Nana “Banana” Daiba is tall.

She is talented.

The series makes a point to show her high up in the revue duel standings — third, behind Claudine Saijou and Maya Tendou. It’s a clear message that she should be one of the trainees to beat. Not only is she diligent, but she has natural advantages that other trainees don’t have. Only tall young women have a chance at becoming otokoyaku. In the strict Takarazka Revue tradition, only otokoyaku can become a top star.

Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight is concerned with challenging the Takarazuka system and pressures that come with it. Karen Aijou and Hikari Kagura’s promise to stand on the same stage together is the first step in this direction. Seisho Music Academy’s framing device of the play Starlight is another: it sets up the status quo to be challenged.

Two young women try to grasp a star at the same time. One of them is struck down while the other lives. Even if they want to share it, or claim it together, they cannot. “And it shall be bestowed upon you, the Star which you have longed for.” is Starlight‘s tagline, but the words are a poison. Once that star is bestowed, solitude follows. Only one person can claim position zero.

Only one stage girl can become top star.

There was always something a bit off about Banana.

Why was it that she was never shown participating in the duels (outside of the opening song and animation sequence) yet still earned third when the rankings were shown? Banana’s natural height advantage alone should make her direct competition for Maya, yet she joins the production crew for this latest iteration of Starlight. While on the production crew, she firmly insists on preserving last year’s iteration, balking at her peers’ suggestion to consider Karen and Hikari as the two leads. She also tries out for a position herself, as shown in Episode 6 when Kaoruko Hanayagi fails her first audition. With only eight roles in Starlight and nine total trainees, it seemed for a time that Banana might step back into production to allow Hikari to take her spot on the stage, especially given the more motherly facets of her personality — Banana seems like she just wants everyone to get along.

Maya asks her what we’ve been wondering all along. Why doesn’t she try harder to be at the top?

Episode 7, “Daiba Nana,” breaks that idea wide open.

This Episode 7 reveal and dreamy symbolism — on par with Himari Takakura’s dream journey in Mawaru Penguindrum Episode 9 “A World of Ice” — was foreshadowed throughout the rest of Revue Starlight. It’s likely not a coincidence that Revue Starlight director Tomohiro Furukawa, who worked on Penguindrum, chose a similar vehicle to show how Banana herself is frozen.

First, there is Banana’s aforementioned height which, it cannot be stressed enough, puts her at a natural advantage above all of her peers in Takarazuka tradition. We learn that she is towards the top of the standings despite never seeing her fight. Mahiru Tsuyuzaki’s episode further backs this up, as Banana is conspicuously absent in the duels that Mahiru crashes through and never receives the “radiance” filter denoted by sparkles that only Mahiru can see around her peers who are shining on their own. Banana seems happy. Why is she not shining? 

When with her classmates, Banana sees everything through the lens of her phone. She uses it to capture everything. Both candid and posed photos make up her extensive camera roll, which frame anything from dance class lessons to the Starlight afterparty.

Pictures are important to Banana. As early as the first episode, we see that her desk is crowded with photographs of last year’s Starlight production. She uses these to hold on the feelings she had while onstage during Starlight. She doesn’t want to let that go. One of the more poignant visual transitions was Banana lying on her back, looking up at her phone at this image of Starlight, which she also has on her desk. Her phone is her lens to the world and all she can see is her first iteration of Starlight. This is what she sees in front of her — a moment frozen in time from her first experience in the production. Then the giraffe calls for the revue.

Where Maya’s stage was used to establish the Takarazuka status quo, no one enforces the series status quo more than Banana. She fights to keep everything exactly the same, reliving Starlight over and over again so she can experience the exact same rush of joy that comes from being appreciated and loved by her peers. Banana cannot, even after countless iterations of the same Starlight stage, imagine a stage that shines more brightly than Starlight. Her initial banana muffins at the afterparty may have come from the goodness of her heart, but they also came with a desire to be depended on and loved. The giraffe secures her participation in the duels not because she wants the top star position — she rejects it outright — but because she wants to return to the same exact stage against the wills of her peers.

This too, was shown in previous episodes. Banana dotes on her classmates with food. She preens at Karen’s “Bananice!” exclamation in Episode 4. When she swaps to the production side of Starlight, she’s all too happy with the attention carting around her box of candy bribes with notes from her classmates. And, when Hikari is closed off to her food offerings, she continues to pursue Hikari in an effort to make Hikari love her as well.

Unlike Maya, Banana doesn’t want her peers to fear her as a top star or see her as a dream like a theater attendee or fan would. Instead, Banana wants them to love her, albeit in a toxic dependency. She convinces herself that she’s saving them from heartbreak, rejection, and the struggle that comes with moving forward — until Hikari arrives, throwing a wrench (or knife) in her plans.

Takarazuka training is a grueling, often heartbreaking, process that already involves reliving the same story onstage. Starlight‘s place as the play that the 99th troupe performs every year likely puts it in the same category as Takarazuka favorites like Rose of Versailles.

Throughout Banana’s titular episode, we see Starlight weighing on her visually. The posters that were once simple reminders of Starlight as a framing device become oppressive, appearing across multiple scenes in the school.

The scenery of Starlight, including a tower for the star that mirrors the giraffe’s underground revue tower that houses the top star tiara, falls behind her and casts shadows over her face. The top star belongs to Banana, and the tower has fallen behind her, almost visually crowning her as the top star, but Banana looks pained and unhappy. Earning the top star position makes her want to go back, not move forward. There is no struggle and strife when history simply repeats itself unchanging. When a Takarazuka otokoyaku becomes top star, there is nowhere else to go.

Banana’s actions are yet another criticism of the isolating position that a top star faces, especially after such a competitive training period. It’s also a bit of a critique on automatic physical preferences that exist. In Banana, we’re given someone who by all means should be a top star after she graduates from being a trainee through her visuals alone, but has forcibly paused her life in order to not face those challenges that come with graduation. Despite all of her natural advantages, Banana is not fit to be a top star in the Takarazuka tradition even when she wins the position, and this is the only way she knows to keep things as is with her friends and peers. While Karen searches for a solution outside of the system to allow her and Hikari to stand together, Banana uses the existing system to freeze time.

Unfortunately for Banana, her time is up. Hikari’s arrival — as Banana saw on the dreamlike revue stage — is a harbinger of change. Time moves forward. She upsets Banana’s status quo and the entire system. There are now nine young women vying for eight positions and unless Karen and Hikari truly break the system, one of them will be left out.

Scrambling, Banana joins the production crew, likely in an effort to maintain Starlight with the same actresses in the same roles of the previous year. Yet here too, she receives pushback from her peers. Everyone is now moving forward. The episodes leading up to this one were character episodes, but they also provide an excellent backdrop for how Banana’s peers — Futaba, Mahiru, Karen — are all moving forward and improving to find their own place on the stage.

“I’ve always had my eye on you.

Seeing you let me leave my loneliness behind.

But the moon bites back its laughter again tonight.

Won’t you turn my way?

Oh, fly me to the star.”

– “Fly Me to the Star,” Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, ending song

It’s no coincidence that Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight‘s ending song, “Fly Me to the Star,” can sound like both a romantic confession or a plea from a fan for a star to look their way. Top stars of the Takarazuka Revue have massive individual fanbases. Part of the Takarazuka appeal is going to see your favorite star onstage, and top star candidates are evaluated not only on their physical attributes and talent, but their stage presence and marketability. Within Revue Starlight, this is a reminder that the trainees shown are not only revue trainees but also fans of each other, in a way — the manner in which the trainees approach Maya Tendou is another example of this.

It’s also no coincidence that Hikari Kagura stars in the first rendition of the ending sequence. She might seem like an odd choice, especially for the third episode — “Fly Me to the Star” was not featured as the series ending in Episodes 1 or 2 — because there’s so much focus on Karen Aijou’s defeat to Maya. Yet, this is also the episode where Nana “Banana” Daiba announces that she’s going to be doing more on the production side of things, and where Hikari first truly reaches out to Karen, albeit only to slap her in the face.

Since the big reveal of Banana’s titular episode, there has been no small amount of speculation that Hikari doesn’t actually exist. She’s a ringer or a balancing element — a catalyst, brought in by the giraffe to restore balance to the revue stage, which has been monopolized by Banana since her first victory as the top star. Banana’s time loops have held the revue in thrall for long enough and Hikari’s arrival is a harbinger of change.

It could still turn out that Hikari was fabricated and Karen’s memories are false, or something in Revue Starlight will later necessitate her disappearance, but “Fly Me to the Star” tells us not only does Hikari exist, but that she has deep feelings for Karen that have nothing to do with Banana’s time loop.

Hikari’s first rendition of “Fly Me to the Star” is a solo version, featuring her, her stuffed bear, her blue suitcase, and the script to Starlight (which features prominently in all iterations of the ending sequence). The entire sequence is melancholy and Hikari seems distant from the subject of her confession (Karen). It ends with Hikari onstage in position zero, alone.

After Hikari and Karen talk to each other, revisiting their shared past inspirations, promises, and how they’ll move forward together, “Fly Me to the Star” is revealed as a duet. There’s a direct comparison between Hikari’s solo version and her version with Karen with the latter a more lively affirmation. This time, Karen sings to Hikari about how she’s always admired her with Hikari backing her up before the two sing together. Then Hikari takes the lead at, “I’ve never been able to tell you how I feel. I’ve sung the songs of so many other lives onstage instead.” It ends with them standing together, looking at each other across position zero.

The message is that Hikari cares very deeply for Karen, in a way that would make a reveal that she’s a catalyst designed by the giraffe to break Banana’s time loop a bit cheap. The core of Revue Starlight is the strong relationships (friendships, romance, and everything in between) that are formed during the trainee period and inspire these young women to push forward — or in Banana’s case, stagnate. Despite her aloof nature, Hikari remembers Karen’s promise and draws on it for inspiration. Her lines in the “Fly Me to the Star” duet version with Karen reflect this just as much as her actions towards Karen in the series itself. If anything, it points to the fact that Hikari arrived to save Karen from the time loop because she loves her. Karen can’t fulfill their shared promise if she’s frozen in time.

Other iterations of “Fly Me to the Star” reveal nuances in the other stage girls’ relationships with each other, themselves, and the revue. Kaoruko Hanayagi and Futaba Isurugi also share a duet ending version. Similar to Hikari and Karen, their episode reaffirms their relationship and how it relates to the stage. For Kaoruko and Futaba, it’s less about simply remembering old promises and more about revisiting their longstanding relationship as they grow individually. Kaoruko’s performance has stagnated while Futaba has put in tremendous amount of effort to improve. After airing out their respective grievances, they come together onstage in the revue duel and in the ending sequence. Like Hikari and Karen, they face each other over position zero, with their spotlights crossing.

Mahiru receives a solitary ending, similar to Hikari, but it’s much more uplifting than Hikari’s because of Mahiru’s individual narrative. In her standalone episode, Mahiru confesses her feelings to Karen, but they’re mired in her own self-loathing and loss of inspiration. Her trajectory is less about her love of Karen and more about rediscovering her own ambition to study at Seisho Music Academy and what kind of performer she wants to be.

Every iteration of “Fly Me to the Star” features a Starlight script in the background, which brings us to Banana’s version of the ending sequence. The story of Starlight has been used as a framing device since the first episode. It’s both a way forward and a quagmire rooting the young women in place. Starlight repeatedly says that only one stage girl can stand at position zero: only one can be top star. It reinforces the status quo. As the 99th’s troupe’s upcoming performance, it also offers a framework to break that status quo by changing the script. Karen and Hikari’s promise alone flies in the face of allowing only one performer to claim position zero. Standing in their way is Banana.

Banana takes Starlight‘s framework one step further. Her iteration features nothing but Banana herself, the giraffe — arbiter of the revue, and Starlight scripts. She can’t move past her first Starlight stage with the 99th troupe, and through winning the revue duels, keeps everything frozen in time, repeating that stage countless times before Hikari appears. Her version of “Fly Me to the Star” is silent. Stuck in time, she isn’t looking forward. She doesn’t recognize the harm her actions are causing to the people she claims to be trying to help by keeping them in a time loop. Banana has no one to sing to, therefore she doesn’t sing at all. She thinks she’s already found the perfect stage. Unlike all other iterations of “Fly Me to the Star” Banana stands on the star, rather than reaching for it.

To be chosen as a Takarazuka Revue trainee is part physique, part talent, and part effort. The audition includes singing, dancing, and sight-reading, much of which cannot be prepared in advance. No amount of effort and talent can make up for factors like natural height or charisma. And the audition is the easy part. Young girls, not women, are chosen and developed into Takarazuka actresses through a strict training regimen that doesn’t stop when the lessons themselves — usually six-to-seven hours, six days a week — end.

First-years have it particularly rough. They have to clean the school extensively in addition to their lengthy classes in anything and everything from singing and dancing basics to drama, koto or shamisen, music theory, and drama. They cannot wear makeup or style their hair — it must be cut or braided. Previously, the Takarazuka curriculum included sewing, English, and etiquette lessons, all in service of Takarazuka industrialist founder Ichizo Kobayashi, who saw the school not only as a tourist opportunity, but a training ground for Japan’s future wives and mothers. Members of all classes must adhere to a strict hierarchy, including addressing their elders properly at all times, with precise language and greetings. When an older student approaches, they much bow and move out of their path.

The cycle repeats in the revue itself, where first-years in the troupe are more stagehands and small ensemble roles than full-fledged Takarazuka actresses. At this point in time, they already will have been separated as an otokoyaku or musumeyaku as well, and their entire time period with the troupe will be spent taking parts of one role or the other. During their time with the troupe, they cannot marry or have romantic relationships. All of this sacrifice and still only one otokoyaku per troupe can be top star. This is all in service of not only becoming the best but, in the words of Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight‘s Maya Tendou, becoming a dream. The Takarazuka Revue provides inspiration and a respite from every day life for young women all over Japan.

Everything goes well for Hikari Kagura initially at the prestigious Royal Academy of Theatrical Actors in England. When she describes her curriculum, it echoes the traditional Takarazuka schedule. She happily works hard, always reminded of the promise that she shares with Karen Aijou from Karen’s letters, her hairpin, and the same photo on her desk that sits on Karen’s desk at Seisho Music Academy. Hikari’s name not only means “light” but she embodies this from within through her efforts, earning one of the leads in the Royal Academy’s upcoming stage performance.

Her radiance is quickly recognized by the giraffe, who recruits her for the revue duels by promising her a fated stage. Where Nana “Banana” Daiba’s fated stage was the same first-year production of Starlight, Hikari’s is one where she shares the spotlight with Karen. Hikari defeats opponent after opponent, shooting up the rankings while continuing to outshine her peers in lessons and onstage.

Until Judy Knightley appears.

Judy quickly dispatches Hikari in their duel, placing Hikari firmly in second place. Hikari is not the same after the loss and feels herself falling further behind, leading to a mistake onstage in their performance.

Similar to Banana, Judy is naturally predisposed to becoming a top star. Despite no small amount of talent, Hikari is not — she doesn’t have the height or build. Judy is reminiscent of Maya in the way that her presence commands attention, respect, and awe. Like Maya, she embodies the top star dream simply by existing. This isn’t to say that she doesn’t work hard, both her and Maya are not only prodigious but diligent. Yet, her natural advantages give her an edge over her competitors that Hikari cannot overcome. It’s no coincidence that the top-ranked stars who have been revealed thus far in Revue Starlight are Banana, Maya, and now Judy. Judy’s rise teaches Hikari the lesson that, no matter how hard Hikari works, there will be someone more suited to the top star position than Hikari.

Hikari connects the revue with the loss of her shine as a giraffe skeleton looms above her in the cavernous Natural History Museum in London. The giraffe, arbiter of the revue, is dead, as are any hopes that Hikari had of winning the London duels. This is why she tells Karen that when Karen loses, she will lose something inherent to making her a stage girl: that special shine. The giraffe neither confirms nor denies her suspicions and only says that it takes a lot of brilliance to make a true top star.

This is a direct criticism of not only the strict nature of the Takarazuka Revue, but what happens to top stars themselves once they reach that apex. Banana’s insistence on reliving the same stage over and over again once she reaches the top isn’t a simple plot twist, it’s a reflection of what happens to otokoyaku when they reach position zero: after all of that work, training, and preparation, they often retire shortly afterwards especially if they’ve reached marriageable age. Initially, this fulfilled Kobayashi’s original design for a tourist attraction and training school for young women to become good wives and mothers, but Takarazuka evolved to become much larger than that even if the rigid nature of the school itself hasn’t evolved along with its tremendous influence on young women. Additionally, the creation of an otokoyaku top star requires the participation of everyone in the troupe. They all, especially the otokoyaku’s partner musumeyaku, dedicate their performances to making the top star become that dream for their fans. (As an aside, this is present in Kaoruko Hanayagi and Futaba Isurugi’s relationship, although the roles are reversed with the more boyish Futaba supporting the demure, feminine Kaoruko.)

We already know that Hikari’s assumption that the loss to Judy is responsible for the loss of her shine and ambition isn’t wholly true well before she regains it in her duel with Banana. Mahiru Tsuyuzaki’s entire episode uses the visual framing device of confetti sparkles to represent a similar shine that Mahiru had already lost. It’s through defeat that Mahiru regains her radiance because that defeat to Karen reminded Mahiru of why she wanted to stand onstage at all. Like Mahiru, Hikari momentarily loses sight of why she was attending the Royal Academy, to meet Karen onstage. She pushed her away to become better for herself because she was tempted to simply stay by Karen’s side — and the blank pages of unwritten response letters to Karen’s diligent correspondence. Relationships in Takarazuka are forbidden, and Hikari follows this as strictly as she does her coursework.

At Seisho Music Academy, Hikari is reborn. Her promise to and love for Karen overrules her fears and doubts brought on by Judy’s arrival and the stark reality of the system’s unfair nature, allowing her to beat Banana. This too is another point of light — to borrow a turn of phrase from Episode 8’s title — that directly shines on how they’re going to overthrow the system. We learn that Hikari’s love of the stage is born of her love of Karen, and sharing that stage with her. Hikari and Karen’s promise is one that they would stand onstage together. This is why we see a repeat stage of Hikari’s onstage failure with Judy in her fight against Banana. On this same burning landscape, in a similar position, Hikari chooses to reclaim her luster through her promise.

The system as it is now, doesn’t allow for that, just as the Takarazuka system only allows for one top star from one small pool of actresses (all of the otokoyaku in the troupe) from an already small pool of trainees, narrowed down by the initial auditions. Hikari and Karen must find a way to reach for the star together as two, without the seemingly inevitable selection of the star’s light only choosing one of them: the traditional ending of the Starlight play. Perhaps the most important scene of this episode comes in almost a footnote: Karen manages to beat Claudine Saijou. This is something that should never happen if everything is loosely predetermined by the system, and a direct result of Hikari’s arrival along with the renewal of their childhood promise.

A script is a personal item. Even when I wasn’t allowed to scribble in the margins of my Guys and Dolls or Little Shop of Horrors scripts — they were rented, not bought, by my high school — I covered them with a brown paper shopping bag wrapping to match my textbooks and doodled on the cover. Various tabs, bookmarks, and folded pieces of papers with stage directions poked out of the pages, peeking out from beneath the cover while adding a good half inch to the bulk of the script. All of these notations were important, some even added to the entire production by my own suggestion, and included stage directions and music changes among many other things.

And I wasn’t even good. I wasn’t any kind of lead actress, whose scripts often bowed, threatening to break at the binding from all of the extra citations, notes, and paper tabs. My largest high school stage moment came in my freshman year as a flower girl cutting clippings of Audrey II, spreading the man-eating plant around the world. It was a one-off role with no lines, where I led two others onstage to take plant clippings in gardening smocks and cute green gloves.

The first personalized script, or outline of Starlight, shown in Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight is Junna Hoshimi’s. Junna’s focus episode, and formidable presence in Episodes 1 and 2, seems like a distant memory at this point — especially with the introduction of Nana “Banana” Daiba’s repeated Starlight stage — but Junna is in many ways the series’ first dueling stage girl.

Junna introduces us to the initial dueling rules, and it’s Junna whose psyche is on display first, with a stage of figurative smoke and mirrors around glasses and mannequin motifs. Junna helps establish a baseline for the duels, reflecting her position as class president both in the series itself and in a more meta way as our personal guide. The note she leaves herself reads, “I will show you that I can seize my own star!” It’s an affirmation and a promise to keep moving forward, even after defeat. That’s the stage girl that Junna is and her personal notations on Starlight reflect this.

Scripts play a crucial role in the ending sequence, “Fly Me to the Star,” reiterating their importance. Each stage girl is surrounded by personal items that reflect their loves and individual ambitions. They’re like puzzle pieces in a way that form a picture of their unique personalities. Among all of these personal items are their Starlight scripts, showcasing the importance of the show itself — Starlight is the largest framing device that Revue Starlight employs, making it a known play on the level of Takarazuka Revue institutions like Rose of Versailles or Elisabeth — to every stage girl in the 99th troupe. Those scripts have personalized notes, directions, in-jokes, important musical citations, and staging instructions.

As a play comes together, everyone participates, even a lowly ensemble grunt like my high school self. Details often come down to individual interpretations that evolve accidentally. In my senior year production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, one young woman had a beautiful opera voice (and was taking lessons to become an opera singer) that overpowered others, even as a soloist, and her acting wasn’t strong enough to earn a lead part that year. Yet, her voice was added in a mourning, operatic cry to the song “There’s One More Angel In Heaven” that gave it a distinctly eerie and sinister tone to Joseph’s brothers’ betrayal. As bums of Skid Row, a friend and I decided to pantomime an entire fight over a coin that was hilariously kept in our final production of Little Shop of Horrors. In junior high school, I was cast as a stepsister in Cinderella and clumsiness was added directly to my character because my dancing form was so awful. All of these are minute details, surrounded by myriad changes that transformed the script into my show. My Cinderella. My Little Shop of Horrors. My Guys and Dolls, My Brigadoon. My Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

Even in an environment as strict and tradition-driven as the Takarazuka Revue, every performance, every stage will be slightly different. In Episode 9, we see Kaoruko Hanayagi assisting with costumes, and Futaba Isurugi helping with weapon design.

Banana’s first “Fly Me to the Star” version features no words, only music, and her precious script takes position zero in the ending spotlight, indicating that her time as a stage girl has been frozen.

There’s a special type of emptiness that follows the end of a performance’s run. Throughout all four years of musical theatre in high school, nothing ever topped the high of opening night, and nothing reached the emotional low of the Monday after a final performance. So much time, effort, dedication, passion, ambition, and countless other emotions come to a head onstage — for those few months of preparation, set painting, and endless hours of practice you’re surrounded by what becomes a surrogate family, complete with impossibly strong bonds of friendship, infighting, drama, and love. Nothing prepares you for the emotional vacuum that follows and anyone who has ever been in a stage musical can identify with Banana’s actions, even while disagreeing with them, because they’ve felt that same despair.

Yet, one key factor that Banana fails to realize is that not only is that 99th festival stage her Starlight, it’s also Junna’s Starlight. It’s Karen’s Starlight. It’s Maya Tendou’s Starlight. It’s all of their Starlight, and Starlight means something different to each of them, even within the same performance as they share the same stage. They each have a script with unique notations and a certain viewpoint. This is where Karen Aijou comes in.

Banana had initially thought that Hikari Kagura, as the new arrival, was the one who stopped her time loop. In Episode 9, Banana realizes that it’s Karen, not Hikari, who changed the revue from eight to nine — Karen, one of the people that Banana says she was trying to “protect” by keeping in stasis. Karen was a known quantity: a background stage girl who made a promise to stand onstage with her childhood friend. Hikari was the catalyst for Karen’s awakening, and it’s Karen who changes the system from within and breaks the rules, simply by entering the duel and taking over for Hikari. Even on that rigid stage, Karen transforms the set performance and makes it her own. This is again reflected in her victory over Banana, where she deliberately walks outside of Banana’s drawn lines that resemble Banana’s Starlight poster and script.

We learn that Banana is a bit scarred from what appears to be a mass exodus from her junior high school theatre group. She was so affected by her first year at Seisho Music Academy and the 99th troupe’s performance of Starlight that she froze everyone in time, before they could leave. Yet Banana herself admits to Junna that she never really grew to know any of them throughout the various time loops like she has more recently in uncharted territory outside of the loop. Banana also admits that she’s added her own notations within the loop, leading to Junna asserting that Banana is a stage girl. Banana finally breaks down and cries, releasing her despair and loss at the 99th performance of Starlight.

In the ending sequence, Banana sings a different version of “Fly Me to the Star” with Junna. In it, her script is joined by other meaningful items: the photographs she constantly takes and her framed picture of her Starlight. By sharing this with Junna, it shows that Banana is ready to move forward and further know her classmates on an ever-evolving stage.

Throughout all of Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, we never see Claudine Saijou’s dueling stage. There are glimpses of it when Mahiru Tsuyuzaki’s performance crashes through several other revues, but Claudine doesn’t introduce her stage. She doesn’t receive a standalone episode — for all of the talk that the show does Mahiru dirty, at least she receives her own spotlight episode and somewhat cathartic revue — and is all too often shown in relief to Maya Tendou. Even when Claudine is separate from Maya, her dedication to becoming a stage girl is irrevocably tied to Maya or she is put in a position to support someone else (namely Futaba Isurugi after Futaba fights with Kaoruko Hanayagi).

None of this is a coincidence and it all revolves around critiquing the Takarazuka Revue.

Although the young women of Seisho Music Academy are not separated into otokoyaku (Takarasiennes who only play male characters) and musumeyaku (Takarasiennes who only play female characters) roles, Revue Starlight plays with these strict Takarazuka norms, pairing off most of the stage girls with one taking more of an otokoyaku role and the other as their musumeyaku. Maya and Claudine are the pair to beat with Maya taking the top star position in the 99th troupe and Claudine supporting her in a musumeyaku-like role. The series reiterates this visually several times, especially when Maya establishes herself as the troupe’s default leading lady in the Episode 3, aptly titled “Top Star.”

Thus far, Revue Starlight has been highly critical of the top star system, and it uses various pairings to point out flaws in the strict societal expectations of the young women who embody these roles. Whether it’s Futaba’s inability to become an otokoyaku due to her height — in the end, she returns to a support role beside Kaoruko — despite her natural boyish look, or Nana “Banana” Daiba rejecting the entire system despite every physical advantage, the series aims to highlight some of the major problems inherent with the top star system.

Futaba and Kaoruko are particularly interesting cases, firstly because they’re in a committed relationship, which would be strictly taboo were they true Takarazuka trainees. There’s also the aforementioned problem that Kaoruko, by all accounts, would be the more dreamy, feminine musumeyaku, but takes the lead on nearly everything while Futaba acquiesces. When Futaba tries to break out and take the lead, she ends up returning to her normal role at Kaoruko’s side following their revue duel, where Kaoruko eventually emerges victorious despite Futaba’s best effort. That is the system, returning everything to the status quo via these underground duels. Regardless of the trainees’ best efforts to break the cycle, the Takarazuka norms inevitably return everything to . This is particularly true in Episode 10, “Nevertheless, the Show Must Go On,” where Hikari turns on Karen to presumably claim the top star position for herself (more on this in a later post).

The separation of roles into otokoyaku and musumeyaku was part of why the Takarazuka Revue’s success skyrocketed. A more defined line between the two coincided with a new, significantly larger theatre and the progression of modern technology like portable microphones. All of this led to larger audiences who saw this new otokoyaku which portrayed an idealized type of man that bordered both sexes and had infinite appeal for young women attending Takarazuka performances.

Before this, it was the musumeyaku who was more of a headlining presence. Musumeyaku were also held to stricter singing standards, and those standards did not change even with the evolution of the otokoyaku and the top star system, which left musumeyaku completely out of the picture. Every musumeyaku was partnered with an otokoyaku and their performance tailored to support their otokoyaku at all costs.

More importantly, in order for the otokoyaku to effectively become a man, the feminine performance of the musumeyaku had to support this idea, not only covering for their partner’s mistakes when necessary, but being the perfect feminine foil so the otokoyaku’s masculine performance would stand out more in relief. The musumeyaku has to embody this, all while taking care not to skew too much into a romantic interest, so that young women in the audience can still imagine themselves in the arms of their favorite otokoyaku top star. Furthermore, they cannot achieve top star themselves, and must ensure that their talents do not outshine those of their otokoyaku partner. If their otokoyaku partner does become top star, the otokoyaku will have a few years in the spotlight before retirement. Top stars shine for a limited amount of time. Musumeyaku paired with a top star will sometimes retire at the same time, so the two exit the stage as a pair.

It’s easy to see how, especially for a talented musumeyaku whose natural aptitude might outpace that of their otokoyaku in singing, this would become extremely frustrating for a young woman even in a top musumeyaku position. Top star is still out of her reach, regardless of talent, and her performances are in service of the otokoyaku ideal. Musumeyakus that don’t adhere to these principles still may find roles, but aren’t likely to be paired with the top star, and will also earn a reputation for being egotistical or difficult.

With that in mind, let’s take another look at Revue Starlight‘s Claudine Saijou and Maya Tendou.

Maya and Claudine appear the perfect otokoyaku and musumeyaku pair. There’s been a lot of talk as to why Maya, the default top star of the 99th troupe, was not made a focal point like Banana, who received what was effectively a three-episode narrative arc about how she tried to eschew the top star system, freezing time with her revue stage success.

While Maya is a force, a thoroughbred and prodigious stage girl, as Claudine calls her, Maya also leans heavily into the system itself. She doesn’t fight it, she conquers it, using traditional avenues to sit at the top. Unlike Karen or even Banana, Maya doesn’t seem to want to destroy the system. She follows the rules, and her natural ability, physique, and hard work propel her to the top. This is why Maya’s defining revue stage — her Episode 3 victory over Karen — uses the traditional Takarazuka staircase, typically a finishing stage that features a promenade specifically designed to showcase the top star. It’s also why mirror ball lighting (another Takarazuka finale staple) appears above her and Claudine in their revue duet — these two are the de facto otokoyaku and musumeyaku partnership.

In Episode 10, we learn that it was Claudine who first reached out to Maya, inadvertently announcing her candidacy as Maya’s musumeyaku partner. While helping Maya stretch, Claudine vows to take the top star position for herself, despite Revue Starlight reiterating that, as Maya’s musumeyaku, she cannot.

Yet, this is the episode where we learn that Claudine, like Maya, is another trainee who leans into the system, rather than truly aiming to break it.

The final revue duel turns out to be a duet, with both otokoyaku candidates in Maya and Hikari asked to choose their partners. Although the giraffe asks Maya who she’ll choose, she throws her button towards a waiting Claudine without hesitation or question. Maya doesn’t ask Claudine. She states, “I’m sure you’re ready.” To which Claudine replies “Yes.” in her native French. They are a pair and a partnership and affirm as much while fighting.

When Claudine and Maya are overpowered by Karen and Hikari, it’s Claudine who immediately steps forward to take the fall for Maya. Ripping her button off of her cape, Claudine exclaims that it was her fault, that Maya hasn’t lost to anyone. This makes her the perfect musumeyaku, covering for the failures of either the otokoyaku or their partnership. Claudine is affecting and emotional, insisting that Maya remains undefeated. Her defense is impassioned and also genuine — she truly believes that Maya cannot lose.

Maya, who for the most part has shown her affection in small gestures, steps forward with her own commanding speech that both reaffirms and reinforces their roles. With Claudine, Maya says, she can go even higher. Most importantly, she says this all in Claudine’s native French and calls her my Claudine, returning Claudine’s feelings and cementing their commitment to each other moving forward.

Hikari Kagura’s purported Episode 10 betrayal of childhood friend Karen Aijou is shown in Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight‘s first episode. Not foreshadowed, straight up shown, albeit in a dream. From the opening moments of the first episode — when various members of the class introduce themselves around position zero — to the revue duet and Hikari’s rumored heel turn, Karen and Hikari’s relationship is laid out for us visually via cinematography and staging. Hikari’s actions in Episode 10 aren’t shocking, especially with the road she (and Karen) traveled to that final dueling stage.

Once again, it has a lot to do with the series’ incisive look at the Takarazuka Revue.

(The following post will quickly review but also assume knowledge of the sacrifices a musumeyaku is expected to make for their otokoyaku partner in Takarazuka, which was covered in part one of this week’s Revue Starlight coverage.)

Revue Starlight doesn’t strictly separate the Seisho Music Academy trainees into otokoyaku and musumeyaku like they would at the Takarazuka school, but the major players are naturally sorted into pairs and partnerships and the series plays with these expectations and relationships from there. Maya Tendou and Claudine Saijou are the default, and strictest representation of an otokoyaku top star and her musumeyaku partner. Both have been shown to think within the top star system rather than reaching outside of it, which eventually leads to their defeat at the hands of Hikari and Karen.

Other pairs, like Kaoruko Hanayagi and Futaba Isurugi, showcase a different partnership where they swap expected roles — the feminine-looking Kaoruko takes the lead emotionally with Futaba as the more supportive partner despite her otokoyaku look.

Karen has been shown as an otokoyaku or a musumeyaku depending on her partner of the moment. This is a purposeful distinction by Revue Starlight that begins with specific visual choices in Episode 1 that are revisited or bookended in later episodes.

When Karen and her roommate Mahiru Tsuyuzaki arrive at the studio first, they joke around as other classmates trickle in. Karen establishes herself as someone who wants to share position zero — thereby eschewing the set hierarchy of the entire top star system — from these opening moments, once she invites Mahiru to join her on position zero to stretch together. As other classmates trickle into the studio and tease Karen for prior tardiness, Karen says that she’s turned over a new leaf towards becoming a stage girl and automatically leads Mahiru into a pose. Mahiru immediately steps into position with Karen despite laughing a bit awkwardly. She’s more than willing to follow Karen’s lead, automatically placing Karen in the visible leadership role of an otokoyaku while Mahiru supports her and makes her look good, like a true musumeyaku should.

By contrast, Nana “Banana” Daiba takes charge of Mahiru moments later, commending Mahiru for putting up with Karen’s foibles while executing a few simple dance moves. Banana similarly poses with Mahiru, but Mahiru looks relieved, unlike her discomfort with Karen in charge. Visually it appears as if Karen was a poor leader and Mahiru is immediately more relaxed and comfortable with Banana as her partner, with Karen off-balance to the left (despite the fact that the dialogue is actually silly admonishing of Karen’s inability to wake up in the morning and praise of Mahiru’s patience).

Karen in the role of Mahiru’s otokoyaku — with Mahiru indulging in her seemingly natural tendencies to be a caretaker — is again showcased visually in Mahiru’s spotlight episode, “Where Radiance Resides.” In Mahiru’s mind, and during her hilarious dueling stage, Karen is the cool, otokoyaku-type who guides Mahiru — a portrayal that confuses Karen herself when she sees it.

All of these visual cues tell us that Karen is not a great leader. She’s not meant for the otokoyaku role and it looks particularly hilarious when she’s paired with Mahiru, who is taller than she is with a more naturally elegant presence.

With Hikari, Karen acquiesces to more of a musumeyaku style role (although even here, she frequently has her wires crossed, not fitting into either role, which is also important). Even in Mahiru’s daydreams, when Karen is with Hikari, Hikari takes the part reserved for the otokoyaku top star, and Karen takes the role of her partner.

Revue Starlight reiterates Hikari and Karen’s roles within their partnership though visual comparisons to Maya and Claudine. From her arrival, Hikari is shown as someone who is visually similar to Maya: Hikari positions herself at center stage, mirroring Maya’s stance earlier in the episode, Hikari wears a dark-colored dance leotard for practice, they land on position zero similarly, and Hikari was shown to be a top star contender, with frequent visual callbacks to Maya, during her time at the Royal Academy.

Meanwhile, Karen is visually compared to Claudine (or, arguably, in the framing above, Claudine is shown as Karen, since Karen’s frame is shown to us in the first episode). This begins in the premiere with some of the framing taking until the crucial Episode 10 to reappear. Episode 10, “The Show Must Go On,” juxtaposes the Maya and Claudine pair with the Hikari and Karen pair in everyday life and later, in a revue duet. Maya and Claudine are the ideal otokoyaku/musumeyaku partnership and presumably a goal for Hikari and Karen to surpass. They even have their own unspoken promise and important memory, revealed when the two are practicing together in Episode 10. Yet, Karen also occasionally is shown in Maya’s position during side-by-side comparisons. Again, Karen doesn’t fit the mold. Showing Hikari and Karen in relief reveals a lot of the flaws in Karen and Hikari’s relationship and onstage partnership — namely, Hikari isn’t honest about her motivation and beliefs with Karen.

Banana’s narrative not only sets up the true villain of Revue Starlight — the toxic top star system that encourages them to battle and steal from each other, in the words of the revue arbiter giraffe — but also serves as a reminder that Hikari may not be on the same page as Karen. Despite the renewal of their childhood promise to stand onstage as one, Banana’s duel with Hikari casts doubt on Hikari’s belief that she and Karen can truly break the cycle. The top star system is toxic but alluring and it’s all Hikari knows. We previously saw her run rampant through the London duels until she came up against Judy Knightley and lost. This loss scarred Hikari, who is unable to fully respond when Banana reminds her that Starlight, the play that frames every action in the series, is a tragedy. According to Banana, Hikari won’t be able to stand onstage with Karen regardless.

Karen is fully bought in to the idea that she can break the system. She wants to stand onstage with everyone, but especially Hikari. This makes her a poor top star candidate by the rules of the system — as shown through her partnership with Mahiru and her actions of inviting others to position zero — as the giraffe tells her in Episode 1. Still, Karen jumps into the duels to save Hikari and supports her without hesitation in the revue duet, believing that she and Hikari are unified in their goal. They are not. In a scene eerily reminiscent of Starlight, with red light behind Hikari as she strikes Karen down, Hikari kicks Karen off of the stage, betraying Karen’s trust.

Yet this isn’t done out of malice. Again, Hikari’s loss scarred her badly. She’s already been shown to take fairly drastic measures (without Karen’s consent or any communication) to keep Karen from participating in the revues. Not all of them make sense. As Karen points out to Hikari, tying her up in a shed and preventing her from fighting would lead to a loss regardless, something that Hikari didn’t consider while acting rashly. Hikari’s love of Karen, as it has been shown in the series, is genuine. Her actions, like Banana’s, are misguided, and driven by her fear and understanding of the system in place. This is the worst of the Takarazuka system, driving young women to drastic measures. Comparing Hikari’s actions to Banana’s also reminds the viewer that Banana warped time once she became top star. We have yet to see what Hikari’s fated stage will bring.

Revisiting Hikari’s first appearance in Karen’s dream, Hikari pushes Karen off of Tokyo Tower after Karen marvels, confused, at the view from the top. The life at the top for Karen within the system, by Hikari’s side, would likely mean a series of tough sacrifices in a musumeyaku-like role. Karen, for all that Revue Starlight has told us, is not suited to the system in place. She’s also the only person who truly believes that it can be broken. 

“Those who cannot wake up in the morning. Those who are content standing on the sidelines. Those people will never be called upon.”

-Giraffe to Karen Aijou, Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, Episode 1

The next phrase out of the giraffe’s mouth is, “Well then, I must ask you to leave.” Yet as he says this, Karen has already climbed all the way up his neck. She uses it as a slide in order to crash the revue duels and save childhood friend Hikari Kagura. This is who Karen is. And it’s this personality that makes her the perfect person to break the cycle. She doesn’t fit the Takarazuka Revue mold.

Episode 10 of Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight is all about showing us how Karen lacks a place in the traditional Takarazuka Revue star system. Using Maya Tendou and Claudine Saijou as the series’ default otokoyaku and musumeyaku pair, Revue Starlight paints a picture of two people who have generally acquiesced to the system. Although they have both benefitted from and been hurt by it in turn, they’re still the ideal pair, the closest the series has to a standard for other stage girls to follow. Claudine in particular is of interest since she takes on the traditional musumeyaku role both in and off the revue stage. It makes her breakdown after a loss that more affecting — not only is she covering for Maya, her otokoyaku, but she genuinely believes that Maya could never lose.

We’ve seen Karen in both the otokoyaku and musumeyaku roles throughout the series and she seems to fit the latter more than the former, but still waffles between the two, especially in situations where she feels the need to take action and “save” Hikari. Even then, she is always driven by a desire to stand onstage alongside Hikari, per their childhood promise. Again, this displays how ill-suited Karen is for the system. The star system inevitably pits everyone against one another in the pursuit of top star. Karen eschews this idea through her spoken ideology and her actions all support this: position zero is a goal only if she can stand there with Hikari. (As an aside, any romantic love she has for Hikari is certainly forbidden within the system as well, although the series does have one canon couple in Futaba Isurugi and Kaoruko Hanayagi who have remained together without consequence.) Furthermore, Karen doesn’t have the natural height of Daiba “Banana” Nana, she wasn’t the star of her town like Mahiru Tsuyuzaki, she doesn’t work after hours like Junna Hoshimi, she doesn’t have the physique or family history of Maya.

In fact, given Karen’s talent level and general look, it’s a bit of a surprise she was accepted to Seisho Music Academy at all (we already know that she wasn’t last in her class’ auditions, that was Futaba) although she doesn’t lack for passion. In fact, the revue that Karen crashes and wins in the first episode is the Revue of Passion. Revue Starlight hasn’t been subtle about painting Karen (not Hikari, despite her arrival as a transfer student) as an outsider.

Yet, the giraffe — and by extension, the Takarazuka top star system that he represents — is wrong about one important detail of Karen’s personality: she is not content standing on the sidelines if Hikari is in danger. This is where she takes the lead, so to speak, in a more dominant position than would traditionally be allowed of a musumeyaku, which the series visually defaults her as when she is paired with Hikari. When Hikari is involved, Karen will cross the line, as shown in previous episodes and several shots throughout Episode 11. Karen opens the series by climbing onto the giraffe, the embodiment of the star system, and forces her way in. She is actively defying the system from the start. 

Similarly in this episode, we see Karen chip away at the wall and pry open the hidden elevator doors with a crowbar to return to the revue dueling stage and find, or save, Hikari. Karen is not a passive person. The place she has forged for herself at Seisho and in the revues is through sheer willpower and her promise to Hikari.

Because of this, it’s also not a surprise that Karen loses her luster despite Hikari’s best efforts. Hikari takes the title of top star and then fades away completely due to her insistence that the giraffe take no power from any other defeated stage girl. This is the only way Hikari knows to change anything, by sacrificing herself. It’s not a good way and it doesn’t truly break the cycle, but her choice allows Karen and company to move on with the 100th Seisho Festival’s performance of Starlight for the first time ever, presumably without losing anything. Yet, we see Karen come to the same conclusion that dawned on Hikari after the latter’s loss to Judy Knightley in the London duels: the loss of a love for the stage. She even goes through the same hand motion, interrupting an ongoing stage. All of Hikari’s efforts were for naught because all Karen ever wanted was to stand onstage with Hikari. Of course Karen would lose her luster without Hikari. It’s also no coincidence that Karen didn’t truly cry at Hikari’s disappearance until she understood exactly what Hikari had gone through in losing her motivation for the stage.

Revue Starlight (and Karen) doesn’t want a world where any more stage girls have to sacrifice their ambitions, their friendships, their relationships, and themselves to the top star system. So Karen breaks on through.

“A stage that never ends. Taking on the shine that this stage requires enough for someone else as well. Such is the atonement for a stage girl who must surely die. The stage of fate that she has chosen.”

-Giraffe while observing Hikari Kagura, Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, Episode 12

Previously I had thought of Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight‘s giraffe as an arbiter of the system, similar to Yuri Kuma Arashi‘s Judgmens who preside over the Severance Court. In Yuri Kuma Arashi, the three Judgmens are the only body allowed to permit relationships — there’s even an offical stamp that says “Yuri approved!” — a reminder of societal constructs and barriers that the leads eventually break by the end of the series. The giraffe seemed to be of this vein, presiding over the toxic top star system of the Takarazuka Revue at Revue Starlight‘s Seisho Music Academy. This is why he always cheered or commented during the duels, kept track of the top star standings in his room, and was an important signature on Hikari Kagura’s transfer documents. Because the giraffe is the system, naturally he would have a hand in her “transfer” from Seisho once she reached the top star stage.

Yet, the giraffe’s true identity is revealed in Revue Starlight‘s finale. This revelation recontextualizes the giraffe’s actions throughout the series. While it’s not wrong that he’s an arbiter, he’s also something concrete and very familiar to anyone who has watched a stage production.

The giraffe is us, the audience.

“The stage is composed of both those who perform and those who are spectators. The performer stars onstage and as long as the spectators wish for them to be there, they will remain. Right, you did this to continue watching over the girls. I do not want to make this performance end partway. Though I am a spectator who loves the stage. I am the host of the stage of fate, the eternal moment of the stage girls. The shine bursting forth. I want to see that. Yes, along with you.”

-Giraffe, Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, Episode 12

The giraffe’s role as an audience member provides greater context to his appearances throughout the series, particularly in Episode 12, where he’s shown watching from a distance at all times. While watching, many of us mused as to why a giraffe specifically was chosen, and now it may be as simple as, he has a long neck to watch the stage with ease. We hear his voice not as a narrator, or even greek chorus with further insight than an audience member or character in the play would have, but as someone watching and reacting to the show placed in front of them.

This also means that the giraffe’s reactions, assumptions, and commentary is affected by the top star system as he knows it: a hyper-competitive ladder where only one can stand on position zero and claim the title. One of the first, enthusiastic cheers from the giraffe in Revue Starlight‘s first episode urges the stage girls to fight and burn away their happiness and pleasure for the sake of chasing a “star” or that elusive place at center stage.

Through his opening lines, the giraffe also reveals inherent bias in how he views the stage, again reflecting that a viewing audience at any performance comes with a specific mindset (although it may vary from person to person). They expect to be entertained. They expect the performers to give their best performance. When attending a Takarazuka show, they expect a certain type of actress, especially when it comes to the top star position.

Some of the giraffe’s first words to Karen are, “Those who cannot wake up in the morning. Those who are content standing on the sidelines. Those people will never be called upon.” This establishes assumptions made by the audience of who should stand on stage, what type of person should stand on stage, who is worthy enough to stand onstage.

These expectations are shaped by a variety of societal factors. The top star system and toxic cycle isn’t the audience’s fault per se, but the audience is complicit in perpetuating it to some degree. It’s an exchange system between the production company marketing and system that is directly affected by social mores. One of founder Kobayashi Ichizou’s ideas behind the revue was that the revue would teach women to be good wives and mothers so that, upon leaving the revue stage, Takarasiennes would settle down and have a family. This hasn’t always worked as intended (in the best way, with some incredibly talented women choosing to stay in the theatre or move into production, acting, etc.) but it was one of the core tenets of the revue that still affects the system to this day.

Another part of the system is selling dreams to the audience, ensuring that otokoyaku top stars are the most desirable member of the cast (and are marketing accordingly) often at the expense of the rest of the troupe, especially their partner musumeyaku. An eager audience will eat this up and push for more, often at the expense of personal relationships or mental and physical health. It’s a rigid, often unfair ecosystem, even at the top. When the giraffe turns to us and reveals his position, it adds another dimension to Revue Starlight‘s ongoing Takarazuka critique.

Winter has always been my favorite season, followed closely by autumn. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in the northeast. Perhaps it’s because my parents love to tell an anecdote about how my father had to shovel nearly a foot of snow to rush my mother to the hospital on the day I was born. Perhaps I just love the holiday season. There’s something calming, comforting about chilly weather that invites warm food, soft ambient light, and the coziness of blankets.

Winter can also be bleak and oppressive at times, as the days blend into each other with what little sunlight available casting long shadows in the afternoon, the dull thudding of ice breaking, or the eerie silence of snowfall. One of the best anime examples of this winter atmosphere is The Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya, which portrays it perfectly through cinematography, lighting, and highly-specified attention to detail. The warmth of breath materializing in the cold air and disappearing, the city lights a backdrop to softly falling snowflakes that melt in Yuki Nagato and Kyon’s hands — even in the cold of winter, warmth can be found.

By contrast, summer is oppressive. The light and heat bears down with palpable weight as cicadas sing a constant, droning chorus in the background. In winter, you can escape the chill with a blanket, a crackling fire, or a warm mug of hot chocolate. In summer, you cannot escape the heat. It makes you lethargic, bringing with it doldrums that limit activity.

In SSSS.Gridman, summer plays a key role in creating a stifling backdrop for the show’s sentai action and smaller character moments. The atmosphere is aided by cinematography that emphasizes an obstructed view, uses specific light sources, and frames things askew, either through dutch angles or moving the figurative camera slightly off-center. Even in scenes where Rikka is chatting with her friends — the context is that she’s making time for them, now more aware of the possibility of death — the framing adds a sense of dread and foreboding by placing something else, in this case a tree, in the foreground.

The first episode opens with a series of pillow shots accompanied by the grinding screech of cicadas in the background — an audible shortcut that announces to the viewer that it’s summertime. In stills like the one above, the camera doesn’t move. The only movement comes from visible waves of heat that distort the image towards the bottom of the frame. Even the “TRIGGER” title in the foreground serves in static relief to the flickers of heat in the background.

When the camera does pan over these stills, danger lurks just out of view. The sunny summer sky is filled with kaiju that, more often than not, are simply standing still, looming over the city, waiting to be called into action. SSSS.Gridman frames character interactions from a close-up perspective frequently, and then zooms out to reveal a sun that’s just a bit too bright and the imminent threat of a monster fight. The kaiju are tied to this oppressive summer atmosphere.

Similarly, the main antagonist, Rikka, Shou, and Yuuta’s classmate Akane Shinjou, is tied to the blinding summer sun. As early as the premiere, before her antagonistic role is revealed, she is visibly placed with the light. When Sakiru Tonkawa accidentally interrupts Akane’s conversation with Yuuta courtesy of a stray volleyball, it sharply separates Akane and Yuuta as opposite parties. Not-so-coincidentally, Sakiru is one of Akane’s first victims, dying before Akane is revealed as the source of the kaiju but made a target due to this very incident.

Episode 3 throws a visual wrench in the works with a summer rainstorm that’s equally oppressive, disrupting the status quo of the series thus far — kaiju shows up, Yuuta gets into Gridman, they defeat the kaiju — by moving the fight earlier in the episode. After Gridman’s presumed defeat, a cloudburst bathes Akane in sunlight as she laughs at her own victory. This further ties Akane to the head of summer. Summer is inescapable in SSSS.Gridman, and the series never allows the viewer relief from it’s oppressive atmosphere.

Initially, it seems like a fairly innocuous shot of backpacks. Yet, in the world of SSSS.Gridman — which uses a variety of pillow shots to create a stifling summer atmosphere in contrast with its kaiju and robot fights — these stills are not only creating a mood but can also tell us a bit about the characters involved. In this case, these three backpacks belong to the series’ main trio: Yuuta Hibiki, Rikka Takarada, and Shou Utsumi. The colors also auspiciously match up with traditional tokusatsu (or really, Super Sentai) color coding.

Studio Trigger and Tsuburaya Productions’ SSSS.Gridman isn’t the first more recent superhero series to riff on what came before — in this specific case, tokusatsu series and Gridman the Hyper Agent. Depending on how SSSS.Gridman progresses, Gatchaman Crowds‘ use of Science Ninja Team Gatchaman as a building block for what it had to say could be an apt comparison. Even the “SSSS” in the title is a reference to Tsuburaya Productions’ own 1994 English-language adaptation of Gridman the Hyper Agent, called Superhuman Samurai Syber Squad.

This brings us back to SSSS.Gridman‘s color-coded backpacks, and what they say about our would-be heroes (or not). The series doesn’t limit the color-coding to this one shot. Instead, it frequently reiterates each of the three Gridman Alliance members’ respective colors in shots like the ones above. Yuuta lands on the floor next to not only his red backpack but red bar stools and the muted background makes his red hair, tie, and vest trim stand out in relief. Meanwhile, Shou carries his yellow backpack which takes the foreground alongside the blue chair back where Rikka is sitting.

Tokusatsu covers anything and everything from kaiju films like the Godzilla film series — which Tsuburaya Productions founder, special effects artist Eiji Tsuburaya, worked on as well as the popular Ultraman series — to Super Giant, Kamen Rider, and Moonlight Mask. All tokusatsu really means is something with frequent use of special effects. What we know of tokusatsu in the west is a lot more along the lines of Superhuman Samurai Syber Squad or the breakout Power Rangers franchise which was based on Super Sentai. Frequently the heroes involved would be color-coded due to personality. Red was reserved for the hot-headed leader, blue was the cool-headed intelligent type, and so on. In showing these backpacks and assigning them to the individuals in the main trio, SSSS.Gridman uses this tokusatsu shortcut to tell us more about their potential roles on the team (or how they could be reversed within the series).

The Red Ranger: Yuuta Hibiki

It should come as no surprise that the owner of the red backpack, and SSSS.Gridman‘s default red ranger, is none other than Yuuta, who is also color-coded by his bright red hair and the red armband he uses to cover up his transformation device.

The title of red ranger is frequently reserved for the leader of the group. Other standard red ranger qualities include a hot-headed attitude, willingness to jump into the fray to save someone regardless of the situation, strong emotions, and dedication to a very standard sense of justice. As Samurai Flamenco joked, having an entire team of red rangers would be absolutely awful, since it would make for an unchecked team of hot-blooded weirdos.

Yet, these personality traits don’t really fit Yuuta per se. Every week, SSSS.Gridman reiterates that we have no idea who Yuuta is. We can’t tell if his amnesia makes him hesitant in most high school social situations or if he’s naturally hesitant. He seems more than willing to hop into Gridman and help people, but that sense of duty could also be seen as a confused boy who had lost his memory reaching out towards any type of purpose. Even in his first fight when he seeks out Gridman, he pushes back when Gridman says that he’ll explain the situation to Yuuta later, hinting at a more diligent personality than that of a stereotypical red ranger. Yuuta also only takes action first and asks questions later when Gridman is involved. In other social situations, we often see him getting dragged along for the ride by Akane Shinjou or his friend Shou.

The Blue Ranger: Rikka Takarada

A blue ranger is often the most intelligent of the bunch — someone who will assess a situation first before making an educated decision. Another series that borrows a lot from tokusatsu and sentai shows, Sailor Moon, uses similar color relationships with the blue-coded Ami Mizuno (Sailor Mercury) as a standout example of this archetype. As an aside, Rei Hino (Sailor Mars) fits the red ranger archetype despite not being the leader and Minako Aino (Sailor Venus) fits the yellow ranger archetype. Blue rangers can also become rival figures to the red rangers since their personalities are opposites, and tend to be older and more serious.

Rikka is not only coded in blue by her backpack, but through the blue earbuds that she always wears while walking to school.

Although Rikka isn’t outwardly an information gatherer like Shou — a tokusatsu nerd who seems to have every Ultra Series episode memorized in a wink to an informed Tsuburaya Productions audience — she has been shown to be someone who will wait until she knows more about a given scenario. Sometimes this can lead to indecision based on fear, like in Episode 3 when she doesn’t think to contact Yuuta via phone until prodded by the Neon Genesis Junior High Students, likely because she’s subconsciously afraid that it could confirm his death. Rikka hopped on the computer, Junk, and guided Yuuta through his first battle with quick thinking to type Shou’s instructions so that Yuuta would hear them.

The Yellow Ranger: Shou Utsumi

Yellow rangers are often more peaceful and even-keeled with a strong emotional intelligence. The success of Power Rangers has led to an assumption that yellow rangers are often women, however it’s a unisex color and historically in Super Sentai, there have been more men who were yellow rangers than women.

Shou is Yuuta’s friend and stubbornly sticks to Yuuta following Yuuta’s amnesia in Episode 1. Despite stating that he’s not a lifelong friend and they only grew close that April, Shou’s loyalty is impressive and he repeatedly shows that he trusts Yuuta even when Yuuta can’t remember anything. Shou is also the one who is quick to form the Gridman Alliance, giving the trio a name and working to keep them unified.

With Yuuta’s amnesia a constant, he’s not a particularly interesting character and also doesn’t fit the red ranger archetype that the show codes him as — save revealing that his actual personality is far more brash than initially shown when his memories return. Rather than going this route, it looks like SSSS.Gridman will likely play a bit with the red ranger archetype through Yuuta instead. Similarly, Rikka isn’t always a cool blue ranger. She thinks about her actions and emotions a lot — to the point of inaction — and there are still hints that she’s withholding key information from Yuuta regarding their relationship. Shou is more in the background than either Rikka or Yuuta, but also has shown flashes of character traits and overly-emotional responses that don’t necessarily fit the even-temperedness of a yellow ranger.

It’s when the three are unified — even for something as hilariously mundane as making an emergency phone call to the junk shop from their river rafting field trip — that their individual personalities make for an unbeatable hero team. This is likely why SSSS.Gridman is using this color-coding, to build on what an informed audience would already assume, with the potential to play with these preconceived archetypes in service of further reveling in its own tokusatsu trappings.

Naturally a series titled Bloom Into You — although the literal translation of Yagate Kimi ni Naru would be “eventually I become you” — is going to be rife with flower language. I would have been disappointed had it not. Here’s a bit about what the flowers in the opening sequence could be saying about series leads Yuu Koito and Touko Nanami as well as their supporting cast.

What’s most noticeable from the first few scenes is that Touko and Yuu aren’t paired with each other, but instead featured alongside their close friends, with shed flower petals underneath their desks. In Touko’s case, pictured in the shot above, it’s Sayaka Saeki who is given the flower treatment. Yuu is pictured between her junior high school friends Koyomi Kanou and Akari Hyuuga. Their individual flowers featured in the opening give us insight into their personalities, especially Sayaka, whose motivations haven’t been made as clear as those of Akari and Koyomi.

The first focus flower to appear in Bloom Into You‘s opening sequence is a sea holly, draped over a piece that Yuu’s friend Koyomi is writing. Sea holly (or eryngium) flowers are ornamental plants that resemble thistles and are said to represent admiration, independence, or austerity.

Koyomi’s second flower appears to be a yellow gerbera daisy, which symbolizes cheerfulness or happiness. A gift of gerbera daisies often means that the recipient should allow happiness to guide their way. These flowers are pinned in Koyomi’s hair.

Beyond her love of reading and writing, we know the least about Koyomi. Her gerbera daisies and sea holly flowers expand on what little we’ve been shown of her perspective. Koyomi is independent (sea holly) first and foremost. Unlike her closest friends Akari, who is on the basketball team, and Yuu, who was dragged into student council activities thanks to Yuu’s inability to say “no” and a developing relationship with Touko, Koyomi keeps to herself and pursues a solitary activity. We discover along with Yuu how serious Koyomi’s dedication is when she gives Yuu her finished manuscript. A flower like the gerbera daisy that represents continuing on a path that makes her happy suits Koyomi because Koyomi already has a love of writing, and is in the process of seeing if she can turn it into a potential career.

Due to the myriad color combinations available, anemone flowers have a variety of meanings that include everything from sincerity to omens of death. Red anemones in particular are associated with an accompanying tale of Adonis and Aphrodite — the red in the flower represents Adonis’ blood as he died in Aphrodite’s arms. A red anemone specifically carries the meaning of a forsaken love or a love separated by death.

Although death (as far as we know) doesn’t enter the picture, tying Yuu’s close friend Akari Hyuuga to red anemones in the series opening says a lot about Akari’s rejected confession. Akari admits in the third episode that she already confessed and was rejected by a senior basketball member she had liked for a long time. While Akari brushes it off, saying that he said he wanted to focus on basketball rather than an outright rejection of her feelings, Yuu thinks about how Akari’s words sound practiced, as if she’s trying to convince herself that there’s still an opportunity.

Akari’s second flower is similarly inauspicious for her romantic intentions: the primrose. Primroses have a meaning of young love, but can also carry sentiments of desperation or the inability to live without someone. Unlike Koyomi’s flowers, which foreshadow happiness, Akari’s seem to spell doom for a relationship with the person she likes despite her dedication.

Through conversations with both Touko and Yuu, furtive glances at the two while they’re together, and her childhood friendship with Touko, we can guess at Sayaka’s emotions and intentions; however, the flowers she’s given in Bloom Into You‘s opening make those more clear.

First, there’s the obvious actions in the opening. Sayaka reaches out to Touko through the hanging flowers only to have Touko walk away, just out of reach. These flowers then appear by themselves, and in the next frame are completely wilted. This hardly bodes well for Sayaka’s feelings, and additionally could foreshadow ill intent on her part towards Yuu and Touko’s developing relationship, although this could be going a bit too far. Sayaka certainly doesn’t seem supportive, and definitely feels left out or cast aside, but she also doesn’t appear to bear a lot of ill will towards Yuu. She even goes as far to point Yuu in the right direction regarding Touko’s past.

There are a lot of individual flowers shown in relation to Sayaka starting with the cheery yellow sunflower in the lower left corner of the flowers that wilt. Sunflowers have a lot of different meanings — positivity, happiness, and long life are the most common — and in Japanese hanakotoba specifically, they mean a passionate love, radiance, and respect. Sayaka’s feelings for Touko are obviously strong and have been forged through years of friendship. As Sayaka tells Yuu somewhat condescendingly, Yuu doesn’t have to worry about Touko because Sayaka will always be there for Touko regardless.

Nearby is a four-petaled flower that appears to be a flowering dogwood. Dogwood flowers have strong religious symbolism tied to Christianity, rebirth, and resurrection. In Victorian flower language, a dogwood flower was given as a token of affection. If it was returned, then the giver’s feelings were not reciprocated but if it was kept, then there was a mutual attraction. We still don’t know if Sayaka’s feelings are romantic based on what has been shown in the anime, but Sayaka’s flowers, including the dogwood, suggest romantic intent, even if she doesn’t express it outright.

Pink peonies are present, standing for beauty, romance, honor, and bravery. There’s also a variety of pink, purple, and white roses which can mean admiration, gratitude, romance (pink), royalty, mystery, and attaining what was thought to be impossible (purple), and innocence, silence, devotion (white). What appear to be purple anemones could symbolize protection and anticipation. The hydrangea plant at the bottom right is a common flower in anime and is a symbol of pride. Purple pansies represent romantic devotion, that a person is thinking constantly of another, thoughtfulness, and caring, especially when it cannot be expressed aloud.  Striped white and purple petunias symbolize fantasy, charm, or enchantment, but the petunia flower specifically — depending on the situation in which it is given to another person — can mean anger or resentment towards that person.

The most important context for Sayaka’s many flowers is her action of reaching out towards Touko only to be left behind. Her flowers immediately wilt. There’s a lot more to Sayaka than we’ve been shown in the six episodes available. Sayaka’s flowers tell us of her love for Touko as well as her silence and inability to express those feelings despite watching over her for years.

The majority of Bloom Into You‘s opening sequence flower language begins with lead couple Touko Nanami and Yuu Koito’s friends: Sayaka Saeki, Akari Hyuuga, and Koyomi Kanou. Koyomi and Akari are each given two specific flowers that relate to their respective relationships — in the case of Koyomi they give us more detail on her love of writing, and in the case of Akari they tell us more about her one-sided romance. Sayaka is a bit more complex, and is shown with a wide arrangement of flowers that discuss the depth of her relationship with Touko in great detail, hinting at what might be to come from later episodes in the series.

Bloom Into You makes it a point to show them first in the opening, which establishes a baseline for how we’re supposed to read the hanging flowers above the desks, petals below, and flower arrangements. In all three cases of the periphery characters (Sayaka, Akari, and Koyomi) the language of the individual flowers represent their respective emotions, but the presence of flowers, and flower petals, above and beneath their desks, represents a more general desire or love. In Touko and Yuu’s cases, flowers showcase their relationship with each other as well as their outlooks on current relationships as a whole.

First, we have a nod to Yuu’s current inability to feel romantic feelings towards anyone, which she sees as something that isolates her from others, even her closest friends. Sandwiched in between Koyomi and Akari, Yuu’s desk is on a carpet of blue petals or a blue shadow, but doesn’t have the hanging flower arrangements of her two friends. Koyomi and Akari’s relationships represented by their flowers are separate from Yuu, so their flowers hang solely over their desks and they are occupied with their own thoughts or activities. The flowers are also almost like two curtains, separating Yuu from the innermost desires of her friends because she can’t fully understand them, not being able to feel them for herself. Yuu later disappears, leaving only Touko’s planetarium gift on her desk while Koyomi and Akari remain with their flowers.

By contrast, flowers hang above both Touko and Sayaka together, but it’s only Sayaka who is in love with Touko. Her feelings are very clearly not reciprocated in this sequence, since she reaches out through the flower curtain and Touko walks away.

Yuu then stands under a number of hanging flowers, the most prominent of which appears to be a wisteria flower. Wisteria holds many symbolic meanings in Japan, especially endurance even in the face of rejection or heartache due to the usage of the flower in an old kabuki drama, “The Wisteria Maiden.” This has also translated to immortality, longevity, heavy devotion to someone or something, or patience. Paper cranes join flower petals at Yuu’s feet, a possible symbol of hope or healing. The wisteria flower is a flower of prayer in Shin Buddhism, the most commonly-practiced form of Buddhism in Japan, meaning reflection and humility.

In Victorian flower language, the wisteria took on a darker meaning of a cloying or suffocating love — a warning that a steady devotion could become an obsession. Due to the creeping vines of wisteria that hang down, wisteria was also seen as a symbol of an expanding mind or consciousness.

This flower is perfect for Yuu as we know her and gives nods to her indecisive nature as well as her overwhelming dedication to something — like Touko and the student council election — once she actually makes a decision. It also hints that, if Yuu was to fall in love with Touko, she would be a very devoted partner with a significant amount of patience. Even if Yuu never recognizes or associates her feelings towards Touko as romantic, the wisteria already points to the fact that Yuu is dedicated to Touko.

Touko is surrounded by what appear to be hanging lily flowers, which have a multitude of different meanings depending on color, but are most commonly associated with funeral flowers. Identifying the color of these flowers is difficult due to the lighting. The lighter-colored ones could be yellow or white, while the darker-colored ones could be purple or black. White lilies are used in yuri series to represent lesbian love as well as purity or innocence. Yellow lilies symbolize happiness and friendship; however in Japan, orange lilies can also represent revenge. Purple lilies are said to be a gift of admiration, accomplishment, and dignity. Finally, black lilies represent death, deceit, and lies.

Like Yuu’s wisteria, Touko’s lilies hint at the depth and complexity of her character. Touko projects the idealized appearance of her deceased older sister Mio: confident, composed, and determined while also being empathetic and approachable. Internally, she is conflicted, anxious, and lonely. Until Yuu came along, she too hadn’t felt strong romantic feelings towards anyone, and had rejected all suitors. Her thoughts in Episode 6 — that love is a generally negative and binding emotion, and that Yuu should never fall in love with her — hint that she feels incapable of receiving love from others. Her façade makes this even more complex, since Yuu is the only person with whom she feels like she can truly be honest.

Yuu and Touko are shown together, holding hands, surrounded by hydrangea flowers of different colors. In the next scene, their bodies become vines and their faces, masks. The most common meaning of a hydrangea flower in Japan is pride. However depending on color, hydrangeas can mean anything from turning down a romantic proposal/chastising someone for their frigid nature (blue), boasting/purity/abundance (white), weath/seeking a deeper understanding (purple). Regardless of whether they have a negative or positive connotation, hydrangeas tell us that strong feelings are involved.

Finally, Yuu and Touko disappear and are replaced by a flowering dogwood flower (also present in Sayaka’s many flowers) and a yellow dahlia. The flowering dogwood carries a message of rebirth and also announcing one’s affection. In this case, Yuu is turning into a dogwood flower and presumably offering herself to Touko, again suggesting romantic intent even if she doesn’t herself realize her own feelings yet. Touko’s dahlia represents good taste in Japanese hanakotoba, but in Victorian flower language represents a deep, lifelong commitment, dignity, and grace.

Their flowers and positioning throughout Bloom Into You‘s opening suggest that Touko and Yuu’s relationship is one of deep attachment (possibly of an entire lifetime) and admiration. This has already been shown in small flashes throughout the anime; however, if the flowers’ messages are correct, that bond will only deepen between the two of them going forward.

“Starlight. This is the story of a distant planet from long ago, in the faraway future.”

-Hikari Kagura, Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, Episode 9

Compelling and captivating are two words used frequently in Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight to describe the in-universe play and narrative framing device, Starlight. Following the star-crossed Flora and Claire, Starlight is a tragedy that borrows from known Takarazuka Revue staples like Elisabeth — ai to shi no rondo (Elisabeth — rondo of love and death) and is made to have the same influence and frequency of performance as Elisabeth or Rose of Versailles in order to frame the relationship of Revue Starlight leads Karen Aijou and Hikari Kagura. Starlight is synonymous with being a stage girl.

Karen and Hikari were inspired to become stage girls — effectively entering the spartan and highly-controlled education system of a Takarazuka trainee — by a performance of Starlight. Throughout the series, they frequently open episodes with narration from the play, reiterating how the story of Claire and Flora draws them in and captivates them and also that this tale is ultimately a tragedy. These two leads are torn apart once they reach for their distant star. Starlight not only encapsulates the stage girl experience but within it’s narrative, perpetuates the toxic cycle that Karen aims to break.

“Why were we confined here? What sins did we commit? Amidst the flow of time, we goddesses have forgotten even that. Ah! And so it repeats! The cycle of despair.”

-Nana Daiba as the goddess of despair, Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight, Episode 9

An understated part of the Starlight story is the role of six goddesses that block Claire and Flora’s path towards grasping their star. Each of them is given a “sin” that has trapped them there for 500 years, now an integral part of the cycle, presumably as stage girls who have come before. Through the goddess of despair’s monologue, Revue Starlight pointedly asks why these stage girls are fated to be pitted against one another in search of the top star position. What sins did they commit? Why are they confined by this cycle?

In Episode 9, Hikari reads the original book upon which the play Starlight is based, The Starlight Gatherer, to Karen. Despite Starlight‘s role in framing and perpetuating the poisonous societal hierarchy of Takarazuka, the prologue is oddly prescient to Karen breaking that same hierarchy later in the series. It lists the six goddesses and what their sins could become. This provides an additional framework for most of the Revue Starlight cast, who play the goddesses in Starlight.

When Fury was Passion: Junna Hoshimi

Junna is the first stage girl to receive a focus episode and through her, Karen, and us as an audience, are further initiated into the revue duels. Her story is a relatable one: dedication, sacrifice, and hard work to make up for natural talent or physique that she lacks.

Of all the stage girls, Junna is the most aware of her own shortcomings by the start of the Revue Starlight series, yet the accompanying manga and stage performances reveal a Junna who is unsure of herself and uses the mask of competence or authority to hide her faults. Her fury is at the system, but also at herself for lacking certain natural qualities that would make moving through the ranks all the easier.

When Junna is defeated by Karen, it allows her to move forward from this anger and focus on her passion and dedication to her craft. In turn, this allows Junna to help Nana “Banana” Daiba with her own emotional scars much later in the series.

When Curse was Faith: Futaba Isurugi

The “curse” that is Futaba’s sin has also been translated as “binding.” Futaba is rooted in many ways, some completely out of her control, like her lack of physical stature. If Futaba was tall, that would likely make her not only one of the best otokoyaku, but a potentially a top star.

However the other side of Futaba’s curse comes from how much she has given up, and continues to give up, for Kaoruko. During the timeframe of the 99th troupe’s Starlight performance, Futaba’s dedication to Kaoruko has become a crutch for her to lean on while not reaching further on her own, presumably keeping the barrier physical limitations and the strict rules of Takarazuka in mind in a self-loathing manner. It takes the arrival of Hikari and the change in Karen to push Futaba down a slightly different path — one where she trains harder with Claudine Saijou and faces her underlying fears both in her position as a stage girl and in her relationship with Kaoruko.

When Escape was Bravery: Kaoruko Hanayagi

Born into a wealthy family, Kaoruko takes a significant amount of things in life for granted, including her relationship with childhood-friend-turned-lover Futaba. The “flight” or “escape” mentioned by Starlight encapsulates Kaoruko’s manipulative nature and general laziness. When her lessons seem too tough — or she simply doesn’t want to do them — Kaoruko often runs away rather than putting in the effort. More importantly, in the face of Futaba’s improvement, Kaoruko initially commits to leaving the school in hopes of coercing Futaba to run after her, rather than facing her own fears of abandonment.

Placed side-by-side in the tableau of goddesses, Kaoruko and Futaba have matching purple gemstones, another indicator of their closeness, both in their real-life relationship and the sins that Starlight assigns to them. Kaoruko can be brave thanks to Futaba and Futaba can have faith in her own abilities thanks to Kaoruko, even if Kaoruko’s love and support isn’t always obvious. There’s the added layer that Kaoruko leaving her family, and their dance style, in pursuit of the Takarazuka-like Seisho Music Academy was a significant departure and potentially caused a rift with her family — the one time where Kaoruko’s tendency to leave was bravery rather than escape. Kaoruko’s relationship with Futaba allowed her to be brave in order to pursue what she wanted.

When Jealousy was Affection: Mahiru Tsuyuzaki

Mahiru’s sin is one of the more straightforward in the list. The entirety of her focus episode uses Takarazuka trappings of physical comedy and fourth-wall-breaking to tell the story of Mahiru’s jealousy. Upon Hikari’s arrival at Seisho, Mahiru finds that she now has to contend with Hikari for Karen’s time and love.

However, Mahiru’s jealousy isn’t solely of Hikari over Karen’s affection. The more important facet of Mahiru’s envy is of Karen’s ability to shine onstage. Somewhere along the way during her lessons at Seisho, Mahiru had lost her own luster, overwhelmed by the larger talent pool after being a big fish in the small pond of her hometown for so long. This jealousy becomes affection not only when she reaffirms her feelings for Karen, but also when she relearns to have affection for herself and her own abilities as a stage girl.

When Despair was Hope: Nana Daiba

Nana “Banana” Daiba spends almost the entirety of Revue Starlight in a time loop that traps her peers in their first-year performance of Starlight. Banana discovered her passion of theatre through enjoying it with others in junior high school, but soon found herself the only member of the group when her classmates left to pursue other activities. When she has so much fun in her first production of Starlight at Seisho, she wins the revue duels, becomes top star and, unbeknownst to the rest of the troupe, returns to the beginning of her first year to relive it.

Rather than fight against the toxicity of the top star system, Banana chooses to freeze time instead. Like Karen, she rejects the cycle, but instead of looking for a way to break it, she becomes fixated on the past, unable to move forward. Banana uses her natural physical advantages like her height and voice to win, besting even the troupe’s default top star, Maya Tendou. Hikari and Karen force Banana to reflect on just how awful and ultimately pointless her time loop is by defeating her.

Even then, Banana’s despair, the post-production doldrums and depression, is incredibly relatable, especially to anyone who has ever been part of a theatre performance. Her hope for the future comes later, when her role in Starlight is adjusted after Karen breaks the cycle.

When Arrogance was Pride: Karen Aijou

Taken completely at face value, Karen doesn’t seem like the arrogant type. Yet, once she begins her journey through the giraffe’s underground revue duels, Karen’s arrogance is revealed, especially when she starts winning. Without understanding just how insidious of a system she’s up against, Karen’s initial insistence that she can breeze through the revue duels to stand onstage with Hikari is laughable. Maya Tendou’s thorough thrashing of Karen in their first duel firmly puts Karen in her place, and forces her to revisit her viewpoint.

Karen’s assignment of arrogance to pride is particularly interesting since pride can also be synonymous with arrogance and seen in a negative light and all of Karen’s actions could be seen as arrogant within the established societal framework. Even when Karen better understands the system she’s up against, her desire to share the stage with Hikari is still viewed as unnecessarily prideful.

Through Starlight, Revue Starlight forces us to consider whether the actions of these young women, or Starlight‘s goddesses, are truly sinful. Each “sin” points out genuine flaws in their respective characters, but they also work towards revealing how unfair the system in place can be at the same time.

The closing lines of the 99th’s troupe’s latest Starlight performance change the ending. Claire and Flora break the cycle and free the goddesses. Their outlined sins, and Banana’s personal narrative make her appearance as the final goddess — clad in the uniform of her beloved 99th production rather than the updated uniforms of that year — all the more poignant, especially when her initial lines were those of despair. “You did well to arrive at the truth,” she says. “Flora, you two have freed the goddesses. We have been watching over you all this time.”

Usagi Tsukino never really had a choice.

At the end of every day for the past three months, I’ve been watching a few episodes of the original season of Sailor Moon. Usagi Tsukino and her crew kept me company through many long nights in Busan, South Korea, at the busiest time of the year in my profession. Sometimes I was purposefully tracking Kunihiko Ikuhara or Takuya Igarashi’s specific episodes, trying to trace their directorial and visual styles. At others, I was simply basking in Usagi’s warm personality, relishing the friendships that she effortlessly made with the sailor soldiers — a quality that I’ve never once had in my lifetime.

Revisiting Sailor Moon has been a deeply personal experience. Like many others my age, Sailor Moon was my gateway into anime. Although I’ve seen most of these individual episodes countless times, I had not gone back and watched the entirety of the first season in its original Japanese until now.

Younger me missed a lot of what was actually happening in Sailor Moon. 

In saying this, I don’t mean in the same way that “adult” jokes are peppered through Pixar films, or an inability to recognize same-sex relationships — sorry original English dub, there’s no way that “Amara” and “Michelle” were cousins. Instead, I missed the genuine emotional nuance to a lot of Usagi’s friendships, and additionally, her personal thoughts on the destiny that was unwillingly thrust upon her shoulders.

Sailor Moon touches upon Usagi’s reluctance to fight in her first-ever sailor moon transformation, allowing her to naturally find her own path through healing techniques in the latter half of the first season. Nearly every step of the way, Usagi whines and complains, even as she grows more competent. This is partially due to her own laziness but also, as shown through her natural healing abilities and real-life friendships, a optimistic belief in the good of all other people. Everything comes to a head when Usagi is discovered to be a reincarnation of the long-lost moon princess, Serenity, inheriting a fallen kingdom, a fated lover, and a head full of awful memories of her own demise.

The more we learn about Princess Serenity, her guards (the inner sailor soldiers), and her death, it becomes clear that there’s not all that much difference between Usagi and Serenity in terms of temperament. Despite Luna’s assistance to the contrary, Princess Serenity is not a stately, imposing figure, the perfect image of a princess. There’s a reason why Queen Serenity wanted her to live a normal life in her reincarnated future. Even Prince Endymion/Mamoru Chiba in one of his rare tolerable moments, tells her to go find a cool boyfriend and live a normal life. After saving the world from Queen Metallia in the first season, Usagi does just that: she wishes for an average morning that includes waking up late, failing her tests, and eating crepes on the way home from school.

On this rewatch, I felt Luna’s reluctance to revive Usagi’s memories far more affecting. Although it’s written into her first Sailor Moon R monologue as annoyance that the monster cardian forced their hand, the scene that comes before, tears bursting out of the corners of her eyes as she remembers everything, is depressing. There’s also shades of PTSD when she begs an anemic Makoto Kino/Sailor Jupiter (Makoto has just given blood to save a childhood friend) to go home and take care of herself. Usagi is someone who has seen each and every one of her friends die and it continues to affect her as she tries to live as normally as possible even with the weight of her memories. Yet she still has to fight.

The anime follows a standard monster-of-the-week tokusatsu format. It’s only natural to root for the sailor soldiers’ next power-ups, usually attached to poignant personal vignette and a possibly opportunity to sell an additional toy. As a child, I recognized that Usagi didn’t want to fight, but I obviously wanted to see her defeat the bad guys as sailor moon with the rest of her team. Power-ups were even better, because it meant cool new powers.

As an adult, I find myself wanting the cosmic powers that be to leave Usagi alone.

At the beginning of Sailor Moon R — the “Allen and Ann arc” that I once thought irredeemable — Usagi loses her transformation powers due to how scarred she is from fighting in the first season. She admits to Luna that she still wants to be a normal girl. The return of the silver crystal and her power-up then come from a bit of a compromise. Usagi still doesn’t want to fight, but more importantly, she doesn’t want her friends to get hurt and her new healing powers are born from this desire. The name of her new attack, “Moon Princess Halation” is also the first step towards accepting that Princess Serenity’s past is a part of her as Usagi Tsukino.

“I’ve come to rescue you from ‘boredom.'”

Oft-forgotten due to Yuuta Hibiki’s amnesia, Rikka Takarada’s awkwardness, and the initial launch of Gridman himself is the fact that none other than Akane Shinjou is our first introduction to the world of SSSS.Gridman. The title of the series first appears over a shot of her on the school rooftop, looking out at the city. She is dead center, position zero, the one entity that draws our attention. Leading up to this, there is a shot of the summer sky (another nod to Akane). Tsuburaya Productions’ title card appears over a shot of Akane’s scratch-filled desk, presumably from carving kaiju. Even the shot of shoes shows one purple shoe out of place, purple being the color most associated with Akane throughout the series. All of this tells us from the series’ very first visual sequence that Akane Shinjou is not like everyone else.

Akane is, in similar fashion to Haruhi Suzumiya, a god in this world.

“Akane Shinjou is one heavy-duty girl with both looks and talent. She’s like a miracle girl, someone the whole class likes!”

-Shou Utsumi to Yuuta Hibiki, SSSS.Gridman, Episode 1

Unlike Haruhi, Akane begins the show as an object of worship. SSSS.Gridman first frames her as the most popular girl in class: pretty, outwardly nice, well-endowed, and smart. Shou Utsumi has already placed her on a high pedestal, like most in their class, and admonishes the memory-less Yuuta for even suggesting that she’s in a league close to either of them. In this way she’s “worshipped” by her peers as much as any teenage girl can be worshipped and the camera of SSSS.Gridman follows. It simply loves her, much like many young women in anime.

Being an actual deity that destroys and rebuilds the city in a recurring cycle is an added layer on top of this. This naturally-occurring teenage hero worship of a pretty classmate becomes, in the words of Akane herself, a statement that she made all of them this way. “Everyone that lives here loves everything about me,” she tells Rikka in the eighth episode. “That’s why you and I are friends.”

Akane’s true nature is petty and murderous. She kills her classmate Sakiru Tonkawa over a sandwich. She attempts to kill her teacher for bumping into her in the hallway. Being a god doesn’t seem to give her any joy. She recognizes Rikka’s strong attachment to her and twists the knife by saying that Rikka was created to feel that way. When Gridman appears, it gives Akane a new purpose — as the opening song says, “I’ve come to rescue you from ‘boredom.'”

Since Yuuta, a boy with amnesia, is frequently our primary window into the world of SSSS.Gridman — which we later find out is of Akane’s making — there’s a lot of context still missing. An undercurrent of unease and dread follows his presumed rekindling of friendships with Shou and possibly Rikka as well. Something happened between Yuuta and each of them in the past of which we and he are still unaware.

This also applies to Rikka and Akane’s relationship, which seems far deeper than any other relationship in the series. At some point, they were close friends. At another point, things seemingly went sour, but not enough to make Rikka fully pull away. She still bought a gift with Akane in mind. In Episode 8 when even Shou backed off, despite his romantic worship of Akane’s person, Rikka refused to fight Akane until she could speak with Akane herself. (As an aside, part of the reason that the friction between Shou and Rikka is palpable in this episode could be seen as Shou recognizing that Rikka is a lot closer to Akane than he will ever be, a fight between her patrons, so to speak.)

Although SSSS.Gridman makes it clear that Akane isn’t truly omniscient — otherwise she’s playing dumb really well, again using others’ expectations of her to her advantage — the series’ camera can easily be seen as Akane peering in on her presumed minions. She sends drones throughout the city to scout, and the kaiju become, either symbolically or literally, her eyes and ears throughout the city.

SSSS.Gridman has made frequent use of obstructed-view shots throughout the series’ run, making it clear that someone is always watching. It makes sense for this someone to be Akane. Even though she doesn’t know everything, she observes the town, especially subjects that are of particular interest to her, like Rikka and Yuuta. In the scene immediately following Rikka’s confrontation with Akane on the bus, a streetlight blinks on overhead as Yuuta meets up with Rikka. Akane has been previously associated with summer sunlight, and this could be another nod to the fact that she’s listening in.

Shots like this are used to foreshadow conflict — in this case, Shou is separated by windowpanes as far as possible from Rikka, who is placed on a similar side as Yuuta — but they also tell us that someone is watching. Similarly shots like this, from around a vending machine, and the one featured above, which uses a fisheye lens as if Akane is creeping on them with one of her drones.

Lastly, there’s the alien entity Alexis Kerib to consider. Typically, an alien like Alexis would absolve Akane of her sins. Shou in particular initially supports this theory, as well as Rikka, because they both — whether it’s by Akane’s design or not — don’t want to believe badly of Akane. In Shou’s case, it’s the standard inability to believe that a pretty girl that he likes could be behind something so awful. In Rikka’s case, she doesn’t want to let go of her friendship with Akane.

Yet, SSSS.Gridman consistently places Akane’s pettiness and anger at the forefront of her character. Alexis may be responsible for the kaiju’s physical existence, but it’s Akane who wants them there. Akane chooses the targets. Akane designs the kaiju herself. And Akane, through her conversation with Yuuta at the restaurant, shows no remorse for the death of Tonkawa, even when in the restaurant of Tonkawa’s family — in fact, she purposefully takes Yuuta there, almost presenting the death as a trophy.

Even if this world is an entire creation of Akane’s imagination, fostered and brought to life in a computer, it doesn’t reflect well on her character. Alexis may be taking advantage of her anger, but Akane’s actions are still her own. The natural progression of the story would be for Akane to turn in the process of escaping her world. When this happens, the complexity of Akane’s character, and her actions taken in this world, should be considered. Akane is the star of this show, and not simply because she tells us so.

Minato Narumiya’s initial introduction is as a wide-eyed child at a kyuudou (the Japanese martial art of archery) event. He asks his mother about the sound that a bowstring makes when an arrow is released. After she answers, the series focuses on his back, turned towards the kyuudou tournament. It then cuts immediately to the broader back of an older Narumiya, rising to take his position in a kyuudou event. He solemnly goes through a series of motions before drawing his bow. Cut to the title screen. The visual transition seems clear. Narumiya, inspired by watching kyuudou with his mother when he was much younger, grew up to become a formidable archer himself.

Yet it was at this very event where Narumiya first failed. After he draws back that bowstring, he misses the target. Since that day, he has continued to suffer from target panic. When we meet him at the start of Tsurune: Kazemai Koukou Kyuudoubu he hasn’t left kyuudou entirely, but is instead torn between leaving entirely due to his target anxiety, and inevitably being drawn back to the art of kyuudou. This opening visual sequence sets up Narumiya’s plight perfectly, slightly subverting expectations while also making his emotional connection clear and strong.

Narumiya rarely shares his thoughts aloud. One of the few things we hear him thinking in the first episode is, “I’m not any better” after he fails a demonstration — admittedly, he was pressured into doing it — in front of prospective club members. We usually only hear what he says to others. The rest of his thoughts are flashbacks and memories. Tsurune‘s visuals fill the gap, providing nuanced insight into Narumiya’s emotions.

After failing the demonstration, Narumiya rides his bicycle home, crying as he’s flooded by memories. The sun sets. We see him riding away from the city. Once it’s dark outside, he pauses at a corner with the city behind him and the stairs to a shrine in front of him. That’s when he hears the tsurune sound.

Torii gates represent a crossing over from the mundane and everyday to the spiritual and divine. They’re used frequently in anime, not only because of their ubiquitous presence at shinto shrines, but because of this idea of crossing a boundary — Dennou Coil is an excellent example of this, with how torii gates mark key boundary points from the digital world to the mundane. Here, Narumiya is crossing a boundary, seemingly into an otherworldly, liminal space.

When we see Narumiya walking up the steps to the shrine, through the gates, he’s presented at a dutch angle, communicating that he is very uncomfortable. He grips his side, where we know he has a large scar — he clutches at his side frequently when anxious or distressed — indicative of a psychological wound that has yet to heal.

He hears the sound again and walks around the shrine itself to kyuudou dojo. Here’s where the lighting takes center stage. Most of the shrine is in cool blues and blacks. As Narumiya passes the sign leading to the dojo, we see his shadow cross the threshold, again indicative that he is crossing a boundary. The dojo has distinct red-tiled roofs that make it stand out and there’s an eerily bright source of moonlight that seems to only illuminate the field.

Light also plays a large part in how Masaki Takagawa is introduced, first in shadows and then we watch the light pan over Narumiya’s face and Takagawa’s body. Not only does this tell us that Narumiya may be able to find some of his answers here in this space after crossing the threshold, it also demonstrates how Narumiya really feels about kyuudou: it lights up his life.

Yet, not all is solved for Narumiya. It’s only the beginning. He is immediately placed on the opposite side of a fence as Takagawa, indicating their respective states of mind. Even when Takagawa invites Narumiya into the dojo to treat an injury, Narumiya is depicted as separated from Takagawa, not-so-coincidentally by archery supplies.

In this first meeting, the only thing that crosses the boundary between them is Takagawa’s bow. When Narumiya loudly refuses Takagawa’s request to shoot, scaring away his owl, the bow becomes an imposition.

Finally, when Narumiya runs away, he runs down and has to cross back through the torii gates, into the city, back to everyday life and, by extension, his anxiety. Tsurune firmly establishes this shrine, and Takagawa himself, as otherworldly. It’s a place that exists outside of some of his psychological problems, although they encroach occasionally, leading to frames that continue to separate Narumiya from Takagawa.

Tsurune‘s visual treatment of the shrine, Takagawa, and the way Narumiya uses it as a way to connect with kyuudou despite being too ashamed to join his school club leads to a possible misunderstanding on our parts as viewers to go along with Narumiya’s in-universe misunderstanding that Takagawa is a ghost who will disappear once he shoots 10,000 arrows.

When Narumiya runs and hugs Takagawa, stopping Takagawa from shooting his final few arrows, he crosses the final boundary. In turn, Takagawa allows Narumiya to shoot his final arrow for him, saying that it marks the end of one thing, but the beginning of another. There’s an acceptance that follows Narumiya’s disappointment — even in this space, that seems wholly separate from the club, his psychological problems, and his past, he still can’t hit the target. Both Takagawa and Narumiya suffer from target panic, and shooting the arrow becomes the final hurdle in Narumiya swallowing his guilt and shame enough to join the school club.

This doesn’t mean that Narumiya’s anxiety is fixed, far from it, but firing that 10,000th arrow and missing breaks the separation between this otherworldly space he had created for himself, and facing his problems in reality. Tsurune‘s visuals add necessary layers of nuance to Narumiya’s narrative.

Whenever I visit my parents’ house, I tend to travel along the same paths that I did when I lived there as a teenager and twenty-something. I grab a bagel at Bagel World, a breakfast staple that I cannot find in Los Angeles. I sit on the old heating grate as the air rises up to keep warm until pins and needles shoot up from my ankles, forcing me to shift my weight into a different position. I watch softly falling snow from the same vantage point — the window of my old room that faces the streetlamp. The curtains are now an odd purple color and the bed is a full-size, meant for guests instead of one young woman.

I don’t think I’m trying to relive the past, but in traveling these same paths, how much has changed in my life is brought into sharper focus. At the same time, I can’t help but wonder when I won’t feel like my parents’ child in their house.

When will I feel like an adult?

Phos’ journey whimsically begins with a dandelion seed in their hair and ends with a completely different body, fused together from materials outside of their phosphophyllite namesake. A one of a kind gem with a body that will seemingly accept any foreign material, Phosphophyllite becomes a curiosity to their peers. In the world of Land of the Lustrous, gems are sentient and their bodies managed by microorganisms called inclusions that bind the gems together. This means that they cannot die in a traditional sense — if their bodies are fractured, they can be repaired provided that the pieces are found — but with each piece of their bodies lost, they lose their memories.

Due to their immortality, many of the gems’ personalities are static, and their memories fully intact outside of a few bits and pieces that they may have lost along the way. This makes Phos’ journey — both within the scope of the anime series and outside of it in the ongoing manga — of particular interest. They are made up of several different materials and with each transformation, slowly become something new and completely different, much like a human does through living. We see how various changes to their body accompany learning new pieces of information, some of which Phos’ older peers already knew and accepted. All Phos wanted to do was fight. As their body becomes more adept at fighting, they also realize that the scope of what they initially knew was incredibly narrow.

Yet, with each new material that Phos takes on, Phos also retains their distinct and unique personality. Even if their specific memories are lost and their perspective changes, their innate personality remains. This is especially apparent in the later chapters of the manga, where we see Phos continue down the trajectory that the anime introduced because of their inability to accept parts of the status quo, a key part of Phos’ personality from the opening moments of the series.

I’m not a gem. My body changes with age. One day, it won’t exist at all, not because it was squirreled away by moon-dwelling Lunarians, but because I will die. This is still a difficult concept to grasp sometimes, especially when I’m visiting my parents, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be my room, glow-in-the-dark stars long since peeled-off and painted over. And even though I know I have changed, when I reach for a mug in the cupboard to make tea, or walk down a cold flight of cement stairs into the basement to do laundry, I still feel like a child. There are certain parts of me that will never change, despite growing older, some of which I love and many of which I hate. Perhaps I’ll learn to accept them one day. Regardless of whether that happens or not, I’ll continue to lose memories naturally, through aging rather than physical pieces of myself. There are already occasions that slip through my mind before I can grasp them, mixing with dreams, aspirations, and ambitions in my mind.

These thoughts are frequently a jumbled mess, but I love Land of the Lustrous, and Phosphophyllite, for inspiring and helping me sort through some of them.

This post is the first of the Twelve Days of Anime project for 2018 where I will publish one personal post a day about how anime I watched this year affected me. Here are my 2017 posts. 

Within my first month of high school, I carried an armful of drop cloths down a narrow flight of stairs, deep into the heart of the old building, a place that few students knew existed. The door opened, pushed with a considerable amount of force by one of the upperclassmen. He loomed over us in the doorway, made slightly menacing by the grey lighting, somehow dull while still making us wince and cover our eyes. Dust rose and fell in small clouds at my feet as I walked, kept low by the autumn humidity. Beside me, the few other freshmen tasked with carting props and supplies back and forth from the auditorium shivered from a chill in the air.

The old building was connected to two newer buildings by narrow hallways that never seemed to quite fit in with the existing decor. My history class in that same building had Cold War blackout curtains. As we shuffled forward, stepping around a variety of odd furniture, textile piles, a candelabra, and a painted carriage, two of my classmates began to snicker, pointing at a hole in the insulation next to a sign that read, “Danger! Asbestos.”

This was a Cold War bomb shelter. It also was the drama club prop and set storage room.

Remembering her junior high school days, Nana “Banana” Daiba lifts a blue curtain up from the all-important tower in the play Starlight. To her left, peering up from a box, are the two stars that leads Claire and Flora seek. A nearby palm tree lays flat next to the tower on the ground. The room is filled with props for the 99th performance of Starlight, a play that will never happen again in the exact same way. Now, it’s time for Banana to take part in the 100th performance.

It’s the natural conclusion of her time loop, which places the entirety of the 99th troupe in stasis until Karen Aijou (by way of Hikari Kagura) breaks the cycle. Trapping her peers through her ascendency to top stardom, Banana stood in the shadow of the tower as it appeared to be falling, along with the two stars. Bathed in a sickly yellow light, a shadow fell over her face as she clasped her dog-eared, bookmarked script.

Banana’s scene in the prop room is a natural reprise of this scene during the full reveal of her top star success, powers, and overwhelming desire to return to the familiar, always. Then, the tower was already falling. In the prop room, the tower has fell, grounded among boxes of props from the old performance, half-assembled set pieces, and a box with a similar, red paint that reads “99.” It’s time for the 100th showing to truly begin, but Banana hasn’t accepted it yet. Instead she stands, nearly catatonic, as she describes what happened to Junna Hoshimi. Why the time seems so much longer than it actually has been. Why she has to return to the 99th performance while surrounded by the 99th’s props packed away in boxes, disassembled, and laid on the floor.

A high school theatre prop room is a particularly weird place. With each performance, everything is reused. A fresh coat of paint turns a carriage into a farm cart. What was once a sandy beach set is cut up and pieced together as a Havana nightclub where Sergeant Sarah Brown and Sky Masterson fall in love. A palm tree is cut down to a warped, gnarled stump that sits in a dense, fog-machine-created background while Tommy Albright sings to Fiona MacLaren. “They next attacked a passing GOAT!” was shouted by the sons of Jacob in my senior year, but the wooden goat they comically attacked had been some other animal in another theatre lifetime. Everything in that bomb-shelter-turned-storage-room became something else throughout my four years in my high school’s drama club. The next year, they became another thing entirely. Props never stay in one show, for one purpose, for long.

Banana’s breakdown and confession to Junna is framed in a set and prop storage room. For Banana, it’s a room where the props from her show, her Starlight, have gone to die. Banana’s despondency at the loss of her 99th performance — she feels it slipping away, well out of reach, even while verbally doubling-down — is palpable and understandable. To Junna, it’s a waypoint before these props and sets become something new. A new star-gathering tower, new stars to finally be grasped, without separating the leads this time. For both, it’s a small first step towards Banana’s recovery. 

Before ubiquitous personality tests sorted people into houses belonging to a certain British magical boarding school, there was still anime. Sailor Moon used established, color-coded sentai archetypes and applied them to its five heroines of the first season as shortcuts for their personalities, or even slight variations on the established sentai status quo.

Like any Sailor Moon fan growing up in the early 2000s, I wanted to be like the sailor soldiers, but I wasn’t an Usagi. If anything, I was probably an Ami, stashing books under my pillow at night, keeping my nightlight on because I was “afraid of the dark” and waiting until the final light was flicked off out in the hallway to read books when I was supposed to be sleeping. In my dreary days stuck at home with pneumonia, I wished to be Hotaru, with the dark power of ending the world in my chuunibyou hands.

Usagi, despite her many flaws, was someone who I wanted to be — kind, gregarious, and with a natural ability to make friends. I valued Usagi’s personality more with each passing episode, until impassioned words from those closest to her brought the true value of her love for others into sharper focus, something I could then express into words. Even if I didn’t know how to make friends or keep friends myself, here was a roadmap of how it should look like, what caring for a friend, especially other young women, could look like.

Ami, I identified with. Usagi was a goal. Makoto — Lita, since I was on a strict diet of the English dub until I was allowed freer reign on the internet — was cool, someone who I wanted to be with, if I was being completely honest with myself at the time (I wasn’t). Minako, or Mina, was someone I admired. I ignored Rei, thinking at times that she was too perfect and overly mean to Usagi for no reason.

Now rewatching the entire first season of Sailor Moon for the first time, Rei Hino/Sailor Mars is now one of my favorite characters in the entire franchise.

Rei is a gigantic dork.

Somewhere between envying Usagi’s powers of friendship and somehow wanting to end up with Makoto, I missed the many, many nods to the fact that Rei is just as, if not more, hapless than Usagi at times. Like Usagi, she frequently cannot contain her overeagerness, be it for Tuxedo Mask/Mamoru Chiba. Rei really only reigns it in if Usagi is present so Rei can prove just how much more mature she is than Usagi. She is petty. Rarely cruel, but certainly willing to lord her latest victory over Usagi’s head. Fights with Usagi devolve into the two young women sticking out their tongues and making weird noises, jostling each other while the rest of the sailor soldiers try to ignore them both.

What I never realized as a child was that Usagi draws out this dorky side of Rei because of how deeply they grow to care about each other. Rei puts up emotional walls to block out most people, and Usagi smashed through them all with ease. I don’t buy into the saying that those who fight the most truly love each other the most, but in this specific case, it’s Rei meeting Usagi where she is, finally letting that guard down and allowing her to be her immature self.

There are myriad moments where the nuances of Rei’s character guide Usagi through the first season of Sailor Moon. My personal favorites all come after the discovery that Usagi is the moon princess, as Rei struggles with her genuine feelings for Mamoru. In that moment — despite the creepiness and asshole nature of Mamoru in general — my heart went out to Rei, who felt like she had to sort through her own feelings in silence in order to support Usagi through the same revelation and similar heartbreak. This is where it becomes abundantly clear that Rei would do anything for Usagi. The series reiterates this again and again, showing that Usagi returns Rei’s trust with her own. When making their way towards Queen Metallia and the final battle, it’s Rei who is the last sailor soldier at Usagi’s side.

Where my immature self couldn’t grasp the true greatness of Rei Hino, my adult self gravitated towards her more than any other character. Rei isn’t perfect. Many of Rei’s gripes about Usagi could easily be slights at her own personality. Rei can be immature, petty, and mean. But, at the end of the day, her love for Usagi shines through above all else, making her a guiding light for the others, and Usagi, to follow.

There will always be someone better than you.

I have an odd profession. One that inspires questions like, “How did you get into this?” Or, more frequently, “What is this?” Depending on how much people know about my career, they’ll ask what my endgame is — because writing about people playing videogames professionally is thought of as a stepping stone, not a home — what my goals are within and beyond the esports space. My answer is always the same: to be the best writer. Not the best in my field, but the best writer.

At the beginning of her stage girl career, Hikari Kagura lives a charmed life via natural talent and hard work. She shines onstage. She throws herself into her lessons, and later, the revue duels. And she lands one of the leads in the Royal Academy of Theatrical Actors latest performance. Hikari is the reason why Karen Aijou is enrolled at Seisho Music Academy in Japan, with plans that the two will reunite once trained to perform Starlight together. Between the two, it’s obvious that Karen needs more training and has less raw talent. There are times where Hikari appears to have forgotten all about Karen, flourishing in the duels until she meets the Royal Academy’s top star, Judy Knightley.

Judy is everything Hikari is and more. She has the raw talent and the Takarazuka Revue-influenced physical requirements. As Hikari shoots up the duel rankings, it’s Judy who stops Hikari in her tracks, defeating her with ease. This causes Hikari to lose her luster and ability as a stage girl. She fails not only on the dueling stage but in her classes and on the actual stage, leaving her peers confused. It’s not until she reunites with Karen that she regains her luster and stage prowess.

Shoujo ☆ Kageki Revue Starlight is a bit loose as to whether this luster or talent is a physical thing that is taken from Hikari (shown by the length of her weapon) in the duels, or simply a confidence issue. Hikari’s confidence is important regardless. Her loss to Judy confuses her, halts her momentum completely, and causes Hikari to rethink her career as a stage girl entirely. This affects Hikari when she returns to Japan and does reunite with Karen — ultimately leading to Hikari’s inability to think outside of the revue’s societal constraints. Only when Karen breaks the cycle does Hikari really come to terms with her own strong desire to stand onstage.

For me personally, Hikari’s first defeat was more of a figurative loss of her “shine” rather than a magical siphoning of talent. While the giraffe insists that shine, or talent, must be taken from the other stage girls to create a top star, the giraffe is ultimately revealed as an audience stand-in, pointing out that we, as a viewing audience, are complicit in helping create the toxic Takarazuka top star system. Like most societal cycles, it’s not wholly any one person or entity’s fault, but the audience expects to be entertained at the very least and through the years, the top star came to belong to that audience. Judy as the Royal Academy’s top star takes from Karen in a similar way to how a musumeyaku like Claudine Saijou gives everything for her top star in Maya Tendou. The giraffe/audience pits these young women against each other with the desire that they will ultimately be entertained.

The moment that Hikari lost to Judy, I felt for her. Knowing in your mind that there will always be someone better than you — perfection is an ideal not an attainable goal and other myriad phrases that suit this particular situation — is far less affecting than having it demonstrated physically at the expense of your pursuit of perfection. I want to be the best writer and already I can feel others closing in on me, outside and inside of my profession. It’s not a great feeling. Some days, I just want to throw my computer across the room. Every word is bad. Everyone else is better.

These are the days to dig in. To realize between gritted teeth and the iron taste of blood from biting a bottom lip in frustration, that there’s always the next stage, the next article, the next interview. Keep moving. Find your stage.