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Apr 3, 2021
I remember the first time I read Horimiya on a rainy night three years ago, how my chest pounded and eyes fixated upon the panels. Finding the last paperback of the first volume in the Barnes & Noble at Prudential Center while touring colleges in Boston had me grow a few inches. I have reread Horimiya three times, and in the near future that tally will probably increase to four. I absolutely adore the series, and it isn’t simply some flavor of the month popular ani/manga series that will be put aside for the next shiny narrative. It has been with me as I’ve become
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a much better person in a much better place and all the challenges that such transition entailed. Horimiya is always the first manga recommendation I give, because it brings me joy like few objects do.
Likened to stories of the caliber, craftsmanship, and care of My Neighbor Totoro and Paul King’s Paddington films, Horimiya extracts the details from normal life that find the human experience at its most, well, liveable. Roger Ebert lauded My Neighbor Totoro as “the world we should live in, rather than the one we occupy.” This is a line of thought that I can’t help but think perfectly captures the vision and beauty of the manga, which unusually thrives through inspection of the special area within a vacuum of these endorphin laden spaces. Horimiya is like Eric Rohmer reincarnated -- his penchant of finding sophistication in the minute -- without the French New Wave philosophical ponderings.
At the core of the series is how relationships can relinquish much of the impact to be had of stress, anxiety, and trauma. Miyamura grapples with an unrepresentative physical appearance that leads credence to social stagnation, isolation, and dysphoria. Hori sinks into stoicism with furthered responsibilities in her home life. Perhaps most apparent is Yuki’s interladen trauma (which probably will never be explained to manga readers/anime watchers, the dark tonal connection will remain exclusively tied to the original webcomic Hori-san to Miyamura-kun). Each member of the ensemble has varying degrees of inner turmoil, and the relationships they make do not undo their problems, nor fix, shift, or augment them. None of the relationships are infallible, and the criticisms of the character’s actions within their dynamic groups are quite easy to observe. Instead, these relationships vindicated their worth as human beings -- and nothing more.
However, it is necessary to note that the Horimiya anime’s qualities are distinct from the manga’s. I have always taken issue with an anime (or story of any medium) being praised for being ‘different’ than the accustomed motions of a high school romance, with deviations including but not limited to: the confession acting as a tool to jump into the next act as opposed to the conclusion, detailing the developments and difficulties of the relationship, exploring sexuality in any meaningful capacity, approaching love triangles in a manner not emphatically deranged, eluding melodrama, having a cast different from the handful of archetypes that have become overwhelmingly prevalent, having couples eradicate all of their problems at the advent of their union, the leads being too socially stunted to talk to someone of the opposite gender, and a truck conveniently placing a character in a comatose state for the plot to accelerate. You get the idea. This praise of being the ‘other’ just isn’t a high bar to set, and deviating from these trappings is not particularly indicative of the story’s quality. To say that Horimiya is great because it is ‘different’ is to not really understand what has given it an audience that has found an undying resonance with what it offers. It’s all too prevalent, easy, and epitomic of a lazy writer. The Horimiya manga is distinct, and because of that the anime is too. That says nothing of the adaptation’s prowess. To that point, I have a duty to the stories that I cherish to be as brutal as I can to those where the perceived value is not as pronounced.
What I’m alluding to is that this adaptation just doesn’t seem to get Horimiya. If I were to choose one scene that exemplifies this point, it would be the height of episode 7. When Miyamura goes on a family trip while forgetting his phone charger, Hori becomes distraught at the passage of time -- the days without him are too slow. This buildup continues for a series of microcosms into each of the following days, with Hori becoming more and more desperate for Miyamura to return to her. In her gloom, she recognizes how much he means to her. She misses him because he matters. This scene’s buildup is perfect, the audience yearns for their reunification as much as they do. Miyamura returns home, plugs in his phone, notices Hori’s missed calls, frantically leaves his apartment to meet her, and then it happens. They bump into each other in the elevator, and the moment is pacifying. Or, rather, it should be. Instead of having an accompanying score to set a serene atmosphere, after a brief moment, an abrasive, dramatic violin overtakes the entire scene like an overbearing film score from half a century ago. The scene -- meant to be one of the most visceral moments of the season -- falls flat. And it didn’t have to.
This was not entirely unexpected. From the first few seconds of the show’s opening theme, the dramatic undertones that were going to be overdone upon were immediately apparent. While the shot composition of the theme is relatively dynamic, the opening entirely focuses on latent conflict, and not the remedies of conflict and the calmness that follows -- the latter two of which make up a vast majority of the source material. My stomach turns every time the show cuts to the opening, but I can’t even tell if the song is bad, or if it’s just, well, all too different from the story I have become familiarized with (In further research the lyrics are equally jarring as what was implied from my emotional response).
Is my expectation the adaptors were going to interpret the source material faithfully to my personal (therein subjective) interpretation of the manga fair? Absolutely not, but it's important in explaining why I come away from the show with ambivalence, as opposed to ecstaticism. I could point to the OVA which is more atmospheric as opposed to dramatic, but that’s not notably relevant, nor is it important. However, this becomes indicative of a much larger problem. By episode six the show has soared through the 31st chapter (after writing this, user KANLen09 posted a forum thread outlining the chapter to episode adaptations. If you’re interested, do give it a look). From the first episode, a majority of the second chapter is cut to adapt through the third chapter, and from there this cherry picking of chapters only gets more apparent. For fairness, Horimiya’s eighth episode brings forward chapter 70 to reinforce the relationship with Remi and Sengoku, which I found to be an excellent flourish. This skillful reframing is more of the exception, not the rule, unfortunately. Excluding and rearranging chapters isn’t always bad, and is often utilized to fit in the television format more succinctly; Kaguya-sama: Love is War Season 2 is a good example of this. But unlike Kaguya-sama, the sections Horimiya skips are detrimental to the story.
Imagine that each inconsequential moment in your life was removed. What remains would be what is the (arbitrarily) eventful. Any casual moment evaporates into thin air. Sound tiresome? There’s a reason for this -- it is memory’s job to filter through our experiences, not the person’s immediate perception of moments unfolding. This adaptation is like memory, a selective approach to the past furnished as the present. Stories are like plants, they need room to breathe, develop, and grow. It is the little moments where the audience finds resonance with the characters. Small things, like Miyamura interacting with Souta’s friends, flesh out the events that follow. By removing these moments, the rushed ‘eventful’ moments don’t have the substantial familiarity to back them up. Supplemented by the forceful nature of this rendition, what remains is an unrecognizable show with recognizable faces.
And the faces do look fantastic. As HERO’s artstyle matures throughout the manga, the character designs are positively euphoric. Call me a sensualist, but admittedly, my main concern with the adaptation was botched character designs. I initially thought the pupil’s looked misplaced on the anime’s promotional art (and still do), but was shocked by how well the character art comes together; in that regard, it looks near perfect in almost every frame. The backgrounds are about as empty of thought as carbon copied visual novel backgrounds, and the animation is limited, but the overall visual presentation doesn’t really take away from the experience. Most of the direction is quite subdued, although there is a visual motif where the character’s have a pastel colored shadow countered with a white, textured background. This motif is probably overused, but is representative of (some) effort put into the aesthetic. Ishiama’s direction isn’t as stylized as his work on Shinsekai Yori, but it similarly has some clunky odd moments yet is above the pale.
The music, as I referenced earlier, fulfills its intended purpose just about never, and is woefully inadequate. The less abrasive tracks all seem clunky and out of focus, and the more pointed, directive parts of the score are more pathetic than I can begin to divulge. Possibly the worst offender is one the tracks that is supposed to connote rising tensions has a base so densely layered it sounds like the Trap/EDM I listened to back in middle school. There are a few moments of praise in the score. For instance, episode 11’s climax, which brings the show together has a calming piano as an accompaniment. My only comment on the voice acting is that having Hori’s voice being effeminate seems to be an inappropriate choice for her character.
A thought that I keep coming back to is that it would have been possible for the anime to be among the stratosphere of some of the premiere romcom titles. As Charlie Kaufman wrote in his script of Adaptation: “There are too many ideas and things and people. Too many directions to go. I was starting to believe the reason it matters to care passionately about something, is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size.” Horimiya thrives at compartmentalizing and rearranging the things that make people imperfect, yet redeemable, complex, yet understandable. The Horimiya anime does not ruin my endearment for the manga, nor do I think it is particularly horrid. It does, however, have its faults, more so than the manga. It will remain a less manageable, watered-down story, and that isn’t the end of the world.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Feb 8, 2021
(spoilers)
I didn’t like Isao Takahata’s The Tale of Princess Kaguya on a March midday of years past. In retrospection, maybe it was my degree of awakeness, eyes slouched and body sliding into the couch that was too comfortable for its own good. Or, it was my cerebrum not yet mature enough yet to be desensitized to the methodical pace and repetition of the derived folklore. Or a dozen other things. Whatever rationale I conjure, the obvious conclusion is that I was wrong.
The film’s visuals might very well be why man picked up the pencil, but that almost doesn’t need to be said. While Isao Takahata’s
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focus on the emptiness of the frame’s crevices has flocked a critical fawning over its nostalgic evocation, what stands out to me is the stillness of character, the moments of brevity, pondering, and composure, the wide frames, and the characters becoming one with their environment.
"Birds, bugs, beasts, grass, trees, flowers
Bring spring and summer, fall and winter"
Unlike that Spring day, from the first few minutes, the film’s impression was overwhelming. The scene where Kaguya imitates a pair of frogs’ lunging, communication, and direction that initiated a path of familial deviation had such detail and distinguished movement. Her initial characterization as a curious, cheerful child was unlike any recollection I had perceived of the film prior. From the impressive form of her movement and care put into the lingering of each jolt of her legs formulate a fluidity that is difficult to overstate, it dawned upon me that I was experiencing something very different from the film I thought I had previously seen.
"Go round, come round, come round, O distant time"
Following the amphibian beyond the bamboo cottage let Kaguya walk; the outside world’s influence took hold on the untouched child, skin as pale as the land she had come from, eyes as black as her inevitable despair. As she found comfort in easing into familiarity with the town boys’ methods — the way they speak, move, engage with their surroundings, and find happiness within their means — that door was eternally shut by misplaced trepidations of nobility above and a misguided patriarch. The Bamboo Cutter, in order to show Kaguya the world’s splendorous range, halted the world’s influence on her; by showing her the world, he unknowingly took it away.
"Come round, call back my heart"
Kaguya’s resistance to the dehumanization practices of a deeply rigid, intolerable expectation of female nobility is halted with the realization that any steps already taken were of no consequence. A ceremony predicated on her behalf, but not with her, and definitively not for her, a celebration without those whom she yearns to celebrate with, and a body questioning why she even ought to be celebrated. Despite placating her father’s wishes to an ability she thought was all she could muster, she recognizes that it was not enough. Despite her composure, the life she wanted to live is not only any longer attainable, but in compromise, there is but contempt. And she cracks.
"Come round, call back my heart"
The subdued, pastel backdrops falter at this moment, representative of a thick, muck inner turmoil. The lines blur and thicken, palette shifts monochrome, pastel robes fall for the stark red garments, the moon domineers the frame until Kaguya returns to her place of influence and familiarity — the cottage is sold, mountain decayed, faces gone, and the passage of time irreversible. Then, she awakes, eyebrows plucked, teeth as her eyes, and what was once bursting personality full of life now splinters stoic. This stoicism wavers only when the shade of grief overcomes that of joy — the prospects of an arranged marriage, the emperor’s assault, and in the return to the City of the Moon.
"Teach me how to feel"
How devastating it is to live as a piece of art. Kaguya, lauded in her piercing perfection and heart-wrenching deftness in all she put her mind to, never was an agent of her own happiness. Tied down and mouth shut like a statue, in disobedience came an erasing of the past like a colonialized relic, only to be held on with a tear. Whether her swan song with Sutemaru was really a dream or not, neither of them were willing to drop their obligations in such a manner as to realize a moment’s longing. When Kaguya says that she thinks she could have been happy with him, the implication is not that she wants to pursue that happiness, but recollect what could have been — a counterfactual of her own existence. The moon’s reach becomes clear, and Kaguya falls back down to earth.
"If I hear that you pine for me, I will return to you"
The Tale of Princess Kaguya might be about living one’s life to the best of their ability, or finding solace in that you never will. Maybe it is more about reconciliation with death, as Takahata passed away but half a decade later, or recognizing the beauty in pain as reflective of how things were once better. While pointed, the takeaway of having compassion for parents’ misguided actions, reaffirming the fallibility of parental figures is one that keeps recurring in my head. Despite all The Bamboo Cutter had done, in the end, Kaguya found the love for him to precede all else. She might have been a princess in background and dignity — she frolicked in a world outside the bamboo cottage, frog in hand, had loved, yearned, and felt pain with a youthful intensity — if only he knew that she was much more than that.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jun 27, 2020
Kaguya-sama: Love is War Season 2 continues as an obtusely flamboyant romantic comedy of strategic interpersonal messaging. The first season initially basks in this focus on competitive social interaction under the rule set of having the other confess their feelings to the other, thus fostering a hyper-strategized narrative with romantic comedy as a backdrop. The second season of the story quickly divulges as Shinomiya and Shirogane become decreasingly less rational of actors. With this loss of rationality, tactical maneuvering as a prominent entity of the narrative begins to decay, and the story becomes a bumbling mess of dissonant, mentally immature idiots whose strategic messaging becomes
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increasingly deluded.
While this shift in priorities could be perceived as an oversimplification of the plot, in actuality this couldn’t be anything less than the case. Shinomiya and Shirogane, in their loss of rationality, become more involved in various forms of societal conformity. This conformity highlights the culture and their placement within it, while a paradigm augmentation is hinted at as early as in the first season when Kaguya is disillusioned at the rate in which Japanese high schoolers ‘do the thing’. Furthermore, the relationship between Nagisa and Tsbubasa serves to bridge this noticeable gap as the show’s ‘normie’ couple.
From geeking out over astrology signs to fumbling an astronomy night to being embarrassed by parents at school functions, the second season presents Shinomiya and Shirogane at their most personable. Coupled with the cultish personalities of Fujiwara and Ishigami, there’s a vast improvement in the shows’ overall energy from the first season -- which will only improve if the source material is any indication -- which plays out with more consistently landing comedy punchlines and earned audience-exuding inner-12-year-old-girlish screeches.
Within the romance genre, there are typically two routes in which a relationship could be represented, through the presentation of identities, such as Princess Mononoke and Romeo and Juliet, and the presentation of coinciding personalities, such as the Before Trilogy and Spice and Wolf. Kaguya-sama utilizes some of the best elements these focal groups have to offer to further the characters’ newfound personability. Shirogane is stuck as a commoner, whereas Shinomiya is the very definition of aristocratic. Both Shinomiya and Shirogane are arrogant and deluded, yet ultimately kindhearted and understanding. This characterization of these characters makes me personally want their relationship to succeed and to continue my investment in the show.
There are many motifs that are quite noteworthy within the narrative, such as Hayasaka and Shinomyia’s private conversations at the Shinomiya mansion, Fujiwara training Shiragani in eclectic exercises, and Ishigami and Iino’s inconsequential tussles. These work to pad out the story by both contemplating elements of the plot and furthering personal connections through interaction. While other shows might use such motifs to create overly repetitive comedic tropes, Kaguya-sama’s have purpose. Similar to the relationship meanderings between Nagisa and Tsbubasa providing a more societally normalized relationship, each of these recurring scenes add value to the rest of the story. This is encapsulated in the rationale behind Ishigami’s disenfranchisement and carries over to the relationship dynamics between Shinomiya and Shirogane.
Shinichi Omata’s direction takes some of the most potent lessons he learned from his stint at Studio Shaft and proceeds to utilize one of the best current manga source materials available to scrap together something innately special. His storyboarding is abstract, often overbearing, but Otama carefully resides on that line. Kaguya-sama’s visuals aren’t always necessarily exceptional, but Otama wisely focuses on allocating the resources available to specific scenes that require dynamic blocking. This, in my opinion, has been Otama’s largest strength in this project. Don’t expect art and animation quality consistently on the level of a Kyoto Animation project, but it often can get shockingly close when it needs to.
The score and voice acting take themselves way too seriously, which is entirely appropriate considering the source material does the same. The voice acting of each character is fitting, however, Aoi Koga is the standout as Shinomiya’s voice actor. Koga’s range is astronomical, ostensibly unmatched with any anime performance of recent. Kaguya as a character would require a lot from any voice actor, and Koga performs exceptionally.
Simply put, Kaguya-sama: Love is War Season 2 capitalizes on the improvements in the source material to demonstrate peaks in the narrative while alluding to some of the quality that will inevitably come in future seasons. Even for fans of what quintessential romantic comedies have to offer, like Horimiya and Ouran High School Host Club, Kaguya-sama provides an entirely uncharted experience that is notably engrossing.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Feb 16, 2020
*minor spoilers (I wrote this back in 2018)
Masaaki Yuasa is an up and coming animation auteur who has a complete hold of his craft, whether it be sound design, tight scripts, and an unfathomably imaginative direction in all of his works. In both TV animation and his 5 credits as a film director, he’s created a style that is undeniably his own. After working on several short projects, he had his first breakthrough with Mind Game (an adaptation) in 2004, and Kaiba (an original project) in 2008. He then went on to make The Tatami Galaxy and the crowd funded Kick-Heart. In 2013, he co-founded
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Science SARU, and since has directed 2 shows and 2 films (another film set to release this year).
Yuasa’s style often shifts depending on the project, but there are some universal traits of his works. It’s not so much that he doesn’t have a style, but that he runs with the most interesting method of portraying a given work. There’s this abstractness and unpredictability in his shots that’s hard to put your finger on. One of the first things that stands out his the character designs. Although they often vary in artstyle, they are always simplistic to lend themselves well to exaggerated movement, which is a stable of his. Aside from Devilman Crybaby, all his works have extremely loud color palettes. Devilman even has some stand out scenes with purples, reds, and oranges, but the color palette is mostly made of greys.
The colors dictate how the audience should feel, while also directing the eyes to key images in the frame and being as pleasing as possible. The ways the imaginary camera pans and what is being transitioned to always comes off as clever and having lots of thought put into it and the lighting is both believable and rambunctious. It’s as if the most mundane of objects are set pieces in their own way, and the shots thoroughly express this.
Yuasa’s most recent film Night is Short, Walk on Girl, encapsulates everything he’s done right thus far in his career, and what he continues to do so. The film is a spin off of The Tatami Galaxy, while differentiating itself with an obsession of the nightlife and the romanticisms of young adulthood. Of his recent endeavors, it’s easily his most over the top.
Visually, the film succeeds in every way. The backgrounds meshing of textures is different while not looking out of place with the character designs. The immense color palette -- if there even is one, basically every bright color is at play here -- is aided by the exaggerated framing of the characters. The visual style changes constantly yet still feels fluid and never uninspired.
There’s a shot in the beginning of the film where Kurokami is at a wedding party, looking out upon the Kyoto landscape. The lighting from within the room is flat, while the outside is illuminated with dozens of neon colored shapes and flares, creating a longing within the audience to see what’s in store.
Kyoto nightlife is presented as bombastically splendid. It’s charming and memorable, offering nothing but good memories for those who search for them. Kurokami’s bright red dress juxtaposes Senpai’s plain looking outfit, displaying Kurokami’s ferocious nature of searching for a fleeting moment of bliss through exuberant ecstasy and Senpai’s straight forward personality. Gakuensai is dressed in all purple, displaying his superiority as a royalty-esque figure, as the student council president. The characters in the street play all wore red, symbolizing their similarity to Kurokami’s playful nature. This is furthered by Pantsu’s romantic interest in the ambiguous character who dropped the bright red apples.
Alcohol is the single biggest prop in the film. It’s an indulgence of the young adults whom have a fascination with life itself, while continuing to ride along on the wave they have found themselves. It’s a metaphor for how the characters want to take ahold of life. While many of the other characters find themselves to be light weights, Kurokami continues pushing forward, as she has an insatiable need of pushing further into the night.
Toward the end of the film, there’s a storm that causes a desaturation of the colors. The once vibrant Kyoto streets become taken over by greys reminiscent of Devilman Crybaby, while the only constant is Kurokami’s red dress as she treks back and forth to the familiar faces we’ve come to know.
The insert song with violin came off as melancholic, taking the audience back to better days. To live the best life, a life of fun and wonder. To love, to adventure, and to walk on.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Feb 16, 2020
K-On is about meaning. Meaning that isn’t intrinsically attached to being as we are. Every single day, as human beings we have to find a method of deriving some arbitrary goal to which we value our lives. It doesn’t need to be some elaborate planning, just something. K-On is about that ‘something.’
Mio, Mugi, Yui, and Ritsu don’t have any outlandish, lofty goals. This wasn’t always the case. Mio had been shown to occasionally have some higher ambitions, but for better or worse the girls of After School Tea Time want to simply have fun with those whose company they value. From their strengthened interpersonal relationships
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throughout the series, this ambition is all but solidified.
The second season capitalizes on this all the more so. Whereas the first season is 12 episodes covering two years, the second season is 24 episodes covering a single year. This slower pacing gives the season more room to expand. This is showcased by the larger focus given to the grandma who lives next door to Yui, Jun, the Mio fanclub, and Sawako.
Each of these inclusions of focus in the second season widens the support group the girl’s have accumulated. I’d define a support group as an irreplaceable group of people who selflessly have become positive influences on an individual’s (or collective’s) life.
This support group is the singular reason why the band is able to act spontaneously. There’s no romance interest, no overwhelming role model’s footsteps to follow -- just people who have been kind to them.
It was only after I graduated high school when I had realized the strength of my very own support group. I’ve never been able to fully take advantage of this support group, because I’m always uncertain of how strong it is. There’s also a guilt that in taking advantage of my support group, I’d be wasting the energy of those I love. So I don’t.
The girls of K-On seem to have been able to figure it out. This makes sense, as K-On is about the carefree life one could have in the most romanticized sense. To have that sort of carefree life, a strong support group that is of people that care about you while being easy to utilize makes all the difference.
In my personal circumstances I was all too often timid and distanced, in a way that really reminds me of Azusa’s relation to the rest of the group. Azusa is a kouhai of Mio, Mugi, Ritsu, and Yui; and is the fifth member of After School Tea Time. She often excludes herself because of the Senpai-Kouhai barrier, which is amplified by the realization that the other girls will graduate before her. Her senpai were the support group that made her feel comfortable in the environment of rigorous academics that might otherwise be anything but. A lot of this has to do with how aggressive Yui was to include her.
Whenever the original four girls planned events -- whether it be walking home from school, going on a day trip, or organizing a weekend hangout -- Yui always made the extra effort to emphasize that Asuza was in fact invited.
That assurance is something that I can’t help but find incredibly admirable. Between the two of them there seems to be a mutual understanding of how the other operates, and because of that there is an agreed upon sentiment of caring for the other. Yui makes Asuza feel apart of the group, and Asuza grows to become more caring for her senpai, Yui in particular.
When contextualized with the conformity and outcast culture of Japanese schools, the gravity of Yui’s efforts are of much higher gravity. A report released by the Japanese education ministry on October 25 [2018] found the following:
“Cases of bullying in schools have reached a record high. And the real figure is likely to be even higher, experts warn, as many children are too frightened to come forward and denounce their tormentors.
Recorded incidents of bullying in private and public schools across Japan, from elementary school through senior high schools, were as high as 414,378 in the academic year to March 31, 2018. That figure was up steeply from the previous year, rising by more than 91,000 cases.
Fully 474 cases were determined to be ‘serious,’ up 78 incidents on the previous year, and 55 were classified as involving ‘life-threatening harm,’” (Ryall).
In Japanese society, not all people have strong support groups. Some people have none, and have little in between them and a toxic bullying culture. But that’s not all. Suicide is still the sixth largest cause of death in Japan, and depression is utterly rampant. High school students in Japan live with the reality that they’re soon to go off into a work environment with flimsy labor laws, working day after day with unpaid overtime sessions. In a structure seemingly giving no individual meaning, the time the girls spend together invokes meaning. The support group both upholds the meaning the girl’s have defined, while simultaneously being an piece in how it is defined. In a society that is full of beat downs and limitations, it’s refreshing to see the perspective of how people can become emotionally lucky.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Oct 8, 2019
I first read 100 Days in Europe when I was at a major crossroad in my life. I was intent on going to film school, yet as the months past I found myself in April no longer wanting to major in film. I had to quickly get a list of schools sorted, and figure out what I wanted to do with my life within a period of two months. On a Friday night in May, when my toes tingled and my head was wearied from the self-induced stress, I came across 100 Days in Europe by chance.
Chance -- the fantastical
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probability is exactly what 100 Days in Europe is all about. It’s an intoxicatingly endearing series of vignettes of Europe’s mystical. The tantalizing skies and ferocious peaks juxtaposed by the cooling lakes and soothing cityscapes: it’s all here.
There’s not much of a story to tell, because the simplicity heightens the visual weight in the narrative. The story tenderly grips the reader's hand and teeters them along, and before they know it there are no more pages to turn. The bright atmosphere of yellows and greens is halted for beige reality.
Hayden and Gia aren’t exactly the most riveting characters. There’s no particular focus on a quest or obstacle that leads to a more idealized representation of them, but more of impending doom that things will go back to how they once were. Their dynamics, shortcomings, and development bleed into the background as to be the focal point of a pastel picture book. They nearly solely serve as a device to connect one page to the next and enhance the atmosphere at hand by providing a broad, easily identifiable narrative.
There are cliche characterizations, unneeded love triangles, and overly repetitive thematic trappings. It’s not always the most nuanced, and the dialogue can be quite obvious. But I don’t exactly care. Don’t go into this expecting to get a European romance like Before Sunrise, with impeccable dialogue and thorough themes, but expect a wistful, luminescent journey of two people.
The use of colors is immaculately placed and provides contrasts and highlights to accurately portray each and every backdrop. This is probably the most impressive part of Jihyo Kim’s art, as it consistently comes across as abstract yet oddly fitting. The blues and yellows of a Venice night sky, the oranges and greens of a Rome morning, and the turquoise and golds of a Barcelona afternoon -- all just fit.
Most of all, 100 Days in Europe is a soothing muse of two characters dealing with their own problems, problems that are remedied by the companionship of the other and their backdrop. I can’t recommend it enough.
Reviewer’s Rating: 10
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Oct 3, 2019
What was once a shining star in the overall mediocrity of Shonen Jump’s catalog finished its run worse than the likes of Death Note and Fairy Tail’s endings. Yes, I invoked the conclusion to Fairy Tail, and no, I don’t think I’m being facetious. I have no words — I mean how could I? Any effort would be a waste, and yet this intellectually fickle mind is doing it regardless. Take that how you will.
The ending is a slight on all that is good, kind, or right. It is dissonant in the workings of satisfying character/plot progression and conclusions in ways
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one could not feasibly picture in their bulky weeb brain. There are no ideas to be portrayed, no textures to be defined, and contentions that are unimaginably vast. Such a monstrosity is so egregious to the point where criticism is in of itself a completely benign endeavor. Imagine stabbing Godzilla with a toothpick. Yes, this ending does exist, and no, it is not some trite fan fiction. If no one else is to sympathize with the reader's plight, I will. All those page turns and bubbling oddities were nothing more than a cover-up for the nothingness that remains hidden under platitudes, and that in and of itself is a travesty.
Emotional it is not. Just ask the Azami’s flaccid plot twist to instantly become a likable character to fit the plot. Visceral it is not. Tosh is truly gifted as a manga artist, but the flat storyboarding leaves much to be desired. What began as endearingly bombastic became much more of an irritant at anything once the curtains fell. Food Wars is a bastardization of all the effort that has led up to this point, from both the creators and the reader.
That said, I’m a sentimental fool who will give it a 6/10 regardless. Sue me.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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