This review contains spoilers for the reviewed material. This is your only warning.
Over the past decade, an artistic movement has emerged in anime that values perseverance and centers the stories of young women. If this movement has a name–or is even a cogent scene as opposed to a simple undercurrent–I am unaware of it. But one would have to be fairly oblivious to not at least feel it in the air. Artiswitch was not the most prominent example of this lineage to come out last year, but with the benefit of hindsight, it might be one of the best. And it’s certainly among the most inventive. My only regret with this series is that I didn’t cover it when it was new. (I actually didn’t plan to cover it at all, assuming I’d have nothing of note to say about it. Arguably I still don’t, but, hey, these things have a way of sneaking up on you.)
In terms of “literal plot,” there isn’t much to Artiswitch. Our protagonist, Nina (Utano Aoi, in what appears to be her first-ever anime role), is a witch who maintains a mysterious shop somewhere in Harajuku, Tokyo. Customers find their way to the shop, and when they leave, they take with them an item that changes their lives.
This premise is not a unique one, and in particular fans of forever-underrated CLAMP classic xxxHOLIC will find the general idea familiar, but Artiswitch’s format (a series of shorts, only totaling to about 45 minutes in all) prevents it from preoccupying itself with the sort of sprawling story that that series eventually develops. Instead, we get a lot of symbolism, compelling imagery, and sharp direction. Artiswitch is all mood and atmosphere. Which isn’t to say there are no points being made here, but anyone who requires their anime to have an easily decipherable linear Point A–>Point B plot should check out now.
The first two episodes establish the format. A customer (a tomboyish athlete in the first episode, and a shy, follow-the-leader sort of girl in episode 1 and 2 respectively) makes their way to Nina’s shop. They pick up an item, prompting the witch to deliver her catchphrase (“would you like to peer deeper?”), and from there things dissolve into full-on music video territory.
Quite literally, since these segments, which take up the middle third of each episode, are set to songs and feature little to no dialogue. Going into detail about each of these would be tantamount to spoiling the series, but the first episode’s already gorgeous conceit of the tomboy Haruka rediscovering her repressed feminine side by donning fire-red lipstick and dress is where things start. They ramp up exponentially from there, with the remaining episodes serving to twist the formula in various ways.
The most notable deviations here are the final two. But simply explaining what happens would feel like trying to strangle the life out of the series. It’s less a “what” and more a “how.” When Nina meets a maybe-nemesis in the form of a gothic lolita with ambiguous motives and a habit of, ahem, raining on other folks’ parades, things become less straightforward, and it’s around here where I feel like simply recapping the literal events of the series would be doing it a disservice.
Artiswitch clearly has a lot on its mind, and were I forced to come up with a single flaw I thought were present in the series, it might be a lack of clarity. But at the same time, that feels fundamentally misguided.
And it would require ignoring the final episode, where Nina’s wish-granting capabilities are turned back on themselves, and it is she who must dive into her own mind. We see why she entered this magical line of work to begin with, and the sight of her past self comforting her present with the affirmation that she is moving forward and is doing her best, despite her own doubts, is why I decided to write this short review in the first place.
Fundamentally, art resonates with its audience based on shared thoughts, experiences, and feelings. Those things change from person to person, but taking special note of when a series has successfully struck a chord with me is the entire reason I write at all. Leaving Artiswitch un-commented-upon just didn’t feel right. I have to confess, I am in fact worried about doing this series justice while simultaneously trying to avoid pinning it to a corkboard like a dead butterfly.
But I probably shouldn’t be so concerned. It flits and flies free. On a practical level, I am excited to see what director Kazuma Ikeda (who seems to have an extensive background in design, something that really shines through here) does next. But beyond that, this is the sort of thing people will keep discovering as the years roll by, and even now the comments sections below each episode are crowded with testimonials, in a plethora of languages, from those to whom the series already clearly means quite a lot. The shop stands waiting, all one needs to do is step inside.
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All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text, excepting direct quotations, is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
This review was commissioned. That means I was paid to watch and review the series in question. You can learn about my commission policies and how to buy commissions of your own here. This review was commissioned by The Mugcord Discord Server.
This review contains spoilers for the reviewed material. But you really shouldn’t care in this case. Seriously, don’t watch this.
If you close your eyes, you can almost picture it.
The time is early 2020. The place? An opulent office space somewhere in Tokyo, the residence of a chief CEO. A real big shot. His suit and his coke habit mark him as a survivor of the ’80s entertainment biz. He’s been places. He’s seen things. He’s helped stars rise and he’s made them fall.
Today is a day like any other, when a representative pitching a new series–an anime–strides into his office. The rep talks smooth as Crisco, and the boss doesn’t need much convincing. His pitch is simple; everyone’s got an idol show. Your company needs one too. The boss is hung up on only one point. He’s been around the block, he knows his stuff, and he knows that just blindly copying this hot new trend won’t cut it. They need a twist.
Idly, he taps a remote on his desk, and the jumbo flatscreen on the other wall lights up. It’s a sports channel, but they’re not broadcasting any of Japan’s typical national pastimes. Instead, he sees an ice rink, and a black puck zipping across it.
He smiles at the serendipity as the rep stands there confused. “Son.” The boss says, his tone cool and confident. “There’s our twist.”
This is probably not how Pride of Orange, a near-instantly forgotten entry in the “idol anime but also something else” subgenre from late last year, actually got greenlit. But it makes more sense to me than the alternative. Some washed-up suit OK’ing this is the only way it seems plausible that it was made at all. What’s the other explanation? That this was focus-tested? That multiple people sat down and assured themselves that yes, idols playing hockey is exactly what the youth of Japan want in their cartoons?
If the show had actually been good, it’s possible I’d be sitting here praising the ingenuity of conjoining these two things that absolutely do not go together at all. But we don’t live in a world where Pride of Orange is a good show, so that’s irrelevant. In the US, this is the kind of thing that gets mocked on VH1 by washed-up celebrities 20 years after it airs off the surreal premise alone. Some real Baywatch Nights shit. I don’t know if they have a similar pop culture backwash hall of shame practice in Japan, and if so, whether it includes anime, but Pride of Orange had better hope so on both counts, because there’s no way anyone’s remembering it otherwise.
You might take all this to mean Pride of Orange is bad. You’d be right to. It is bad! But every single bad anime I’ve ever covered on Magic Planet Anime before has had a saving grace that Puraore does not; they were bad in interesting ways. Pride of Orange is bad in the same way that Imagine Dragons, ugly logos, and direct-to-Netflix specials are bad. It is an obvious product of a pop cultural media machine completely failing to deliver the one thing that said machine should always be able to. In this case, a baseline watchable cartoon. Beyond its ridiculous premise, there just isn’t much to it. It’s audiovisual wallpaper. An active test of your patience that dares you, with its sheer brain-numbing mundanity, to blink first. This is anime-by-algorithm, a so-inoffensive-it’s-offensive patchwork of tropes, plotlines, and even character designs cribbed from other, better anime, kludged together by grey-suited executives without a single creative bone in their bodies. That’s before we get to its more serious flaws, mind you.
So, what is this horrible abomination unto mankind? Well, as mentioned, it’s theoretically an idol series where the idols are also a hockey team. In practice it’s more the other way around. The “idol” bit feels tacked-on enough (a grand total of two dance sequences, with almost no buildup, over its whole run) that I wonder if it wasn’t initially conceived as a straight sports series and then later altered. It does have the cast structure of an idol series, at least, and all characters present fall into broad archetypes that the genre popularized, but quite unlike some personal favorites in it (say, 2011’s The Idolmaster, 2018’s Zombie Land Saga, or 2020’s Love Live! Nijigasaki High School Idol Club),* none of them have much personality. Probably the best of the lot are Naomi and Riko, whose distinction mostly comes from the fact that they’re quite obviously dating each other. (Their brief arc, which culminates in episode 9, is unquestionably the highlight of the series.)
The remainder of the cast is fairly anonymous, including theoretical protagonist Manaka.
“My literal only personality trait is obnoxious cheerfulness.”
We should also talk about Youko, the team’s coach. Youko is an outlier here, because she’s not devoid of personality like most other characters. Instead, her combination of doofy catchphrases, manipulative, obnoxious personality, and general overbearing nature combine to make her come across as weirdly creepy.
In one of the show’s “arcs” (the term seems generous), she attempts to recruit the star player of a rival team, Yu, who’s recently left the life of a hockey prodigy behind to experience a normal teenagerhood. (God knows we can’t have that in our sports anime.) In her efforts, Youko resorts to tactics such as repeatedly, incessantly calling her phone, standing outside of her house and yelling(!), and engineering a situation where she deliberately leaves a pen behind when invited into Yu’s house by her grandmother. This, of course, means that Yu has to return said pen (I’d argue she doesn’t, really, but neither Yu herself nor her grandmother object to the idea). When Yu does so, Youko ropes her into a bizarre bet, which she loses, and essentially forces her to join the team. This is glossed over with the non-explanation that Yu actually enjoys being on the new team, so it doesn’t matter. Youko is similarly unpleasant to her other players, and even engages in gaslight-y emotional manipulation a few times, giving her an almost predatory vibe.
None of this is ever addressed, because Pride of Orange has neither the writing chops necessary to address it nor the forethought to simply not make the coach a skeevy weirdo in the first place. I would also argue that Youko having to quite literally trick the cast into becoming an “idol group” on top of being a hockey team feels like it betrays a broad disdain both for the show’s audience and its own genre.
“The fact that I’m allowed to be an influence in children’s lives is, on a moral level, horrific.”
But really, while Youko’s situation is the worst of the series’ many writing flaws, it’s far from the only one. Frequent issues like conflicts springing up and then being almost immediately resolved, or flashbacks grinding action scenes to a dead stop to repeat to us information we either already know or could easily infer, recur repeatedly throughout. Pride of Orange often feels like the first draft of an anime that, even were all these issues fixed, would still be merely just below average. All these little problems add up, and they make Pride of Orange an altogether miserable watching experience.
One could try to chalk all this up to Puraore’s length, but two of the anime I previously mentioned were also single cour. It is very possible, with economical character building, stylish animation, sharp writing that builds a solid triumph narrative, etc., to make your audience care about even a quite large cast in that amount of time. Pride of Orange never swings that, because it has none of those things. It doesn’t even manage to instill much of a base level thrill off the novelty of its premise, the one thing that objectively distinguishes this series from any other. In October, right around when Pride of Orange started airing, a pilot short called “SHAREDOL” managed to do that much in less than three minutes. Length is no excuse.
In the broadest sense, the problem is this. The best anime can, in the moment, feel monumental. I’ll again draw a comparison to The Idolmaster (you’ll have to forgive my lack of experience with sports anime, which would honestly be more appropriate here, but the general structures still apply). One got the sense, during the series’ climactic concert, that those girls had done everything to earn their moment. They would’ve bled and died on that stage if that’s what it took. It feels, as it’s happening, huge. All-important.
Pride of Orange manages the almost impressive feat of going in the other direction. Of making not just its parent genres, but its entire medium feel small, trivial, and trifling. While watching it, I felt transmogrified into a disapproving stepmother, finger-wagging at myself for watching these silly cartoons. And you can accuse me of projection, and say that no anime, no matter how bad, should make me feel this way. But the fact of the matter is that taken together, as a whole, Pride of Orange‘s cheez-whiz take on the sports and idol anime genres improbably transforms simple boredom into existential dread. It is such a yawning void of mediocrity that it’s somehow one of the worst anime I’ve ever seen. At the risk of repeating myself, it is distinguished from past Magic Planet Anime worst-of candidates like Speed Grapher, Big Order, The Day I Became a God, and fellow idol trainwreck 22/7 by the fact that those anime were bad in a way that still made it clear that the people behind them cared about them. They may have had any number of very serious qualitative flaws. They may have been downright offensive at times. But a certain kind of terribleness can only come from misplaced passion, which at least implies that there is passion.
Let me be very clear; this is not true of Pride of Orange. I do not get the sense that anyone who worked on this series cared about it at all. Whether because they did not want to or because circumstances made it so they could not I do not know, but the few tiny pinpricks of light that poke through–Naomi and Riko’s relationship, the vanishingly brief pair of dance numbers that comprise the entirety of the show’s “idol” element, the surprisingly solid soundtrack–make it clear that for the vast majority of this show, nobody involved gave a shit. It has all the artistry of a McDonald’s order and ends with a limp, nondescript hand gesture too lazy to be a middle finger. Make no mistake, all of this is tragic.
And perhaps the worst part is that I don’t think Puraore is unique in this way. Things like Pride of Orange are what you get when a zeitgeist is about to die. Most of my time as an active anime enthusiast has been spent in the midst of the idol anime boom. I have liked a decent amount of those shows, but I wouldn’t quite call myself an “idol anime fan.” Those who would should be wary; things like Puraore are not a good sign. The same is broadly true of the “all-female cast does stuff” supergenre in general, and for that matter, anime on the whole.
What else is there to say? Pride of Orange is symptomatic of an industry that is simply producing way, way too much content by sheer volume. Few people watched it. Fewer of those who did will remember it–fondly or otherwise–in a few years’ time. It is hypergeneric but endlessly replaceable, a combination ice skate / high heel stomping on all our faces forever. In this light, the name of the protagonists’ team sounds less like a quirky sports team name and more like a sneered command. Dream, monkeys. Dream hard. Because there has to be something better than this.
* I should make a note here to apologize to all involved with Selection Project, a different idol anime from the Fall 2021 season that I derided as unimpressive in my impressions post for the first episode. I foolishly assumed that because Pride of Orange has a stupid premise it might be more interesting than SelePro. I have heard through the grapevine that Selection Project apparently eventually got quite good, something Puraore cannot say. (And really it’s hard to imagine how it could possibly be worse.) If one of these two anime ever picks up a cult following, it will not be the one I reviewed for you today.
Wanna talk to other Magic Planet Anime readers? Consider joining my Discord server! Also consider following me on Twitter and supporting me on Ko-Fi or Patreon. If you want to read more of my work, consider heading over to the Directoryto browse by category.
All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
Hello, treasured readers! I don’t have much to say this week, but I will remind you to pop on over to the poll to choose what I cover weekly on Let’s Watch sometime before December ends if you’re interested in doing that and haven’t done so yet. Other than that? A fairly short one this week with just two shows, but on the plus side; they’re both anime that haven’t appeared in this column for quite a while.
Komi Can’t Communicate
It’s been quite a while since Komi Can’t Communicate last appeared here. If you’re wondering why, I will remind any returning readers that I am following NovaWorks‘ fansub release, which is going slowly, but remains absolutely worth it because of their inventive typesetting and clear love of the material.
In the third episode, their most recent release, we’re introduced to a new character, Himiko Agari.
She’s kind of…weird. Initially it seems like her main role will be to give Komi a friend who also has pretty severe anxiety. And most of her introductory segment focuses on a miscommunication the two have. (Or rather a lack of one; Komi wants to introduce herself to Himiko but instead just follows her around the school building silently. Which understandably freaks Himiko out.)
And then we get to the climax of the bit and the punchline is…this.
It’s just a bit confusing, really. For one thing, it isn’t much of a joke. For another, this particular shade of Himiko’s personality seems to flip on and off like a lightswitch as the scene demands. This is hardly the quandary that Najimi’s characterization posed, but it is symptomatic of a strange tendency for Komi to sometimes squish its characters down to one-note cutouts for the sake of gags.
Even the soundtrack gets in on this. Komi‘s OST tends to slide into a gentle sway full of plucked guitars and soft strings whenever it wants to sell a genuine “friendship moment.” But it’s just as quick to cut the music entirely if it can subvert that for a quick joke. In general, this all still works a lot better here than it did in the source material, but it’s a notably odd sensation nonetheless, and prevents the show from flowing well at times. Does Komi want to have a core of real, warm compassion for its characters, or is everything just a setup for a parade of gags? One gets the sense that the series itself doesn’t quite know the answer, and on the occasion that it tries something, and it falls flat, that tends to be why.
What tends to work a bit better than the personality gags are situations where the humor comes from Tadano (or one of Komi’s other friends) attempting to help Komi socialize more, and inadvertently speeding into a brick wall in the process. That’s more or less what happens with the final segment of this episode, where Najimi invites the two of them to play a chant game. Style checks of the Pokémon anime and some classic “comedy anime treats a mundane activity like a shonen battle” humor follow, and it’s genuinely great.
You don’t need to know that the studio behind Komi Can’t Communicate is OLM, who have also done the Pokémon anime since it premiered in 1997 and made a hot-streak return to non-primetime anime production this year between this series and ODD TAXI to find this funny. But, hey, now you do anyway.
Elsewhere, a bit about cellphone-related anxiety taps in to the sort of universal cringe-beholding-cringe feeling that tends to make the best sort of this kind of comedy tick. All of this, of course, is accentuated by the visual treat that the series continues to be. It remains one of the best-looking anime of 2021. (An aside should be made also to also again shout out Komi’s voice actress, Aoi Koga, who gets barely two actual lines in this episode but still manages to somehow make the character burst with personality even when she’s mostly communicating through wordless single syllables.)
So if it’s rough around the edges, maybe that’s worth sitting through for the moments when it really shines. Komi is an odd one, and if it hasn’t entirely kept that “must-watch” mantle from its premiere, it’s at least a worthwhile watch regardless.
Rumble Garanndoll
It’s been a while since we last checked in with Rumble Garanndoll. To be fair, the fact that it airs on Mondays makes covering it here a smidge inconvenient. (By the time this article goes live, the “next episode” will already have aired.) Nonetheless; I’ve kept up with it intermittently. My opinion on the show’s merits (of which it has quite a few) and flaws (same) has evened out into thinking it is a solid little action series with a quirky aesthetic bent that, as a nice bonus, has something to say. This is roughly how I felt about BACK ARROW from earlier this year–also a weird mecha anime–although I think Rumble‘s self-aware otakucore vibes might fit with how I like my media a little better. (Which probably says nothing good about me, but oh well.)
Since I last wrote about it, Rumble has introduced a third (and presumably final) Battery Girl; Misa “WerdCat” Kuroki. Misa is the youngest of the Battery Girls and, in a refreshing change of pace, looks to Hosomichi more as a surrogate older sibling than a romantic interest. Her story manages to squeeze some life out of the ancient “pa went missing one day and never came back :(” trope, to surprisingly affecting….er, effect.
I remain undecided on the main visual metaphor here, a bright red linker cable, of the sort that was used to connect handheld consoles in the pre-WiFi era. (Specifically the consoles that show up here are NeoGeo Pockets. Presumably the Gameboy would’ve been too mainstream.) Much of these episodes’ plots revolves around an attempt to find one in the dungeons under Akihabara (yes, there are dungeons here. Don’t question it.) And in the flashbacks when we see Misa’s father go missing, they are the only thing fully colored in the otherwise sepia tone scenes. It’s a silly visual symbol, but this is just the frequency Rumble operates on, and one must accept it if they wish to enjoy the show.
Similarly, when Misa takes control of the Doll itself, turning it into “Cat Three,” the series manages the impressive task of making a giant robot-sized kotatsu table look rather cool as it turns into an artillery platform. Rumble Garanndoll is nothing if not devoted to its shtick.
Y’know, like, nya?
The main antagonist of this arc, Yakumo Kamizuru, is also intriguing. Perhaps best described in a nutshell as a “fascistic shrine maiden who is also a mecha pilot,” Yakumo is one of the show’s more interesting antagonists. She retreats at the end of the arc, despite only minutes prior disparaging the entire resistance as “failures” and “losers”, chuckling to herself as she does so. Her name, an apparent allusion to Koizumi Yakumo, is interesting to me. The historical Yakumo was a Greek-Irish-American who eventually settled in Japan after developing a fascination with its culture in the late 1800s. (And much besides, he’s an interesting figure.) If I may wander into fan theory territory here, I do wonder if this is meant to indicate that our Yakumo here isn’t actually from “True” Japan. Perhaps she’s a defector originally from “Illusory” Japan. Her general attitude belies an interest in older Japanese culture. So part of me wonders if, assuming this is true, she didn’t defect just because she was bitter about people caring more about modern pop culture than older things. (I may of course, be wildly wrong. But hey, if I make a called shot about this, I want the credit.)
All this is to say nothing of the most recent episode, the ninth.
Episode Nine takes place almost entirely at a festival organized by the Resistance. In some anime, this would be a filler episode. Here, it leads directly into our presumable final confrontation (there are, after all, only three episodes of this thing left).
Much of the episode revolves around a ramen stand, where Hosomichi meets an in-disguise Captain Akatsuki Shinonome and, of course, the stand’s owner. Said old man (who goes unnamed here) serves to show us both what life is like for the older ordinary residents of Akihabara, including why they might join up with the resistance in the first place, and to start a conversation between these two opposing people.
Now Rumble has to be careful here, because we’ve never really been given a look inside Akatsuki’s head, and there has been prior to now little reason to not believe he’s simply a garden-variety authoritarian. Here, he gains some character detail as he veiledly explains his own point of view to the ramen shop owner (and to Hosomichi.) The danger of doing this of course is always that your work’s audience might end up sympathizing with the fascist; an especially real possibility here at the end of the episode when a drunk-off-his-ass Anju (that’s Hosomichi’s “boss” if you’ve forgotten) shows up, makes a huge show of representing the resistance, and starts bullying the ramen shop owner. My main hope is that this is obviously enough meant to not be a real criticism from the show’s end of the resistance, so no one will take it that way.
The shop owner himself, incidentally, may go down as one of the great relatable anime characters of the year. At least to me.
Amen, brother.
And lastly, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Rin and Hayate’s meeting here. We get to see sadly little of it and it’s most likely setup for something in the next episode, but they make a rather cute couple. (Which a random doujin shop owner voiced by Mayumi Shintani actually mistakes them for.)
The final confrontation is set to take place just outside what looks an awful lot like Tokyo Big Sight, AKA The Comiket Building. Which, honestly, where else would Rumble Garanndoll finish?
Wanna talk to other Magic Planet Anime readers? Consider joining my Discord server! Also consider following me on Twitter and supporting me on Ko-Fi or Patreon. If you want to read more of my work, consider heading over to the Directoryto browse by category.
All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text, excepting direct quotations, is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
The Frontline Report is a weekly column where I summarize my journey through anime, manga, and the related spheres of popular culture over the past week. Expect spoilers for covered material.
Good day, anime fans. I don’t have terribly much to say this week in the lead-in. Here’s some thoughts about an anime I’m a bit mixed on, one I really like, and one that I….just feel like I have to tell people about.
Mieruko-chan
I have always been a bit of two minds about the Mieruko-chan anime. I thought, and still think, that its positives outweigh its negatives, but it is admittedly difficult to evaluate a show that contains a somber, heartstring-tugging story about a teacher’s failed pregnancy in the same episode where the lead at one point pisses herself in fear. That’d be episode 8, and that’s Mieruko-chan in general. Something tragic and something funny (or “funny”, in this case) within the span of minutes of each other and seeming like they don’t quite go together.
One could argue this reflects the chaotic uncertainty of life in general. Normally, that is in fact exactly what I would say, and I have said similar things about other shows with this kind of tonal yo-yoing. But there are a lot of anime out there that pull this off than Mieruko-chan does, and it just doesn’t fit together properly much of the time. Increasingly, I just wonder if this is the sort of series that should’ve stayed in the manga format.
On the other hand, occasionally it does hit it out of the park. Episode 9, the most recent as of when I’m writing this, is about 50% about Miko and friends visiting a haunted house. Realizing that she can here react to whatever she sees however she likes, Miko revels in the chance to scream her lungs out. Much to the confusion of Julia, her also-able-to-see-ghosts sometimes-rival whose inability to perceive the larger spirits that torment Miko has given her a very inaccurate idea of what our lead is actually like. (Julia is probably my favorite character in general, it must be said.)
So, I don’t know, maybe the show is fine as it is. My hope is that the transition into the arc about Zen Toono, a substitute teacher at Miko’s school, will signal the start of a more interesting run as the series enters its final few episodes.
Perfectly nice, I’m sure.
Ranking of Kings
Last week dropped a bombshell; through some dark magic, King Bosse was back, in the body of his son Daida. Meanwhile, as Bojji trained in the underworld, he appeared to now be able to split boulders with his fists. We get a fair amount of explanation relating to these developments here, but as in basically any good ongoing piece of serial fiction, they raise as many questions as they answer.
We open on a flashback with a young(ish), not-yet-King Bosse negotiating with, wouldn’t you know it, the great red devil who showed up when he passed away a number of episodes ago.
His wish? To be the strongest. The demon’s reply? He can’t conjure power out of nowhere, but if Bosse had a family, he could steal it from a blood relative. Bosse, thus, finds the strongest giant woman in the world and proposes to her. (In doing so, he performs a perfectly understandable action for sinister reasons. Quite a jerk, King Bosse.)
This, as we learn (though it’s not hard to figure out), is Bojji’s biological mother. What exactly happened to her after the tiny prince was born is not revealed here, though it’s hard not to assume the worst. Bosse carves out his own realm in what seems to be just a few short years.
That is Bosse in the distance, walking away from a whole battlefield of dead orcs. In some anime, this would be a way to show how cool he is. Ousama Ranking is not such an anime.
This sequence, and much of Ousama Ranking in general, seem to contemplate the cruelty of power. If one has to do such terrible things to become so strong, what can one possibly do with their strength that’s actually worth it? And does it not inevitably lead to the pursuit of power for its own sake? After Bojji is born, Bosse swears that he will ensure a future for the prince where he wants for nothing. It’s safe to say, given the present, that he didn’t succeed. But there is a marked disconnect between Bosse as we see him in the past and Bosse as we see him returned in Daida’s body. The influence of his vizier Miranjo1–a flesh-and-blood person in these flashbacks but trapped in Daida’s mirror in the present–may have something to do with it, but it’s hard to call definitively.
We also catch up with Domas and Hokuro. Their relationship here changes quite rapidly. It develops from Hokuro trying to kill Domas for his treachery and failing, to Domas rescuing a to-be-executed Hokuro from Queen Hilling’s wrath out of apparent guilt, to Domas being ordered by Bosse–who makes himself known to the swordsman–to destroy a cave to the underworld that exists beneath the castle. Ousama Ranking‘s pacing has been brisk but quite good so far, and this marks the rare occasion where it’s a bit too fast. This seems like the sort of plot that could’ve carried its own episode. Although, I will note, there’s no reason to suspect that Domas and Hokuro’s partnership won’t continue to change. Their interactions in this episode end with Domas promising to train Hokuro. Training he claims Hokuro will sorely need for the task ahead of them.
Finally, there is Daida. Yes, it would appear that the blonde prince is still alive. Although what state, exactly, he’s in, is quite ambiguous. The final moments of the episode conclude with him waking up in a totally black void. He stumbles around, wondering if he’s been imprisoned somewhere, but the total lack of any features seems to imply his prison his more metaphysical in nature. Spare a thought for the ambitious prince, he’ll need it.
As for Bojji? Well, the little big man’s training is complete in this episode as well, though this is one of the show’s episodes where Bojji assumes a minor role in his own show. (Not a bad thing, but notable.) Perhaps his newfound power can help him rescue his brother? Maybe because Bojji came by his strength honestly he won’t fall into whatever pit of ambition Bosse ended up in? It’s hard to say. All we know for certain is this; The Ranking of Kings continues, and somewhere nearby, a devil grins.
Waccha PriMagi!
A new face on this column, and one that’s quite the watching experience.
I’ve been following Waccha PriMagi since it aired. But it’s something I watch with friends on the weekends, so I haven’t really ever thought of it as something I intended to write about in this column. And my knowledge of the larger Pretty Rhythm / King of Prism (I’m not even sure which name is “more correct”) meta-franchise which it’s a part of is quite limited. But I really feel like I need to just tell somebody how utterly bonkers this show is. To record it for posterity so that a hundred years hence, someone can know that yes, this was a real thing and yes it really was like this. God help us all. Or maybe international superstar Jennifer help us all. In the show’s world they seem rather interchangeable.
She’s like if Beyonce` was blonde and had the most generic name ever.
The actual premise isn’t much to stretch the brain here. Matsuri, our protagonist, likes idols and wants to be one. One day, the magical cat girl Nyamu appears and helps her become one. There’s a competition to see who’s the best idol, pretty standard stuff for the genre aside from the magic element, and even that is not really where the weirdness comes from.
No, the weirdness comes from two things. For one, the gaudy character designs. The girls, especially in-costume, look like they’ve been shot with a glitter cannon by Lisa Frank, and there are enough pride flag colors snuck into character designs that it feels like an intentional easter egg on the part of a character designer rather than simple coincidence. Even the comparatively “dark” designs like Lemon’s gothic lolita ensemble are just so much. This is a strength, not a weakness, but it’s a level of audacity in character design that is rather rare, and it takes some getting used to.
Secondly, there is the writing.
Good god is there the writing.
I wouldn’t dare to say that Waccha PriMagi is badly written. It’s a kids’ show, and it’s not for a 27 year old college dropout who writes a blog for a living. It is however, definitely hyperactively written. Compared to it, co-seasonal Tropical Rouge Precure (which is also for young kids, mind you!) looks downright sedate. The simple quantity of things that happens in a given episode is through the roof, and episodes tumble into one another as though the entire series were a single long film. There is little of the episodic nature often associated with kids’ anime. This shit has continuity, and it has the audacity to expect you to remember it all. (Or maybe it doesn’t, given that the most recent episode, the tenth, is a recap episode less than a dozen episodes in.)
Is any of that a problem? Honestly, not really. The series’ sheer chaos works in its favor. Most anime take a fairly straight line from point A to point B. Waccha is content to doodle all over the map on its way there, which is why it took ten episodes for us to get a concise explanation of what the tournament that will presumably drive much of the rest of the plot actually is. This would be annoying for a shorter anime, but as Waccha is an annual it seems safe to assume it will run for a full four cours (landing somewhere between 42 and 50 episodes by its finale), so it has plenty of time to figure out petty things like “plot” and “making sense” later.
What it does excel at, chaotic as it is, is character interaction. The characters in this are great. The sole exception I’d maybe make being our actual lead, Matsuri, who I find a bit of a cipher outside of her idol fangirling. (Even then, she’s pleasant and charming, just not to the level of the other characters.) Nyamu is a total brat, something like a land-bound cousin of TroPre’s Laura La Mer. There’s a cool senpai in the form of Hina, whose day-glo raver look could maybe dull some of the surprise from learning that the song from her first concert kinda slaps.
Seriously, why does this sound like something that would dominate the radio in 2007?
Then there’s Miruki, a baldly two-faced little conniver who would be absolutely detestable if she wasn’t so damn funny. It’s here worth noting that these characters all have their own animal companion friends. And hers is a decidedly stoned-looking bear. And finally there’s Lemon Kokoa, my personal favorite character. I should also take a minute to mention the incredibly good official subtitles this thing has, with full credit to translators Natalie Jones and Nathan Lopez. They’re a bit loose, which some purists may dislike, but they add a lot of color to the show by incorporating modern stan terms, including “stan” itself, “bias,” etc. I mostly bring this up because Lemon is an idol otaku, and also just generally a reclusive, anxious wreck of a gamer girl shut-in. When she and her friends (read: her MMO guild) show up, the translators also take the opportunity to tangle in some modern internet slang. Which leads to the decidedly surreal experience of seeing, say, a phrase like “big mood” in an anime.
Lemon is just below the frame, having passed out from the immense stress of being perceived.
She also has easily the best outfit in the series, the aforementioned gothic lolita dress patterned after the stained glass in a cathedral. A friend described her debut song as sounding “like Touhou music,” and I couldn’t agree more. It also rules.
Yes, the logo behind her says “Radiant Abyss.” It says that because Lemon is cooler than all of us.
I don’t expect I’ll cover Waccha PriMagi often on this column, and it may well never appear here again. As I said, it’s more of a fun weekend watch with friends for me. But! I should stress that if you can find some folks to watch it with, it is immensely fun. (I imagine watching it solo unless you’re a sugar rush’d-out ten-year-old might be a bit much. But you’re welcome to experiment and see if I’m wrong.) Waccha absolutely drips with style and personality. Sometimes when you’ve got so much of that, common sense takes a back seat. Personally, I think it suits the show just fine.
1: I am admittedly not fully sure if this is intended to be her actual name or is some sort of title. In Japanese the character is apparently only referred to as “Mahou no Kagami”, which I believe simply means “Magic Mirror”, so I’m not entirely certain what’s going on there.
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All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text, excepting direct quotations, is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
The Frontline Report is a weekly column where I summarize my journey through anime, manga, and the related spheres of popular culture over the past week. Expect spoilers for covered material.
Hello again, anime fans. I don’t have terribly much to say in my lead-in here. It’s been a bit of a week and I’m a bit struck by the winter blues. I hope you won’t begrudge me that this week’s column is only about two shows. For what it’s worth, I think they’re some of the best that have aired this year. One of 2021’s great stories comes to an end and another begins to hit its stride….
The Heike Story
A common nugget of wisdom holds to show, not tell, when weaving a story. But it’s a false dichotomy in some ways. In the Heike Monogatari, now concluded after eleven weeks, the showing and the telling are one in the same. Never has this been more true than in the series’ final act, where Biwa, fully embracing her role as a chronicler of fate, tells us of the Heike’s demise as we see it happen; two perspectives unified like the visions from her own mystical eyes.
The series’ finale is a thing of beauty. The Heike Clan make their final stand in a battle at sea. They lose, as we knew they would from day one. Many, including the young Emperor, cast themselves into the sea. It is not what you’d call a happy ending.
A common criticism I saw of Heike Monogatari during its airing is why, exactly, Biwa did not “do more” to help the Heike who are, after all, her adopted family. As a critique it makes some sense on the surface. She can see the future, and if anime has trained us to expect anything it’s that those with heterochromia and mysterious powers will intervene to stop bad things from happening. But I cannot help but think this is a simplistic view of both Biwa’s personhood and her situation. She is a witness to history; as we all are, in spite of whatever unique talents we may or may not have. Many of us could “do more” to change things with our own talents, yet we do not. If it is a character flaw on her part, it is one most of us share.
And then there’s the series’ moral, such as it is. A fundamental truth of the world; all things are impermanent. Everything dies, empires rise only to fall. What remains are the stories we pass down and the feelings we hold with us. That, truly, is all.
This is a theme that has run through some seventy years of anime history, but if one wanted to find contemporary examples, they would not need to look all that hard. Surely critics who have studied more classical literature than I have will point out that this is a “very Japanese” and “very Buddhist” theme. Perhaps these things are true, the series is based on a historical epic after all and such things are very much informed by their era and place. I also think, though, it may also be a warning against self-importance akin to what we often grant ourselves here in the Anglosphere. We treat ourselves as living at history’s end, but it continues to happen every day in spite of us.
Heike Monogatari‘s true triumph is to delve into the minds of those gone by; to make the past feel real by showing us the human beings behind history’s academic brushstrokes. In doing so, it reminds us that we are all mortal, and we are all witnesses. Like Biwa, many of us will live to see the fall of all kinds of empires. The only question is whether we will deign to sing about it.
I don’t usually pick shows up mid-season, but Ranking of Kings (known as the somewhat snappier Ousama Ranking in its home country) just didn’t give me much of a choice. “Positive buzz” is one thing, but Ranking on a pure visual level does not look like most anime. This is a reflection of the source material, which seems to draw both on a western-influenced fairy tale book influence and on older strains of anime, not many of which have particularly many artistic descendants in the modern day. So provably, even speaking aesthetically, Ranking stands apart from the usual seasonal grind. This would be interesting on its own, but without a strong story to back it up, it wouldn’t be worth much. Thankfully, Ranking stands as a buzzer-beater candidate for one of the year’s most unique anime from just about every angle. Its visual style could fool one into thinking it’s a happy, straightforward story, but the truth of the matter is that it’s more of a deliberate contrast against the complex character writing and political machinations that our lead, the Deaf Prince Bojji, finds himself caught in.
It’s an utterly fascinating little show, and eight episodes in I can confidently say I have no idea where it’s going to go from here. But what I can do is tell you where it’s been. Doing so alone should be enough for any skeptics to hop aboard the Bojji Train before it’s too late.
Our setup is pretty simple. Bojji is the eldest son of Bosse, the king of a nameless kingdom of which he was the founder. In the show’s opening act, Bosse dies, leaving the question of succession a difficult one. Bojji is Deaf, physically small, and has the misfortune of living in a distinctly fantasy-medieval setting. (Ranking effortlessly pulls off letting us into Bojji’s inner world without any spoken dialogue, but many of the adults around him tend to treat him with vague disdain, or at best, an infantilizing overprotectiveness.) He’s also not much of a swordsman, despite the guideship of his trainer Domas. Though interestingly, he’s great at dodging, a skill that has yet to quite pay dividends narratively but is sure to later.
In contrast to Bojji, there is his younger half-brother, Prince Daida. Daida is much more in the image of a traditional heir to the throne than Bojji. It is thus unsurprising that when Bosse passes away, the kingdom’s council of advisors votes to install Daida as the king instead of his older brother. One might initially think that the story’s central conflict will come down to Bojji’s quest to reclaim his rightful throne, and it may still circle back around to that eventually, but something that simple would not do justice to the sheer amount of stuff this series has covered so far.
For instance; adding fuel to the movement to replace Bojji as the heir apparent is that when Bosse passes away, a massive red devil appears and gestures at the prince. What does this mean? We still don’t know a good half-cour later.
Which is good, because that’s how you build some genuine mystery. Details like this are packed into every minute of Ranking’s runtime and things are only explained directly if absolutely necessary. As a watching experience, it’s engrossing, and doesn’t have much recent competition. I haven’t even brought up Bojji’s plus-one, his shadowy friend Kage who the prince won over with his kindness, and whose obligate backstory episode is one of the show’s highlights.
Some of this attention to detail might come down to Ranking‘s runtime; it’d feel rushed were it only one cour, but it’s thankfully two. (This sadly puts it out of the running for my top five list I’ll be publishing at the end of December. I’m sure the folks at Wit Studio are just heartbroken.)
I have to admit that I considered doing a writeup of this week’s episode as well, but in deference to those who have perhaps not started watching the show yet but might find it interesting based on what I’ve said, I will not do so. Next week, though, you have my promise! Stay strong in the meantime, Prince Bojji!
He’s a mighty little man.
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All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text, excepting direct quotations, is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
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.
Let’s start with the obvious; what a title! In a time period where there are quite literally more anime being made per season than ever before, a series needs to do all it can to stand out. A novel premise is one way to do that, and Irina: The Vampire Cosmonaut, which is about basically exactly what that title implies, certainly delivers on that front.
The short version; some amount of years after the end of not-quite WW2, two nations, not-quite The United States (“Arnack”) and not-quite The Soviet Union (“Zirnitra”) are competing in a space race. In lieu of sending an actual human aboard a rocket, Zirnitra’s space program opts to use a vampire. Which, in the world of Irina, basically means a normal human but nocturnal and with pointy teeth. (The series goes out of its way to assure us that all the traditional vampire clichés are just myths. Which, in of itself, is something of a cliché by this point. But the point is made; it’s not a garlic and crucifixes sort of story. Fair enough.)
Surely there are no shady, immoral reasons for this.
Our actual lead is not Irina, the titular vampire, herself, but rather her caretaker, a training program flunky named Lev.
This is Lev. He’s pleasant enough.
It’s here I should point out; this thing is tagged with the Romance genre on every site I can find it listed on, and between Lev, Irina herself, and Lev’s assistant, Anna, there is absolutely the possibility for this to descend into mediocre harem hell. However, I prefer to assume an anime is going to become the best version of itself. What would that look like for Irina?
Well, the show’s strengths are evident even this early on. While none of the characters strike as super complex (at least not yet), the important ones feel well-thought-out. Lev is trying to reconcile having to give up on his own dream of cosmonauthood with his new responsibility taking care of Irina. Irina is all too happy to tell every human in earshot that she hates them, which is evidently a defense mechanism from being treated like an object her entire life. (That’s not me reading into the series; the latter is obvious from visual cues and the former is explicitly pointed out a number of times.)
There’s not a ton going on, so far, but the promise is there. The early scenes especially seem to hint at something deeper going on, with context-free flashes of Irina clutching a necklace, which she still has in the present, in the midst of a snowstorm. And in the political undertones of her involvement in the spaceflight program in the first place.
Really, for this sort of thing, “promise” is enough. It’s distinct enough that it can coast by on potential, at least for now. Irina is not going to be most peoples’ premiere of the season, but you could do far, far worse. And who knows? We might be talking about it in far grander terms six weeks from now.
Grade: C+ The Takeaway: Keep an eye on this one. Consider picking it up if you want an additional show and the novel combination of sci-fi and romance genres with a dash of horror appeals to you. Otherwise, maybe hold off until it gets some more positive word-of-mouth.
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All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
This review contains spoilers for the reviewed material. This is your only warning.
“Rajdhani’s parrot laughs.”
Abstract art faces an inherent double standard. It must both earn its right to be non-literal in the first place, and is expected to eventually “make sense” to its audience. It’s an impossible task, to convey truths through symbolic language alone but to do so so clearly that it cannot be accused of pretension.
Sonny Boy has only just ended, so it is hard to say where, eventually, it will fall, in the public consciousness. Some abstract anime are eventually acclaimed as classics, others are derided as nonsense. Either way, the series stands as one of the most compelling of the year. Enough so that simply saying such can feel rote–or even worse, dogmatic. But sometimes the reason so many people think something is interesting is simply because it genuinely is. Sonny Boy stands as a rare moment where a truly out-there piece of art has managed to capture the imagination of the public at large. Even by itself, that is a huge achievement.
On a production level alone, Sonny Boy speaks for itself. Its character designs lean more realistic than most modern TV anime, making it immediately stand out, with characters being distinguished by face shapes and so on. Its backgrounds are painterly and convey, as needed, a sense of surreality or depict vivid, natural landscapes. Accompanying all this is a bold, sharp directorial approach that knows precisely when to fully cut loose, scored by a well-curated soundtrack of synthesizer pieces, indie rock, and, sometimes, dead silence. To some point, mentioning these things at all feels like box-ticking. It is obvious from watching even any few random minutes of the series that it looks and sounds fantastic. So the big question is not one of production then, it’s one of theme. What is Sonny Boy about?
In a very real sense; nothing less than our lost generation. Sonny Boy centers on a classroom of high schoolers sent, per their own words, “adrift.” References to The Drifting Classroom and Robinson Crusoe abound. The nature of the anomaly that shifts our cast from the mundanity of modern Japan into the chaotic randomness that is the Matroyshka Doll worlds-within-worlds land they end up in is never explained and is not really the point. Nor is the nature of the superpowers they get (no quirky name here, they’re just called “powers”) examined either. Sonny Boy is an exploration of what young people would do, given all the time in the universe to do it, and of the social systems that shape them into who they are.
Our ostensible main character is Nagara, a somewhat unassertive and otherwise unremarkable young man. But much of the cast get put under the microscope, always to interesting effect. Take for example Mizuho, whose principled nature clashes with the remnants of the student council. An entire early episode revolves around her unwillingness to apologize for a wrong she didn’t commit, and for this part of the series, Sonny Boy seems like it may conclude that any group of people, isolated and given enough time, will reinvent the worst aspects of the society they originally come from.
But, Sonny Boy abandons this comparatively straightforward, political strain of thought early on. (Consequently, there is a certain crowd who will be displeased that the show is not an effective handbook for revolution. So it goes.) As it marches through its twelve episodes, the series becomes increasingly big-picture and existential. Political themes give way to religious ones, which finally give way to the philosophical. So whatever one might think of Sonny Boy, they absolutely cannot fault it for lack of ambition.
Because our generation (Millennials, and, increasingly as they reach majority, “Gen Z” as well) is often derided as overgrown children rather than real adults, Sonny Boy earns its right to use an all-teen cast in this scenario even more than most would, given that it is us–the literally immature, and the spiritually immature–at whom Sonny Boy is directed. It feels deliberate that the only adults in the series are respectively an imposter playing at an authority they don’t truly possess (Ms. Aki) and someone so far removed and incomprehensible to the rest of the cast that they may as well be divinity (the Principal).
In this sense, Sonny Boy is that old metaphor, a ball of confusion. If it’s sometimes hard to tell quite what’s going on, well, it’s even harder to tell what’s going on in real life. I would say “especially when you’re young”, but it’s easy to argue that part of Sonny Boy‘s core thesis is that, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all young.
That, of course, could feel to some like a cop-out. One might want to know what all of this is building up to. And while the series certainly settles well into a role, in its midpoint, as a mint for surreal parables of the modern age, anyone wanting a broader, singular “point” might feel a little left in the cold.
If there is an overall message, it is what the character Rajdhani states in the penultimate episode and Nagara finally internalizes in the finale. The world–all worlds–are chaos in motion, “an endless exercise in vain effort”, as Rajdhani puts it. But in this seeming meaninglessness, there is beauty.
Call Sonny Boy, then, a treatise on optimistic nihilism. Life is, and then it isn’t. It is a hectic, meaningless thing, to hear Sonny Boy tell it. The other side of that, of course, is that that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
The final words of the series, spoken by Nagara, are “Our lives are only beginning. What lies ahead will take just a little bit longer.” It’s a simple, almost prayer-like coda to a series that is otherwise anything but. Yet, a truth is a truth. Like some of its peers that have aired this year and in the recent past, all Sonny Boy asks of us is to take care of one another and do our best. All we can do is make the most of what we have, and all we have is ourselves and each other.
Wanna talk to other Magic Planet Anime readers? Consider joining my Discord server! Also consider following me on Twitter and supporting me on Ko-Fi or Patreon. If you want to read more of my work, consider heading over to the Directoryto browse by category.
All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
Our third episode arrives some months late. Forgive us, folks! This whole podcasting thing is hard. More importantly; Windy Tales is a lovely, subtle little show from Production IG’s mid-2000s period with an unconventional art style and a lot to say about the impermanence of all things. You can listen to the podcast below, or, when it’s finished processing, check out the Youtube mirror at the bottom of this article.
KeyFramesForgotten is a podcast about anime you haven’t thought about in a while. Join anime nerds Jane-Michelle and Julian as they discuss anime from the recent or not-so-recent past that the general public has forgotten about. We discuss the merits of these anime, why the public has left them behind, and whether we think they’re worth a second look.
You can follow Jane on Twitterhereand Julian on Twitter here.
Let’s not mince words, as far as gaining its own fanbase or leaving a cultural impact of basically any kind, Blue Reflection Ray never had a chance, at least not over here in the West. Not only was it easy to write off by anyone so inclined due to its floaty animation, sprawling story, Shoujo-inspired art style, and links to an already-obscure parent series (the larger Blue Reflection franchise), it was also sandwiched between two other magical girl anime tackling some similar subject matter in a more succinct and accessible way; Wonder Egg Priority and the second season of Magia Record respectively.
Nonetheless, it’s 24 weeks later and I find myself still with a real soft spot for BRR, in spite of everything. Maybe it’s because more than almost any other magical girl series I’ve ever seen, the enemy as personified in Blue Reflection Ray is not something simple. Instead, its real antagonist is sheer emotional burnout, the very death of feeling itself. Late in the series when main villain Shino infiltrates The Common, humanity’s collective unconsciousness, she drives the whole world into apathetic, mechanical lockstep. “Going through the motions” made very literal.
How do you tackle that? Comparatively little popular art in general even tries. And of that that has, it’s hard to argue Blue Reflection Ray is the best-equipped for it. But by god, there is glory in the fight, and fight Blue Reflection Ray did. Over the course of a nowadays-somewhat-rare two-cour run, this scrappy little show with a small initial audience and an ever-smaller one as it went on fought like hell. And now that it’s over, was it all worth it?
Let’s put it this way. Despite its ramshackle production, Blue Reflection Ray also has some real strengths. It takes genuine courage to even try to portray some of this stuff. And while one might (not incorrectly) accuse the show of being rather melodramatic, the fact remains that as a frank look at how bleak life can become when it’s defined by such evils as child abuse and suicidal ideation, there’s a real power to it. It feels written from a place of empathy, not voyeurism. Sincerity is a virtue, and it’s one Blue Reflection Ray has in spades.
As far as its literal story? Fairly simple stuff, at least in concept. A group of magical girls (the Reflectors of the title) must stop a villainous group, from robbing the innocent girls of the world of their feelings. The only obvious kink in the rope here is that the villains are another group of “red” Reflectors rather than monsters or something of the like. But Blue Reflection Ray‘s length lets the story unfurl and twist in odd, unusual ways. And the enemy Reflectors have their own complex backstories, which are doled out to us at a slow enough pace that in certain parts of the series, it can make one question if our girls are really in the right to begin with. The most prominent example being protagonist Hiori’s own sister, Mio, whose enigmatic decision to join Shino defines the first third or so of the series.
All these attempts at nuance do have a downside. Which is that while the characters’ stories are resonant and even powerful when properly played out, say, as in the case of turncoat Nina, anything that fails to be sufficiently resolved stands out as jarring. The most glaring example being the curious one-dimensionality of the aimlessly sadistic Uta, one of the red Reflectors. Some of this is understandable by virtue of the fact that Blue Reflection Ray is meant to link two games in its parent franchise, and some things are deliberately left to be resolved in the future, but Uta’s case is particularly strange. While she’s still a fun enough character, she sticks out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the rest of the cast, who are otherwise fairly well-developed.
Uta after an average day of kicking puppies and stealing candy from orphans.
There is also the matter of that aforementioned production. Blue Reflection Ray has the misfortune of being a minor work by a studio long past its prime, J.C. Staff, and as such even the best-looking episodes are mostly competent rather than genuine eye-poppers, and some are outright bad. There is still some great direction here, and other aspects of the visual design, such as the peculiar look of the altered zones known as Leap Ranges, will certainly appeal to some. (I once described them as Madoka Magica‘s Witch Labyrinths by way of 90s computer art, and I stand by that comparison.) But on the whole BRR is not a series one should watch under the impression that it’s a feast for the eyes. Similarly, while there are a decent amount of fights, and some number of those contain most of the show’s best cuts, they tend to be over pretty fast.
On the other hand, all these restraints mean that on the rare occasion BRR does do something aesthetically in line with the traditions of the magical “transforming heroine” subgenre–your Pretty Cures, Sailor Moons, and such–it’s legitimately wonderful. In episode 23, the girls transform back to back for the one and only time in the whole series, complete with a transformation chant and a monster to fight afterward. And it is absolutely magical. Blue Reflection Ray is certainly aware that it’s part of a storied artistic lineage. If it only needs to invoke said lineage once, then that is enough.
So where does that leave us, all things considered?
Well, I choose to look at it this way; Blue Reflection Ray understands a certain truism of the human experience very well. We hurt ourselves in isolation but find solace in the company of others, it’s a concept as old as time. No man is an island. It’s also the same general idea that powers much of the magical girl genre, regardless of tone. It’s so obvious that it should be, by all rights, a cliché.
Yet, in BRR’s finale, with its deep blue sky, weepy reunions, and heavy, saccharine piano, it feels like nothing less than the truth all over again. The answer the series returns to, over and over again, is that love for each other is what can truly save us. Friendship, familial love, and romantic love, all equally important bulwarks against the darkness.
There is a minor running joke in some circles, one with more than a single grain of truth, that magical girl anime fandom can feel like a religion. If that’s so, let Blue Reflection Ray be a sermon, and let all who have ears hear the song. The same old same old has never felt so important.
“I’m pretty happy lying here with you, it feels good to feel somethin’.”
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SPECIAL WARNING: This review contains extensive spoilers for the reviewed material, and assumes familiarity with it and the remainder of the Neon Genesis Evangelion franchise.
“You’ve grown to be an adult, Shinji.”
In a very real sense, this is the end of something. Neon Genesis Evangelion has existed as a series since 1995. Long before it became a “franchise” as such, there were those original episodes and the films that followed them, most famously End of Evangelion. The Rebuild movies, always controversial, serve as a way to rewrite and redefine Evangelion, which has remained true through the rocky first, the astonishing second, and the burned-black, emotionally deadened third entries in the series. That Thrice Upon a Time, the fourth and final, will spawn mountains upon mountains of discourse is only natural. This is Eva. One can talk forever about its influences and its impact, but there is nothing else that is truly like it. Twenty-six years of history come to a stop here. Welcome to the end of an era.
Let’s start not at the beginning, but at the end.
After the harrowing of the soul that was You Can (Not) Redo, Thrice Upon a Time concludes as the only iteration of the Evangelion series to receive a wholly unambiguous happy ending. There is no room for confusion here. Shinji Ikari is all grown up, and accordingly, this movie will make you weep like a proud parent on graduation day. For a certain kind of Eva fan, this is a claim to be met with skepticism. Eva derives no small part of its immense reputation from being a truly withering under-the-microscope look at depression. But it’s important to clarify our terms here: Thrice Upon a Time does not rob Eva of that accolade, it reinforces it. After twenty-six years of spiraling, Thrice assures even those of us in the darkest pits of misery that yes, there is a way out of this. As a kind of anti-End of Evangelion, it is an open window disguised as a trap door.
Which is to say, having a happy ending and being a happy movie are two different things. Getting to that ending is quite the ride, a fact only enhanced by Thrice‘s incredible length, clocking in at two and a half hours. Improbably, it earns every second, but one could be forgiven for wondering.
After some action-focused eye candy to start things off with a bang, and which mostly stars Mari, the film refocuses on its protagonist. We open with Shinji in near-catatonic burnout. He is entirely non-verbal for the first forty minutes of the film, and the first words anyone says to him are an accusation that he is a spineless loser. When, at one point, he gets a look at Asuka’s collar, has a PTSD flashback, and vomits on the spot. This, just so you know, is what we’re dealing with here. That he manages to, in the course of only the film’s remaining 110 minutes, go from there to where he is by its finale is nothing short of astonishing. If Thrice Upon a Time did not have two and half decades of cachet to lean on here, it probably wouldn’t work.
Over the course of Thrice Upon a Time, we see Shinji make sustained and–this is key here–permanent character growth for, arguably, the first time ever. His character actually changing in a sustained way, the way one’s character is supposed to change as they grow up, rather than simply shifting. Where You Can (Not) Redo seemed to bitterly mock the very idea of ever growing as a person at all, Thrice demonstrates that it’s possible with nothing more than some genuine care. Village 3, the town of survivors that Shinji, Asuka, and one of Rei’s clones are based in for the first third or so of the film, is a place where people are forced by the aftermath of the near-Third Impact disaster to work together.
It is in this environment, shepherded by two of his old friends; the now-adult Kensuke and Touji, that Shinji is finally able to make real, positive changes to himself. Village 3 shows Shinji what he does not have. His friends have become adults, started families, and, in the way that their circumstances dictate, become healthy and productive people. Shinji has none of that, and although he never says as much out loud it’s clear even early on in the film that he’s keenly aware of it.
But he’s not alone, here. Asuka stands at a distance from Village 3–as she always has from everyone–and the Clone Rei, naïve as a newborn, rapidly integrates into it, only for her to die near the film’s one-third mark. This could easily send Shinji spiraling, but the fact that she appears to die happy seems to spark something inside him, which Kensuke in particular helps nurture, and this becomes the catalyst for his growth.
It’s tempting to map out his entire emotional journey here, but a fair amount of it feels so natural that doing so could be an article unto itself. If we skip ahead to near the film’s climax where Shinji is suddenly not only able to face Gendo but do so unafraid, you could be forgiven for thinking a natural transition impossible. Yet, it simply works, there is no explanation for it beyond the built-up credibility of Shinji’s long history as a character. It makes sense because he’s Shinji.
Further in, the middle stretch or so of the film is a clash of dazzling surrealities. Massive battleships slug it out in conceptual spaces, nonce terms like The Key of Nebuchadnezzar, The Golgotha Object, and The Anti-Universe gain biblical significance fitting their names.
It’s all wonderful, and all Extremely Anime, in the genericized sense of the term that commentators like myself tend to avoid using. Explosions, giant robots and monsters, incomprehensibly vast scales of combat, and of course the plethora of proper nouns. Asuka pulls a plot-significant item out of her eye at one point, you get the idea. Rarely is this done as well as it’s done here. Somehow all of the disparate parts make perfect sense, and one would not be wrong to invoke one of Eva’s own successors in the feeling of how. There really is a bit of Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann in it.
But, yes, the key thing. Shinji fights Gendo. He fights Gendo bravely and while wholly accepting himself, and this lets him question his father in a meaningful way for the first time. As the two’s bout turns from physical to conversational, Gendo reveals what we’ve all known all along. He is, beneath his monstrous acts, beneath his abuse, beneath the mad scientist and would-be godslayer, a deeply lonely man willing to go to inhumanly great lengths to see his late wife again. The most evil men tend to be simple, and Gendo is no exception. Shinji defeating Gendo is an entire generation conquering shared trauma. The sort of solidarity that is direly needed in an era as grim as ours, and the sort that means even more coming from Evangelion than it might almost any other series.
It’s prudent to take an aside here to say that the film is of course not perfect. There are faults to be found, but they’re minor and mostly on the production side. Studio Khara’s CGI-heavy, live action film-influenced visual style has always been divisive, and it will never be moreso than it is here, putting the capstone on what is far and away their most well-known series. For my money, I’d say it works in some contexts better than others. Truly disturbing and otherworldly imagery, like Asuka’s loss against Unit 13, or a bizarrely photorealistic, haunting echo of End of Evangelion‘s “floating Rei” are excellent.
In other places, especially in certain battle scenes, one can’t escape the feeling that there’s a grandiosity that these fights should have that they don’t always quite pull off. Mostly in the form of the sheer scale of the actors involved–especially the battleships–not always coming through. Still, these criticisms are easily offset by the other, aforementioned visual merits.
On a slightly more substantial level, one could argue that limiting the film’s perspective to mostly Shinji limits its impact. The death of the Clone Rei relatively early on being the example I suspect many will glom onto. But I think this is the wrong tack to take. Shinji, despite everything, has been all of us. Which is not to say he is all of us. Some folks, even some who love Evangelion dearly, have left that particularly dark phase of our mental illnesses long behind us. But we have all been “back there”, where every room is suffocating, and any activity is a distraction from our mind’s attempt to eat itself. And the fear of going “back there”, of possibly hurting yourself or worse, hurting others, is very real. Which is the exact thing that makes it so cathartic when, pushing back against twenty-six years of history, his own initial characterization, and the countless reductionist depictions of the character as a spineless wimp, Shinji wins. The Son, finally understanding his Father, vanquishes him without further struggle.
The new world he creates, as he is made able to do, is not some perfect paradise. It is a world not unlike ours, though I suspect, perhaps, a little brighter. Of course any distance between the two is a mere illusion. After such a long time clawing at one’s own soul, any daylight is welcome.
If the film’s climax seems to leave some questions unanswered, they simply don’t feel relevant. It’s Mari who pulls Shinji from his rapidly-fading sketch world into the new universe he’s created. The ending scene depicts Shinji, now an adult, living a truly, peacefully, ordinary life.
And so, the Sun shines on a world without Evangelions, and, for us, without Evangelion.
I am reminded by Thrice’s finale not so much of any other piece of Eva media, or indeed any of Gainax’s other marquee properties. Instead, my mind turns to the finale of the largely-overlooked Wish Upon The Pleiades. In that series’ finale, which marked the end of Studio Gainax’s time as a going concern as a producer of TV anime, no words are wasted on complicated, overwrought goodbyes. Instead, as here, it’s simply on to the next. The next universe, the next adventure, the next dawn, or, if you prefer, the neon genesis.
The final remarkable thing about Thrice Upon a Time is that it puts Neon Genesis Evangelion on the whole in the past, and at the same time, immortalizes it for the future. The end of an era, but the beginning of a new day. It is over, but it will be with us forever.
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All views expressed on Magic Planet Anime are solely my own opinions and conclusions and should not be taken to reflect the opinions of any other persons, groups, or organizations. All text is owned by Magic Planet Anime. Do not duplicate without permission. All images are owned by their original copyright holders.
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