Eve no Jikan (eps 4 – 6)
The latter part of Yasuhiro Yoshiura’s Eve no Jikan, or Time of Eve, came out this year and concluded one of its most unique series. Unique for its distribution, really pushing the streaming media method with an unholy alliance with Crunchyroll and unique for its visual flare, perfecting Yoshiura’s penchant for 2D/3D synchronicity with amazing effect. And while gorgeous to look at Eve excelled most at characterisation, achieving a fantastic level of depth in six fifteen-minute episodes.

Initially tipping all manner of hats to sci-fi tenants of yore, Eve quickly moved away from Azimov and became concerned more with the psyche of its characters, giving full emotional range to humans and robots alike. Primarily a consideration of how we would behave in a world where androids had become self-aware, Yoshiura and Studio Rikka took an authentic approach and ran the gamut of fear, empathy, intolerance and love. No flights of whimsy crept in needlessly, removing events so far from reality that we as an audience didn’t have to think about what we were watching. Fundamentally, like all good science fiction, Eve no Jikan took the familiar, offset it somewhat and asked us to consider what we would do if our moral and ethical compasses were challenged.

Children of the Sea (vols 1 – 3)
Another sort of pioneer of digital distribution, Children of the Sea is Daisuke Igarashi’s ethereal trip into the deep unknown and the flagship title of Viz’s SIGIKKI imprint. Notable for being one of the first series by the publisher to be released online for free before receiving a hardcopy release as well as being the first title of Viz’s commitment to straight-up-legitimate Seinen, by way of Japan’s IKKI anthology magazine.

Children of the Sea stands out because of its irreproachable distinctiveness. Igarashi’s idiosyncratic artwork seemingly flits between fantastically detailed to sketchy, almost cursory, while losing none of its charm or effect. His eye for natural beauty particularly stands level with Mushi-shi’s Yuki Urushibara and both share the same masterful flare for the cinematic. The story is as enigmatic as the characters it follows, but the journey they take and its ability to inspire awe from the natural world will move you and feels unlike you’ve read before. It’s environmental without being hamfisted, opting to show us why we should care about our surroundings rather than dryly lecturing, and the story takes a similarly indirect, visual approach. It feels special, all the more so once you get a copy of the lovely print edition in your hands, and needs to be read.

Other SIGIKKI titles to keep an eye on are Bokurano, Dorohedoro and Saturn Apartments — all of which are available to read on the site.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0
The prospect of two children trying to be reunited with their parents Against All Odds sounds trite on paper, but in practice Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 moved away from cliche and focused more on how actual people would behave in the situation (warts and all). The two kids are completely convincing – Marai is a moody tween, too inclined to humour her immature pessimism, and her brother Yuki is a spirited little boy who finds adventure at every opportunity. The two offset each other fantastically while behaving in a believable and honest way. Miri, their makeshift guardian, has her own problems weighing heavy but still finds it in herself to protect them and be the kind of every day heroine you’d hope to meet in those circumstances. The series goes through all the emotional peaks and troughs you expect but still maintains a sophistication that avoids mawkish sentimentality.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 was a natural disaster story with a lot more heart than most natural disaster stories; a considered and genuine look at the possible events that would follow a 8.0 scale earthquake in the Tokyo metropolitan area, and a sincere study of human endurance and heroism.

Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood
Everyone knows Fullmetal Alchemist is great, but I only took heed of the praise this year with Brotherhood and it was the best anime-related decision I’ve made all year. I’m including this purely to acknowledge how reliably brilliant it is from week to week and show love for the only show I remember to watch on the day it becomes, uh, available. I’ve written at length about the reasons for my love of this series elsewhere, so I won’t go on about it here. Just know it’s one of the best shonen anime available and should be on your radar if the ritalin-deprived child deep within is still thrashing about.

Darker than Black II: Gemini of the Meteor
Thus completes the BONES trifecta of excellence for 2009. The sequel to the beloved Darker than Black, it returned equipped with new characters, some old familiars and a wholly more tolerable narrative framework. My love and respect for this second series comes initially for its choice to jettison the frustrating two episode arcs of the first series. They worked fantastically for a DVD watch or marathon but man alive it was irritating when you followed the weekly schedule. DtB II opts to tell its story in a more continual way and lets the slow-burn develop more consistently.

Granted, those two episode arcs had many benefits, and the general lack of meaty character development in this series is its biggest fault, but I stand by it as an excellent companion piece to the main series and one that had all the highs and lows that attracted me to it in the first place.

Its ability to recast previously supporting characters into spotlight roles is particularly commendable. July takes the role of Yin in the retooled ensemble, somehow carving out his own sense of personality regardless of being an emotionless doll, and is possibly the most moe thing I’ve ever seen. Hei’s dramatic fall from grace gives his character a bit more mileage – as does Yin’s mysterious omnipotence. The new characters fit nicely into the established world, too, particularly protagonist Suou who is suitably existentially tormented. The brutality and headfuckery (oh, the last episode . . .) are as present and vivid as ever and it gave me everything I wanted from a sequel. Maybe just not a, uh, cogent, comprehensible conclusion. Thems for sissys anyhow.

Ponyo
What feels like the spiritual successor to Totoro and a complete achievement in unabashed children’s film making, Ponyo is a force of nature. That recurring sequence of Ponyo nonchalantly running across a maelstrom of waves seen in trailers is apt in summarising the spirit and vigor of this film. I’ve never been so swept up in Miyazaki film before and while not as sophisticated as his previous films, it’s no less magical. I’m not going to preach to the choir about why you should see a Ghibli film. All I want to do is encourage you to see it sooner rather than later. It’s a complete joy to watch.

Oh god, the puns. THE PUNS.

Gaijin Film Top 5
1. Up
2. In the Loop
3. Where the Wild Things Are
4. Synecode, New York
5. Wendy and Lucy

Gaijin Music Top 5
1. Grizzly Bear
2. The Twilight Sad
3. Animal Collective
4. Micachu and the Shapes
5. Phoenix

You can imagine my excitement when a sequel, named Dreamfall, was announced and subsequently released. Expectations were high of course, but I wasn’t unreasonable about it. A new protagonist dampened a lot of my fantasising, forcing me to accept that the creators intended to move the concept forward rather than indulge the fans. It helped me learn that this is the sign of the a good sequel; one that builds upon the series strengths and actively explores every possibility within its world instead of resting on its laurels.

Dreamfall turned out to be something of a big sweaty dickslap to the face. It had many problems (technical mostly) but the biggest for me was its abject brutality to the locations/characters of its predecessor. We get what initially appears to be fanservice with the return of April Ryan, the original protagonist, but she was darker, more disillusioned. Things had gone horribly wrong for her in the interim and she had completely lost her way and she’s not the same girl we fell in love with. Equally, locations from the first game were revisited but everything had gone to absolute shitsville. Ravaged by drugs and crime, a mildly dystopian setting offset by its affable community of people had descended into something perversely awful and intentionally upsetting.

I’m the last person to criticise a no-punches-pulled policy to storytelling – I would do exactly the same thing if I had the opportunity. Where I would differ is to not try so damn hard to separate the new from the old with an active interest in upsetting the fanbase. There’s a difference between forging a new path and incinerating everything in your wake.

(Yes, I am thumping my desk in outrage as I write this blog. A letter to the Telegraph is forthcoming.)

Now you’re obviously smart enough to notice the longwinded parallel I’m drawing here and Darker than Black II isn’t as nasty to its fans as Dreamfall was. But I’ve got the fear that they’re both treading a very similar path, and a very particular fact remains: motherfuckers killed April. Not only did they kill her, but they set her up as a genuine member of the supporting cast – and set her up fantastically – only to snatch it away in one swift wire-thingy to the throat. I can see the bigger picture here, don’t get me wrong, how her death might affect certain characters’ motivations and how it was a broader sacrifice – but I’m not going to lie about the impact of seeing her glassy death stare at the start of episode two and what it seemed to communicate. It smacked of a director/writer wanting to make a point.

The whingy fanboy hysteria was further exacerbated by seeing a particular red-collared cat lying corpse-like in the snow, but we’ve since learnt that was misleading.

I know, I know: all this is ultimately jumping the gun (such is my wont to do with episodic blogging). I’m sure all is not what it seems and getting all flighty about dramatic twists is a waste of time. It also gives the wrong impression: I am actually enjoying the second series of Darker than Black an awful lot. It has an excellent tone and feels a well-considered direction for the series. I just hope we, the fans, won’t be smacked about too brutally in the process.

It’s probably the standard reaction to a Akiyuki Shinbou anime, but after watching episode one of Bakemonogatari I felt like I was missing something. Not so much in the ‘WAHHH ABSTRACT I DON’T UNDERSTAND’ way, but rather a walked-in-half-way-through sort of sensation. For some reason I thought it was a sequel of sorts to another anime, having not really kept up with the finer details, but a brief scan around the minternets suggests it’s a completely new series (albeit based on a set of light novels). It’s baffling, particularly that opening montage which seems like a recap, but gorgeously so. Shinbou & SHAFT brings the sexy regardless of how coked off its tits the delivery is and I’m a number one fan of his style of direction.

The characters seem intriguing enough but Senjōgahara’s paranoia started to irritate as did Araragi’s seeming inability to explain his intentions (who wants to write an article on strained communication in anime? I would, but it would descend into a frustrated tirade almost immediately). Still, I’m much more interested in this than I was with Shikabane Hime, which is the very loose comparison I made while watching. The wee otaku-meta scene on the bike was a nice touch, too. A definite WATCH.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0

The big show for me this season, as it is for most people by the looks of things. BONES can pretty much have their wicked way with me in any fashion they see fit… even if I’m quite tsundere towards their anime in the beginning. This is usually because their broader-picture approach to storytelling initially leaves a lot to be desired. Tokyo Magnitude 8.0, however, seems like quite a departure from both their usual themes and how they tell their stories. There’s not a bloated sci-fi concept in sight (short of a few robots at a exhibition that actually exist in reality) nor is there the hint of an epic fantasy adventure just around the corner. Just a disaffected tween and her struggle to deal with a strained family dynamic and her own pubescent ennui. And, like, a really big fucking earthquake.

It’s a pretty fantastic change of approach for the studio. The episode opens with the protagonist Mirai standing in the ruins of Tokyo city declaring her hatred for her family and the world at large. Time then skips back a day or two before the quake and we learn exactly why she’s such a narcy little bitch. The show perfects taking a measured approach to setting up her life and explaining perhaps why she’s so irritated by the world around her. Rather than taking a side, BONES gives us reasons to sympathise with, as well as judge, her attitude. I get the feeling the main thrust of the show will be her working through the mix of blatant ungratefulness as well as the seemingly justified frustration. There’s a very interesting social-realism slant to the show that anime rarely gives much credence to (with the opposite often being the case, giving its target audience escapism from all these real daily frustrations) which immediately makes it stand out as something special.

I have to give particular credit to how Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 makes you forget the distinct sense of foreboding it sets up from the start. I was so charmed by Yuuki’s gleeful innocence that I ignored the inevitable conclusion his character was facing. Normally I’d spoil it for myself and predict the various outcomes of characters – especially the ones that are so likeable (they never get out unscathed) – but BONES worked their magic and I was blind-sided by the episode’s ending (knowing what was coming, but not really considering the wider consequences). There’s so much going on with this show it’s really kind of exciting to think of what’s coming next. Not a disappointment and a categorical WATCH.

I’d forgotten what good shonen anime was like. Having eased gracefully into the battered house-wife role with Naruto the many joys of tight plotting, charming characterisation and taut action had become something of a distant memory, reserved for murky, wistful nostalgia and pangs of regret/bitterness. FMA: Brotherhood was like becoming a 13-year-old all over again, right down to the spazzing out during action scenes, getting so carried away I couldn’t help but punch the air and reenact every blow.

At the heart of the show is its two protagonists, the brothers Elric Edward and Alphonse. I state the bleeding obvious because ‘heart’ is the most apt way to describe their narrative importance. Both these boys are trapped in stasis and the driving force of the show, for me, is the pathos born from this fact. They’re young, but their emotional cores are even younger, held hostage by a traumatic event in their early lives. Both strive to start anew, resolve their pasts and forge ahead to a resolution that will give them peace and allow for growth. As it stands they’re still the two little kids crying over the death of their mother and the abandonment of their father, trapped by a childish mistake that cost one brother half his limbs and the other his entire body. In the present they suggest an image of capable maturity, possessing prodigious gifts for alchemy that’s world renowned, but frequently this front slips and their vulnerability peaks through resulting in major emotional pwnage of the audience.

Al, granted, is much more relatable than the gruff Ed because he’s so candid and honest. Truly innocent, he breaks our hearts with his naivety and downright adorableness at almost every turn. This is a major accomplishment because Al is a giant suit of supernatural armor. No physical body to speak of, just a sweet boyish voice echoing out an imposing shell of metal. Yet when he gets his wee notebook out, making a list of all the food he’ll taste when he gets his real body back, or when he touches the belly of a pregnant woman and marvels over the creation of life, he’s as alive and tactile as any of the other characters. At the moment, like many others I’d imagine, Al is my favourite. His good-natured melancholy causes all sorts of emotional thrums deep within my blackened husk of a heart and I’m complicit in the show’s manipulations because it’s done so damn well.

And a he’s a highlight amongst a truly excellent cast, main and supporting. Every character is likable, or at least understandable, regardless of how periphery. They’re all so uniformly great, developed enough to be worthwhile, that a setup one character receives that would otherwise immediately flag them as soon-to-be-dead completely passed me by until their untimely end. And it genuinely stung, feeling like a major loss. The only consolation is the knowledge that FMA: B gives so much attention to its characterisation that there’s plenty more to learn about the other cast members introduced to compensate. I’ll still miss spoiler-free-non-specific-dead-character. They were one of my favourites up to this point. The focus on Winry certainly mitigated the emo, but I’ll still miss them longtime.

Not to suggest that the plot is neglected in the face of all these charming characters. There’s not an inch of flab on FMA: B; its pacing is brisk and a plot point never outstays its welcome (nor does a character for that matter). I’m sure I said exactly the same thing about Naruto in the early days so I’m maintaining hopeful skepticism for the future, but at the moment it’s been a fantastically penned adventure. It’s very difficult to criticise anything about Fullmetal Alchemist: Brother at the moment, really. I’m sure if I’d seen the first anime iteration I’d be bawling like some of the fandom, but this has proven to be a brilliant introduction to the series and one I look forward to it every week.

Chicks with guns in turmoil? Now there’s a twist. Initially Revvy fulfills everything about the male wank fantasy: aggressively masculine, acrobatically violent, nihilistically badass. I started watching Black Lagoon with a tentative shrug, thinking it seems nicely made and reliably entertaining – probably won’t change my life, but sometimes meathead action shows done well really hit the spot.

Then we get a rather interesting scene. After a whacky run-in with some thinly-valed Neo Nazis Revvy and Rock, initially an ineffectual fish-out-of-water protagonist, find themselves in a sunken Nazi u-boat waxing philosophical about the nature of human value systems. During this conversation Revvy suddenly jumps from gun-toting arse-candy to a bleakly thoughtful existentialist. What she says won’t rock the worlds of anyone who has read a Wikipedia article on the subject, but in the context of the show it was quite a shock. We actually get some qualification for her amorally violent tendencies and, damn, character development for an archetype otherwise shallowly reserved for Awesome Action Sequences and not much else.

The scene stands out for most people because it’s the moment when Black Lagoon ascends from brainlessly enjoyable entertainment to a ethically searching character piece. It’s just a little bit rubbish that, apart from one scene subsequently, we never get anything as philosophically potent as Revvy sitting with a skull in one hand, a medal in the other and some difficult questions on whether either, symbolically, truly differ from one another.

What follows this turning point is the development of Rock and Revvy’s relationship. What’s best about it is that it’s not explicitly romantic — or at least that isn’t the focus. Those feelings seem to develop later in the series, but initially and centrally it’s about how both characters are drawn to the other’s opposing ethical position. Revvy views Rock as a sort of saviour for her soul. It’s a clumsy way of describing something that plays out much more subtly, but she grows to need his altruism so she can hold onto the last vestige of her humanity. It exasperates and frustrates her, but his hope and trust becomes something compulsive and necessary for Revvy. His helplessness too brings out a virtuous sense of duty, suggesting that by protecting Rock Revvy is protecting something inside herself.

Rock, conversely, sees Revvy a guide to disenfranchisement and moral ambiguity. A major theme of the show is his displacement from civilized society into one that seems completely lawless and amoral. He finds his prevaling ideology of ‘good’ is constantly challenged by Roanapur and its inhabitants. He’s confronted with serious questions over whether he can resolve his good nature with the baseness that surrounds him. It’s not covered explicitly until that other scene of dramatic internal tumult when Yukio, school girl turned Yakuza leader-apparent, directly confronts Rock’s ambivalence, his lurking in the twilight as she calls it. And she gets it in one: Rock has the luxury of not committing to either life style. He can survive in Roanapur and slide just as easily back into his life in Tokyo; both are accessible but neither offer any real sense of belonging. Unlike Revvy, who has grown into a person who can only survive in a state of lawlessness Yukio forces him to acknowledge a choice has to be made before a genuine sense of place and belonging can develop.

It’d be silly to talk about Black Lagoon without mentioning arguably its most brilliant scene. While the other two I’ve spoke about have a complex depth, nothing compares to the intensity of Rock’s confrontation with Revvy in episode seven. I mean, the guy almost gets shot in the face for speaking his mind. Notable not only for being one of the most tense moments in an anime it signifies a choice of Rock of growing a pair of balls and really committing himself to this ragtag group he fell into. Rather than being scared into submission, he takes Revvy head on and asks all the questions he’s been warned to avoid. Revvy, having no real attachment to Rock at this point, reacts is the way we expect: a gun pointed in his face with no hint of restraint in what she intends to do with it. The conclusion proves to be yet another fundamental turning point for the show. It shatters the tentative veneer alluded to between the pair and allows them to forge ahead with what is arguably the most important and most uniquely intriguing element of the show.

Black Lagoon isn’t necessarily perfect but it is excellent. It never really dwells on what makes it so fascinating, what makes it ‘different’, which proves to be a blessing and a curse. We get a very capable action series that ticks all the boxes while taking the odd moment to remind us that there’s more to it than just explosive gun battles and nautical dog fights. When we do get the occasional moment of existential turmoil or ideological conflict it explodes expectations and makes the show seem much more than what is superficially apparent. Their rarity makes them notable and important, which feels like the right decision, but the ease in which we forget them means it never genuinely ascends to something categorically deep. But then this isn’t a bad thing. Why can’t a hard-boiled action show first honour the core principles that make it such? The odd change in tone merely supplements it and pulls it outside those genre boundaries to make it special. And it is, only just so much that it doesn’t alienate its audience and confuse their expectations. I do wonder if the Third Barrage will change things dramatically. That flashback of Revvy’s seems especially loaded, and not in her usual incendiary fashion.

I honestly can’t decide on this series and judging by the reaction of parts of the ’sphere and their Twittering, I’m not alone. Certain schools of thought currently best describe my nonchalance. To summarise: it’s objectively good, but . . . eh. Something feels like it’s there, pulling me along to follow each episode, but I can’t work out if that’s genuine interest or fear that without it I’d be watching nothing of this current season.

Eden of the East is a solid effort, or has been for the past seven episodes. Its ideas are interesting, the set up is mature and the characters… actually, this is my biggest problem. I honestly don’t care about Akira, quirky, carefree amnesiac, or Saki, quivering docile anime girl, or any of the bland supporting cast. I particularly don’t care about Saki, in fact. Her bizarre sense of duty towards her sister’s husband confuses me, it seeming to be a sort of misplaced paternal respect or weirder still, inappropriate feelings. Her unrelenting wetness (no, perverts, not like that) drives me mad and I wish with every episode she didn’t exist. She stumbles around in that knocked-kneed squealing way anime is so fond of depicting its female characters in and adds nothing to the proceedings. Of course, apart from some hackneyed prince fantasy, which I suppose is meant to add romantic depth but instead only adds depth to my contempt for her fatuous existence. She’s like Yamada only tedious and shit.

All this from Kenji Kamiyama. Kenji ‘one of the adults’ Kamiyama, a man born nineteen years and a day before me and a reliably thoughtful, interesting director. It feels like he’s watched Honey & Clover, decided it was pretty cool and attempted to apply his love for sociology and hard sci-fi onto its contemporary-Japanese-kids-falling-in-love template. It fails horribly in that respect: Saki and Akira’s fledgling relationship doesn’t feel like anything more than the obvious, ’save you from this bland, dissatisfying life’ situation its meant to be. There’s no substance there, no hint of chemistry that would spark a relationship between these two characters. Maybe Poor-Mans Morita likes the idea of being the prince to Faux-Hagu and his interest stems from that kind of saviour complex, but that isn’t interesting nor is it convincing. Eden of the East seems pretty keen on verisimilitude – particularly in regards to its characters who occupy real places and reference things/events that give firm nods to reality – and this obviously affects the expectations of the audience. Our suspension of disbelief adjusts and our tolerance for whimsy declines. It takes a certain shrewdness to juggle so many contrasting genre elements together and make them work. Kamiyama, who struggles with characterisation at the best of times and isn’t known for his flights of fancy, can’t seem to pull it off. The sci-fi is solid, and the social commentary is interesting but everything else, which is a much bigger piece of the pie, is mediocre at best. The end result just feels rather stale and difficult to warm to.

But then it’s important to remember we’re only half way through and Eden of the East still has many intriguing, honestly decent aspects to it. The plot has a lot of potential, though it’s difficult to imagine them fitting in the suggested formula of one Selecao per episode. I suppose it’s obvious now that Kamiyama doesn’t intend to play it that way, which makes the remaining four episodes a rather interesting prospect. I can probably bear the tepid love story if the broader pay-off is worth it. Either way, Eden of the East has a class that makes it very easy to stick around and find out.

These first two volumes, unsurprisingly, are concerned mostly with character introduction. That’s not to say the manga’s secrets and mysteries aren’t given due attention but rather they’re alluded to through learning about a group of young boys in 1969 and their plans to save the world. Shoot forward a few decades and we’re placed in the current main timeline of 1997 and Kenji, seinen protagonist extordinairre, is fending off his disappointed ma (he sold their family liquor business to a franchise) and taking care of his AWOL sister’s baby, Kanna (permanently attached to his back via a papoose).

I’m going to tangent here a moment and exclaim that Kanna is the best character in these two volumes. All she can do is coo expressively, being two-years-old and all, but she steals the show every single time she appears. Oh, and she seems to be gifted. In the clairvoyant/supernatural sense. The smell of foreshadowing is strong with this one, but theorising aside Kanna is just a wee badass. Kenji’s undying dedication to her is perhaps his most endearing trait, too, he being something of a coasting, complacent thirty-something otherwise. In fact, the strongest moment of these two volumes is when we find out why Kenji is so committed to raising Kanna. It turns he and his erstwhile sister into pathos-rich, sympathetic characters — the kind you really need at the centre of narrative shitstorm, I’d say.

But yes, the main plot. It focuses on a shady cult who uses the same symbol devised by Kenji and his friends in ‘69, only rather than being a symbol of boyish fantasy it now represents something much more sinister. Rival cult leaders die mysteriously, the police force is infiltrated and a very creepy looking machine waits in the shadows, standing by for its destructive entrance. Kenji is pulled into the mess with the supposed suicide of an old school friend called Donkey, the snot-ragged super-speedy nerd who saved him from near death as a wean. Donkey’s death just doesn’t make sense and combined with some other strange occurrences, all linked by that ubiquitous childhood symbol, he’s dragged into something big; something apocalyptic.

I’ll admit it took me a while to warm to 20th Century Boys. It’s definitely more amiable than Monster, favouring tit-gags over dry hierarchical politics or rigid senses of duty, but the sweeping, expansive chronology we’re bombarded with felt like it diluted something. The second volume does no end in remedying this, however, and we get more attention paid to grassroots characterisation. Urasawa even fits in a tangential storyline that doesn’t relate to the main cast much at all, but still serves a wider purpose in demonstrating the creeping influence of this mysterious cult and its sinister leader, ‘Friend’. The diversion manages to break your heart in the space of a single chapter and is a genuine shock to the system. Urasawa didn’t pull this kind of narrative flair until much later in Monster and it suggests the bar has been raised with its successor. Either way, after reading just these two volumes the commitment of buying twenty-four of the bastards (including the final two under the title 21th Century Boys) seems much less imposing. My wallet would like to object, but no one cares what that guy says anymore.

What makes Utena such a success for someone who is so predisposed to hate it is the unrelenting, infectious energy that drives it through its thirty-nine episodes run. The flamboyant little touches, spinning roses, dramatic flourishes, bizarre music, all seem to be propelled by this amazing sense of fun and adventure. The best I can liken it to is meeting someone so in touch with life, someone who outwardly would be insufferable to a miserablist such as myself, that it’s impossible to dislike them. The opposite, in fact – they remind you of how much fun, well, fun can be. Utena the character is a great demonstration of Utena the show. She wins the admiration of her peers for her unwavering sense of self, even though she defies all convention and challenges normal expectations. The series itself does exactly the same thing. It’s a post-modern fairy tale that skews gender and relishes sexual ambiguity, going against everything you’d expect from a prince and princess shojo series, and coming out on top.

These genre inversions aren’t the only place where Utena denies camp frivolity status, either. Its cast is given an uncommon amount of room to breathe. Even characters that otherwise would be incidental in the truest sense, like Wakaba who in any other show would just be the whacky best-friend, are considered in deep, empathetic ways. Granted this profiling is wrapped up in the procedural format of the show – a duel is inevitable and the drama that precedes it is a pretense of sorts – but Utena rises above this by simply being convincing with its treatment of character. I bought into every single subplot of this show. I felt more for some than others, but every one had the capacity for emotional connection. This depth legitimised the otherwise theatrical design choices and made all the superficial indulgences palatable.

My two favourite characters also seem to fly in the face of what I conventionally go for. Wakaba, for instance, is the kind of character I’d often write off and ignore; the zany comedic relief who shrieks a lot and irritates even more. In Utena she becomes something of a rock of stability, a character you can rely on to maintain a unshakable sense of self and who in turn inspires others to hold onto who they are. She mentions in one of the episodes that she tries to be notable in the company of exceptional people and from an audience perspective she does exactly this by just being herself (spot the moral, kids). She’s our normal girl, our entry point into a world populated by overachievers with uncommon gifts. She’s hurt and marginalised but keeps pushing forward, offering support and advice to those who doubt themselves. When Utena is defeated by Touga early in the series she finds herself in a slump, conforming to the standard gender roles she otherwise looked to defy, and Wakaba is the first to challenge this complacency. She’s relentless about it, never allowing Utena to forget herself. Utena asks her to stop and Wakaba defiantly shouts, ‘I WILL NOT STOP’ and ultimately prevails. It’s this moment when I officially loved Wakaba. She’s the voice I wish I had in anime – someone who says and does everything I think should be said and done without restraint. Her specific story arc later (episode twenty – twenty one) also happens to be my favourite part of the series.

Nanami is the other unconventional choice. Initially, Jury seemed more in line with the kind of characters I love, stoic troubled women with dark pasts and dark secrets, but Nanami turned out to be something of a lovable underdog, a curiously moral centre of the series. Initially she’s the main source of comedy, mischievous and scheming (almost always foiled), she then turns into another truth-teller as the events take a darker turn. She finds out secrets and tries to inform those around her, demonstrating a strange virtue and courage few other characters have. She’s messy, ruled by jealousy and a victim of her insecurities, but again like Wakaba this makes her accessible in ways the others are not. It feels like her scene at the end of the series where she warns Utena to be rid of Akio and Anthy is one of the most important moments, suggesting she knows of the bittersweet conclusion that’s coming.

Utena’s technical accomplishments are a mixed bag. Sorry, stalwart fans, but the animation is fundamentally atrocious. The reuse of sequences gets beyond a joke and I’d often find myself shocked and excited when new footage was actually used, feeling like I was being treated. What’s important to remember, though, is this does not matter. The direction of Utena is so incredibly creative, with Kunuhiko Ikuhara taking full advantage of the freedoms of fairy tale, that scenes are presented with an abstract, symbolic flare rarely seen in other shows. The music too is eccentric genius. I laughed at it a lot when I started watching, still fresh to the vibe that would become so familiar and well-loved, but like the other offbeat elements of the series it wins you over and you can’t imagine anything else in its place. It makes you wonder what kind of series Utena would be if it hadn’t such a shoe-string budget. Perhaps something less creatively accomplished, all things considered.

Revolutionary Girl Utena, then, was a shock to the system. Its visual style suggested the antithesis of what I want from anime but I rapidly became aware that misjudged expectations is exactly Utena is about, superficial or otherwise. It’s subversive and unconventional while still being charming and compulsive. You’re not going to find a series as capable of demonstrating that depth and humour can coexist with each still being incredibly successful. Utena is something that seems quite rare in anime: a completely unique experience.

The way I’m contributing is by adding a chunk of text onto Owen’s episodic blogs. I’d originally intended to provide wee quotes, alternative angles on points made by Owen, but they’re basically just mini-blog entries tacked onto the end of his posts. My role in this event is much like Owen’s; we’re documenting how our attitudes have changed in two years as well as noting how rewatching an anime (particularly a BONES anime, I’ve found) can shed all sorts of new light on what it’s trying to do and say. Owen and myself had very different opinions on DtB when it first ran – I loved parts of it but had serious issue with the tangential storylines whereas Owen was a frenzied mess of fanboyism, near incapable of writing a coherent blog because the urge to fap gave him the tremors. We’re older now, and we’re watching the show in a much more reasonable way. You can read our ruminations over at Cruel Angel Theses (we’re currently up to episodes 3 – 4) and we’re running on a daily schedule. It’s worth it just to witness me blog in a frequent and consistent fashion. Quite the phenomenon.

This infinite loop is what draws Sky Crawlers into the ‘watch and rewatch’ theme of this post. After the credits finish rolling there’s another scene that plays out almost identically to the start of the film; to the point where I thought the video had looped over and started again. Then the Production I.G. logo popped up and I was left with a very upsetting thought. All of these characters were expendable. The deceased would be replaced with exact copies of their prior selves only with none of the memories. Those who survived had to live on and suffer with their memories and experiences with the prior incarnation as the new one stands before them completely ignorant. The cycle continues on and during the film we merely witness one of these repetitions. After realising this I wanted to rewatch the film immediately. I wanted to see it again with this vital bit of understanding so I could appreciate the eerie feeling that had previously confused me and finally grasp the behaviour of some of the cast. The Sky Crawlers is really a film that has to be watched twice in a row to understand as a whole. It’s a very perplexing but very exciting experience.

Their son Kenji is a quiet, slightly awkward child with a very adult ethical sense. He gets caught passing a manga anthology around in class and is scolded by his teacher, only to respond with the accusation that he previously saw the teacher hiding a porno manga while pretending to work. This makes him a hero to his classmates, stunning the teacher into silence, but ultimately serves to demonstrate how his maturity sets him apart in a school environment. He finds an outlet in piano lessons, taught by a beautiful divorcee who discovers a prodigious talent in his musical ability, but one that’s stifled by his father’s insecure suppression. Sasaki tries desperately to enforce the power he once exerted but without the security of knowing he can provide for his detainees, and this leads to pride-driven outbursts that breaks the already-tenuous relationships he has with other members of the family. The cast sound very archetypal and superficially they are – right down to the rebellious elder son who decides to join the military to protect the family in ways he feels his father is failing to do. Yet the performances have such a natural grace that rather than being clumsy stereotypes they seem real and genuine.

The film itself glides along in a very staid, Japanese way and we’re introduced to the instability of these roles, particularly Sasaki and his wife, with convincing ease. There’s a scene where Sasaki comes home, having walked the streets to waste away the hours and maintain the pretence being employed, to find his wife asleep on the couch. There’s a brief, detached exchange between the two and Sasaki goes to bed, leaving Megumi still half asleep on the couch. She holds out her hands to be pulled up and after realising there’s no one there to help her she symbolically keeps her hands raised, asking the world to, ‘pull her up’. She has another scene later in the film where she shops around for a new car and is shown a very sensible people carrier only to be lured away by a sporty convertible. But rather than this being cliché Kyoko Koizumi imbues her role with a naive curiosity that makes Megumi more listless about her lack of experience rather than being on the verge of a crazed midlife crisis. These restrained performances foster a verisimilitude that I was completely enamoured with. They overcame the rigidly traditional social roles presented and gave the characters a real sense of humanity.

Which leads me to one of the most resiliently excellent things about this film – its depiction of Tokyo as an actual city. I think our excessive anime watching paints a very disingenuous picture of Japan; everything is a domestic ideal or a dystopian nightmare, all built around vaguely recognisable cultural signifiers. Tokyo Sonata is the first example of a convincingly real, modern Tokyo I’ve seen in a fictional work. You get a proper sense of its tiny claustrophobic suburbs, of its decaying city streets and plain-clothed school children. It doesn’t romanticise or criticise any of it, it merely uses the real world as-is without a hint of stylisation. I can’t describe how refreshing this is to watch. People often use film, literature etc to gain a window into cultures and societies they’d otherwise never experience firsthand and most of the Japanese fiction I’ve experienced rarely gives you this with any purity. You often get a very definitive sense of Japan and its society, but it’s so wrapped up in magic realism, idealisation or straight fantasy that a solid factual depiction hardly ever happens. Tokyo Sonata is a very potent remedy to this and I’d say, for folk like us, it’s worth seeing purely on this merit.

But there’s more to it than that. Tokyo Sonata isn’t necessarily an outstanding film – there’s a Dramatic Twist towards the end that somewhat buggers the careful tone employed up to that point – but there’s something about it that makes me want to recommend it to those interested in Japan as a real country rather than a setting for crazy sci-fi wank fantasies. It has a couple of bumps in the road, but as a critique of Tokyo and Japanese society it feels so vital and profane. There’s also an amazing sense of humour bubbling beneath the weightiness – one that enhances an already-masterful handle on pathos. Definitely worth watching for those who fancy a break from their usual anime-based escapism.