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"Samurai Champloo" may not have the same ring to it as "Cowboy Bebop," yet it is a title that has a similar function: to illustrate a combination of multicultural pulp fiction sensibility. Where Cowboy Bebop was a past + future fusion of jazz, rock, and blues, spaghetti western, kung fu, and noir cinema genres, and a setting equating outer space to the great frontier, Samurai Champloo is a more wildly anachronistic mélange of Edo-period history and contemporary hip-hop and bohemian culture. "Champloo" itself comes from the word "chanpurū," Okinawan for "something mixed," and a source of Okinawa's pride in multicultural acceptance. Cowboy ... Bebop was a trend-setting marriage of anime traditions and Tarantino-inspired cultural hodgepodge — it could be said that Pulp Fiction influenced Cowboy Bebop as much as Cowboy Bebop influenced Kill Bill — and Samurai Champloo continues in this meta style, taking it even further.

Of course, Cowboy Bebop was not Shinichiro Watanabe's first foray into resonant crossover in anime: Macross Plus was a monolithic amalgamation of Top Gun's hot-headed romantic drama and sci-fi tropes including a pop-idol hologram version of 2001: A Space Odyssey's HAL, in turn influencing the famous cyberpunk writer William Gibson to write Idoru, a novel about a Japanese virtual idol and her marriage to a real-life rock star. Of course, all of this was before the invention of the Vocaloid, though I suppose the future imagined by Watanabe and Gibson was, in a way, not so far off.

Anyhow, now that I've finished my little history lesson — which I feel is relevant, as having such a perspective may deepen your enjoyment of Samurai Champloo as much as it did for me — let's continue on to the review. In light of all the prescient futurism found in Watanabe's other works, it's rather interesting that he decided to shift his focus to the past and present. Of course, the world's future is always in its past... and what we have here is, in a nutshell, Edo-period Japan: the remix. Baseball, tagging/graffiti, Van Gogh, zombies, and Catholicism are tossed into the "chanpurū" with a whole lot of revised Japanese pseudo-history. As such the medley of influences and tangential tale-spinning occasionally smacks of filler, but one would do well to understand that this show is simply all /about/ the filler — and this is all for the better, because Samurai Champloo is at its freshest and most hilarious when it's veering off the rails. It even has the single most entertaining recap episode I've ever seen. Even with all this episodic improv, Fuu's journey in search of a "samurai who smells like sunflowers" provides a compelling core to the story, much like a steady hip-hop beat giving structure to the mix of samples and freestyle verses. Her ronin traveling companions Mugen and Jin mingle like oil and water, and there we have the perfect cast for hilarity and drama.

Samurai Champloo is one good-looking show, with its thick linework giving an impression of manga blended with graffiti style. One episode even takes a quick trip into the psychedelic, with a sudden burst of colorful hallucination, Mind Game style — courtesy of episode key animator Masaaki Yuasa, of course. A wide variety of such notable animators were brought on board and thus the style occasionally varies slightly from episode to episode or even scene to scene, but it's always pleasing and completely in tune with the show's theme. Rural Japan has never looked so urban; almost any given scene in Samurai Champloo would be right at home spray-painted on the side of a city building or underpass.

The music, likewise, blends hip-hop, rhythm & blues, and traditional Japanese shamisen. Music often plays second fiddle to the look and quality of the animation when it comes to my enjoyment of anime, but in some cases it becomes just as important. This is one such anime, where the music contributes so greatly to the feel of it that it defines it and sets it apart from other anime — much like the soundtrack by Yoko Kanno and the Seatbelts did for Cowboy Bebop. It's also worth mentioning that rap and beatboxing sometimes enter the dialogue, and it's always amusing. Admittedly, most younger people these days are far more familiar with hip-hop than they are with the jazz, blues, and big band genres; nonetheless, in the realm of anime this feels a bit groundbreaking, especially with the theme songs featuring Japanese rap lyrics. The world is getting bigger and smaller every day.

Samurai Champloo is a show for everyone. Plenty of great sword-slashing action, clever comedy, and a good share of moments that will tug at your heartstrings — often all at once. If you enjoy anime, this is one you can't miss.

Born deep in the dirt, surrounded and made captive by earth above and below, where can a person go from there? There are three options: you do nothing and lay there until you die, you dig lower and strive to find yourself in the filth and darkness and loneliness, or you cast it all aside and reach for the sky you know exists. Certainly, the latter is the most difficult path to choose and it's not likely to just fall into your lap—but let's say it does just that, in the form of a device that will empower your very desire to explode ... forth into the world.

In this case, a boy named Simon—Simon the Digger to most—finds a small key that resembles the drill he uses to explore his surroundings in search of treasure. Little does he know at first that he has just found a treasure that will grant him control of a mecha that will respond to his emotions. And before long, when the huge and scary world above comes crashing down into the tiny world he knows, he'll discover what he can do with this machine thanks to the encouragement of his big bro, the fiercely optimistic Kamina. One battle leads to a sort of tumbling-up-the-rabbit-hole, where the vast sky wheels around them and there's no limit to be seen—no dirt ceiling hanging above, just the endless blue horizon.

By the second episode, Simon and Kamina have met Yoko and her band of rebels up on the surface. Where do they go from there? They soon learn that the surface world is a scary place, and the old cave from which they emerged begins to seem like a refuge, the place of their childhood—an earthly womb, perhaps. Up here, the beastmen piloting mecha with giant faces called Ganmen seek to exterminate humans, and along with this group of scrappers Simon and Kamina find themselves engaging in a succession of battles, awkwardly beginning to realize what they're capable of doing. Kamina, especially, throws himself into the mix with a boldness that sets the tone for the series. "Who the hell do you think I am?!" he shouts, demonstrating that in this world, where there's a will there's a way. And as the forces of oppression loom ever larger, the Gurren Brigade gains more and more resolve.

Like many coming-of-age stories, TTGL has its phase of male adolescence. A time-leap brings us to an era when our heroes, once grasping for the skies, have lost their way. They struggle to face their new freedom and responsibility, and suddenly they are not very likable. In fact, you'll probably want to punch most of them. Simon especially, as he struggles to become even half the man that Kamina proved to be early in the series, let alone a man of his own strengths and desires. He may as well be back in the cave he came from, gathering dust in angsty stagnation. It's only fitting that Yoko and the other women at the core of the cast have found their place in the world apart from the rest, accepting their adulthood in stride. And it is only a new threat of loss and oppression that provides the man-children the kick in the ass necessary to get them moving again. And move they do. Purpose is rediscovered. Maybe the scared and thoughtful boy that Simon was can find himself after all, even if he does follow in Kamina's footsteps. There are far worse things one could aspire to.

Quick comments on the quality of animation and sound here: excellent. Aside from the occasional misstep (such as the notoriously ugly fourth episode), everything here looks great, emphasizing the wild boldness of the story with animation that threatens to disintegrate into pure color and energy under such force. The soundtrack is thunderous, full of upbeat pop-rock and bombastic classical or neoclassical pieces that suit the increasingly epic feel perfectly.

Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann could be considered Gainax's magnum opus—the contrarily nihilistic Neon Genesis Evangelion notwithstanding. What they've managed to do with this show is take traditions set forth by Gunbuster/Top wo Nerae! and its sequel, Diebuster/Top wo Nerae! 2 and blend them with more subtle elements of the very non-traditional postmodernist FLCL. Rather than having robots popping out of the young protagonist's head after being clocked by a girl with an electric guitar, the boy goes about his usual mode of working his way through life and discovers the key to a robot that responds to his emotions, his very spirit, opening the way up and out, eradicating limitations as long as he can muster the desire to change, grow, and realize his destiny. Look to your dreams and reach for the heavens: every light in the sky is a star. It's a premise that is just as absurd, yet it seems to make sense compared to all the pubescent confusion FLCL hurls at its audience. This drill is the boy's soul—the key to a boundless extension of himself that he will call Gurren Lagann. "This drill is me." The "hard work and guts!" of Gunbuster becomes, "My drill is the drill that will penetrate the heavens!" Aim for the top, indeed.

What are you living for? This is the question posed by Berserk, pitting humanistic free will against nihilistic predestination. More intimately, this is the battle of human suffering in the wake of divine fate and the ambition of one's fellow man. Set in a medieval world of strife, vast green lands and blue skies obscure the supernatural demonic powers lurking in unseen shadows. One man named Griffith, graceful leader of the notorious mercenary group Band of the Hawk, stakes everything on a fate he means to forge for himself at any cost, and as he shines ever brighter the shadows nearby ... grow ever darker. Ultimately, this is the story of those who are caught up in his conquest—the conquest of their hearts, of the kingdom of Midland, and of his own destiny.

One of those people is a young man called Guts, who we find introduced as The Black Swordsman. Along the way we'll find out how he came to be a warrior more powerful than any other human, with death more than just nipping at his heels from his very birth. He isn't merely your average war-torn soul—he embodies the desire to live on the battlefield, choosing to relentlessly face his fate head on and swinging a sword that might as well be a tombstone as tall as a man. His dogged ferocity endears Griffith, compelling him to draw Guts into the Band of the Hawk. Here he also meets Caska, a dark and fiery-tempered woman second only to Griffith in terms of skill and leadership; second to none in terms of honor and loyalty. And thus our tale truly begins.

It is a story about a world full of evil and brutality, of dreams and despair, where people struggle to find themselves in the midst of it all and define the meaning of their existence. Friendship and love are slow to come, but when it's there it'll bring tears to your eyes, for the relationships forged in Berserk are more meaningful than almost any you'll find in anime.

You will soon learn that there are no limits to Griffith's ambition, nor to his charisma. A leader that seems to grace his era as if stepped right out of a painting, his Band of the Hawk serves him faithfully, offering their own hopes and aspirations to his "bonfire of dreams"—for simply being near him seems to promise glory. He is also in possession of a strange relic—an egg-like pendant bearing ominous notions...

Berserk is not for the faint of heart (or the very young), brimming with violent battles and head-to-head confrontations resulting in dismemberment, bodies sliced entirely in two, blood and entrails by the bucketload, and some very intense sexuality including rape and molestation.

The quality of the animation here varies somewhat from time to time, but it is always good enough, and frankly needs no real mention because it is so overshadowed by every other quality here. That said, there are some pretty stunning moments of gorgeous animation—particularly during the action scenes—but most will likely think it looks somewhat bland by today's standards. I urge you not to let this deter you.

I'll make note of the music, since that is certainly one of the most enjoyable things about Berserk. Some viewers might recognize Hirasawa Susumu's very distinguished sound from other anime like Paranoia Agent and Paprika, and it is all extremely memorable. You will find yourself whistling along when "Forces" chimes in, and various other tunes are used to delightful effect, heightening the emotional impact of already emotional scenes.

Berserk's finale is one of the most notoriously shocking cliffhanger endings in anime history. The story arc covered by the anime is known as the "Golden Age" of Miura's manga, encompassed by volumes 4-13. One might even advise a newcomer to skip the first episode (a flash-forward that takes place beyond the ending) and save it to watch after the 25th, but this might not even be necessary—anyone who is truly drawn into this tale will feel compelled to read the manga afterward. This is such a layered and powerful story, filled with so much ugliness and beauty, that you will almost inevitably be drawn in. Berserk is a true classic.

Now and Then, Here and There is a real wall-gazer. The kind of show that you pause to reflect upon, and then find yourself gazing deeply into the nearest wall. Spacing out, utterly deflated, with that melancholy soundtrack echoing through the halls of your mind—like an empty ballroom, with only you left sitting at the bar. The dance is over, but the mood lingers, and there's not much you can do but sit and sigh... and realize you're a little bit older.

The hero of this story, Shu, is actually not so much a hero as he is just another victim of an ... ugly world gone wrong, and one who himself is nearly broken a number of times. What makes him stand out is his stubborn refusal to succumb to the hopelessness and terror of it all, even while everyone around him has been beaten down to the point where they commit terrible acts out of overwhelming fear and a desire to survive—in some cases a distant yet precious hope that if they can make it through, they'll one day be set free from this hell that holds them captive.

The setting is an alternate world that Shu finds himself pulled into, a bleak dystopian wasteland of endless, bone-dry desert; the atmosphere is stifling and oppressive, a nihilistic Future Boy Conan where skies are not blue, but blood-red, and there isn't a drop of water to be found. Enter Lala-Ru, a girl who, like Lana of the aforementioned classic, holds a power that can save the world from its ruin—a power that has fallen into the wrong hands. This is very much like a story Hayao Miyazaki might come up with were he feeling suicidally depressed. Lala-Ru, unlike Lana, would sooner let the squabbling humans wither up and die than exert herself to aid them.

It's easy to understand how Shu must feel, having stumbled into this world gone mad, but while I become more and more depressed and anxious as characters descend further and further into misery and anguish with each episode, Shu never loses his resolve. Even after being beaten and starved and nearly killed a number of times, he retains his determination to protect those in need of help, and to try to reassure them that as grim as things seem, everything will be okay.

It's tough to believe him, in the face of so much kidnapping, murder, and rape, all at the behest of Lord Hamdo, the completely insane fruitcake dictator of Hellywood and desperate captor of Lala-Ru. Other characters will accuse Shu of lying, and you'll wonder if there really is any escape from the utterly dismal state of this nightmarish world. But you'll also find that there are fragments of hope, and in some sense one may ultimately find illumination in all this darkness and despair.

Now and Then, Here and There has a look and feel that suggests it was a project made on a tight budget, yet with a lot of feeling behind it—especially evident in the wistful ending theme. You won't find yourself impressed with flashy modern animation, but the overall production is sufficient to convey the bleak atmosphere effectively.

The makers of this anime clearly wanted to say something, and they've gone about doing so in the most dire, soul-draining way they could muster. It's up to you if you can weather the journey, but I guarantee you'll come out on the other end a bit wiser for it.

In the very first moments of Kemonozume we learn of a legend about a man rescuing a woman who is to be sacrificed to the gods: when they escape and run off together, the gods are angered and condemn them to feed on the flesh of humans in the form of monsters overwhelmed by bestial rage, lust, and the urge to devour. And so the descendants of these banished lovers live on as Flesh Eaters, some of them choosing to embrace their inner beast, and some choosing to suppress their curse by will alone, retaining their human form and living normal human lives.

The story ... here truly begins when Toshihiko, a key member of the Kifuuken, a clan dedicated to the slaughter of these abominations, and Yuka, a Flesh Eater, fall into a tangle of hungry lust with each other — before they know what each other are. When the shit hits the fan the suddenly star-crossed lovers end up on the run, unsure of where to go or what to do, often doubting themselves and struggling to find a way. Together, Toshihiko and Yuka wrestle with their desires and sexuality, their sense of duty and belonging, and having the courage to do what they feel is right.

Ultimately, Kemonozume — like Masaaki Yuasa's own Mind Game — has a very simple thing to say: love and dreams are worth fighting for even in the face of the "maddening, dreamless truth" of reality. Both leave us not with a sense of overwrought tragedy or profound enlightenment, but a reinvigorating affirmation of the importance of living for what we believe in — and perhaps most importantly, they do it with fucking style. The story of Kemonozume is such that could have been told just as easily with vampires or anything less novel than the Flesh Eaters, but instead its creators opt to take a traditional story and a traditional form and approach them in an extraordinarily fresh way.

Yuasa's love of whimsical surrealism and macabre comedy coupled with the raw, emphatically hand-drawn and viscerally expressive style of animation flies in the face of generic anime blandness, particularly in the amazing final episodes. As it becomes increasingly psychedelic, Kemonozume is like a jazz fusion record that spirals into free jazz madness; rock giving way to feedback-driven climax. It's dark, funny, romantically and sexually mature, and wildly stylistic in a way that comes off as improvisational yet intensely focused, perfectly suiting the story and theme.

Note that most of the visual style present throughout the series draws more from a unique impression of manga-style absurdism than from mainstream anime's insular concept of what anime is "supposed to look like" these days (i.e. moéfests galore), and because of the choice to involve a number of different animators the look and feel naturally varies slightly or sometimes shockingly from episode to episode, to subtly kaleidoscopic effect. Again, this allows for audacious imagery that parallels the vision behind this story, and its characters' quest to redefine the way of things and what is acceptable.

The music, too, suits the theme here, presenting a mixture of crazed jazz and swinging fusion reminiscent of Cowboy Bebop's timeless soundtrack.

If you have an affinity for fresh, exciting, mature, and daring forms of expression, for love and dreams that shred through all misfortune and the crushing banality of those in power, Kemonozume is for you.