failings and grievances. And although they're constrained by cliches, I'll always remember these tales of personal growth, especially the ones I least expected.

The gods can be quite cruel. For our unnamed protagonist, it’s as if unseen forces, far greater than himself, have conspired against him. What he wants is a simple, peaceful life; however, he’s forced to watch as that door is slammed shut by a vicious twist of fate. Having no other option, our protagonist turns to organized crime. After he acknowledges the situation he’s in, he resolves to make the most of it. His efforts, though, are rooted in humble beginnings. At first, our protagonist is little more than a performer of menial tasks, an errand boy for his superiors, and a victim to their ... whims. However, this doesn’t last for long. By relying on a combination of confidence, ruthlessness, and ingenuity, our unnamed protagonist ascends the ranks, earning the higher-up’s trust, as his sights turn towards the top of the food chain…

Stories like this fascinate me. Mobster movies represent a darker rendition of the typical “rags to riches” tale, where sentimental value is replaced by realism. They’re like most underdog-driven narratives, but with characters you don’t always cheer for and ideas you don’t always support. This is the genre that Sanctuary, Studio Pastel’s 1996 film, finds itself in. Almost from the start, Sanctuary tries separating itself from the others through its heavily political focus. As you would expect, the film chronicles a mobster’s rise to power but it also connects this to a larger plotline concerning favoritism. Sanctuary intends to criticize a system that only enables celebrities, bureaucrats, and children of older politicians to advance. Because he despises this practice, the film’s protagonist wants to undermine this system through his mobster influence. Along the way, Sanctuary forms several parallels between the political sphere and the criminal underworld, arguing that they’re equally corrupt.

Unfortunately, these ideas are overshadowed by a director whose vision is trapped inside mobster movie cliches. Characters lounge around and reminisce about old times under shimmering streetlights. Plot details are discussed inside lavish nightclubs and high-rise skyscrapers. Saxophones, pianos, and bass guitars supply the score for a string of sex scenes. The end result is a film that aspires for social commentary but fails to offer anything beyond the glitz and glamour and guns.

Actually, you can ignore the guns. Sure, they’re waved around quite a bit but the guns are never used. At no point in this film is anyone in any real danger, especially not Hojo. As Sanctuary’s protagonist, he provides cigarettes and a comb-over to his role but it’s his unwavering confidence that truly defines him. Hojo’s confidence is taken to ridiculous extremes. In a crucial scene during Sanctuary’s latter half, an employer of his requires him to partake in a test of loyalty. As part of the test, Hojo has to stab his hand with a knife without flinching. He not only pulls off the stunt but he also does so with a self-assured smirk; it’s obvious that even this test has failed to penetrate his air of confidence. The scene serves as a microcosm of Hojo’s overall character. No matter what obstacle he faces (whether it’s the police, the corrupt politicians, his deranged older brother, or the mob boss), he not only overcomes them but he’s also completely unfazed by the threat they pose. Because Sanctuary is unwilling to present Hojo with a legitimate challenge, what results is a series of conflicts that aren’t just unengaging but predictable as well. By itself, the lack of dramatic tension is damning material. However, this is merely part of a larger issue with the film.

Earlier, I described the mobster’s rise to power and why I’m fascinated by it. However, there’s a concept that I’m far more interested in: the fall from grace. Our unnamed protagonist has arrived at the summit but he won’t be there for long. Thanks to fame’s trappings, the same traits that fueled his success have changed for the worse. His confidence morphs into arrogance. His ruthlessness swells to surreal heights. And his ingenuity evaporates. Eventually, after burning enough bridges, our protagonist is reduced to nothing. A journey to the mountaintop can be entertaining; however, it’s falling from that same mountaintop that really resonates with me. Personally speaking, it’s captivating to watch someone claw and scratch to attain the finer things in life (fancy suits, fast cars, and high-priced cigars), only for it all to instantly vanish. Ultimately, the mobster’s fall from grace serves as a cautionary tale for members of organized crime; what it does is present the consequences of the lifestyle they lead.

With Sanctuary, though, there is no fall from grace. Matter of fact, there aren’t any consequences here whatsoever.

Take Sakura Shuichi, for instance. He’s a sleazy, sewer-dwelling rat that forces himself upon random women. He’s also a politician affiliated with the National Diet of Japan. So, naturally, when Hojo begins blackmailing Sakura with photos of his misdeeds, he is warned by the mob boss himself to stop. Hojo, however, insists on playing with fire. He tosses log after log into the flames, delighting in the disaster he’s made, before eventually deciding to pour a gallon of oil into the mix. Instead of being disciplined for his reckless behavior, Hojo receives a promotion. For another example, you can refer to Kyoko Ishihara, the police force’s superintendent. When she tries to infiltrate a mobster-owned casino, Kyoko is quickly discovered by Hojo, who drugs and rapes her. He suffers no repercussions from this; in fact, through a mind-boggling turn of events, Kyoko ends up helping him resist a group of kidnappers. Looking at the bigger picture, Hojo decides to become a mobster (or, in this case, a yakuza) and is never faced with the consequences of his choice. When you combine this with the lack of dramatic tension, what remains is a protagonist whose plot armor is powerful enough to neutralize anything, even the after-effects of his own actions.

By glamorizing its subject matter, Sanctuary falls victim to the same aches and pains that plagues every other dime-a-dozen mobster flick. It constructs a narrative of watered-down stereotypes, forgettable encounters, and incomplete character arcs. This film has no real identity, nothing that separates it from the herd, which is exactly why I’d recommend it to fans of the genre. If you happen to enjoy mobster movies, Sanctuary provides pretty much everything you’d expect from its category. Thing is, there was a spark of potential here. At first, the film wanted to take risks with its material but Sanctuary ends up playing it safe.

There is no method to the madness. Within Natsuhiko Kyogoku’s Requiem from the Darkness, there are exceptions to be sure but, generally speaking, this is a show where atrocities are committed by people with zero regard for or reasoning behind their actions. Lacking even a passing resemblance of foresight, they’re easily swayed by their self-serving impulses - a bruised ego here, a childish grievance there - into venturing as far as to kill one another.

“Kill”, of course, is a massive understatement. The humans depicted here don’t simply murder each other; they do so in a variety of grotesque ways. Victims’ faces are contorted with agony ... and heartrending screams are emitted as their eyes are punctured, their limbs severed, their bodies impaled, their flesh scorched, their skulls shattered, and their bones devoured.

There are countless shows with content that’s similar to Requiem but they deviate from the latter in terms of intent. With other shows, the carnage not only comes across as excessive but also wholly unnecessary; it’s violence for the sake of violence. With Requiem, however, a difference is established. The focus isn’t directed towards mindless bloodshed. Rather, the killings that occur here serve as testimonies to the cruelty within human nature; they depict the extents to just how abominable we act towards one another.

To the Ongyou, exorcists of extraterrestrial origin, these displays of depravity have become depressingly repetitive. Viewing the murders from afar, the Ongyou can’t resist sympathizing with a species that stray from their better judgment time after time. Seeking to steer humanity in a more positive direction (and, at the very least, minimize the amount of destruction we cause), the Ongyou wander throughout the natural world, using their abilities where they see fit.

Based on an award-winning collection of short stories, situated within Japan’s Edo period, Requiem from the Darkness is a show that expresses its brutally frank social commentary via various interactions the Ongyou have with other people throughout their journey. At the series’ start, though, they’re more or less on their own. Led by Mataichi (an undersized spiritualist defined by his threadbare cloak and cynical musings), the Ongyou have maintained success in their exploits but circumstances change when they encounter Momosuke.

He is Requiem’s primary narrator. He is also a hopeless idealist whose naivety, clumsiness and cowardice have endangered the Ongyou’s objective on numerous occasions. However, Momosuke compensates for this through an expertise in folklore and superstitions. His knowledge is put to good use through the myriad of cases the Ongyou tackle; it’s fascinating to see just how crucial a role Japanese mythology plays in situations involving cannibalism, incestuous rape, matricide, and other grisly crimes.

This intersection between the human world and the supernatural is an area Requiem pays close attention to. In particular, it’s concerned with how denizens of the latter perceive the former.

When it comes to presenting our surroundings from the Ongyou’s viewpoint, this show spares no expense. The koto and kotsuzumi provide an era-appropriate musical identity to the proceedings (alongside an amalgam of xylophones, bagpipes, orchestral strings, and chantings) as Requiem showcases its visual mastery. Shadows impose on everything in their sight, often enveloping the characters within its foggy folds, perfectly complementing this show’s dour tone. Buildings insult conventions, twisting and turning, unlike ordinary architecture which mostly stands in place.

These and more contribute to an aesthetic that celebrates creativity more than anything else. Whatever shortcomings appear along the way (from poorly integrated CGI to inconsistent character design) are almost entirely negated by a show that overwhelms with its endless forays into the visually experimental. Naturally, this artistic pursuit culminates with what’s easily the most haunting sequence in the entire series.

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A little girl, known as “Tai”, calmly approaches an elderly man undergoing a mental breakdown. Clutching a ragdoll in her arms, Tai converses with this man, her voice cheerful, her eyes radiant with mischief. The exchange then screeches to a halt. Tai exhibits a toothy grin and releases a mocking snicker before she mutates.

Luminous purple shadows glimmer on Tai’s countenance and in the pitch-black background behind her as her facial features dissolve into nothingness. What once appeared to be a little girl is now reduced to a corpse, a display of broken bones and frayed hair. However, Tai is unfazed. Ignoring the rivulets of blood that flow from the corners of her mouth (alongside the other changes), she leans closer to the elderly man and continues the conversation, maintaining her cheerful tone.

Tai is not real. She’s a replica of an innocent soul. She’s an illusion, conjured by the Ongyou to assist in completing one of their cases. She’s a walking reminder for the elderly man of the life he robbed. On a surface level, Tai’s metamorphosis, observed from the man’s point-of-view, is both aesthetically pleasing and weirdly mesmerizing. On further examination, the sequence is an intimidation tactic the Ongyou employed to persuade the man into acknowledging his mistakes. Watching Tai transform and listening to her explain what the man did (“You cut me in half”) is enough to trigger his repressed memories and bring him a step closer to redemption.

The experience also forces him to consider why he killed Tai (and his other victims) in the first place. Were his upbringing and social influences responsible for turning him into a murderer or was his behavior ingrained in him from the start?

/

Nature vs nurture. This debate serves as Requiem’s overarching theme. The killings, the Ongyou’s mission, the social commentary, and the aesthetic flourishes all ultimately relate to the topic at hand. Yes, this series is, at its core, an examination of humanity at its worst but it’s also interested in determining the impetus for our actions. Although Requiem eventually aligns itself with “nature”, the argument it establishes is one that even the opposition might consider.

This show maintains that our natural traits are the biggest inspiration behind our behavior but it doesn’t believe that we are to be forever defined by them. The capacity for evil, to present a specific example, is something Requiem deems an inherent characteristic but this show claims that it’s hardly permanent. Again and again, the people that recognize their inherent evil and consciously seek to improve themselves are the ones who overcome their natural traits. Granted, there are plenty who don’t but that doesn’t prevent Requiem from believing even the worst of us are capable of change.

Of course, the road to redemption isn’t easy, not when there are supernatural creatures hindering your progress.

Natsuhiko Kyogoku is an award-winning novelist and an admirer of the late mangaka Shigeru Mizuki but he’s also a self-proclaimed “yokai researcher” that’s convinced yokai folklore is a form of sublimation. This idea of his is apparent in almost all of Kyogoku’s works, except for Requiem from the Darkness.

With his other projects, he always ensured that the yokai were to never appear. The focus was to remain on the human characters. Yokai and the supernatural myths involving them were only permitted to exist as fables, paralleling a criminal’s motives and behavior. Requiem, on the other hand, is far more liberal in handling yokai. Although this wasn’t much of an issue at the series’ start, the situation becomes more and more difficult to ignore later on.

When the Ongyou decided to embark on their string of investigations and exorcisms throughout our world, they quickly discovered other supernatural entities that arrived long before them. These are what’s referred to as “yokai”. At first, the ones that the Ongyou encountered were of a simple variety, weird but ultimately harmless creatures with amusing voices and mannerisms. These yokai were loosely involved in Requiem, appearing on a semi-frequent basis, never detracting from the show’s purpose and direction.

This wouldn't always be the case. As Requiem’s story develops, the yokai not only become a consistent presence within the show but they also start actively interfering with major events. No longer are they charming oddities. The yokai are now vicious and deadly terrors of the night, legitimate threats that the Ongyou have to contend with in order to complete their mission. This decision is flawed on two fronts. First, having this show revolve around the Ongyou’s various showdowns with the yokai completely derails from the themes it’s been building upon since the beginning. Second, leading these various showdowns towards a final battle is the polar opposite of what makes Requiem special.

This show thrives in tight spaces. Requiem’s strength lies within the relatability of its individual dramas, within the isolated yet intimate cases the Ongyou tackle, within the nuanced perspective it lends towards its small-scale events. It is the king of standalone stories.

A shame, then, that Requiem’s last four episodes fail to understand this. I’ll admit, though, that the intention behind them (grappling with the demons of your past) was pretty solid (even if it has zero relation to the show’s overall theme) but whatever direction these episodes were driven towards is overshadowed by its halfhearted foray into religious commentary, by its lackluster subplot involving water zombies (what were they thinking with that one?) and by its excessively theatrical main antagonist (“The world as it is now is an illusion!” he bellows, “Within the darkness, there is truth!”).

While I will always struggle to understand the reasoning behind those last four episodes, there’s no point in holding that against a series that has earned my respect, admiration and undying loyalty multiple times over. In a genre mainly known for cheap jump scares and abysmal acting, Requiem from the Darkness distinguishes itself through its thoroughly researched insight into human nature. For me, watching this show analyze the way we think is both a privilege and an honor.

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He appears to be on top of the world. Surrounded by a legion of followers that fervently scream his name and a trio of women that lovingly caress his shoulders, this man seems to be the center of attention, and he’s not only aware of this but he enjoys it as well. This man is Lucky Roulette, the ringleader of a gang known as the “Wild Bunch”. They’re a nasty assortment of thugs, mugging, murdering and inflaming anyone or anything that obstructs their path to riches and renown. The “Wild Bunch” migrate from one town to the next, mercilessly pillaging the inhabitants’ resources before moving ... to the next locale. Their acts of destruction are all overseen by Lucky, who views each undertaking as an opportunity to assess how much luck he possesses.

“It’s the one thing in God’s domain. No training to it. No honing of one’s skills. Nothing. That’s why I want to test it. I want to find out just what God thinks of me,” - Lucky

To that end, he endeavors into each heist without abandon, which simultaneously endangers his life and pushes the boundaries of his good fortune. Cackling maniacally, twirling his pair of revolvers, Lucky obliterates everything in his line of sight and, through pure luck, he finishes with nary a scratch on him. Because of this, Lucky feels as though he’s not only fortunate but exceptional as well. He believes that no matter what activity he partakes in, he’s guaranteed to succeed because of his luck. However, it is when Lucky begins terrorizing the small town of Evergreen and encounters a hopeless drifter named Vahn that everything changes for him.

When Lucky learns that Vahn injured a few of his members during one of their raids, he coerces Vahn into playing a simple card game with him as a method of uncovering how talented Vahn is. In the middle of this game, he promises Vahn that no harm will come to him if he wins. Lucky also claims through a lengthy monologue that attacking Vahn would contradict his personal code of honor, stating that he only engages in fair fights. However, when Lucky loses the card game, he reneges on the promise he made. Valuing his good fortune above all else, Lucky believes that, during the card game, Vahn deprived him of what he cherishes most. As a result, he ambushes Vahn in a dark alley and drenches him with steaming hot lead, which not only triggers his ultimate downfall but also tarnishes the moral principles he claimed to protect.

Lucky Roulette’s characterization is a blatant argument against the concept of an honorable criminal. He discourses at great length on righteousness, claiming to support his moral code, but when circumstances demand he prove where his loyalties lie, he abandons his beliefs. Stripped of his noble platitudes, Lucky is your typical bandit, just as petty, self-absorbed and shortsighted as his peers (if not more so). Lucky’s proclamations of honor only serve to emphasize the extents his hypocrisy reach, which makes him all the more fascinating to watch during his brief appearance in Gun x Sword.

In the context of this show and what it aims to accomplish, Lucky Roulette is but a one-off villain, defeated in its very first episode, never seen (nor referred to) again; he is a pawn, unwittingly participating in a scheme far bigger than he could ever fathom. Lucky’s role is minor, yes, but it does carry some level of significance. With each episode, Gun x Sword would burrow further and further into the concept of an honorable criminal, exploring the nuances of this idea through various individuals (each with their own unique moral code), before ultimately confronting it via its main antagonist (who is arguably the most complex “honorable criminal” of them all). However, this thematic exploration all begins with Lucky and his card games. Honestly, the fact that Gun x Sword created such an insignificant character and used him to establish the groundwork for one of its most essential concepts speaks volumes about the level of writing we’re dealing with here.

*******

It’s difficult not to marvel at the scope of this show’s vision. Gun x Sword (GxS) is ambitious, an anime aiming to integrate a myriad of themes and concepts into a narrative that seamlessly transitions from episodic, small-scale events to a far larger plotline (what GxS accomplishes with the idea of an honorable criminal is but one of many feats its storytelling achieves). During this transition, it ceaselessly diversifies the intent of its individual vignettes, each episode (unique in its own right) serving as an experiment for GxS’s overall purpose. While one episode is a Pulp Fiction parody, another is a high-stakes mecha tournament. This is an anime that can dedicate one episode to elaborating on the dangers of childhood nostalgia and an entirely different episode to waxing poetic on bathing suits. It is this wondrously creative writing that highlights the adventures of Gun x Sword’s protagonists Wendy and Vahn.

Established on the Earth-like planet known as the “Endless Illusion”, GxS is an anime that’s partially defined by its scenic backgrounds, by its gorgeous fight scenes, and by its devastating plot twists but what guides all of this forward are the motives of this show’s central characters. Wendy is an insecure yet assertive young girl, an individual whose arc is focused on retrieving her older brother Michael from the clutches of The Claw (GxS’s main antagonist), alongside surviving and maturing in a world that doesn’t favor her small stature. Vahn is the stereotypical anti-hero, a poor man’s Spike Spiegel that’s pursuing The Claw because he murdered his wife at their wedding three years before this show takes place (as a memento, Vahn still wears the tuxedo from that day).

Together, Wendy, Vahn and their motives are the foundation for Gun x Sword, and all that it aspires to do. They are also the nucleus of an anime that prioritizes its ambitions far too often for its own good.

With its wings stretched behind it and its chest puffed out in front of it, Gun x Sword is Icarus, grasping the heavens above but ignoring virtually everything outside of its line of sight. This show propels its narrative (and the multitude of ideas embedded within it) into increasingly innovative directions but, in the process, it mishandles and (at times) neglects more than a few impactful plot elements. Focused on the bigger picture, Gun x Sword doesn’t apply the same attention to the smaller pieces of the puzzle.

This show is one that attempts juggling several concepts at once but, though this pursuit is admirable, it doesn’t always succeed. While it’s understandable that GxS struggles under this workload, the degree to which this show fumbles with some of its ideas is, at times, baffling. For starters, there is a certain subplot involving a watchdog and its two puppies that exudes the stench of a halfhearted effort. Gun x Sword tries positioning these characters as devices for an overarching message on the human condition but it doesn’t dedicate enough time to properly develop this idea and the result is naturally less than ideal. Then, there are the unsettling implications contained within the dynamic between Wendy (who is in her early teens) and Vahn (who is in his mid-twenties) that Gun x Sword never bothers exploring.

I don’t expect this show to present a detailed opinion on underaged relationships but, if you’re going to portray your protagonists with a considerable age difference as a couple (and, dear God, is GxS guilty of this), then a comment or two on how you feel about this topic shouldn’t be too much to ask for. Naturally, there are other concepts that GxS fails to flesh out in one way or another (of particular interest is episode 14’s tragically underdeveloped viewpoint of mass-produced machines) but, in the grand scheme of things, they (and the deficiencies I mentioned earlier) are inessential. When examined individually, that might not appear to be the case. However, in the context of all that Gun x Sword represents and accomplishes, their importance is downsized considerably. What this show forfeits on a conceptual level by botching several of the themes it tackles, it more than compensates by emphasizing its force of personality.

Gun x Sword has quite the theatrical flair. This show doesn’t merely advance its plot lines to thrilling peaks; it revels in those dramatic highs. GxS throws itself wholeheartedly into exploiting each and every twist and turn its story takes for maximum effect. The result is a show whose overdramatic approach is simply irresistible to watch. And for something like this, it requires a soundtrack that’s worthy of its efforts. GxS needs a soundtrack that’s just as gloriously over-the-top as it is, a soundtrack that not only complements the tone of this series but elevates its theatrics to new heights.

Luckily, Kotaro Nakagawa, famed composer of the soundtracks for Code Geass and Planetes (among others), is here to make this possible.

It’s his experience with creating uniquely cinematic scores that allows GxS’s music to flourish. Primarily reliant on a combination of orchestral and jazz, this show’s score is highlighted by the intensity of its sound. Nakagawa’s saxophone riffs awaken with the fervor of a firework display while his violin solos roar with a Hans Zimmer-esque self-importance but GxS’s score really shines in his efforts with Hitomi Kuroishi. A frequent collaborator on Nakagawa’s projects (and a musician I’ve long admired), Kuroishi provides her harp, her drums and (of course) her angelic voice to this show’s soundtrack with her songs “Paradiso” and “La Speranza”.

As awe-inspiring as the songs created by Nakagawa and Kuroishi are, it is Gun x Sword’s opening theme that’s truly the pinnacle of its musical brilliance. Backed by a symphony of trumpets and drums, it is a series of climaxes, energetically transitioning from one to the next. It is also a marriage between flute solos and background vocals. Last but not least, it is an opportunity for Gun x Sword’s supporting cast to be properly introduced.

In the opening theme, they are nothing more than silhouettes. However, in the viewpoint of first impressions, they seem to be nothing more than plot devices; they appear to be mouthpieces masquerading as characters (and not very talented mouthpieces, at that). Every message GxS conveys through its supporting cast makes for an unappetizing watch. Shallow at its best and heavy-handed at its worst, this show’s social commentary is one that not only offers nothing new to the issues it discusses but it also pushes to the forefront a rather limited perspective. When its characters state their opinions on topics like ageism, classism, and sexism, their efforts betray a lack of knowledge on the subject matter.

As more exposure is provided to the supporting cast, these individuals are allowed opportunities to deviate from their mouthpiece roles and to distinguish themselves. While this show falters in communicating social themes through its supporting cast, it shines in developing their personalities. With the benefit of a different approach in place, it’s apparent that these characters are more than tools for GxS to employ however it desires; they are people striving to preserve their beliefs and fulfill their ambitions. Enhanced by these intensely personal characteristics, the supporting cast is rendered human, which ultimately makes investing in their individual journeys far easier. Not only does this cause the supporting cast to be all the more enjoyable but it also adds a layer of nuance to this show’s overall theme of revenge.

A hero falls victim to devastating circumstances, resulting in the deprivation of everything he/she ever cherished. However, instead of succumbing to sorrow, the hero uses their most vulnerable moment as the driving force to settle the score with the cause of their despair. Revenge is a concept that’s both exceptionally alluring... and exceptionally narrow.

In comparison to ideas such as love, power, and prosperity (which are broad and abstract concepts that can be defined however you wish), revenge is specific and concrete, which severely limits the extent to which you can explore it. To its credit, Gun x Sword provides a valiant effort. Through Ray Lundgren and Vahn, this show not only dissects the idea of revenge but how it consumes individuals, alongside those around them and (in the end) it questions the benefit that results from revenge. However, where GxS ultimately falters isn’t in its thematic exploration but in the conclusion it reaches after its analysis.

(A useful aside: It’s impossible to overstate how important revenge is to Gun x Sword as a whole. It isn’t merely among the many themes this show builds upon. Revenge is THE theme of GxS, the concept that everything else revolves around. Vahn’s pursuit of revenge allows him to encounter Lucky Roulette (and Wendy) in the town of Evergreen, which causes this series to move forward. Without the idea of revenge, none of what GxS accomplishes (and wants to accomplish) would be possible)

Revenge for its own sake is not unique, nor is it entertaining. There must be a deeper meaning to the motive if you really want people to be invested in your character. For Ray, a man whose wife was murdered because she remained loyal to her principles, revenge is only part of what he desires. In pursuing his wife’s killer, Ray wants to uncover whether or not the choice she made was correct. For Vahn, however, it’s different. You see, after all of the time Gun x Sword devotes to questioning the purpose behind Vahn’s pursuit, the answer it reaches is the equivalent of a shoulder shrug.

By not providing any depth for Vahn’s motive, this show’s development of the idea of revenge is a half-finished effort. If this flawed thematic exploration were an isolated incident, it would be quite difficult (but not impossible) to properly appreciate everything else GxS has to offer. However, factoring in the other underdeveloped concepts that are scattered throughout this show, the various pieces of the puzzle that (by themselves) seem insignificant, results in something too devastating to overlook. Gun x Sword leans far more towards style than it does substance; this is an anime that amazes with the outlandish ideas it raises but underwhelms with how little it’s willing to develop them. It promotes itself as something of a thinking man’s shonen/mecha but its efforts in justifying this title are inconsistent, to say the least.

I admire Gun x Sword. No; it would be more accurate to say that I admire what Gun x Sword could’ve been. With its joyously overdramatic approach, its experimental narrative, and the overwhelming ambitions it aimed to fulfill, who can’t appreciate the heights this show wanted to reach? When it involves potential, few can compare to GxS. However, when it involves realizing and maximizing that same potential, this show ultimately falls short.

In the moment you encounter that special someone, everything else is rendered obsolete. In this encounter, the world around you, the people in your life, and the things they demand of you all lose meaning. Your attention belongs to that special someone and no other. Time itself ceases to move as your encounter unfolds; when that special someone carries on a conversation with you, it feels as if it’ll last forever. Your heart races, pulsating as if it’ll spring forth from your chest at any given time. Your nerves quiver, the butterflies fluttering freely inside your body. Your vision blurs and your face crimsons, the ... blood coursing through your head at an alarming rate. Clouded by a whirlwind of strange thoughts, emotions, and instincts, you react to this encounter in a completely different fashion than you would in any other situation. The ideas you contemplate, the things you say, and the actions you create are a jumbled mess, shaken and stirred by the heat of the moment. Just as the conversation is gathering steam, that special someone departs from you and the encounter concludes. Time has moved forward again. While you’re mostly relieved to distance yourself from the situation, there’s a part of you that pleads to return to that brief encounter, that yearns to conversate with that special someone, that fantasizes of losing yourself in the moment once more.

For those that have become infatuated with a crush, for those that are adjusting to their feelings of attraction for another, for those that are stumbling their way into their first relationship, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san is a reflection of their lives, their own romantic endeavors manifesting themselves on a grand scale. As this show ignites and refines the chemistry between its two protagonists, Nishitaka and Takagi, it reveals its understanding of relationships and the intricacies they possess. Subdued in its tone and serene in its outlook, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san’s handling of its central couple is accomplished with nigh-unparalleled ease, using their series of frivolous yet elaborate pranks to slowly and steadily transition into something more, and its examination of their relationship is delivered with a rather unconventional approach.

When two contrasting personalities attempt to align, there is an army of problems that arise along the way due to the differences between them. Although said differences can generate a rift in relationships, they can also strengthen them; contrasting personalities naturally heighten common interests. While most works of the romance genre opt for discovering these common interests, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san almost entirely ignores this pursuit. Instead, what it values is how these characters think and why they’re attracted to one another. In particular, it values these concepts as they relate to Nishitaka.

It is his point-of-view that Skilled Teaser Takagi-san operates from. It is his series of pranks, his attempts to outwit and “tease” Takagi, that this show mainly revolves around. Nishitaka is always thinking of ways to perplex Takagi, either by concocting a complex scheme to use on her or (more often than not) by solving the problems she gives him. Every challenge Nishitaka tackles, every puzzle he confronts, makes for a satisfying watch. No two obstacles are alike; each distinct in their own way, they’re deceptively simple at first glance but dangerously intricate the more you analyze them. And, boy, does Nishitaka analyze these obstacles. The music crescendos to a fever pitch, with saxophones screaming their way through, and the animation dizzily spirals out of control, its color scheme constantly changing, as he ceaselessly conjures countermoves and hypothetical solutions in his head. To Nishitaka, these pranks are far from trivial pastime activities. To him, they are battles of the intellectual variety, epic in scale, each choice determining one’s fate.

It’s obvious that Nishitaka cares deeply about outsmarting Takagi, which makes it all the more depressing to witness him falling short time after time. It matters not what plan he formulates, what measures he takes, what approach he adapts; the result never changes. Nishitaka is Sisyphus, forever doomed to try changing his fate, to watch his efforts go to waste, to repeat the same pattern. It’s not his fault, though. With his remarkable tenacity, perception, confidence, and cunning, Nishitaka definitely distinguishes himself as a talented individual. Were he competing against someone else, against anyone else, one could argue that he’d easily be more than a match for them. However, as long as Nishitaka remains tethered to his current circumstances, he’ll always be defeated. Sure, he’s quite intelligent for someone his age but, for all of his virtues, he pales in comparison to the titular character.

“Prodigy” is an overused word; it's a term that's often given to people who don't deserve such praise. Takagi, however, is an exception. Not only is she able to unravel the most intricate of Gordian knots but she also does so effortlessly. Not only does she repeatedly confound Nishitaka with riddles, traps, and decoys galore but she also manipulates each and every one to obscure her true motives. However, it’s not just Nishitaka that Takagi dupes. On multiple occasions, she easily deciphers the tricks her classmates pull on her, alongside subjecting them to a few of her own, and (in one memorable instance) she’s even able to deceive her teacher, manipulating him into disciplining someone else for her transgression.

With each competition, with each episode, with each challenge, it’s almost pre-determined who's going to persevere in the end. On the one hand, this pattern of predictability causes Takagi to come across as a Mary Sue, one who's almost entirely defined by her ceaseless victories. On the other hand, you simply cannot resist watching her mercilessly outfox her peers time after time. Takagi is akin to a world-renowned chessmaster practicing against novices of the game, a decorated military tactician competing against cadets in the field, a veteran criminal investigator matching wits with rookies on the job; the inevitable outcome of each encounter never detracts from the entertainment value that they provide. While it is pleasing to witness Takagi flaunting her intellect, it’s in conveying this show’s themes where she really proves her worth.

Skilled Teaser Takagi-san is, perhaps more than anything else, a master of subverting expectations. With each issue that arises, the solution to them is never what you’d anticipate. Takagi and the show itself deceive you into assuming, alongside Nishitaka, that the motives, nuances, and hints in each situation are leading to one solution when the true answer is entirely different. Again and again, this show emphasizes that Takagi’s victories are due to Nishitaka overthinking each situation, attempting to uncover the deeper meaning behind it, instead of choosing the most obvious answer. Through its titular character, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san argues that the problems we encounter in life aren't as challenging or complex as we think they are. Through Takagi, this show argues that if we can push aside the details surrounding these problems (alongside our preconceived notions of them) and simply examine them for what they are, it'd be easy to find a solution for our issues.

For Takagi, each challenge presents an opportunity for Nishitaka to acquire more knowledge, and she strives to accomplish that goal. Yes, part of why Takagi teases him is for her own amusement; she enjoys watching her opponent panic, struggle and ultimately collapse under the pressure she places upon him. However, the other part is because Takagi wants to see Nishitaka mature and grow. The puzzles that she tasks him with are crafted out of love; Takagi gives Nishitaka a hard time mainly because she cares about him, and this detail really strengthens their relationship.

When Skilled Teaser Takagi-san directs its focus away from the smoke and mirrors, it's actually a genuinely sweet and charming show to watch, and the central couple’s relationship emphasizes its virtues. On the surface, Nishitaka and Takagi couldn't be more different if they tried. While Nishitaka approaches every situation with tact and caution, Takagi is far more direct. While Nishitaka leans towards the naive, Takagi is incredibly perceptive. While Nishitaka is something of a workaholic, Takagi is more relaxed. However, with a closer observation, one can see that, despite the surface-level differences, they are essentially alike. Both Nishitaka and Takagi are confident and intelligent individuals that adopt an extremely timid approach to their relationship (Nishitaka more than Takagi). Watching them develop more and more into expressing their feelings for one another, while supporting each other along the way, is easily the highlight of the show. In fact, the central couple's bond is so heartwarming, nuanced, and inspiring that it allows one to overlook the more unappealing aspects, the various deficiencies and mishaps, of this show that materialize just outside the insulated sphere of the central couple.

100% Unrequited Love is an in-universe anime that not only inspires a few of Nishitaka’s schemes but it also serves to poke fun at other works of the romance genre. By overloading Unrequited Love with genre-specific stereotypes, cliches and tropes, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san claims that it's different from the other shows of its chosen field, more intelligent and self-aware than the rest. However, when it involves its supporting cast, Takagi-san resorts to the same tiresome and tedious cliches as its peers. Whenever this show transitions away from its central couple and towards the people around them, it almost always suffers because of it. While the supporting cast strengthens Takagi-san’s youthful charm, they also represent this show at its weakest. With each appearance the supporting cast makes, it becomes more and more apparent that, outside of its central couple, Skilled Teaser Takagi-san isn't all that adept at developing its characters.

The relationship between Mano and Nakai, classmates of Nishitaka and Takagi, is among the most dull and lifeless that I’ve seen in recent memory. Mano is the “shy one”, blushing, squirming, and stammering about to no end, while Nakai is but a cardboard cutout, hardly worth mentioning, really, and they lack even a faint resemblance of chemistry. Then, there's Mina and Sanae, classmates of the central couple that serve as comic relief. The adventures that this pair embark on are rife with memorable gags - my personal favorite is a recurring act where they dub over random conversations, like an exchange between cats or a chat between the central couple - but they tend to wear themselves out after a while. Mina and Sanae’s adventures are meant to represent the protagonists’ shenanigans from a different, more carefree, perspective but they (more or less) come across as re-iterations of previous events than anything creative or unique. It doesn't help matters much that this show stylistically pigeonholes these two. One is the “genki girl”, manically working herself into a frenzy over trivial matters, while the other is the “quiet one”, silently observing the mess that unfolds around her, and Takagi-san never allows either of them an opportunity to establish themselves beyond these classifications.

When Takagi-san strays from its intended course (mishandling a supporting character here, re-treading an old plot line there), it's the central couple's chemistry that helps re-adjust its focus. Skilled Teaser Takagi-san is, in part, an elaborate game of chess, a neverending battle of wits, with brilliant strategists on either side. It is also a refreshingly pure and simple tale of romance, a love story mostly unchained by the conventions of its peers. And all of it is deftly secured by the incredible bond between its protagonists. Fascinated with their intellect and awestruck by their passion, you cannot resist wishing to accompany the central couple in whatever direction their relationship guides them toward. Time itself ceases to move as you rush headlong into Takagi-san, allowing its loving, all-encompassing embrace to overtake you.

Assembled through a string of bizarre twists of fate and spearheaded by a tomboy princess known as 2nd Lieutenant Alice L. Malvin, a ragtag outfit of inexperienced yet well-intentioned military officers aspire to forge a positive, lasting impact in their community, their society, and the world at large through resolving one trivial, small-scale case after another. They are Section 3 (nicknamed the “Pumpkin Scissors” unit) of the Royal Empire militia; brought into existence by the Empire’s ceasefire with a rivaling country after a long, arduous, bloody, and pointless war, this unit, the archetypal “whipping boys” of the military, contributes in combating the after-effects of the ... war (of which there are many) through relief efforts. Pumpkin Scissors is an anime that primarily follows the journey of Section 3, quietly observing as they navigate through increasingly deadly circumstances; along the way, it has (unfairly) attracted comparisons to a far more renowned work, that being Hiromu Arakawa’s Fullmetal Alchemist. Both titles are focused on post-World War I Europe from the perspective of the army but that is where all similarities end. Where Fullmetal Alchemist is entrenched in the fantastical, Pumpkin Scissors is more realistic. Where Fullmetal Alchemist strives for grand statements and a wide-reaching vision, Pumpkin Scissors instead advocates for a subtler approach. This is a show that catapults its’ viewpoints to the forefront through deceptively simple character interactions in a way that’s neither overbearing nor patronizing. Each and every character, from Oreldo (Section 3’s most laid-back officer) to a brothel owner, from the slimiest of aristocrats to a tutor of a princess, from the disposable mooks to the struggling mother of a newborn girl, and (of course) the great Lt. Alice L. Malvin, is given an opportunity to express their opinions, to critique various societal ills, and to offer suggestions on how to improve our world. At its core, Pumpkin Scissors is quite the intellectually engaging show, one that expects you to ponder, reflect on, and even question what’s being presented to you. However, it also understands that it can enjoy itself at the same time and, as a result, this show makes for one memorable experience.

When the military is mentioned in casual conversations, one’s mind naturally associates this term with excessive self-discipline, with rigid formations, with polished weaponry, with hours of marching, with screaming sergeants, and with gaudy displays of patriotism. Pumpkin Scissors’ central cast, however, sharply contrasts with the traditional perception of the military. Known for not taking themselves seriously, Section 3 wholeheartedly embraces an easygoing mindset and, for the most part, so does Pumpkin Scissors. Each assignment that’s designated to Section 3 is a joy for the soldiers to carry out and entertaining for the viewer to watch. In the hands of another show, standalones ranging from a package delivery to a missing baby would have amounted to a stiff, unengaging watch. Pumpkin Scissors, however, is special in its ability to transform the flimsiest of ideas, the most mundane of concepts, into something memorable. Its success in this area is due in large part to a mastery of observational humor; in other words, Pumpkin Scissors creates enjoyable experiences from ordinary circumstances by highlighting the comedic potential in them. Whether it’s by inserting sexual innuendos in unusual situations or subverting expectations with outlandish ideas, Pumpkin Scissors ensures its audience will never tire of its material. Of course, one cannot discuss this show’s humor without mentioning Oreldo and Lili. While Oreldo provides the aforementioned innuendos, alongside snarky one-liners and a solid character arc, Lili brings to the table a starkly different sense of humor. Her style of comedy is more physical than anything else but it’s also endearingly childish; Lili’s ability to coerce the rest of Section 3 into singing innocent chants alongside her never fails to put a smile on my face, and the same can be said for episode 18, which is the day in the spotlight that Lili more than deserved to have. By bringing together Oreldo’s deadpan charm and Lili’s whimsical nature, Pumpkin Scissors has two different forms of comic relief in its arsenal. That it’s capable and willing to utilize both is why its’ standalones are among this show’s greatest assets.

And yet, Pumpkin Scissors’ assortment of zany adventures are not merely self-contained stories; rather, they are all individual entities that are strung together by an overarching goal. Yes, the episodes, at least the earlier ones, are more than a little cartoonish but they all strive to examine isolated aspects of 1930s Europe, to zero in on the ailments of this society, and to present solutions to them. This show prides itself in its efforts to maintain a clear, unbiased outlook on its subject matter, and that pride is certainly warranted. On one end is the homeless, the desperate, the despondent, and the distraught. On the opposite end is the wealthy, completely unaware and unconcerned with the struggles of others. And in the middle is Pumpkin Scissors, lending an ear to both sides while arguing for a world in which equality reigns supreme. This show is one that offers its perspective to a multitude of topics, including gender equality, human rights, and the futility of war, but, at its core, it is a social commentary on classism. That Pumpkin Scissors would choose the 1930s-era Europe as the setting in which to present this issue is fitting because one would argue that at no point in history was the socioeconomic divide as prevalent as it was in the Great Depression.

In 1930, Austria and the United Kingdom, among others, abandoned using the “gold standard” as a monetary system; it was predicated on the value and quantity of gold, and because entire countries discontinued this system, it was a clear indication of gold’s worth. That, of course, was only the beginning. Banks began closing left and right, specifically Vienna’s Creditanstalt bank in 1931, which caused a massive economic uproar. By 1932, the value of the European trade had plummeted to a third of what it was in 1929. Everyone at the time was reeling from the Great Depression’s effects; the difference between the one percent and the majority was that the former was able to maintain a resemblance of their wealth while the latter lacked the luxuries to do so. In bleak times such as the 1930s, everyone wanted, no, needed to hear proposals to build a better society, one that wouldn’t lead to another Great Depression. Pumpkin Scissors’ perspective is one that’s worth looking into because its ideals are not only relevant to the time period it covers but they are applicable to our current society.

Through the assignments that Section 3 undertake, Pumpkin Scissors lands one opportunity after another to convey its message. Through each episode, more and more insight is offered into its subject matter. At first, the situations that are presented and Section 3’s solutions to them appear as black-and-white concepts, as symbolic of good and evil. Initially, the lower-class citizens are portrayed in the most positive light possible - in fact, one would argue that Pumpkin Scissors’ earliest episodes are essentially love letters to the working class - while the aristocrats are depicted as merciless monsters, lacking any empathy or concern for their fellow humans. This perspective, the glorification of the average joe and the demonization of the patrician, is hardly unique to Pumpkin Scissors (it’s extremely prevalent in our current environment and has been for years) but what makes this show special is its’ ability to transform this perspective into a narrative device. The members of Section 3, disillusioned with the socioeconomic structure, have developed a firm confidence in this perspective; interacting with corrupt nobles and humble commoners only serves to strengthen their beliefs. However, when Section 3 confronts more powerful obstacles later in the series, their way of thinking changes for the better. Pumpkin Scissors exposes the more sinister members of the working class, they with vile and opportunistic motives, alongside a more humanizing portrayal of the wealthy (specifically with Marquis Paul) for Section 3 and the viewers to see; at the same time, it presents its’ central message and its solution to classism: the only way that our society will ever improve is if we stop discriminating each other based on socioeconomic standings and encourage open discussions on how we can help each other. One might think this proposal is too idealistic - I, for one, certainly do - but what matters is that Pumpkin Scissors never states its claims as ultimate truths. What it values are ideas, plans that will change our communities for the better, and it seeks to influence its audience in formulating said ideas. Time after time, the conflicts that Section 3 are involved in are only resolved when both sides are willing to discuss their opinions, to respect the beliefs of those they disagree with, to discover similarities, and to reconcile with differences. Now, you might be tempted to think along the lines of “What happens if someone is unwilling to compromise or if they’re too stubborn to discuss a resolution with Section 3?”. Well, my friend, that’s where Randal Oland comes in.

Oland is Pumpkin Scissors’ protagonist and, while he doesn’t leave the strongest initial impression with viewers, it’s only when he’s utilized as a plot device that his potential as a character is fully realized. Don’t get me wrong; I like Oland. Mild-mannered and soft-spoken yet assertive when necessary, he’s a gentle giant that values the other members of Section 3 above all else. Oland’s a decent guy (my favorite memory of him is when, in a particularly touching scene, he prevents an injured and unemployed factory worker from killing himself) but, at the same time, he’s more than a little shallow and one-dimensional.. initially, at least. At various points in the show, there are times when Section 3 cannot resolve issues through normal means and it’s in these situations where Oland abandons his “nice guy” role. You know he means business when he flicks on that lantern he always carries. Illuminated by the ominous mist that emanates from his lantern, Oland, with the glazed, unhinged stare of a zombie and his infamous handgun (the “Door Knocker”), demolishes any overwhelming obstacle that Section 3 encounters, whether it be a tank or a squadron of trained killers, in an expedient fashion. Anytime the show’s writers find themselves in a dicey scenario, it’s Oland that almost always bails them out; he’s a walking deus ex machina. While it would be convenient for Pumpkin Scissors to leave this matter as is, Oland’s moments of invincibility are highlighted by the devastating after-effects that spawn from them.

Once upon a time, there was a mysterious division of the Royal Empire militia that was discontinued because of how ruthless its members were. This division was known as the “Invisible Nine” and Oland was among them. The scenes where he is forced to employ what he acquired from his “Invisible Nine” days are among Pumpkin Scissors’ most memorable moments. A Gregorian chorus screams in the background and the skies blacken as Oland’s Door Knocker wreaks havoc on all it comes in contact with. He slowly trudges toward his target, entirely unfazed by the bullets that decorate his body, as bystanders cannot resist gazing in horror. It’s understandable; after all, these scenes are frightening spectacles unlike any other. All of a sudden, it’s over. The Gregorian chorus fades into nothingness, the skies brighten, and Pumpkin Scissors resumes its regularly scheduled programming. As for Oland, he’s not as fortunate. See, when he activates his lantern, Oland’s not exactly invulnerable; his zombified state temporarily numbs the pain of whatever injury is inflicted on him so when he’s done destroying everything, any damage he absorbed along the way affects his body when he reverts to normal. Sure, Oland can automatically overpower any opponent he faces but that doesn’t amount to much when he has to be hospitalized immediately afterwards. Every fight that Oland involves himself in are accompanied by a collection of gruesome injuries and more than a few mental scars. Not only does he have to confront an inferiority complex (created because he feels he contributes nothing to Section 3 other than his wanton acts of destruction) but he also has to battle his PTSD (he’s reminded of his “Invisible Nine” days and the people he killed anytime he’s forced to use his lantern) and then there’s the thought in the back of his mind that he cannot resist mulling over. There are times when Oland imagines a day in which he’s forced to activate his lantern but is too frightened of the after-effects to go through with it, in which his overreliance on the lantern ends up destroying him. It’s when Pumpkin Scissors becomes a more serious show that Oland’s deepest, darkest fear morphs into a reality.

In a two-parter involving the kidnapping of Lt. Alice L. Malvin, the flaws of Section 3 emerge for all to see and the same can be said for Pumpkin Scissors itself. Our protagonists commit severe errors in judgment and the effects of these errors are colossal. For the first time ever (and not the last), Oland’s Door Knocker isn’t enough to save the day; he can barely defend himself, let alone fight, when a powerful assailant attacks him. Finally, the members of Section 3 fail in the protecting the lives of innocent civilians, also a first. This two-parter is the initial showing of this show’s potential, a vivid glimpse into what it can (and eventually does) accomplish later. With that, one would expect the succeeding episode to amplify the morbid atmosphere of the two-parter, to develop Oland’s inferiority complex, and to (at the very least) investigate into who Oland’s attacker works for (you know, what the show has been hinting about since its earliest episodes).

One would be incorrect.

Apparently, some big shot on the Pumpkin Scissors staff gave the aforementioned two-parter a hard look, observing the vilest corners of the human heart, the monstrosities of the Royal Empire, and the intensely emotional core of it all, and declared “For the next episode, I want a silly love story between Section 3’s most worthless member and a character nobody will ever see again. Yep; I really think this is an ideal fit for the narrative and tone of the series”. Episode 13 is not only a phenomenal waste of your time (the less said about Martis, his paper-thin characterization, and his relationship with a prepubescent girl, the better) but it’s also indicative of a bigger issue I have with Pumpkin Scissors, at least early on. I will trumpet its’ virtues from the highest rooftops if necessary but I cannot reconcile with the earlier episodes’ habit of slinking away from taking itself seriously. Time after time, whenever Pumpkin Scissors’ early episodes encounter anything that deviates from its fun-loving nature, there is a immediate shift in the other direction. Thankfully, it abandoned this habit as time progressed and Pumpkin Scissors is better because of it.

Even when the flaws of the earlier episodes are overlooked, there are a handful of shortcoming that some observers would opt for criticizing. While Pumpkin Scissors is quite the impressive show plot-wise, it flounders aesthetically. The background art is stiff, the color palette uninspired, and the CGI appalling; given that Studio Gonzo produced this show, it’s understandable that the CGI is as jarring as it is but the same cannot be said for the soundtrack. While the music is far from terrible, it’s not much to write home about, either. These shortcomings aren’t exactly flashing red lights; they aren’t severe enough to turn away potential viewers but at the same time, people actively looking for things to criticize, that only watch a show to attempt discovering what’s wrong with it, will immediately point to Pumpkin Scissors’ aesthetics and judge the entire show because of it.

Thank God, then, that it has 2nd Lt. Alice L. Malvin.

Alice is the sort of character that can make any viewing experience worthwhile; by any measure, she’s a show-stealer of the highest caliber. However, judging from what other critics have written about her, one wouldn’t exactly walk away with a positive impression of her. In the eyes of these critics, only the most rudimentary elements of Alice’s character are visible so they condemn her without dedicating any time to familiarizing themselves with her. According to them, Alice is nothing more than a nuisance, a pacifist that doesn’t advocate for her beliefs as much as she screams for them, and they dismiss her entirely because of this. Perhaps it’s because they (and anime viewers in general) feel uncomfortable around assertive women. Perhaps it’s because they view characters from a stereotypical lens. Whatever the case may be, to craft such a broad, sloppy depiction of Alice in your reviews and then flippantly write her off is a severe mistreatment of one of the greatest female protagonists this medium has to offer.

“Who does Section 3 exist for? For the sake of corrupt army officers, so we turn a blind eye while they get rich, so we can have meaningless jobs? Section 3 exists for the people! If we tuck our tails and play it safe, then we’re no better than those monsters that prey on the weak, the poor, and the innocent,” - Alice L. Malvin

A defender of the defenseless, a voice for the voiceless, Alice is a strong-willed idealist that’s never afraid of sharing her beliefs. Inspired as a child by her war-hero grandfather and his acts of valor, she dreams of bettering people’s lives like he once did. As captain of Section 3, Alice devotes the entirety of her being into each mission and, by proxy, her cause. She performs one impassioned oration after another, eloquently expatiating on her ideals and objectives, which not only invigorates the spirits of those around her but also rouses her spirits as well. However, Alice doesn’t exist just to monologue. Steadfastly loyal and stubborn to a dangerous degree, she’ll venture to the furthest of extremes for her beliefs, even if it involves risking her life in the process. On the one hand, the members of Section 3 are awestruck by the magnitude of Alice’s charisma and force of personality. On the other hand, they’re alternately concerned and frightened at the overwhelming effects of her stubbornness. Gradually, Alice realizes the unnecessarily hostile situations her willpower drags them into and, slowly but surely, she matures. Throughout the course of the series, Alice learns that pouring your heart and soul into minute activities exhausts your energy, that not every battle needs to be won, that forcing your beliefs onto others doesn’t always produce the desired results, that shouldering burdens by yourself isn’t a good idea. As a result, Alice develops into a more calm, rational, and controlled leader of men, one that isn’t as possessed by her passions. Where Alice once pontificated on what’s acceptable and not for a member of Section 3, now she allows them a greater level of freedom. Where Alice once involved herself in each and every conflict she observed, whether big or small, whether external or internal, now she’s willing to pick and choose only the most crucial ones. Alice’s ascent to maturity is undoubtedly among Pumpkin Scissors’ greatest feats; her arc is never emphasized or forced. Rather, it flows with the series’ overall narrative so seamlessly that it’s difficult to spot. During Pumpkin Scissors’ unforgettable finale, there is a beautiful scene where the wealthy and the unemployed finally come to terms with one another. Guns and pitchforks are tossed aside, differences are reconciled, sworn enemies dole out affectionate hugs, and the socioeconomic divide shrinks. It’s all thanks to Lt. Alice L. Malvin, who combined her fiery passion, her quixotic ideals, and the compromising nature she developed over time into a climatic speech that temporarily destroyed classism. She still has quite a ways to go before she meets the standard established by her grandfather but, when the credits roll, you feel confident in what Alice will accomplish in the future.

If you’re looking for a traditional ending, where the good guys completely vanquish the presence of evil, you won’t find it in Pumpkin Scissors. What this series’ conclusion lacks in a satisfying ending, it more than compensates with pragmatism. In the real world, systemic corruption, moral depravity and other societal ills cannot be washed away with the wave of a wand or a powerful punch. Evil will linger no matter what action we take; the best we can do is minimize its’ presence as much as possible. That Pumpkin Scissors realizes this is indicative of its’ distinction. That more than a few viewers neglect this distinction is truly a shame. Much like Section 3, Pumpkin Scissors receives far too little acclaim for what it achieves. While it’s aesthetically average, monotonous in the musical sense, and tonally flawed (again, early on), Pumpkin Scissors compensates with a grandiose display of intellect. It entices, excites, educates, and enlightens, sometimes all at once. With the sublime precision of a symphony conductor and the unbridled ferocity of a flash fire, Pumpkin Scissors confidently confronts its subject matter in such a way that few can compare. With that, I leave you with a speech from Lt. Alice L. Malvin.

“From now on, our opposition takes the form of people aggravating the damages of war by selfishly withholding aid and comfort from the common men and women of the Empire. And up until now, these aggravators have been able to hide from justice and they will continue to hide from us behind money, violence, and bureaucracy. These barriers are just like the outer skin of a pumpkin. This unit will become a blade, a blade of justice, one that cuts down those barriers just like the scissors we use to cut pumpkins on Halloween. We will proudly remain sharp and strong in our resolution to bring transgressors to justice. From this moment on, Pumpkin Scissors is our name!”

For thousands of years, humans have debated over the most essential question of them all: what is a mangirl? Throughout history, that puzzling conundrum has ended friendships, severed marriages, and started two World Wars. It destroyed the minds of great philosophers and caused the deaths of billions of people. That question brought devastation in any place it was uttered and no one had any idea of how to solve it. Finally, in the year of our Lord 2013, a thirteen-episode obscurity of an anime by the name of “Mangirl (with an exclamation mark)” was released to the public with the intent of answering the age-old ... question once and for all. And answer it, Mangirl does. This anime argues that a “mangirl” isn’t a girl that transformed into a man (as Aristotle would tell you) nor is it a man passing himself off as a prepubescent female (as Einstein doggedly insisted to be true). Instead, this anime affirms that mangirls are not a type of person but a concept, a tradition, a religion, a lifestyle that its practitioners adhere to until their death.

Ok. I lied about Mangirl's purpose. However, if this anime isn’t an extensive study on transgender politics, then what is it supposed to be?

First and foremost, Mangirl is a love letter to the manga medium; this show succeeds in endearing itself due to its sincere, clever, and authentic portrayal of its subject matter. In spite of its supremely awkward title (and a handful of shortcomings), Mangirl is not only laden with charm but it’s also quite graceful and you simply cannot resist being enticed by it. Each episode is dedicated to a different aspect of manga-making, like phototypesetting, proofreading, and advertising; each aspect is not only thoroughly and expertly profiled but Mangirl’s writing also ensures that there is humor to be wrought from each aspect. In the first episode, it analyzes the financial side of a manga company, delving into logistics, statistics, and expenses with fervor, before it jeers at the pitiful amount of revenue a manga company generates. That Mangirl’s writing strengthens the show overall is largely thanks to its self-aware sense of humor and (to a lesser degree) its cast.

To be perfectly clear, you’re not going to receive complex characterization from Mangirl, but its inventive and eccentric wit livens up an otherwise uninspiring cast. The basis of Mangirl is that the Monthly Comic Earth Star’s editorial staff (a team of certified idiots) aspires to publish a manga despite having zero experience (or so they claim) and the comedic potential is deployed almost immediately. The editorial staff is creating a manga about a formidable cyborg assassin in ancient Japan; the razor-sharp contrast between the dramatic and dreary manga and its whimsical creators is purposefully (and hilariously) jarring. What's particularly charming about Mangirl is the pop culture references, especially the shout-out to One Piece; as part of an elaborate joke, it pays tribute to the long-running shonen in one of its earliest episodes, complimenting its originality and unique concept while never mentioning it by name.

Mangirl's sense of humor is at its finest when it executes a memorable, recurring gag involving its flawed yet lovable protagonist, Hana Sasayama, the group editor-in-chief, where she spouts grandiose, self-serving goals for the company to achieve, which are seen through and dismissed, adding an endearing layer of nuance to Mangirl's relationship dynamics (Hana's tendency spirals out of control in the finale as she fantasizes of an amusement park, a wildly successful pop idol career and...world domination). I appreciate most of all its willingness to tease rather than venerate its protagonist for her vanity like a certain show is infamous for.

*cough* Love Live *cough*

Contrary to what you might believe, Mangirl isn’t all fun and games; there’s an intriguing subplot involving Aki Toori, Hana’s best friend, that not only provides the series with a layer of complexity but it also raises a crucial issue in Mangirl’s overall plot. The first scene preludes its biggest mystery; Aki refuses to join the editorial staff (for vague reasons) but is coerced into changing her mind by Hana alluding to an enigmatic "White Autumn." What it means is Mangirl’s biggest element of intrigue and it’s handled with the utmost care.. up to a certain point. As the series unfolds, we learn through in-universe hints and snarky asides that Aki once crafted lewd manga (possibly “hentai” as well) in her collegiate days. Aki’s sordid past provides a substantial amount of context into her character; it’s something that shames her, something that she’s all too eager to forget but at the same time Aki understands how her past equips her with knowledge that she can share with the rest of the staff. It’s a thoroughly delicate situation that’s shocking for a show of Mangirl’s nature. While each episode provides more and more context to Aki’s past, Mangirl doesn't reveal the meaning of “White Autumn” until it’s thrown in your face in a particularly anticlimactic, graceless, and tactless fashion. Mangirl’s haphazard handling of “White Autumn” is emblematic of the grievance I hold with this series: it possesses a dangerously limited skill set. This show is exceptional at making grand observations, at finding humor in ordinary situations, at laughing at itself, and at zeroing in on the minutiae of its subject matter (this show can pontificate on various fonts and what they represent like no other). However, what's outside of Mangirl’s level of expertise is far, far greater than what isn’t and watching it attempt reaching beyond its capabilities can be uncomfortable, to say the least. Fortunately, the series finale is a redemption of Mangirl’s mistakes.

SPOILER ALERT

Through twelve episodes, this show deceives you into assuming it’s centered on the editorial staff of a manga company and their journey to publishing their manga, only for the finale to reveal the truth. As the series concludes with the editorial staff watching themselves participate in the Mangirl opening theme, you finally realize the show’s real purpose. Mangirl isn't an anime about an editorial staff but an anime about an anime about an editorial staff; it’s a grand Matryoshka doll of a story and I simply adore shows of that nature.

SPOILER ALERT OVER

With an eternal creative streak and a brilliant sense of humor, Mangirl manages to separate itself from its peers. When it involves manga-making anime, Mangirl prizes subtlety while shows like Bakuman and (ugh) Eromanga-sensei prefer crafting broad strokes. When it involves shorts, Mangirl contains more nuance than the likes of Bananya and Plastic Neesan. And when it comes to comedy, Mangirl possesses just the right balance; it’s not hilarious to the point of excess nor is it lacking comically. In spite of my earlier criticisms, Mangirl is a show I’d recommend. However, I must advise you to not let its title give you the wrong impression.

“You can’t fool television viewers with dancing girls and flashing lights” - Bob Barker

If there’s any pop culture entity that can dispute Mr. Barker’s claim, it is the idol genre. Prizing style over substance, flair over functionality, and pizazz over practicality, titles within the idol genre have discovered success time after time by appealing to its fanbase more than anything else. Unfulfilled character arcs, glacial pacing, stale voice acting, and even gaping plot holes can all be negated by the lavish concerts and energetic score from your standard idol anime. That’s not to mention the miracles that a moe pop idol can conjure; there are ... few tactics with greater financial success than inserting as many cute anime chicks into your show as possible. The idol genre has proven again and again that you really can fool viewers with dancing girls and flashing lights.

It is in this genre that Love Live has established a name for itself. Produced by Sunrise (Cowboy Bebop, Code Geass), Love Live (or “LL” for short) has developed into the biggest and brightest star of the idol genre, its massive fan base and overwhelming merchandise serving as major influences for its fame. Love Live is widely considered to be the greatest anime of its particular category, if not necessarily a critical darling. However, Love Live’s lofty status raises a few interesting conundrums: if titles within the idol genre are, by and large, bereft of depth and meaning, then how is one supposed to properly determine which is the greatest? Why should Love Love be considered the ideal representative of the idol genre? Do Love Live’s characters display more elaborate dances than that of Aikatsu? Does LL possess a greater sense of humor than The Idolmaster? I figured that actually watching Love Live would answer my questions so that’s what I did. To be perfectly honest, I harbored a few misgivings about Love Live, mainly that it's nothing more than meme fodder. However, the optimist in me believed that Love Live would be far more than that. With its charming story, LL would not only soothe my heart but inspire me to espouse its virtues as well.

While Love Live didn’t exactly confirm my worst fears, it is hardly a series that I’d recommend. My opposition to LL doesn’t stem from hatred or disappointment; rather, it is generated from the show’s lackluster execution of its most basic requirements. I’m more than willing to condone a mishap or two in the visual department but a grocery list of logical fallacies, one after the other, is something else entirely. For example, your show might have a problem when your story struggles to formulate a raison d'etre. Love Live is focused on three friends (Honoka, Umi, and Kotori) that desire to prevent their school from closing down but, beyond their adoration for it, they never clarify why they want to save it. If our protagonists are unaware of their cause for concern, why should I be invested in what they’re doing? Anywho, the trio agree that forming a school idol group is the best course of action (because why should you start donations and petitions when you can sing for a great cause?) but first they have to be approved by Eli Ayase, the Student Council President that’s overly harsh towards our aspiring heroines.

Will our main trio find a concrete purpose for saving their school?
Will Ayase change her dastardly ways?
Will Love Live start caring about itself?

These questions will be answered right after Love Live exposes you to the umpteenth shot of Honoka’s butt.

At its core, Love Live is a show that panders like no show has ever pandered before. Not only is there an obligatory beach/swimsuit episode but there’s also the rampant fanservice (especially early on), as well as an unbearable “chest grab” gag (it has to be seen to be believed). Couple that with Love Live’s excessive moe aesthetic (the sparkly eyes, the constant blushing, and the unnatural wiggling/squirming) and top it all off with the bizarre scene in episode 11 where a friend of Honoka’s rubs her head and scratches her chin like Honoka is some sort of dog. What you’ll get is one phenomenal crowd-pleaser of a show, a show that prefers to satisfy fetishes rather than concern itself with storytelling. The flimsily constructed plot accomplishes little beyond serving as an elaborate excuse to showcase the cuteness of Love Live’s characters; the cast is nothing but a hodgepodge of stereotypes. Outside of Honoka, Umi, Kotori, and Ayase, there’s the athletic one (Rin and her “nya”s), the intense rival (Nico and her ridiculous poses), the shy one (Hanayo and her idol obsession), the tsundere (Maki)..... and Nozomi, the Student Council Vice President that perpetrates the aforementioned “chest grab” gag (I’ve never seen a VP constantly undermine the President quite like Nozomi does in LL).

It will be of little surprise to you when I say that most of Love Live’s characters are inessential. Ayase and Kotori, however, are crucial to a certain extent but it’s Honoka and Umi that are the true outliers. Honoka is Love Live’s protagonist, a spontaneous do-gooder cut from the cloth of the spunky girl trope. What truly defines Honoka as a character are her over-the-top speeches (those bits of dialogue are downright painful in the amount of vapid positivity they exude) and her overwhelming ego (we’ll get to that later). Umi, on the other hand, is Honoka’s foil; she’s literally the only LL character with common sense, a realistic approach, and a complex personality. As Honoka’s best friend, Umi desires to aid her friend in achieving her dream but is, at first, adamantly against Honoka’s idea of an idol group because Umi rightfully doubts the effort that Honoka applied to it. Over time, Umi softens her stance on Honoka’s idea and of idol groups on general, even to the point where she valiantly defends the existence of idols in a climatic scene. On a surface level, Umi appears to be the stereotypical “quiet one”, that and nothing more, but she quickly endears herself as she wages war against her anxiety, her timidity, and the mob mentality that is an all-encompassing presence in Love Live.

Honoka lords over Love Live with an iron fist; there isn’t a single character in any medium, animated or not, that wields as much creative control as Honoka. If there’s one thing that you simply must know about Love Live, it’s that this show is gravitated entirely towards what Honoka desires and anyone that deviates from it is severely punished. Honoka advertises her viewpoints as essential for success and for the betterment of others but it’s obvious that she's only massaging her ego. For example, Umi wants to perform in concerts with a knee-length skirt (for several logical reasons) and, while any true friend would respect Umi’s wishes, Honoka, with Kotori’s help, secretly created skirts of shorter length. When Umi discovers this act of treachery, she's understandably upset but Love Live more or less remains loyal to Honoka’s scheme. It’s all very sickening; Honoka is this lionized ringleader of debauchery and deceit with the overarching narrative and Kotori as her partners in crime (Kotori is the ideal yes-man for Honoka; she possesses very, very few individual thoughts or opinions, existing only to blindly support Honoka). The in-universe benefits that Honoka receives from LL are simply absurd; she’s hailed as the idol group’s leader despite not proving herself as one, she’s praised for her unreasonable badgering of potential members, and her excessive pettiness is rarely admonished. The moments where Honoka is called out on her BS, like Ayase pointing out her arrogance or Nico questioning Honoka’s leadership, are so, so refreshing but they are few and far between. Is it too much to expect LL to treat its characters with fairness and rationality?

Buried deep within Love Live’s framework, beneath Honoka’s ego trip, beneath the gratuitous pandering, beneath the shallow characterization, is a redeemable project. It’s LL’s soundtrack that possesses most of this show's promise; soothing and refined, the OST is stunning in its versatility. Not only does Love Live’s score contain acoustic guitar songs and piano solos but there are also big band pieces as well. Although LL tends to utilize the same five or six songs over and over, the music is still a joy to listen to. However, when you’re not enchanted by Love Live’s score, you're left in awe by the artificiality of it all. Like a bouquet of silk flowers, there is very little authenticity in Love Live; its worldview is far too picturesque, too quixotic, for its own good. In the world of Love Live, conflicts are resolved entirely through dogged persistence, flashbacks galore, BS logic, and the power of friendship. Any chemistry issue within the idol group is negated by the characters constantly complimenting one another. “You’re the best!” “No. I’m not that special. YOU’RE the best.” NO; YOU’RE THE BEST!” I’m almost positive that roughly 70 percent of Love Live’s script is composed of exchanges like that.

When Honoka’s idol group wish to compete in the School Idol Tournament, the school director allows them to do so, no questions asked. She doesn't explain to them the financial costs of this decision to them nor does she schedule a meeting with their parents and teachers to determine whether or not this course of action is wise. If you thought that was an egregious example of a show bypassing logic for the sake of moving the plot forward, then, boy, do I have news for you. Love Live managed to land the jackpot in logical fallacies twice during the same episode. The first was the aforementioned example with the school director. The second? Well, allow me to explain. The director has permitted Honoka’s group to participate in the School Idol Tournament only if everyone within the group lands a passing grade on an upcoming test. Because of this, everyone is diligently preparing for the big day, with Umi, Kotori, Maki, Hanayo, and Nozomi tutoring the academically challenged members of the group, specifically Honoka (she possesses the intellect of a second grader despite being in high school because of anime logic). After everyone finishes their test, the idol group members convene to share their scores with one another. They quickly discover that every member passed; however, Honoka hasn’t shared her score with anyone. As the group begs her to reveal her grade, a few members express regret that their efforts will be worthless if Honoka failed. It is right then and there that Honoka dramatically unveils the graded test that was concealed behind her back. With the inspiring orchestral strings blaring in the background and a larger-than-life grin plastered on Honoka’s face, her graded test is revealed…. to have a score of 53.

I would like to note that, in Japan, a 53 is a failing grade, just like it is in the rest of the world.

As far as acts of stupidity are concerned, this was simply breathtaking. That Love Live treated Honoka’s score like some sort of grandiose achievement is not only absolutely hilarious but it’s quite perplexing as well.

What was the criteria for passing? To answer correctly more than half of the questions?
Did the teachers accept Honoka’s test as a passing grade because he/she pitied Honoka?
Was the teacher bribed by Honoka’s parents to pass her?

Now that I’m thinking about it, I know exactly why Honoka passed: because Honoka is Love Live’s protagonist and presenting her with a challenging obstacle is far beyond LL’s capabilities.

During Love Live’s final three episodes, the narrative attempted something new, gravitating towards poorly handled melodrama like a moth being drawn towards a burning candle. The result was the nadir of a thoroughly average title; Love Live’s emo phase flopped because it was overbearing (especially with the histrionic soap opera that was episode 12), because it was extremely jarring (completely antithetical to a series that, up to this point, was directed towards maid cafes and pillow fights), and because it disappeared the instant that Nico ordered Honoka to stop being angsty. Amidst all of the melodrama, Love Live’s finale introduced us to the highlight of the entire series, a truly beautiful scene with Honoka and Umi reminiscing on the stage of their first concert. It reminded me of what the underrated western Justified used to excel at, simply placing two characters in a given setting and allowing its masterful script to take it from there. With the aforementioned scene in Love Live, there was no overpowering song in the background, no special effects, and no unnecessary camera angles. It was just Honoka and Umi shooting the breeze. As I was watching all of this unfold, I thought to myself, “Why couldn’t Love Live bother to do something like this before?”

If Love Live really is the best that the idol genre has to offer, then I certainly won't expose myself to more of its ilk. Yes, Love Live possesses an excellent soundtrack, a lovable character in Umi, and a spark of untapped potential or two. However, that is hardly enough to deliver it from my wrath. Not only does this show have a repulsive love affair with its protagonist but it treats every other character with the utmost contempt. Not only does this show appeal to the lowest common denominator but it also insults your intelligence. Not only does this show enrage with its wasted potential but it also shoots itself in the foot with its constant tonal shifts. Vapid yet infuriating, erratic yet meandering, bewildering yet unenticing, Love Live is a jack of many trades and a master of wasting your time. Dancing girls and flashing lights cannot redeem this scrap heap of mediocrity.

Hidden beneath the antics, the one-liners, and the pop culture references, Aho Girl’s goal is obvious even to the untrained eye; it desires your attention. “Look at me! Look at me!” Aho Girl screams, waving its arms and jumping about in a frenzied, excessive, and desperate manner. In doing so, this show has managed to not only work but endear itself to the audience as well. Quite a few seasonal viewers have been smitten over this show and, at first glance, it’s easy to see why. Aho Girl is energetic. It’s straightforward. And it’s occasionally charming. However, Aho Girl is also painful to watch.

First and ... foremost, this show is simply not funny. For Aho Girl, which largely subdues its aesthetics in an effort to emphasize its writing, this is a severely damaging flaw. Aho Girl fancies itself an extravagant comic extraordinaire yet it never fully ventures into the absurd; it’s as if Aho Girl is frightened of abandoning its slice-of-life roots and as a result is rather hesitant of displaying signs of vivaciousness. The instances where its comic genius sparks to life are memorable in their own right (the homage to the Power Rangers, in particular) but they are few and far between. It hardly helps that Aho Girl, like most mediocre comedies, is obsessed with explaining the jokes to you; with every act of mischief, there’s not only a character (read: the “self-insert”) elaborating on the details of said act but there are also occasional cues from Aho Girl itself that tell you how the act was intended to be funny. As this show can attest to, even comedies can be guilty of infodumping.

From the first episode, Aho Girl is engaged in a war against common sense. This is a show that prides itself in its intentional stupidity; for Aho Girl, lapses in judgment and instances of in-the-moment logic are par for the course. A carefree attitude and general acts of silliness are a major source of this show’s appeal. That said, Aho Girl underwhelms when it attempts a serious approach; it’s as if the show doesn’t understand its audience. Most viewers appreciate Aho Girl because of its slapstick humor, because of the amusing eyecatches, because of its short runtime and, yes, because of the fanservice. I doubt that these viewers picked up Aho Girl for the half-baked, insipid, and monotonous moments of insight that ultimately result in little but wasted time. These moments of insight are not only executed poorly but their suitability is subpar; Aho Girl tends to observe the most trivial matters, like a low score on a quiz, and overexert itself when it should be focusing on the more important problems, like the abusive relationship at the center of it all.

Every problem that arises from Aho Girl stems from the disastrous dynamic between its protagonists; it’s the repugnant elephant in the room that Aho Girl’s fanbase has condoned, glossed over, neglected, and outright ignored at times. The cast members are defined by a single trait but no cast member has as damaging a trait as Akuru Akutsu (the “self-insert”) and Yoshiko Hanabatake (the show’s poster girl). Yoshiko’s defining trait is idiocy while Akuru’s is anger; while Yoshiko compensates for her lack of intellect with a can-do attitude, Akuru offers little outside of his constant rage. There have been plenty of characters similar to Akuru, like Last Exile’s Alex Row, that have provided substance, versatility and growth to their cast beyond their brooding tendencies and hair-trigger temper. Akuru, however, is feeble in comparison; he makes little effort to express himself beyond screaming matches and physical abuse. When he encounters a problem, Akuru explodes. When his friend attempt helping him, Akuru becomes spiteful; he insults, he torments, he belittles, he punches, he kicks, and he hurls expletives at his friends simply because he perceives them as annoying. Sure, Akuru apologizes once in a while but he never bothers to change. Honestly, why should he? The other cast members, specifically Yoshiko, and Aho Girl itself by proxy have long since accepted this as rational behavior. That the show has treated Akuru’s abusive tendencies as a gimmick, that the show’s fanbase has little reaction to it, is sickening to me.

There is a place in this world for Aho Girl, where it can exist without scrutiny of any sort. Aho Girl has established itself and thrived in GIFs, in Vines, in reaction videos, in memes and in the Weird Side of YouTube. It is there that Aho Girl’s positive traits can flourish. However, under any sort of analysis, Aho Girl not only leaves you unsatisfied but more than a little repulsed as well. This show, allergic to depth and disgusted by morality, is at best mildly amusing and at worst one of the biggest disgraces of a thoroughly mediocre season. Aho Girl makes a spectacle of itself - presenting faux-meaningful observations; idolizing its vapid female lead; overindulging in panty shots; deploying one tired, overused cliché after another (the sister complex, among others); and fishing for attention - while accomplishing absolutely nothing in the end. While its peers in the comedy genre have pushed boundaries, expanded horizons, enlightened its fans, and revolutionized the medium, Aho Girl has contributed little beyond munching on bananas.

Composed with precision, molded in the fashion of its peers, enhanced by the benefits of modern technology, and engineered for mass production, Alice and Zouroku is a meticulously manufactured project at its core. Among the multitude of shows this season that garnered attention early on before dissipating or self-combusting, like flashy fireworks on the 4th of July, Alice and Zouroku possesses the framework to achieve longevity (Don’t be surprised if news of a sequel arrives). With an astonishing 44 minute intro episode, a strangely mystifying opening scene, and an engaging premise (characters known as “Dreams of Alice” can conjure up anything they desire with the ... “Mirror Gate”), Alice and Zouroku was virtually guaranteed to attract viewers. Any anime can display sparks of potential, as Re:Creators and Eromanga-sensei had before quickly falling out of favor in the public eye. The challenge is to somehow transform the sparks into an electric current, to maintain the hype (if not exceed it), and to craft and grasp a standard of excellence. This, my friends, is what Alice and Zouroku achieved.

A casual observer will most likely give this show a quick once-over, noting the cutesy character designs and simplistic promotional art, before turning away in disgust. However, as the adage goes, there’s more to this show than meets the eye. You see, Alice and Zouroku takes pride in its philosophical edge. Supported by an excellent script and a fascination with orchestral strings (especially in episode 4’s rescue operation), the deeper ideas and implications represented here are simply astounding in its amount of detail. For example, one character, deprived of self-worth, only senses fulfillment in helping and nurturing others (this character is rather deficient in the third level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs) while another character is a prime example of the Resource Dependence Theory (the more love and support she receives, the more content she is; the less love and support she receives; the less content she is). Alice and Zouroku, above all else, crafts more than a few moral conundrums, appealing to the intellectual in me:

Is it OK to sacrifice individual needs for the good of others?
Do the risks of an endeavor outweigh the rewards or, vice versa?
Would you kill one person to save many?
Is isolating unique traits just as destructive as forcing these traits to assimilate?
If you flaws are detrimental, should you embrace them or seek to minimize them?
If special abilities existed, would it be acceptable for a controlled minority to possess them or should all of us have them?

Of course, Alice and Zouroku isn’t entirely intellectual nourishment; much of what constitutes this show is directed towards flaunting its inventive brilliance. Produced by J.C. Staff, which (judging from its involvement in Food Wars and Prison School) is no stranger to innovation, the visuals are unsurprisingly wonderful; the eyecatches, consisting of a spinning Mirror Gate on a blank background, are proof of this. However, it’s the cinematography (stunning establishment shots of the city), subtle stylistic touches (characters can alternate their clothes and hairstyles), and intriguing narrative techniques that truly showcase Alice and Zouroku at its best. There are quite a few narrative techniques in this show, like the occasional genre shift or the homages to Alice and Wonderland, but what really stands out is what occurs in episode 8. Here, the storyline shifts away from the protagonist, introducing a girl named Hatori (she’s a “Dream of Alice” as well as said protagonist), and it presents a fairy tale (“The Evil Witch”) that parallels the events of episode 8 (a story within a story, if you will) before reverting to the original plot halfway through the episode. It is this creativity that shines through in the second half of Alice and Zouroku.

The waning minutes of episode 5 is when this series adjusts its focus, from drama to slice-of-life, from flashy fight scenes to melodic midnight walks, from tracking devices to stuffed animals. The orchestral strings, once bombastic and frenzied, are smoothed out to project a relaxed, carefree vibe; the occasional accordion solos are quite easygoing in their own right. The show’s sense of humor begins to come into its own, as it’s less reliant on the protagonist to generate laughs (we’ll get to her in a bit) and more geared towards its expertise of the Fish Out of Water concept. The characters’ unawareness of social cues and elements is brilliantly executed (the segment where one character explains what marriage is to another is simply a treat). Yes, Alice and Zouroku can deliver unabashed excellence but it’s the little things, the more refined touches, which make this show worthwhile.

Alice and Zouroku can establish settings as well as anyone, it can provide substantial themes to its storyline, and it can handle pathos like few are able to (the emotional scenes are quite realistic, neither overbearing nor underwhelming). However, expecting this show to construct a respectable cast is out of the question. At best, the characterization is unfulfilled, with hints of depth and dynamics materializing on occasion. Practically everyone you encounter in the show will momentarily stroll into the spotlight, spare a few lines about what constitutes them as a person, perhaps mention a tragic past, conjure up some sort of connection with the main cast before vanishing into the background; this allows the spotlight to illuminate even brighter for the protagonist. Sana is said protagonist and she, to put it lightly, is a handful. Early on, Sana projects the utter arrogance of someone who is fully aware of the unfathomable power she wields. It is this arrogance that generates a multitude of the disasters, both insignificant and catastrophic, in Alice and Zouroku. When Sana encounters a pig puppet, she causes pigs to rain from the sky. When Sana encounters a “Dream of Alice” misusing her abilities, she handles it with all the poise and control of the 10 year old that she pretends to be. When the issues she’s created are resolved, Sana excessively emotes over it, delivering the waterworks and self-pity like an attention-craving prima donna. Really, the only person in this show that’s worth appreciating is the titular character.

The “Zouroku” in Alice and Zouroku is rather unconventional for a show of this nature. He’s irritable, socially withdrawn, and a habitual smoker to boot. Yet, Zouroku is also the only realistic character you’ll find here. In a show overcompensated with shallow, cutesy idealists, this man comprehends his limitations and shortcomings more than anyone else; in one climatic scene, Zouroku states, “If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that nobody in this world is perfect. We lean on each other to get by because there’s some things you can’t do alone, no matter how smart or capable you are.” With an admirable performance from the wildly underrated John Swasey (the star of this show’s dub), Zouroku lords over the cast, dispensing words of wisdom in his realm of dominance (“It’s more important to focus on the people close to you than [to] dream about things that are out of reach”). Sana may be this show’s poster girl, the marketable leading lady, the reason why future viewers will be interested in Alice and Zouroku, but it’s this guy that you’ll remember long after you finish watching.

More than anything else, Alice and Zouroku was released with the sole intent of achieving popularity, and (seeing that it’s among this season’s most discussed titles) it succeeded. Every character (excluding Zouroku), every song, every awe-inspiring fight, every heartwarming scene was beneficial for its cause. Even the most obvious of its missteps, the laughable CGI, helps in sparking conversations about the show as a whole. Mind you, this strategy isn’t necessarily flawed (in this day and age, eyeballs mean everything) but it reduced this show’s potential. Alice and Zouroku doesn’t do enough to establish its own identity; it never pushes boundaries, never introduces new concepts, and never expands horizons. Alice and Zouroku comprehends the conventional and thrives in it; for that I hold no grudge. I just wish it amounted to more than a solid yet redundant title. Its best moments are understated, like Sanae humming the theme song at one point, and I commend Alice and Zouroku for what it does accomplish. Philosophically, it’s fascinating. Musically, it’s thrilling. Cinematically, it’s enchanting. However, this title is hardly worthy of any admiration or fervor. Alice and Zouroku is a respectable work, as sharp and concise as a staccato rhythm. It is a jack of many trades and master of none; there are areas of this show that fascinate me but, as a whole, Alice and Zouroku leaves much to be desired.

7 raining pigs out of 10