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In the mid-1990's Yokohama yakuza scene, "W·A," or "Wild Adapter," is hot. It's a dangerous drug that amps its users up into a superhuman state, and then their organs explode, effectively killing them. The corpses left behind are transformed into an animalistic state, i.e. fur and claws. Two powerful yakuza groups, the Izumokai and the Toujougumi, are fighting for control over W·A, and the police continue a baffled investigation over the gory remains of W·A users.

Kubota Makoto [age 17ish at the beginning of the series] manages to stumble into a leadership position of the Izumokai youth division; he comes across as aloof and indifferent, even ... oblivious, but he can also shoot someone with no real problem, only complaining that the gun was loud. After seven months of the Izumokai, he murders 12 high-ranking members of the Toujougumi, and then he disappears from the yakuza world. Not long after, he finds a stranger unconscious in an alley--a boy with a furry, clawed hand--whom he takes home and names Tokitoh. Tokitoh has no memory of his past or why his hand looks the way it does, so he and Kubota set out to investigate W·A. In the process, they're plunged back into yakuza politics, and the body count gets high, fast.

It's hard to pass judgment on a story when I don't even know how long it's going to be, but I'm taking a stab in the dark with a solid 8. Things haven't been explained to the reader at all yet, maddeningly enough, such as why Wild Adapter changes the body's physicality so drastically, or what it means that Tokitoh's hand is the way it is or how, according to recent chapters, it seems to be spreading up his arm. It seems ridiculous that the yakuza is actually seeking out the drug to sell, considering how its mortality rate, and it also seems strange that despite the fact that everyone seems to know about the drug and how "good" it is, no one seems aware that it makes its users' organs explode..

Somewhat characteristically of Minekura's work, the main characters are all male and, for the most part, attractive. None of her female characters have recurred after their allotted volume, and the series fails the Bechdel Test [Google it] so spectacularly that it kind of hurts. While that representation of women in 1990's Yokohama may be accurate to a degree, it's still jarring. It's not like there is no opportunity to portray women as people--like the housewife in volume 3 who was driven to suicide because of debt, and her daughter who was at least partially responsible; they were, for the most part, discussed while off-screen, by male characters. Volume 2's Saori is still the only female who has an opportunity to narrate her own story, and she spends the whole volume discussing males with males.

Minekura's character-work, aside from issues with female characterization, is very strong. Kubota and Tokitoh have a multi-faceted, facinatingly believable relationship that borders on sick attachment and need, and their dynamic is so delicate that it affects other characters as well. The motivations of the yakuza--Sanada and Sekiya in particular--are complex and unpredictable, and the police are not the good guys. It's almost like Yokohama as a city has character that seeps into the people, making them a part of it; no one is truly clean, but it's not clear enough to claim that any of them are really bad.

A big part of this characterization being effective is Minekura's art. She can express emotion and action so well, with such aesthetic lines, that the story and characters draw a huge amount of strength from the medium. The beginning of the series is a bit off stylistically, but that's a major part of the artist maturing into the story. One interesting aspect of the manga is that the space around the panels is black, rather than white, which traditionally symbols a flashback sequence; it's impossible to tell if it's a stylistic choice or if the entire series is a flashback of the people Kubota and Tokitoh meet. It definitely puts a morbid cast on the whole story, like it's a collection of accounts from secondary sources because the primary ones are dead or missing.

Overall, Wild Adapter is a very slick piece of work. It's very close-knit and fast-paced, especially when compared with Saiyuki, Minekura's other major work. Where Saiyuki is sprawling, Wild Adapter is local and tight. Where Saiyuki has a huge cast of characters who may or may not recur, Wild Adapter works within a set group of main characters who become dynamic through filling different roles throughout the story. It's grungy and real, strong like a punch to the gut.

Harukanaru's plot--or rather, lack thereof--bothered me. Aside from the premise, which has to be taken with a grain of salt due to its inherent cliche nature [teenage girl is transported to magical era: see Twelve Kingdoms, Inuyasha, Fushigi Yuugi--all published before Harukanaru, firmly establishing the genre], the plot is badly constructed, forcing the story along at a jerky pace. The revelations were utterly predictable, and the only thing that was surprising was the lack of ingenuity and bewildering logic of some of the so-called "twists." I was never actually clear on the basic motivations of good and evil, because they were never actually stated. It's ... clear what the characters are doing--finding the Hachiyou, finding seals, causing angst/consternation--but they never say why.

The strongest thing this series has going for it is the characters, which, as it's based on an otome game, isn't terribly surprising. The main male characters are all at least a little engaging, despite how easily they are pigeon-holed into stereotypes; I found myself having sympathy for them anyway, increasingly over the course of the series as they each got a bit of backstory to bolster them. Akane, however, inspired nothing in me. As she is supposed to be the player-character in the game, I'm supposed to identify with her and feel her pain and cheer for her success. I found myself cheering for the Hachiyou because I actually liked them. Akane is erratic and nonsensical, blushing and worrying over the Hachiyou one minute, and then obsessing over her completely unexplained, irrational love for Akuram the next. She says she wants to go home, but she never says why--she never even gives an indication that she misses her family or her classmates [...does she actually have a family? or, like. friends?], and so at the end when she claims she wants to go back "to the world with the people I care about most," that should be Kyou, where she has at least eight utterly devoted men who would die for her and live to make her happy. But no, that world is apparently her version of Earth, with Shimon, Tenma, and Ran all dragged back with her, despite the fact that they all had purposes and futures in Kyou that frankly seemed more interesting than going to high school. It would make more sense if Tenma had persevered in trying to get them all home, as he seemed determined to do for a few early episodes.

The animation isn't bad. It has its wonky moments, but the fight sequences at least are nicely executed. The character designs are also interesting, especially to someone like me who is facinated with Heian designs--Tomomasa's sokutai in particular is very lovely. The one thing that pushed it too far was how the designs made it too easy to pick out special characters. Like how if a male character has a wildly unnatural hair color--green, blue, purple, bright red--then he is a member of the Hachiyou, thus making things a bit too obvious.

The voice acting is another strong point in this series. With actors like Tomakazu Seki, Kouki Miyata, Akira Ishida, Souichirou Houshi, Shinichirou Miki, and Kazuhiko Inoue, it's wildly impressive on paper, let alone actually on-screen, and they all naturally do a bang-up job. The music, composed by Yoshihisa Hirano, is also very strong; it has Hirano's trademark drama, and its simple melodies add much to the action.

Overall: this could have been so much stronger. The series has a lot going for it, but the plot and character development get tangled up in each other and it falls on its face. I personally think it would have been a totally awesome series if Akane actually used her supposed huge amount of power, spent time learning to control it, and her useless bodyguards against demon attacks were actually redundant and they had to protect her from herself instead, despite the fact that she's more powerful than they are. It would have been much more interesting than 26 episodes of Akane alternately plastering a smile on her face and crying.

Honestly: Ronin Warriors is kind of an awful series. The story is rambling and at times nonsensical [especially the English adaptation], which consistently wonky art and animation. The sound tends to be ridiculous [evil theme music precedes every villian ever] and totally period-80s. The characters are maybe the best out of all of the series' points, with mulleted teenage boys and ridiculous villians that are dopey and endearing. The voice-acting has a few gems: in Japanese, Takeshi Kusao voices the main character, Ryo, and Nozomu Sasaki voices Shin; in English there's Matt Hill as Ryo and Scott McNeil as the warlord Kale. However, the English ... dub also has voice-actors doubling up on roles [Cye and Sage, Rowen and Sekmet, Anubis and other random villians], which makes for a few ridiculous moments where it's so, so obvious.

Also honestly: I love all of those flaws so, so much. I grew up with Ronin Warriors. It's one of the first anime I ever saw, and when I was 11, I was in love with it. Almost 10 years later, I have such a huge spot in my heart for it, I can't do much else except keep loving it. It can be so silly, so strangely suggestive, and yet, so pure and innocent. You can laugh at it for being bad--I do. I very much do. But I also love it because it embraces everything it's trying to be, and it does nothing halfway. If two characters are going to be the embodiment of mere helpless humans that the Ronin Warriors have to continually protect, then they're going to be the most irritating things in the world. If a villain is going to have his heart set on engulfing Japan in darkness, then he's going to cast a massive shadow over Shinjuku and laugh maniacally for a full minute. If a character decides he's going to sacrifice himself for the good of mankind, then by god, his comrades are going to cry gratuitous shoujo-tears while dealing killing blows in an inexplicably naked fashion.

And my love will abide.

The aesthetics of Samurai Champloo are amazing. The art has a distinct style, and the animation is fluid and just awesome. The soundtrack, also, contributes to what makes Sam Cham special: that nifty fusion of traditional Japanese period and hip-hop. The only way it's a working mix is when the art and the sound are there together, making it, aesthetically, a tour de force.

Samurai Champloo is a journey story, and because it's a journey story, the plot suffers. Fortunately, the premise is also simple: Mugen and Jin go with Fuu to find her sunflower samurai. Everything that happens from the first episode on is almost ... pure character development--and what development it is. I'm absolutely taken with how Mugen and Jin change from their initial characterizations of being both crazy and shut off to shaping themselves around each other and Fuu, to becoming used to having friends and belonging somewhere. It works so well because the things that happen to them are both unexpected and exactly what the viewer wants, and that makes Sam Cham a totally enjoyable viewing experience.