Seasonal First Impressions is a column where I detail my thoughts, however brief or long, about a currently-airing anime’s first episode or so.
“For in my wrath, I am Asura.”
Can I level with you? The anime season’s been a bit rough so far. I’ve certainly lived through more dire seasons in terms of there just being nothing to watch, but it feels like a lot of the more up-in-the-air premieres have been whiffs. Even some of the actual good stuff is being held back by extenuating circumstances. Things are tough in the winterlands right now.
But, spring is on the way. And if you feel the Sun on your face and can imagine it as the warmth of the green season, Flower and Asura might be why. Blessedly, this is probably the best premiere of the season so far, a study in subtle emotional shades, and an interesting, empathetic look into the mind of a performer. Longtime readers will know that anything of that nature is absolute catnip to me, but even so, this is a strong, strong, strong opener. I could nitpick a handful of things, but just as a fair warning, I am absolutely not going to.
Our main character is Haruyama Hana [Fujidera Minori], the sole teenage girl in the tiny island village of Tonakijima (population ~600). Hana, who’s entering high school soon, spends much of her time reading children’s books for the local kids. Her readings are popular, and she’s clearly pretty good at them. What these kids of course do not know is that they stem from something deeper in the back of her mind.
As a child herself, Hana saw a young woman, of about the same age that she now is, recite a poem on TV. That poem, Miyazawa Kenji’s “Haru to Shura”, is, at least as translated into English, an angry burst of splintering, smoldering imagery. It’s not something that one would necessarily assume a child would like, and yet, that poem and that recitation of it, grabs Hana’s imagination in a stranglehold. Here, at this very early moment in her life—the very start of the episode, as well—her passion is ignited.
Cut back to that quaint reading circle and, we will learn over the course of this first episode, you have a girl who is trying to channel this roil inside of her into….reading books called things like Mr. Seagull’s Deep Sea Adventure to a gaggle of children. There is, of course, nothing wrong with reading books to children, and she’s damn good at it from what we see here. But given what we later learn about Hana, it feels fair to say that there is something going unfulfilled. She’s using a wildfire to light a candlestick.
One person who seems to immediately pick up on at least a little of this is Usurai Mizuki [Shimabukuro Miyuri]. Mizuki is our other main character, and she blithely walks into Hana’s life after one of those quaint little reading circles, immediately trying to press her into joining her high school broadcast club. At first, it’s as simple as the fact that Mizuki loves Hana’s voice. But as the first episode progresses, it becomes clear to Mizuki, and to us, that there’s more to Hana than is necessarily obvious at first glance.
Mizuki, I think, will in fact be a sticking point for some people. While clearly friendly, she is determined to recruit Hana for the broadcasting club. To be honest, she’s pretty overbearing. I like this—anime girls with less-than-perfect personalities are always a good thing to have more of—but I could imagine someone finding her sheer inability to take ‘no’ for an answer annoying, and she’s even a little manipulative over the course of this premiere. That said, it takes Hana actually mentioning the poetry recitation for Mizuki to really double down on the idea of her joining the club, so I think much of this insistence can in fact be attributed to the fact that Mizuki is also very observant. She’s enough so that she waves off a logistical issue, Hana being able to catch the last ferry back to her home island in time. “It isn’t right”, she says, “to assume something’s impossible just because it’s difficult.” She’s right about that, and this is one of a few central ideas that the episode quietly expands on over the course of its premiere. (Still, that couldn’t be me. I’d be in that clubroom in a heartbeat.) Hana takes a bit more convincing than this, but before we fast forward to that, it’s worth going into some detail, given the emphasis on voice here, what these voices are like.
Hana has perhaps the closest vocal to a typical “protagonist voice” in this sort of thing, but her sometimes stopped-up cadence has a halting shyness to it that most lesser anime would overplay, and it’s to Flower & Asura‘s benefit that it knows to keep it on the subtle side, for the most part. Mizuki’s voice is rustic, narrow, and scratchy, and it often sounds like she’s talking directly from her throat. This compliments her appearance, to be sure, but it also makes her sound bolder and more assertive than Hana. It also makes her sound older, which makes sense. I’m not going to call this a yuri series just yet, but if it does go that route, I want to commend whoever did the casting for having the main girls not just look good together but sound good together. That’s an attention to detail that’s all too rare.
Cut to classroom, Hana’s first day of high school. Things are going as they often do in a show like this, Hana settles in and meets a friendly classmate. Things are straightforward, until the Broadcast Club takes over the morning radio. Evidently, at this particular high school, morning poetry is recited over the speakers. This sounds, frankly, crazy to me. (If anyone had played poetry over my high school’s speakers there would’ve been riots.) But it’s an effective bit of scene-setting, because who else should read the poem but Hana’s now-senpai, Mizuki?
Poetry, of course, is not merely about being able to set scenes. It’s about using words to conjure images, and also knowing when and how to deploy them. In its mirroring of its subject matter, Flower & Asura demonstrates this beautifully. The poem in question, Takamura Kotaro’s “The Journey”, is not just read aloud, but also visually depicted. Hana, listening intently, imagines herself on a grey train track, walking through a void. She isn’t alone for long; Mizuki is there as well, blazing a trail of light through the black, providing a beacon despite her sly smirk.
The imagery of a track for Hana’s reaction is apt—she is moved. Continuing the show’s generally understated vibe, Hana’s reaction to hearing the poem read is not big or loud. It’s very soft, and very quiet. Just a wordless shiver of a sigh as the classroom window blows the spring breeze through her hair and things wind back down. The interlude ends, and Hana presumably has an unremarkable rest of her schoolday.
After school is a different matter. On the ferry home Hana begins reading some poetry to herself. Aloud, but, perhaps due to the presence of the ferry captain, given that the boat is quite small, rather quietly. She’s interrupted, as who else but Mizuki makes her presence known aboard the boat, once again pestering Hana to join the Broadcast Club. Mizuki needles Hana with pointed questions, asking why she restrains herself so much when reading this, here, as compared to when she reads for the kids back home. That’s interrupted by a much more pressing and practical concern, though. The ferry Hana goes home on is the last for the day. Thus, Mizuki has no way to get home.
Perhaps feeling obligated, Hana’s family houses Mizuki for the evening. Surprisingly, Hana doesn’t seem to mind this so much. She says she’s never had a sleepover before, so it may be the case that she’s simply unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. Mizuki stays on the attack throughout this entire sequence. Even when the two are ostensibly trying to get to sleep, Mizuki catches Hana staring, and takes that as yet another opportunity to pepper her with questions, whether out of genuine curiosity, out of trying to find something she can leverage to get Hana onboard with joining the Broadcast Club, or both, Mizuki’s sheer persistence has a charm of its own. But things hit a slightly off note when Hana admits that she likes recitation because it lets her be someone she’s not. Mizuki, for the first time in the episode, frowns, and bluntly asks,
“Do you not like yourself?”
Hana admits to it. “I don’t. Because I have no confidence.”
“That can’t be true. It’s there, somewhere in you.”
To that, Hana offers only a meek “I’m sorry” before rolling over and nodding off, and we end on a shot of Mizuki’s expression. Puzzled, frustrated. What does she have to do, she seems to wonder, to get through to this girl? We don’t get an explicit answer as to why she just can’t let go of Hana. That’s likely a thread to be pulled on in a future episode.
An earlier scene may provide a smidgen of clarity, however. Here, Hana’s mother briefly talks to Mizuki after dinner. She explains outright that Hana’s reluctance to seek better things for herself comes from feeling that she needs to be a role model for the island’s younger children. One could argue, perhaps, that Hana’s mother simply directly spelling out her daughter’s reticence and the reason for it is lazy writing, but all of this is noticeable well before this scene, and her mother’s comment to Mizuki is mere confirmation.
Put together, these two scenes paint a pretty sad portrait of Hana, someone who’s repressing herself less because of any particularly strong singular reason and more because she just feels that she has to. That it’s part and parcel of being who she is. (And I have to admit that by this point in the episode I was already really feeling for Hana. I have been in her shoes here, down to the meek saying-“I’m sorry”-and-retreating-to-your-comfort-space-trick.) But that portrait isn’t entirely complete. The last, boldest stroke is the one hinted at by the start of the episode.
It’s the next morning, and Hana has woken up before Mizuki and seems to have gotten up to go somewhere. This is a bit puzzling to Mizuki, given the early hour, so she sets out to find Hana, perhaps worried, perhaps simply curious. She finds her standing on the beach in the rain, oblivious to it, or uncaring of it, as it pours down on her. Here, Hana recites. She declaims. Performs. Performs for no one but herself and the crashing waves of the ocean. Her script is the same poem we heard back at the start of the show, but when she recites it here, she absolutely subsumes herself into it. The image-space that breaks into Mizuki’s reading of “The Journey” earlier in the episode is fairly restrained, fitting her declarative, guiding tone. Hana’s is the exact opposite, in reciting “Haru to Shura”, Hana completely turns herself inside-out. Vines sprout from the ground to restrain her as she thrashes against them like a wild animal, she crumbles to pieces against them, and those pieces turn to shreds of paper. Those shreds are blown into the sky, carried away on the cold wind. She is a woman possessed, drunk on the power of her own voice as it bends and warps around the poem’s syllables in ways that make the entire preceding 20 minutes of the episode feel like a distant dream as the paper-scraps she’s been reduced to return to the sand, sewing her back together as she raises her arms to the sky, a wild, ecstatic grin across her face as she screams truth to the heavens: in her wrath, she is Asura. Hana is gone during this reading. The manic, glowering figure who remains is someone else entirely.
Mizuki, of course, is the one feeling all of this in her mind’s eye, and we see that depicted almost literally as the scene unfolding before her fills the width of her iris. She, too, is consumed.
It goes without saying that the visual work here, the best in the episode by a fair margin, has to work hard to match Hana’s energy here, and that it successfully manages to do so is no small feat in of itself. But the incredible strength of Hana’s performance, really Fujidera Minori’s, is such that even if you completely shut your eyes during this segment, you would not just know something had changed, you’d be able to feel it.
And then, as quickly as it came, this moment ends. Hana, in an act that showcases nearly as much talent as the recitation itself, simply flips her act back off like a light switch, reacting initially with trepidation and embarrassment that Mizuki has seen her doing something that, we must assume, is very personal for her. Mizuki herself meanwhile, looking utterly spellbound (who could blame her?), grabs Hana by the shoulder, once again insisting, pleading that she join the Broadcast Club, fingers of light piercing the grey sky as the rain ends at precisely the right moment. Mizuki has figured out what’s going on here, but despite her persistence, she wouldn’t actually force Hana to do anything even if she could. She leaves the decision in Hana’s hands, asking to know what she wants, even though she already knows. Hana, tearful, confirms it a moment later. She really does want to join the Broadcast Club. She wants to—this part she doesn’t say aloud—find a place to be free, she wants to find some actual confidence in herself, and she wants to find people who understand the passion within her. Her self-loathing means that she’s spent the whole episode running from it. But nonetheless, here it is. The hardest part, Flower and Asura seems to suggest, was getting her to be kind enough to herself to ask in the first place. Still, both she and we would do well to remember, just because something is difficult, doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
The episode ends with Hana entering the Broadcast Club’s clubroom for the first time. The show has a sizable cast, so it’s doubtful that every episode will be quite this much about Hana and Mizuki. Still, the groundwork here naturally leads to so many questions that I am desperate to know the answers to: does anyone else in the club get like that too, or is Hana the odd one out? What of Hana and Mizuki’s relationship going forward? Friends? Mutual inspirations? Something more? What about the rest of the club? What are their stories? All of these are questions that, with variation, you could ask about any good show in this genre, but Flower & Asura‘s strength is not in reinventing the wheel, it is—fittingly enough for a show about an artform where you perform work written by another—in artfully expressing the emotions that define this genre’s very best work. It’s poetry in motion, keep an eye and an ear on it.
“Say what it is you really want. And I’ll make it happen.”
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