“Myoue, I’ve been wondering, can we stay together a little longer? We’ve come all this way, and even came back to life and all. I can promise I’ll finish everything off. Let’s stay together just a little longer.”

-Koto to Myoue, Kyousougiga, Episode 10

A common thread in Rie Matsumoto’s directorial work is the inevitable destruction of whatever world she has spent the majority of the series or movie building. There is a ruined garden, structures flying everywhere, and an overall sense of disorientation in the face of the work’s respective protagonist coming to terms with what is most important to them.

As it turns out, what is most important is also wholly mundane and unquantifiable.

The finale of Matsumoto’s latest work, Blood Blockade Battlefront, finally aired this past weekend to a smattering of applause and general satisfaction with very little high praise. Having been delayed for several months, it was eagerly anticipated, but the wait did not do it any favors.

Much of the criticism of this finale, and Blood Blockade Battlefront as a whole, stems from adding two anime original characters – Black/William Macbeth and White/Mary Macbeth – and mashing it up with an episodic presentation of the original shounen manga material. The combination does neither narrative favors, and viewers are widely split on which portion or style of presentation they prefer. However, the Black and White subplot also notably injects the series with a shot of undiluted Rie Matsumoto, adding another narrative to her growing ouevre.

“Don’t so easily reject the world that you’re going to live in from now on. Then I’m sure we’ll be able to stay together forever.”

-White/Mary Macbeth to Black/William Macbeth, Blood Blockade Battlefront, Episode 12

Blood Blockade Battlefront, much like Kyousougiga before it, ends in an all-consuming destruction of the world that the lead character, Leonardo Watch, has spent the past eleven episodes inhabiting. There are a myriad of available parallels between Leonardo’s relationship with his sister Michella, and William’s relationship with his sister Mary.

When initially faced with the choice between his own eyes or his sister’s, Leonardo freezes while Michella speaks, effectively sacrificing herself for her brother. Similarly, William invites one of The Thirteen Kings – the “King of Despair” – into his body under the assumption that it will save the life of his sister, Mary. Leonardo spends the better part of the series attempting to piece together a meaning for his existence while William grapples with the fact that he didn’t wholly mind the idea of harboring the King of Despair, since a world without his sister is admittedly the end of the world for him regardless.

“The thing is, I can’t love myself the same way. I keep doubting myself. Our father entrusted the perfect world he wished for to my brother, and governing it means keeping the things in it as they are. So what’s my job? I can create life. Rebirth and devastation are in my hands. My power contradicts my role as an observer.”

-Myoue to Lady Koto, Kyousougiga, Episode 10

There’s another line to be drawn from Blood Blockade Battlefront to Rie Matsumoto’s Kyousougiga. William Macbeth resembles Kyousougiga‘s original High Priest Myoue, in that he has been born with an exorbitant amount of power and struggles daily with wielding it in addition to what it means for his everyday existence. While his sister Mary wrestles with her own inferiority complex for having no psychic powers, William grapples with what having a massive amount of power means, especially when his inability to control it can spell disaster for those he cares about.

Myoue retreats inwardly, closing himself off to the world until Lady Koto is granted human form and essentially saves him by falling in love with him. This never quite erases his own self-hatred, as he arranges things so that his adopted son – whom he forcibly brought back to life against his will – Yakushimaru, and his daughter Koto will take his place as gods, erasing his entire presence from existence. Naturally, Koto rejects this, explaining herself by a well-placed headbutt and a rudimentary description of love that lists the things they used to do as father and daughter. Regardless of how mundane these actions were – eating together, watching the sunset together – Koto’s words reiterate the idea that love, and reasons to live, are better defined through simple actions shared with other people, if love can be defined at all.

Black/William Macbeth also finds himself on the receiving end of a well-timed headbutt in Blood Blockade Battlefront, not from his sister Mary, but from Leonardo Watch, the possessor of the “all-seeing eyes of god.” As mentioned previously, both Leonardo and William possess extraordinary amounts of supernatural power, and both struggle with what that means for themselves and those around them.

Leonardo, thanks to the help of Libra, learns throughout the course of the series what his power means and, more importantly, how to accept himself in spite of it. The peanut gallery of Blood Blockade Battlefront constantly reiterates that Leonardo is completely ordinary in his actions and how he responds to supernatural situations that arise. In this ordinary way, he also is able to help Mary/White face her own fear, allowing her to eventually save her brother.

In both of these series, the destruction and salvation of the world is incredibly personal but not complex. All of the supernatural powers end up ancillary to the raw emotional narrative of human love – romantic or familial. The addition of Black and White to Blood Blockade Battlefront‘s narrative may not have been to everyone’s taste, but it makes for another strong, distinct piece in Rie Matsumoto’s portfolio.

As the recognizable arpeggiated chords of Bach’s Prelude from Suite No. 1 for the cello deliberately and slowly play, the premiere episode of The Perfect Insider introduces us to two women. The first, Shiki Magata, is introduced through one scene and a monologue. The second, Moe Nishinosono, through specific framing of in-between spaces.

“Everyone convinces themselves that life is an enjoyable thing. She, however, was always thinking about how much of a burden it was.”

-from the opening monologue, The Perfect Insider, Episode 1

Dr. Shiki Magata’s introduction is visually heavy-handed. Accompanied by the monologue’s words of ennui, what’s important is not whether we, as viewers, agree with this particular outlook on life, but that Dr. Magata absolutely believes these words herself. Following shots of the diary writer, along with an empty chair, we next see that chair filled, presumably by Dr. Magata herself. Her hands are placed neatly over a diary with the same pattern as the shadows from the chair form visible handcuffs or shackles, chaining her to the ordinary – in this case, represented by the diary which we know from the first scene says “Every day is a new day.”

Interestingly enough, this is one of the few scenes dominated by warm reds rather than the greys, blues, and greens of the rest of this episode.

The only other scene to take on these tones is in another flashback, this time presumably to Shiki Magata’s childhood. Even in this scene, the future Dr. Magata quickly becomes pensive, adopting a bored stare that later encapsulates her entire presence as an adult.

Presented as a secluded bored genius who was rumored to have murdered her parents, Dr. Shiki Magata is nonetheless present when the scenery itself reflects a human emotion other than ennui – the aforementioned warm colors – even when visibly chained to a human existence, the diary. This is coupled with Professor Souhei Saikawa’s words that Dr. Magata had grown a bit stupid, stupid enough to take an interest in other people.

Where Dr. Magata, even as a child, is presented quietly and stoically, Moe Nishinosono is incredibly scattered. Making the assumption that warm colors are a code for more human emotions and cold colors, which dominate the episode, are coded for more muted expressions or a complete lack of emotional involvement, Moe’s outfit with one red legging and one blue is incredibly confused.

Stuck between going along with her baser desires – her attraction to Professor Saikawa and her coquettish emotional manipulation – and diving full into the emotionally-detached philosophy that is presented in dialogue throughout. Moe is unable to chose between the two. Splitting the difference doesn’t work either. Her attempts to manipulate Professor Saikawa fail, and she’s not disconnected from her own emotions enough to hide her jealousy.

Adding to the discord of her outfit is the fact that Moe is not initially seen from a front-facing position. Her presentation in The Perfect Insider‘s first episode is one of obstructed views – where her head or another body part is cut off – narrow in-between spaces, and indirect angles of her face. The first clear, forward-facing close-up of her face is shown in a mirror, not from the series’ camera.

When placed side-by-side, Dr. Magata has the upper hand. She’s shown in the front-facing position for the entire conversation and makes Moe respond rather than lead. Most interestingly, when these two meet – albeit over a video call – Dr. Magata is framed in red where Moe is framed in blue. This could hint towards what Professor Saikawa had said, that Dr. Magata is taking a newfound interest in people or her own emotions while Moe is trying to hide hers or throw hers away. Lastly, the largest amount of emotion that Dr. Magata shows is when Moe asks her who she is.

The promised mystery of The Perfect Insider has yet to take over the narrative, but the first episode’s visuals did a fantastic job of introducing and framing these two women.

“When you think about what is scary in this world, those that despise you for some incomprehensible reason and attack you are the scariest. There’s no way to deal with it, because you don’t know the opponent’s objective.”

-Koyomi Araragi, Owarimonogatari, Episode 2

And so begins the search for Sodachi Oikura’s motive, along with the supposed “end” of Koyomi Araragi.

Presumably, the mystery is of the root of Oikura’s hatred towards Araragi. It appears incomprehensible not because it actually is beyond understanding, but because it’s still beyond the scope of Araragi’s understanding. The scope of Araragi’s understanding – we, as viewers, come to realize – is limited by his own inability to accept his past and personal convictions.

From the moment of Araragi’s introduction and initial monologue in Bakemonogatari, we know that he is a person who can’t help but try to save other people, or get involved in their lives. Much of this is for his own self-satisfaction and possible self-loathing. He repeatedly stated early in the chronological Monogatari timeline, that he just wanted to die for someone.

“Well, it’s true that you did often take care of me. You were always kind to people who were below you.”

-Hitagi Senjougahara to Sodachi Oikura, Owarimonogatari, Episode 2

Bakemonogatari reiterates this almost immediately through the character of Hitagi Senjougahara. She points out that Araragi didn’t come to her aid because he wanted something in return, or because it was her, he simply would have done the same for anyone. Not-so-coincidentally, it is one of the reasons why she falls in love with him. Owarimonogatari returns to Senjougahara’s roots in her statement to Oikura about none other than Araragi. Senjougahara is helping Araragi prepare for college entrance exams because she wants to attend the same school as her lover. She’s not worried about Araragi expressing gratitude or appreciation because, should he be accepted into the same college, her goal will have already been met.

Senjougahara’s pointed dialogue with Oikura – along with Oikura’s heated response – suggests that Oikura was another person who had tried to help Senjougahara in the past, and it’s heavily implied that Oikura did it not for the glory of helping others, not for the love of self-sacrifice, but to place others beneath herself. More importantly, Oikura is separated, both figuratively and visually, from two young women who have already made peace with their own shortcomings: the aforementioned Senjougahara, and Tsubasa Hanekawa.

In contrast, Oikura has allowed her past with Araragi – whatever it may be – to fester and stew for years. Owarimonogatari‘s second episode makes it clear that Oikura and Araragi’s relationship with one another goes well beyond the classroom mystery that was introduced, and relatively solved, in the previous episode. It is also clear that this mystery of Oikura’s hatred is rooted in the reasoning behind a person’s affinity for helping others, be it altruistic, selfish, or somewhere in between.

Araragi’s natural tendencies to interfere in the lives of others at the cost of his own life or humanity were called into question by Yotsugi Ononoki in the more recent Tsukimonogatari, as well as Kaiki Deishuu in Koimonogatari. The former warned Araragi against bargaining away his own humanity in exchange for saving everyone, while the latter skewered him for aiding Nadeko Sengoku’s descent into madness. In both cases, Araragi watches as someone else – Ononoki and Kaiki – solves the problem for him, rendering him unable to play the hero. Owarimonogatari returns to Sengoku Nadeko ever so briefly in this second episode and, like Tsukimonogatari before it, leaves a lingering sense of Araragi’s guilt regarding both his treatment of Nadeko and his inability to save her.

Araragi and Oikura have shared interests, primarily mathematics, and they both appear as people who desire to help others, or who have helped others in the past with varying results. Unlike Oikura, Araragi has seemingly buried his personal past until now, where Oikura – along with constant prodding from the ever-creepy Ougi Oshino – has allowed previously interred emotions to bubble to the surface. Meanwhile, Oikura has allowed her emotions to continuously eat away at her for the past two years. Both are unable to face whatever ails them, but come from opposite ends of the learning and healing process.

Strong visual direction doesn’t simply look beautiful, although that’s certainly an aim. The strongest of visuals lead one’s eye down a specific path, telling a story just as well as any dialogue or script. In some cases, like that of The Perfect Insider, they do the heavy narrative lifting, making parts of the script seem rote and tedious in comparison.

In spite of a few animation and perspective struggles,  The Perfect Insider is a slow burn of an anime series that relies more on its visual direction and cinematography than its writing or dialogue, which is somewhat surprising considering that it’s based on a mystery novel. Where one would expect the series to focus primarily on the verbal sparring between two would-be detectives – Professor Souhei Saikawa and his student, Moe Nishinosono – the audience’s eye is instead drawn to the aforementioned Moe and Dr. Shiki Magata.

“There were too many people around her who treated her as a genius, but to me she was just a thirteen year-old girl. No, I had thought of her as a girl but, whenever I was alone with her, there was always a slight sense of terror. She ruled my life. She toyed with it. Or perhaps, I wanted her to rule it, and to toy with it.”

-ending narration on Dr. Shiki Magata, The Perfect Insider, Episode 2

Placing these two leading ladies side-by-side results in an undercurrent of emotional manipulation throughout the series’ second episode. Scenes of the thirteen year-old Shiki Magata and her older male caretaker are interspersed with Moe’s present-day outburst to her older male professor, Saikawa.

Their conversations mirror each other, with similar lines of dialogue repeated. They want to see the beach at night – to the confusion of their specific guardians. They feel trapped by how they’re treated like children by their male peers, each wanting more from their relationships that neither respective man is fully committed to reciprocating. When their individual advances are brushed aside, both lament, “This is the worst.” The young Shiki Magata sinks down in the seat of her caretaker’s car like a child, while Moe tries to storm off towards the laboratory ahead of Professor Saikawa.

In both instances, there’s a desperate sense to be taken seriously, or be seen as something else other than a child genius, in the case of Shiki Magata, or a student, in the case of Moe Nishinosono. Running these conversations parallel to one another shows how these women are trapped by their circumstances.

More interestingly are the following emotional machinations that each try to manipulate or wield to their advantage. Shiki capitalizes on her caretaker’s strained relationship with his wife – his wedding ring has been prominently featured in both episodes – inspiring fear and awe in the object of her affection. In contrast, Moe is far less successful. She is shown to be quite adept at manipulating people into doing her bidding, but these attempts are consistently stymied by the person whom she wants to impress, or control, the most: Professor Saikawa. Interestingly enough, as societal mores would have it, he’s technically the more accessible of the two, due to his unattached status.

Throughout these scenes, Shiki Magata and Moe Nishinosono’s faces are shown intermittently in the darkness thanks to car headlights and a flashlight respectively. This allows their emotions to display more prominently on their faces, which is especially interesting in the case of the young Dr. Magata. Often, in pursuit of intelligence, people are shown throughout various media that disregarding their emotions is the correct way to go about becoming smarter. Professor Saikawa reiterates this himself, espousing that people grow increasingly stupid as they age and interact with one another. He cites Dr. Magata’s acquiescence to see Moe at all as a sign of this.

The older, present-day Magata shows very little emotion, to the point where the series hints that she might be an AI or robot from conversations between Professor Saikawa and Magata Labs’ Yamane Yukihiro. Yet her younger self, shown at age five in the first episode and thirteen in this episode, willingly expressed emotion, curiosity, and interest, all while presumably at the “height” of her genius. Dr. Magata’s emotions are muted in comparison to Moe’s vivaciousness but present, actively refuting the AI theory until The Perfect Insider provides more information.

“I shall start by saying that I did not come here of my own free will. But, many things inside me have taken on lives of their own. You could say, in a sense, that has stabilized me.”

-Dr. Shiki Magata to Moe Nishinosono, The Perfect Insider, Episode 2

In her conversation with Moe, Dr. Magata also says that things began to change, presumably within her own body, which allowed her to denote the passage of time in spite of having no access to the outside world. The two then speak of how necessary, or unnecessary, physical contact is for a human being. Dr. Magata tells Moe that, in time, physical contact will become a luxury as opposed to an everyday occurrence. Interestingly enough, Dr. Magata’s younger self is later shown using physical contact as another means of emotional manipulation or expression.

The climax of The Perfect Insider‘s second episode shows a doll-like figure moving on an automated service tray that was shown previously in the same episode. This adds further mystery to the character of Dr. Magata, who had repeatedly said that a doll had killed her parents. Not-so-coincidentally, Moe Nishinosono is the one person who identifies the “doll” as Dr. Magata. Once again, both women are shown in alternating brightness and darkness as the lights at the Magata Laboratory flicker on and off.

Moe’s initial video conversation with Dr. Magata – as established by Yamane – was an outlier. There, Dr. Magata spoke of things unrelated to her work, and opened up, ever so briefly, about her personal life and general outlook. The visual direction constantly places these two women side-by-side, and the true mystery of The Perfect Insider is how exactly they’re related to one another.

A tradition of detective fiction, the locked room mystery requires very little at its core. There are no exotic locales required, nor are many props or even people required. At its essence, a locked room mystery can thrive in simplicity– a standard crime scene, limited access, and an ultimately solvable situation for the detective, if not the audience as well.

This same simplicity is accompanied by many pitfalls. If the mystery is solvable for the audience, it cannot be too difficult or too easy, lest they come away disappointed. When the mystery revolves more around the characters themselves, said characters must be interesting or emotionally resonant. A simple setup makes both poor characterization or the lack of a compelling mystery all the more apparent.

In anime, the presentation of a locked room mystery is compounded by the difficulty of showing the mystery – often accompanied by large swaths of expository dialogue – visually, without giving too much away and all while captivating the viewer.

No stranger to verbosity, Owarimonogatari – the latest in the Monogatari series to air – begins with its own locked room mystery for lead Koyomi Araragi and his right-hand woman of convenience, Ougi Oshino. This conundrum is far more interested in answering questions about Araragi himself and his past, rather than involving the audience in coming to a conclusion. Any audience of Owarimonogatari is likely familiar with Araragi – also Ougi to some extent – and the series uses this to its advantage.

Owarimonogatari‘s locked room in question is introduced in a series of shots establishing the room as a classroom with no escape. An eerie green geometric pattern occupies the walls and floor of the room, hinting at the fact that this room is isolated due to an oddity or supernatural occurance – which Araragi later confirms.

Next, there is a wider shot of the room in its entirety, emphasizing a generic classroom setting and both Ougi and Araragi’s positions. Ougi notably takes her spot at the head of the class, a position later occupied by Araragi and, in flashbacks, Sodachi Oikura.

The room’s decor shifts several times, all while remaining a standard and recognizable classroom. Monogatari the anime consistently uses quirky interior and exterior design as an ever-changing art installation that characters happen to inhabit, so this is not something new that was introduced for the locked room mystery. Additionally, because the mystery is located within Araragi himself, the background deviations hint at Araragi’s mood or thought process, keeping the viewer entertained while Ougi probes Araragi’s memories.

Other mystery series like Hyouka have relied on icons, objects, and visual shortcuts to guide the viewer through the deductive process. As mentioned previously, Monogatari already uses these tools to provide insight on a particular character’s mental or emotional state. When presenting the locked room mystery, not only do the backgrounds shift, but students are represented by desks. When said students need further definition, they are given a floating name or icon – like a dustpan – leaving Araragi and Oikura as the only two students given actual human form.

An entirely separate post could be written on how Ougi is framed as a shadow of Araragi throughout Owarimonogatari. Most importantly in Ougi Formula, she is visibly presented as both a part of him, and additionally as someone who makes him extremely uncomfortable. Unlike previous Monogatari installments where a female character is subjected to specific leering camera angles in Araragi’s proximity, Ougi exhibits a similar interest and closeness, all while putting him ill at ease. At the end of Ougi Formula, the mystery of what happened in Araragi’s past is solved, but the mystery of Ougi’s relationship with Araragi is introduced and given further weight through the series’ visuals.

In contrast, The Perfect Insider offers a much more straightforward locked room mystery setting. Dr. Shiki Magata is found dead while Moe Nishinosono and Souhei Saikawa are visiting her laboratory. It’s a so-called “impossible” murder, with seemingly no way for the killer to enter or exit her room, where she was kept isolated from the world. There are a set number of individuals present, and viewers are invited by the visuals to become detectives themselves alongside Nishinosono and Saikawa.

Immediately establishing that there is only one door into Dr. Magata’s room, the door – to the left in the screenshot above – is shown frequently throughout, emphasizing the close quarters of the laboratory as well as the entrance itself.

The close quarters of the laboratory are also a visual focus. Not only is the one door a focal point, but the proximity of each character to one another is also emphasized, often by framing individuals with other characters located in the foreground but out-of-focus. This gives the entire laboratory, in spite of its sleek and modern appearance, a worn and cramped feeling.

This also draws the audience’s attention to both the foreground and the focal point. For example, the last shot shows Nishinosono and Saikawa’s reaction to the director’s murder, while presenting the director in the foreground with a knife in his back. The arrival of Shiki Magata’s sister, Miki, by helicopter is framed by both Nishinosono and Yukihiro Yamane. Both figures seem to envelop her, capturing Miki into the same locked crime scene that has already trapped the others.

Additionally, even in wider or larger spaces of the laboratory – including an exterior look from the helicopter pad – space is crowded and movement restricted by doors, fences, glass, or even a security camera lens. All of this further highlights the locked room aspect of this mystery.

Owarimonogatari stressed the awkward relationship between Araragi and Ougi, while The Perfect Insider reiterates its limited landscape and the closed nature of the laboratory. Due to the inclusion of the audience in solving the mystery, details are continuously highlighted and presented for the viewer to digest. The deduction is not aided by icons or stand-ins, as The Perfect Insider also wishes to trap the viewer within a similar landscape and continuously prod them into solving the mystery themselves.

There are certain accepted truths in respective fandoms that one simply does not challenge, lest they draw the ire of nearly every other fan. In 2011, The Idolm@ster was brought to the small screen – sorry, 2007 Xenoglossia, it just wasn’t your time – creating an entirely new subset of Idolm@ster fans who were introduced to the franchise through the anime, rather than the game. This naturally gave rise to a battleground upon which favorites were declared, championed, and to this day are consistently fought for in a never-ending “best girl” war.

Naturally, this didn’t end with The Idolm@ster. For the franchise as a whole, the anime Idolm@ster cast is only the beginning – and had already expanded the game cast beyond the original ten girls to include the 961/Project Fairy idols – and delving into the games or fandom around that time led to the girls of 346 Productions, or the Cinderella Girls. When the 2015 Cinderella Girls anime aired, it was met with inevitable dismay and found lacking to the 2011 anime. Many dropped the series after the first few episodes, as these new girls couldn’t compete with their tried and true favorites.

It is commonly accepted that Cinderella Girls is inferior to The Idolm@ster, a statement that I wholeheartedly disagree with. A viewer who sticks with Cinderella Girls to the end is rewarded far beyond any emotional gratification that the 2011 anime provides.

While I love the Idolm@ster anime – it introduced me to the franchise, after all – it has a glaring and obvious weakness towards the end of the series. Following the resolution of Chihaya Kisaragi’s narrative, Haruka Amami takes the figurative center stage. Her story begins strong, but ultimately drifts into a marshmallow saccharine ending that supports Haruka’s selfishness while also calling other 765 Production idols self-centered for following their own paths and projects.

Haruka has a mental breakdown due to a lack of identity when the agency as a whole becomes more popular, and individuals go their own separate ways. In spite of excelling at her own current project – a drama where she earns the lead role over fellow 765 idol Miki Hoshii – Haruka is constantly hung up on the fact that it’s only fun being an idol if everyone is together. Instead of allowing her to truly overcome her own self-doubt and be content with the friends she has made, regardless of proximity both figurative and literal, The Idolm@ster rewards Haruka’s selfishness. Miki retracts her valid criticism of Haruka’s thought process, and the anime ends with all 13 idols happily performing and picnicking together.

The Idolm@ster Cinderella Girls follows the tried and true formula of the original Idolm@ster anime, and with a bloated cast and less distinct characters it primarily fails until the waning episodes of the first season. Shifting focus from the standard harem elements, Cinderella Girls pits the personality-driven methods of a surly-looking but soft-hearted Producer against the sleeker, corporate values of 346 Production Executive Director Mishiro.

Were this the original Idolm@ster series, Producer’s more emotional approach would win out against the vile machinations of Director Mishiro. However, Cinderella Girls chooses to highlight both methods, leaving it up to audience interpretation as to whether one is better than the other.

“We’re not on the same wavelength. I focus on the castle. Ash-covered dreams are most important to you. We’re as far apart as ever.”

-Director Mishiro to Producer, The Idolm@ster Cinderella Girls, Episode 25

Director Mishiro’s production style is characterized by the castle, meaning the overarching high standards of the entire company – Mishiro Entertainment is is a large corporation and 346 Productions is but one subdivision – while Producer’s style is the Cinderella herself, pre-transformation. Many of their disagreements revolve around Uzuki Shimamura, an average girl with a cute smile – the Cinderella Girls version of Haruka.

Uzuki suffers a similar breakdown to Haruka’s when her two unit counterparts in New Generations, Rin Shibuya and Mio Honda, are selected for other projects, or put New Generations aside for other things. In Mio’s case, she goes through her own respective self-doubt, but discovers a genuine love of acting in the process. Rin, who was initially hesitant to join Mishiro’s Triad Primus unit, blossoms into one of the Cinderella Project’s strongest idols. These girls don’t want to leave their original unit behind, but moving forward leads to invaluable experiences.

Through their final concert as a full group, Uzuki realizes that she’ll always have their friendship and New Generations, even while pursuing her own path of self-discovery without them. Most importantly, this requires no capitulation from Rin, Mio, or even Director Mishiro. The series doesn’t bend to the will of Uzuki, but still allows her to progress at her own pace. At the end, the Cinderella Project takes on new members, while the Cinderella Girls are shown happily in their respective side projects. Where The Idolm@ster short-changed Haruka, Cinderella Girls does right by Uzuki and 346 Productions, making it a more genuine series.

Before watching a single Mobile Suit Gundam property, the franchise was initially described to me in the immortal three words of American General William T Sherman: “war is hell.” It was subsequently chronicled as “the worst 30-minute toy commercial,” but for this post, I’m primarily going to focus on the former. Epitomized by this age-old narrative, most Gundam series I’ve seen inevitably return to this trope, especially those within the Universal Century timeline.

The original Mobile Suit Gundam 0079 movie trilogy – I’ll confess to never having watched the original series, although those who have watched both the moves and the series assure me that the movies are better – and embodies this throughout. Amuro Ray, and later Kamille Bidan of Zeta Gundam, are children of Federation engineers and officer; however, they certainly don’t know the hardships of war initially, especially Amuro. Thrust into war when his colony is attacked, the somewhat withdrawn Amuro steps into the Gundam cockpit out of necessity, not desire. Mobile Suit Gundam and Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam are bildungsromans for Amuro and Kamille respectively as much as they are about duplicitous agents, political intrigue, or even the robots themselves.

“Gundam orphans” carried with it a separate connotation prior to the recent Mobile Suit Gundam Iron-Blooded Orphans debut. A trope entirely unto itself – paid homage to in series like Eureka Seven – the Gundam orphan is also a product of the UC timeline, first appearing the in the original Mobile Suit Gundam with the oft-obnoxious and high-energy trio of Katz, Letz, and Kikka.

Iron-Blooded Orphans immediately eschews the traditional coming of age story catalyzed by “war is hell” in presenting us with characters who already know the horrors of war. They are both war orphans and child soldiers with hearts pre-hardened prior to gracing the small screen. The series sprinkles in moments showcasing their humanity – Biscuit Griffon is a particularly nice boon to the series in this regard – however; it’s clear from the initial cold open featuring a young Mikazuki Augus and Orga Itsuka that these are children very familiar with war. For good measure, another sub-section of war orphans are added in the form of Akihiro Altland and his fellow “Human Debris,” children who are conscripted into the Chryse Guard Security against their will courtesy of human trafficking. Additionally, while these young men are technically enlisted in the Chryse Guard Security, their Third Army Corps is deserted by their superiors as early as the premiere episode.

Therefore, Iron-Blooded Orphans becomes a story of children trying to organize themselves and discover a method of moving forward without relying on aid from anyone. Gundam had previously trained me to watch out for various shifting goalposts and alliances, but Iron-Blooded Orphans‘ one “betrayal” thus far was so telegraphed that I cannot type it without sarcastic quotation marks. It also props up a cartoonish adult buffoon as the children’s adversary – used as more of a springboard for them to showcase their tactical prowess, fighting skills, and luck – not as any source of dramatic tension. As of the series’ fifth episode, Iron-Blooded Orphans is more interested in the birth of their rebellious organization, the Tekkadan, from the existing Chryse military, rather than the larger-scale political conflict.

Naturally, one feeds into the other, and the shadows of the greater military dispute loom over the small Tekkadan. The very existence of Chryse’s Princess Kudelia – and the tension-filled “chance” meeting of Orga and Mikazuki with opposing Gjallarhorn officers McGillis Fareed and Gaelio Bauduin – point towards the strained political landscape that the Tekkadan will learn to maneuver.

The opening song of Iron-Blooded Orphans – sung by the aptly-named MAN WITH A MISSION – “Raise Your Flag,” provides an interesting framework for what is already shaping up to be a personal series defined by its characters. Flag-raising is usually associated with an alliance of some kind, or respective national pride. The leads of Iron-Blooded Orphans, Kudelia aside, have no allegiances outside of the ones they make with each other through the creation of the Tekkadan. Instead, they are more unified by circumstance and defiance, creating their own flag to fly under as they go off to battle.

Iron-Blooded Orphans doesn’t have one defining moment where its characters are faced with the fact that war is hell, they have already lived it. The question is now of what meaning they find under their own emblem.

I’ve never needed much sleep. Even as a child, sleep was an obnoxious fact of life that stopped me from doing things. However, as a child, I was unable to choose when I was supposed to sleep, and spent hours staring at my ceiling mind racing.

One of the many habits developed from this was placing life events into timelines. I would choose an event, say a family vacation I had specifically enjoyed, and count the days backwards to it.

“Sixty-three days ago, at this exact moment, I was at a sleepover at Diana’s house.”

With a starting point in mind, I then filled in the blanks from that point until the present day and organize my thoughts. This automatic filing of my own activities persists to this day. Even now, I sometimes wonder what watershed of events led to the particular moment that I’m living in right now.

Time is a weird, slippery thing that we attempt to define and quantify, but thinking about it from a personal perspective is horrifying enough to cause heart palpitations. The tiny decisions to do or not to do something add up, and it’s all too often only later down the road that we bother to look back and attempt to piece together how things happened.

Concrete Revolutio is a series commenting on, among other things, the passage of time. This is partially due to its oft-maligned design, where the story skips forward to the future and then back to the present or past. However, it eschews the common time-travel – or time-focused – narrative where ramifications of one’s actions are explicit, choosing instead to highlight the gap between past and future. No butterfly will pop up in these characters’ periphery, telling them that their actions have consequences. Instead, the result is shown alongside the initial action, leaving both the viewer and the in-universe characters themselves wondering how point A led to point B.

While others have denounced Concrete Revolutio for needless complication – deeming time skips completely irrelevant I see it as the series’ equivalent of organizing thoughts. Each episode shows a different character musing on how things have changed. Within the various looks at the future that the series reveals, some characters frame their lives with events that they deem beyond their own control, while others stew on how their own actions changed everything.

The boy ghost Fuurouta is Concrete Revolutio‘s most obvious example as his future self anguishes over when things became complicated. Being a ghost, Fuurouta will never truly age, but his later words show both confusion and introspection, as even one who is physically incapable of growing is mentally affected by the consequences of his own actions.

In contrast to characters like Fuurouta, or the magical girl Kikko Hoshino – who are shown at different time periods contemplating or trying to fix what their actions have caused – we are also given Emi Kino. A self-proclaimed youkai, Emi seems all too aware of her own actions, and is willing to accept any harm that happens to her or others as a result, regardless of intention. Emi won’t likely be given an episode contemplating the “hows” and “whys” of points between her decisions and the aftermath because she’s already accepted her role in whatever eventually comes to fruition.

Naturally, Concrete Revolutio is concerned with many things other than time. Fans of the series – of which there are few, but said few are passionate – will cite a myriad of reasons when asked why they love it, ranging from the overall aesthetic to jabs at Japanese history and broader philosophical questions about what it means to be human. However, for me personally, time is what Concrete Revolutio does best. It’s the anime equivalent of walking to my apartment balcony, looking out at the city skyline, and wondering how I am standing at this place in this exact moment.

“You’re not happy because you’re not trying to be happy. Nobody can make someone who isn’t trying to be happy into someone that’s happy.”

-Tsubasa Hanekawa to Sodachi Oikura, Owarimonogatari, Episode 5

Had this line been spoken by anyone but Tsubasa Hanekawa, it would have rightfully been dismissed as a treacly platitude, meant to prod the recipient into action. Instead, it acts as a powerful summation of all that Hanekawa has gone through in search of her own happiness and self-acceptance. Hanekawa was in Sodachi Oikura’s figurative shoes not long ago, and remembers all too well how she blocked out vital parts of herself in pursuit of perfection rather than addressing her innermost desires and seeking out personal contentment.

Owarimonogatari‘s Sodachi Oikura offers not only a reminder of the Hanekawa of Nekomonogataris past, but additionally provides a mystery on which the new, self-assured Hanekawa can cut her teeth.

“Nobody can help you with that. Nobody can rescue you. Because it’s a problem you, yourself, have.”

-Izuko Gaen to Tsubasa Hanekawa, Nekomonogatari: Shiro, Episode 4

When at a loss for how to approach a tiger oddity in Nekomonogatari: Shiro, Hanekawa receives similar advice from Izuko Gaen that she later dispenses to Sodachi Oikura – no one is going to help you unless you help yourself first. Furthermore, Hanekawa is almost basking in her lack of awareness while refusing to admit that there is a myriad of things that she doesn’t know. Gaen shoves Hanekawa’s playful catchphrase – “I don’t know everything, I just know what I know” – back in her face, confidently saying that Hanekawa knows nothing while she, Gaen, knows everything. Previously, Hanekawa’s slogan had hinted at the fact that Hanekawa always knew more than she let on; however, Gaen gleefully stomps on this, forcing Hanekawa to confront and rectify her own ignorance.

In the vast majority of cases – without the same, oft-surprising amount of nuance provided by the Monogatari series overall – this would devolve into victim-blaming. As it stands, Hanekawa and Oikura share similarly awful upbringings through absolutely no fault of their own. Hanekawa spawns oddities to maintain an image of perfection, firmly keeping everyone at arm’s length, while Oikura blocks out everything, falling further and further into an isolated depression. Emerging from her shell as an actual person with flaws, rather than a paragon to be placed upon a pedestal, Hanekawa pens a heartfelt letter to her other half – Black Hanekawa – acknowledging the worst parts of herself. Hanekawa also leaves town to travel, think, and unearth the emotional bits and pieces that she had previously kept locked up, away from the world.

When Hanekawa is shown later in Koimonogatari, she is far more confident and assured, with a similar manner to Gaen. In the time that has passed – provided one is watching the series in its originally aired order – Hanekawa has remained out of sight, with the foremost of her problems solved in Monogatari Second Season‘s first narrative arc.

As the stories of Shinobu, Mayoi Hachikuji, Nadeko Sengoku, and lastly Hitagi Senjougahara are addressed, Hanekawa has broadened her horizons off-screen and appears as an entirely different person by the time of Koimonogatari. Where Hanekawa previously would have played at being the smartest person in the room, in Koimonogatari she simply allows Deishuu Kaiki to speak and ask questions, immediately putting him ill at ease. Come the time for her infamous catchphrase, it now sounds as if Hanekawa is genuinely admitting that she doesn’t know everything, all while having the mystery of Kaiki completely solved.

New Hanekawa is genuine, poised, and self-assured to the point where she sets those in her vicinity on edge – reminiscent of how Gaen thoroughly decimated her in their previous conversation. However, until Owarimonogatari, the anime audience had no knowledge of how Hanekawa evolved. Thanks to her recent interactions with Sodachi Oikura and Ougi Oshino in Owarimonogatari, the Monogatari viewing audience is able to pull back the proverbial curtain surrounding Hanekawa’s character development.

In solving the mystery of Oikura’s missing mother, Hanekawa shows bits and pieces of her new self without the same refinement of the Tsubasa Hanekawa who appears later in Koimonogatari. When pushed by Ougi, she washes out her hair dye, reveals her tiger-striped hair, and shakily steps into her new role: one willing to take the best with the very worst. However her confidence while in said role is still not all there, leaving her presence to act as a buffer between the bluntness of Ougi Oshino and the truth of the disappearance of Sodachi Oikura’s mother. Oikura is someone with whom Hanekawa resonates with strongly, and whose feelings she desires to protect – perhaps a bit too much – until Oikura can figure it out on her own.

Most notably in Owarimonogatari, she’s at odds with Ougi Oshino not because she feels personally threatened by her, but due to a sense of uneasiness around Ougi’s being. If the theory that Ougi is actually Koyomi Araragi himself is correct, Hanekawa seemingly has already sniffed out the truth of Ougi, evidenced by the stilted nature of her parting words to Araragi when he asks her to tell Meme Oshino about his “niece.” Sensing Araragi’s own discomfort around Ougi, Hanekawa is unsure as to how to proceed in Ougi’s company recognizing that she, Hanekawa, is the better choice to accompany Araragi to Oikura’s apartment even if she hasn’t fully realized why.

“Someone saying that they are happy doesn’t necessarily mean that they are happy, right?”

-Tsubasa Hanekawa to Deishuu Kaiki, Koimonogatari, Episode 5

Through her interactions with Ougi – in addition to her words to Oikura regarding happiness – Owarimonogatari reveals a glimpse of what later becomes Hanekawa’s thought processes. While her conversations don’t flow as smoothly as they do later in Koimonogatari, Hanekawa is already a force to be reckoned with when she sheds her public persona, able to offer sage advice while still recognizing when one has to solve their own problems first. After all, saying one is happy doesn’t make the speaker happy unless they’re willing to face their inner demons, just as saying that one only knows “what they know” means nothing if they won’t first recognize their own ignorance.

Often in murder mysteries, narration is meant to give the reader or viewer pause, be it truly unreliable or simply filtered through the respective lenses of others. If the property desires the viewer to play along with the detective – and more often than not they do, as the reader is served by an in-universe self-insert of sorts – it behooves them to pay attention to who is speaking and what the speaker’s biases are in relation to the departed.

One person whose voice is conspicuously absent in The Perfect Insider is the deceased herself: Shiki Magata. Her innermost thoughts and desires are shown in bits and pieces, always in the words or mind of another.

“2015, Summer. I offer this diary to you to tell you what she was thinking, and what her fate was. She was always thinking about who she was, where she’d come from, and where she was going. Everyone convinces themselves that life is an enjoyable thing. She, however, was always thinking about how much of a burden it was.”

-Seiji Shindou, The Perfect Insider, Episode 1

The first person who introduces us to Dr. Shiki Magata is the mysterious Director Seiji Shindou – we later learn he was also her uncle and lover – who opens the series’ premiere episode with the above monologue and a diary. He states that she’s a woman who simultaneously thought about her past, her present, and her future. Additionally, he adds that life was generally a burden for her, and she felt that many freedoms were given up in exchange for the need to stay alive. He later describes her as one who was constantly flashing between life and death. As such, the first image of Shiki Magata, aside from her presence in the opening song sequence, is one of her hands bound by shadow over the very same diary. It’s unclear as to how much this is reflective of her own personality, or what the Director believes to be her personality.

On the subject of her multiple personalities, he is shown to have an awareness of them, but only uses “their” once, when setting the scene prior to the presumed loss of her virginity.

Presumably, the Director writes this as a posthumous account of Shiki Magata from the perspective of one who was close to her. At first, he was charged with a large part of her upbringing, and later he became her lover. In Episode 6, The Perfect Insider reveals that he was not only present when she murdered her parents, but complicit in the act.

The Shiki Magata that the Director offers is first a prodigious child and then a willful teenager to whom he was continuously drawn. His tone is not one of a doting uncle, but that of an awed lover or partner. Most importantly, he describes her as someone who had differing viewpoints than most on life and death.

“She got stupid too. Stupid enough to finally take an interest in others. In an interview she said the same thing. ‘Every human starts as a genius. As they age, they become average. It’s because they get stupid that they can work.”

-Souhei Saikawa, The Perfect Insider, Episode 1

The above line is spoken with resignation by Professor Souhei Saikawa to Moe Nishinosono. Moe immediately responds that Shiki Magata’s words sound like something he would say. She’s correct, much of Saikawa’s worldview is told through parroted Dr. Magata-isms, to the point where the viewer wonders whether he has his own actual thoughts or opinions.

Saikawa presents everything Shiki Magata does and says through the filter of a superfan, placing her on the highest pedestal while continuously admitting his admiration. He first presents her to the audience in a drawing that he does while presumably in a faculty meeting. His initial conversation with Moe regurgitates the phrases that the Director claimed as Shiki Magata’s thoughts back in the form of three questions: “Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going?” Interestingly enough, it’s Moe who interrupts and poses these questions, proof that Saikawa has repeated them frequently in the time they’ve spent together.

“You could say that people like Dr. Magata are the most human of us all.”

-Souhei Saikawa, The Perfect Insider, Episode 5

Later, following Shiki Magata’s death, Saikawa further espouses what he presumes to be Dr. Magata’s worldview. His Shiki Magata is a person who is the ultimate being, her capacity only limited by others who would dare tread on her freedoms or stand in her way. As Moe tries to wrap her head around the existance of split personalities and why Shiki Magata would have killed her parents, Saikawa turns Moe’s thoughts back onto her, ultimately siding with the Dr. Magata in his own mind, the pure Dr. Shiki Magata who is above everything.

“She was a lovely young lady, although she’d get upset if you told her that. Of course, she was extremely bright, but to me, she was just my cute little niece.”

-Yumiko Shindou, The Perfect Insider, Episode 5

Conflicting with her own husband’s view of Shiki Magata as well as Saikawa’s figurative pedestal, Yumiko Shindou initially describes Shiki as her “cute niece.” In a conversation immediately following the death of both Shiki Magata and her husband, Yumiko Shindou is strangely calm when questioned by Moe regarding the death of Shiki’s parents. As she describes the scene from 15 years ago, Yumiko appears to remember more the longer that she speaks, possibly implying that she had somewhat buried the memories of that night until recently. Her account somewhat matches what is later shown in an Episode 6 flashback, minus a reported scream “like she was possessed.”

It’s unclear as to how aware Yumiko was of her husband’s relationship with their niece, and his role in their murder. Additionally, it’s not given whether the aforementioned flashback is her perspective, or simply another account from the director. Unlike other flashbacks – which are primarily from the Director’s perspective and diary – this specific memory has no narration. It also begins from the perspective of one watching the entire scene from another room, as Yumiko would have been.

Yumiko also gives an account of Shiki Magata’s multiple personalities and their supposed real life analogues, all of whom, with the exception of Michiru Magata, are dead. Throughout, Yumiko appears calm but somewhat addled, and her description of a “cute little niece” is at odds with what she herself saw the night that Shiki Magata’s parents died.

“Out of the numbers from one to ten, seven is the only lonely number. So the only personality inside me with a motive to kill my parents is Shiki Magata.”

-Moe Nishinosono quoting Shiki Magata, The Perfect Insider, Episode 4

Lastly, there is the Shiki Magata that Moe Nishinosono sees: a Shiki Magata who is filtered through her own self. Consciously or not – likely the latter, given how the series presents Moe’s character – Moe compares Shiki Magata to herself first and then tries to reconcile or understand the differences. The series itself also makes a point to compare the two women whenever possible through visual direction and dialogue.

When Moe condemns Shiki Magata’s perspective, she does so with her own in mind, and often sees the deceased Dr. Magata as a rival for Saikawa’s affections. In spite of this, she also displays personal curiosity regarding Shiki Magata, especially following their video conversation. When Moe fights with Saikawa over whether they should stay and solve the mystery or leave, she displays anger not only at Saikawa’s personal obsession with Shiki Magata but his perceived lack of curiosity surrounding her death.

Dr. Magata’s line of questioning around Moe’s deceased parents and Moe’s response hints at the fact that Moe sees Shiki Magata as somewhat of a kindred spirit, making it even more difficult for Moe to understand why Shiki would want to murder her own parents. Moe provides flashbacks of her conversation with Dr. Magata that come as frequently as the Director’s memories, giving a distant but concentrated image of Dr. Shiki Magata.

The Perfect Insider goes a long way in making Moe relatable but distinct, far from a self-insert who is piecing together the mystery alongside the audience. Moe asks Shiki Magata, “Who are you?” at the end of their conversation, and it’s the only question that gives her pause. Most likely, it’s the answer to this question that will also solve the mystery of Shiki Magata’s death.

Present day journalism, advertising, and marketing has been forever altered by social media. Breaking news is found through Twitter updates while commentary is immediately broadcast from one’s fingertips into the ether on Facebook and Reddit, among other platforms. Previously, newspapers, radio, and television were the primary tools of broadcasting both breaking news and advertising goods and services with commentary reserved for the dining table, living room, or office water cooler. If you’re at all interested in the ramifications of the former, more immediate and current path for news and marketing, Gatchaman Crowds might be the series for you.

Instead of a social media focus, Concrete Revolutio‘s in-universe thoughts are filtered through an anachronistic setup that harkens back to these days of fedoras with “Press” and rows of desks with rotary phones visible through the haze of cigarette smoke. The Concrete Revolutio twist is that said phones are now flown to satellite girls by witches.

Many of the political machinations performed by varying parties in Concrete Revolutio rely heavily on traditional media. Additionally, the series continuously focuses on media impact during the tumultuous social times of post-war Japan.

A general timeline can be established from the definitely-not-Beatles concert at Budokan as shown in Episode 5. The actual concert took place in 1966 amidst protests from Japanese nationalists who disapproved of using the Nippon Budokan as a stage for a rock band instead of a martial arts tournament. Equating June 30, 41st of the Shinka Era (the date of the pseudo-Beatles concert in Concrete Revolutio) with June 30, 1966 (the actual date of the Beatles first concert at Budokan) reveals a timeline of approximately 1939 to 1973, or the 14th of the Shinka Era to the 48th of the Shinka Era. Some important dates remain the same – the aforementioned “Beatles” concert as a primary example – however, the war timelines notably diverge with the ambiguous war of Concrete Revolutio ending in the 19th of the Shinka Era (1944) when World War II ended in 1945.

The piece of information most crucial towards piecing together the series’ media puzzle is that superhumans were once enlisted by the U.S. government to fight against the kaiju in the 17th of the Shinka Era (1942), and the initial discovery of Gigantopitecus Gigantus took place in the same year that real-life analogue World War II began; 1939 or the 14th of the Shinka Era.

“No ad agency asks ‘why?’ But I can guess.”

-Imperial Ad Agency Representative, Concrete Revolutio, Episode 5

Following the end of the war, superhumans mysteriously vanished from all forms of media. While the Superhuman Bureau works for the government – tracking and registering superhumans for supposed protection – superhumans are prohibited from mention in newspapers, radio programs, and remain a hush-hush subject even between friends. The question of why this is has yet to be answered, and the only comparable analogue comes from the U.S. occupation of Japan after the latter’s surrender in 1945. An important part of the new Japanese constitution was supposedly the freedom of speech; however, Japanese media were allowed very little leeway in what they could and could not say thanks to the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP), U.S. General Douglas McArthur.

War propaganda played a large role in the Japanese war machine, continuously rallying the country on domestic soil while attempting to garner sympathy abroad – most specifically in China – by portraying Japan as the virtuous Empire at war with the cowardly West. This changed dramatically during the occupation with media censorship now coming from SCAP and the U.S. rather than the Japanese Empire. Unspeakable topics in post-war Japanese media included any mention of the atomic bomb, nationalist or pro-imperialist sentiments, criticism of the U.S. occupation and government, and criticism of any government deemed “non-democratic” – primarily communism.

The rough timeline of Concrete Revolutio places the meat of its various narratives in the thick of post-war rebuilding. Censorship of media along with general discontent at the U.S. occupation led to numerous protests, the most infamous of which took place following the Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security – anpo joyaku or ANPO – between the U.S. and Japan in 1960. These protests mark a key turning point in Japanese history as they are widely considered as the birth of citizen activism in Japan.

Other anime properties have touched upon the volatile nature of this period in Japanese history; however, Concrete Revolutio is oddly specific in its continued references to post-war media blackouts. Combined with the series’ continued chiseling away of a black-and-white superhero landscape, the post-war setting of Concrete Revolutio is a noxious stew of censorship and various parties attempting to use media for their respective aims without respecting the immeasurable amount of moral gray areas.

“At that time, there was a nation-wide debate going on about beasts. Are they evil, or are they our victims? The younger generation was especially sympathetic to the beasts. It was as if someone was directing it to be that way . . . “

-Kikko Hoshino, Concrete Revolutio, Episode 5

What ultimately matters in the entire beast conflict is not who is “right” or “wrong” – again, the series maintains an incisive attack on black-and-white morality throughout – but who controls the press and stages the conflict. Jiro Hitoyoshi, who has the most conviction of all Superhuman Bureau members regarding his personal position on beasts, is initially framed as the bad guy, aiding Beastly Radio Wave and their allies from the Imperial Ad Agency. At the end of it all, he’s called upon to defeat Mega-gon, the beast initially touted as a friendly protector in the name of furthering public sympathy for beasts.

Throughout, superhumans are known entities but any mention of them is quickly silenced due to the media blackout. In fact, superhumans were again enlisted to fight the beasts earlier that same year – the 41st of the Shinka Era, about a month after the not-Beatles Budokan appearance – and remain Japan’s worst-kept secret.

“There are approved superhumans in the police and security forces. Once the secrecy laws are changed, a nation-wide superhuman project will begin.”

-Imperial Ad Agency Representative, Concrete Revolutio, Episode 6

Later, in the 42nd of the Shinka Era, Angel Stars make their debut as the first approved superhuman band. Their campaign has a far more nefarious design, as they become poster girls for chocolate laced with an superhuman suppressing drug. Those that look up to them as superhuman and buy their products will likely have their own latent powers suppressed, thereby diminishing the superhuman population. Thwarted by the superhuman comedy band Mountain Horse, Angel Stars nonetheless embody the government’s continued distrust of superhumans even while publicly representing them as desirable.

Earth-chan – a lovely call-out to Astro Boy – offers another look at swaying public opinion. Where specific Imperial Ad Agency campaigns, like that of Beastly Radio Wave and later the Angel Stars’ subversive anti-superhuman marketing, target the public with a precise aim and influence, Earth-chan holds the public in the palm of her robot hand. She has the power to instantly change the prevailing social atmosphere, but only responds to specific calls of duress, as is her programming.

This makes her a precious commodity for those who would want her help in manipulating the general public. Earth-chan is lauded as a force for good, and therefore has the power to single-handedly determine which side is seen as the “right” one. Her influence is less outwardly manipulative; however, as she is unaware of the long-term consequences of responding to individual cries for help, Earth-chan’s actions can be ultimately detrimental to those whom she helps.

The more Concrete Revolutio reveals its web of propaganda and mass communication from various parties, the more questions arise. Why was the media blackout on superhumans enforced following the war? Was there a specific incident that caused public opinion to turn against superhumans, or is the general distrust of anything different another tool in the government’s arsenal? Throughout, the series maintains its focus on struggling with one’s personal morals while dealing with constant media influence.

Perhaps the most pertinent example offered by Concrete Revolutio comes from the aforementioned band Mountain Horse. Once at odds with the Bureau in the 44th of the Shinka Era, Jiro goes to recruit Mountain Horse for his yet-to-be revealed cause. Upon seeing the band’s performance, Jiro laments that Mountain Horse don’t want to become superheroes, while Fuurouta insists that they already are, with their ability to make others laugh. Mountain Horse may not be performing grandiose acts of courage, they eschew both public opinion and those who would manipulate them for a simple life of doing what they love.

What makes a truly great catcher is unfortunately tricky to identify with statistics. There are the obvious things like caught stealing percentages, and the offensive side of the plate is covered the exact same way as any other position; however, the nuances of a particularly excellent catcher involve an eye test that’s unquantifiable.

Good catchers earn the trust of their counterparts on the mound, forming a battery that when working together is often unstoppable. With the pitcher performing the action, a strong catcher will act as their brain, calling their pitches in a specific manner tailored to outsmart whoever steps into the batter’s box. The trust of a pitcher is crucial here, because all it takes is one hit to disrupt a battery’s communication – pitchers are known for being finicky, nervous creatures. Once the pitch is called, the catcher’s job is not done. Aside from their actual function of an at-bat – catching the ball, as per the position’s title – top-tier catchers will frame the ball in a manner that gives them the best possible chance of having a strike called in their favor. If you don’t believe me, watch a bit of tape from this year’s World Series and compare Kansas City’s Salvador Perez to the Mets’ Travis d’Arnaud. The latter was far more artful with this particular skill than the former.

Our lead character of Princess Nine is not a catcher, but a pitcher. More importantly, she’s a pitcher who, as of the series’ second episode, will instantly override her partner behind the plate.

Ryo Hayakawa is a typical diamond-in-the-rough archetype who is scouted by Kisaragi Girls School President Keiko Himuro. Although Princess Nine makes it apparent that Ryo learned from her late father – Hidehiko Hayakawa, a former Koshien champion and ace pitcher – when she was very young, the series makes it clear that she has received little to no professional training. Presumably, her development will be a key narrative of the series.

In her final “test” – she’s completely oblivious to the fact that the President is watching her go up against star batter Hiroki Takasugi – she gets caught up in the batter’s taunts and shakes off her catcher’s sign. This actually almost spells disaster for Ryo, as he does crush the ball. Magically, the force of her pitch breaks the bat, resulting in a line drive directed back at Ryo, which she miraculously catches.

It’s all a very standard setup, and it works because Ryo is rather charming, although there’s likely trouble for her catchers in the future.

When I first started Princess Nine, I was warned by others that it wasn’t overly concerned with baseball as it was with drama. Part of this is correct, as nearly all of the girls’ individual narratives have little to do with the actual sport of baseball. However, in a more nebulous way, Princess Nine has everything to do with baseball, because baseball in Japan is tradition. In fact, there’s a funny little quote attributed to the Japan Tourism Organization that Japanese people are often surprised to discover that the United States considers baseball its “national pastime.”

A lot of what Princess Nine aims to achieve is rooted in overcoming deep seated notions of tradition or family. Instead of looking at the series through a strictly feminist lens – it is girls playing baseball against boys, after all, so this option is rather easy – perhaps it would be better served with the framework of tradition above all, and what breaking preexisting tradition, or perceived familial obligation, entails. Hint, this also has a little to do with that aforementioned feminist lens.

“If you are so determined to promote women’s status, why not do it somewhere else?”

-National High School Baseball Association, Princess Nine, Episode 11

The primary battle of Princess Nine takes place not on the baseball diamond but in boardroom meetings, as Chairman Keiko Himuro battles against the National High School Baseball Association for the girls’ right to play. The Association cites tradition as the primary reason for not allowing girls into the league, saying that it would disrupt their longstanding customs of high school baseball. As a prestigious institution, the Association claims that a girls team would only cause an unnecessary media circus, all for a team that, to them, exists more as a publicity stunt than a legitimate baseball team. The men of the Association follow this up by telling Chairman Himuro to pursue her interests elsewhere.

Putting aside the fact that this is a fairly prevalent sentiment if a woman tries to challenge a longstanding status quo – you could do so much more good for women’s causes elsewhere, not here – what’s most entertaining about the Association’s assumption is that they’re wrong. Chairman Himuro actually established the baseball team for her own selfish and deeply personal reason, a far less valid one than furthering women’s rights. She believes that her girls are just as good as the boys, but it’s all in pursuit of righting a wrong against a man that she loved.

However, as the head of a distinguished girls academy, Chairman Himuro is more than well aware of her duties and, for the most part, handles the tricky balance between her personal ambitions and presenting the best possible face for the school.

Her dedication to tradition is also reflected in her daughter, Izumi Himuro, who initially sees the baseball team as an eyesore unfitting for such an illustrious institution. Izumi is upfront about her disgust at the uncouth nature of the baseball team, even after joining it herself, and sorts people by “winners” or “losers” in her mind. Additionally, she attempts to repress her own emotions frequently – another result of her upbringing – often turning her nose up at any of her teammates’ attempts to be cheerful rather than cold-hearted and realistic. Tradition and image are always at the forefront of her personality, which makes her awkward and unable to communicate with others. Typically, this would sort her easily into the tsundere archetype, but Princess Nine manages to escape this by giving Izumi realistic, albeit melodramatic teen, turmoil.

Ryo Hayakawa inherits her father’s gift of pitching, but is also burdened with his tainted legacy. Back when Hidehiko Hayakawa was a rising professional player, he was accused of purposefully fixing a game, and subsequently banned from baseball. The fallout from this accusation envelops his daughter who, as his offspring, is immediately shunned due to the perceived actions of her father. The Parents’ Association wants her expelled from their precious Kisaragi Girls High School.

As previously mentioned, Izumi had already objected to someone like Ryo attending her school, as the prevailing sentiment regarding Kisaragi Girls High School is, again, one of tradition. It’s an academy where girls are taught, in the words of the Board of Trustees, to be good wives and mothers. Needless to say, the establishment of a baseball team is frowned upon, and the opposition swells in number when her father’s reputation is unearthed and plastered above every newspaper fold. Ryo accepts her father’s burden as her own, and much of her character arc involves learning more about her deceased father through baseball.

Other members of the Kisaragi Girls High School baseball team also struggle with their own ties to tradition and familial obligation. Outfielder Yuki Azuma was bullied by classmates, and told by her parents to stop being so selfish and think of how her actions reflected poorly on them – in spite of the fact that it was in no way Yuki’s fault. Kanako Mita, daughter of the school’s president, is raised by her father to be the perfect lady. For the first half of the series, she disguises herself, just so she won’t be recognized by her father and told to quit. Seira Morimura doesn’t want to become a “useless adult” like her parents, and is initially presented as a delinquent, trying to escape these thoughts. There is very little girls-vs-boys sentiment throughout the series, and it focuses more on how breaking new ground with this baseball team affects their individual views and treatment by society at large, starting with their closest family members.

It’s important to note that Princess Nine doesn’t always get it right. The central romance between Ryo Hayakawa and star batter Hiroki Takasugi is nauseating at best and detrimental to both Ryo and Izumi’s characters at worst. Parts of the series are infuriatingly overdramatic and require either a concern for the characters or an incredible suspension of disbelief. Yet, Princess Nine is hardly an “anything you can do, I can do better” battle of the sexes, and when it comes to actually playing baseball –although it’s no Ookiku Furikabutte, which goes pitch by pitch – it mostly gets it right.

Let’s talk construction – snazzy hard hats, ubiquitous cranes, winches, and the existing status quo. That is sexy. Shabadadu.

Yuri Kuma Arashi‘s skyline is constantly under construction. Unfinished edifices and gigantic cranes loom in the distance of nearly every scene, putting the town in a state of perpetual building. These cranes, unfinished walls, and occasional drilling or shifting sounds tower over what otherwise looks to be a relatively normal municipality. It isn’t even a large city, aside from the rising structures that are endlessly erected.

What is a thing so important to these people that its construction engulfs an entire town?

Marked by a distinct honeycomb pattern of pink bear paw prints, what is being constructed is the “Wall of Severance” separating humans from bears. Its pervasive presence marks a constant reminder of the severed relationship between bear and human. Aside from a few key locations, the Wall of Severance is always visible, so an average townsperson cannot go about their daily life without running into it or seeing the wall and cranes from a distance.

So, if Yuri Kuma Arashi was so focused on separating humans and bears for the purpose of its narrative, why didn’t the series simply feature a large wall down the center of the town? The answer is important and crucial to the subject matter of the series as a whole.

Yuri Kuma Arashi takes an in-depth look at the complexity, hardships, and barriers present in homosexual relationships between women. As such, the constant construction in the distance from almost every vantage point is a physical manifestation of preexisting societal structures and mores. In their attempts to pursue same-sex partnership, the young women of Yuri Kuma Arashi find themselves stymied by these looming construction sites – complete with cranes, winches, and beams – that make up Yuri Kuma Arashi‘s Wall of Severance.

The characters’ personal respective Walls of Severance vary, as do the cranes in their background – including their definition, proximity, and atmospheric perspective.

For example, when the Wall is shown from the bears’ perspective in Episode 9, there’s first a snowy shot where the Wall is seen in multiple pieces from a distance. However, to Ginko Yurishiro, the Wall is directly in front of her at the “Door of Friendship,” because her ties with her love, Kureha Tsubaki, have recently been severed.

When Kureha reaffirms her relationship with Sumika Izumino – prior to the latter’s death in Episode 1 – on the school rooftop, the cranes and wall are still inescapable. Even in a place where the two appear alone, and have stolen away to eat lunch together, the threat of severance is still present, even though it gradually fades out of focus with the girls in the forefront.

Another scene in Episode 8 shows a flashback of teacher Yuriika Hakonaka both distancing herself from Kureha’s mother, Reia, out of jealousy, and forced to hide her love for Reia regardless following the Wall of Severence’s construction. Cranes appear well-defined and in the forefront here, showcasing Yuriika’s inability to overcome her emotionally-abusive past, crippling envy, and lust.

Each woman’s narrative is affected and framed by different situations; however, they all have one thing in common – save for the very end of the series where Ginko and Kureha escape the cycle. In order to pursue each other romantically, or cross the Wall of Severance, they must consult and be approved by the three Judgmens: Life Sexy, Life Cool, and Life Beauty.

These three arbiters of severance are three of five – if one includes Kureha’s father, who exists only as a concept and is never shown – total male characters throughout Yuri Kuma Arashi, and play the all-important role of patriarchal influences. Even in a world nearly vacant of men physically, their influence permeates the Wall of Severance, and any movement from one world to the other requires appealing to their Severance Court.

While in court, defendants are frequently asked to prove that “their love is true.” In fact, Severance Court is initiated by a call from Life Sexy from a restricted number, and the pink pattern of the wall appears in the background. Court itself takes place in a magical dreamworld; however, the Judgmens are shown living among the cranes within the incomplete pieces of the Wall, thoroughly binding them not only to the wall’s existence, but it’s continuing construction.

Additionally, the use of “severance” itself for both the barrier and the Judgmens’ court implies the actual severing of an existing relationship. Meaning that, regardless of whatever societal structures were, and are, in place, women will have relationships with each other regardless and it’s the prevailing atmosphere of society that will build walls to “sever” them. The construction sites indicate that these walls are continuously built. There’s no one thing that can wholly tear them down, yet there will never be a complete wall as long as people fight the system.

In Yuri Kuma Arashi, the Judgmens aren’t the only ones upholding the status quo and supporting severance. Arashigaoka Academy, where the protagonists attend school, harbors the Invisible Storm: a representation of the immense pressure these young women feel to conform and become invisible. It goes without saying that doing anything to stand out from the Invisible Storm includes homosexuality, and Kureha becomes an easy target.

Official meetings of the Invisible Storm are presided over by a chosen student and begin with the declaration that invisibility is necessary, people who cannot read the atmosphere of invisibility are evil, and the iconic line, “Let’s search evil!” This is followed by a cell phone vote where the Wall of Severance construction cranes appear ominously in the background as the girls choose their next target.

Interestingly enough, all of the young women who lead the Invisible Storm at one time or another either blatantly lie about their much-touted “invisibility,” or meet an unfortunate demise thanks to the bears. Both Student Council President Mitsuko Yurizono and Konomi Yurikawa are bears themselves. Katyusha Akae and Eriko Oniyama are eaten by lead bears Ginko Yurishiro and Lulu Yurigasaki, while Yuriika – another bear – eats Kaoru Harishima. These self-appointed judges of invisibility are the most visible in terms of character design and appearance as well.

It’s important to note that the Judgmens are end all, be all judges, where members of the Invisible Storm are shown to be playing the game without any control over the rules. The construction cranes still tower over the young women of Arashigaoka, but the Judgmens live in the same Wall of Severance that those cranes are building, deciding which relationships are to be tested and the rules for their survival.

At the end of the series, the Judgmens are finally rendered ineffective as Kureha and Ginko discover a way to break the cycle. As the closing credits roll, the two are shown happily together in a world that’s above the wall and it’s seemingly ceaseless development. While they have found a way out, others aren’t so lucky. More than either of his two previous series – Revolutionary Girl Utena and Mawaru Penguindrum – director Kunihiko Ikuhara stresses that this is ongoing and the events of the series have only momentarily weakened the existing system. The cranes are still building walls, even in the series’ hopeful, waning moments where former Invisible Storm member Uchiko Ai finds the discarded Konomi Yurikawa. Inspired by Ginko and Kureha’s love, Uchiko seeks out her own, all while the construction sites of the Wall of Severance remain visible in the distance.

“I felt that something might be there, that something might change.”

-Sodachi Oikura, Owarimonogatari, Episode 6

Sodachi Oikura says the above during the waning moments of her time in Owarimonogatari. In returning to the town of her childhood – given a rare opportunity by circumstance – Oikura felt that something in her life might change.

The Monogatari series is big on changing one’s self by addressing one’s figurative inner demons, represented by actual oddities, ghosts, and spirits over the course of a character’s specific narrative arc. Oikura marks a significant deviation from this established norm, as her specific problem isn’t exacerbated by an oddity. There is no crab, snail, monkey, snake, or cat as a physical manifestation of her personal problems. Instead, there’s just a venomous, creeping bitterness that trips off of the tip of her tongue as if she’s about to vomit on whomever she’s speaking with.

As a child, Oikura is shown as withdrawn and sullen. Placed into the protective custody of Koyomi Araragi’s police officer parents, Oikura does nothing but curl up in a ball and watch as young Araragi plays with his two younger sisters and their friend, Nadeko Sengoku.

Fast forward approximately a decade and little has changed. Oikura still curls up as if she’s about to be hit, or trying to shrink away from everything while simultaneously seething with rage. Very little about her appears to have aged aside from her hatred. Her hairstyle is the same. Her hair accessories are the same. Her eyes are now filled with full-on contempt rather than the mixture of anger and fear that she had as a child.

All of this caustic buildup is unloaded on Araragi when the two meet again in their final year of high school. For Araragi, he only has the memories of Oikura from two years ago, and the brief recollection of a mysterious math tutor – whom he know identifies as Oikura thanks to Ougi Oshino’s probing – in junior high school.

However, the Sodachi Oikura of junior high school, a “math fairy” in Ougi’s words, has a completely different temperament for a few reasons. The first being that she’s initially only seen from Araragi’s perspective in flashbacks. He remembers her as a kind and curious girl who loved math, nothing more. Her face is always obstructed or half-shown – due to Araragi’s missing memories – although she still appears generally happier than the young, sullen girl at Araragi’s home a few years prior.

Oikura’s happier demeanor also has to do with the fact that she was attempting to jog Araragi’s memory from when she had stayed at his house previously, thereby spurring him into saving her from her horrible and abusive home life. Choosing to return home as a young girl, Oikura was abused further when she began to pushback, now with the knowledge that not all homes were like her own. Seeing Araragi later on in junior high must have appeared to her like a lifeline, as it was his house that made her realize the gravity of her awful situation.

“I’m so embarrassed that I tried to save myself when it meant kissing up to a guy like this! I threw out my pride back then to flatter someone like this! I licked and lapped his shoes, at least emotionally . . . Embarrassing! I want to die!”

-Sodachi Oikura, Owarimonogatari, Episode 5

However, for the older, high school Oikura, her junior high school actions are now met with a torrent of self-loathing and rage. She hates Araragi for not remembering her – both in junior high school, and later in high school – but more than that, Oikura hates and blames herself for her mother’s death, in spite of it being in no way her fault. Oikura also hates the manner in which she lowered herself in an attempt to inspire Araragi – the kid who had initially made her realize how awful her life was, a kid who doesn’t even remember her – to save her.

This is expelled outward not through any sort of supernatural being, but in a torrent of stunted words and an eventual fistfight with Hitagi Senjougahara. Upon visiting her at her house, Oikura asks Araragi to continue being her villain so she doesn’t have to blame herself or her mother. The years of abuse and neglect without any sort of release have taken their toll to the point where Oikura hasn’t the first idea of how to let go of her self-hatred. Owarimonogatari continues to show her half-obstructed, curled up in a chair, or face overshadowed as visual manifestations of her loneliness and despair.

Turning Araragi into a villain won’t actually help Oikura – it only plays with Araragi’s own self-loathing and insecurities – but it’s the only thing she can think of when no one in her life has showed her how to be nice beyond wanting something from others. It’s easy because it gives her an outlet without having to be introspective.

However, Owarimonogatari forces her to take the difficult path thanks to Tsubasa Hanekawa. Hanekawa knows a thing or two about being from an abusive family and blaming one’s self for their actions. She sternly tells Oikura that happiness is elusive and incomprehensible because Oikura isn’t trying to be happy. Had this been anyone else giving Oikura this speech, it could have easily devolved into victim blaming, but because it’s Hanekawa, Oikura lifts her head up and listens.

Hanekawa isn’t saying anything that Oikura doesn’t already know, but it still takes a deft and experienced touch to force Oikura to listen. She isn’t telling Oikura that her father’s abuse or mother’s neglect is Oikura’s fault – this also extends to the circumstances of Oikura’s mother’s death later on in the series. Instead, Hanekawa is warning Oikura that happiness is also related to whether she seeks it out, which requires allowing time to heal without incorrectly blaming herself for what happened.

Later, upon hearing the truth about her mother, Oikura finally seems somewhat at peace. She states the aforementioned sentiment of how she felt that returning to her hometown would give her a chance to change.

This is also a turning point for Araragi as well. While it’s indubitably Oikura’s story – even as early as Ougi Formula – this marks a time where Araragi has to step back from the situation and walk away. Typically, Araragi’s sense of justice – which is also somewhat born of self-loathing – would interfere and inspire him to perhaps press Oikura further. However, this situation the audience sees an Araragi who is forced to let go, partially because of the fact that he failed to remember her, but also because Oikura’s future is wholly in her hands. It’s a wonderful starting point for what later will become Araragi confronting his selfish sense of justice, and how he always wishes to play the role of the hero.

Previously, on Owarimonogatari, the Sodachi Lost narrative arc provided Tsubasa Hanekawa with a perfect opportunity – the opportunity to show just how much she’s changed both over the course of the series and her most chronologically-recent appearance in Tsubasa Tiger. She delivers a crucial line of dialogue at exactly the right time in such a forceful way that it immediately unifies her with the despairing Sodachi Oikura. They travel the same path, but are at dramatically different points on that path, and Hanekawa’s words help guide Oikura out of her powerful self-loathing spiral.

This week, in Shinobu Mail, it was Suruga Kanbaru’s turn to shine.

Were there a ranked list of Monogatari characters offering sage advice, Kanbaru would be firmly at the bottom, likely keeping company with Nadeko Sengoku. The aforementioned Hanekawa was always seen as intelligent, and – even though a large part of this perception was due to a facade of perfection that she has since dropped – offering advice to others within is expected of her character. She is thoughtful, deliberate in all things, and is known to think four or five steps in advance of her own position.

In contrast, Kanbaru acts on emotional impulse more than anything. This is exactly why her initial story is so relatable and easy to understand. Her “monkey’s paw” wishes that eventually grant her the devil’s arm are ones born of spite and jealousy, and her subsequent guilt is equally resonant. The seasoned Monogatari viewer already knows from Hanamonogatari that Kanbaru tapes her arm up every night, and every morning is a slow and detailed process of undoing herself before checking the newspaper, to ensure that she hasn’t attacked anyone in her sleep. It’s a burden she accepts without incident – or even notice, until her morning routine is revealed.

While Kanbaru isn’t necessarily an idiot, she does have a carefree, happy-go-lucky demeanor that goes hand in hand with her impulsive nature. Drawn to rather prurient and lowest-common-denominator fare – the previous episode saw Araragi buying her a BL title called Brutal Garçon Huff-Huffs a Half-Blood Boy! – she’s an athlete, not a scholar. In her adventures with Araragi, she’s street smart but not particularly book smart, and all of her “advice” comes in the form of dumb sex jokes or referential humor. Kanbaru is Araragi’s buddy in crime, not someone he immediately goes to for an intellectual or thoughtful discussion.

However, what Shinobu needs is hardly an intelligent back-and-forth, but an emotionally-driven punch to the gut that only Kanbaru can provide. In fact, Shinobu mocks Kanbaru for her lack of intelligence and logic throughout the exchange, to which Kanbaru answers, “So what?”

Kanbaru knows what it’s like to have incredibly intense, possessive feelings towards another. She also knows the pain that Shinobu’s first minion is likely feeling – rejection, jealousy at being replaced by another – and forces the vampire to confront her own insecurities, a layer of self-doubt nearly always covered by blustering bravado. Shinobu now has to be brave, as Hitagi Senjougahara was with Kanbaru, and own up to her first minion’s feelings while also rejecting him firmly. Due to the fact that Kanbaru is rash, stubborn, and emotional, she bests Shinobu with her directness and pushes the vampire down a path of self-acceptance, all before Kanbaru’s own chronological emotional narrative in Hanamonogatari.

Monogatari is such an unwieldy beast of an anime franchise partially due to this continued focus on building emotional layer upon emotional layer as the characters themselves age and transform before the viewers’ eyes. The series’ Second Season was all about confronting the inner demons established in Bakmonogatari and Nisemonogatari. Owarimonogatari continues this trend with those who have already crossed that threshold helping the stragglers along their way.

A few years ago, a certain anime blogger had a few choice words over social media on the rampant overuse of the “p-word.” Potential, he so succinctly pointed out, is partially ascribed by the viewer towards the series that they’re watching, or highly anticipating. Occasionally, just maybe, a series’ potential is less of a failing on the creators’ parts but more of an unequal expectation on the viewer’s behalf.

I bring this up because his words still resonate with me, and keep me cognizant of how much potential I personally ascribe to an upcoming series – based on anything from a staff list to pretty key visual. If a series fails to grab me, or disappoints me later on in its run, how much of this is a result of my own taste or expectation? How much of this is an actual failing on the series’ part?

Now that we’ve covered that, on to The Rolling Girls.

I fell in love with The Rolling Girls at first sight. It had beautiful animation, gorgeous watercolor backgrounds, and appealing character design all wrapped up in the bow of an irresistibly catchy soundtrack made up of covers from the late 1980s-early 1990s Japanese punk-rock group The Blue Hearts. On top of this strong presentation was a surprisingly nuanced look at the dynamic between younger and older siblings. Where the visuals captured my attention, a quiet moment between pseudo-sisters Nozomi Moritomo and Masami Utoku captured my heart.

Unfortunately, this convincing initial production from the overarching thematic narrative to the minute character details slowly slipped away with each passing episode. I stubbornly refused to give up on The Rolling Girls, and resolutely stuck with it to the bitter end – an awkward, static mess of a finale that not only made absolutely no sense from a writing standpoint but offered little to no animation on top of this.

It’s become progressively easier for me to realize when a series just isn’t doing it for me and let go. Perhaps I’m not emotionally invested in the characters enough. The show in question might be really good, but just not my figurative cup of tea. In these cases, it’s not difficult to grasp that the problem is with me rather than the series, especially when I realize that my own lofty expectations may have adversely affected my personal enjoyment.

However, in the case of The Rolling Girls, the series broke my heart. Each episode following the Kyoto Arc was a slow descent into increasingly bad writing and static shots of characters spouting nonsense at each other. This lent absolutely no tension to supposed dramatic moments, instead appearing as random events happening one after another with little weight or emotional resonance. Comparing Episode 1 to Episode 12 of this series is almost like placing two different series side-by-side both visually and emotionally. I’m not the type of person to stress when minute details about a world are not revealed – in fact, I prefer when things are left to the imagination – but amidst a chaotic background tapestry, The Rolling Girls fails its most important test, making one care about what is happening to the characters.

In the end, I’m still unclear about how much of my disappointment with this series was ascribed by my expectations, or a genuine failing on the show’s behalf – it’s likely both, but percentages fluctuate – yet I remain sad about The Rolling Girls.

It had so much potential.

As an aside, this is the first of twelve posts discussing memorable moments from my past year of anime viewing as part of the Twelve Days Project. They’re going to be a bit more personal in nature and more loosely-written, but I still hope you enjoy. Additionally, check out what other bloggers are doing as well.

Had Gakkou Gurashi simply been about its one “plot twist” – shown in the final moments of its premiere episode – it likely wouldn’t have held my attention. However, its third episode delivers a poignant and well-directed look at a young teacher who steps up in the fact of overwhelming adversity.

Megumi “Megu-nee” Sakura is the lone surviving authority figure – within the scope of what she is able to see and experience – following a zombie apocalypse. Once a soft-hearted teacher who was continuously taken advantage of by her students, Gakkou Gurashi shows how Megu-nee hides all of her innermost fears and emotions in order to care for her charges. When she is bitten and inevitably succumbs to the virus, her thoughts remain with her students, even in undeath.

Watching Gakkou Gurashi naturally led me to read the manga (advertising works) which delves a bit deeper into Megu-nee’s psyche rather than focusing primarily on Yuki Takeya – center of the Episode 1 plot twist, for whom time has stopped. In the anime series, Megu-nee is present more as a projection of Yuki’s suppressed memories. Yuki’s mind refuses to recognize what is actually happening, but it cannot forget completely nor can she wholly ignore the danger that zombies present. This is when Megu-nee appears, telling Yuki to be quiet at crucial moments, or rationalizing what is actually happening within the landscape of Yuki’s delusions.

The Gakkou Gurashi manga takes a bit of a different tack, as it shows just how guilty Megu-nee felt as an authority figure, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t known prior to the apocalypse itself. An emergency school manual serves as the center of Megu-nee’s overwhelming guilt, as she grapples with her task of keeping the girls safe all while realizing that she was, inadvertently, complicit in the entire plot simply by virtue of being an adult.

Sadder still is that the girls continue to look up to Megu-nee and are thoroughly grateful for all that she did for them. Upon finding the emergency manual, Yuuri Wakasa almost immediately recognizes the guilt that Megu-nee must have felt and laments that she was unable to tell Megu-nee that it was in no way her fault. While Miki Naoki attempts to console her, there’s the lingering feeling of regret over both parties presented. Megu-nee passed away before she could address or even confide in anyone regarding the weight of her personal burden. Meanwhile, the girls – who hold no grudges against their former teacher – were unable to communicate just how much she meant to them following the weight of their own discovery.

I don’t remember the first time I realized an inherently unfair societal norm or institution. The closest anecdote that comes to mind is a silly debate that divided my fifth grade class by the sexes. At stake was the ability to play flag football at recess with the boys, which had been recently outlawed by our teacher. There weren’t enough of us who wanted to play without having coed groups, so the recent ban against combining boys and girls had led to no flag football at recess for anyone.

Fortunately, our teacher was also the sort who generally wanted us to find our own answers, and thereby organized a debate. The girls team met that night at my friend Diana’s house. We researched previous legal cases, coordinated our outfits, and drew up charts with pertinent facts.

The debate itself was quite orderly. For their part, the boys weren’t as organized and didn’t care much about defending their position. Yet, when it came time for my teacher to make a decision, she still erred on the side of caution – and angry parents – by upholding the existing rule.

There are many reasons that our teacher likely decided against coed flag football at recess. I don’t bring this up because I’m still angry about it, nor do I identify this as a defining moment of my life; however, it was another drop in the bucket towards understanding how unwritten societal rules work. For a tomboy like me with decidedly “boy” interests, this was just another gentle push away from those interests and towards something else.

It’s rare that one shining moment will suddenly reveal how unfair some of these existing unwritten rules work, as most things are coded from an early age and generally herd children in the so-called “right” direction over a period of time.

In Yuri Kuma Arashi, we are privy to Lulu Yurigasaki’s moment, the moment she realizes that her younger brother – by virtue of being male – will succeed the throne over her, in spite of the fact that she is older.

Yuri Kuma Arashi is specifically concerned with such social conditioning. It primarily focuses on lesbian relationships, but also touches upon the other ways in which societal norms get in the way of of having any relationship, including a familial one.

It’s no coincidence that Prince Mirun is born on the “day of severance” – signified by a meteor shower that is touched upon again and again throughout the series – the defining moment where certain characters become aware of their respective circumstances and how society actively pits them against others.

Lulu grows up heavily resenting her brother’s existence because he reminds her of the inequalities inherent to their world. It’s not his fault – for his part, Prince Mirun remains blissfully unaware – and deep down, Lulu knows this herself, yet it irrevocably affects their relationship ensuring that she won’t ever give him a chance to get close. She spurns his every attempt at becoming closer to her, every sign of affection, and every declaration of love, until the day that he unexpectedly dies. While the series had continuously and comically shown her trying to kill Prince Mirun herself, there’s no doubt that Lulu feels the weight of his loss upon his death. Realizing that she threw away her relationship with her brother, her emptiness is why Lulu eventually joins Ginko Yurishiro in the latter’s quest for her own lost love.

For the rest of us, there won’t be surreal construction landscapes, brothers somehow surviving antlions only to die to a bee sting, or a mirror we must shatter in order to reach what we want. However, as outwardly ridiculous as Yuri Kuma Arashi could be, it had a surprisingly deft touch when showing societal structures, how they affect our relationships, and what it takes to rise above them.

“I want to be better than everyone!”

A surprisingly nuanced take on the teenage experience and being part of something – in this case, concert band – presumably greater than one’s self, Sound! Euphonium resonated with a lot of viewers for many reasons.

For me, personally, I resonated with the feeling of failure.

Sound! Euphonium is the rare series that shows – primarily through the character of Kaori Nakaseko – that even if you work incredibly hard, and try your absolute best, there still may be someone else who is better than you.

Working hard isn’t always enough. Natural talent isn’t always enough. Even when combining both, it still may not be enough for you to become the best.

I want to improve.

Over and over, Kumiko shouts this until the words blend together while running and crying. She cries not because she’s said, but because she’s angry. She’s not angry at her teacher who, by omission, told her not to play her instrument, she’s angry at herself for not being good enough.

I want to improve.

I can understand this a thousand times over. The running, the crying, the anger, and above all, wanting to be the best.