“Chaos and threat may not be the same. The judgment is yours to make.”

-JJ Robinson, Gatchaman Crowds, Episode 1

With these words to his G-Crew, JJ Robinson lays out exactly what Gatchaman Crowds intends to explore within the scope of its first season. They are written in each Gatchaman NOTE regarding the “nameless chaos,” which the G-Crew have dubbed “MESS” — the default antagonist of the series’ premiere.

Gatchaman Crowds‘ debut is titled “Avant-garde” — the first in a season’s worth of episode titles dedicated to art history or specific art terms. Avant-garde translated literally means “at the vanguard,” and within an art context identifies something that pushes the boundaries of what is socially acceptable, or calls out pre-existing societal norms and mores. Often the purpose of an avant-garde work is to promote radical social or political change to the current status quo.

For this reason, Gatchaman Crowds doesn’t open with its eccentric newbie, Hajime Ichinose. Instead, it begins with Sugune Tachibana’s morning routine, effectively establishing the status quo, giving it a character of its own within the series.

Sugune is the embodiment of what audiences expect from a superhero. He’s squeaky-clean, rigid in his perceived moral obligation and duty, and both values and respects order. His apartment is sparse —the most traditionally Japanese setting that Crowds shows off in the first episode, with only the hanging lanterns at his kitchen counter and Paiman’s panda pillow as faint, out of the ordinary decorative touches. He keeps his Gatchaman NOTE in a place of reverence, and as he leaves, we hear Paiman telling Sugune that they’re counting on him, a fact in which Sugune takes great pride.

Sugune is proud to be a member of the G-Crew and he’s proud to serve his community. Gatchaman Crowds places this at the forefront in the cold open, showing Sugune aiding a pregnant woman on the train by offering up someone else’s seat.

Despite the fact that this action is considered “good,” there’s a sense of uneasiness throughout this scene. Flanked by GALAX propaganda that reads, “It’s not heroes who will update the world, it’s us,” Sugune’s good deed comes at the cost of someone else’s comfort. The young man whose seat Sugune offers up is sweating while wearing a mask — a common courtesy when one is ill.

His illness doesn’t negate the pregnant woman’s discomfort, but it’s an immediate example of how Sugune’s ideas of justice and good are black and white while the world, and Gatchaman Crowds as a series, operates in grey areas. Sugune immediately recognizes that the woman needs help and picks the young man from the group as the person who should offer his seat up — presumably because he’s younger and stereotypically wearing large headphones while rarely glancing up from his phone, a sight that makes up much of Crowds‘ background fabric.

Social media network GALAX is a constant in the background of Crowds‘ premiere, its presence hinting at its later role in the overall story. The distressed recipient of Sugune’s everyday train heroism  Behind Sugune on the train, in the opening scene, there’s even a member of the Hundred — indicated by his fox mask — a group that will become incredibly important later on in the series. Upon rewatching this episode, I was struck by these small details, particularly the ubiquitous marketing of GALAX as well as the constant cell phone use denoting that GALAX is already second-nature to most people and used in every day life.

Crowds chooses to open with Sugune because he represents tradition, which clashes with Hajime’s whimsical, irreverent personality as well as the background tapestry of social media usage and marketing. The original Science Ninja Team Gatchaman and the Gatchaman franchise are tradition at this point — although they notably were not in their time, and did things differently from their ilk — a groundwork that needs to be laid before the plans that director Kenji Nakamura has for Crowds are fully set into motion. In order for something to be avant-garde, there has to be an existing status quo to smash. This status quo, or mainstream culture, is presented in the form of the Gatchaman franchise, a now-staple superhero series.

Interestingly enough, the mention of Gatchaman in the series itself is met with a hint of new-world derision. Hajime and Sugune’s classmates are shown discussing and researching Gatchaman on the GALAX search engines, despite expressing their disbelief that superheroes like the G-Crew could exist. Even when Hajime blurts out that she’s a Gatchaman along with Sugune, she’s not taken seriously, although Sugune has a near heart-attack at the thought of her revealing their identities — something generally unheard of in superhero series that Crowds revisits later on in the series.

Much of this first episode is setting up pre-existing societal structures through the tradition of superhero series allowing Hajime to poke and prod at them while treating them with a mixture of irreverence and awe. Our NOTEs are our souls? Cool! Someone doesn’t want to shake my hand? No worries, I’ll complete the exchange myself! This is an alien? It’s pretty! Might as well draw in this so-called sacred notebook. Her disrespect in the eyes of Sugune and Paiman is their perception of her behavior, just as the perceived threat of MESS is the G-Crew’s interpretation of MESS’ activities on Earth. As JJ says towards the end of this episode, the judgment is theirs to make.

This summer, I’ll be reblogging the first season of Gatchaman Crowds episodically. After Gatchaman Crowds insight last summer, I’m curious to see how this reframes the first season. I also didn’t really blog the first season episodically, despite writing about it a lot while airing, so this is more of a fun vanity project writing about one of my personal favorite series. Thanks for reading.

Due to the well-worn nature of its subject matter, the second episode of Orange is grating, especially to those who have seen a large amount of shoujo anime — perhaps only one was enough, considering that gifting food to a romantic interest is so common of a cliché that it appears in nearly every shoujo romance. Throughout the majority of Episode 2, I wanted to shake Naho Takamiya by the shoulders and yell at her to give Kakeru Naruse the lunch she prepared.

In fact, Orange could easily fall into the trap of becoming just another shoujo series — and there are a few more clichés to come — although I have confidence that it won’t for two major reasons. One is a source material spoiler from the original manga around which I’ll try to tread lightly. The other is the deft visual touch of director Hiroshi Hamasaki.

Naho’s high school life was presented as a series of snapshots in the first episode — most visible during the cost-cutting measures taken when Naho and her friends are inducting Kakeru into their group, pictured above.

These are all stills, presented in a slideshow with corny background music. The only things that move in this sequence are a series of green icons representing Naho and company that frantically move around a map of the town. Often, characters are initially cut off, or ill-framed as the camera pans up through the still. In some cases, these pictures wouldn’t even be considered good candid shots to peruse as photographs, but they work in this sequence, adding dynamism to otherwise still snapshots, effectively conveying the energy and transience of each moment.

Transitions between scenes — sometimes days or weeks apart — are usually aided by Naho reading pieces of the letter, dating specific events in a timeline. For example, the camera lingers on her letter that references pinch-hitting in the softball tournament, ending with the phrase “I fall in love with Kakeru on that day.” This fades into Azusa and Takako absentmindedly singing the song of Nagano Prefecture as they walk to their softball game.

Just as the snapshots added a sense of movement to Naho and her friends’ actions, these transitions mark passage of time within in the scope of the series in an almost ominous way. Naho’s letters from her future self are full of regret, especially when it comes to Kakeru’s death, and time is made a quick enemy, simply through visual cuts.

Episode 2 is far more linear in presentation, but has similarly effective visuals that frame Naho’s actions. The letters are again used to transition from scene to scene as Naho wrestles with whether she should continue to follow their advice. Naho is always thinking of what they say, and this adds a heaviness to everything she does.

This continuously reiterates throughout Orange that time is not on Naho’s side — an interesting conundrum when considering the purpose of the letters themselves. Their main objective is to save Kakeru, but in the case that Naho cannot fulfill this task, the letters implore her to watch over him, enjoy her time with him, and keep her focus on what’s important. Naturally, with possibly limited time left with Kakeru looming over her every action, flashing back to the letters adds weight and anxiety to Naho’s every day life.

Much of Orange‘s second episode is spent on an aforementioned simple shoujo cliché — Naho must give food to Kakeru, the object of her affection. Through its visuals, Orange appears to be just as fed up with this trope as its audience likely is. Naho’s timidity throughout is infuriating and the series’ visual direction plays with its exasperated audience without minimizing Naho’s personal anxiety.

Her rejection of Kakeru after school is affecting, especially when accompanied by the words that a letter cannot change one’s personality — something that Orange will return to, even as subsequent letters reiterate that Kakeru’s life is at stake. Naho walks alone, behind her two friends as she leaves school. The camera cuts to a shot of her back, the extra bag used to carry the lunch she painstakingly prepared for Kakeru visible on her shoulder in its conspicuous, lime-green glory. The final shot shows the school entrance visibly behind Naho, the bag and her shoulder out-of-focus in the foreground.

As audience members, we know that Naho will likely give Kakeru her lunch — barring an inconvenient shoujo misunderstanding. This entire scene visually plays with our expectations and exasperation with Naho’s hesitation. I almost felt like cheering when she went back to the school entrance and waited for Kakeru, despite having read the manga and knowing what will happen.

When Kakeru later tells Naho the truth about his Episode 1 absence and why he won’t join the soccer club, that his mother passed away his first day of school — the day that Naho’s letter had told her not to invite him out — and he promised her that he wouldn’t join any clubs, the visuals and general series direction once again do the heavy lifting. Kakeru reveals this in stilted fashion and Orange allows this moment to stagnate, stifling both the viewing audience and Naho with its weight.

The background music stops for a full seven seconds after Kakeru’s admission — the only audible sound coming from ambient water rushing — and the camera shifts to the water and then to the two of them seated together. What begin as an awkward, somewhat flirtatious conversation between two people who share a mutual like for each other ends with the two of them immeasurably distant from one another, despite neither of them moving an inch.

Naho’s first letter from her future self is shown again as Naho realizes the importance of the letters, once again reiterating that time is not her friend. She doesn’t have time to waste waffling over whether or not it will be embarrassing to give Kakeru a lunch.

Naturally this inspires her to give the lunch to Kakeru. Her gift symbolizes not only her love of Kakeru, but her commitment to keeping him safe. In a way, it finalizes a contract between Naho and her future self, setting the stage for events to come.

When the Orange manga was first recommended to me, I was hesitant. I’ve stayed away from shoujo manga and anime due to my growing personal frustration with it. The insipid storytelling based on years upon years of tropes coupled with often insidious messages for young women found in most shoujo romances is still far more difficult for me to ignore than routine sexual fanservice aimed at men. I approached Orange with trepidation, but came away rewarded with a strong story that skirts around these expectations by focusing primarily on regret and the premature loss of a friend.

Orange is less about romance — despite the ever-present tropes — and more about dealing with the death of a loved one.

The anime adaptation of Orange continues to impress through it’s excellent sound and visual direction. Following Episode 3, I was again struck by how confidently this series is directed, and how well the visuals convey themes of grief, loss, regret, and hope found in Naho Takamiya’s letters from her future self.

Orange‘s premiere episode begins without music, just ambient sound and idle chatter between Naho and her friends as they prepare their letters to their past selves. The sound of rustling paper, a slight breeze, and passing cars form an audible background soundtrack before music begins to play as the group is shown in front of a fence. These same audio cues are repeated when the entire scene is bookended at the end of the series’ third episode.

The sequence pictured above is from the first episode of Orange. Naho and company are digging up a time capsule where they placed letters to their future selves ten years prior.

Orange begins with establishing shots of the grounds just outside of the schoolyard fence. As previously mentioned, there is no background music, only Hiroto Suwa giving instructions, organizing their project as they each prepare their letters. This series generally uses somewhat saturated colors and contrast, but the visually ups the contrast in scenes of Naho’s future, making shadows darker and colors brighter, especially when the sky is shown. The fence is ever present in all of these shots, visibly separating their adult selves from the high school. When Takako Chino and Naho are handed their letters, their faces are not shown, and the viewer’s focus is drawn to the letter itself rather than the person.

The first time faces are shown, it’s still through a fence, drawing visible lines between them and the school — an obvious visual nod to the fact that they’re not in school anymore, and that part of their lives is firmly locked away in the past. Naho’s monologue is short and to the point: “Now that I’ve turned 26, I have so many regrets.”  The series cuts to a blurry scene where only Naho is in focus and her high school self walks by her 26 year-old self.

This entire visual sequence is repeated in Episode 3 — when Naho and her friends read their own letters and Kakeru’s — with subtle changes in framing.

Leading into the third episode’s visual bookending of the series’ initial opening is a scene of 16 year-old Naho, drinking orange juice from a juice box that Kakeru had bought for her, lamenting the fact that she couldn’t express her feelings in time to change the outcome written in the letter from her future self. Kakeru still responds favorably to the upperclassmen Rio Ueda, and the two begin dating. Even though Naho does attempt to express her feelings to Kakeru, her message is too late and doesn’t reach him in time.

Her regret is palpable and the scene is bathed in the sharp, warm tones of the setting sun. This makes for an interesting contrast when the scene transitions from Naho in her room, to Naho’s 26 year-old self in the future. The saturated colors and high contrast appear sharper because the scene that followed was so specifically lit.

Unlike the scene that precedes it — with Naho’s 16 year-old self alone in her room at sunset — the sun is rising in the scene of Naho’s future as she and her friends dig up their old time capsule in front of the high school. The colors are still saturated but there’s slightly less contrast in most scenes. When compared side-by-side with their Episode 1 counterparts, Episode 3’s shots appear brighter with less sharp shadows.

The group is framed with the “camera” above or below the group — including a shot from the hole that the time capsule used to be — as if someone is watching them, where in Episode 1, shots focused on the letters themselves. Similar framing is often used when a spirit or ghost is peering in on the living, a deliberate choice that makes it appear as if Kakeru is watching them the entire time. This makes Suwa’s reading of his letter all the more effective, especially since it hints that Kakeru was preparing for his own death.

When Gatchaman Crowds first aired, I was undecided on what direction the series would take. The premiere episode hinted at anything from poking fun at superheroes to an odd “buddy cop” duo starring Hajime Ichinose and Sugune Tachibana with Hajime inevitably spoiling Sugune’s stodgy plans, dragging his character forward. While the latter does happen throughout the series, it’s a byproduct of Crowds‘ main focus — examining existing societal structures and social mores.

Revisiting the series — especially with sequel Gatchaman Crowds insight fairly fresh in my mind — reframes the characters, their interactions, Rui Ninomiya’s social media empire GALAX, and the most minute details within the larger reference of both seasons’ thematic elements.

Sugune certainly isn’t as important of a character this time around as he was upon first watch. When the series first aired, my mind focused on him and Hajime together as a pair, with Sugune being the main protagonist of Crowds and Hajime his goofy sidekick. Given the events of the first two episodes and asked to digest them, this is what my mind came up with — a likely result of my own media-watching habits where protagonists are overwhelming male, especially in a superhero series. Hajime may be there to give Sugune a good swift kick, but Sugune will inevitably end up being the main character of this new Gatchaman series — the latest in a long-standing superhero franchise.

Boy, was I wrong.

The title of Gatchaman Crowds‘ second episode is “Asymmetry,” another art term that is, like “Avant-garde” in Episode 1, a call-out to where this series wants to go with its narrative.

From a human perspective, asymmetry is more often seen as a physical deformity indicative of illness or injury. Asymmetry often accompanies a loss of balance, setting the viewer ill at ease, regardless of whether they’re looking at another human face, a piece of art in a museum, or nature. In art, symmetry is used to create a peaceful, balanced, and strong tone. Symmetrical pieces have more resolute, permanent airs about them, designed to make a firm statement or calm the viewer.

Yet asymmetry is not only natural and ordinary, but also biologically necessary for humans to function — the most obvious example being your asymmetrical lungs, which allow room for your one heart. Asymmetry and symmetry are often used as shortcuts for “bad” and “good” — or at the very least, “unsettling” and “calming” in visual media due to how we as an audience respond to them. In art, asymmetry is associated with the modern period whereas symmetry was the standard in traditional works.

Gatchaman Crowds used the title “Avant-garde” for its premiere, telling us where it wants to go — ahead of the vanguard, into uncharted territory. It then introduces Sugune first, the very model of a sturdy superhero protagonist, before throwing Hajime into the mix. “Asymmetry” draws a line between Hajime’s point of view and Sugune’s traditional outlook setting up one of many battlegrounds for the rest of the season.

Traditional and modern. Gatchaman and Gatchaman Crowds. Sugune Tachibana and Hajime Ichinose.

Sugune is a symmetrical person in a figurative sense. The qualities of balance, structure, and traditional are all calming to Sugune, and he tries to live his life in the most orderly fashion possible.

He’s often shown in front of symmetrical backgrounds, like the subway car shown above. The windows, seats, and ubiquitous GALAX advertisements appear as if you could fold this entire screenshot down the center and have it all line up — note how the GALAX ad on the left is even written backwards, possibly intentionally or as a simple background art shortcut — with the only differences Sugune’s left arm and the passengers on each side.

Crowds makes it a point to compare Hajime and Sugune whenever possible, noting their different reactions and approach to even the most mundane situations. Above, Hajime is pictured jumping out of the elevator in the G-Crew’s hideout. Moments later, Sugune enters, heralded by the fact that he bangs his katana on the ground. Hajime immediately leaps out of the elevator while Sugune is given an entrance, flanked by the symmetrical doors of the elevator. As the doors close, the gatchaman symbol forms his background, another representation of the superhero tradition.

“Listen, don’t think about why you fight or anything else. Just carry out the mission! There are casualties every day!”

-Paiman, Gatchaman Crowds, Episode 2

Most of Hajime and Sugune’s onscreen time in Episode 2 is spent arguing, especially after Hajime lets a MESS go, undermining Sugune’s authority as her gatchaman mentor. His words echo the statement issued by Paiman above — don’t think about why you fight, just do what you’re told.

Sugune excels at doing what he’s told — rigid and obedient without thinking about what he does or why he does something. He’s the model student of a top-down society that teaches respect for superiors, often without question.

When confronted with his presumed superiors — the Tachikawa City fire chief and mayor — in a casual environment, he’s beside himself that Hajime didn’t introduce him properly and apologizes for his insubordination while the mayor waves him off and shows him pictures of his daughter. Hajime reiterates that “they’re just normal guys.” When asked to create a collage and given no instruction, he struggles, thinking that there must be a right way and a wrong way to make one.

In this same episode, Hajime stops attacking the MESS and it releases its captives. While Sugune warns that it could be dangerous, Hajime wants to communicate with it further, allowing it to tell them where all of the missing people went. The MESS never become an integral plot point as far as in-universe events, but continue to float around the gatchaman hideout throughout the series, a constant reminder of what a bit of communication can accomplish.

The caprese salad pictured above isn’t the first time that JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Diamond is Unbreakable has offered a plate of delicious food. It’s also not the first time this particular JoJo’s arc has played around with horror tropes specifically using food. Diamond is Unbreakable‘s premiere episode opens with a cheesy morning radio talk show and a carefully prepared breakfast to set up a 90’s pop aesthetic before turning to horror, juxtaposing a bleeding hand and a perfect table setting.

This latest arc of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure‘s anime adaptation continues to excel in confined spaces. Small-town suburbia and JoJo’s don’t initially seem like they would be a perfect marriage, but this more mundane setting allows for manga author Hirohiko Araki’s creativity to shine through in the form of individual characters’ stands while series director Toshiyuko Kato and Naokatsu Tsuda breathe life into protagonist Josuke Higashikata’s surroundings with a muted, almost sour color palette that creates a claustrophobic feeling worthy of a horror film. No one Diamond is Unbreakable episode uses the horror setup, confined location, or plays with audience expectations quite like the series’ tenth episode “Let’s Go Eat Some Italian Food!”

Preceding Okuyasu Nijimura and Josuke’s discovery of a new Italian restaurant in town is Koichi Hirose’s run-in with Yukako Yamagishi. Diamond is Unbreakable thrives on turning every day occurrences to ghastly, affecting, and occasionally disgusting clashes between stand users — the milkman is a serial killer in disguise with a stand, the school loner who hates everyone has a stand, the new neighbors have stands, the girl that likes you might kill you with your stand if you don’t love her back, and so on.

These setups have taught both Josuke and us as viewers to regard everything as an imminent threat. When I walk into a horror movie, I expect the horrific parts but I don’t know exactly when they’ll happen. It’s up to the movie to either create enough tension that they come as a surprise and actually scare me, or at least entertain me throughout the movie. Diamond is Unbreakable has trained us to perceive every seemingly ordinary person as another stand user in disguise, creating no small amount of tension as we wait to see what sticky situation Josuke and company will get caught up in next and, more importantly, how they’ll get out of it. “Let’s Go Eat Some Italian Food” plays with this idea and then pulls a bait and switch for incredible comedic effect.

Unlike the majority of episodes prior, “Let’s Go Eat Some Italian Food” starts away from the peppy voice of disc jockey Ken Harada and Morioh radio. Instead, it starts with a traditional and obvious horror setup — a man in an inexplicably dark kitchen sharpens his knives and grins menacingly before spattering what is presumably blood everywhere. There’s even a pan over to a snarling caged animal and a window revealing an ominous purple night sky.

This cuts quickly to Okuyasu complaining that he’s hungry before he and Josuke stumble upon a sign for a new Italian restaurant in town, conveniently located right next to the cemetery. Given what he’s witnessed in the previous few arcs Josuke, and us as audience members, are already on edge. We’ve been told that stand users are drawn to each other, and every encounter that Josuke and company have had with other stand users has been negative — Angelo killed his grandfather and then tried to kill him, Hazamada tried to kill both Koichi and Josuke, Okuyasu and his brother Keicho Nijimura tried to kill Koichi and Josuke, Yukako trapped Koichi in her house and then tried to kill him, the list goes on. It’s no wonder that Josuke views house chef Tonio Trussardi as a threat. Based on the horror movie opening that presumably starred Tonio in his kitchen, so do we.

Visual framing also goes a long way to make the restaurant appear cramped and Tonio menacing. Tonio looms over the table at times while other shots are taken from the table itself, looking up at Okuyasu as he eats. After Okuyasu consumes the food, one of the ailments that he identified to Tonio at the beginning of their exchange is gruesomely cured — losing a giant ball of skin to correct his stiff shoulder, and cavity-filled teeth popping out of his mouth onto the dining table only to be replace by fresh, healthy teeth.

Each dish is carefully prepared to target Okuyasu’s health complaints, but the horrifying manner in which they are cured only lends itself to this episode’s unsettling atmosphere. Josuke barges into the dimly-lit kitchen after Okuyasu doubles over in stomach pain, only to witness Tonio feeding his dog a taste of Okuyasu’s intended main dish. The dog’s insides promptly burst out of it’s mouth as Tonio swiftly threatens Josuke, knife in hand. Okyuasu ends up devouring the main course and his stomach bursts out in similar fashion to Tonio’s dog, while Tonio yells at Josuke that he’ll make him pay for . . .

. . . not washing his hands.

“You seriously only wanted to feed Okuyasu good food?”

“What else could a chef ask for? That’s what I live for. That’s all I hope for.”

-an exchange between Josuke and Tonio, Diamond is Unbreakable, Episode 10

The menacing shots of Tonio and his cuisine, playing on our pre-existing knowledge of Morioh’s stand users, and the horror-movie style opening were all in service of this one joke. Tonio makes Josuke pay for defiling his kitchen by forcing him to scrub it by himself. It’s a fantastic subversion of both our and Josuke’s expectations, once again reminding us that not all stand users are out to get Josuke and friends while reiterating Diamond is Unbreakable‘s visual horror trappings.

2:24.

This is the exact amount of time that the opening moments of the first episode of Bakemonogatari goes without lead Koyomi Araragi speaking a word.

“A better decision than dodging, wasn’t it?”

The first words out of Hiroshi Kamiya’s mouth as Araragi form this question, followed by an immediate and unsure retraction that devolves into a constant stream of Araragi’s innermost thoughts.

Upon revisiting the first episode of the series — going by initial airdate, not chronology or any other measurement — I was shocked to find that he went this long without speaking. Araragi’s voice is synonymous with the Monogatari franchise at this point. His monologues long-winded, his conversations unnaturally verbose — Kamiya’s specific Araragi tone is etched in every viewer’s mind who has watched Bakemonogatari or other parts of the series. When I picked up the Kizumonogatari novel, I somehow heard Kamiya’s voice in my head, despite reading it in English, not Japanese.

The televised anime adaptation of Bakemonogatari and its first movie prequel, Kizumonogatari Part 1: Tekketsu, begin with the same exact scene — the former with a recounting of the event in a flashback and the latter with the entirety of the event told in the present — Araragi’s accidental and surprisingly long look at Tsubasa Hanekawa’s panties thanks to a fortuitous gust of wind.

In the translated English novel of Kizumonogatari, approximately four pages are spent on this monumental event in Araragi’s life. Every detail is catalogued and expounded upon despite no actual spoken words. The books, and the vast majority of the Monogatari anime — a few narrative arcs in Second Season aside — are all told specifically from Araragi’s perspective. As readers or viewers of either the anime or light novels, we are privy to Araragi’s every thought.

The Kizumonogatari movie takes a long 8:16 before a character speaks. It’s Hanekawa’s hesitant “Ummm” followed by Araragi’s “I didn’t see anything!” response — the latter of which is obviously a lie. Fast-paced dialogue is a hallmark of the Monogatari series, and this stunted conversation between Hanekawa and Araragi stands out because of this. Not only does Kizumonogatari take nearly eight and a half minutes for a character to speak, but it’s not the self-important, droll tone of Araragi’s inner voice that has become the Monogatari standard.

While Araragi is indubitably the protagonist of the Kizumonogatari movie, the movie refuses to fully allow us access to his mind at any point — marking the first anime adaptation of a Monogatari arc that centers around Araragi to do so. Everything is told through dialogue between characters and breathtaking visuals. We’re left to guess as to what Araragi is thinking at any given time.

This was the best choice that Tatsuya Oishi made in his direction of the film.

Readers of the light novel can easily fill in the blanks. One could easily make the argument that Oishi is expecting you to, that he made this movie with that in mind. Kizumonogatari Part 1: Tekketsu is steeped in Araragi’s self-loathing, despite the absence of any of the novel’s lengthy mental musings. His sexual frustration depicted as a train, his exasperated glance when he notices Hanekawa’s number as a contact in his cell phone, despite just having given in to his more carnal desires — there are a myriad of small moments throughout the film that convey his confused mental state without having to hear Araragi dramatically declare it to himself in his mind.

Filling the void left by the absence of Araragi’s famous monologues is fantastic sound direction that includes a jazzy soundtrack and audible shortcuts that once again let us peer into the mind of Araragi without ever having to listen to his voice. Araragi is driven to follow a trail of blood into the subway, egged on by repeated bursts of “SOS” in morse code, representing his inexplicable desire to find the blood’s source. Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade’s cries that she doesn’t want to die transform into the wailings of a newborn to Araragi’s ears. Araragi’s gasps are echoed by the sounds of steam expelled by nearby chemical plants as the warning klaxons of a railroad crossing fill the air while he’s being surrounded by vampire hunters.

Monogatari has always had visual focus — absence of actual animation aside — but rarely is the visual direction given the room to breathe as it is in the first Kizumonogatari film. The familiar structures of Naoetsu High School, the cram school, the Araragi family home, the North Shirahebi Shrine are constants throughout the series and undergo convenient transformations to accompany Araragi’s monologues. The visuals across various parts of the anime series are always in service of Araragi and by extension, Nisio Isin’s writing.

Kizumonogatari removes this, and the visuals become our only window into the thoughts of not only Araragi, but the vampire Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade. We are left in the dark — compared to the guiding hand that the rest of the Monogatari series gives us, either through Nisio Isin’s words, or Araragi’s expository reflection — just as Araragi is in the dark. Where the book offers an Araragi thinking back after the fact, the Kizumonogatari movie dumps both Araragi and us in the thick of things and forces us to take in all of the events as they come.

“Mizore . . . let’s promise to get first place when we’re in high school.”

-Nozomi Kasaki, Sound! Euphonium Season 2, Episode 1

Speaking over the stifled sounds of bitter tears and a recognizable passage from Aleksandr Borodin’s Polovetsian Dances from “Prince Igor,” Nozomi angrily clenches her fists and makes this promise to her friend, Mizore Yoroizuka. On a long bus ride home from failing to claim first place, there’s little to do but wallow in the stench of defeat or look ahead towards the future. While Mizore reactively says that she hates competitions, Nozomi looks ahead, seeking a different outcome.

For Mizore, this statement is everything. Nozomi is her first real friend, the reason why she joined concert band at Minami Junior High, and later the reason why she continues with it at Kitauji High School — this promise that they will take first together.

The second season of Sound! Euphonium has begun with another lesson of what happens when people don’t talk to each other about their feelings or problems. While this may irritate or ostracize some viewers claiming that the series is making drama for drama’s sake, the execution of the series says otherwise. Mizore’s troubles are relatable and emotionally resonant. Sound! Euphonium has never shied away from the difficult and nuanced scale of talent against hard work, and here it applies that same careful touch to Mizore’s inner world — an isolated place born of self-loathing and no small amount of fear.

“I’m bad with people. I’m gloomy. I always had trouble making friends. I was always alone. Despite that, Nozomi made friends with me. I joined the concert band because Nozomi invited me. I was so happy.”

-Mizore Yoroizuka, Sound Euphonium Season 2, Episode 4

Everything that Mizore hears, sees, and perceives is filtered through her own experiences. She admits that she is not an easy person to get along with, preferring to keep to herself. The fact that Nozomi bothered to befriend her and keep her close means a great deal to Mizore. She puts Nozomi on a bit of a pedestal because of this and her internal filters work hard to keep Mizore’s impression of her own existence down. Rather than thinking of another reason why Nozomi wouldn’t tell her that she was quitting the band, her mind immediately jumps to the fact that she wasn’t important enough to Nozomi to warrant an explanation. Mizore’s world naturally places Nozomi as above her in the social hierarchy, and this colors all of their interactions — or in this case, lack of communication.

Anyone who has ever been depressed or felt out-of-place will easily relate to Mizore. How many times have you eschewed contact with others because you felt as if you didn’t deserve it? How many people have you put as above yourself because of your own self-loathing and doubt?

“You were nice to me because . . . you felt sorry for me. You pitied me.”

-Mizore Yoroizuka to Yuko Yoshikawa, Sound! Euphonium Season 2, Episode 4

Mizore’s friendship with Yuko Yoshikawa is a casualty of this inner filter. Sound Euphonium! has made it abundantly clear that Yuko is not the type to bother with people she doesn’t like — Yuko is a fiercely loyal friend, yet allows few people in. Mizore is one of those few people. Yuko wouldn’t be friends with Mizore if she didn’t care a great deal about Mizore. Mizore’s words hurt Yuko deeply. This is likely unintentional — Mizore is too caught up in her own world and lingering feelings towards Nozomi — but it incisively showcases how self-loathing can accidentally isolate others. Inadvertently invalidating another’s feelings can easily be a direct effect of internal self-hatred, turning that very fear into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

There’s an obvious parallel between Nozomi and Mizore’s relationship to the central relationship of Sound! Euphonium: Kumiko Oumae and Reina Kousaka. Reina is the withdrawn individual who is brought out by Kumiko, the latter having a cheerier disposition and other friends. However, in their scenario it’s Reina who is the dedicated musician above all else, helping Kumiko rekindle her own love of music. When Kumiko asks Reina for whom she plays, Reina simply says herself and that she hadn’t thought about it much. Although Kumiko was initially inspired by Reina, it’s safe to say that Kumiko plays for herself as well. They balance each other out better than Mizore and Nozomi, with the latter doing most of the heavy lifting in the relationship due to the former’s depression and self-hatred.

“When was she being honest? When was she putting up a front? It was always so hard to tell. It was a little scary to consider what she was seeing from her perspective.”

-Kumiko Oumae on Asuka Tanaka, Sound! Euphonium Season 2, Episode 4

Sound! Euphonium also leaves us with Asuka Tanaka’s more cynical point of view: people cling to each other out of desperation, because they have nothing else. While Kumiko rejects this wholeheartedly, she also does well to remind us that it’s not simply Mizore that has a filter through which the world is shown.

I began watching Yuri!!! On Ice in a hotel room in Oakland, California during a month-long business trip covering the 2016 League of Legends World Championship. Perhaps that’s why Viktor Nikiforov’s phone case of his own outfit caught my attention — I had seen a similar occurance in professional LoL. SK Telecom T1 superstar Lee “Faker” Sang-hyeok, the best player to ever have played the game, also owns a phone case of his own likeness*.

Both Viktor and Faker are superstars beyond comparison in their respective fields, despite the former’s existence as a fictional character. Faker is an intelligent, courteous, and confident young man who would never say or do anything that would affect anyone’s perception of the SK Telecom T1 brand. All of his social media is handled by his organization, and he eschews having his own Twitter account — fellow teammates Bae “Bang” Jun-sik and Lee “Wolf” Jae-hwan both partake in Twitter, especially the latter. Faker is still in the prime of his career, on the cusp of winning a third World Championship title. By contrast, Viktor is eccentric, whimsical, and expressive above all else.

We meet Viktor in the prime of his career. As he’s presumably wondering what to do next, he stumbles across a viral video of Yuri Katsuki performing his program. Yuri’s performance inspires him to travel to Japan and become the failed Japanese figure skater’s coach. Viktor’s social media presence is ubiquitious. His SNS (presumably Instagram due to the interface) selfie at Hasetsu Castle tips off up-and-coming Russian prodigy Yuri “Yurio” Plisetsky — and Viktor’s legions of fans — to Viktor’s whereabouts, confirming the rumor that he traveled to Japan.

Viktor seemingly keeps his social feed continously updated with pictures of what he’s doing and where he’s going. In the series’ third episode, he proudly holds out his phone — still decorated with the image of his latest professional outfit — and asks Yurio and Yuri to take a photo of him in the bath so he can upload it onto social media, showing the large role that it plays in his everyday life.

Yuri!!! On Ice also uses social media as the framework for it’s ending animation sequence. Interspersed with poses of Yuri, Yurio, and Viktor playing with sparklers and fireworks are various Instagram updates posted by ancillary characters like Thai figure skater Phichit Chulanont — just introduced in the series’ fourth episode as Yuri’s former rinkmate — in addition to Yurio and Viktor themselves.

These posts take on a bittersweet ephemeral quality, especially against the backdrop of Episode 4, which tells us in no uncertain terms that this may be both Yuri and Yurio’s respective last chances. Yuri is 23 in a profession where the average age of an olympic medalist is between 19 and 20 years-old. Yurio, only 15 years-old, is concerned with imminent puberty and whether it will affect his performances going forward.

Their mentor and idol, Viktor is rapidly approaching retirement age at 27 years-old and is choosing to spend what could possibly be his final year as a professional coaching the hapless Yuri Katsuki. Viktor’s endless stream of social media posts continues to promote his existence and attempts to grasp and acknowledge what fleeting moments he can.

One of the more emotional sequences in the ending is a post from Viktor (v_nikiforov on Instagram). He sits on a train with Yuri and the photo is captioned “time flies so fast.” Two posts following, there’s a wonderful backstage shot of Viktor lovingly brushing Yuri’s hair taken by the Nishigori triplets, who also leaked Yuri’s initial viral video. It’s a private scene where the audience almost feels like they’re intruding, returning to the transcience of the moment.

Part of Yuri Katsuki’s journey is that he needs to start making decisions for himself instead of deferring to others because he’s too scared to do things for himself. More than beating out Yurio for the Grand Prix title, this is what Yuri must learn. Until Viktor pushes him, he’s always allowed his coach to pick his program music. He generally goes along with what others do if it means that it won’t cause a fuss.

Yuri’s self-effacing and generally shy personality is also reflected in his complete lack of social media presence. Unlike his rival Yurio — who posts updates of himself in various animal attire — Yuri has no SNS brand outside of what the Nishigori sisters have constructed for him, a seemingly conscious choice by the series that furthers our grasp on his character.

*image courtesy of the SK Telecom T1 Twitter account

“Just write down where you want to go, be it a place where you can work towards your dream job or a school where you can indulge your hobbies. Some even pick the school that’s closest to home. Any reason is fine.”

-teacher to Cocona, Flip Flappers, Episode 1

The bane of any high school anime character’s existence — which encompasses the vast majority of anime characters — is surely the dreaded career survey. I never had to fill out one myself, but I do know that my choices would have been different for each of the four years of high school: marine biologist, veterinarian, designer, and finally a journalist, the latter of which is my actual career. A career survey is often used to show an uncertain future for an anime protagonist, underline their indecisiveness, or draw out what their true passion might be, the unprofitable one that radiates disappointment when written in the career survey response box. Flip Flappers takes this one step further and adds a veneer of existential dread.

When Cocona is questioned on her inability to choose an answer for her career survey, Cocona responds, “I don’t know which is the best choice.” Not that she doesn’t know where she wants to be — although this is also proven to be true throughout the series’ first four episodes — but she doesn’t know which is the best choice. Rather than concern herself with what she actually wants or where she wants to be, she’s most concerned with making the correct decision, presumably the choice that others will deem the correct one. Any reason is fine, but Cocona doesn’t have a reason. Furthermore, she seeks perfection, not passion.

Our first introduction to Cocona shows her in a testing room, juxtaposing Papika’s wild launch from Flip Flap with the dullness of her schoolwork. The second, after an odd dream sequence, places Cocona in her bedroom. Her room is pristine, her sheets are plain, even her pet is neatly placed next to her desk. It’s sparsely decorated, with the only slight touches a colorful painting above her bed, a few plants also neatly placed on shelves, and two small pillows. Even the pillows and the open book on her small table appear purposefully placed. Cocona has the perfect, organized room for the perfect, organized student.

Papika’s room is the complete opposite.

Cluttered with pillows, knick-knacks, and lamps, Papika’s room resembles the interior of a colorful sewing basket rather than an actual place to live. She pulls out a shell with a live hermit crab still inside, startling Cocona. It’s reminiscent of the “Mika-chan” house that the Takakura brothers whipped up for sister Himari in Mawaru Penguindrum — fanciful, childlike, and bursting with color.

When it comes time to eat, Papika scrounges up whatever she can find and makes a stew. When Cocona asks what’s in it, Papika says cheerfully that she doesn’t know. When Cocona asks if it’s actually edible, Papika’s only response is, “I’m eating it.”

Unlike Cocona, Papika simply does things, learning by trial and error. Later on in the fourth episode, she informs Cocona that red fruit will burn if she eats them but blue fruit are okay. How did she learn this? At some point, she tried it, like the stew she gives Cocona, and learned the hard way.

“I don’t know anything. I can’t do anything. I have nothing . . . “

“You can do lots of things! You’re smart! You can read textbooks good! You can walk fast! And . . . you can put the scarf on right!”

-conversation between Cocona and Papika, Flip Flappers, Episode 4

This brings us full circle to Cocona’s emptiness and her blank career survey form. If Papika were to fill out the same form, she would probably say something like “by Cocona’s side” or “collecting stones for FlipFlap.” Papika doesn’t lack for goals, and she attacks them immediately. What she needs is someone to temper her actions with reason and logic. Enter Cocona.

Yet Cocona doesn’t value her admirable traits, and certainly doesn’t see things like studying or social intelligence as things of worth until Papika so succinctly points out that these are qualities that not everyone possesses. Studying is a learned behavior and, although Cocona’s room points to the fact that she is naturally organized and diligent, something that’s she feels is expected of her a student, not a rare quality. The sailor uniform scarf, a convenient metaphor for general social graces, is another trait that Cocona doesn’t value within herself that Papika instantly recognizes as praiseworthy because she doesn’t possess it.

It’s no coincidence that Cocona and Papika transformed resemble each other. Papika admires Cocona’s diligence, studious nature, and knowledge of the socially correct thing to do — the sailor uniform tie being the obvious, notable example. By contrast, Cocona admires Papika’s outgoing and vivacity to such a degree that it can turn into jealousy. As one of Pure Illusions villains spells out for her and us — as if the career survey form and bleak classroom didn’t show us already in the first episode — Cocona lacks an identity. She wants to be someone, but doesn’t value the good qualities that she does have, and restricts herself from seeking out what she actually wants, due to her desire to be correct.

This starts to change after their conversations in the series’ fourth episode, where Cocona finally begins to truly open up to Papika. She even admits that her wish, should the two complete their task for FlipFlap and collect all of the fragments in Pure Illusion, would be to see her family, who died when she was younger. It’s not something Cocona could put on a school career survey, but it’s a genuine admission of something she wants for herself, which is a massive step forward.

“Lina. She can’t act. She can’t sing. She can’t dance. A triple threat.”

-Cosmo Brown, Singin’ in the Rain

In 1952, the movie musical Singin’ in the Rain posed an interesting question: what would happen if a wildly successful and beautiful leading lady possessed a voice that would send audience members running in the opposite direction of the silver screen?

Set in 1927, Singin’ in the Rain takes place during the rise of sound in film and Warner Bros’. The Jazz Singer. It follows a movie studio making the painful process of milking their two most bankable silent film stars — Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) and Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) — in the brave new world of “talkies.” This premise is played for laughs, with Lina’s blithe ignorance stealing the show. Don Lockwood is Gene Kelly so naturally he adapts, able to sing well enough and dance spectacularly, but Lina has a shrill, screeching timbre that reaches dog whistle frequencies. Naturally, she believes that she’s brilliant at all things. Her gorgeous face and fanbase are not moneymakers that the studio wants to lose, so they secretly enlist talented newbie, and Don’s love interest, Kathy Selden, to dub over Lina’s voice lines and songs. Hilarity ensues.

While Singin’ in the Rain isn’t nearly as incisive of Hollywood as a film like All About Eve, its premise has more depth than a hearty chuckle at Lina’s expense. Lina is pretty, and her face makes the fictitious Monumental Pictures a tremendous amount of money, to the point where she is a household name. Her egotistical personality is cultivated by the studio catering to her directly because she is so beautiful. The lack of acting ability can be dealt with, so long as nothing damages her moneymaking face, and her voice wasn’t a problem until she was actually required to speak and sing.

We don’t yet know if Chitose Karasuma’s dancing is anything special, but Girlish Number has already made it clear that she has no natural voice acting talent, and also isn’t particularly good at singing. She’s at least, by Singin’ in the Rain‘s standards, a double threat.

Much like Lina Lamont, Girlish Number‘s Chitose was cast in a leading role for her appearance. Producer Kuzu-P happened upon her at an after party — she had a bit part in a videogame — thought she was cute, and chose her as the heroine in the anime adaptation of light novel series Millennium Princess x Kowloon Overlord. He has no vision for the anime that he is producing, but he certainly has visions of selling his cute trio of rookies as idols at various promotional events. Along for the ride are veteran voice actresses Momoka Sono and Kazuha Shibasaki.

The anime is continuously plagued with setbacks and Kuzu-P’s unwillingness to make any decision concerning actual production. Rightfully roasted and ripped apart by fans of the light novel and the sakuga set on social media, the first episode of Millennium Princess x Kowloon Overlord is predictably a disaster.

Chitose’s co-stars Yae Kugayama and Koto Katakura are disappointed and angry after the first episode airs, but Chitose giggles joyfully to herself in a corner as she scans her social media feed. Millennium Princess x Kowloon Overlord might be a bomb, but it’s still skyrocketing her popularity.

Unlike Lina, Chitose is an unknown landing her big break rather than a studio headliner with a well-established career but both characters share a commonality in exactly what their higher-ups see in them: the perfect look. Chitose shares Lina’s more egotistical qualities, which are made uglier by the fact that she’s done nothing to earn the admiration of those around her, and refuses to treat her co-stars with the respect due to those in their position or seniority. She also experiences a rare moment of clarity that Lina’s character lacks — Chitose realizes that she’s awful at voice acting, inspiring her to actually work at her craft. Although she refines the voice of her onscreen character, Girlish Number takes care to reiterate that even Chitose’s improved performance isn’t exceptional. The question Girlish Number asks us is whether Chitose’s actual talent, or lack thereof, even matters.

Chitose’s future, should her popularity continue to grow, is shown in the characters of Momoka and Kazuha. The two veteran voice actresses present two primary avenues that Chitose can travel: the self-aware and professional Momoka, or the self-loathing artist Kazuha.

Kazuha prides herself on her craft, and only recognizes or acknowledges Chitose’s existence once Chitose decides to put a bit more effort into voice acting. Although she realizes that the industry is not favorable, Kazuha wishes to be taken seriously as an artist and suffers because few value her actual acting talent. The daughter of a famous actress and well-known director, Momoka was taught the industry from a very early age and approaches her career pragmatically. She accepts that she’s a marketable entity and considers every live appearance or advertising session as part of being a professional. Chitose has shown little interest in anything but the popularity becoming a voice actress brings, so Kazuha acts more like her foil and Momoka the path before her. This makes Kazuha a fairly tragic character, as she watches Chitose earn fame and fortune despite the fact that Chitose has next to no talent or care.

There is no Kathy Selden waiting in the wings to cover for Chitose. As the production of Millennium Princess x Kowloon Overlord continues circle the drain, it will be increasingly up to Chitose and her co-stars to carry the show through Kuzu-P’s live events and marketing. The series’ fourth and most recent episode ends with Kuzu-P and his buddy President Namba laughing over drinks that they’ve found the winning formula. Their plans are solely focused on Chitose and company. The anime that they’re producing never even comes up in conversation.

Singin’ in the Rain ended on an optimistic, albeit cheesy, note — talent, in the form of Kathy, won out in the end and sang “You Are My Lucky Star” as the credits rolled. Girlish Number trends more and more cynical with each passing episode. For now, it doesn’t matter how good, or how bad, Chitose Kurusama is at her actual job. She’s cute, and that sells.

“I’m going to play for you.”

-Mizore Yoroizuka to Nozomi Kasaki, Sound! Euphonium, Episode 5

It had to be Nozomi Kasaki.

No other young woman could lead us onto the stage prior to Kitauji High School’s concert band performance at the Kyoto Regional. Nozomi, of whom we were not aware until this second season of Sound! Euphonium, represents a core tenet of the series as a whole: finding inspiration and love through music. Mizore Yoroizuka found her love and inspiration in Nozomi and the girls’ reunion and reconciliation formed the narrative during summer practice that led to this performance. Nozomi spent the majority of that time forbidden from rejoining the band even to help with menial tasks. Now she leads the viewing audience to their exclusive seats for the show.

In the moments before Nozomi pulls back the heavy stage curtain, Mizore tells her that she’ll play for Nozomi. Reina Kousaka overhears this and immediately tells Kumiko Oumae that she’ll play her trumpet solo for Kumiko. Senior trumpet player Kaori Nakaseko tries to pass off the band to second-year Yuko Yoshikawa who passionately insists Kaori stop that line of thinking — they still haven’t made Nationals together. They raise their hands in solidarity and the small subgroups of band members around them, including Kumiko and Reina, follow suit. In that moment they, without speaking a word, make the promise to play for each other.

Nozomi’s presence at the start of the performance again hints at this question, which is answered time and time again throughout the seven-and-a-half-minute song.

For whom does everyone play?

Kitauji High School’s first piece isn’t shown. Instead, the camera cuts to outside shots of the building, further isolating the upcoming performance from the rest of the world. For nearly eight minutes, “Crescent Moon Dance” will be the world of Sound! Euphonium. Shown waiting just offstage are those who aren’t able to be a part of this particular world — Sound! Euphonium still reiterates that, regardless of effort, sometimes you’re just not good enough. These specific band members — including Natsuki Nakagawa, Hauzki Katou, and Nozomi — can only watch. The band onstage plays for them, too.

When the seven-and-a-half-minute, uninterrupted performance of “Crescent Moon Dance” begins, we’re led in by Reina, looking straight ahead as she begins to play her trumpet. The show is about to begin. What follows is a masterpiece of televised animation. Others have spoken at great length about this episode’s technical merits elsewhere. My focus is on the question posed before the performance begins — for whom do you play?

At first, it’s their adviser and conductor Noboru Taki, who has pushed them to this point. The camera first focuses on him and then on the faces of the concert band members who await his instruction. Instructor Taki was the catalyst for their entire Nationals run. Upon his arrival as their advisor he forced the members of the band to choose their path — aiming for Nationals, or simply having fun.

The next response comes from an unknown french horn player, whose sheet music is plastered with messages and pictures, presumably of friends in the band or her section. At this point, sheet music is a mere accessory for most — a necessary, uniform visual for the audience in the hall. Here, the french horn player is reminded of her friends who traveled the same path to get to this point, the Kyoto Regional, with hopes of making Nationals.

Sweat, tears, and physical effort are also shown. The entire performance is visceral and passionate. The viewing audience can feel their efforts. Between cuts to various musical instruments are more shots of marked-up sheet music. Sapphire Kawashima’s, and then Kumiko’s, both with various messages and photographs taped over the score.

During Reina’s trumpet solo, Kumiko is reminded of their evening together shown in the first season. In that moment, Reina plays only for Kumiko. When the camera is placed slightly behind her, at the back of the stage, we can see the sheet music of about half of the band. Many of the pages are marked and drawn-on, with more photographs and memories. Reina’s is conspicuously clean, with only her notes present. She expresses her emotions through her music alone.

Reina’s dedication to Kumiko is followed by a series of sheet music images. We may not know these band members by anything but their character designs, if that, but they each have their own story and path that they took to get to this moment. We simply weren’t privy to anything but Kumiko’s story.

Then, it’s Mizore’s turn. Her solo brings her narrative to a close as she plays for Nozomi. The camera focuses on a content Mizore, then fades to Nozomi listening backstage with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. It’s a fitting sendoff for the storyline that dominated the first four episodes of the season, and reiterates the question that Sound! Euphonium asks again and again through the “Crescent Moon Dance” performance.

For whom do you play?

“The weather’s so nice today, I can’t get any work done. Though, I can’t get anything done on rainy days either. Not many days come along that are just right.”

-Iroha Irodori to Cocona, Flip Flappers, Episode 4

Art club upperclassman Iroha Irodori has always been visible in Cocona’s periphery. She is the plein air painter in the shade of a tree as Cocona walks past in Flip Flappers‘ first episode, encounters Cocona in front of a large painting at their school in the second, and progressively grows closer to Cocona throughout the series. Come Episode 6, Iroha has an entire Pure Illusion adventure where Papika and Cocona explore Iroha’s past from Iroha’s childhood perspective.

Titled “Pure Play,” the episode tells a sad story of Iroha’s relationship with an elderly neighbor and how it shaped her life and art up to the point where Cocona meets her — the slightly-eccentric art club upperclassman who offers tea and a friendly ear. Not only does it offer a different perspective of Iroha herself, but it brings to the forefront a few more of Flip Flappers‘ thoughts on art and the human psyche. This is a series with many visual and named references — Cocona’s pet presumably named for Jakob von Uexküll is one of the more interesting ones — dealing with illusion, art, and human psychology. Iroha’s episode offers a bit more insight into these references, allowing her to step forward from the periphery and become a key component in the series’ narrative.

In all of their encounters leading up to Iroha’s episode, Cocona is always looking at Iroha’s paintings. Even if we don’t see what Iroha has actually painted onto her various canvasses, nearly every one of Cocona’s trips to the world of Pure Illusion has been preceded by her witnessing one of Iroha’s works of art or a related painting.

Cocona looks at Iroha’s canvas in Episode 1 immediately before discovering Papika’s hideout and the pair’s first journey to Pure Illusion together. In Episode 2, Iroha and Cocona look at a large painting in their school together and Cocona is reminded of her first trip to Pure Illusion, saying that the painting — by extension, exploring Pure Illusion with Papika — is scary but, and stops herself before she can finish her thought. Iroha responds by inviting Cocona to the Art Club. Again, this happens right before Cocona visits Pure Illusion. Flip Flappers’ third episode takes place almost entirely inside Pure Illusion and Iroha doesn’t return until the fourth episode, where she offers Cocona a cup of tea. Cocona stares at Iroha’s canvas as she drinks until Papika drags her away.

In Episode 6, we finally are able to see Iroha’s painting for ourselves — a modern, abstract work with a Matisse-like color palette that resembles something between fauvism and early abstract expressionism. A few scenes later, they’re back in a Pure Illusion world with the same color palette as Iroha’s work. After traveling down into the depths of this world, they come across a tome-ishi or sekimori-ishi — a rock bound by a rope that signifies “stop” to a person entering a teahouse, meaning that a ceremony or event is already in progress. Additionally, it can signify a barrier to a spiritual place. In this case, the sekimori-ishi marks the boundary between Pure Illusion and Iroha’s own childhood memories, which Cocona and Papika unwittingly intrude upon.

“I thought it was nice. Yes, it is a bit unusual, but in a good way.”

-“Auntie” to young Iroha Irodori, Flip Flappers, Episode 6

Iroha’s backstory is heart-breaking. It hit me particularly hard because my one living grandparent — my father’s mother — barely remembers who I am at this point in time. Throughout the presentation and journey through Iroha’s memories, we are shown various drawings that border on abstract, with vivid colors and visible, dynamic pencil strokes. Iroha’s “Auntie” was the person who inspired her to continue art, and it’s this same Auntie whose memory Iroha is able to make peace with thanks to Cocona and Papika’s memory diving. While their Pure Illusion trips have influenced Cocona and Papika’s thought processes — as well as their relationship — this is the first time they’ve left a marked impression on another person through their actions in Pure Illusion.

The idea of Pure Illusion as Flip Flappers presents it marks an odd crossroads between immediate influences in the “real world” — the world that Cocona and Papika inhabit on a daily basis — and deep dives into the human psyche as shown in Iroha’s episode. Modern art had a lot to say about this distinction and the “purity” with which a viewer approaches a painting in addition to the purity of that painting itself. Art critic Clement Greenberg once described modernist art as, “the use of characteristic methods of a discipline to criticize the discipline itself, not in order to subvert it but in order to entrench it more firmly in its area of competence.”

When a person sees a modern work, they first recognize that it’s a picture, and then begin to evaluate it based on those terms — which, according to Greenberg, becomes more about expression and criticism of art itself — instead of approaching the illusion of an “Old Masters” image first due to the degree of accuracy. A modern work is a painting, a work of art first. An older, traditional work is evaluated on the imagery or illusion first.

Stretching this idea a bit, when we approach Iroha’s drawings, we already take into consideration that they are drawings and go straight to evaluating what they could mean rather than their technical merit or accuracy. Her images, which her strict parents have deemed “weird,” telling Iroha to draw normally, are full of dynamism and color. Her auntie’s encouragement inspires her to continue drawing in her own style, despite her parents’ disapproval. Iroha’s perception of eschewing something that might appear off to others extends into her daily life, exemplified when she tries Cocona’s misshapen, barnacle-like cookies first over Papika’s pretty, edible-looking ones. As Cocona protests, Iroha remarks that they’re sweet and says that they go perfectly with her tea. The line “despite their appearance” is implied as Iroha lifts her mug and Cocona smiles in return.

“Once you enter a Pure Illusion world, you’re influenced by its nature.”

-Yayaka to Cocona, Flip Flappers, Episode 5

Taking this one step further and returning to Cocona’s pet Uexküll, Uexküll is a reference to Jakob von Uexküll — a German biologist who was particularly interested in how organisms perceived their environment, making the distinction between a more objective standpoint of a bystander and a wholly subjective viewpoint of the organism itself. This subjective view is composed of sensory data taken in by an organism and makes up their perception of the world.

Flip Flappers‘ Pure Illusion is seemingly directly influenced by their immediate surroundings in the “real world.” In Episode 2, an odd vacuum sucks Uexküll inside. Cocona and Papika shortly follow suit and what emerges is a warped representation of the interior of a vacuum. Episode 5 shows a twisted variation of their school. These settings make up the sensory data taken in by Cocona and Papika. The rest of their subjective viewpoint comes from their own minds. If they dive further, seeing things from another perspective, like Iroha’s, appears to be possible. There’s also the chance that Cocona and Papika’s pictured reality is yet another layer of illusion, and the “real world” lies behind both that and the landscape of Pure Illusion.

While Flip Flappers still has much to reveal, another hint could possibly be found in Yayaka’s organization, which chants to the Greek god Ascelpius — god of medicine and healing. The Rod of Ascelpius is a symbol of medicine to this day, seen on the flag of the World Health Organization and in the signs of many other health organizations. Yayaka herself is very pragmatic, unlike Cocona — prone to flights of fancy — and Papika, who becomes completely overwhelmed and assimilates into her environments seamlessly. Three layers of reality, and three, not two, girls to uncover the truth.

“Curtains are more expensive than I thought, but now I’ll finally be able to sleep peacefully.”

-Rei Kiriyama, March Comes In Like a Lion, Episode 4

I’ve had trouble getting out of bed lately for a myriad of reasons, all of which fall under the general umbrella of depression. From its first moments of a drowning Rei Kiriyama — pictured in the premiere episode itself and the anime adaptation’s opening sequence — to the latest episode that shows Rei sleeping his days away due to apathy, depression has been at the forefront of the series’ narrative. SHAFT’s visual direction regarding this theme is very heavy-handed, and often lacks the nuance that a strong discussion or portrayal of depression requires.

Yet, in the series’ sixth episode, bits and pieces come in and out of focus, giving us hints at the larger picture. Like one of Rei’s shogi matches, we can finally see the path ahead of Rei. By extension — if you resonate with how he feels or what is shown of his mental state throughout the series — you may be able to see the path ahead for yourself, regardless of how arduous or daunting it may seem.

When choosing an apartment, Rei purposefully selects one that looks over the river. He says repeatedly that he loves the river and his apartment has an open and inviting view. Even at his most depressed, when he ends up sleeping the days away without doing anything at all, Rei almost always keeps his windows open. There are no curtains until he buys them later on in the series and light is constantly streaming into his dark apartment — he doesn’t appear to own a lamp at all — from the outside.

First he tapes up cardboard and newspaper over one of his large windows to keep the light out. Yet, he still finds a way to be in the light, even with his makeshift curtains.

Only once is Rei’s room shown with the curtains he purchases closed. This is at the height of one of his depressive episodes, where he realizes that he’s poured his life into shogi and is uncertain of where he wants to go. Completely directionless, he says that as long as he accepts stagnation, he’s reached his goal. Only a small shaft of light enters his room through the closed curtains as he sleeps in the background.

The other day a friend of mine asked me why I was depressed. I couldn’t put it into words. Existential dread? Fear for not only my future but those I care about? The knowledge that I’ve accomplished comparatively little in the grand scheme of things? Sometimes I just want to roll over in bed and stay there forever. Other days I want to fight it. These feelings wax and wane.

“Everyone is working so hard. That’s right. How is it that my head fills up so fast with only my own problems?”

-Rei Kiriyama, March Comes In Like a Lion, Episode 6

In his throwaway line about buying curtains, and other goods, for his apartment, Rei says that he’ll finally be able to sleep peacefully. This implies that the light streaming in from his large windows constantly is a nuisance. Yet, he’s always inviting it in, and welcoming this light source, even if he doesn’t realize it himself. His largest amount of sleep comes when he is depressed, and closes his curtains, yet it’s fitful and unhealthy. At all other times, despite his depression, Rei has his curtains open.

Like the natural light in his apartment, Rei also instinctively reaches out to the Kawamoto sisters. Despite attempting to turn down their invitations, he always finds himself back at their house, unable to fully push people away.

The Kawamoto house is always shown with an internal light source. Where Rei’s apartment receives light only from the outside, the Kawamoto sisters create their own warmth and light. When the Kawamoto’s house is shown in an exterior view, light radiates out from the interior.

Even during the sisters’ somber remembrance of their deceased mother and grandmother, Akari Kawamoto and Momo Kawamoto appear bathed in light. Despite the fact that the primary light source is coming from outside of the house like Rei’s apartment, there is still light illuminating the sisters and the house from within.

Only once does the Kawamoto’s home resemble the lighting in Rei’s apartment — when Rei takes Momo home and remembers his deceased parents and sister. Here, the only light source comes from outside as Rei begins to cry while tending to Momo’s wounds. The light of the Kawamoto home comes from the warmth of the people who live there. Without Akari and Hinata, the house is dark.

Despite all of his efforts to shut the world out, Rei’s curtains, or lack of curtains, reiterate that total isolation isn’t truly what he wants. March Comes In Like a Lion doesn’t denigrate or judge. Instead, it simply reminds us to keep our curtains open, even in our darkest times.

When Flip Flappers first introduces Cocona, she is trapped in a sterile classroom taking a test. The shifting of sand is heard rather than the ticking of a clock — an hourglass resembling a Rubin vase takes the place of a traditional clock face mounted on the wall above a white board.

Rubin’s vase — named after its creator, danish psychologist Edgar Rubin — shows two shapes only one of which can be recognized at any given time. You can see the hourglass, or you can see two faces with negative space between them. While your mind can recognize that there are two things to see available to you, your eye can only focus on one at a time.

This plays tricks with the way the human brain generally perceives objects — by establishing depth and separating figures or objects from the ground. Ambiguity, like the less distinct image of Rubin’s vase, allows our minds to take the lead in perceiving the object in front of us. Do you see an hourglass or two faces first?

“You’re so lacking in identity that you couldn’t stay in control of yourself. You have nothing. It felt good playing the villain, didn’t it? You truly shone in the role you got at long last. You want to achieve something, don’t you? You want to be someone, don’t you?”

-Villainess to Cocona, Flip Flappers, Episode 3

More than any other quality, Cocona begins the series full of fear, refusing to make choices, because she’s concerned with making the wrong decision. Cocona does not know who she is. She is easily swayed, cajoled, and pressed into service by others. Flip Flappers‘ world of Pure Illusion reiterates this time and again, as Cocona is seemingly dragged along for Papika’s adventures against her will. In Flip Flappers‘ fourth episode, Cocona finally decides to accept Papika as her friend after being stranded with her in their everyday world.

The series’ fifth episode is where the ambiguity of Cocona’s relationship with Papika takes center stage — does Cocona see Papika as a mere friend or a potential romantic partner?

Episode 5 is all about Class S relationships — deeply emotional romantic relationships between girls that end when the girls in question mature into young women and find husbands. In a school setting reminiscent of Yuri Kuma Arashi‘s callbacks to the Italian horror film Suspiria, Flip Flappers checks every box on the Class S list — lily imagery, an all-girls school, and the noble feminine pursuits of high tea and embroidery.

Cocona and Papika are trapped in a closed time loop, and end up succumbing to this atmosphere, which is purposefully portrayed as horrific. When Yayaka approaches Cocona, she snidely asks Cocona why she’s getting all hot and bothered, presumably sexually. Cocona replies by asking if this Pure Illusion world makes you hot and bothered and Yayaka reiterates that her mindset is completely different from Cocona’s.

This can be taken two ways — Yayaka is more dedicated to collecting the amorphous in the vast worlds of Pure Illusion and his able to keep her head at all times, or Yayaka is not romantically interested in anyone, therefore the world does not amply her feelings. Cocona could easily stay trapped in this world with Papika, despite her inkling that something is off, forever stuck in a time loop where Papika is her romantic friend only. She chooses not to, although it’s unclear how cognizant she is of that choice.

Flip Flappers consistently gives us, and Cocona, multiple ways to perceive a situation. Often the aim — further hinted at in Episode 6 and its many modern art references — is not to juxtapose two things to create something new, but to further reiterate the contrast and relationship between two things. This is a series that gives us Rubin’s vase not surrealist art.

Cocona’s feelings towards Papika are further explored in Episode 7. Already having eschewed Papika as a Class S partner, Cocona is forced to reevaluate her relationship with Papika, picturing the enthusiastic redhead in a variety of roles during another Pure Illusion trip.

She goes through seemingly every possible outcome to describe her love for Papika, beginning with younger sister  — rifling through sexy male classmate, ghostly apparition, high society friend, street punk — before ending with bedroom succubus. In all of these scenes, Cocona and her Papika partner break some rule or do something that they’re not supposed to do. This is Cocona on the precipice of identifying her love for Papika.

When Cocona admits that none of these Papika’s are “her Papika,” the one that she loves, Yayaka ends up with the amorphous and Papika appears to recover her “lost Cocona.” Again the perspective shifts — Cocona was wandering Pure Illusion looking for a lost Papika, while Cocona herself was lost until this moment, when she recognizes her love for Papika and accepts it for whatever it is, rather than attempting to squeeze it into a figurative box prepared by unwritten social rules.

Recent episodes of Flip Flappers have hinted that Cocona is directly related to someone named Mimi — whether Cocona is Mimi herself, a familial relation, or something else has yet to be determined. This could also account for her lack of identity. A myriad of posts, articles, and musings have been written about the role of psychology in the series, which is also chock full of more optical illusions and art history references.

Cocona’s relationship with Papika is but one drop in the vast ocean of Flip Flappers, yet it’s an intriguing one. In a series that’s all about characters, events, and things in relation to each other, Papika’s, “Let’s go again, Mimi!” at the end of Episode 8 is a crushing blow, given all we’ve been through together with Cocona. Again the perspective shifts.

“Well, I don’t mind going with you every now and then. Only now and then. And if I feel like it.”

-Cocona to Papika, Flip Flappers, Episode 2

The initial setup of Flip Flappers resembles a standard magical girl story. Cocona, listless, directionless, and terrified to make any decision at all is swept up into the world of Pure Illusion thanks to Papika. Throughout the first four episodes, Cocona gradually begins to accept Papika into her life, and the fifth episode onward is where the meat of her emotional narrative begins.

Like all magical girls, Cocona and Papika come with their respective sidekicks.

Cocona’s is a green rabbit-like creature named Uexküll — a reference to Jakob von Uexküll whose ideas of subjective perception (umwelt) led to the field of biosemiotics. Uexküll’s namesake informs the Flip Flappers viewer, encouraging a closer look at the role of Pure Illusion and how Cocona and others interact with it.

Papika’s is an odd, perverted robot named “Bu-chan” that somewhat resembles a lawnmower.

Bu-chan has three primary roles within the series, which bleed into each other and form the whole of “Bu-chan.” The first is to act as a communicative device between the FlipFlap organization’s Dr. Hidaka and Papika. The second is as a Greek Chorus element for the series as a whole. The third involves his own specific vantage point throughout the series, which is expanded upon in Flip Flappers‘ eighth episode.

Bu-chan as the conduit (and a sidenote about the Thomasson)

First seen attempting to hold Papika back when she makes her initial escape from FlipFlap, Bu-chan is also used as a communication device to connect the organization with its Pure Illusion field agents: Papika and Cocona.

Bu-chan’s first words to Cocona are actually those of FlipFlap’s Dr. Hidaka. When Papika invites Cocona to join her in her adventures, she stumbles over the words, “Pure Illusion.” and Bu-chan — Dr. Hidaka communicating through the robot — finishes her sentence. When they successfully venture to Pure Illusion, Dr. Hidaka is heard again, this time welcoming Cocona to Pure Illusion.

FlipFlap is also uses Bu-chan as a transportation device to bring Cocona and Papika to Pure Illusion. This establishes that Bu-chan can, under certain circumstances, be used to open up pathways between the so-called real world and Pure Illusion. In later episodes, Cocona and Papika are loaded into a device called the Thomasson to travel between the two worlds. Bu-chan again acts as their transport in Episode 8, taking them from the school pool to a Pure Illusion world all his own.

Hyperart Thomasson is conceptual art designed by Japanese artist Akasegawa Genpei. Named after Gary Thomasson — a baseball player who signed a record contract with the Yomuiri Giants only to become the biggest bust in the Nippon League — Akasegawa describes a Thomasson as an obsolete structure with no purpose that becomes a work of art. For example, his first Thomasson was a well-maintained staircase in Yotsuya, Tokyo that led to nothing. It was later described as a “pure staircase.”

Many Thomassons are described as “pure,” similar to how nearly everything in Flip Flappers has a “pure” prefix. Cocona is the Pure Blade, Papika is the Pure Barrier, they travel to Pure Illusion. A Pure Type Thomasson goes beyond the mere uselessness of a Thomasson — an object that has no initial categorization or descernible purpose.

Although Bu-chan is not expressly shown as a conduit between Pure Illusion and reality, his role in Flip Flappers’ premiere — along with the Thomasson’s namesake and “pure” trappings scattered throughout the series — suggests that the Thomasson itself is wholly useless and obsolete. Yet, FlipFlap continues to load the girls and Bu-chan into it episode after episode. The Thomasson is a Thomasson in and of itself. This also serves to blur the line between when Cocona and Papika are in Pure Illusion and when they are outside of it, if the distinction can be made at all. If Bu-chan regularly transports them, the Thomasson has no purpose.

Bu-chan as the modern Greek chorus

When Bu-chan is not acting as Dr. Hidaka’s walkie-talkie, he communicates only with the sounds “Bu” and flashes different symbols on his “eye” in reaction to what is happening around him. In this way, he provides dramatic commentary similar to a Greek chorus. Again, Bu-chan acts as a conduit, this time bridging the gap between Flip Flappers and the viewing audience rather than FlipFlap the organization and the Cocona/Papika pair.

For example, in the most recent Flip Flappers episode preview, he flashes a crumpled “助,” calling for help while the twins talk to someone offscreen. This could mean that he, visibly broken in the scene, needs help himself or a greater call for help on behalf of Cocona, Papika, or another character. When Papika initially escapes in Episode 1, he flashes “止” for stop. These can be taken as instant reactions, or slight meta commentary, especially when words turn to symbols, like a thumbs-up sign or illuminati pyramid.

He appears more informed than Cocona — or even Papika who has presumably been travelling to Pure Illusion for quite some time before the events of the series — yet is easily swept up into the festivities of the various Pure Illusion worlds. In Episode 3, he serves the main antagonist as her chair and mode of transport. In Episode 5, which deals with Class S relationships and girls love clichés, he quickly assimilates himself into the horrific world and initially tries to hold Papika and Cocona back from breaking free. In Episode 7, he parties with Dr. Hidaka as they celebrate the discovery of a greater depth to Pure Illusion after delving into Iroha’s psyche.

Bu-chan also has a wandering eye, and is often the most obtrusive character in Flip Flappers. He physically encroaches on the girls from the get-go, grabbing them and dragging them into Pure Illusion. While Cocona gradually comes to terms with her relationship with Papika across Episodes 5-7, Bu-chan is found leering at nearly every turn. In the opening sequence, he’s shown looking at girls’ skirts. In Episode 8, he creeps underwater to look at girls in the pool. The series rarely rewards him for this behavior, and he is often pushed or shoved aside in favor of the developing relationship between Papika and Cocona.

Bu-chan as “himself”

Bu-chan can also be seen as an extension of Dr. Hidaka, or a being that wishes to fashion himself in Dr. Hidaka’s image.

In Episode 1, Bu-chan breaks open, revealing a human brain inside his robot shell. Dr. Hidaka tinkers with Bu-chan throughout the series, and the two converge in Episode 8 — a peek inside what is presumably Bu-chan’s perception of his own environment, courtesy of Pure Illusion. Here, he is a genius inventor and the lone citizen of his own personal metropolis, which is now under attack.

Immediately, visual references unite the two. The always harried Dr. Hidaka is constantly plunking away at his computer, while “Pops” has a similar setup with a myriad of computer monitors as he tries to defend his city. Despite the blunt and cheery transformation sequence that leads to Cocona, Papika, and Yayaka joining forces in a giant robot to save his world, there’s an palpable sense of dread. The world of Pops won’t last through successive onslaughts, just as Hidaka is running out of parts to keep Bu-chan operating. Whatever, or whomever, Bu-chan is, he’s not likely long for this world.

The most interesting visuals that tie Bu-chan to Dr. Hidaka together are the physical lenses through which they view their respective worlds. Bu-chan is a conduit, providing constant commentary through his one “eye” — a lens that reflects words and images without any hint of what’s behind it. Like many animated scientists, Dr. Hidaka’s eyes are often obscured by the glare of light on his glasses. Very rarely do we see his actual eyes.

Pops, the star of Episode 8, has heterochromia. With one yellow eye and one bright blue eye that resembles Bu-chan’s “eye,” Pops is visually-linked to Bu-chan. Yet, Pops’ eyes are frequently shown throughout his mecha adventures with Cocona, Papika, and Yayaka. They’re expressive, finally conveying his emotions directly to us rather than flashes of words and symbols.

In the waning moments of Episode 8, Dr. Hidaka is shown in profile, his eyes visible behind thick glasses. As he studies the screw in his hand, he becomes serious, remarking that he has little stock left with which to repair Bu-chan.

“I still have videos of what happened.”

-Viktor Nikiforov to Yuri Katsuki, Yuri!!! On Ice, Episode 10

Yuri!!! On Ice is the first series I have seen that integrates various uses and consequences of social media without specifically making a commentary on social media — Gatchaman Crowds comes to mind as an example of this — or its effect on the populace.

Prior to Episode 10, the series focused on the moments captured on various members’ SNS/Instagram feeds. Yuri!!! On Ice‘s first ending sequence was composed entirely of public selfies and stolen moments, like the one of Viktor Nikiforov quietly brushing Yuuri Katsuki’s hair, courtesy of the Nishigori triplets under the account “sukeota3sisters.”

Preceeded by a quiet moment of Viktor and Yuuri on a train with Viktor’s added caption, “Time flies so fast,” these images carry an ephemeral quality that frame’s Yuuri’s attempt at a Grand Prix Final gold medal and his inner doubts about his relationship with Viktor. Yuuri isn’t getting any younger and neither is his unbeatable idol-turned-coach, Viktor.

“I don’t know how long Viktor will stick around, or how long my body will hold up. So please, god, give me Viktor’s time, if only for now.”

-Yuuri Katsuki, Yuri!!! On Ice, Episode 4

The triplets were also somewhat responsible for Viktor’s initial arrival — they secretly filmed and out-of-shape Yuuri skating to Viktor’s program and posted it on their mother’s YouTube account. The video went viral, and everyone in the figure skating world saw it, including Viktor himself.

Up until Episode 10, Yuri!!! On Ice was always told through the eyes of Yuuri. Receiving all of our information from Yuuri gives us a very specific and immovable lens. Yuuri doesn’t think much of himself and this shows in his interactions with everyone, especially Viktor whom he has held in high esteem for years. He can rarely look beyond his wall of self-loathing and admits as much in the series’ fourth episode. Yuuri reiterates this again while announcing his theme of “love,” saying that he’s never fought alone, but he wasn’t able to take advantage of the support others gave him until Viktor showed up.

“Whether Viktor was with me or not, it would still feel just as tough. Keep it simple. I’m the only one who can skate this program with this much appeal.”

-Yuuri Katsuki, Yuri!!! On Ice, Episode 9

It makes sense that Yuuri expresses himself best — we often hear his inner thoughts during his skating programs — on the ice. This is also primarily where he allows himself to let go and accept his own feelings for Viktor. In his programs, Yuuri pleads for more time, is possessive of Viktor, and analyzes his own emotions with nuanced introspection. It’s also no coincidence that the first time we hear Viktor’s perspective is when Yuuri skates his free program for the first time in competition.

That being said, Yuuri’s perspective means that his personal growth is always presented through his interactions with Viktor. It’s true that Viktor’s presence and subsequent relationship with Yuuri helped Yuuri tap into his previously-locked potential, yet Viktor’s arrival is almost too convenient. Viktor’s treatment of Yuuri is very forward, and while he obviously warms up to Viktor as the two grow close, his skittishness around Viktor is also unnerving. All too often, Viktor is a white knight who has decided to grace Yuuri with his presence on a whim — becoming his coach after watching a viral YouTube video. At the end of every episode, this is capped off by a series of photographs that constantly remind us that their time together is fleeting. This is Yuuri’s last season.

This is how Yuuri sees him. This is what he fears in their relationship.

Episode 10 changes everything by shifting to Viktor’s perspective, once again allowing Yuri!!! On Ice to show off its social media savvy in the process.

Viktor reveals that it was actually Yuuri who loudly — and in an overtly sexual manner — propositioned Viktor first by drunkenly asking him to become his coach if Yuuri won a dance-off at the previous year’s Grand Prix Final banquet. Yuuri remembers nothing from the evening — thereby explaining his continued skittishness. Out come the smart phones with video and photographic proof.

With Yuuri as the initial aggressor, many things regarding their relationship fall into place. Viktor is not a white knight riding to Yuuri’s rescue and coaching him to victory. Instead, it was Yuuri who planted the idea of coaching into Viktor’s head and Viktor is following up on whatever spark he felt that evening. Yuuri’s drunken revelry is immortalized on not only Viktor’s phone, but the phones of a number of skaters who attended the Grand Prix Final banquet.

This time, the ending sequence displays exactly how Viktor came to know Yuuri.

Rather than displaying random snapshots from various Instagram accounts showing the transient nature of life, the new ending shows off photo rolls of Yuuri’s antics from a number of phones, including Viktor’s, Christophe Giacometti’s, and rival Yuri Plisetsky’s. It doesn’t skip around from individual to individual, showing slices of their lives, but shows the same events of one specific night — Yuuri drunk at the Grand Prix Final banquet in Sochi — from the camera rolls of a variety of skaters.

All of them tell the same story. Yuuri, drunk on champagne, challenges Yuri to a dance-off, and does a nearly-naked pole dance with Christophe before grinding against Viktor and asking him to be his coach.

Not only does this reveal a hidden depth to Viktor’s feelings towards Yuuri, it also supports something that Viktor has told him all along — Yuuri has never been alone, no one thinks that Yuuri is weak, Yuuri actually has a tight-knit group of friends who care about him immensely.

Throughout the various events leading up to the Grand Prix Final, the skating community is presented as an ambitious, sometimes dramatic, and close bunch. They keep up with each other via Instagram, and are constantly posting pictures of their whereabouts or get-togethers. The more popular skaters — including Viktor’s — are tracked on social media by fan groups.

In the same episode as the drunken banquet reveal, Yuri!!! On Ice also shows Yuri Plisetsky’s budding friendship with Khazakstan’s Otabek Altin tracked by his fan group “Yuri’s Angels.” Their photos of him slipping away with Otabek on motorcycle instantly go viral.

It’s a miracle that photos and videos of Yuuri’s raucous night didn’t make it out into the public. This speaks more about Yuuri’s group of friends than anything else in the series — his dances would have certainly gone viral, yet they refrained, presumably out of friendship or embarrassment. Yuri Plisetsky would certainly brush this off, saying that he wouldn’t want to pick on the pathetic, or that he wouldn’t want others to know that he too, participated, but even someone as bristly as Yuri or someone as flashy as Christophe managed to keep Yuuri’s wild night a secret.

Yuuri has never been alone. His friends have always been there for him, and it was his own actions, not a random Viktor Nikiforov whim, that inspired the star to become his coach. Episode 10 also gives us the moment where Yuuri and Viktor are effectively engaged to be married, cementing that their relationship is not as impermanent as the first ending sequence would suggest. It’s only fitting that further use of smart phones and social media frames this next step in their relationship.

“I’ve known her for years . . . how should I put it?”

-Cocona to Papika regarding Yayaka, Flip Flappers, Episode 3

Before Papika, there was Yayaka.

It’s impossible to pinpoint the exact moment where Yayaka began to care for Cocona, but it happened the day that they met. Yayaka, sent as an agent of Asclepius to befriend Cocona and keep an eye on her, leads Cocona on an adventure away from the hospital where Cocona is required to take tests — presumably because of the amorphous shard buried in her upper thigh.

Episode 10 of Flip Flappers reveals that everything in Cocona’s life is monitored, even this interaction, thanks to that one shard. Similarly, Yayaka’s life is also dictated by others. The difference is that Yayaka is aware, and gave herself to Asclepius willingly, in order to find her place in the world. This is how she comes to meet Cocona, and unexpectedly find another place to belong in the world at Cocona’s side.

In their first meeting, the two are surrounded by a red and pink begonia garden, which offers more insight to their relationship than pretty imagery. More specifically they’re framed by cane or “angel wing” begonias.

Defined by two larger, round petals and two smaller wing-like petals, cane begonias are the most common variety of begonia. They have ominous meanings that include looming dark and distracting thoughts, and warnings or caution regarding future situations or meetings with others. Begonias are a common gift to receive as thanks for a favor — original begonias was named by French botanist Charles Plumier after French politician Michel Bégon — and can also mean harmonious alliances between political powers or friends and family. While they do represent caution, they also cement friendships and alliances.

Red and pink begonias — as it is with many red and pink flowers — represent romance and love. This gives Yayaka’s feelings towards Cocona another depth, even if she’s too afraid to voice them due to her self-proclaimed “different mindset.”

The begonia is the perfect flower for Yayaka, who tries to hide her emotions from the world, especially her friend Cocona. Somewhere during their first meeting, the cautious Yayaka’s emotional walls are lowered by Cocona’s unconditional friendship, and despite wishing to maintain her distance, Yayaka repeatedly breaks this rule, especially when Cocona begins travelling to Pure Illusion with Papika.

The begonia — Yayaka — is visible at every turn in Cocona’s daily life, watching over her at all times. From the moment Cocona wakes up from her dream of Mimi in Flip Flappers‘ first episode, begonias are in the painting above her bed — also present in this painting are butterflies, suggesting that Papika is also watching over Cocona — in the garden at her feet as she leaves her house, and on the table in the nurse’s office where she meets up with Yayaka.

Yayaka is a stand-offish, defensive girl who tries in vain to hide the depth of her feelings for Cocona. She is always watching over Cocona, craving her friendship in one moment while pushing her away the next. The brief glimpse we see of Yayaka’s psyche is an ice palace, with each hard-cut facet reflecting a different moment she spent with Cocona.

Cocona gives an injured Yayaka begonias in Episode 10. This scene cements Yayaka’s visible feelings for Cocona, but is immediately followed by the reveal that Yayaka was initially sent by Asclepius to watch over Cocona — begonias cement alliances, but they also warn and represent dark or distracting thoughts. Too caught up in a series of reveals and perceived betrayals, Cocona cannot see Yayaka’s true feelings, and instead believes that their entire friendship has been a lie.

When Yayaka fights her former partners — twin creations of Asclepius Toto and Yuyu — it’s with the begonia plant that Cocona gave her, a final tribute to their bond.

The other recurring flower in Flip Flappers is the clover. Tied to Mimi — who is presumably Cocona’s mother — Cocona receives a flower wreath made of clovers and white clover flowers from Papika in Episode 7. Episode 10 shows an identical scene with Mimi receiving a clover wreath from Papika and a young Salt.

The common meaning of the white clover flower is similar to the clover itself — luck and fortune. It also means “think of me” or the promise of a life of leisure.

More importantly, white clover flowers also carry the meaning of revenge for broken promises. The giver gifts the object of their affection with a white clover wreath, asking their potential partner to think of them. Should they break that promise, the white clover promises revenge.

This adds a hint of darkness to the flower crown that Cocona receives, especially with the events of Episode 10. Cocona already feels betrayed by both Papika and Yayaka.

Before Papika, there was Yayaka. Before Cocona, there was Mimi.

“This is such a nice town. It’s so relaxing and time just feels slower.”

-Makoto Kowata to Chinatsu Kuramoto, Flying Witch, Episode 1

I don’t make a habit of writing about things I dislike on this blog.

This hardly means that I like everything I watch, but I can usually whip up a few tweets or rant privately to friends more quickly than writing out a longer blog post, devoted to a thorough, analytical dressing-down. I love analyzing things. My purpose in writing here is to showcase how I personally connect with an anime — or, occasionally, manga — rather than write from a specific position of authority, or enforce a particular framework.

This blog is a repository or aggregate of stray thoughts inspired by anime — this is why I have so many oddly-focused posts on art history and flowers. I don’t have to write about anything I don’t want to.

Yet, this post on Flying Witch from this past July was the most difficult post I’ve written all year.

At this point you may be wondering how on earth I could possibly hate Flying Witch — it’s in the title of this post, after all. The answer is that I didn’t hate it, I loved it. I still love it. It’s one of my top five anime series this year.

How do you express how much you like something, or enjoy something, when the series itself does all of the talking for you?

Flying Witch is a gem. An iyashikei series for everyone, even those who hate iyashikei series. It masterfully combines the magical and mundane in a small-town setting that borders on an advertisement for the Japanese pastoral without crossing the line into kitsch.

The results of Makoto’s magic are often hilarious, but never overly-cartoonish. Flying Witch deals in soft, muted tones. One moment, Makoto and her friends are riding a gigantic flying whale, the next, they’re having a five-minute discussion on the origin of pancakes. Nothing I write here will be able to convey the overwhelming amount of charm packed into every 23-minute episode. 

And that’s okay, I suppose, as long as I keep trying to write about how things affect me and why.

I am terrified of everything.

Not a day goes by where I am not afraid of something. Meeting other people is one of the more anxiety-inducing things I will do in a day, and most interactions are filtered through my mind and directed towards the worst possible outcome.

Someone doesn’t respond to a text or DM? They hate me. Someone whom I do not know looks at me oddly in public? I must have unwittingly done something to slight them.

We’ll put aside the part where this actually makes me incredibly self-centered — don’t worry, that’s another post to come — and focus how I actually do communicate with people in public. Interactions go differently than you may think, based on my previous assertions of terror. My job relies on me talking to people on a regular basis, especially when I attend events. I not only need to interview others, but I need to put my subjects at ease — appearing a nervous wreck does not people others at ease, in case you were wondering — and make conversations as natural as possible in order to coax out the best answers.

For the most part, I’m successful.

Around the same time I began regularly attending events for my job, I became really interested in Korean skincare products and Kbeauty as a whole. The idea of having a regular routine appealed to me, as did spending a small amount of time on my appearance.

I didn’t think I’d ever care about the pH balance of my skin, or exfoliate my face with acid — far less scary than it sounds, I promise. I’ve never thought of myself as physically attractive — and still don’t — but taking better care of my face has been surprisingly fun. It’s been a series of cool science experiments with a better-looking face to show for it. I follow a step-by-step routine every morning and every night. It has an amazing calming effect.

Amanchu! is a wonderfully relaxing series that shows transfer student Futaba Ooki dealing with her own social anxiety. However, in its second episode, Amanchu! also peers into Hikari Kohinata’s morning routine, which is surprisingly regimented given her eccentricities.

Hikari (or Pikari as she’s called by Futaba) takes a page from her experience as a diver to organize herself in the morning. She goes through a checklist before heading out the door. I imagine her performing this routine every day out of habit, just like the buddy checks she does before diving.

Pikari is an odd duck. She’s not going to appeal to all viewers — she infuriates in-universe characters at times — but I love her weirdness and her routine. Having a routine is something that’s helped me relax immensely, and I’d like to think that it helps Pikari control her nervous energy as well.

“But Iro is Iro. There’s always been only one.”

-Papika as Iro to Cocona, also as Iro, Flip Flappers, Episode 6

The key to understanding Pure Illusion is in Flip Flappers‘ sixth episode and the memories of Iroha Irodori.

Before Cocona and Papika drop into Iroha’s mind willingly, trusty robot Bu-chan warns them of imminent danger. Free access to another’s psyche is dangerous, and it’s just one of the many things that Pure Illusion offers to anyone daring enough to travel there.

“What should we do? Iro broke her promise with Auntie.”

-Cocona as Iro to Papika, also as Iro, Flip Flappers, Episode 6

When we first meet her, Iroha is mentally punishing herself for forgetting to tell her Auntie — a kind, elderly neighbor who encouraged Iroha’s art but also suffered from dementia — her name. She doesn’t wear nail polish because a small, red-orange bottle of nail polish was a special gift that Iroha received from her Auntie with a promise — the promise that Iroha would tell Auntie her name, should the elderly woman forget. Frightened and confused when Auntie doesn’t remember her, the young Iroha runs away without saying anything. Cocona and Papika — split into two different “Iros” while inside Iroha’s mind — reconcile Iroha with her Auntie and tell her Iroha’s name, thereby realizing the young Iroha’s promise.

After Cocona and Papika solve the problem, they gleefully compare asking Iroha follow-up questions to homework without considering that the experience will have changed her personality. She greets them with freshly-painted nails at the end of the episode. In the next episode, she is seen throwing out her paintings and socializing more with her classmates. Cocona and Papika’s memory diving has had an irrevocable effect.

While this sets off a chain of events that forces Cocona to evaluate her relationship with Papika, it also gives us insight into Pure Illusion and what others may have done there.

FlipFlap’s Dr. Salt speaks of liberating Pure Illusion as his primary goal. Based on his previous relationship with Cocona’s mother, Mimi, this also means the liberation of Mimi herself, who has been trapped by Salt’s father.

There is a schism between father and son — this presumably leads Salt to form the offshoot FlipFlap in order to rescue Mimi while his father forms Asclepius — after Salt’s father experiences the true power of Pure Illusion. Salt feels guilty for not only not protecting Mimi, but not being able to protect Cocona, another broken promise.

When faced with losing Cocona to Salt’s father, Mimi travels to Pure Illusion and switches with a facet of herself — the fierce, protective side that will guard Cocona at all costs — just as Papika-Iro and Cocona-Iro swapped places inside Iroha’s mind.

For Iroha, the key to unlocking her mind was a sekimori-ishi. After Cocona and Papika touch it, the gate into Iroha’s mind opens. For Mimi, it’s an apple — the forbidden fruit of Christianity, and a symbol of knowledge, immortality, and sin.

Touching the apple un-boxes Mimi, opening her up to a world covered in clovers, the flower of revenge for broken promises. Broken promises are all Mimi has ever known. Even when Salt and Papika try to protect her, they fail, leaving her to take matters into her own hands to protect her daughter, Cocona. This is what inspires Mimi to confront the protective facet of her personality, agreeing to let it take over so that Cocona will be kept safe from Salt’s father.

Mimi not only protects Cocona from Salt’s father but hides her from the world. A facet is but a facet, as we’ve seen from Iroha, Cocona’s dream of Papika, and Yayaka. Allowing it to rule over Mimi’s personality is disastrous because it trusts no one — certainly not Salt or Papika — and is content to lock away Cocona in a world created just for her. This is what Mimi knows as “safe.” A sheltered science experiment for most of her life, this is all Mimi can think to do to keep Cocona from being similarly exploited. Not-so-coincidentally, Mimi’s ideal world for her daughter is equally confining as her previous life, it’s all she knows.

Mimi tells Cocona that her friends are dangerous for her, and to this version of Mimi, that’s certainly true from her perspective. Unfortunately, it’s but one perspective, and this is what makes Mimi so dangerous in her current state.

“I am Mimi. Just like with your father, people have several faces and so does Pure Illusion. And they’re all real.”

-Mimi to Dr. Salt, Flip Flappers, Episode 11

Mimi is going about the wrong way protecting Cocona, yet this doesn’t put Dr. Salt in the right either. He’s all too willing to accept certain facets of Mimi while discarding others, telling her that she chose the wrong piece of herself to show to the world. This is the lesson that Cocona learned earlier in Episode 7 when faced with the pieces of Papika — a facet of someone’s personality cannot be discarded, nor is it everything that they are.

Iroha had to tell her auntie her name in order to fulfill her promise. Part of Cocona’s liberation will be due to Cocona’s own agency — she already fights against her mother’s control in Episode 11, albeit half-heartedly — but another part will likely be in satisfying Mimi’s promise and reuniting the different facets of her personality.