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—WARNING: SPOILERS IN THIS REVIEW—

If there was ever an anime to truly be classified as pretentious, it would be this one. Re:Zero tries to be some kind of deconstruction of the isekai genre, but all it really ends up being is another bland addition to the list. It's got an attitude that says, "We know what this looks like, but ACTUALLY we totally get it. Now, watch as we subvert all these tropes!" Subaru will certainly remind you every time they do—and I mean every time—but it's more obnoxious than anything clever.

This series undergoes a pretty sudden change in tone around the halfway ... mark at which point it becomes something more dark and violent (read: edgy), as if it were trying to shock an unsuspecting audience. If the goal was to subvert expectations about this being a typical isekai light novel adaptation, then doing so at episode fifteen is simply too late. You don't need fourteen episodes of playing it straight to set up a subversion; that's already well over a whole season! At that point it had become obvious that Subaru had been intentionally designed to be irritating for the sake of potential character growth, but the problem is that you've still got that whole first season's worth of content in which Subaru is an annoying little shit.

What exactly makes Subaru so grating, then? As previously stated, the guy just can't shut up. He's meant to be some kind of know-it-all otaku who's just oh-so-self-aware about all the situations he finds himself in. The series uses this as a major crutch whenever anything cliche happens: "It's not a cliche, see? Subaru brought attention to it!" Yeah, no... What's even worse is when situations DON'T adhere to a cliche, yet Subaru still feels the need to express his shock by telling the viewers—out loud, mind you, for other characters to hear (and subsequently ignore)—what would have happened if this had been one of those other generic anime, rather than this one which "totally isn't." And, please, don't misunderstand; this isn't a minor complaint at all. This guy is literally required to say some fourth-wall-breaking comment every other time he opens his mouth: Emilia nearly says something tsundere-like? [insert surprised remark about her not acting tsundere]; Subaru does something cool? [insert remark about how cool he is for doing said thing]; predictable thing about to happen? [insert remark predicting said thing]. It's absolutely crippling for him as a character and it destroys his ability to connect with the audience as a real human being—connections based solely on his genre savviness are superficial. I imagine that the creators wanted us to laugh and think, "Wow, he's right about that! That is how anime is!" each time he says these things, but all I'm doing is groaning. If you want to be genre savvy, then present us with scenarios that prove as much; when a character's exclamations are necessary, you're not doing it right. Konosuba understood this.

Fine, then. Subaru may start as a terrible character, but he changes, right? Sure... I guess. I feel like this series wasn't actually aware of which aspects truly made him insufferable in the first place, as even after his supposed development occurs, his nonstop interjections persist. Instead, Subaru's development has more to do with his desire to protect Emilia and whether that desire is really for her sake or just for his. In other words, not only did the set up for his character arc go on for way too long, it wasn't even effective; you're just subjected to one of the worst, most shallow male leads imaginable for basically no reason. We go from having an unlikable guy who's selfish to an unlikable guy who realizes he was being selfish. Wow. But, even then, that's only what the show wants you to believe. In actuality, Subaru acts in the exact same way at the end of the series as he does at the beginning. The idea that he was being selfish at all was introduced awkwardly near the middle just to create some lame drama between him and Emilia.

Okay, so Emilia is this really bizarre "thing" in Re:Zero (I didn't get the impression that she was necessarily a character, per se). It feels like the creators realized something really important way too late: a good romance needs tension. And, before episode thirteen there's absolutely no tension between Subaru and Emilia. That's why they had to suddenly come up with the stupidest reason for them to argue. For the twelve episodes prior, Emilia doesn't even question Subaru at all and apparently doesn't think that it's weird for a random stranger like him to randomly risk his life for her. Afterwards, he just starts living in her mansion, and from this point on they begin acting as if they'd known each other for a very long time. That's the kind of chemistry you're supposed to look forward to in a romance, but with Re:Zero it's given to you right off the bat; it just feels fucking weird, like Emilia's some kind of manufactured waifu-bot. I mean, she has got to be one of the easiest girls I've ever seen. She blushes at every single stupid thing Subaru says or does, and becomes visibly more and more attracted to him with each one of his socially awkward meta-comments and cringy outbursts—that is, until the plot says otherwise at episode thirteen. The worst part is that you get to watch them meet for the first time in this mansion like five times, and each time it's equally mind-numbing. Sure, they may have had some nice moments in the first episode which allowed them to properly get to know each other, but those moments were erased due to Subaru's Return by Death ability.

Meanwhile, we've got Rem, and she really must be a joke or some kind of parody (well, she's certainly a meme). She just has to be. You know those hopeless third wheel characters that show up in almost every anime? The ones that unconditionally love the main character while getting nothing in return because he's already got his eye on someone else? Yeah, that's Rem. She's the epitome of that. Thus, she has taken it upon herself to become the biggest reverse cuck in anime history—and she couldn't be happier about it.

Seriously, though, Rem is basically the sole focus of the series after her introduction in episode four. And, because of the nature of Re:Zero's time shenanigans, the final canon timeline features next to no development between Subaru and Emilia while featuring tons of development between Subaru and Rem. It honestly feels like they were trying to pull a Macross by switching main love interests mid-series, but nope; it was all a joke, and episode eighteen was the punchline in which a highly emotional—to a comedic extent—twenty minute conversation ends with the most hilarious rejection ever. After all of the build-up from this scene and from the entire series before, Subaru's response to Rem's love confession is "I love Emilia." This is the dude who just asked Rem to elope with him only minutes before. Now, I do understand the purpose of the scene: Subaru wasn't being himself, and thought that running away could solve his problems. I get that. It doesn't make the outcome any less jarring or insulting, especially since Rem continues to be in the spotlight and even has further romantic interactions with Subaru. Yes, romantic; that shit ain't platonic. The only explanation here—well, other than bad writing—is that the creators wanted to see exactly how far a hopeless third wheel character could actually be pushed before breaking. They can go pretty damn far, apparently.

Now, I do have some praise for Re:Zero. The character designs are great, particularly those of Emilia, Rem, and Ram. What can I say? They're very attractive. As for the rest of the visuals, they couldn't be more uninspired. This series has no idea how to convey its mood through the use of imagery, as everything is always in this "default color palette," where colors are consistently the same hue and saturation. So, what about darker scenes? Well, they just make those colors a little bit dimmer; it looks incredibly cheap.

The directing is just as bland. At no point did I find myself in awe over the extremely simple cinematography. I did, however, find many scenes to be absolutely horrid looking, especially the shots with cgi in the background—or hell, in the damn foreground, too. Almost every single person in the background is some terrible looking cgi fursona, but the worst offenders are the cgi "land dragons." Jesus fucking christ, those things look ridiculously out of place in every shot they're in. The damn things are everywhere, too! I just can't explain how bad it looks when you get these static close-up shots of characters superimposed on top of cgi dragons bobbing up and down like chickens; somehow, even when they're not cgi, they look just as awful. You see them a lot during the battle with the white whale, which happens to be boring enough on its own, but it's made even worse by being interspersed with a generic stock backstory of one of the side characters in an effort to get you to care. I didn't.

All that being said, I do think that certain scenes in this series definitely tried harder than others. As "edgy" as it may have been, episode fifteen probably wound up being the series' best. Unfortunately, any time this show does something great, it really only gives you the sense that it had the potential to be great—like if those moments were in a vacuum, and if you were to pretend that the rest of the show had been done properly, you might've actually felt something strong or emotional.

In the end, I found Re:Zero to be one of the most boring series that I've ever sat all the way through. Despite the somewhat interesting change in tone around the middle, everything generally goes back to normal before too long anyway, and then it's back to being bored out of your fucking mind. The writing was as by-the-numbers and standard as the visual directing. The setting wasn't creative at all, nor was it fleshed out in any notable ways. The music, too, was unremarkable; in fact, I never once noticed it. But, most of all, the "love story" here is perhaps the least compelling of its kind that I've ever witnessed, and its conclusion is unbelievably artificial. Discount Okabe and Kurisu just don't do it for me. However, I would recommend this series to anyone who hasn't seen a whole lot of anime yet, because then your experience with the medium can only get better.

Akitarou Daichi: a man who has spent his entire directing career working primarily on shoujo manga adaptations, comedy anime, and countless other long running gag series. Many could be familiar with his work on the Kodomo no Omocha anime where his influence was hard to miss, as the comedy had been ramped up to absurd levels when compared to the source material. You see, comedy was kind of his thing. So, what in the hell compelled him to create such a grimdark reimagining of a Miyazaki work? That has got to be one of anime's greatest mysteries.

Now and Then, Here and There is arguably ... one of the most cruel and unforgiving series ever animated—though, not one without hope—and yet it comes off the back of Jubei-Chan: Lovely Gantai no Himitsu, Daichi's lighthearted slapstick comedy from earlier that year. There couldn't possibly have been a sharper contrast... It stands out like a sore thumb even if you consider the projects that he's worked on since, being that he immediately went back to exclusively directing comedy and shoujo anime. This series is truly an anomaly, but what a blessing it is.

Right off the bat, we're treated to one of the strongest first episodes of any anime ever. It begins with somewhat of a bait-and-switch scenario with the first half feeling like the set-up for a standard shounen slice-of-life coming-of-age story; as it turns out, that doesn't end up being the case. However, just because there was a bait-and-switch tactic used, that doesn't mean all of this episode's first half was wasted just to trick the viewer. No: The creators did something impressive by simultaneously using that time to succinctly convey the show's themes in a nice, easy-to-understand package even before shit hits the fan. Those themes are best expressed through the actions and words of Shu, the protagonist, who already gets the opportunity to make it very clear what his core values are—to act purely based on intuition and to never lose hope, even when you've seemingly hit rock bottom. These are values that he firmly holds on to, even if the series tries its hardest to strip them away from him and crush them to pieces.

Shu, as a character, is the most telling sign that Now and Then, Here and There has taken cues from Hayao Miyazaki. He behaves much like those early Miyazaki protagonists, such as Conan from Future Boy Conan or Pazu from Laputa: Castle in the Sky. The three of them all share sizeable physical strength, an unyielding resolve, and a near-infinite amount of stamina. They're also all imbued with childlike wonder and a strong sense of righteousness, often choosing to live the life of a pacifist. Goku and Luffy are other well-known examples of characters who fit the same bill.

However, this series does something with Shu that the other works rarely do with their respective protagonists: It questions him. It questions his very nature and attempts to find out what exactly this kind of person's limits are in such a harsh world. How much shit can someone like this really take? Characters who act so irrationally are bound to learn their lesson one of these days—right? In this series where it feels like every character is calling him out for being wrong, where he must withstand grueling torture, and where hope is almost nowhere to be found...Shu refuses to crumble.

Now, having a character like this as the main protagonist can be a dangerous thing. In addition to potentially severing all suspension of disbelief, their morally fueled tirades run the risk of sounding preachy and triggering a few facepalms more than anything else. Shu isn't guilty of any of that, though, as his real strength lies in the way he influences the development of everyone else in the cast. Slowly but surely, he'll rub off on them in one way or another, leading them down the path of true self-empowerment in spite of their unfortunate circumstances. You also get the sense that this guy is totally genuine. He doesn't try to act cool nor does he try to seem clever and is generally a likable guy.

What's interesting is that, at one point, Shu does begin to question himself after he begins to empathize with the beliefs of a certain other person—beliefs which he normally would vehemently oppose. There's a brilliant scene in which he realizes that the world isn't so black and white, and a revelation like that is difficult for such a straightforward character to cope with. Protagonists from other series, such as the aforementioned Conan, don't often have to think too much about whether or not their beliefs are justified in every context. In Now and Then, Here and There, there isn't always an obvious or easy solution to problems.

Lala-Ru is the fascinating heroine of the series, and, much like Shu, she's derived from several Miyazaki tropes—at least as far as her role in the story goes. She possesses a mysterious pendant that the villains are after (likening her to Sheeta from Laputa), and she holds the key to solving the impending energy crisis of a post-apocalyptic world (reminiscent of Lana from Future Boy Conan). Having said that, her personality is wildly different, being more cold and distant; she had to have been among the first batch of "Rei clones" to emerge in anime's post-Evangelion landscape.

With her striking, alien-like design it's no surprise that she instantly catches Shu's interest. Having probably never met such an odd and quiet person, he's just as dumbfounded as he is captivated. If there's any scene that reminds the viewer just who exactly is supposed to be directing this series, it's this one. Shu's attempts to converse with her are actually really funny and genuinely endearing. The "dialogue" that then ensues is indicative of many things, including Shu's tendency to search for the good in everything, even in his admittedly boring small town. He awkwardly rambles through a list of the nice people who live there in an attempt to make a positive connection with her, but she remains fixated on the sunset. There's only one thing he says that gets a significant reaction from her, and it's for reasons that the viewer won't quite understand until further in the series. That's why this scene is definitely worth a re-watch once you've finished the entire show for that extra emotional impact.

Because Lala-Ru speaks so little, she commands your full attention any time she does. You're bound to find yourself hanging on her every word, since it's clear she has countless invaluable things to say—yet, you'll hear only a fraction. And, though she reveals just a small sampling of what she's experienced through her words—there aren't any lengthy flashbacks to fill in the unimportant details—they're so sharp and so direct that you understand exactly how she's been molded into her current self. After years of enduring various forms of abuse and witnessing the evils of mankind, she's been left in a near-perpetual state of apathy, though she hasn't quite lost her ego or the desire to go on living just yet. The beauty of her arc is that while she exudes an aura of wisdom far beyond the comprehension of Shu or of any other character in the story, she nevertheless manages to learn something important from them: to have just a little more faith in humanity.

Kaori Nazuka's performance as Lala-Ru is exceptional (you may know her as Eureka from Eureka Seven or as Subarau from .hack//Sign). It's essentially her take on the "Rei voice," but with her own unique spin on it. It's soft and whispery but at the same time piercing and delivered with confidence, like an icy wind.

Meanwhile, Shu is played by Akemi Okamura (known for her role in One Piece...as Nami, rather than Luffy as you might expect). Shu really wouldn't be the same without her voice, as she adds a ton of personality to his character that otherwise wouldn't be there in the script alone. Thanks to her voice, you totally buy everything that comes out of Shu's mouth—whether he's trying his hardest to earnestly communicate with others, excitedly going off on tangents, angry to the point of shouting, or, most impressive, when he's speaking somberly from an occasional state of weakness; you buy it all.

Now and Then, Here and There tells a story with many ideas and plot threads but in a relatively straightforward, unconfusing way. In fact, it's so incredibly easy to watch that it feels more like one giant film rather than a series, so marathoning it in one day is no problem at all. This is not a mind puzzle filled with head-scratching symbolism that requires hours of dissecting in order to understand. Its major themes should be pretty clear to the average viewer, though that's not to say it doesn't offer anything for those willing to pay closer attention.

For example, the most significant object in the entire anime is actually not Lala-Ru's McGuffin pendant, but rather an ordinary wooden stick picked up by Shu in the first episode. Simple but sturdy, this stick serves both as a pacifistic weapon and as a metaphoric gauge of sorts which reflects the level of Shu's resolve throughout the series. The stick struggles to stay whole as it gets cut, scuffed, tossed aside, shot, beaten, and battered—All the while, its physical state parallels Shu's mental composure. Never is this more apparent than in the final episode when he finally snaps in a rare fit of rage. Moreover, at his lowest points Shu will be left without his stick completely. It's at these times when it becomes the responsibility of those characters whom he's inspired to return it to him, subsequently renewing his resolve and giving him the ability to act upon his will once more. For the characters who do this, it represents the moments of their arcs in which they finally concede to Shu's philosophy.

Now, as sad as this series can be, it's never cheap. The trauma that's inflicted upon its characters is never for the sake of itself or for a desperate appeal to emotions. Each event, sad or otherwise, occurs to serve a purpose in the narrative. As such, the story doesn't rely on shocking or unconvincing plot twists to keep you engaged; you'll be engrossed well enough by virtue of the strong character dynamics.

For instance, one of the core foundations of the narrative is the relation between Shu and the main antagonist, King Hamdo. If Shu is the epitome of childlike optimism and resilience, Hamdo is conversely the epitome of childish fear and fragility. This paranoid bastard hasn't got a single good thing going for him, being that he's an utterly detestable amalgamation of every possible human flaw. There's no hiding the fact that he's a piece of shit, so right from his introduction—and all the way through to the end—he's presented as nothing other than an evil dictator, though not in the classic sense of the term; he's more of a selfish wimp than any kind of conniving villain, proven to be cripplingly weak and scared for his life in dire situations. Having said that, he does nothing to garner your sympathy, and there's no redemption waiting for him at any point—because frankly, he doesn't deserve it.

You have to wonder, then, how a scumbag like him ever got so much power and amassed such a loyal following in the first place (meant as a satire of real life, perhaps?). One such follower is Abelia, Hamdo's right-hand woman. You kind of feel for her when you see how horribly she's treated by him and when you realize that despite all of that, she's probably using his company as an emotional crutch and desperately clinging to his sparse words of praise; it's got to suck when that's the only kind of love you know.

Indeed, Hamdo's comically bizarre existence in this otherwise bleak setting is as intriguingly out of place as Shu's, but that's perfectly fine, as he fills a necessary role in the story as a symbol of absolute despair. Next to Shu's boundless positivity, the two forces exist so that other, more dynamic characters can bounce off of them in something of a grand-scale chemical reaction. And, since there's really no personal conflict between the two of them solely as characters, their true conflict is instead one of opposing mindsets and the most disparate extremes of humanity.

On the other hand, Nabuca is actually a good-hearted character, but, unlike with Shu, he unfortunately lacks the courage to challenge the corrupt authority. Therefore, he sticks to a safer, more logical approach when it comes to finding happiness, even if said approach jeopardizes his moral integrity. His inclusion in the story expands upon the themes introduced in the first episode, where he continues as the symbolic stand-in for Oda, Shu's kendo rival. Much like Oda, Nabuca can't quite understand Shu's reckless, instinctual behavior.

The great thing about Nabuca is that, unlike many characters of his type, he doesn't try to be "edgy," for lack of a better term. You won't see him smirking like an idiot when he does objectionable things nor will you see him excited to kill anyone (funnily enough, those traits are relegated to another character, Tabool), because he's actually pretty level-headed and the things he's forced to do clearly affect him quite a bit. He comes across as being very human and relatable, with realistic flaws. You want to root for the guy, and you hope that Shu can eventually help him realize the errors of his ways. Many of their interactions stand out as being major highlights of the series, especially one particularly emotional scene during the show's halfway mark in which Nabuca finally shows mutual respect towards Shu in a singular act of kindness.

The visual direction of Now and Then, Here and There is nothing short of fantastic. It's just as immersive and striking as anything else in the series, being both desolate and beautiful. When the sun is out the lighting becomes harsh and overexposed, creating equally harsh shadows. You really get the surreal feeling that this future could just as easily be an entirely different world, as it appears to be nothing but miles and miles of dry stone with very few signs of life—though, the creatures that do appear really add to the setting, and are seemingly pulled straight out of a Star Wars movie. During the many recurring sunsets the majority of the frame becomes engulfed by the dauntingly large sun (which appears to have drastically grown in size over the years). Furthermore, there are numerous fantastically directed action sequences, including one in the second episode wherein stark silhouettes are laid against a vast industrial backdrop. The color design is always on point, too: Darker scenes are often punctuated with brighter glowing shapes, usually of deep red colors, but there are also softer, blue-lit scenes featuring either the full moon or sweeping washes of white light. Each of these two visual styles wholly compliments their scenes' respective moods, be they dramatic or more contemplative.

The characters, oddly, look sort of like plastic figurines. Rounded and smooth with proportions that are slightly on the smaller side, they're also low in detail and feature large, expressive faces—a trait that only helps to convey emotion. In this regard, the characters are once again reminiscent of those from Miyazaki works. While the actual animation isn't always outstanding, it does always serve its purpose. There are never any badly drawn faces lingering on the screen for long periods or time, nor are there any movements that are choppy beyond excuse; it looks pretty nice most of the time, and even at its lowest the animation is merely serviceable, not terrible. However, even in those cases, the solid shot compositions more than make up for things; scenes with barely any motion at all—ones comprised of multiple static shots—can still be stunning, thanks in part to some beautifully painted backgrounds. Regardless, there are times when the animation is legitimately impressive—the sand creature from episode eight and the entire climax of the final episode come to mind, as well as each instance of Lala-Ru's water powers being unleashed. It feels like the creators made use of limited resources (time, money, or otherwise) to make the best possible output, and they did so with excellence.

The soundtrack for Now and Then, Here and There is fucking great. It's composed by Taku Iwasaki, the same person who went on to create the equally impressive Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann soundtrack. The music ranges from smooth, weeping strings to glitchy, claustrophobic electronica and everything in between. Some tracks outright sound like death itself (namely "The Bottom"), with its dark droning synths and jazzy piano runs. Other similar tracks feature eerie strings layered over the synths alongside repeated heavy piano tones or dissonant arpeggiated bells. Then there are more up-beat tracks, some of which are hectic and paranoia-inducing, while others are joyful or inspiring. There's an extremely varied set of tracks here, all of which accompany the visuals perfectly.

However, the series' main theme (or "Standing in the Sunset Glow" as it's called) is the real star of the show, and it's absolutely gorgeous—just unbelievably beautiful, consisting of a sorrowful but uplifting melody initially performed by only a string section. It's played in just about every episode at just the right moments, but the track only gets to be heard with full instrumentation in the final episode—as if it had been teasing you the entire time. Since you'd have already heard it many times in its stripped-down form by that point, you'll have an unexpectedly strong connection with it once you do hear its full rendition—not to mention, the events taking place are emotional enough on their own. In fact, not very much is said during this final episode, and you're not beaten over the head with the reasons for why characters are doing what they're doing—which is true for other points in the series, as well. That's masterful directing, where the visuals and the music can say everything that needs to be said.

Of all the characters, Sara is perhaps the one who's put through the most shit—more than Shu, even. She's the only character besides him to be brought to the barren world of the future and is vastly unequipped for her rough stay in comparison. It's very interesting to see how these two people wind up reacting to the same environment in different ways: Shu incessantly pushes forward, while Sara only loses steam after her luck continues to plummet. To her credit, though, she does show moments of strength—one such example being her beautifully animated escape scene—but she never seems to catch a break. Over the course of the series, Sara spirals deeper and deeper into depression, to the point where she can barely find value in her own life anymore.

Whereas Shu's attempts to persuade Nabuca deal with how one should live according to their heart, his attempts to persuade Sara deal with regaining one's desire to live at all. It proves to be the more difficult task for him, being that he's consistently had trouble putting his beliefs into words throughout the whole series; from his perspective, the importance of living is such an inherent truth that he's never taken the time to piece together why. How, then, could he possibly convince someone else that life is worth living when that person only seems to experience misery? Sara's character arc is extremely dynamic, and it concludes in a satisfying way which inevitably demonstrates—through example—what Shu couldn't seem to express through his words alone. Additionally, Sara choosing not to succumb needlessly to any feelings of revenge after all is said and done is admirable and quite moving. Just episodes before, she had lost control of herself just at the sight of a person whom she had blamed for her suffering.

Ultimately, all of the series' major characters are opposites of Shu in one way or another: Lala-Ru is the detached cynicism to his overwhelming optimism, Nabuca is the cold logic to his burning emotion, Sara is the soul-crushing emptiness to his undying will to live, and Hamdo is the selfish greed to his selfless compassion. And all of them, barring Hamdo, are made better people by the end of the story through their time spent with Shu. He can then feel satisfaction, knowing that his beliefs are true and that great things can indeed happen if you just keep your head up—and so long as you still choose to live.

So, why did Akitarou Daichi never return to this style of anime? Perhaps he felt that he had done all he wanted with more serious territory, or it could be that he simply had enough of it and felt more at home doing comedy. After all, that seems to be his forte. And sure, maybe some of the credit for the way this series turned out really lies with the other staff members who were involved. Whatever the case may be, Daichi's sole endeavor of this kind is more than satisfying and is a masterpiece all the same.

Makasete Iruka wastes no time as it spends its first three minutes showing you the concept of the show rather than explaining it. The Irukaya is a group of three girls who'll help anyone in town who asks for it, so we see each member doing just that, right from the get-go.

This is a very tightly written show, with every scene flowing logically to the next one without skipping over anything important or focusing on anything unimportant. It's also quick-witted, making good use of well-timed jokes that sometimes even call back to earlier events. That's a sign that the creators were actually thinking ahead and ... considering the episode as a whole during the writing process.

It's got a quirky attitude, too, so its scenarios aren't exactly typical; you wouldn't normally see grade-schoolers riding jet skis or cleaning chimneys. Director Akitarou Daichi's signature brand of visual comedy is apparent in every scene here, adding extra flavor to all of the characters. While their designs are simple and childish, their animations are fluid and dynamic. It's particularly commendable how the animators accurately portrayed sign language for the deaf character, Ao; her hand-gestured side remarks are adorable and, at times, hilarious.

In addition to holding your attention the entire time, Daichi's snappy directing also provides much-needed momentum to the story so that it can successfully reach an actual point by the end of its short run time. Because, underneath its goofy exterior lies an unexpectedly heady theme. It's one about having to go to school and whether or not there's truly any merit in it.

Riku, a kid who refuses to attend school on the grounds that nothing taught there has any real world value, thinks his life will be a walk in the park if he joins the Irukaya instead. However, he soon finds out just how easy of a life he's been living up until that point, as it turns out that helping others is a difficult job. He's unable to even keep up with the other girls. The lesson here would presumably just be something like "Stay in school, kids!", but that's not so much the case. While it is shown that staying in school is probably a good idea, the show also offers legitimate criticisms of the schooling system and how it won't necessarily teach kids everything they'll need to know when it comes to living in the real world. The real message is one about making the right choices for yourself in your own life and sticking with what makes you happy.

Makasete Iruka's concept could've made for a great full-fledged TV series (especially with that super catchy OP; OVAs usually don't even have OPs.), but unfortunately this short 24-minute episode is most likely all we'll ever get. Still, it's an incredibly fun episode that leaves you with something real to think about once it's over which is pretty rare for comedy anime.

Green Legend Ran is an interesting little OVA from the early 90s that's probably too ambitious for its own good. It's got ancient aliens, a post-apocalyptic earth, opposing factions consisting of religious extremists and their corresponding resistance, a revenge plot, a love story, and some kind of environmental message. Taking place in such a detailed setting with such a detailed lore, it doesn't quite know where to start and where to end.

And that's a major problem for Green Legend Ran: It has lots of interesting ideas, but it doesn't spend the appropriate amount of time on each one, and in that way its two ... hour run time paradoxically feels both too long and too short. The narrative that's woven between all of these concepts can be a little jarring as a result, causing the motivations of some characters to come into question. Some holes are present in the plot, too. While it's not really hard to catch on eventually, it is hard to feel engaged when you're not always invested in what's going on. And, although the concepts can be interesting, they're sometimes relegated to expository dialogue instead of being explored through actions.

The main characters of this OVA are Ran and Aira, and they have some pretty good chemistry together. In fact, the best scene of the series is simply a lighthearted one that features the two of them playfully getting to know each other while on an errand to fetch some resources. The animators portray their body language so fluidly and realistically here that it's just really fun to watch. But, as fun as it is, the scene's simply not long enough to convince the viewer that Ran already feels as strongly as he does for Aira. As soon as she gets snatched up by the bad guys, he's already dead set on risking his life for her, and they've only talked for what was maybe twenty minutes at best. Not only is this abrupt parting unsuccessful in providing a compelling character motivation for Ran, it also robs the rest of the series of further interactions between these two characters, which is especially disappointing.

Ran himself isn't exactly the most likable character, either—at least sometimes. It's an odd situation where the show clearly tries its hardest to make you care for him...and you know, it does work to an extent, but there's just something about it that doesn't feel genuine—like they were going through a checklist of things they could mix together to make a protagonist that would earn your sympathy, when ultimately he just comes across as a nasally-voiced little shit half the time. The emotional climaxes of his arc seem kind of awkward, too, probably due to him hardly getting the chances to interact with those characters who are supposed to be so important to him. However, Ran does have some cute moments with Jeke that do manage to feel genuine despite their predictability.

What probably ends up being the most fascinating aspect of this series is its atypical interpretation of environmentalism. It's almost the antithesis to the idealistic pro-earth beliefs of someone like Hayao Miyazaki; here, rather than being put on a pedestal, the forces of nature are represented by an oppressive alien god who actually feels like an exaggerated mockery of the type of person who would love nothing more than to see the earth purged of us "rotten humans" who do nothing but destroy it. This series proposes that wishing for such a thing would probably be going too far and that moderation is important for both sides. To be fair, though, Miyazaki's works never quite go that far either, as they usually end on the hopeful note of giving humans a second chance. However, nature is usually portrayed as the side that's deserving of the most respect in his stories, and it'll certainly never be painted as the villain. (And, if you've read certain quotes from the man, you'll know he's the type who'd probably be more in agreement with the "screw humanity" creed of the alien god of this story.) Regardless, it is refreshing to see an anime that tackles this subject matter from an angle that's different from what's seen most of the time.

Now, if there's one thing that's clear about this OVA it's that it looks very good. It's got appealing character designs, the animation is stellar, and there's a lot of momentum that's given to every action; objects and characters have a nice physicality and weight to them. The setting of the series also really comes through in the creative shot compositions that show off the gorgeous landscapes of the desert and the rows of rusty industrial buildings. There's also a great use of lighting here, where vivid, colorful rays and other shapes frequently shine though and pop against the darker backdrops creating an atmosphere with a lot of depth. The only negative when it comes to the look of the show is the occasional use of black gradients that are thrown on top of shots which looks pretty lazy and distracting. But, other than that, the visuals provide nothing but eye candy throughout the entire series.

The more I think about it, the more the story of Green Legend Ran actually feels like something better suited for a long JRPG, where all of its ideas could've had the time to shine. Some scenes even feature segments that could've easily been gameplay instead, particularly one moment where Ran has to follow directions written on notes left by another character in order to make it through a mysterious maze. That being said, the glimpse we do get of this world, however disjointed, is one that's filled with imagination. Its attitude towards the environmentalism debate is intriguing enough on its own.

Here we have an anime that's all about subtlety and creativity. Preferring not to make any big grandiose statements, Haibane Renmei instead tells a simpler story without too much pretense or ambition. It's simply there for the viewer to absorb, and what you'll get out of it is entirely up to how you interpret its themes and how much value you place on those interpretations.

There's a lot to like with this series because there's a lot to explore. The sheer amount of detail put into Haibane Renmei's setting alone is impressive, and it's a very specific kind of detail that focuses on the smaller side ... of things while leaving the bigger concepts to the imagination. Almost every mundane aspect of life for the inhabitants of Grie has a purpose, explanation, and reason for being included in the show. There's a believability to the world that goes a long way in convincing the audience that the titular Haibane could actually exist as they're shown to.

All of the series' central characters happen to be Haibane: angel-like beings donning wings and halos who spontaneously arrive in the town of Grie by hatching from cocoons. There are numerous rules set in place that govern what the Haibane can do and how they should behave, and interestingly, they're treated both as secondary citizens and as highly respected individuals depending on the situation; Rakka, the show's main protagonist, tends to have the most difficulty dealing with this. Only having just been born as a Haibane, she isn't exactly comfortable being treated as one yet and goes though a bit of an identity crisis. It's hard for her to figure out how she fits into this somewhat unsettling new world, and it's all pretty relatable.

Beyond just the setting, there seemingly exists an extensive lore rich with intrigue; I say "seemingly" because it's mostly a clever trick on the creators' part. They know exactly how to trickle just enough information to you over the course of the series so that you get the idea but never the answer. The world outside the walls of Grie remains a mystery, and the origin of the Haibane is never truly explained. Because, at the end of the day, the entire setting is just a carefully constructed allegory for what the creators actually wanted to express to the audience: a simple story about redemption and forgiveness.

Almost everything in the show's setting is there to serve the main plot, which is a character study involving Rakka and her housemate, Reki. Both of them suffer from similar feelings of regret which is used as a means for them to understand one another. This is the part of the show where symbolism starts to come into play, and there are quite a few visual metaphors used. I kind of wish the creators had a little more faith in the viewers here, as sometimes more is said than needs to be. It's nice to use these kinds of metaphors, but it goes against their purpose when they're talked about at length. However, that's a relatively minor complaint considering their greater value to the narrative.

I also want to say that I really appreciate how the drama never quite turns into full-blown melodrama even when it looks like it's going to. For the most part the show is pretty restrained, and when characters inevitably tear up it's for understandable reasons. That being said, the emotional impact wasn't always there for me, particularly concerning one event that I don't feel was given enough build up in previous episodes. To be fair, though, that event wound up being the catalyst for some interesting developments, so it worked out in the end.

Now, as for the visuals of Haibane Renmei, they're unfortunately a mixed bag. On one hand you have the art direction which is undeniably fantastic, and the character designs which are distinct and memorable; together, with the beautiful background art, a nice mixture of nostalgia and surrealism is achieved. Then on the other hand you have the inconsistent animation quality. Most of the time the fluidity is just not there, and although the characters are rarely drawn simply standing still, their motions usually wind up feeling stiff and rigid. Even so, while it doesn't always come out smoothly, the animators do make an honest attempt to always have the characters express themselves realistically with body language and facial expressions, and that I can respect.

On average, though, the directing isn't all that interesting either—at least not to the extent that it could have been. Save for a few great instances here and there, the show is directed in a surprisingly straightforward manner. It's filled with some pretty jarring zoom-in shots and flat compositions—indeed, this is an early 2000's series. But, when it really wants to, this show can actually look amazing. I remember episode eight in particular catching my attention, and the climax of the final episode was visually stunning. This show is at its best when the already gorgeous art direction compliments the moments when the director did make the effort to go above and beyond the standard.

Either way, the unique tone of Haibane Renmei is unmistakable, and the atmosphere it creates is heavy. Its cult classic status shouldn't be in question at all, as it offers plenty enough to reflect on even after it's over. While I think the show really deserved a better presentation and perhaps a more fleshed out cast of characters, what we do have here is a great series that, on occasion, looks as beautiful as its message.

Buddy Complex is yet another addition to the string of near-indistinguishable mecha series that Sunrise seems to have no problem effortlessly churning out year after year alongside their usual Gundam installments. It's a pretty standard mecha show that on closer inspection has both standout qualities and heavy flaws.

Right from the first episode alarms were going off in my head; this was going to be another time loop story. I really didn't have faith that the creators could successfully pull one off here, and to put it bluntly: they couldn't. It makes absolutely no sense and is barely understandable even once things are explained. The sheer ... amount of logical leaps and assumptions that have to be made when it comes to this time travel plot are astounding. It's like they saw Steins;Gate and Madoka Magica and thought they could do the same thing, without actually understanding how those shows work.

However, with all of that being said, the time travel story has little to no bearing on the meat of the show, and merely bookends what is otherwise a typical mecha action series with its usual grab bag of tropes. So, for eleven of the show's thirteen episodes, you can almost forget about it and all of its stupidity—almost.

Our protagonist, Aoba, finds himself sent seventy-or-so years into the future by his mysterious classmate, Hina, where he's flung right into a war between two opposing factions. As expected, he ends up piloting a giant mecha to fight for one of them. The series' main gimmick, and explanation for the title, is actually something called the "Coupling System," which involves two pilots connecting—not combining, but rather syncing up—mid-battle to increase their fighting abilities. A surprising amount of detail is given about how this system works and what effects it has on the pilots, although it can get a little jargon-heavy. At the end of the day, it's clearly a plot device to get the series' main protagonists, Aoba and Dio, to develop as characters together. And, for what it's worth, that aspect of the show works pretty well.

Aoba's disoriented outlook on the world and selfish desire to meet with Hina again naturally conflict with Dio's cold front and strict adherence to the military's rules, causing them to frequently butt heads. At first, Dio only values Aoba as a necessary component to the "Coupling System," but does learn to respect and care about him as a person. Their interactions and chemistry become some of the series' strong points, for sure.

However, the same can't be said for the mechas themselves. Honestly, the mecha designs just don't appeal to me at all in this series. They're very much like those of Code Geass: sleek, vibrant, neon-colored, and complete with all sorts of jagged edges and pointy bits. Except, unlike with Code Geass, none of them have particularly interesting designs, and trying to tell the difference between each of them becomes a challenge in its own right amidst the fast-paced cuts of the action scenes. The action scenes as a whole fail to be too exciting, being that they almost always take place in the sky above never-ending oceans. Fight choreography is almost nonexistent, with most battles consisting of mechas firing lazers in ambiguous directions at ambiguous targets. Then, once the protagonists' "Coupling System" activates, the battles further devolve into incomprehensible lazer light shows of flashy orbs that zip around the screen causing explosions in their wake. There's no real tension as you're unable to follow the flow of the action. The only response it might elicit from the viewer is the thought: "Well, I guess they've got it under control." From that point on, it's probably okay to space out.

Though, I will give a shout out to the main theme that pops up near the end of most of these action scenes. It's one that's sure to catch your attention and maybe even have you believe that the fight you've just slept through was actually grandiose and satisfying; hey, it worked for me at least. Unfortunately, while I have to give props to Sunrise for still bothering to traditionally animate their mechas, they're also guilty of resorting to CGI occasionally, and in this show that ratio is somewhere around 50/50. Some great animation could have really made up for the uninspired mecha designs, but more often than not it feels like you're just watching some toys floating around on screen.

This show is by no means always ugly to look at, though. Strangely, this show has simultaneously generic and appealing character designs. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the girls were super attractive, and if I swung a certain way, that the boys were as well. However, on their own they probably wouldn't stand out too much in the larger sea of anime designs. That's why it's definitely to the animators' credit that the characters are consistently well-drawn and look great regardless. Particularly, their eyes are given lots of detail, and close-up shots are gorgeous. The character animation is also consistently fluid enough and comfortably above average.

Given my contempt for this show's mecha fights, it's no surprise that I find its slower-paced episodes to be the strongest. Aoba's reflective trip to his dilapidated hometown was nice, as he reminisced about his school and his family. It was cool to see and put things into perspective. There's also a nice amount of comedy and lightheartedness among the different characters and crew of the Cygnus. Most of them are likeable enough, but just don't receive enough screen time. The same is true for the opposing faction, whose similarly large cast of characters just don't get the development that they need. Because of this, there are certain scenes that attempt to solicit more emotions from the audience than are probably deserved.

Later in the show, we learn that Dio has certain family issues, concerning both his father and his sister. Aoba tries to act as a sort of mediator between them, initially much to Dio's chagrin. It's interesting to see Aoba's perspective on Dio's shaky relationship with his father as someone who no longer has the ability to talk with his own, and the drama that comes from this is not bad, although it does feel like more could have been done with it by the end of the series. Nevertheless, it serves as a nice counterpart of Dio's to Aoba's ongoing obsession with finding Hina.

Hina herself is a double-edged sword of a character. Her character arc is fairly interesting, but it ultimately stems from the terrible time loop plot that sets the story in motion in the first place. However, if you can ignore that—and ignoring it isn't too difficult considering the worst of it only comes at the end when you learn what was supposed to have been happening—she's a worthwhile character with compelling hardships, who's forced to make decisions with real consequences. It helps that her design is especially great to look at, too.

Now, allow me to go on a bit of a tangent:

This show features a textbook example of what I like to call the "Hopeless Third Wheel" character. It's not that I necessarily hate these characters—they can be cute and have their own fun quirks—but rather, I hate the inevitable purposelessness that they're doomed to. These characters are always immediately identifiable: They're air-headed, soft-spoken, super nice towards the main character, and for whatever reason, they usually have short hair; tsundere varieties exist as well, and sometimes they're a childhood friend. You know they aren't going to matter to the main story, and they won't ever reach their one goal in life. What is that goal? To fuck the protagonist, of course; it's their main defining trait. Problem is, in the shows they usually inhabit, it's incredibly obvious who the main character's true love interest is, and therefore any progression with this "Hopeless Third Wheel" feels like a waste of time for her and for the viewer.

Mayuka, here, fits this role to a T. That's a shame since she looks quite good and her personality is one of the less grating of this archetype. To be fair, she does get one nice episode where she accompanies Aoba on his aforementioned trip to his hometown, where she gives him support and helps him figure out what he needs to be doing. But, at best, that's all the "Hopeless Third Wheel" can ever accomplish: locking herself in the ground to provide support for the male lead and subsequently staying there, never moving for her own sake, and never having the resolve to actually get with him as an equal. That's why they lose, and that's why they're frustrating to watch.

Anyway... It's important to note that this show ends on an extremely rushed final episode that even leaves off on a cliffhanger. But, everything is okay, for a short two episode finale was made to finish it all off. Well, it would've been okay if the sequel wasn't actually even stupider than the series was at its dumbest. If you thought the time shenanigans weren't too bad here, just wait until you watch that.

It's hard to say if Buddy Complex was too ambitious or just incompetent. Because it's a solid show when it's doing things right; certain characters are well-developed and the production values can be great. However, when it comes to mecha action and time travel scenarios, this show falls flat on its face.

Before Summer Wars, there was Bokura no War Game, the unsung masterpiece of Mamoru Hosuda. Ill-fatedly tied to the Digimon brand, it was never to be taken too seriously by anyone other than the Digimon fans who grew up with it. Hosuda himself seems to lament that fate, as he has continually attempted to recapture its magic: First, in a Loui Vuitton ad of all things and later in the aforementioned Summer Wars—a film that's pretty incredible in its own right, but one that owes almost everything to this film.

Summer Wars had nearly two hours to work with, so it made sense to fill ... that space with a much larger cast, whose complex interwoven plot lines took that film in a number of different directions. Bokura no War Game feels effortless in comparison, and is the more focused of the two; at only forty minutes in length, it has to be. With that in mind, the creators made the smart decision to only involve a handful of the cast from the main series.

Taichi and Koushirou are the central protagonists here, and their chemistry is the main reason that the film is so enjoyable to watch at the surface level, as they act very casually and naturally together. There's a great deal of humor between the two of them, and between the cast as a whole—nothing of the laugh-out-loud variety, but enough to keep the film from feeling too heavy.

And, although this is a direct sequel to Digimon Adventure, only cursory knowledge of that series is required to fully enjoy this film. You'll catch on soon enough that there's this group of friends who've made connections with certain Digimon partners in the past. Anything past that is for the fans to be concerned with, as no direct mentions to the main series' plot are ever made.

Regardless, Bokura no War Game feels very different from the series. Characters are now animated with lifelike mannerisms and realistic movements, qualities rarely seen of them in the series. Hosuda's influence is very noticeable, most evident in the single-tone shading of the characters and their rather blobby proportions. Additionally, almost every shot here feels purposefully framed, resulting in a film that's consistently pleasant to look at.

It's also here where Hosuda begins to show his apparent love for modern technology, especially from a visual perspective; there's no shortage of telephones, cell phones, computer screens, clocks, keyboards, or other mundane electronics occupying the shots. They feel like a very physical and real part of the world that the characters live in—as they should in this modern age. These elements are contrasted with shots of the more rural countryside and of households where this technology isn't so prevalent. Yet, both elements seem to compliment each other more than anything else, as if to remind us of how quickly technology has progressed; it's incredible to think that a vast and complex network such as the internet does actually exist alongside much simpler ways of life, as shown here.

Being that this is a Digimon film, battles will be fought between digital monsters, and here the internet is their battle ground. Imaginatively, the internet is depicted as a web of large spherical structures, all lined with psychedelic designs and filled with floating debris. Characters in this space are either drawn with orange-colored outlines, or with no outlines at all, making them stand out in visually interesting ways. The admittedly dated Windows XP-styled messaging prompts are also used to great effect while inside the net, materializing in midair for the characters of the real world to communicate through. As a whole, this creates a very distinct and striking aesthetic—one that Hosuda would continue to use in later works such as Summer Wars.

The battles fought between the Digimon in this trippy internet world are quick, exciting, and creative, often making good use of the setting. The fights are Dragon Ball-esque, for lack of a better term, featuring characters zooming across the screen at high speeds, firing projectiles and throwing hard punches. All of the actions have a nice weight to them, so you'll feel the impact of every hit. The talented animators, choreographers, and sound designers definitely deserve major props for that.

The soundtrack of Bokura no War Game is mostly orchestral, save for the few returning J-rock tracks from the series, which are always nice to listen to. The soundtrack otherwise gives the film a particularly old fashioned sort of vibe; the more lighthearted scenes are accompanied by whimsical woodwinds, bells, and swells of strings, while the more intense scenes feature great thematic interplay between bursts of brass and sharp staccato strings. The angelic choir near the end is worth noting, as well.

Perhaps the best quality of this film is how it effectively builds tension and momentum. What starts out as a lazy morning for Taichi, snowballs into a frantic race against the clock to stop the detonation of a nuclear missile—all within a few hours. Help is always just out of reach for our heroes, while the main villain, a computer virus that has taken control of the internet, is always one step ahead. Stakes are raised by the minute, and in a multitude of layers. Hosuda highlights this tension by constantly cutting back and forth between unrelated events that are happening in parallel, the culmination of which ends up feeling very satisfying. While the pace of the film is slow-building, it's also ever-accelerating, much like the rapidly approaching nuclear missile of the story itself. This results in an unexpectedly powerful emotional scene near the end—one that would undoubtedly feel hammy if left in the hands of a lesser director.

Ever since this film, it seems Hosuda has been fascinated by the turn of the century and the ways that society will continue to interact with newer technology, whether that be for better or for worse—fitting, then, for this film to have been released in the year 2000. If you can believe it, despite having Digimon in the title, this film manages to feel very grounded and relevant. The fantastical Digital World makes no appearance here, and instead it's the internet as we know it that becomes the main stage for the plot and for the film's themes. There's also no inclusion of a hypothetical virtual reality like the OZ network of Summer Wars. A real point is made here about how even now, society is reliant enough on the internet and its related networks that if things were to go haywire, chaos would ensue. It feels like a warning sign to the present, not one to a possible future.

However, that would all be meaningless if the film itself weren't just simply enjoyable to watch. It's got heart, personality, and style, and its relatively short length is sure to keep your attention the whole way through. There's a reason I keep coming back to it; there's also a reason Hosuda keeps coming back to it.

Miyakawa-ke no Kuufuku is a nice little side-story for Lucky Star fans. It's not the season two that many have been hoping for—though, the OP would suggest otherwise—but there's no reason you wouldn't enjoy it if you enjoyed Lucky Star.

Despite not still being produced by KyoAni, Miyakawa-ke retains the overall feel of Lucky Star, most likely due to the number of returning staff members: Yamamoto Yutaka is the director, having previously directed the first four episodes of Lucky Star, of which he did a fine job, episode one's infamous first half notwithstanding. Rest assured, you won't be sitting through five minutes of meandering food discussions ... here. The visuals, too, are on point, featuring the light but vibrant color palette you've come to expect from the franchise, and the same kinds of adorable character designs that are consistently well drawn.

However, even with the shorter episode lengths, this show tends to follow a slower pace. While Lucky Star was more reliant on nonstop punchline set-ups, Miyakawa-ke instead uses more focused linear plot structures. That's not to say there aren't any punchlines at all, but each episode typically deals with a single scenario or idea for its whole duration, rather than being comprised of disconnected instances.

Oddly enough, the Miyakawa sisters are the only two returning characters who ended up being portrayed by new seiyuu for this series; you might have forgotten that they did actually have two brief appearances in Lucky Star, though their roles were so small that it hardly matters. Hikage's new seiyuu, in particular, is an unusual one, this being her first and only role. Her non-anime-sounding voice gives Hikage a unique charm, so it's a shame that she hasn't done any more voice work since.

Hikage is also by far the more likable of the two sisters. She's a lot more perceptive and cynical than your typical nine-year-old, no doubt a result of the harsh state of poverty that she lives in. Miyuk-...er, I mean, Hinata, on the other hand, is mainly there to create problems for her little sister—these problems being the main sources for the show's gags. Her incompetence may get frustrating, as she continues to make the same selfish decisions over and over throughout the whole show, only redeeming herself on occasion. But, to be fair, the entire premise banks on her acting in this way. Hikage wouldn't be so endearing if she didn't have to constantly struggle due to her older sister's lack of self control and bad spending habits.

You'll find that the premise of Miyakawa-ke is very simple—perhaps too simple. As it is, there's not a whole lot of variety to the series. With that in mind, the show's length really works to its advantage—any longer and the creators might have run out of new ways to tell the same jokes.

Maybe that's why the ending is so satisfying, despite the fact that not all of the source material could be covered. It stops before getting old, and ends things on a pretty good note. If Lucky Star left you wanting more, you owe it to yourself to give this small series a shot; certain cameos will probably make you smile. However, if you're not amused by the first episode, you probably shouldn't bother to continue.

Paprika, the last film of the late Satoshi Kon, is in a league of its own when compared to his other works—a league that is far, far below the rest. Satoshi Kon is, of course, a very talented director, and in that regard he still delivers for this film. The visuals are every bit as detailed as expected from him and his team, and the sheer amount of technical skill on display here is mind-blowing at times. Unfortunately, that's about where my praise for it ends.

Satoshi Kon films typically take you on a psychological ride that explores its characters' inner thoughts in visually inventive ways. ... You might think that Paprika does this as well, as it would seem so at first, but the experience ends up feeling very flat by the end in spite of the film's wacky and colorful premise. The elaborate dream sequences only distract you from the fact that everything here operates on a very basic surface level. While that physiological element does exist to some extent in Paprika, it's relegated to the sidelines in favor of an uninteresting, superficial mystery plot about stolen technology featuring one-note, unlikable characters. I don't dislike this film for being confusing or for going "over my head" as they say; I dislike it for being astoundingly simple and straightforward. There's not much to explore and not much to think about after the film is over. Paprika delivers entertainment that's built to last for the moment and nothing more.

But, make no mistake: the entertainment that it does provide is still very much worth experiencing just for those immediate sensations alone. The soundtrack definitely deserves a mention, as it's pretty great and the recurring themes are very strong. As for the animation, the creators are able to get away with a lot because of the film's dream setting, and with that they're pretty creative. They must have spent a lot of time discussing what sorts of things tend to happen in dreams so that they could make those sequences feel genuinely relatable. Sometimes, though, the dream elements feel gimmicky and forced, like they were thrown in to remind the viewer that the characters are, indeed, in a dream; characters will dive into television screens and paintings to travel distances that would have probably been easier to walk across. Additionally, it feels like they miss a lot of opportunities to truly mess with the viewer's perception of reality, instead making it all too clear what's really going on most of the time.

Now, maybe Paprika just isn't trying to be some intelligent psychoanalytical film; that's fine. Maybe it could instead provide a nice cast of characters with great chemistry who drive the film forward, a la Tokyo Godfathers. However, Paprika fails to provide even that. The characters in Paprika range from underwhelming to outright irritating, with a few exceptions. Kosaku, in particular, is on the "punchable" side of the scale. This guy is unbelievably, impossibly, and disgustingly obese. It's played off like some kind of charming quality, and that perhaps it's what's on the inside that matters most—a touching sentiment, but unfortunately for Kosaku, he also happens to act like a literal child. Well, shit, I guess he's got no redeeming qualities no matter where you look. Did I mention that he has the most punchable face of any anime character ever?

Even Paprika herself, despite her gorgeous character design, is deceptively dull, much like the film. Going by the title and promotional art, you might be looking forward to seeing a film featuring her as the central character. That's why you'll be happy to learn that she actually spends the majority of the time replaced by her comparatively drab counterpart, Atsuko, and receives no development of her own. In fact, there's a ton of wasted potential when it comes to both of these characters, as it's never explored why Atsuko might take on this other form in the first place, and what this duality actually means for them. It ends up feeling like the only reason this "Paprika" alter ego exists is for eye candy and so that we can see a cool character battling dream monsters in trippy action scenes; if that was the intention, she at least succeeded in providing that. But, with Satoshi Kon, we've come to expect a deeper meaning behind every action, and in this film the action often takes place for its own sake, feeling a little too much like a Saturday morning cartoon.

That Saturday morning cartoon feel doesn't end there, though, as the worst of it comes from the film's villain—something that Kon's films have never featured this blatantly before, typically favoring inner conflicts over the external. This is a villain whose first lines consist of him robotically expressing his ideals, as if he'd been carefully scripting his own words, eager to recite them to the next person who'd walk into his room. By the end of the film, he'll crush your suspension of disbelief harder than any amount of surrealist dream imagery could by acting like a totally unreasonable cartoon bad guy: a comically insane person with maniacally evil plans who shouts like a baby when he doesn't get his way. To make things worse, we never learn why he feels the ways that he feels, making him an underwhelming character and a weak villain. I didn't even mention the similarly flawed supporting villain whose existence is entirely unnecessary and serves no greater purpose.

As previously stated, Paprika does still contain a bit of Satoshi Kon's signature psychological element, and that comes in the form of side character Toshimi's plot line. Unlike other characters in the film who only seem to be concerned for their job's sake, Toshimi actually has a strong personal investment in his own arc, as he takes the initiative to find answers to the questions that haunt his dreams. You grow to care about this guy because it actually feels like he cares, too. And, for once, the dream motif is used really well to give meaningful visuals to his inner psyche—the kinds of tangible things that can actually be pulled apart to learn more about a character. But, ultimately, the problem is that Toshimi's concerns are really only his alone. They don't mesh well with the main plot at all, and when the creators attempt to mash them together the results are questionable at best. He's left with nothing to do by the climax, becoming just another bystander watching the action unfold outside of his control, having no influence on the conclusion.

With most of the characters being as two-dimensional as they are, it's no surprise that the film's climax ends up being a thrown-together mess. Everything is resolved with actions that don't need to make too much sense, using the fact that dreams have become real as a crutch for the deus ex machina finale. There are attempts to salvage Atsuko's lack of development by introducing a romance plot that, while hinted at, feels more insulting than anything else. They were clearly and knowingly taking a risk with this particular pairing, but the necessary steps to pull it off correctly were not taken. At most, you could say that the creators were at least trying to invoke some real emotions for once, but I'd honestly rather they'd not at this point, especially when the results are this awkward.

I don't know exactly what went wrong with the making of this film to make it stand out in such a negative way. Considering Kon's otherwise excellent track record, perhaps it's the source material that's at fault; I wouldn't know. All I do know is that Paprika, as it exists in this film, is an overall emotionless endeavor that left me wondering what the point of it all was. Regardless, I do still have a lot of respect for Satoshi Kon; he's made his fair share of masterpieces, and his contributions to the anime industry won't be forgotten anytime soon, so I suppose he's earned the right to make a few mistakes. After all, it was his willingness to take risks that brought us such great films as Perfect Blue and Millennium Actress. You can see that Paprika was made with that same level of ambition; it was just bound to fail at some point.

Jubei-chan is an anime that probably fools most viewers at its start. What appears to be a stereotypical show about average high school kids who must save the day from evil bad guys is actually a clever satirical comedy. This is hard to realize at first because it plays so many of its cliches straight that it can easily be mistaken for one of the very shows that it mocks. And, if you've seen enough of those kinds of shows, this one may already turn you off by the intro scene; after all, it involves the played out scenario of two rival samurai battling to ... the death. It's all very serious, but things do start to feel odd. If you continue watching, small absurdities will build up until the show's true nature is revealed. The creators actually expect their viewers to be as savvy as they are when it comes to this genre, which is how they have the freedom to play around with it as much as they do.

While other protagonists of similar anime would be all too eager to accept their given role as the hero of the story by the end of the first episode, Nanohana Jiyu on the other hand won't be motivated at all by the desperate begging of a stranger—the stranger, in this case, being the 300 year old samurai, Odago Koinosuke, who urgently insists that she must fight as the reincarnation of his clan's ancestor, Yagyuu Jubei, in an ongoing feud with a sinister rival clan. If that all sounded like boring exposition to you, Jiyu would agree. She'll need more than that to convince her to change her life completely. It isn't fear or anxiety that ever holds her back: it's pure indifference. She just does not care about this conflict thrust upon her from seemingly nowhere. After all, why should she? She's happy with her life the way it is, and it's the creators' success in subverting this classic trope of the typical selfless protagonist that proves just how self aware they really are.

Jiyu refuses to comply by consistently casting aside the show's McGuffin, the Lovely Eyepatch, and refuses to acknowledge or even understand the importance of it. But she's not dumb, and she's certainly not a ditsy air-head either. You'll notice that there's a lot more going on in her head than what's first implied. In fact, one of the most endearing things about Jiyu is seeing how she reacts to the situations in her life in surprisingly realistic ways, and how she eventually comes to find her own reasons for fighting. She's also just plain adorable, and her relationship with her father is both a central driving force in the story and something amusing to see in its own right. Sometimes they get along, other times they fight, but you can always tell they really care about each other.

The same can be said for most of the characters in Jubei-Chan when it comes to the chemistry they have together. The aforementioned Koinosuke's attempts to convince Jiyu are hilariously futile, but there's a charm to his desperation. Bantarou, the school's self-proclaimed "Banchou," has fallen in love with Jiyu at first sight, and as such, is on a never-ending quest to confess to her. And as for Shiro, Jiyu's other schoolmate...well, it's the same story for him. Yes, it's quite common for characters in this series to fall in love with Jiyu at first sight. I guess who could blame them, right? But this actually plays into one of the show's greatest comedic strengths: repetition.

This show loves to find humor in repetition, which is a tricky thing to do without running jokes into the ground. However, this show really understands what kinds of things are worth repeating. For example: The first time a character gets lost in a particular forest, you might only smirk, but by the end of the series, once almost every character has managed to do this, you may just laugh out loud at what is essentially the same gag. And this repetitive humor comes through most noticeably in the recurring ways that characters always introduce themselves. They do so with such conviction even at times when it would be absurd given the contexts of their situations. There's also a peculiar pattern that begins to develop where the characters find themselves mixed up in various bike chase scenes, if that's what you could call them, where their sillier quirks really have the opportunities to shine.

But if it wasn't enough that this show's humor takes time to show itself, it also comes in multiple unexpected and unusual forms. There are long pauses that sometimes last for almost half a minute reminiscent of those from Evangelion, except that in this case the pauses are used for humor rather than for dramatic tension. Characters frequently make exaggerated faces, but not of the typical chibi anime variety. Their limbs, too, are freely distorted and stretched to fit the context of the joke or scene, and the laws of physics need not always apply. These exaggerations are even funnier in contrast to the relatively realistic proportions that the characters usually conform to. The show also has a funny habit of showing characters exit or enter scenes in deliberately strange ways. Yet, throughout all of these visual character gags, the animators at Madhouse still pay lots of attention to detail.

Even at its goofiest, the animation quality is well above average, and characters are rarely off-model—that is, unless intentionally so. The show is just great to look at, from the smooth animation to the mellow but inviting color pallet. Characters are animated with such subtlety in even the smallest of movements that they really come to life. Even the fight scenes, while hardly ever the main attraction, are nonetheless choreographed beautifully. Unlike in shounen fighting series whose fights rely on slow calculative strategy, the fights in Jubei-Chan are short and sweet, relying on the natural flow of the sword fighting itself—of which Madhouse certainly put in their research, evident in the sword fighting's relative authenticity when compared to other anime. And, because of this adherence to flow, the fights are usually over before you know it, neither being boring nor overstaying their welcome.

The music of this series is nice as well, particularly Jiyu's theme which is always a pleasure to hear at crucial moments. A different arrangement of this theme also serves as the series' opening theme, although this somehow manages to be one of the strangest openings that I've ever seen for an anime: For just about 15 seconds this music plays before cutting out prematurely, after which Jiyu continues to ride her bike towards the screen for a few more seconds of dead, awkward silence. Perhaps that is the joke.

If I had to point out a real flaw of Jubei-Chan, it would be that its repetition isn't always used to great effect; this is most apparent in the second half of the series when certain lengthy monologues reiterate exposition that feels more like filler, rather than opportunities to create humor. You may get tired of hearing the details of Yagyuu Jubei's backstory. However, if you're already invested in this show's strengths by this point, then sitting through these occasional scenes shouldn't bother you too much—especially when it all leads to a satisfying conclusion.

For a comedy, you usually wouldn't expect a conclusion to matter too much considering the episodic nature that most of them have, but this show does have a linear plot that runs though each episode. In the later episodes this plot starts taking up more and more of the screen time, and it does take itself pretty seriously at times, but don't worry: the comedy never completely goes away. That being said, the show's attempts to deliver serious character development, most notably for Jiyu and her father, are not in vain. Their story arc is genuinely touching, albeit not the most emotional thing you've ever seen. It's just something extra to make the show a little more memorable.

At its core, though, this is a comedy, and it's one that slowly reveals its genius as it goes along. It may not have you laughing at first, but there's an odd repetition to it that lulls you into its rhythm over time, and before you know it, scenarios that you've been seeing over and over again throughout the series become absolutely hilarious. I recommend that you at least give Jubei-Chan a try, especially if you've already seen a fair amount of other anime series.