“People who know flower language will be able to interpret each one’s message and that’s great, but I made it so that even if you don’t you can feel something because of the shot’s layout or the flower’s color. I’m happy to let that audience have their own interpretation.”

–A Silent Voice director Naoko Yamada on the usage of flowers in her film

This is the second of two posts on Naoko Yamada’s use of floriography or hanakotoba (flower language) in her movie adaptation of A Silent Voice. The first post, The Flower Language of A Silent Voice Part 1: Fireworks and Daisies, can be found here. It covers daisies, cosmos, and cyclamen, which frame the film’s two leads, Shoya Ishida and Shoko Nishimiya.

Azaleas appear in the mouths of Shoya and his childhood friend, Kazuki Shimada during a flashback montage of their elementary school antics.

Although azaleas have more flattering meanings like modesty or patience, they also send a message of temperance to those who are going to an excess. Shoya is the only one blamed for bullying Shoko, despite others’ involvement, and Shimada often eggs him on. These azaleas in their mouths could be urging them to exercise restraint, despite the fact that they only escalate their bullying behavior towards Shoko in the film.

As a child, Naoka Ueno often wears a shirt with two hibiscus flowers. Hibiscus is often used to represent overwhelming beauty in a young woman. This is a blinding, but short-lived and impermanent beauty, so hibiscus flowers also remind the recipient that beauty is fleeting and should be enjoyed while present.

Ueno is an interesting character in the anime adaptation of A Silent Voice. Despite Miki Kawai’s position as class representative, it’s Ueno who acts as the ringleader for girls in their class. She’s abrupt and rude to people she doesn’t like, especially Shoko. However, Shoko’s arrival also eventually shatters Ueno’s control over the class and Shoya. Her older self is similarly aggressive and mean but she has a palpable air of loss. She desperately tries to get her former friends back together — ignoring Shoko as much as possible — and it takes a while for her to realize that this is impossible. Their friendship of that time is gone completely, and now she has to forge new bonds with Shoko included if she wants to reconnect with Shoya.

When Shoya throws Shoko’s communication notebook after another round of bullying, Shoko gets down on her knees and wades through the pond to find it. In the foreground, out of focus, is a bed of marigolds and what appears to be veronica blue speedwell.

Marigolds are often the flower of the dead, and are used prominently in religious ceremonies and the Day of the Dead in Mexico. Despite their cheery appearance, they’re also associated with pain over the poor treatment of a loved one — Kiznaiver uses them to frame Honoka Maki for this reason — along with feelings of jealousy or guilt. At this point in time, Shoya hasn’t wrapped his head around his inner animosity towards Shoko, and the placement of the marigold flowers at her feet reflects this.

This scene transitions to Shoya in the pond, now bullied by his former friends. Replacing the marigolds are what appear to be white anemone flowers. Anemones have a variety of meanings. White anemones specifically can be harbingers of bad luck or death. They can also mean a forsaken love or relationship.

In this moment, Shoya finds Shoko’s old communication notebook — which he later returns to her once he’s a bit older — reflecting her sincerity, another meaning of the anemone. Anemones are a constant reminder to not desert people you care about while also carrying a message of anticipation for the future.

A blue rose wreath is the primary decoration above the Ishida family dining table. It’s one of the few flowers in the series that looks visibly artificial, a possible reflection of the fact that it’s a fake wreath for decoration only, or a nod to the fact that blue roses themselves are artificial.

Roses cannot naturally grow in a blue color — the closest they can come to this in nature is violet — and have come to reflect mystery or unattainable beauty. It’s an interesting choice for Shoya’s family home, and their meaning of a longing to obtain what is impossible somewhat reflects Shoya’s feelings towards Shoko as well as his mother’s many attempts at getting him to open up to her through the years.

In Japan, small nemophila (baby blue eyes) flowers can turn hillsides into oceans of blue. A small blue flower that looks like nemophila appears after Shoya undergoes another misunderstanding with his classmates, now older. He’s called out by Kawai for bullying Shoko in front of his entire class, which includes his two new friends. Shoya runs away, nearly vomiting, and rides his bicycle home. In this scene, the camera cuts away to a cluster of nemophila.

Nemophila carries a message of forgiveness. Gifting someone nemophila tells them that you stand by them in the face of adversity or forgive them for past wrongdoings. This is highly applicable to its appearance here, where Shoya is once again confronted with how awful he was in the past. Shoko forgives him and, once they finally talk everything through, so do his friends, both old and new.

Sunflowers are well-known for their bright and cheery message. They stand for positivity, longevity, and happiness.

In A Silent Voice, sunflowers appear when Shoya and Shoko go on a summer day trip. On that trip, Shoko tells Shoya that he’ll never be happy with her, while he still blames himself for what happened in their past. The sunflowers appear to be forcing cheer at times, but they also point to the strong bond between Shoya and Shoko, despite various misunderstandings and pain.

When Shoya returns home from the hospital, he finds Maria watering what look like red begonias outside of their house. Begonias have an interesting meaning that includes weariness or preparation for things to come, similar to the feelings of a guardian or watchdog. As a gift, it’s meant to return a favor to the recipient or strengthen relations between the two. Throughout the film, Shoya keeps his family at a distance, but they’ve always been watching over him, especially Miyako.

Additionally, Ueno cared for Shoya the entire time that he was in the hospital and is shown in this scene spying on Shoya’s homecoming before running away. Despite her prickly personality, Ueno did her best to watch over Shoya while he was injured. It’s also hinted that she may have some unrequited feelings for Shoya, which are also represented by the red begonia plant.

Yuzuru Nishimiya takes many photographs throughout A Silent Voice. After her sister tries to take her own life, Yuzuru admits that she was taking pictures of dead things to help inspire Shoko to live. Yuzuru is someone who has sacrificed herself almost entirely for Shoko. By the end of the movie, we see a more content Yuzuru, who is attending school again and succeeding in her artistic endeavors. She’s moved on from photographing things solely to save Shoko.

The photograph that Yuzuru shows off to Shoya is one of flowering clovers. Clovers have a popular message of luck, but the flowers carry an additional meaning, “Think of me.” They can also represent revenge for broken promises — Flip Flappers used clovers to express revenge within the character of Mimi — especially if the object of someone’s affection expressed through the clover rejects them. In Yuzuru’s case, it’s safe to say that luck for the future is the most likely meaning.

“People who know flower language will be able to interpret each one’s message and that’s great, but I made it so that even if you don’t you can feel something because of the shot’s layout or the flower’s color. I’m happy to let that audience have their own interpretation.”

–A Silent Voice director Naoko Yamada on the usage of flowers in her film

This is the third and final post on Naoko Yamada’s use of flower language in her anime adaptation of A Silent Voice. It will focus on the movie’s specific usage of cherry blossom, or sakura, trees. A look at the use of daisies and cyclamen, and other miscellaneous flowers like azaleas, marigolds, and anemones have been covered in previous posts.

Due to their place in Japanese culture, cherry blossoms are ubiquitous in anime, from mere background trappings to Akari Shinohara’s title drop in Makoto Shinkai’s 5 Centimeters per Second: “The speed at which the sakura blossom petals fall, five centimeters per second.”

The quintessential visual shortcut for the Japanese mono no aware, cherry blossoms are of a rare, transient beauty that embody a sensitivity, pathos, or slight melancholy at the impermanence of all things. Brought into the cultural lexicon by literary scholar Motoori Norinaga’s study of The Tale of Genji, mono no aware has been traced back to Heian period literature — of which, The Tale of Genji is the most well-known and popular offering to this day.

On average, it takes a mere week for a cherry blossom tree to bloom before its petals inexorably fall to the ground. During this short timeframe, people flock to cherry blossom trees for food, drink, and an appreciation for humanity’s inability to solidly grasp the ephemeral beauty found in all things. After all, it’s the fleeting nature that gives meaning, not the object or creature in question.

Hanami, or this aforementioned custom of enjoying the fleeting beauty of cherry — and sometimes plum — blossoms also plays a large role in A Silent Voice.

Shoko Nishimiya and Shoya Ishida don’t purposefully set up a cherry-blossom viewing picnic together, but they do quite literally break bread together, feeding the koi in a nearby river from a bridge. This bridge is first framed by cherry blossoms during the time that the two first reconcile — after their initial reintroduction that Shoya forces before his suicide attempt.

While the shaky nature of their relationship is rooted in past mistakes rather than the more easily-understood passing nature of cherry blossoms blooming, falling to the ground, and dying, Shoko and Shoya’s relationship is ultimately made all the stronger due to the adversity that both characters had to face.

Although it seems heartless to say that, in order to have a stronger relationship they needed to break through their inability to communicate — and the after effects of Shoya’s abysmal bullying behavior — but A Silent Voice makes it abundantly clear that their struggle was necessary. There’s no “good” or “bad” person in the film, just a group of flawed people all failing to relate and understand each other, regardless of whether they were born with the advantage of hearing or not. Relationships, like most everything else, are transient as well.

Cherry blossoms or flowering trees often frame Shoko and Shoya, but also play a large role in Shoya’s other relationships, most specifically his friendship with Tomohiro Nagatsuka.

Nagatsuka takes the spotlight next to Shoya under the cherry blossoms while Shoya eats lunch and muses over how, or if, he should approach Shoko again. At this point in time, Nagatsuka is not recognizable as a potential friend — or even as a person — to Shoya. Since he bullied Shoko back in elementary school, Shoya has purposefully shut people out, denoted by the large blue “X” marks over his classmates’ faces.

Petals continue to fall when Shoya comes to the aid of Nagatsuka later on. Shoya approaches a school bully who is trying to steal Nagatsuka’s bicycle and offers his own in exchange. This interaction is viewed primarily at a distance as cherry blossom petals fall at their feet.

The blossoms give each of these encounters a feeling of chance and impermanence. What if Shoya hadn’t come to Nagatsuka’s aid? What is the difference in Shoya’s life following this interaction and how could it have turned out differently?

People try to put us d-down (Talkin’ ’bout my generation)

Just because we g-g-get around (Talkin’ ’bout my generation)

Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin’ ’bout my generation)

I hope I die before I get old (Talkin’ ’bout my generation)

–My Generation, The Who

One of the more interesting choices insisted upon by director Naoko Yamada was the use of The Who’s My Generation. In her words, “I started wondering what Shoya was like at that point: a kid who feels invincible but also deals with perhaps unfounded frustration. This song appeared in my mind with a bang.”

Cherry blossoms frame Shoya here as well. The lead-in to the My Generation flashback segment shows Shoya walking across the bridge to visit Shoko one last time before following through on his plan to kill himself. He doesn’t enact this plan, but that short scene of him walking across the bridge with Shoko’s notebook is yet another nod to the volatility and adversity present in their relationship.

While the song cheerily plays during the flashback, the audience is introduced to Shoya and his two close elementary school friends, Kazuki Shimada and Keisuke Hirose, as well as classmates Naoka Ueno and Miki Kawai. All of these relationships, particularly his ones with Shimada and Hirose, are fleeting, their beauty forever entrenched in his youth, before he met and came to know Shoko.

“There is the story about Hayao Miyazaki entering the anime industry because he was moved by Panda and the Magic Serpent.

Then he watched the movie again afterwards and was disappointed by how bad it was. Yet, even if it’s actually not enjoyable at all, it can be irreplaceable for that person. What’s important is the feelings you got from watching it, and the fact that you had admiration for it. That’s the theme we were looking for.”

–Yoh Yoshinari, creator of Little Witch Academia in an interview with AnimeStyle (2013)

I’ve never personally felt betrayed by by a piece of media, but I can identify with the feeling of being inspired by something that just isn’t good.

Most recently, I experience this feeling after returning to Digimon Tri.  Disappointed, the latest episodes prompted me and a friend to return to the original series, where we made a shocking discovery as lifetime Digimon fans.

The first two episodes of Digimon . . . just aren’t good.

There is barely any animation, and what little animation these episodes do have — along with still frames themselves — is often recycled within that same episode. No, this isn’t an English dub or fault of U.S. distributor Saban Entertainment, it’s a reflection of how low-budget this series was when it first aired.

This is to say nothing of the story’s merit — and Digimon will always have a special place in my heart as the first online fandom that I really became involved with — but the actual animation is awful. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed how bad it truly was when I first watched it, and I’m not certain that I’ll be able to watch it again.

Little Witch Academia‘s emotional narrative is centered around the strongest iteration of this exact feeling.

If the rest of Little Witch Academia displayed Akko Kagari’s blind idolization of Shiny Chariot because of one magic show she saw as a child, this episode is the fall, the realization of your inspiration’s excellence, or lack thereof. The series’ stakes are much more serious — Akko lost at least some of her inherent magical aptitude, Diana Cavendish also lost her magic due to it and only regained it through sheer force of will, similar to Akko’s own progression throughout the series, not to mention the dwindling enrollment at Luna Nova — but the parallels are present.

When Hayao Miyazaki returned to Panda and the Magic Serpent without that same moment of inspiration, he reportedly found his feelings of esteem irreconcilable with the movie’s actual quality.

Interestingly enough, Panda and the Magic Serpent (The Tale of the White Serpent) was Toei’s first animated film, Japan’s first full-color anime film, and is still remarkable in Japan for its merit, despite paling in comparison to what Disney offered at that time. Miyazaki was likely but one of the people who saw the film and was inspired, just as Akko was one in an audience of many, who was inspired by Shiny Chariot. Now faced with the truth of Shiny Chariot, Akko feels betrayed by her source of inspiration.

What does one do when faced with this sense of betrayal?

Little Witch Academia has already offered a solution, one that places the feelings of betrayal almost squarely on Akko’s handling of the situation. It’s also one that plays into the metaphor for art inspiration more than the actual events caused by Chariot du Nord’s mistake the end result of which had a grave and seemingly irrevocable nature on the world of magic, not to mention Akko herself.

Previously in Episode 4, Lotte Jansson demonstrated perfectly how someone can recognize that what has inspired them may not be the best, but you can draw from that inspiration regardless. Annabel Creme’s night fall series is hardly high art — Annabel Creme isn’t even one person, and the entire story is a multi-volume mess — but Lotte owns this and embraces it. This acceptance is something that Akko needs to learn in order to move forward.

Most likely, Akko’s path will involve forgiving Chariot — especially since it’s hinted that Chariot did have understandable intentions, although that shouldn’t excuse her behavior — and accepting that what Chariot did doesn’t negate the feelings inspired by her magic show.

Imagine a world where Akko retained her magical aptitude, but never learned much of magic itself. Would she have even attempted to get into Luna Nova?

All that Akko needs to do now is recognize that her feelings of inspiration are still valuable and worth cherishing. What’s important isn’t Chariot herself but the emotions and enthusiasm that she fostered within Akko.

The Monogatari anime adaptation has always paid close attention to color. Although SHAFT can — and has been, rightfully so in my opinion — criticized for their lack of animation at times while drawing the Monogatari series into its animated form, there’s no denying its purposeful style or cinematography, which changes from narrative arc to narrative arc

Along with other stylish visual choices that set the adaptation firmly apart from its source material, color creates an ancillary emotional narrative, or helps direct the viewer’s attention to a specific character, even if that character is offscreen.

Owarimonogatari Episode 8, the first episode of Shinobu Mail, acts as a microcosm for the series’ use of color and color primaries while also tying this particular arc of Koyomi Araragi’s story together with Tsubasa Hanekawa’s Nekomonogatari: Shiro — Tsubasa Tiger — which runs concurrently. Since the Monogatari timeline is deliberately out of chronological order, the anime uses devices like color theory not only to compare and contrast emotional narratives, but to remind the viewer of events that are occurring simultaneously to the story that they’re watching.

Shinobu Mail‘s first episode reminds the viewer of Tsubasa Hanekawa’s individual plight and character growth throughout Tsubasa Tiger using the colors white and magenta.

White flames with magenta edges, representing the tiger spawned by Hanekawa, pour into the abandoned cram school, visually separating Araragi from the suit of armor. Not only does the framing speak volumes — Araragi is Shinobu’s last disciple, one she swore she would never spawn due to the circumstances around her First, the suit of armor in this shot — but the colors immediately date this scene within the context of Tsubasa Tiger.

Magenta and white act as a timestamp.

If Suruga Kanbaru’s whispered, “Hanekawa-san” doesn’t suffice in firmly tying the two arcs together, the white and magenta flames that quickly engulf the building become tiger stripes across the screen.

The Monogatari series trains its audience early on to associate specific colors with specific characters.

For example, Hitagi Senjougahara is represented by the color purple from her first appearance, largely thanks to her hair color. This is reiterated with the color purple in quick cuts throughout the series that express her thoughts or reiterate her dialogue.

Shinobu Oshino is similarly associated with yellow, and the color yellow is used as a shortcut to remind viewers of her continuous presence. When Kanbaru kicks Araragi into a yellow blackboard, shattering it, it reiterates the fact that Araragi is, at this point in time, severed from Shinobu.

Tsubasa Hanekawa prior and during the events of Tsubasa Tiger is often represented by white due to her internal insistence on being a pure, perfect person. Magenta is only added during the appearance of her second oddity, the tiger, and the events of Tsubasa Tiger. White is at the center of the additive color model and occurs when the three additive primaries — red, blue, and green — are combined. Additive color also makes up the spectrum of light and “white light” is a result of adding the three color primaries.

Within this first episode of Shinobu Mail, the magenta flames from Tsubasa’s tiger continue a pattern introduced by Araragi recalling still images of Kanbaru’s fight with the suit of armor. As he does this, he realizes that the armor, much like Tsubasa’s Black Hanekawa, uses an energy drain technique, growing stronger while Kanbaru grows weaker by the punch.

The colors appear in this order: Cyan, green, yellow, red, magenta, with the magenta represented in the flames, not a flashback.

Their order of appearance implies adhering to the subtractive color model, where the primary colors are cyan, yellow, and magenta. Subtractive colors are used in pigments and dyes — color printer ink, for example, is cyan, yellow, and magenta — and are produced by subtracting certain wavelengths of light. Secondary colors in the subtractive model are the primary colors of the additive model — red, green, blue — and vice versa. Just as white is the center of the additive color model, black is the center of the subtractive color model.

Not-so-coincidentally, black in the Monogatari series is most often a shortcut for Koyomi Araragi himself.

The lesson of Shinobu Mail is arguably something that Araragi doesn’t truly learn until the events of Koimonogatari and Tsukimonogatari, when Araragi is faced with the consequences of how he treats others in relation to himself. Even with Shinobu’s painful emotional past as an example, Araragi doesn’t always listen or relate. However, the series is quick to remind us that he’s still at the center of the narrative, even through minute details like color choice and theory.

When examining the Monogatari series’ usage of color, no other arc exemplifies the franchise’s attention to detail quite like Owarimonogatari‘s Shinobu Mail.

Not only does this particular narrative arc showcase specific color patterns within the first episode, but it also gives Izuko Gaen ample screen time, further demonstrating what color can tell us alongside character dialogue and key plot points. Prepped to pay attention to the series’ use of color thanks to the first episode of Shinobu Mail, Gaen’s near-permanent rainbow-tinged sky speaks volumes.

As an aside, I don’t usually post spoiler warnings, but the final few paragraphs of this piece include spoilers through Koyomimonogatari. 

Gaen is officially introduced during Tsubasa Tiger when she conveniently runs into Tsubasa Hanekawa en route to pick up vampire hunter Episode, of Kizumonogatari fame. Her introduction consists of a cell phone, a rainbow-colored sky, and her catchphrase.

“There’s nothing I don’t know. I know everything.”

-Izuko Gaen, Nekomonogatari:Shiro/Tsubasa Tiger, Episode 4

This quick conversation marks the first of many Gaen appearances where Meme Oshino’s upperclassmen — or adorable little sister within the context of Shinobu Mail — descends upon Koyomi Araragi’s hometown, dispensing advice to Araragi and company with a mocking lilt in her voice.

A conduit of information, Gaen is never without a mobile device and is sometimes pictured with several in her possession. She is first shown as a simple hand dramatically brandishing a cell phone in the air against a rainbow-colored backdrop.

Rather than one color assignment — like Tsubasa Hanekawa with white, Shinobu Oshino with yellow, Koyomi Araragi with black, and so on — Gaen possesses all colors at nearly all times. Quick cuts to dialogue, or the series of snapshots from Araragi in the first episode of Shinobu Mail, focus on one color or a sequence of colors. Gaen owns the entire color spectrum.

Shinobu Mail‘s use of color preps the viewer to digest Gaen in all her rainbow glory when she appears at the North Shirahebi Shrine. The first episode uses both additive and subtractive color primaries, along with the subtractive color model in sequence. Subtractive color models are used primarily in pigments and dyes, while additive color models are used for light.

Rainbows are created by light refracting off of water droplets in the sky. When all colors in the light spectrum are added together, they create light. That white light is dispelled and separated by refraction, creating the optical illusion of a rainbow with the entire color spectrum visible. A rainbow follows Gaen wherever she goes, as if Gaen herself distorts the light around her.

It’s no coincidence that the first person Gaen speaks with is Tsubasa Hanekawa within the Tsubasa Tiger arc. Hanekawa has long gone by the catchphrase of, “I don’t know everything, I only know what I know.” which became a shield to handily disguise her desperate desire for perfection. Following the conclusion of her emotional narrative and subsequent transformation, Hanekawa is often compared to Gaen due to her deductive skills, intelligence, and reasoning. We hear her catchphrase before Gaen’s, and it’s repeated frequently enough that it’s impossible not to compare the two once Gaen is introduced.

Represented by white, Hanekawa also can be said to be represented by light itself. Where Gaen refracts light around her, Hanekawa becomes a similarly powerful person who doesn’t bend, or refract, light but is it. Whether this makes her more or less powerful than Gaen is up for debate. Following Tsubasa Tiger, Hanekawa transforms into someone who, rather than chasing an impossible ideal of perfection, sets aside the facade in order to help those she cares about. Gaen is known for her immense network of friends and acquaintances, although she uses them for undisclosed future favors, which only adds to her power.

Gaen is one of the more powerful entities within the Monogatari series — or, at least, one of the most informed ones — and the franchise makes this even more apparent with rainbows appearing behind her consistently. This phenomenon occurs even in the middle of the night, when Gaen talks to Suruga Kanbaru, Araragi, and Shinobu about their latest predicament and Shinobu’s first minion in Shinobu Mail.

Rainbows are ultimately optical illusions. If light isn’t refracting off of raindrops or water droplets in the air, a person will only see regular light. The one instance where Gaen does not appear with a rainbow or burst of color behind her, the sky bending unnaturally with her at the center, is in the final episode of Koyomimonogatari, Koyomi Dead.

Rather than her usual pops of color and effervescent attitude, Gaen is more subdued and seemingly tired in Koyomi Dead. This is the one time that Gaen’s rainbow-colored sky doesn’t appear in the series. Gaen lists that all of her connections — and Araragi’s connections — have failed. Gaen’s machinations have failed, thanks to Ougi Oshino.

Her only choice now is to kill Araragi. The illusion of the rainbow, and Gaen’s omnipotence, disappears.

The much-maligned — rightfully so, given their general lack of creativity — anime beach episode is a strong turning point in The Idolm@ster anime adaptation, part fanservice, part dig at the girls’ lack of success. Tongue firmly in cheek, the series is fully confident that its target audience knows that the many idols of 795 Production will find stardom eventually. In the meantime, it’s time for them to enjoy all that summer has to offer while they can.

With their air conditioner broken amidst sweltering heat, and little to no idol work, the would-be idols of 765 Production head to the beach. It’s a convenient excuse to have a beach episode that cleverly points to the production company’s current woes. None of their idols are successful, which gives them the time to take a vacation. A few of the girls remark on this throughout the episode, lamenting that they don’t have jobs, or urging their producer to find them steady work.

At the end of the episode, idol-turned-producer Ritsuko Akizuki’s proposed subunit of Ryuuguu Komachi — Azusa Miura, Iori Minase, and Ami Futami — is announced. The arrival of Ryuuguu Komachi changes everything.

What follows is Producer’s misguided, manic attempts to force popularity onto the remaining girls. Through his mis-assignments we learn further tidbits about the individuals themselves — Yayoi is afraid of heights! Miki has pattern recognition that most idol trainees would kill for! — with a predictable lesson regarding attention to an individual’s strengths and weaknesses. When one of your idols has a mysterious personality sprinkled with bits of sagacity, perhaps you shouldn’t assign them to a cutesy goth-loli photo shoot.

By contrast, Ritsuko’s Ryuuguu Komachi is the anime’s example of finding balance. Ritsuko makes it clear that she specifically selected these three for how they would look and sound as a trio.

Interestingly enough, in the original Idolm@ster game series, Ryuuguu Komachi is formed out of necessity, not balance, due to scheduling conflicts with Iori and Azusa’s voice actresses, Rie Kugumiya and Chiaki Takahashi respectively. Separating Iori and Azusa into the Ryuuguu Komachi subunit ensured that the two could still be part of The Idolm@ster 2 even with their limited availability to record the game.

In the anime, this turns into a lesson for the bumbling Producer, as he learns something that Ritsuko already knew. Similar to the framing of the beach episode preceding it, Episode 6’s impromptu viewing party plays on audience expectations — Smoky Thrill is both a fun song and an animation delight — while also highlighting cause and effect through nuanced reaction snapshots.

The first snapshot shows Ritsuko firmly hugging her planner, which is filled with post-it notes tracking her subunit’s increasingly busy schedule. Behind her, out of focus, is the company whiteboard, which has also looked significantly fuller since Ryuuguu Komachi’s creation.

It’s obvious that Ritsuko has put a lot of thought and work into this project and this snapshot is partially an celebration of that effort along with a slight show of tension. Nothing is a guaranteed hit and although we as an audience know that Ryuuguu Komachi is likely to work out, a nod to taking this specific risk is appreciated.

After another animation display, Azusa and Iori are shown saying, “Oo-h!” along with the performance onscreen. It’s second nature to them. At this point, they could sing and dance Smoky Thrill in their sleep.

This leads into a light-hearted laugh from Makoto Kikuchi. When she notices the intensity of Iori’s stare, her gaze quickly transforms to surprise. Perhaps it shouldn’t be such of a shock that Iori would take this so seriously, but Ryuuguu Komachi is a wake-up call for all of 765 Production. Producer’s earlier flailing aside, there’s a small sense that many of the idols were perfectly comfortable goofing off with a vague idea that they might be popular in the future. Iori, and Ryuuguu Komachi as a whole, shatter this illusion with an impressive final product in Smoky Thrill.

Next up is Ami Futami, who is shown tapping her right foot in time while watching herself perform. The camera pans up to show her twin sister, Mami, who is also moving her right foot with the music. How Mami feels about Ami’s sudden success with Ryuuguu Komachi isn’t something that The Idolm@ster explores in depth, but this display is a hint that Mami likely helped her twin practice to the point where she knows the routine as well. At the least, it’s a nice example of their bond as twin sisters.

A round of general reaction follows. Haruka Amami is pleased. Chihaya Kisaragi is shocked. Takane smiles pleasantly.

This series of snapshots ends with Yukiho Hagiwara and Miki Hoshii. Miki’s reaction is of particular interest. In this episode Miki has already expressed dissatisfaction that she wasn’t included in Ryuuguu Komachi while showcasing that, despite her laziness, she has no small amount of talent.

Miki’s outlook is selfish but oddly fair. She believes herself to be the best, so when others are selected over her, she wants them to prove that they’re better. Only then will she recognize their skill.

Although she is shocked at first, Miki’s expression slowly melts into a gentle acceptance. This isn’t the last time that Miki will have to acquiesce to another’s skill, and this scene creates an entry point into her character that the series will touch upon in later narrative arcs.

The scene ends predictably with all of 765 Production cheering at the performance while Producer acknowledges Ritsuko’s foresight in creating this specific subunit. Although that is the main focal point of this episode, it’s refreshing to see so many individual character traits of the various idols reiterated throughout this debut via cinematography.

“Reg! You’ve even forgotten about the Abyss? This great pit is called the Abyss. And I found you in the depths of the Abyss. Thought that maybe you came up from the bottom of the Abyss, Reg! I mean, I’ve never seen any kind of robot like you before! That’s gotta be right! You must have come from the bottom of the Abyss which no one has ever seen.”

–Riko to Reg, Made in Abyss, Episode 1

One of my first classes in high school was dedicated to reading Stephen Vincent Benét’s By the Waters of Babylon. At that time, I thought I could skate by without doing homework assignments. In this specific case, reading the short story was my homework in order to prepare for in-class discussion. While the rest of the class discussed it, I thumbed through the photocopied pages, quickly underlining key points.

I didn’t make it to the end.

Class participation was part of our grade. When my teacher asked for simple details from the beginning of the story, I quickly raised my hand and gave one regarding its ancient setting. He nodded and moved on to the next student. By the end of the class, all was revealed. I felt horrible. My fact given made it clear that I hadn’t read all the way through the story. More than that, the revelation at the end of the story intrigued me.

That night I went home and read By the Waters of Babylon. I was enthralled. It tells the tale of a young man, John, on a journey to The Place of the Gods. En route, he realizes that the so-called gods are not gods at all, but humans not unlike himself who destroyed their own world. What begins in a seemingly ancient setting turns out to be a post-apocalyptic future. It ends with John’s words, “We must build again.”

“The skeleton of someone in prayer. First time I’ve seen one in quite a while.”

–Riko to herself, Made in Abyss, Episode 1

As soon as Riko discovers what ends up being a tomb — the skeleton of a person who was praying in the final moments before their death — I couldn’t help but think of John and By the Waters of Babylon. Riko searches for relics, whose purpose she doesn’t know. John, the son of a priest, is one of the only people of his tribe allowed to collect metal.

When John sees the skeleton of the dead god, he comes to realize that his so-called gods are humans.

Riko’s reaction to the dead is not one of shock. Although she’s startled by the skeleton itself, she’s not surprised by its existence. She simply apologizes to the skeleton for disturbing it and moves on. Her epiphany comes later, when she discovers the body of a “robot,” whom she first names Robot Boy before calling him Reg.

Throughout her first encounter with an unresponsive Reg, Riko remains oddly detached. Her actions speak volumes that a narration or monologue could never achieve with the same sense of genuine curiosity, which in turn, peppers the viewing audience with the same sense of dread that has been building visually since the opening landscapes.

Like the skeleton, Riko shows curiosity but no fear when confronted with injury or death. While she moves to resuscitate the boy, Riko is overcome with joy at the discovery that he’s not human. Her reaction is of joy, wonder, and finally concern. She had every intention of trying to save his life, had he been dying, but ends up consumed by curiosity. Naturally, she must take the robot boy back to her orphanage to examine him further.

There are other nods to horror and past atrocities throughout Made in Abyss‘ first episode. Riko is housed in a former torture chamber, which turns out to be oddly convenient — she has an electric chair on hand to revive Reg — among other bits and weaponry. When Riko drags Reg to the top of their city to see the sunrise, they stand in front of a windmill, and I couldn’t help but see a brief flash of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World when the book’s protagonist (another John) holes up in an “air-lighthouse.”

Riko is certain that Reg comes from the Abyss. It’s the only logical conclusion available to her. Reg, who seemingly remembers nothing, is a mystery, even to himself. Yet, Riko’s certainty is priming her for a revelation, one that will follow up on this episode’s many visual clues, and alter her perception forever.

Whenever I hear “top-down” or “vertical” society, I recall Gatchaman Crowds. In that series, Rui Ninomiya references Japanese anthropologist Chie Nakane and her 1970 book Japanese Society, stating that one of their goals is to destroy vertical social structure still prevalent in modern Japan.

The basics of vertical society are just as it sounds: a top-down hierarchy with a “senior” and a “junior,” but Nakane reinforces that these titles and ideas are all tied into the group with which the person identifies. A Japanese person will first compare or establish themselves in a group, then branch out into their given profession or role.

For example, she states that asking a Japanese engineer about their job would result in that person saying, “I’m from A company” rather than the more western response, “I’m an engineer.”

Made in Abyss is a vertical society in both in social construction and physical existence.

There’s an obvious, “It works on two levels!” joke here, and both societal and physical structures are reinforced visually. This only adds to the post-apocalyptic feel of the series, dropping clues as to what may have happened in the past to create such a vibrant society that is seemingly on a dangerous precipice.

It sounds almost facetious to point out that natural light comes from above. Walk outside at most times of the day and the sun will beat down on you from a fixed point above, even if its intensity is obstructed by cloud clover.

Made in Abyss ensures that light is always filtering in from above, using vertical rock formations, towering flora, and falling water to reinforce the depths of the titular Abyss.

Even at sunrise, where the light would theoretically be at its most horizontal in relation to where a person is standing, Made in Abyss focuses on how that light travels from the top down.

Light sources in fiction can say a lot, even when they’re simply words on a page. I remember being thoroughly creeped out at C.S. Lewis’ written description of lighting in The Silver Chair‘s Underland, for example. There, the absence of the sun led to eerie artificial light the further Eustace Scrubb, Jill Pole, and Puddleglum traveled underground. Typically when reading fiction about caves, traversing underground, or falling into an abyss, light dims the further characters venture towards the center of the earth or whatever world they inhabit.

Made in Abyss eschews this, presenting a colorful and vibrant world filled with a variety of flora and fauna. As Riko is excavating relics, she often remains illuminated by natural light from behind or above.

The series also purposefully uses a variety of aerial shots and ground perspectives to reinforce the idea of looking directly up or down rather than taking a more standard, landscape-style approach. Copious amounts of atmospheric perspective create a hazy backdrop, denoting an unsettling, immeasurable distance.

Even in close up establishing shots, like this one of white flowers and dragonflies, swirling clouds are visible at the periphery of the image. These clouds, and visual representation of the Abyss rarely leaves our perception, regardless of where the series’ focal point is at any given time.

People look up or down in this world. Their perception has been shaped by the Abyss, around which they’ve built their society.

Visuals also do the heavy lifting (pun intended, I suppose) of placing physical verticality side-by-side with Made in Abyss‘ societal structure. We only need one look at Riko’s classroom to see yet another example of how the Abyss has shaped every facet of her world.

Desks are mounted vertically in the wall, as opposed to arranged horizontally on the floor like an average classroom with which the viewing audience is familiar. Rope ladders allow the children of the orphanage to climb up to their desks. The entire setup could merely be a way of training these children for their future excursions into the Abyss; however, there’s something oddly sinister about being bolted to a wall, even without the added details that Riko’s room was formerly a torture chamber, or that she was once strung up naked for being disobedient.

Once we watch Riko in the classroom, we’re given an immediate sense of authority and a fairly rigid top-down social structure. From a distance, the splashes of red on each orphan appear to be neckties, like ones worn with sailor-style uniforms in Japanese schools. However, a closer look reveals that they are whistles, color-coded so that each orphan’s abilities, or excavating level, is immediately visible for all to see.

Given Riko and Reg’s inexperience, red whistles are most likely the lowest excavating level. The only whistle shown below the color red is a tiny jingle bell worn by Kiyui, who is too young to go excavating. Riko’s teacher, or leader, wears a purple whistle, signifying a higher status and presumably more experience. Whistles aren’t given to every member of their society — the ominous military guard at the town entryway doesn’t have one — but are reserved for orphans and excavators.

Although Riko is seen as somewhat of a troublemaker within her own society — she was caught keeping relics to herself and punished, made to have the torture chamber room — an important part of her character is that she wants to work within the established social framework. She gets in trouble when her curiosity gets the better of her, but is adamant about becoming a White Whistle like her mother.

We don’t know what a White Whistle is exactly, but the series tells us enough to know that it’s likely a master-class excavator. The fact that Riko is an orphan means that it’s also a dangerous job, which is reiterated by the response of her leader, who tells her that she wouldn’t even be able to survive at the 400-meter depths her mother has traveled. Despite this, Riko still sees a White Whistle as a desirable status, and even raves in awe at the 600-meter club in the episode’s opening scenes. All of this points to the fact that Riko is somewhat disobedient regarding relics, but not radical in any way. Everything she says relates back to how her vertical society has shaped her, from wanting to become a White Whistle to her conviction that Reg came from the Abyss.

Any story that follows the monomyth, or Hero’s Journey — as named and made popular by Joseph Campbell and his The Hero with a Thousand Faces — involves a return.

The return is one of the more important parts of a standard hero narrative, since it’s at that point where the hero must not only eschew the place (physical or metaphorical) of where they received enlightenment, but is tasked with gifting that knowledge to the unenlightened. Arguably, bestowing that wisdom upon everyday people in their everyday world is the very thing that makes them heroic.

For example, in the post-apocalyptic short story By the Waters of Babylon — which I’ve referenced before in relation to Made in Abyss — John returns to his father and tribe with important knowledge of the civilization that preceded their own. Although his father cautions him of dumping too much information on the uniformed, the realization that what he thought were gods were actually mere humans who destroyed their own world is what inspires him to say that they must rebuild. His realization and return likely spark a period of growth and industry.

Made in Abyss‘ second episode is also the start of Riko’s journey as the hero of the main narrative, but it also has some fascinating commentary on the return itself, through the structure of the Abyss.

“Assuming that’s true, then what did I come up here to do?”

-Reg to Riko after she insists that, as a robot, he can withstand the Curse, Made in Abyss, Episode 2

With the aid of cartoonish, and somewhat gruesome, illustrations, Shiggy outlines the Curse of the Abyss: It’s not the descent that will kill you, but the ascent. In other words, a human excavator can go as far into the Abyss as they want, but when they try to return, they will fall ill with anything as innocuous as a mild headache to the loss of their humanity.

In the monomyth, crossing the return threshold is figurative — although it can be presented as a literal border crossing between worlds — but difficult. How do you share the wisdom you’ve gained with no material proof? Returning to John in By the Waters of Babylon, how will he convince others in his tribe that the gods are humans? How can he translate his epiphany at The Place of the Gods into something that they will understand?

Excavation in Made in Abyss is literal, but the comparison is interesting. Out of sheer curiosity, people commit their lives to uncovering relics in the Abyss, enchanted by its possibilities and mysteries.

Of all of these excavators, none have been as successful or revered than Riko’s own mother, Lyza the Annihilator. Made in Abyss‘ second episode gives us her “death” or Resurrection Day. Her life is celebrated as her White Whistle, a mark of her excavating prowess and achievements, was sent along with a series of notes to a sentry point.

In this same episode we, and Riko, learn that Lyza gave birth to Riko in the Abyss, and risked her life to bring Riko to the surface unharmed (vision problems aside). For that particular excavation, Riko was the gift, or relic, with which Lyza returned to the surface. Riko was such a valuable gift, that Lyza also sacrificed a relic in service of returning her from the Abyss.

Upon Lyza’s “return” — the arrival of her whistle back in Orth — it’s also stated that Lyza’s whistle is unique and carries with it her soul. These gifts, the whistle and the documents, are presumably meant for her daughter Riko. If she herself cannot return from the depths of the Abyss, Lyza did her best to return as much of herself and knowledge as possible.

Tying together Reg’s appearance and Lyza’s resurrection are the notes that she sent along with her whistle. These documents contain drawings of Reg and a letter, presumably for Riko: At the netherworld’s bottom, I’ll be waiting. Presumably, Lyza has finally traveled too far into the Abyss, unable to return heroically like she has so many times before.

It’s also difficult to ignore that, in the series’ first episode, Riko is bewildered at how far up in the Abyss a crimson spitjaw creature appears. Combined with the fact that the “loss of humanity” image looks suspiciously like a crimson spitjaw, it’s easy to imagine wild theories like that crimson spitjaw specifically was Lyza, attempting to return from the depths of the Abyss. Although this is not likely the case, the crimson spitjaw’s arrival is a bit too coincidental in timing with Reg’s sudden appearance and, later in Episode 2, Lyza’s resurrection.

The moment that Riko yells for help in Episode 1, Reg’s beam drives the crimson spitjaw away. With Reg featured in the documents themselves, it’s not a large leap to assume that Reg himself is a gift for Riko, one last gift from her mother, until Riko can find a way to meet Lyza in the Abyss or return Lyza to the surface.

As a robot, Reg can withstand the ascent and be at Riko’s side when her mother cannot.

“If someone other than a White Whistle sends information up from the Abyss, it will be considered ‘mere rumor.'”

-Shiggy, Made in Abyss, Episode 3

Continuing with a fairly rigid adherence to the basic structure of the monomyth (the Hero’s Journey), Riko has recklessly set out for the depths of the Abyss by the end of Made in Abyss‘ third episode.

For those keeping score, we’re just past the supernatural aid stage — Leader’s Episode 2 revelation that Riko was born in the Abyss and his probable gift that was left in their climbing backpack — and Riko has crossed the first threshold.

There are a myriad of things that Made in Abyss does well, but the most impressive of these is how it uses such a tried and true framework for Riko’s story without succumbing to the scores of clichés that could follow. It also helps that the Abyss itself is a physical manifestation of many of these storytelling tools and checkmarks. Diving into the Abyss involved Riko crossing a literal threshold, not just a figurative one.

If anything, the Made in Abyss anime adaptation (I can’t personally speak to the manga because I haven’t read it) thrives because it uses such a familiar, simple structure and expands on it through characterization, visuals, and musical score. The numerous hints at the mysteries of the Abyss are small and presented as every day life for the likes of Riko, Nat, and Shiggy, but speaks volumes to outsiders like Reg and us as a viewing audience.

For example, when Reg stumbles on a praying skeleton, his reaction is wholly different from Riko’s. Where Riko was momentarily startled because she hadn’t seen a skeleton in a while, she quickly accepted it and apologized for disturbing its rest, moving on her merry way. Reg is startled, scared, and runs to Nat for help. Nat calmly explains that all skeletons are posed that way and their remains are apparently from 2,000 years ago.

How they ended up that way — a catastrophic event during which they could see their end approaching and therefore decided to pray is my personal guess — is left a mystery. More importantly, it’s a mystery that Nat explains and accepts without incident, just as Riko apologized and moved on with her excavation.

These small hints are also treated as separate from the Abyss itself. Riko, Shiggy, Nat, and the other children at the orphanage, aren’t concerned with things like the praying skeletons, they’re more interested in relics and uncovering what they consider to be the mysteries of the Abyss in the form of odd creatures, fantastical forests, and bizarre landscapes.

They’re not nearly as interested in humanity, and this is likely a learned behavior from their teachers and society as a whole.

Made in Abyss‘ third episode focuses on information flow within their society and how facts are passed down from generation to generation. Most importantly, it tells us what information is trusted and from whom. Made in Abyss remains focused on the return rather than the initial descent, and this includes everything from physical bodies trained to withstand the Curse of the Abyss and accounts sent by mail balloons from the depths.

The revelation that only the word of White Whistles is taken as fact when collecting information from mail balloons is particularly telling. White Whistles are able to dive further than anyone in their society, combing the depths of the Abyss where one is likely to lose their humanity. This is why outside information is not trusted. It’s curious that the word of a White Whistle goes undisputed, given what they are rumored to be dealing with at those levels of the Abyss.

Riko remarks that Lyza must have sent numerous letters, all in haste, to ensure that just one mail balloon surfaced. What little we know of Lyza — a woman willing to abandon and use valuable relics just to have a daughter — corroborates with Riko’s thoughts.

However, there’s no guarantee that what Riko sends to the surface, if she manages to send anything at all, will be taken seriously. Although Shiggy responds that he’ll believe any mail balloon from Riko regardless, this adds an extra layer of finality to Riko’s parting. Not only is she essentially undertaking a suicide mission, but she’s also cutting herself off from all communication with her society. Even if she manages to send something, there’s no guarantee that it will be taken seriously. If anything, there’s a far higher possibility that it will be treated as a rumor, and perhaps not passed on at all.

As the protagonist of this story, it’s now Riko’s task to find a way to not only survive within the Abyss, but “return” somehow, either physically or through sending information to the surface.

Riko, a special baby who was born in the Abyss. Riko, the daughter of one of the greatest White Whistles of all time, Lyza the Annihilator.

The stage has been set.

It is called “flower story,” after all.

Hanamonogatari isn’t the most beloved of the Monogatari Second Season narrative arcs, but it has an oddly iconic scene.

Airing half a year after the conclusion of Koimonogatari, the reappearance of Deishu Kaiki alive and well was a welcome surprise for many viewers. His repeated mantra of “Meat, meat, meat” to Suruga Kanbaru was both memetic and hilarious to Monogatari audiences but not at all to Kanbaru herself, wary of his previous encounters with Koyomi Araragi and Hitagi Senjougahara.

Under the guise of buying Kanbaru coffee, Kaiki treats her to a full meal at a yakiniku restaurant. Since Hanamonogatari is from Kanbaru’s perspective, Kaiki regains some of his menacing nature present in Nisemonogatari before we, and others in the series like Senjougahara and Araragi, learn more about his character.

The perception of him as an ominous, potentially dangerous, figure evaporates almost immediately. He comically begins trying to feed Kanbaru meat, calling her “Gaen’s child” in a manner that’s half concerned and half creepy. Kanbaru likens him to an awkward family member. When he refuses to call her Kanbaru — the reasoning he gives is that it’s not Gaen — they agree that he can call her by her first name, Suruga. He then continues to encourage Kanbaru to eat more meat. The entire scene is more than a little funny, but also sad.

Yet, this isn’t a meat post, it’s a flower post.

Above all else, Hanamonogatari deals with Kanbaru’s relationship with her mother, and how she has tried to escape her shadow — both her mother’s individual deeds and her mother’s influence on Kanbaru when Kanbaru was a child — by running.

Kaiki is preoccupied with the same person, Tooe Gaen, despite the fact that she passed away years ago. When he initially tells Kanbaru that he simply wants to talk with her, it rings as false. As their dinner continues, it becomes clear that he is grasping at anything that will bring him closer to his lost love. Despite his assurance that it never would have worked out, he had his girlfriend and she had Kanbaru’s father, there’s a bittersweet sense of loss throughout.

Kanbaru wants to avoid her mother, while Kaiki refuses to stop talking about her.

At the dinner, a small vase with two white lilies is visible from a few different angles. The vase is always shown as physically separate from their dinner table, but present all the same.

Commonly used as funeral flowers, white lilies represent a return to purity or innocence, especially for the souls of the dead. Lilies also used as a gift for family members of the deceased to ease heartache, and can represent anything from motherhood to royalty, to lesbian love.

In this particular instance, these lily flowers are Tooe Gaen, whose voice we hear both at the beginning and at the end of Hanamonogatari. Prior to their meat dinner, Kaiki reiterates that Kanbaru can’t run from all of her problems. One of the problems that Kanbaru seemingly has brushed aside for most of her life is her relationship with her mother. Unable to consider her own conflicting feelings of the way her mother treated her, and living up to her mother’s name and accomplishments, Kanbaru refused to think about it. Kanbaru is a simple and straightforward person. It’s not surprising that she would eschew thinking of complex emotions in favor of banishing them to the corners of her own mind completely, even with the character development she showed in Shinobu Mail.

Through the vase of lilies, Tooe Gaen watches over this dinner between her friend and daughter. She watches as Kaiki admits his former love, and offers her help. She watches her daughter struggle to hate the man who loved her. And ultimately, Tooe Gaen watches that same man dispense the words of wisdom that help her daughter evaluate her feelings.

“No one has the same personality when viewed from all angles, and no one has the same personality at all times.”

Riko opens her eyes to an upside down view of Reg’s face.

Even something as familiar to Riko as Reg’s face is inverted the first time she opens her eyes at the beginning of their journey. The fact that the above framing is thanks to Reg’s protectiveness does little to assuage the sense of foreboding that permeates the entirety of Episode 4.

Although the two are surrounded by a safety net of sorts, the visual message is loud and clear: Riko and Reg are well past the first threshold and into the belly of the whale.

Using specific visual framing, Made in Abyss doesn’t let us forget that Riko and Reg are past the point of no return.

Made in Abyss is full of verticality, reminding us that Riko’s entire world has been shaped by the Abyss. This extends to a time long before Riko was even born, since her mother is a larger than life explorer of the Abyss whose actions have, in turn, helped shape their society. This is often reflected in overhead shots, or cinematic cuts that emphasize the depth and scope of the Abyss when compared to Riko herself.

However, the latest episode takes these specific shots and deftly uses them to shift the tone of the series. Before, the cinematography focused on showing us how the Abyss looms as a backdrop of Riko and others’ everyday lives. Now that Riko and Reg have crossed that first threshold it takes a more voyeuristic approach.

Something or someone is always watching.

This is done by changing the positioning of the camera so everything seems just a bit off.

In the first shot above, the spider creature’s legs frame Riko and Reg in the foreground, while waterfalls frame them in the background. They’re trapped, with the spider about to attack. During their escape, they’re further framed in the second shot. Trees serve to box them in against the side of the cliff while the overhang and shadows serve the same purpose as the waterfalls in the previous shot: Showing that Riko and Reg are still cornered even when out of the reach of immediate danger from the spider.

There is almost always something in the foreground or in the background, accentuating the depth of the shot but also that Riko and Reg are not alone. Whenever they are running away — even when they’re not in danger, the first scene is where Riko runs to the edge of the cliff in awe and excitement — the scene is shown from the perspective of someone else in voyeuristic fashion, giving scenes an eerie tone of foreboding. This is also emphasized by the manner in which the camera pans from top to bottom, even from an above angle, like the shots below.

We are not the ones framing Riko and Reg in this manner. Instead, we are watching someone, or something, else watching them.

One of these someones turns out to be Black Whistle Habo, who was sent by Riko’s friends on the surface to oversee her journey. Yet, his appearance isn’t necessarily a relief, since the camera doesn’t wholly stop these oddly intrusive shots. Instead Habo is included along with Riko and Reg. When he says his goodbyes, there’s an overwhelming sense of finality to them, aiding by horizontal, limestone-like stripes in the cliffs, showing Riko and Reg traveling deeper without the aid that has been offered to them.

The slower pace of Episode 4 is purposeful.

Yes, Riko and Reg are in the belly of the whale. They have passed the point of no return. Lest we forget this, Riko and Reg are shown in a near mirror image of Shiggy’s textbook on the Curse of the Abyss when describing the varying effects of attempting the return from different levels.

But the first threshold is a large one, and Made in Abyss visually muddies the two at times, reiterating the disparity in knowledge between Riko, those more experienced with the Abyss like Habo and her mother Lyza, and finally the viewing audience and Reg, who are discovering everything presumably for the first time (manga readers excluded). Riko knows a lot about the Abyss from her upbringing in comparison to us as viewers, but she also knows very little in comparison to someone like her mother, Habo, or even Leader.

At the end of the episode, there’s another threshold to cross. Riko and Reg disappear over a rare horizon towards the Forest of Temptation, a part of the Abyss with which Riko isn’t yet familiar. At this point, verticality is familiar to us as an audience. The use of a horizontal threshold is off-putting and eerie.

Riko, and us alongside Riko, had travelled in the first layer, but never the second. As Reg reiterates, they’re now past the point where a search party would drag them back to the surface, the true belly of the whale.

“What in the world am I?”

-Reg to himself, Made in Abyss, Episode 5

Thus far, Made in Abyss has followed the standard storytelling structure of the monomyth or The Hero’s Journey exclusively.

Riko is a young orphan who is learning to be a cave raider. In the second episode of the series, she learns that her mother — who is famous in their community for her explorations of the titular Abyss — is effectively dead. During the celebration of her mother’s life Riko learns from her teacher, Leader, that her mother Lyza gave birth to her in the Abyss. To quote another narrative that follows this tried and true formula, this is Riko’s “You’re a wizard, Harry” moment, her Call to Adventure.

What little we know of Riko up until that point is that her curiosity has always bested her, for better or for worse, but Leader’s story ensures that we, the audience, know that Riko is special. Essentially, Leader marks her as the series’ protagonist. He also plays the role of Riko’s Supernatural Aid. Leader is her guardian who knows a great deal more than he lets on, and seemingly parts ways with Riko willingly, even sneaking in last bits of information and copies of the letters Riko received from her mom.

The Abyss itself acts as a visual representation of their journey, combining the Crossing of the First Threshold and the Belly of the Whale in Riko and Reg’s exploration of the first layer.

Just as the journey of Little Witch Academia isn’t Akko Kagari’s alone, it’s also the story of Diana Cavendish despite the latter character’s fewer hours onscreen, Made in Abyss isn’t solely the story of Riko. Instead, it blends two journeys of self-discovery into one. The individual narratives of Riko and Reg the robot both unfold as they make their way into the Abyss, despite the fact that Riko has been given more focus.

Although it’s not a one-to-one fit like Riko’s story, this narrative structure can also loosely be applied to Reg. Reg appears in the first layer of the Abyss with no memory of where he came from or who he is. After careful exploration, and no small amount of invasive experimentation, Riko determines that Reg is a robot, and likely a relic of the Abyss. Their journey together into the Abyss is Riko’s quest to find her mom, and Reg’s quest to discover himself. He splits the difference between protagonist and object of aid.

Reg’s existence isn’t a mere catalyst, or an object sent by Lyza to help Riko on her journey. This is Reg’s story as well.

Reg takes more of a main role in the series’ fifth episode, when Riko falls ill from the curse of the Abyss after an attack. It’s again up to Reg to save her life. Easy comparisons are drawn between Riko’s intelligence and societal upbringing but generally poor constitution, and Reg’s physical strength but lack of awareness or mental fortitude.

As a newcomer to the societal mores, rules, and general knowledge of the Abyss, Reg also acts as an audience insert, drawing lines between who knows what. Although Riko knows far less about the Abyss than her mother or Leader, she knows a lot more than Reg, and this becomes invaluable throughout their journey.

In this way, their roles are sometimes reversed. Rather than Reg being sent as a gift to Riko for her journey, Riko is a gift to Reg on his journey because she provides him with necessary knowledge and training that he does not have.

Their differences don’t begin or end here. Reg is framed as more human and emotional than Riko, despite the fact that he is a robot or a relic: A being that would traditionally be portrayed as unfeeling or without emotional comprehension.

He acts shy and embarrassed when he has to strip Riko naked, where Riko had no qualms about exploring Reg’s body in an emotionless, scientific manner upon discovering him. He is terrified of his own power — shown wonderfully by the trembling of his metal hand, complete with sweat at the joints — where Riko is awed, and even explains to him logically why she automatically believes that he can control it. He is initially squeamish about eating the meat of a Corpse Weeper because it feasts on dead humans, where Riko heartily digs in, stating that it’s a way for former cave raiders to help sustain their living brethren.

Even prior to this episode, Reg wore his emotions more openly. For example, he bothered to say goodbye to Kiyui before they left.

When considering Riko and Reg, Reg the robot has more stereotypical human qualities than Riko, the actual human.

While it’s easy to attribute Riko’s lack of emotional awareness solely as a result of her upbringing — it’s certainly part of it — recalling the characters of Nat, Shiggy, or even the Black Whistle Habo reveals that Riko’s character is just as much nature as it is nurture. This could be a nod to her mother, Lyza, who was said to have had a difficult time adapting to regular human life. Riko always wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and she might emotionally be closer to her mother than she ever could have imagined.

As for Reg, he’ll be relying on Riko’s mental fortitude while continuing to showcase his physical capabilities. If Lyza really did send Reg as a guide for Riko, she couldn’t have picked a better person for her daughter than Reg.

“I like everything but the monster animation. It’s too weird and jarring with the rest of the show” has been a common criticism of Made in Abyss since its much-lauded debut.

In a world where praying skeletons hint at a cataclysmic end for a past society and the current generation has built their entire infrastructure around exploring a gaping maw in the ground the rough lines and blurred movement of the Abyss’ more fantastic inhabitants is jarring to say the least.

The man responsible for this purposeful design is none other than veteran key animator Kou Yoshinari — “Aninari,” or older brother Yoshinari — older brother to Little Witch Academia‘s Yoh Yoshinari. Kou Yoshinari’s approach in both production and overall aesthetic has been looser and detached than that of other animators, younger brother included despite the fact that both men are remarkably talented. When Kou Yoshinari animates a scene, viewers will take notice. He’s one of few animators that even a sakuga novice like myself — think of me as Kiyui with a small jingle bell rather than a proper whistle — can recognize immediately. Throughout his career, his scenes stand out, especially when appearing as a guest, providing a cut here and there.

For Made in Abyss, Kou Yoshinari is no transient visitor to the production but the series’ monster designer. This makes him responsible for the various creatures of the Abyss that pop up here and there. He’s the perfect fit for this particular role, and many of his animation and creature design choices help reiterate thematic elements of the Abyss, and Made in Abyss as a whole.

The first creature introduced is a crimson splitjaw, an Abyss monster that belongs at much lower depths than the first layer according to Riko and the monster’s visible position on the Abyss map in the opening sequence. Made in Abyss reveals much of its story in small environmental details like this, and for an audience that already doesn’t know what to expect, Riko’s exclamation that the crimson splitjaw shouldn’t be present is unsettling.

In comparison to Riko, who is in focus in the foreground and therefore a bit larger in size to show depth, the crimson splitjaw is massive, far too large to fit within the frame provided of two cliff walls and the lifeless body of Nat. Even out of focus, the monster is still drawn like Riko and Nat without heavy linework and blurring.

This continues when the monster devours Nat’s backpack. It moves slowly, but not in an uncoordinated or unusual fashion.

Only after Riko blows her whistle and the crimson splitjaw turns does it begin to detach itself from its surroundings. As Riko runs, she’s animated in the established fashion of the series while the monster moves erratically with blurred sections and bold lines. It stands out in relief to Riko and the environment of the first layer.

The monster becomes wholly disconnected once it corners Riko. Here is where Kou Yoshinari’s animation comes to life in the most distressing way. Filtered and completely separate, the crimson splitjaw advances on Riko, still moving unnaturally both in general movement and due to the way that the linework in and of itself moves around the edges of the creature.

While the cinematography of the scene pictures the crimson splitjaw as a creature so large that it’s squeezing itself onto the screen, the linework shows that the creature is too big even for its own skin.

This trend continues for every Abyss creature introduced. Certain creatures, like the fifth episode’s corpse weeper, are shown with similar linework to beings that appear alongside them like Reg, Riko, or in this specific case, the corpse of the cave raider. Through environments and in-universe cataloging of everything from the layers of the Abyss, known relics and creatures, and even Riko’s own notebook, Made in Abyss is a series that begs its audience to notice details as they contribute to the story. The question of why Kou Yoshinari chose to have these monsters act and behave in specific ways at specific times beyond personal style — although there is an element of that — is one worth asking, especially in a series like this.

The obvious answer is to separate these creatures from humans and even robots, in the case of Reg, but the Abyss creatures aren’t always shown that way, blurring lines between human and creature.

For example, the corpse weepers only grow otherworldly when one flies away from Reg with Riko in tow while the others attack Reg. The first layer’s silkfang is shown as perpetually blurry with a dark, thick outline that moves constantly, but Reg’s robot arm is given the same treatment when it grabs hold of the monster. This could be a simple animation necessity, but in Made in Abyss, it could always mean more.

With the very idea of losing one’s humanity in the lower layers of the Abyss and what that could possibly mean a fact unknown not only to the viewing audience but to Riko herself, Kou Yoshinari’s monster design choices push thematic elements of the series further visually, through animation and design.

For high school me, Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit was a revelation. It still has a firm place in my heart — The Little Prince was the first book I learned to read in French, but No Exit marked when I really felt that I could actually read the language with any amount of competency — and every subsequent reading has been an experience. It makes me think, even if it also makes me wonder just how much of my own young pretentiousness I’ve dragged along behind me as I’ve grown older.

I’ve often thought about why I return to No Exit. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but certainly a reflection of my own personal preferences. Then again, Mayoi Hell is specifically about hell, so perhaps this framework fits Owarimonogatari better than most series.

The moment Koyomi Araragi begun wailing to Mayoi Hachikuji about being in hell, I couldn’t help but recall Joseph Garcin’s arrival and introduction to hell in No Exit. There are no torture devices, only a room furnished in the style of the French Second Empire.

Hell is not at all what he expected.

Unlike Garcin’s new home in No Exit, Araragi appears — purposefully, as we and he discover later in the episode — in hell’s replica of the park where he first met Mayoi.

This is obfuscated by Araragi’s own perception, which seemingly shapes many of his backdrops within hell. What he imagines — especially when Mayoi reveals to him exactly where he is and why — is something like the traditional painting pictured above.

Before he learns of her fate, Araragi imagines Mayoi ascending to heaven gloriously in a soft, impressionist painting. His own plummet to the netherworld is depicted as fairly painful. He is gasping and choking as he falls headfirst. His breath leaks out of his body in droplets and clouds while he tries, unsuccessfully, to breathe.

What he receives is first a depiction of the sacred tree at the North Shirahebi Shrine, where he was killed by Izuko Gaen. Then, when Mayoi shifts his perception, the park where the two of them first met. She instructs him that his actual location is in Avīci Hell.

Mayoi has always been a ghost, Araragi’s ghost, and here she’s also his tour guide like the Ghost of Christmas Past in Araragi’s very own A Christmas Carol. The moment Mayoi consults the public map of the netherworld version of the park where she first met Araragi it immediately calls to mind her role in Mayoi Snail. Then she was the “Lost Cow,” one who caused others to lose their way unwittingly as she tried to make her way back home. Now, she is the one leading Araragi as a guest in his own personal hell.

She cheerfully leads Araragi through various tableaus that portray important moments in Araragi’s life while allowing his external dialogue and inner monologue to take over.

Their first stop is his initial encounter with Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade. Then, his lusting after Tsubasa Hanekawa, then his decision to catch Hitagi Senjougahara. The scenery shifts accordingly as he once again brushes past Nadeko Sengoku en route to the relocated North Shirahebi Shrine to meet Tadatsuru Teori.

I’ve spoken previously about why Izuko Gaen is represented by the entire color spectrum, and this is never more apparent than within an Araragi-shaped hell, where every mention of her ushers in a colorful, somewhat disturbing filter, or colors of the rainbow present in other physical things, like Teori’s doll eyes.

As the series’ protagonist, Araragi shapes the visuals that SHAFT and Tomoyuki Itamura deliver throughout Owarimonogatari. In Mayoi Hell specifically, the visuals change as his perspective changes. He learns what Mayoi has been up to, why Gaen killed him, and Teori’s own backstory.

One of the many interpretations of Garcin’s famous line, “Hell is other people” is not only that he’s trapped in a hell with two others in a bizarre triangle of lust, respect, and his own perceived carrot of salvation consistently dangled just out of his reach, but that he’ll never understand these people. He cannot step outside of his own perception in order to truly understand another being, even if he cares for them.

The idea that Araragi will never be able to truly understand the actions of others, despite his attempts and their similar afflictions with oddities permeates the entire franchise. He is the protagonist of the Monogatari series, but everyone on his periphery operates within their own mind, not his. They have their own thoughts, reasons, and perspectives to which Araragi is blind and will never understand.

This, along with the fact that he doesn’t understand himself, naturally drives him crazy and his blindness to what others might desire shapes a lot of his actions within the series. One of the primary questions that Monogatari asks both Araragi and us is whether getting close to people anyway, regardless of this fact, is worth the pain. Ultimately, Araragi decides that it is.

It’s then appropriate that, before delving into his own mind in Ougi Dark, Araragi takes a trip to hell first.

“That baby crawled towards the Abyss the moment she was let out of the Vessel, which is pretty darn creepy, right?”

-Ozen the Immovable to Lyza the Annihilator, Made in Abyss, Episode 8

Upon learning that she is a reanimated corpse, Riko is also told that she attempted to head straight for the center of the Abyss, even as a mere baby. This particular piece of information is used to frame Riko’s trip to the netherworld.

Earlier in her journey, Riko drops her stolen relic, the Star Compass, into the Abyss. Although she’s momentarily upset by the loss, she takes solace in the old saying that whatever belongs to the Abyss will be inevitably reclaimed by the Abyss at some point. She’s quick to clarify that this means a relic or even someone’s life. At the time, it seems like an ominous warning regarding both Reg and Riko. Reg is a robot presumably from the Abyss, and Riko was born in the Abyss’ fourth layer.

The additional piece of information that Riko was actually a stillborn and “saved” due to the Curse-Repelling Vessel that Ozen and Lyza brought with them recontextualizes Riko’s life. Riko now has multiple reasons to travel to the Abyss: To reunite with her mother Lyza, to discover the secrets behind Reg’s existence, and the instinctual pull of that which gave her life. Ozen cruelly and purposefully compares Riko to a leftover piece of meat that she reanimates that night for, in her own worlds, nostalgia’s sake. Taken with the greater context of Ozen’s actions throughout their time at the Seeker Camp, these words are meant to dehumanize Riko, presumably to test Riko’s mettle and desire to travel to the netherworld.

“Isn’t it true that you simply got an urge to see the bottom?”

-Ozen the Immovable to Lyza the Annihilator, Made in Abyss, Episode 8

Ozen’s actions are later tempered by Lyza’s words in flashbacks that Ozen has just before Riko and Reg set out for the third layer: The Great Fault. Thus begins Riko’s Road of Trials, and unlike the traditional hero’s journey tale, there’s no return for her. Made in Abyss has made it abundantly clear that returning will be impossible. Riko won’t be granted a return threshold because the act of crossing it will kill her. In the latest episode, a mere incline produces vomiting and hallucinations. These symptoms of the Curse of the Abyss will only grow worse the further she dives, should she have to ascend for any reason.

Without saying the actual words, Lyza instructs Ozen to communicate how much Lyza loves her. There’s a hint of wistfulness — a part of Lyza that wants to be there for Riko herself. Lyza stays away from her daughter because it would invite various threats on Riko’s life, but also because Lyza herself is enamored with the Abyss.

This is another love that she wishes for Ozen to impart upon Riko, the love of the Abyss itself.

Ozen tells Reg that the Abyss takes the place of a god. Reg’s existence is a defiance of the Abyss as a deity, since he can travel freely between layers and ascend without feeling the curse’s effects. Goalposts can be shifted to Ozen herself in comparison to Riko. By hiding her scars with her hairstyle and using a relic that obfuscates her true age and gives her superhuman strength, Ozen appears almost godlike in comparison to Riko, who is physically frail.

What all of these characters have in common is a desire to travel to the bottom of the Abyss. Whatever the reason, the Abyss draws their attention, imbuing Riko, Reg, Lyza, Ozen, and many others with insatiable curiosity. Riko draws a lot of criticism for her reckless nature, as have adults in the story for simply allowing Riko to continue on her journey rather than trying to stop her from effectively killing herself. Yet, I can’t agree with these criticisms of Riko’s character or the story as a whole. A Riko who is forced to stay at the orphanage isn’t Riko at all. Not once has her journey been treated lightly by the adults that she’s met en route.

It’s therefore cheap to write off Riko’s desire to go to the Abyss as a sole product of her revival in the Curse-Repelling Vessel. Like her mother Lyza, Riko has her own curiosity drawing her to the Abyss that has nothing to do with the nature of her existence or even her mother’s legacy.

Lyza says that she wants to stay away from Riko to keep her daughter safe, and Ozen teases her that she just wants to continue diving. There’s no reason why both statements can’t be true. Riko may have been born to dive into the Abyss thanks to her circumstances, but that in no way negates her innate curiosity.

“But you know, less than ten percent of the creatures in the Abyss have even been named.”

-Riko to Reg, Made in Abyss, Episode 10

An essential piece of any adventure or fantasy story involves describing the fantasy world that the characters inhabit. Yet, telling or showing the environment is often a tricky endeavor. Too many expository monologues will easily send viewers running in the opposite direction and take away from the mysteries and wonder of the world that a series is trying to showcase.

Made in Abyss has done an exceptional job of dispensing facts to the viewing audience without tedium. Even longer expository passages from various characters in the series blend seamlessly with the visual and auditory storytelling. Made in Abyss‘ characters are experiencing parts of the Abyss for the first time themselves, which lends an authenticity to their words. The series plays with characters’ levels of familiarity with the mysterious Abyss to distribute bits of knowledge organically making the most of how much we, and the characters, do not know.

“Poison and Curse,” the series’ tenth episode, offers an easy example of these different levels of understanding, from us in the audience, to Reg, to Riko, to the Abyss’ latest inhabitant that they meet, Nanachi.

In the waning moments of Episode 9, Reg checks their depth and then looks down to see a series of pale blue-green luminescent circles emerging from the clouds. Riko immediately recognizes this landscape as the Goblet of Giants. A sign that says “The Depths’ Fourth Layer, Goblet of Giants” evaluates Riko’s claim.

As viewers, we also see this landscape and know what it is instantly, since we’ve already learned a bit about this particular place through mentions of it and assorted imagery that has been sprinkled throughout the previous episodes.

The Goblet of Giants is first mentioned by Shiggy in Episode 3, when he pulls out a map of the Abyss and goes through the layers one by one. He mentions that only Black Whistles and above can travel to this particular layer because it’s so dangerous. This piggybacks on his descriptions of the curse effects by layer from the previous episode. In the Goblet of Giants, ascending means bleeding from every orifice.

If we don’t happen remember the map image that accompanied Shiggy’s description, Episode 10 gives us this convenient image with similar framing.

Made in Abyss has also hinted to us that the Goblet of Giants is a very dangerous place, multiple times throughout the series. As early as Episode 2, we see Riko’s mother Lyza and her mentor Ozen in the fourth layer with their diving crew. This is partnered with Leader Jiruo’s words to Riko that her father died on this excursion, along with everyone who wasn’t Ozen or Lyza, and Lyza managed to give birth to Riko in this layer against all odds. The Goblet of Giants’ signature waterfalls from the “cups” appear faintly in the background of these flashbacks.

Riko and the viewing audience later find out from Ozen that Riko was initially a stillborn. With Lyza incapacitated, the camera follows Ozen, who leans on the Curse-Repelling Vessel that brings Riko back to life. In the background, the cups frame Ozen as she stands guard over Lyza like a samurai.

We know of the Goblet of Giants but not as much as Riko knows of this particular layer since she learned about it in her education at the orphanage. No sooner to they set foot on one of the plant “cups” and begin to walk across it than she begins to chatter excitedly to Reg — and us by extension — about the plants that make up this part of the layer.

The air is more humid than she thought it would be. Her voice echoes. It smells vinegary. All of these add to her pre-existing notions of what she imagined the Goblet of Giants to be like from descriptions in books, images on a map, and word of mouth — lest we forget that the spoken word and letters of White Whistles are actually important parts of Abyss culture — to form a more complete picture of what the Goblet of Giants actually is upon first impression. Riko also expresses genuine wonder and awe that they even made it this far. Her in-moment observations combined with her amazement display the gap between knowing of something and truly experiencing it.

On a more meta level, there are parallels to be drawn between readers of Akihito Tsukushi’s manga — the source material for the anime — and those of us who are experiencing both the original story of Made in Abyss and its audiovisual adaptation simultaneously. I’m in the latter group.

Manga readers are like Riko, educated in the story but without having experienced what the anime version will do with cinematography, animation, music, and sound effects. For weeks, they have hinted at a creeping darkness and this week, the series delivered in a gruesome, horrific way that was painful to watch. I’d personally argue that the series has never been, for lack of a better phrase, cute and cuddly, especially since it delves into the depths of pure human curiosity, which can get dark fairly quickly. However, this episode is an easy point in the story to put one’s finger on and say, “Here. Here’s where Made in Abyss really shows its true colors.”

Even with knowing what was coming, manga readers exploded at this episode, praising the direction — and by extension series director Masayuki Kojima, who storyboarded this episode, and his crew — of what is a crucial series of scenes in the Made in Abyss narrative.

Kojima’s storyboarding does wonders for this episode. He establishes a sense of dread from the moment Reg steps into the water by framing Riko and Reg in a similar way to Shinya Iino’s Episode 4, as if something or someone is watching them. They’re continuously dwarfed by their surroundings until Reg is forced to ascend.

Then, most of the shots are cramped and narrowed in on Riko’s pain and Reg’s inability to help her. There are multiple close-ups of both of their facial expressions as Riko slips further away from consciousness and closer to death. Riko’s screams, Reg’s sobs, and later, Nanachi’s nasally, almost mocking tone of voice all add depth to these scenes that the original source material could not have had due to its medium.

The overwhelming reaction to Made in Abyss Episode 10 is completely justified. This episode is stunning, both in the actual plot points and in the cinematography and sound design used to immerse the viewer. The squelching sound and Riko’s subsequent scream when Reg pulls the Orb Piercer’s spine from her hand is sickening, and the later crack of her wrist brief but nauseating. Her scream afterwards, accompanied by a zoomed out shot of the two of them at the edge of a pool of water, is gut-wrenching. Made in Abyss‘ tenth episode is a microcosm for the storytelling used throughout the series as a whole. All of it works on multiple levels, regardless of how much you know going in.

After last week’s pivotal episode, Made in Abyss‘ latest offering allows us and Reg to decompress a bit, further showcasing the strength of its atmospheric storytelling. This is one of the series’ greatest strengths: it knows when to breathe. Made in Abyss has several layers and they’re not the ones that can be measured on a map of the titular Abyss.

Instead, it continues to offer bits and pieces that are part of the overall atmosphere of the show, leaving us as audience members and Reg guessing as to what is actually happening.

Although Nanachi sends Reg into a tizzy by hinting at gathering threats to Riko’s life from the poison — and I don’t doubt that Nanachi was serious — the senses of danger and hopelessness that loomed over Episode 10 are gone. Nanachi will save Riko. Reg will help. And eventually Riko will wake up.

Yet, by removing the tension of whether Riko will live or die (I haven’t read the manga but I’ll be floored if she doesn’t live) Made in Abyss builds a different kind of awe at the magnificence of the Abyss itself and the ways in which creatures, humans, and the rare hollow Nanachi have learned to live within it. Despite the lack of urgency in this episode, outside of Reg’s frenetic ingredient gathering, Made in Abyss truly shines in episodes like these, where the Abyss is the main character and the plot of Riko and Reg is secondary to the monstrous but wonderful world of the Abyss.

Episode 10 was a perfect example of how Made in Abyss plays with the different levels of knowledge that various characters have within the series. Additionally that this extends beyond in-universe characters to a meta level of the audience itself, and whether the individual watching the anime has read the manga or not. Made in Abyss had already shown us visually that the Goblet of Giants was a dangerous place. In hindsight, Riko’s injury on this layer was forecast from as early as Episode 2, but this in no way takes from the visceral shock of Riko’s wounds and the anguish of Reg in the moment.

With Riko now out of commission indefinitely, Reg needs someone to give him instruction. Reg is incapable of moving forward on his own due to his anxiety and memory loss, requiring another individual to advise him. Nanachi handily takes Riko’s place at a perfect time in the narrative.

At this depth, Riko’s knowledge of the Abyss will dwindle. Furthermore, her information won’t be learned from practice or trial and error but from her education. Nanachi’s knowledge is seemingly the opposite, born from necessity and practice.

While Nanachi works on Riko’s hand the question of why they have a tray of surgical tools at the ready lingers in the background. Nanachi’s hideout is full of odd knick-knacks, like delving equipment and whistles of different colors. All of these small but careful details raise questions about Nanachi to us and to Reg.

Why does Nanachi have a surgical tray and know her way around injuries? Where did the delving equipment and whistles come from?

This game of background details is has been played by Made in Abyss since Episode 1. We’ll likely never know where the praying skeletons come from, or what sort of world existed before Orth. But this episode marks another turning point, where even Riko’s obsessive encyclopedic mind that catalogues Abyss facts and relics is vastly outclassed by Nanachi’s real-life experiences.

Details are revealed one after the other in this episode. Reg recalls a moment with Lyza, which further supports the theory that he was sent by Lyza to aid Riko in her quest to dive to the bottom of the Abyss. Nanachi introduces us to Mitty, another human whose ascent from the sixth layer wasn’t as fortunate as Nanachi’s. Mitty retains none of her thoughts or memories, proving the rumored loss of humanity that accompanies an ascent from the sixth layer.

Placing this in the episode that followed physical proof of the fourth-layer curse — bleeding from every orifice — the curse of the Abyss becomes a substantial entity, further inviting questions about the location of Nanachi’s hideout and why the curse is not present. Every detail, from the trappings of Nanachi’s home, to Mitty’s red eye, to Reg’s memories, to the introduction of creatures like the shroombear pique viewers’ interest and leave them begging for more.

Perhaps the most important detail is the quick flash to a red-haired, red-eyed girl in Nanachi’s memories before Nanachi jumps in to help Reg with Riko. Although Nanachi later jokes that Reg is a pushover, Nanachi did expose herself to potential capture the moment they revealed themselves to Reg. This memory of Mitty is what pushed Nanachi over that threshold from passive observer into active helper and, coupled with memories of Bondrewd and Nanachi’s description of Mitty, Nanachi’s own past is not a happy one. Even if we never find the truth of how Nanachi came to be a hollow, the fact that Nanachi was willing to jump in to help speaks volumes that simply describing what happened to her in the past could never accomplish.

In lesser series, these details would be used to obfuscate the true narrative or throw the viewer off of the scent of a mystery. Yet, Made in Abyss is more concerned with allowing the viewer — and Reg — to stew in an unfamiliar atmosphere, where you can’t quite pinpoint what will be important for surviving future events. Episodes like this are what make the series so special: where the viewer and Reg can sit back and let memories of details in the series wash over them.

“I wonder who wrote that? It’s written overly large in crooked penmanship using old nether glyphs without any of the simplified forms. On top of that, the paper it’s on isn’t even paper. It’s an unknown relic. It looks all worn out, but it really surprised me. That thing can’t be ripped, even with my strength. What in the world is waiting down at the netherworld’s bottom together with Lyza?”

-Ozen the Immovable to Riko and Reg, Made in Abyss, Episode 8

In Made in Abyss, knowledge is everything. The series reiterates this time and again, while playing with the different amounts of information that each character knows and is able to dispense to Reg, and by extension us as a viewing audience. By extension, the lack of knowledge that certain characters have also reveals a great deal about information flow in this particular society that has grown around the Abyss.

Episode 12 emphasizes just how little information reaches the surface, something that has been touched upon in previous episodes through off-handed mentions and conversations. There are obvious physical bottlenecks within the Abyss that cap information off at specific points.

As early as the series’ second episode, Made in Abyss establishes that the most pertinent pieces of information are more than likely passed down aurally rather than written. Jiruo relays information about Lyza to Riko by telling her, rather than Riko learning from a textbook despite the fact that her mother is famous. Within that same episode, we see the more heroic side of Lyza glorified in a staged retelling where her deeds are narrated over a puppet show. Later, Ozen tells Riko and Reg closely-kept secrets that are only passed between the White Whistles themselves.

Much of this makes practical sense. It’s presumably far easier for a White Whistle to tell another White Whistle or a Black Whistle that they’re delving with things that they’ve learned and experienced rather than sending that same information up via balloon, which we learn are unreliable. Ascending is difficult, even for White and Black Whistles, and there’s the added difficulty of the time differences within the Abyss and outside of it.

However, this also means that a lot of valuable information that would help further their society’s understanding of how the Abyss works is kept between White Whistles alone. We also know that White Whistles will hoard relics to themselves, even going as far as to keep them off the record books by purchasing them through illegal channels or simply not recording the entirety of what they find in a dive.

Anything but the message of a White Whistle is treated as a rumor within Orth, but White Whistles keep specific pieces of information to themselves, or only pass it along to other White Whistles. This is painfully obvious when we find Jiruo struggling to solve the mystery of the “birthday curse” that is affecting citizens of Orth, including Kiyui, whose illness was foreshadowed earlier in the series during Riko and Reg’s departure. As soon as Kiyui is taken away from the Abyss and onto a boat moored nearby, his symptoms vanish, further proof of how the curse of the Abyss works: the closer one is to the center, the more the curse will affect them.

Despite Reg’s shock that delvers would continue their dives without knowing how the curse works, the most intriguing part of this reveal is what Nanachi alludes to: divers will dive regardless, spurred on by sheer curiosity. Because so little of this information reaches the surface and is passed down for even the lowliest of red whistles — or kids with jingle bells like Kiyui who are still too young to dive — the citizens of Orth grow up in ignorance. Imagine if this information was taught from the moment a delver began their education.

The Seeker Camp in the second layer is placed in a strategically similar area to Nanachi’s hideout in the fourth layer, proof of some sort of awareness, even if it’s not a conscious one. It’s difficult to believe that White Whistles are ignorant to the curse of the Abyss. Although we — I use “we” loosely to describe anyone in the viewing audience who hasn’t read the original manga, myself included — don’t yet know the full story of Nanachi and Mitty, Nanachi’s knowledge is obviously from practice, not education.

White Whistles would also learn, through practice, these same qualities of how the curse operates in order to avoid the symptoms as much as possible. Perhaps they’ve tried to send this information to the surface and failed, but the discrepancy between what people on the surface know and are able to teach, and what one actually needs to know to survive in the Abyss is massive. This invites the question of why there’s such a information deficit, especially when sharing this information could help future delvers advance their knowledge of the Abyss.

*Sakura/cherry blossoms not included.

Watching a reboot or sequel to a classic favorite is inevitably an awkward endeavor. I first experienced this in anime through Sailor Moon Crystal, a reboot of one of the properties that, among other highly personal things, gave me an initial push down the path of becoming a lifelong anime fan. Crystal was a homecoming at first, then a massive disappointment, then a fun return to a franchise that resonated with me unlike any other media property from elementary school through my own adolescence.

Even returning to Naruto through Boruto was accompanied by an odd feeling of time passing without me. I was never deeply immersed in the world of Naruto, or even too emotionally attached to any of the characters. Despite never finishing the Naruto anime itself, I enjoyed the time I spent watching it and my passive participation in the fandom consuming fanworks. Perhaps this is why Boruto initially registered as a fanwork itself, albeit an official one, in my mind.

Yet, Card Captor Sakura is neither Sailor Moon nor Naruto for me. Revisiting Card Captor Sakura is another, different experience and return to a beloved franchise.

Where Sailor Moon aided me through my early teenage years and Naruto came well after I had navigated other fandoms on the internet, Card Captor Sakura formed an odd bridge between the two. If Sailor Moon set me down the path to becoming an anime fan, it was Card Captor Sakura — and to some extent, the original Pokémon series — that made certain I stayed there.

The English-language version Cardcaptors aired when I was high school. Since I wasn’t allowed to watch much television — I had strict parents who didn’t, and still don’t, have cable television — I missed out on the anime series on Cartoon Network/Toonami until I entered college but was able to catch Cardcaptors. There was something about it that caught my attention, and with a bit of internet research, I found Card Captor Sakura. With this discovery, all of the small things that felt a bit off about Cardcaptors fell into place: it had been hacked to pieces and adapted for a North American audience with the idea that Syaoran Li was to be a dual protagonist alongside Sakura Kinomoto with the idea of marketing the series to boys more than girls.

I quickly moved from Cardcaptors to Card Captor Sakura and purchased VHS tapes of the subtitled Japanese original — yes, VHS tapes, my parents did not own a DVD player at this time either, despite the fact that DVD players were hardly new — along with the manga volumes. It became a relaxing, cheery series that I could return to when anxious, stressed, or overwhelmed. Card Captor Sakura also was my first foray into participating in fandom proper, and I now eagerly await the day that my horribly organized fansite for the series appears on One Terabyte of Kilobyte Age.

Card Captor Sakura‘s most recent OVA for its upcoming revival, Clear Card-hen, was the first return to the franchise that I’ve made in about five years. It was the most genuine return I’ve experienced — Sailor Moon Crystal‘s was tinged with nostalgia but quickly soured and Boruto‘s made it apparent that the Hidden Leaf Village had drastically changed in its time offscreen — with visual designs skewing more towards CLAMP’s originals while remaining somewhat malleable, unlike Crystal‘s.

I agree with a lot of criticism that has been levied at this OVA, especially regarding the washed-out color palette, but couldn’t help but be somewhat charmed by the ubiquitous flower appearances despite the fact that they don’t translate nearly as well onscreen as they do on the page of a manga. I remain cautiously optimistic about the new Clear Card season in January, although I won’t be surprised if a stricter dedication to CLAMP’s source material becomes Clear Card‘s undoing, I’ll simply be a bit sad.

With all of this in mind, here are a few of the possible meanings behind the ubiquitous flower scenes and filters in the Clear Card OVA.

When Sakura is considering Syaoran’s love confession, what appear to be mimosa flowers — especially considering the evergreen-like leaves — frame them both as the camera pans down. Mimosas can mean sensibility regarding solving a problem or expanding one’s knowledge and horizons. In this moment, Sakura doesn’t know how she feels towards Syaoran, making his confession a problem or puzzle that she cannot yet solve (before opening her own horizons and accepting her feelings).

Given Tomoyo Daidouji’s love for Sakura, it’s not surprising to see her surrounded by white/pink lilies. Lilies have long been a symbol of yuri relationships. What’s important about lilies in this specific scene is that they appear after Tomoyo tells Sakura that only Sakura can know her own feelings for Syaoran. Tomoyo is someone who figured out the nature of her own feelings towards Sakura very quickly, and in turn, accepted Sakura’s love of Syaoran — meaning that Tomoyo’s own love was unrequited — before Sakura knew of it herself.

Lilies can also mean renewal or a new beginning (which is why it’s also commonly used as a funeral flower) which is apt for Sakura in this situation, on the cusp of renewing her relationship with Syaoran in a way.

As Sakura thinks about Tomoyo’s words, white daisies materialize behind her. White daisies are typically used as a symbol of innocence, childhood, or faithfulness. They appear when Tomoyo tells Sakura that the answer Sakura is looking for is already inside Sakura’s heart.

Lilies of the valley appear behind Sakura as she hugs the bear that she made, and never gave, to Yukito Tsukishiro. It’s not a stretch to say that their meaning of purity, sweetness, and humility applies to Sakura’s feelings for her first love, Yukito. She has already released these feelings, leaving a lingering feeling of sweetness.

White lilies pop up yet again when Sakura talks to Yukito about Syaoran leaving for Hong Kong. Yukito tells her that as long as she wants to see him again, despite the distance, they’ll be able to meet. Here, the meaning of renewal and a fresh start or next step in life is more apropos.