When I was younger, I consumed books. Every Saturday morning was spent pouring through another story after breakfast until I was kicked outside by my parents to do yardwork. When I fell ill — this happened fairly regularly — books would pile up underneath my pillow. I slept flat, without a pillow or on my arm, because the pillow concealed books from my parents. After they checked in on me before going to bed themselves, I would turn my nightlight on, curl up, and continue reading.

To this day, I don’t sleep on a pillow. To this day, my parents still believe that I was afraid of the dark until I was well into high school.

In fifth grade, I was inspired to play the piano after seeing the Boston Symphony Orchestra play Modest Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” A renowned, and generally well-liked work, there’s no shame in saying that “Pictures at an Exhibition” was an inspiration. It makes for a cute anecdote— one where an elusive sense of so-called good taste is implied.

There’s far more shame in saying that you were inspired to become a writer from Ann M Martin’s Baby-Sitter’s Club series, RL Stine’s Goosebumps series, or Michael Stackpole’s Rogue Squadron — the latter of which skirts fanfiction territory, inviting even more derision. Inspiration is something that’s deeply personal, regardless if your impetus for picking up writing comes from Stephenie Meyer’s twilight or Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

Whenever I write about Little Witch Academia, I return to this quote from an interview with director Yoh Yoshinari.

“The theme was about a young animator who joins the industry looking up to a -sorry for the term- lowbrow late-night magical girl anime. So he’s mocked by people around him. But we also wanted to show that kind of admiration is important. There is the story about Hayao Miyazaki entering the anime industry because he was moved by Panda and the Magic Serpent. Then he watched the movie again afterwards and was disappointed by how bad it was (laugh). Yet, even if it’s actually not enjoyable at all, it can be irreplaceable for that person. What’s important is the feelings you got from watching it, and the fact that you had admiration for it. That’s the theme we were looking for.”

-Yoh Yoshinari on Little Witch Academia, interview with Animestyle (2013)

Little Witch Academia is, among many other things, a series about our influences and inspiration. The series’ protagonist, Akko Kagari, is famously known for her idolization of Shiny Chariot — a flashy witch who is looked down upon by the magical community. Little does she know that Luna Nova’s top student and idol, Diana Cavendish, was also inspired by the same, “lowbrow” witch.

“night fall is a series of novels that have been a huge hit all around the world! A literary epic encompassing every genre imaginable and presented as a historic fiction novel for girls!”

-Lotte Yanson, Little Witch Academia, Episode 4

The series expands on this idea further in Episode 4, revealing Lotte Yanson as a night fall superfan. Little Witch Academia‘s version of twilight, night fall is an amalgamation of Stephenie Meyer’s bestselling vampire series and a long-running shounen manga. With a whopping 365 volumes, night fall is written by Annabel Creme, a witch who has been writing the series for the past 120 years.

Unlike Akko, who is instructed by her idol, Shiny Chariot/Professor Ursula, at Luna Nova but none the wiser, Lotte comes face to face with night fall‘s elusive author, Annabel. After winning a night fall quiz, Lotte is given a special pen and confirms Annabel’s secret — the current Annabel Creme is the twelfth Annabel. Furthermore, this Annabel is not a witch, but was chosen as night fall‘s next author by a magical fountain pen — one that Lotte herself nearly inherits.

“I understand why you want to be Chariot, but I never wanted to be like Annabel. She can do things that I can’t. I enjoy cheering people on like that.”

-Lotte Yanson, Little Witch Academia, Episode 4

In Lotte, Little Witch Academia presents a different facet of inspiration. Lotte admires Annabel and firmly believes in her abilities. She credits Annabel for what makes night fall such an inspiration, but unlike Akko, doesn’t want to become the next Annabel.

Both Akko and Lotte are unashamed in their devotion. Akko, who is already written off as a failure and a commoner by most, continuously shouts her love of Shiny Chariot, ignoring Chariot’s poor standing in the magical world. Unlike Diana’s lackeys, Hannah and Barbara — one of whom couches her love for night fall in the tried-but-true fashion of “let’s go to the event and see just how dumb it is” — Lotte is fully open about her love of the series.

The story she describes sounds like a mess, but it’s her mess and she genuinely loves it. This love convinces the twelfth Annabel to return to writing, despite continuous hate from vocal subsections of her fanbase. Annabel admits that it was her own love of night fall growing up that inspired her to become an author of night fall.

This skirts an interesting discussion of inspiration in anime that’s been going on for a while. Many write off a lot of series as derivative and devoid of inspiration. Little Witch Academia isn’t arguing that anime series are not these things, but making a case that the feelings experienced and emotional resonance is precious, even if the work itself is not good. As Yoh Yoshinari says, “Even if it’s actually not enjoyable at all, it can be irreplaceable for that person. What’s important is the feelings you got from watching it, and the fact that you had admiration for it.”

I still have admiration for The Baby-Sitters Club, even though only 60-80 of the 213 novels were written by Ann M Martin herself. It’s not high art, but I remember those feelings fondly.

Robot high-school student Nano Shinonome is late for school. She calls back into her house — a small, older unit close to the train overpass — not to a parent but to her young professor before dashing out the door. Running, she checks the small digital watch set in her forearm. It’s 7:50 a.m.. “Maybe if I run, I’ll just barely make it,” she says.

As she nears the first intersection, a blond boy with headphones appears. He hums along to his music while walking. Nano begins flailing her arms like pinwheels in an attempt to stop suddenly. “Watch out!” she yells. It’s too late. The collision causes an explosion felt all over town. A few moments later, debris hits fellow high-school student Yuuko Aioi.

The scene described is the opening moment of Keiichi Arawi’s manga, Nichijou (My Ordinary Life). It was changed in the 2011 Kyoto Animation anime adaptation to ensure that Nano isn’t actually a proper high school student until the second half of the series. This decision to separate Nano from future classmates Mai Minakami, Mio Naganohara, and Yuuko rather than beginning the series with all of them together in class — like the manga — is an interesting one that has a significant impact on how the audience comes to know and understand Nano’s character.

First, the obvious statement: reading manga is different than watching anime.

I’m a fast reader, and can burn through manga fairly easily. While reading, I choose the pace at which I consume a scene. This often isn’t intentional, my mind naturally lingers on some things and sprints through others. Nichijou is a comedy manga, organized into a series of vignettes that follow Mio, Mai, Yuuko, and Nano’s everyday lives. Separated into chapters — not titled 4-koma gags like a lot of other comedy manga in the same vein — the manga often leads with a few panels before introducing another chapter. It reads quickly, and even the jokes that I linger and chuckle over pass in a matter of seconds.

Pictured above are 14 screencaps from Nichijou Episode 6 — home of the beloved deer scene. The entire gag plays off of the idea that occasionally, we happen to see something so random or unbelievable, that it’s impossible to convey to others, especially when they’re not likely to believe you.

This is what happens to Yuuko. While standing out in the hallway for missing a homework assignment, she happens to witness her principal fighting a deer. The scene takes up all of manga chapter seven — a total of six pages from start to finish, including Yuuko’s introduction where she thinks up haikus in the hallway, adding “Mogami River” as the final line like Matsuo Basho. Again, it moves quickly.

Perusing the screenshots from the anime adaptation, even giving a generous two seconds per screenshot, only takes 28 seconds. In the actual scene’s runtime, the Basho introduction alone takes a full 30 seconds. Yuuko does even see the principal until nearly a minute into the gag — the scene uses reaction shots between Yuuko and the deer, along with additional pauses and visual beats like the rustling of the wind in the trees. The anime is a more passive, albeit richer, experience with the camera and pacing fully in the hands of someone else.

I’ve spoken at length elsewhere about Nichijou‘s use of pillow and establishing shots to break up scenes or separate different vignettes while adding an ephemeral quality to the series or marking the inevitable passage of time. The anime also uses different eyecatches to pause the action.

Pillow shots, establishing shots, short skits like Nano and the professor’s rock-paper-scissors bit, and eyecatches don’t always mark a clean break. They often come in the middle of the action, serving as another pause or deep breath before jumping back into the latter half of a joke. This sometimes happens in the manga, although it’s a more formulaic scene setting before the number of the chapter appears over a small punchline. Since we, the reader, are in charge of the pacing while reading, we can add pauses when we like. The anime does this for us, always in service of a specific emotional payoff, punchline, or point of contrast. In addition to the strong animation itself, the Nichijou adaptation also rotates the camera — again, our viewpoint — itself, adding drama, humor,a different context to a specific scene.

Returning to Nano, it’s a conscious choice from those behind the anime adaptation to separate Nano and her life at Shinonome Laboratory from the main trio of Mio, Mai, and Yuuko in high school. Throughout the first half of the series, they live in separate worlds, despite their paths occasionally crossing in town. The separation gives more depth to Nano as a character than if they had followed the manga and introduced her in class alongside Mio, Mai, and Yuuko. When the professor announced that Nano is going to school in Episode 13, I couldn’t help but internally cheer a bit. I knew how much Nano had longed to go to school and be “normal.”

This all leads up to a neat visual trick in Episode 14. The episode opens with Nano gushing over her new school uniform and changing into it for the first time. It’s also the first appearance of the series’ second opening sequence, which includes a scene at the beginning where Nano rushes off to school in her uniform, waving goodbye to the professor and the laboratory cat, Sakamoto.

“Luna Nova is reaching the end of its usefulness anyway. All I want is to collect on it before its value drops to nothing.”

-Fafnir to Akko Kagari, Little Witch Academia, Episode 5

How many times have we heard the phrase, “anime is dying?”

How many times have we heard its sister phrase, “anime was a mistake?”

Both of these memetic sayings have been repeated ad nauseam, accompanied by the latest screencaps or bits of dialogue from currently airing series, across various forms of social media. The latter is a misattributed quote to legendary anime director Hayao Miyazaki, subtitled over scenes from the 2013 documentary on Miyazaki’s Studio Ghibli, The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness.

Although “anime is a mistake” is a false line, Miyazaki has continuously and cantankerously expressed derision towards the modern anime industry — among many other things — in interviews and his own memoirs. His attitude is not a recent shift, but an opinion reiterated and repeated over time. “Almost all Japanese animation is produced with hardly any basis taken from observing real people, you know,” he said in an interview for Golden Time (translated here on rocketnews24). “It’s produced by humans who can’t stand looking at other humans. And that’s why the industry is full of otaku!”

Yet the inspiration of so-called lowbrow anime to a fledgling animator is what Little Witch Academia is all about. “There is the story about Hayao Miyazaki entering the anime industry because he was moved by Panda and the Magic Serpent,” Little Witch Academia director Yoh Yoshinari said in an interview about the original OVA. Then he watched the movie again afterwards and was disappointed by how bad it was (laugh). Yet, even if it’s actually not enjoyable at all, it can be irreplaceable for that person. What’s important is the feelings you got from watching it, and the fact that you had admiration for it. That’s the theme we were looking for.”

This will be a bit of a stretch for some, but another framework through which to view Little Witch Academia is a continuing celebration of the anime fan.

Before Studio Trigger, there was GAINAX. GAINAX was the otaku animation studio, founded by anime fans. From their initial Daicon animation shorts to Royal Space Force: The Wings of Honneamise to Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, GAINAX has marketed itself — rightfully so — as the studio that gets you, the anime fan.

As one of my favorite anime bloggers once said in this love letter to GAINAX, aptly titled It Takes a Fanboy, “When Gainax formed, they enabled similar otaku factories to start up in Japan as well. Many of today’s most-beloved studios and their products owe a debt to the fanboys who could.”

One such studio is Studio Trigger, a direct offshoot of GAINAX that carries on the otaku spirit of its predecessor. Founded by GAINAX alumni Hiroyuki Imaishi (Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann) and Masahiko Otsuka (FLCL), Trigger continues the GAINAX tradition of staying close to, and celebrating, their otaku fanbase.

“We were able to create titles with a lot of creative freedom while at Gainax.” Otsuka and Yoshinari said in a 2013 interview with AnimeNewsNetwork. “However, we came to the conclusion that if we wanted to do things surrounding our titles, such as communicating directly with fans in the way that we want, then we shouldn’t rely on the studio. We concluded that we had to take responsibility for such things ourselves.” In the years that have followed, Studio Trigger has become a studio dedicated to reaching out to fans both in Japan and abroad.

Episode 5 of Little Witch Academia brings a small but significant detail of the series’ universe to the forefront. Interest in magic is dying.

Despite its prestige and tradition, Luna Nova Academy’s enrollment figures are at an all-time low. Akko Kagari’s own acceptance into Luna Nova was prompted not by any sort of magical prowess — Akko doesn’t come from a magical family, nor is she adept at magic in any way — but the school’s desperate need of money. There’s an easy parallel between Akko’s magical world and the present-day anime industry, especially with director Yoshinari’s likening of Akko to a young, naive, and passionate animator. When the Sorcerer’s Stone — the source of Luna Nova’s magical power — is seemingly stolen by dragons, Akko and fellow impulsive witch Amanda O’Neill immediately spring to action without research, dragging their friends along with them.

Akko and Amanda’s actions are rarely rewarded outright, but are given merit through the commentary of other characters. We’re supposed to cheer for them, despite the fact that they’re idiots who jump into things too quickly without thought.

When they rush to retrieve the Sorcerer’s Stone, they’re met by elderly dragon Fafnir, who is concerned with little but receiving his overdue loan payments — with interest, of course — from Luna Nova. They, and the unwitting Luna Nova faculty, are rescued by young prodigy Diana Cavendish and her ability to read the dragon’s language. Diana discovers that Fafnir’s contract has been taking advantage of the fact that no one at Luna Nova could read his notice. The school has been paying him interest for years that he didn’t initially request. She confronts him and not only secures the Sorcerer’s Stone but forces Fafnir to terminate the contract with the promise of returning the overpaid interest to the school’s coffers.

Diana is almost too perfect — and will certainly grate on a lot of viewers in this episode for her convenience to the narrative — but her existence is another slight jab at those presumably in charge. Continuing true GAINAX tradition, the ones ruling the world are often blinded by their own adherence to tradition or appearance of power. The incompetence of Luna Nova’s staff in Episode 5 is a bit like Commander Amarao’s eyebrows coming off in FLCL — the teachers only appear competent until they’re exposed by the younger generation. Diana is a foil to Akko’s blundering, but is prone to her own brand of blindness, as shown in Episode 2. She too, was inspired by Shiny Chariot, even if she doesn’t wear her love of the lowbrow witch on her sleeve like Akko.

“You’ll learn soon enough that no man can live on dreams alone.”

-Fafnir to Akko Kagari, Little Witch Academia, Episode 5

Diana saves the day, but it’s Akko who gives the curmudgeonly and skeptical Fafnir a small glimmer of hope for magic’s future. Fafnir snorts at her naivety but after a long look around his many glowing computer screens, admits that he didn’t think that there were humans left with the determination present in Akko’s eyes.

Magic, in the case of Little Witch Academia, will not die as long as people like Akko and Diana are around to continue the tradition. Similarly, anime will not die, despite inevitable ebbs and flows in monetary investment, studio formations, and even a declining television viewership. At least, not while the animators at Studio Trigger, and other animators like them, are around.

“At our three-year high school with two hundred students in each grade, you end up sharing a living space with about a thousand people in all during your stay if you include the graduating and incoming classes and the faculty. Start wondering how many of those people mean anything to you, and the answer is going to be bleak for just about anyone.”

-Koyomi Araragi, Bakemonogatari vol. 1

The Monogatari series — both in the light novels and the anime — is known for its verbosity. This is why the Kizumonogatari movies were so novel to me. Nearly all of their storytelling was done visually, removing the Koyomi Araragi monologues and narration that define the Monogatari series. Hiroshi Kamiya’s voice permeates the series, and even later installments of Monogatari Series: Second Season feature monologues from the series’ beloved heroines.

In Nisio Isin’s original light novels — at least, the two that I’ve read, Kizumonogatari and Bakemonogatari vol. 1 — Araragi’s voice is front and center, always. The result is a more focused perspective from a singular source: Koyomi Araragi.

Parts of my thoughts on this have to do with the fact that the novels are chronologically last in my personal consumption of the series. First I watched the series in airing order as it aired, although I didn’t pick up Second Season right away. Then I read the Kizumonogatari novel, watched Koyomimonogatari, watched Kizumonogatari Part 1: Tekketsu, and most recently read the first Bakemonogatari novel.

This means that, when I read Araragi saying the quote above, all I can think of is Hitagi Senjougahara’s confession to him, where she identifies that Araragi would have saved anyone, and wasn’t out to save her specifically — which occurs later in the same volume, and which I had already seen in the final episode of Mayoi Snail. I doubt the translator intended to reference this, it’s more a reiteration of what I have already seen in the Monogatari series. Even the pieces that aren’t necessarily meant to fit do because of the series’ stellar characterization and peeks into its characters’ heads. Every time I watch or read a Monogatari property, I bring my own familiarity and experience with the series.

Reading Bakemonogatari felt far more distanced from Hitagi Senjougahara — the titular heroine of Hitagi Crab and later Araragi’s girlfriend — than Tatsuya Oishi’s visual translation. Oishi employs cutscenes to live action throughout Senjougahara’s admission of her family’s past. Although they’re not a reenactment of what happened, these still frames and live-action flashes give her story a palpable dread and horror. Accompanying the words that spill out of her mouth, prodded by Meme Oshino, it’s sometimes difficult to watch. Despite not visually depicting the actual event, this unique presentation of her emotional trauma immediately invites viewer empathy, if not genuine resonance.

By contrast, the book was far more clinical. Senjougahara answers Oshino’s questions. The only perspective we have in writing is Araragi’s. At one point he says,

“Senjougahara’s — fixation on chastity that took an unnatural form, her – cautiousness. The highly defensive mentality and acutely aggressive mindset. It felt like they made sense now.”

This is one of many small conclusions that can easily be drawn by the viewer as they watch Senjougahara’s interactions with Oshino, as they hear her words accompanied by Oishi’s visuals. Yet in novel form, Araragi draws the conclusion that we would as viewers. All that’s left is to read it.

When I first began reading the Monogatari novels, I was told that I would understand Araragi far better, especially after reading Kizumonogatari. Kizumonogatari went a long way in depicting Araragi’s self-loathing and suicidal tendencies in a way that makes his interactions with Shinobu Oshino (née Kiss-shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade) far more poignant, already knowing how their relationship evolves.

Yet, when the time came to move away from Araragi, and more towards Senjougahara and Mayoi Hachikuji, I felt oddly distant from both while reading. It was if the gaps that my mind fills in naturally, translating the words on a page into visuals, had already been filled in by the anime adaptation. This isn’t to say that either is better or worse — I personally prefer the anime series to the novels thus far but enjoy both. That being said, I find that the novels to stick to Araragi’s point of view almost exclusively. The visuals of the anime series offer insight and further connection to other characters for a viewer that the reader must rely on Araragi to translate for them on the page.

How useful is floating a teapot in the air to serve hot tea?

Although both tea and wine have tannins — in varying amounts depending on steep time and prior to separating grape juice from the stems and skins in the case of wine — the former hardly needs to be aerated. Height is not necessary in the pour. And even if it was, a human could do the same with an equal amount of training.

What is the exact purpose of Diana Cavendish floating her teapot over to her teacher other than to pass her exam? Does she offer a service that couldn’t be provided by human hands?

No, she does not. The action is essentially useless.

Little Witch Academia has made it clear that magic is a dying art. This idea was in the background of the series since Episode 1, and moved slowly to the forefront come Episode 6 with the Earl of Hanbridge and Andrew Hanbridge’s visit to Luna Nova. Although it may never die out completely — especially with people like Akko Kagari and Diana around — it is well into a twilight age of usefulness. When Andrew asks Akko to prove magic’s worth, she’s unable to do anything aside from a haphazard transformation of his ears, which serves no purpose whatsoever.

Even if Andrew were to pose the same question to a more competent witch, like Diana — with whom he has a childhood history and has seemingly argued this point to a stalemate — there’s little that we see Diana do that would prove useful in the real world beyond spectacle. She excels in all things easily and puts in tremendous amounts of effort on top of her natural talent, yet what purpose does transforming a mouse into a horse serve? Sucy Manbavaran’s concoctions are potent, but don’t provide anything by way of attacks that a physical weapon wouldn’t, and their other benefits are novel but hardly useful aside from experimentation and embarrassment of others.

“How are lessons about magic this boring?! Isn’t magic supposed to be flashy and all about dreams and miracles?”

-Akko Kagari, Little Witch Academia, Episode 2

Known as one of the best magical institutions in the world, Luna Nova is steeped in austerity. It’s a rigidness that has visibly led the school more quickly down the path to becoming obsolete. In an odd way, Little Witch Academia has this theme in common with another currently-airing anime, Descending Stories: Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju — ideas on how to continue a dying art result in conflict between various practitioners, some of whom debate whether it should be continued at all. Luna Nova is on a precipice. The visit from the Earl of Hanbridge — who ensures that the school is in his debt — is sure to be a deciding factor in pushing them over that edge.

There’s also the problem of resources. Magic is not a finite resource, but is also not readily available outside of a power source. Leylines and magically-charged objects like the Sorcerer’s Stone, Shiny Rod, and Shooting Star serve as examples of how magic works within the Little Witch Academia world. Witches can’t simply use magic wherever they want, whenever they want.

Accompanying this framework is an added layer of bureaucracy. The school’s Sorcerer’s Stone is stolen by dragons not as part of an evil plot but as a way of collecting on an overdue loan. Lotte Yanson wants to work with magical tools and summon faeries to fix things, but in order to have that job she requires a magical maintenance license. Despite summoning faeries since she was younger, Lotte still has to go through the proper channels. She remarks that many people press her family to move away from using magical tools. Within the scope of the series, Lotte’s faeries have only done one thing that a human couldn’t — summon the spirit of Annabel Creme’s magical pen, a very magic-specific task with no real-world application.

In the thick of things is Akko, who loves magic for magic itself. She understands very little about its history or prestige, but wishes to be like her idol, Shiny Chariot, who used flash and show to dazzle and inspire audiences with magic. Both Akko and Diana were influenced by Chariot despite hailing from completely different backgrounds. They’ll end up doing different things with their lives, but ultimately both were inspired to practice magic by Shiny Chariot at a young age. The purpose of magic doesn’t matter much here, but the art of it certainly does.

Returning to Lotte’s faeries and Annabel’s pen, Lotte manages to share her love of her favorite books, night fall, with the current author, thereby inspiring the writer to continue with the series. It’s an action with little purpose outside of art, this time not solely magic, but writing as an art as well. With the myriad of similarities that can be drawn between magic in Little Witch Academia and the anime industry, it’s no surprise that they move beyond anime, encompassing art as a whole. The real world application of Shiny Chariot’s brand of entertainment matters little if it can inspire someone like Diana. That is its purpose, if one has to be assigned at all.

What purpose does magic have?

What purpose does art have?

Although Little Witch Academia will side in favor of the arts emphatically, I’m looking forward to what it has to say en route to that conclusion.

The original Digimon Adventure is a series that I cannot view without the framework of nostalgia. I grew up watching it and because of this, was excited to check out Digimon Tri. My excitement and anticipation has dwindled with each movie, but nonetheless, it’s still been fun — awkward at times, but always fun — to load up the latest movie installment and reunite with my favorite characters.

When I was in high school, I was in musical theatre. The ramp up to a show is always a mess, but it’s an exciting flurry of action. The actual performance goes by in a blur, until afterwards, you’re breaking down sets in sweats, staring at an empty stage that seems all the emptier because it’s over. The moment has passed. Returning to that stage won’t bring back the show. If anything, the stage without the show is a bit painful to look at because it was never the location, or even the people, but the time spent working towards a common goal.

Digimon Tri acknowledges a similar feeling of loss and separation through the eight chosen children (digidestined) reunited for another fight. It’s not the same. The nature of their relationships with each other — not romantic feelings but even friendships and familial bonds — have naturally changed over time. All of their fights in the first season, never mind the second season which has been treated horribly by Tri, are firmly in the past. To Tri‘s credit, their reunion is often awkward. Tri sometimes feels like peering in on the chosen children’s lives without permission. As fans, we have our own ideas of what we want to happen because we were part of the initial experience. While they’ve grown up offscreen, we’ve aged significantly more in the interim.

Unfortunately, the latest Digimon Tri movie, Loss, is a bit of a mess. Not barely-controlled chaos like the ramp-up time before a performance, or the awkward feeling of returning to a childhood favorite only to find that everything and everyone has changed — but an actual mess.

Loss eschews beginning where the third movie, Confession, ended for an silent movie that shows the original chosen children — prior to the eight in Digimon Adventure. This is the first of many odd visual choices throughout the movie that weren’t as prevalent in previous installments. The silent film is informative but drags a bit too long and feels disconnected from the rest of the action.

Later, Loss builds on this, showing Maki Himekawa’s distress at the sacrifice of her partner digimon, Tapirmon, as the reasoning behind the Digital World reboot. When Himekawa finally is able to reunite with Tapirmon, her digimon partner doesn’t remember her, much like none of the eight digimon partners remember their human counterparts. Again, returning to the same place where they first entered the digimon world, and reuniting with their partners for a third time now, Tri reiterates that things change. Himekawa’s desire to be with Tapirmon again doesn’t play out the way she wanted it to, another reminder that we cannot return to the past, even if we return to the same location or setting.

The digidestined’s return to the Digital World is steeped in familiar imagery. There’s the beach, the wayward power lines, the railroad crossing. It’s meant to bring the viewer back to their first arrival to the Digital World, and their first experience with Digimon as a whole. The only thing missing is the line of public phone booths with nonesense messages.

Loss is meant to run parallel to the first narrative arc of Digimon Adventure. The digidestined arrive, they meet their partners, they get separated and have to go through their own challenges with their new digimon allies. This time around, the humans have retained their memories but their partners have not, further underlining the point that returning to a place once visited in the past doesn’t mean that you can return to the past itself.

Although it felt forced at times, Sora Takenouchi’s rocky reunion with Biyomon was successful because it too reiterates this theme. Sora comes to the Digital World assuming that she and Biyomon will immediately pick up where they left off — like Himekawa does with Tapirmon following the reboot. In both cases, the partner digimon is distrustful at this sudden intrusion without any memory of their preexisting bond.

That being said, Loss doesn’t take advantage of the scope that a movie brings. What could have been a poignant return to the Digital World is broken up by a silent movie introduction and random exposition from Daigo Nishijima, Hackmon, and Gennai — the latter of which does his best Oberon (Sword Art Online) impression. At times, it feels like two different stories mashed together awkwardly. What made Digimon Adventure so interesting was the character relationships between the digidestined and their digimon partners. When Loss moves away from this, it falters.

Even now, I can’t tell how much my expectations as a fan of the original series affect my outlook on Digimon Tri. Yet, I loved the feelings of distance emanating from the chosen children in the first two films. Reuniting doesn’t mean picking up where things left off, and I appreciated that Tri acknowledged this. While Loss attempts to continue this sentiment, it fails to execute it at times. Although I admittedly watch for nostalgia purposes, the series can’t run on nostalgia alone. Tri is at its best when it focuses on how the past must be left behind, as painful as that may be. It’s its worst when it becomes a vehicle for hollow references and flimsy excuses to stick characters in familiar situations.

“I love the word ‘fate.’ You know how they talk about ‘fated encounters.?’ Just one single encounter can completely change your life. Such special encounters are not coincidences. They’re definitely . . . fate. Of course, life is not all happy encounters. There are many painful, sad predicaments. It’s hard to accept that misfortunes beyond your control are fate. But I think sad and painful things happen for a reason. Nothing in this world is pointless. Because, I believe in fate.”

-Ringo Oginome, Mawaru Penguindrum, Episode 2

Ringo Oginome is a complex character, steeped in guilt, longing, love, and later, forgiveness. Her many facets make her not only tolerable within the scope of Mawaru Penguidrum, but wholly lovable, despite her introduction in the series’ second episode as the stalker of the Takakura brothers’ homeroom teacher.

She’s introduced with a grand speech about fate, rivaling the iconic opening monologue from Shouma Takakura in the series premiere and the equally passionate closing words of his brother Kanba that bookend the episode.

She’s also introduced with a toilet flush, stars wafting from the bowl like a lingering, undeniable stench.

Prior to her official introduction in Episode 2, Ringo is shown twice in the premiere itself. She appears in the opening sequence, foreshadowing later events, and again towards the end of the episode in a comedic visual call-out reminiscent of Kunihiko Ikuhara’s former co-worker Takuya Igarashi. Igarashi was influenced by Penguindrum director Ikuhara when the two both worked at Toei Animation on the Sailor Moon franchise. The comedic Igarashi arrow is now a visual staple of his work, taken from Ikuhara’s style and made his own recurring watermark.

In Penguindrum, Ikuhara uses an exclamation mark to call viewers’ attention to Ringo’s importance. This is reinforced by the fact that she, and her two classmates, are already unique human figures, drawn to stand out against the regular passerby: a white icon of a person. As Ringo passes Shouma on the street, an exclamation mark pops in front of her with a small audio cue. Pay attention. This girl is important. For good measure, she turns around briefly for a close-up of her face.

The next time we see Ringo, she is preening in a women’s restroom, glaring at a random woman in that same restroom, and romanticizing fate. Unlike the Takakura brothers, Ringo gushes about how much she loves fate.

This is framed by her jealousy towards an unknown woman in the mirror next to her, the initial toilet flush, and mention of triple-lace underwear. Penguindrum makes it clear from the moment we hear Ringo’s own perspective that she relies heavily on the idea of fate to explain why things happen in her life. As her story is slowly revealed over the course of the first season, Penguindrum batters Ringo’s idea of fate over and over, pressing her to deny its existence.

Concurrently, Ringo does the bulk of the series’ comedic heavy lifting. Like Nanami Kiryuu (Revolutionary Girl Utena) before her and Lulu Yurigasaki (Yuri Kuma Arashi) after, Ringo is both the butt of a joke and a source of tragedy. From the get go, she is eccentric — scaling the side of a building to take a picture of a bird’s nest and camping out underneath  so she can stamp another day accomplished in her fate diary. She’s also one of the few characters who occasionally dabbles in breaking the fourth wall. Her Episode 1 cameo features the pop of an exclamation point for the audience. The stars that follow her from the bathroom stall in Episode 2 later turn into a mosquito that she swats away in Episode 7. When stars follow Ringo, they’re often placed directly into Penguindrum‘s universe as concrete, undesirable objects like a lingering smell or a pesky mosquito. In the immortal words of André 3000, “I know you like to think your shit don’t stink but lean a little bit closer, see that roses really smell like poo.”

Yet, Ringo isn’t a Caroline. She is aware that her shit stinks, unsuccessfully burying her internal pain from her sister’s untimely death and the fracturing of her family, into a doomed mission to carry out what she believes to be her sister’s wishes. Her actions only become more ridiculous following Episode 2, making her that much more of a tragic figure as she desperately ignores her own desires and doggedly squeezes everything into the parameters dictated to her on the page.

Ironically, while Ringo attempts to fit everything into the instructions given to her, her fated encounters do happen. On the day that we meet her, so do the Takakura brothers — more specifically, Shouma — a meeting that changes her life. It’s the first step on her journey to realizing that she does believe in fate, just not in the way that she first does when we meet her.

Every episode of Little Witch Academia reiterates the theme of inspiration. Protagonist Akko Kagari embodies this theme through her love for disgraced entertainer Shiny Chariot — which she shouts from the rooftops despite Chariot’s poor reputation in the magical world. School prodigy Diana Cavendish was also inspired by Chariot, but keeps her love hidden rather than face similar ridicule that Akko inspires.

When Lotte Yanson received her own, poignant episode about her love of night fall, a trashy and expansive novel series with a rabid fanbase, it became likely that Akko’s other cohort, Sucy Manbavaran, would receive her own episode as well. Although the main narrative focuses on Akko’s love of magic against the backdrop of magic as a dying art, supplementary stories involving other characters within the series are only natural, especially for a series that’s more episodic in nature.

I knew that a Sucy episode was on the horizon, but was also apprehensive about its execution.

Sucy Manbavaran is a deceptively tricky character. Her role in Little Witch Academia has been fairly one-note, and while that note is hilarious it also toes the line between lovably insane and genuinely awful. Giving her a sad backstory, or any backstory that explained why she is who she is, would ruin her delightful, occasionally evil, nature. Nothing ruins a joke more quickly than explaining the joke, and I was worried that Sucy’s episode would do just that.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.

The episode begins with classic Sucy — awake at night, performing unauthorized experiments in their dorm room. She first tries to feed Akko her concoction, but backs off, saying that it would turn Akko into a powerful witch, thereby ruining her fun. This is the Sucy we know and love. A prodigy in her own right, Sucy spends her time exploring more occult, forbidden avenues — reiterated visually by her favorite thing, mushrooms — than Luna Nova allows. Her willingness to experiment on her friends, and use others to get what she wants, is present from the series’ premiere when Sucy tricks Lotte and Akko into helping her acquire a rare cockatrice feather. She is content to sacrifice them until she is briefly saved by Akko.

Sucy’s potion in Episode 8 necessitates a trip into Sucy’s mind, and who better to take it than Akko. While the previous two episodes have focused on Akko’s flaws — she leaps before she looks, doesn’t follow directions, and wants to be five steps ahead to the end result without doing the required hard work — this episode piggybacks on last week’s ending by showing off Akko’s strengths. It makes sense that Akko would jump immediately at the chance to get inside Sucy’s head. She’s demonstrated a surprising amount of empathy towards others — despite her own selfish nature — and she cares about Sucy a great deal.

Her trip inside Sucy’s head reveals that Sucy cares a great deal about Akko as well. In a trip to the drive-in movie theatre of Sucy’s mind, the best film is her memory of meeting Akko. One of the Sucys mentions that the theatre never stops showing it, a nod to the depth of Sucy’s feelings for Akko, even if she never shows them outwardly.

Prior to this, Akko also discovers the many Sucys inside Sucy’s head. Each of these facets or desires are put on trial in Sucy Court, inevitably sentenced to death by Sucy. This is one of the more convincing portrayals of emotional repression that I’ve seen out of an anime, and Little Witch Academia shows this through mile-a-minute media references that don’t crowd the narrative (I’m looking at you, Space Patrol Luluco).

It also manages to depict this without becoming sappy or heavy. The death of her emotional seedlings is given just the right amount of reverence before transitioning back into comedic territory, with Akko leading the charge. Everyone represses emotions sometimes, and its here where the intersection of Akko and Sucy’s characters complement each other so well. Akko represses very little. Her attitude isn’t ideal, but it’s useful in certain situations. Continuous emotional repression is equally unhealthy. Akko’s push for Sucy to read night fall — a hidden desire that Sucy quickly sentences to death in her mind — at the end of the episode is noticeably met not with denial but a simple, “Lotte, Akko is being annoying.” While Sucy doesn’t acquiesce or admit to this desire, she also doesn’t deny or fight Akko.

Little Witch Academia never explains why Sucy was so sad or isolated prior to meeting Akko. It doesn’t have to and, most importantly, it recognizes this. It sheds insight into how Sucy’s mind works — and her relationship with Akko — without being emotionally overbearing or ruining the slightly dark nature that Sucy embodies. She’s still the same Sucy that experiments on Akko, snorts mushrooms, and concocts dangerous potions. Now she just might read night fall when no one is looking.

Just over four and a half minutes into the short film, paneling appears in Doukyuusei.

First, the hands of guitarist Hikaru Kusakabe appear in an isolated panel, centered over black. Next, his band is shown with the lead singer thrashing wildly, the drummer’s hands and hair nearly a smear in the background. Finally, Hikaru is shown again, isolated and still, save his strumming hands.

In this moment, he’s thinking of his classmate — and soon-to-be significant other — Rihito Sajou. The band moves around him, but he’s lost in his own world, as shown by isolating his moving fingers in a panel and later, his still body in a full frame. Paneling is used a few times in Doukyuusei, always to display heightened emotion or to draw attention to the feelings of a specific character. It reminded me of the currently-airing series Scum’s Wish, which uses paneling as its primary visual technique.

Paneling is hardly new to anime — after all, anime is directly tied with manga and drawn cartoons which use panels to simulate movement or draw attention to a specific emotion. Masaaki Yuasa’s Ping Pong: The Animation served as my personal introduction to the technique in anime and uses panels as a way of heightening emotions or adding extra, physical, facets to a scene — while presumably cutting costs.

Ping Pong‘s paneling efficiently amplifies emotion in a given scene, emphasize movement, and adds in pertinent details through establishing/pillow shots or audience reactions. While using the latter, it even draws on flashbacks or memories, splicing them with moments in real time. Some of the series most poignant moments come in panels, especially during Yutaka “Peco” Hoshino’s emotional narrative.

This also heightens viewer awareness of movement within a panel, again, adding nuance. By physically freezing the animation and restarting it in the specific framework of a panel, Ping Pong ensures that you cannot look away while the action unfolds. The technique is sometimes more effective in conveying motion than animating the entirety of a high-stakes ping pong match on the ones.

Airing this season, Scum’s Wish is a series that deals in emotional currency between teenagers and adults alike, all trying to navigate their way around their own feelings. Director Masaomi Andou — whose work I loved in Gakkou Gurashi/School Live — frequently uses paneling as a narrative device throughout the series.

Paneling even appears in the opening sequence. Hanabi Yasuraoka and Mugi Ayawa sit back-to-back on the school rooftop — a fairly traditional school romance scene by anime standards. Both appear stiff and uncomfortable. Hanabi lowers her head slightly and a panel appears on the left with a closeup of her sad and distant countenance. Her sadness is all the more palpable for the slight head movement followed by the focus on her facial expression.

This is Andou’s most common use of paneling in Scum’s Wish. It separates a person’s face from their words — even if those words are an internal monologue that only the viewer can hear — and individuals from each other.

In the above sequence, Hanabi bumps into one of her teachers, Akane Minagawa, scattering papers on the floor. Well aware that the object of her own affection, childhood friend Narumi Kanai, is romantically interested in Akane, Hanabi simply stares at her and glares. Another student, Mugi Awaya, steps in front of Hanabi, picks up the papers, and smiles at Akane. The two chat, their short talk revealing that Akane knows Mugi personally.

The panel starts with Akane and Mugi, isolated as Akane cartoonishly frets over forgetting to address Mugi as Awaya, since he is a student and she is his teacher. Then, a panel appears on the right with Hanabi observing the scene. Lastly, a panel appears on the left revealing a small, sad smile on Mugi’s face. Three separate story beats telling us definitively that, Mugi and Akane know each other (one), Hanabi realizes that Mugi is not just another student with a crush on Akane (two), because his face is full of unrequited love resembling her own (three).

Andou’s touch isn’t always as deft as it could be, but he’s remarkably graceful at other times in Scum’s Wish, making us feel the characters’ emotions in ways that few series that tackle similar themes are capable. He’s at his best when the paneling is combined with full shots that reinforce the isolation that panels naturally give a scene.

Pictured above is the scene where Hanabi realizes that Narumi is actually in love with Akane. Bouncing into the classroom, giddy with excitement to see Narumi, she jokingly calls him, “big brother” before the school-appropriate moniker of “teacher.” Scum’s Wish zooms in on her eyes widening before cutting to Narumi and Akane laughing warmly in the center of the classroom. Here paneling is used to narrow Hanabi’s focus. When she opens the door and looks in the classroom, this is what she sees. Their visible enjoyment of each other’s company is all Hanabi sees, especially through the internal filter made of her own feelings for Narumi.

The next shot is actually the one that brings the entire scene together and makes it all the more isolating for Hanabi from our perspective. She is shown in the background through the gap between Akane and Narumi in the foreground. Only Hanabi is in focus. The scene composition mirrors the paneling shot that came before, making the message abundantly clear — Akane and Narumi are together, Hanabi is alone.

It was this combination of focused, paneled frames and larger full frames in Scum’s Wish that came to mind while watching Doukyuusei. When comparing the two, Doukyuusei director Shouko Nakamura is a bit more adept at creating nuanced situations by using paneled frames more sparingly — although in similar fashion — and often reserving them for establishing shots like these two water bottles.

The above scenes are from Mawaru Penguindrum Episode 17, which Nakamura storyboarded and directed in 2011. Although it’s not paneling in the true sense — as he uses in Doukyuusei — Nakamura is visibly playing with panels, constructing three distinct staging areas from the fabric store where Ringo Oginome and Himari Takakura shop.

Nakamura continues using landscapes to construct false panels in Doukyuusei, purposefully dividing the larger canvas to isolate leads Hikaru and Rihito. More often than not, it’s used to bring Hikaru and Rihito together and isolate them as a couple from the rest of the world. In other cases, like the third example above, paneling isolates them from each other.

Because Nakamura uses panels more sparingly, it makes the scenes where he does use them all the more potent.

Hikaru’s slight glance at Rihito as the boys assemble for their school choir performance is a small movement that is steeped in longing due to the manner in which they’re framed. Rather than simply glancing at his crush in a full shot, Hikaru appears after Rihito and the two are separated into equal panels on the screen. With this physical barrier imposed by Nakamura’s direction, Hikaru looking at Rihito across the divide is that much more intense.

Nakamura has more extensive directorial credits — and, as an aside, Nakamura and Andou have never worked together directly that I could find — than Andou. Her story of a burgeoning romance between two high school boys is just as, for lack of a better word, mature as Andou’s introspective teenaged melodrama but the former trends more towards nuance while the latter uses paneling to put Hanabi and others’ feelings in rotating spotlights.

“There is the story about Hayao Miyazaki entering the anime industry because he was moved by Panda and the Magic Serpent. Then he watched the movie again afterwards and was disappointed by how bad it was. Yet, even if it’s actually not enjoyable at all, it can be irreplaceable for that person. What’s important is the feelings you got from watching it, and the fact that you had admiration for it. That’s the theme we were looking for.”

-Yoh Yoshinari, interview with AnimeStyle (2013)

It’s time to talk about Akko Kagari’s Panda and the Magic Serpent: Shiny Chariot.

Since Akko was a child, Shiny Chariot, a witch who made her name through spectacle and traveling magic show, has been her inspiration. Akko was not born into magic, but decided to become a witch after seeing Chariot perform. To Akko, Chariot is magic — fun, inventive, dazzling, and captivating. When faced with the task of learning magic, Akko is dumbfounded to discover that magic, like any other art, requires hard work and dedication.

Unwittingly, her teacher, Ursula, is Shiny Chariot. Discarding the spectacle and taking on a drab and anxious demeanor, Ursula is nothing like the high-energy Chariot, which is the primary reason, in addition to her general appearance, that Akko doesn’t recognize Ursula as her idol.

As a stand-in for the art of animation — and perhaps commentary on the waning of interest or resources in animation as a practice — Little Witch Academia has been fairly transparent about its narrative themes. Criticism levied at the television series through the weeks includes the complaint that it lacks a true antagonist, and that Akko herself is an unfitting lead due to the fact that she never learns. To address the latter criticism, I’d like to call upon on the words of Shiny Chariot/Ursula herself.

“You may see Miss Kagari as just a poor student unable to use magic if you compare her to her classmates . . . You should not be comparing her to other students, but how she was on the day of her enrollment! Nobody can deny she’s continuing to grow through her failures!”

-Professor Ursula, Little Witch Academia, Episode 7

Although Akko is unaware of who Ursula actually is, she respects Ursula and looks up to her as an authority figure. Tasked with bringing Akko up to speed, Ursula experiences Akko’s struggles firsthand — struggles eerily reminiscent to her own when she was a student but before she became the Shiny Chariot.

A common thing in any traditional art medium — any craft, really — is that an audience or a student will only see the finished product, not the years of dedication and failure that were refined before said product steps into the figurative spotlight. Akko is impetuous, impatient, and, in Yoh Yoshinari’s words, “has an ego centric confidence” that she’ll be able to do impressive, advanced magic before she even learns the basics. Her passion, the very thing that drives her, is also a weakness at times. Thanks to a glimpse into the Fountain of Polaris we, and Akko, learn that this was also Chariot’s weakness.

“That which is dreamed cannot be grasped, but work towards it day after day, and you will find it in your hands.”

-Professor Ursula, Little Witch Academia, Episode 11

When she sees Shiny Chariot, she sees a finished, or at least somewhat polished, product. Akko doesn’t bother to think of Chariot’s weaknesses, or any setbacks Chariot would have had en route to becoming the witch that inspired a young Akko, until the Fountain of Polaris shows her in Episode 6. Doubts resurface in the series’ eleventh episode, and Akko admits her fear of never succeeding to Ursula despite having grown her magical prowess significantly since she arrived as a commoner to Luna Nova.

In this same episode, Akko also fiercely holds on to her own memories and failings. When given the choice between accelerating to become Shiny Chariot immediately, she refuses, quoting Professor Ursula while choosing to take the slow path. When Akko goes to the Fountain of Polaris in Episode 6, it’s to find out her future instantly. Although her Blue Moon excursion that leads her to Professor Woodward is in service of inquiring about her future, it’s given less urgency and framed as more of a reassuring quest rather than an immediate search for a definitive answer. This alone proves that Akko has grown, not only as a witch, but as a person.

Much of Ursula’s past as Shiny Chariot is purposefully obfuscated by the series itself. We’re not meant to know much more than Akko as we accompany this little witch apprentice through her school years at Luna Nova. Little Witch Academia: the Enchanted Parade had a more capricious Ursula, who winked at the viewing audience while framing Akko’s antics as another one of her shows. In Little Witch Academia the television series, Ursula is more worried, and quiet. Her one outburst was in defense of Akko when Professor Finneran wanted Akko expelled — most of the time she is meek, with any questioning of Shiny Chariot’s whereabouts making her nervous rather than cheeky. More intriguing than the Grand Triskelion or any phenomenal cosmic magical power that could potentially save Luna Nova is what exactly happened to Chariot to turn her into Ursula.

As Shiny Chariot, Ursula has been unknowingly teaching Akko for years. Akko is, above all else, driven by passion, and this passion is what ultimately encourages her to buckle down and study magic. It’s also what inspires her to memorize Shiny Chariot’s trading cards as a child. Since Little Witch Academia‘s second episode and the papilliodya chrysalises, the trading cards have proven to each be a guidepost for a specific item, location, or occurrence. Ursula may have only been introduced to Akko recently, but she’s been guiding Akko for years through the words of Shiny Chariot.

When The Rolling Girls debuted in early 2015, it immediately caught the attention of the anime blogging community. Kunihiko Ikuhara’s new project which had first been named “Penguinbear” and later was revealed as Yuri Kuma Arashi had dominated my thoughts on the 2014-2015 winter anime season. The Rolling Girls only appeared on my radar thanks to Twitter buzz and colorful screencaps.

Halfway through the series’ first episode, The Rolling Girls treats its audience to a quiet moment between two young women who are sisters in spirit — although not by blood — riding home on a empty road after a hectic afternoon. They are forced to stop — literally, thanks to a traffic light — and end up chatting about their work.

Masami Utoku, the eldest, is a supposed aide to local hero Matcha Green (also known as a “best” in the world of The Rolling Girls). Nozomi Moritomo, the youngest, is a Matcha Green superfan, and additionally looks up to Masami as if Masami herself is the hero. What follows is a quiet conversation where Masami not-so-deftly avoids revealing to Nozomi what we as an audience already know — Masami is Matcha Green. This is framed with nuance and an appropriately serious touch, a stark contrast to the bombast and brightness of the rest of the episode. Director Kotomi Deai strikes a perfect balance, putting their sibling-like relationship at the forefront while the idea of the superhero “best” and peon “rest” form the backdrop.

I was hooked.

Chances are, if you’ve heard of The Rolling Girls, what you’ve listened to has not been complimentary but instead bitter disappointment at its many failings. While animation cuts from various episodes throughout the series, it’s vibrant settings, and the use of The Blue Hearts’ discography are still unequivocally praised, The Rolling Girls itself is decidedly not.

No other series has challenged my idea of how to criticize something quite like The Rolling Girls.

I find myself couching my words regarding The Rolling Girls and this makes me uncomfortable. It’s like knowing the ins and outs of how an advertisement works, but still being drawn to whatever idea or product it’s advertising. Part of me feels that I shouldn’t have to always start every sentence with, “The Rolling Girls is [complementary adjective] but [glaring flaw or weakness within the series].” Yet, The Rolling Girls has a myriad of flaws that should be dissected when evaluating it as a complete whole — highlighting a work’s flaws should be part and parcel of any criticism.

The Rolling Girls was near-universally panned by the anime community upon completion in late March of 2015 and the name became synonymous with disappointment. “Another The Rolling Girls” came to mean a series that started well but either failed to live up to its introduced premise, or a series that looked gorgeous but devolved into chaos — both traits of the series. A common joke is to pretend that The Rolling Girls only had two episodes or, depending on the generosity of the reviewer, a two-episode OVA and a Kyoto Arc OVA, the latter of which includes the highly-acclaimed “Stones” live concert.

I too was one of these people disappointed by the series during its initial run. Yet, like any disappointment in media, I can’t help but wonder how much of that is on me. Potential is a thing that must be ascribed to a work from a source. In the case of The Rolling Girls, I am the source and therefore part of the disappointment equation. The series was cast in a negative light for pulling a bait-and-switch on its viewers —promising a superhero series and giving a rambling slice-of-life — but I always wonder how much of my own disappointment is based on my own expectations, and how much of it is the series’ execution.

Because of this, The Rolling Girls is a series that I’ve wanted to rewatch for some time.

Upon rewatching, the first thing I immediately recognized is that the series suffered tremendously from a week-to-week format. The nature of tuning in weekly, isolates each episode for dissection, highlighting the series’ weaknesses.

And The Rolling Girls has many weaknesses.

I no longer feel as if I’m couching my language or qualifying what I will say next by saying that The Rolling Girls is full of flaws, but it took another complete watch of the series to get there. If anything, this rewatch further made the case for revisiting a series without the dreaded weekly format more than it made a case for The Rolling Girls itself.

My other takeaway was that I always loved The Rolling Girls, and even its flaws don’t change that. I could spend paragraphs talking about how its story is uneven and choppy, or how it tries to take on too many things by the end that it devolves into a random, uncoordinated mess and still end by saying how much I enjoyed watching it again regardless.

Rewatching allowed me to see things that I didn’t notice while begrudgingly queueing up the final episode in 2015 — from anime references to a surprisingly poignant bookending of Masami and Nozomi’s relationship. While watching the finale for the second time, I realized that the series was successful if you consider that the premise is the phrase shown in eyecatches and promotional material:

“Rolling, falling, scrambling Girls. For others. For themselves. Even if they’re destined to be a ‘mob.'”

The Rolling Girls isn’t about the “bests,” or superheroes fighting each other but about Nozomi and her ragtag band of rests, valiantly trying to fill the shoes of Masami/Matcha Green. While most series would focus on the extraordinary, The Rolling Girls is firmly rooted in the ordinary and average.

Naturally this leads to problems. Trying to sort out the overarching narrative involving aliens and stones is infuriating, especially week-to-week. The Rolling Girls is at its finest when showing Nozomi and her group at the periphery of something larger, and trying to find their place in a massive, colorful world. It’s at its worst when it puts the world and the bests at the forefront, making halfhearted attempts at explanation — the final arc is notably awful at this, introducing far too many factions and splitting up the four heroines for a time. They’re best left to their own devices, making their mark when they can while enjoying their time together. As Chiaya Misono says to Nozomi in the final episode, “You were my Matcha Green,” meaning that anyone, even the most average person in an extraordinary world can inspire someone else.

Talking about The Rolling Girls is still a challenge, but it’s one that I want to tackle, because it’s a series that I thoroughly enjoyed, flaws and all.

The opening scenes of Alice & Zouroku involve poorly-done computer generated cars, a dramatic escape, and a Tokyo Tower scene that is eerily reminiscent of Sakura Kinomoto in Cardcaptor Sakura.

In fact, many things in the opening scene of Alice & Zouroku reminded me of other anime series — echoes of Cardcaptor Sakura, Madoka Magica, and Elfen Lied.

Yet what I latched onto was the nickname given to our titular Alice (Sana Kashimura): “The Red Queen.” Subsequent references to Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There reminded me of another first episode experience — one that is near and dear to my heart — Kyousougiga.

Oh, so this is my problem.

Not-so-coincidentally, I wrote a post while watching Kyousougiga regarding this very thing — how my own media proclivities, memories, and experiences affect viewing something fresh.

While watching Kyousougiga, I worried about how much I brought from my experiences to my own interpretation of the series. Kyousougiga is overflowing with visual imagery. I translated what I could from what I knew and threw myself into researching or learning about what I didn’t. From the first episode, Kyousougiga led me to Through the Looking Glass — something it used as framework throughout the show.

There’s an immediate visual reference to Through the Looking Glass‘ chessboard landscape. In the book, the Red Queen tells Alice that, although she’s a lowly pawn at the start of her adventures, she has the possibility to promote herself if she can make her way across the mirror world of the looking glass. The mirror capital of Kyousougiga — a creation of the priest Myoue — is governed by equally strict rules to that of chess, rules that Koto later smashes as the series’ Alice.

Similarities between Kyousougiga and Alice & Zouroku are primarily surface ones. They both borrow from Through the Looking Glass, which leads to many surface correlations including the creation of other worlds within or alongside what is presumed to be reality.

Like Koto, Sana is the disruptive party. Rather than breaking the laws of the universe to reunite her family — and give her father a well-deserved punch in the face — Sana was raised as a supernatural weapon, seemingly in service of the Japanese government. The first episode makes it a point to show us that she has powers that can warp space, and Sana’s prior captors have already dubbed her creation a “Wonderland.” Supernatural children like Sana are called “dreams of Alice” and Sana herself, the aforementioned Red Queen.

I don’t expect the two series to have much more in common besides their respective references to the Lewis Carroll classic. Alice & Zouroku will indubitably dabble in the ideas of what makes a family, but there’s very little chance that it will tackle something as incisive as Kyousougiga‘s look at parenting. And I shouldn’t expect it to, despite similar trappings.

Yet, it’s telling that all I wanted to do after watching the first episode of Alice & Zouroku was queue up an episode of Kyousougiga. Alice & Zouroku didn’t capture my attention — this also has a lot to do with its visual maladies — as much as I had hoped.

Oddly enough, what did catch my eye was the fact that Zouroku is a florist.

We’re likely to see a lot of overt floral references in Alice & Zouroku, given Zouroku’s career. This might just make me stick around for the next few episodes.

As an aside, Phlox, the flower in the arrangement for yakuza boss Sawaki, mean harmony and a union of souls. Zouroku gave him the perfect flower with which to propose.

Who is Diana Cavendish?

What makes her, Diana Cavendish?

Take away the prestige attached to her recognizable family name and the simpering sidekicks. Treat her like any other student at Luna Nova, albeit with similar magical talent but less training. Would she inevitably rise to the top of the school or would she become just another student as magic continues to fade from existence?

If she isn’t the last hope of Luna Nova and the art of magic, then just who is Diana Cavendish?

Diana was born with everything — a well-known prominent family, prodigious talent, good looks, the best education, and nearly all of the resources to become the best witch of her generation. She took all of these resources and used them to surpass everyone’s expectations.

She’s also completely and utterly bored.

Not only is Diana often a foil for Luna Nova’s resident dunce, Akko Kagari, she’s also the divergent path. Nestled in the same audience, squirming in nervous excitement with the same breathless anticipation as young Akko was a young Diana, equally charmed by Shiny Chariot’s traveling magic show. Chariot inspired both witches, but only Diana had the resources at that age to pursue magic.

When she meets Akko face to face, Diana is already cold and hardened. Years of arduous study have placed her on a pedestal built not only from her peers but her elders and superiors. She’s already saved the school on numerous occasions, to the point where the faculty is now counting on her to become the savior of Luna Nova — and magic as an art.

Yet, the one thing Diana wasn’t seemingly predestined for is the revival of magic itself, despite what the Luna Nova faculty and student body believe.

Little Witch Academia‘s twelfth episode places Akko in the body of Diana. A magic mirror catches Akko in a moment of self-doubt and transforms her to look like Diana.

From that point until Akko as Diana is asked to perform magic, and fails, Akko is forced to see just the difficulties of Diana’s life. Around every corner, there’s another person who needs something from Diana or someone asking Diana to fix their problems. Diana helps a multitude of people, some of whom are her own teachers, with a variety of things on a daily basis. This only adds to Diana’s isolation.

Part of the privilege of being Diana Cavendish means that people automatically take her seriously, giving her the benefit of the doubt — something that Akko is obviously unused to, even though she spends very little time as Diana. The tradeoff is that Diana is constantly being petitioned by anyone and everyone for her help. As Akko tries to get out of everyone’s way while stuck in Diana’s body, people continue to seek her out, leaving Akko no chance to escape the charade.

A cursory look into Diana’s living arrangements reveals that she is purposefully separated from her suite-mates, Hanna and Barbara. Whether this is of Diana’s own wishes — or one more unintended result of Hanna and Barbara’s hero worship, insisting that Diana have a space all to herself as another nod to Diana’s lofty social standing — is unknown. However, it firmly divides Diana from her so-called friends.

Visual framing also serves to isolate Diana. She is placed at the forefront of nearly all of her scenes — except those where she is truly alone — with Hanna and Barbara flanking her on either side.

Even when she’s not in the center, she still commands the attention of the viewer, thanks to more flanking assists from Hanna and Barbara.

Framing ensures that the eye is naturally drawn to Diana. Diana’s character design, posture, and positioning further establish her social station.

By contrast, Akko is only shown in this position a few times — when it’s necessary for her to take the lead and draw upon magic stored within the Shiny Rod. In these scenes she becomes almost a conduit for magic, drawing on Lotte and Sucy’s powers like Usagi Tsukino relying on her sailor scouts in Sailor Moon.

All other times, Akko is the beating heart of the trio but is anything but on a pedestal. This too is reinforced visually. Like the scenes where she becomes a center, Akko is visibly embraced and surrounded by friends rather than placed above them.

When Akko strikes out alone, her friends discover her plot and vow to help her. When Diana strikes out alone, her acquaintances either don’t pry — perhaps because they see Diana as above their station — or feel too inferior to help. Compare their magical displays in Episode 13’s Samhain Festival — Akko is assisted by her friends while Hanna and Barbara leave Diana’s side so Diana can complete the water summoning.

At the end of it all, Diana is rewarded with the title of Moonlit Witch, despite knowing that Akko should have been in contention at the very least. Disqualified due to rule-breaking, Akko is once again pushed out of the picture for Diana to receive more praise that she feels like she doesn’t deserve. The Luna Nova Samhain Festival is the papilliodya chrysalises situation on a far greater scale — Akko succeeds but Diana receives the accolades or award.

Here, Little Witch Academia strikes the perfect note for both Akko and Diana. Diana was right to doubt Akko’s words and motives due to Akko’s general lack of follow-through. Yet Akko is instrumental in reminding Diana of why Diana decided to put all of her effort — immense talent or no — into magic. They need each other to push one another to greater heights. Diana reiterates that Akko needs diligence and practice, not just passion, while Akko reminds Diana of the latent passion that inspired her in the first place, the passion that made her into the Diana Cavendish we know.

A lot of people like to condemn Naruto and I’ve never understood the appeal, although its overwhelming popularity and ubiquitous presence in anime fandom at large does make it an easy target. There’s something relatable about Naruto Uzumaki’s dorky nature which translates surprisingly earnestly within the series itself.

I personally enjoyed my time in the Naruto fandom. When I became bored with the pace of the anime, I turned to fanfiction. Time passed, I became interested in other types of anime, and whenever I thought back to Naruto, I checked in with what happened in the manga, never really caring about spoilers since I was long past wanting to watch or read it immediately.

Then a friend told me that Masashi Kishimoto had begun writing a sequel: Boruto. She also told me that it was hilarious.

I’ve previously written about returning to old favorites and the weirdness that can come of it. Returning to Digimon thanks to Digimon Tri felt intrusive — in a good way, if that makes any sense, since the kids had gone about their separate lives without me and I without them — where returning to Sailor Moon felt like coming home.

Returning to Naruto, even in anime form, felt like reading a fanfiction.

Whenever a work finishes, there’s always a burst of creativity that follows from the fandom, filling in any leftover blanks with what they want to happen — more often than not involving the pairings of their choice.

Enough time had passed in the Naruto universe by at the time of Boruto‘s beginning that I felt just disconnected enough from the characters. While I had gone about my Naruto-free life, more time had passed in the Hidden Leaf Village, meaning an immediate jump into an era that I had previously only seen as fanfiction territory. Yet, Kishimoto had also accounted for the passage of time. Alongside the introduction of Denki Kaminarimon, the heir to the Hidden Leaf Village’s new railway system is a a shot of the village, brightly-lit at night. While the progeny of Naruto, Hinata, Sasuke, Sakura, and the rest of the Naruto generation have grown up, so has the village around them, now with small technological nods here and there.

Fandom nostalgia isn’t the only reason I thoroughly enjoyed the first episode of Boruto, although that’s undeniably part of the series’ entire presentation and existence. The opening episode introduces many intriguing plot threads that it may follow up on if it so chooses.

There’s the obvious, “Screw you dad!” regarding Boruto’s completely understandable hatred of his father, who is never home to see Boruto or spend time with his wife Hinata, or daughter, Himawari. Digging a bit further into this, part of the reason why someone, like myself, would return to Naruto involves stopping by to see how their favorite characters are doing as parents and what their children are actually like. Despite the ability to be with his children physically, unlike his own father, Naruto isn’t a great dad due to the massive amount of work that actually being a Hokage involves.

Part of me hopes that they do go full ‘This Be The Verse” by Philip Larkin on Naruto and company. “They fuck you up, your mum and dad” is a classic sentiment for a reason, and when done with nuance and understanding of both parent and child, can be really affecting, especially when the viewer or reader already feels a connection to the characters involved.

There’s also the backdrop of the village itself changing. This first episode takes every opportunity it has to remind the viewer that technology and modern life are flowing into the Hidden Leaf Village. Coupled with the ominous opening sequence — which in and of itself shows that we’re in for another long haul with Boruto — the art of ninjutsu seems to be slowly dying, or at least fading to a more obscure and less necessary place than it occupied in Naruto.

None of these plot threads are innovative but they won’t have to be provided that the characters are as fun to be with every week as those of Naruto. I don’t know how long I’ll stick with Boruto, but based on this episode, it should be a fun time regardless.

“The show is getting boring. I still like it, but there’s no big bad.”

Naturally, this is paraphrased. Yet a common complaint of the first half of Little Witch Academia‘s television run was that there was no true antagonist. Akko Kagari wasn’t improving fast enough in her magic. Watching her fail episode after episode was becoming tedious. Diana Cavendish wasn’t Akko’s adversary as much as she was her rival. Even then it was a one-sided rivalry. Akko failed most of the time while Diana continued to garner acclaim from her peers and teachers alike.

Episode 13 marked the end of the series’ first half and the end of Akko’s complete failure. With her magic at the Samhain Festival, Akko stepped up and became the witch who impressed her peers and teachers alike. Even the visiting alumni were dazzled.

The series has now entered its second half and a presumed “big bad” — at the very least, a true antagonist — has appeared: Professor Croix.

Yet, I maintain that she too is not a true antagonist. And that Little Witch Academia doesn’t need a big bad to be compelling.

The stakes of Little Witch Academia are high, but difficult to easily define.

Magic — which can stand for anime, animation, or art, among other things — is dying.

What once was a glorious and respected art has neutered itself over the years, becoming obsolete. It’s an object of ridicule to those outside the walls of Luna Nova, drudgery to most inside it. The backdrop of every Little Witch Academia episode is one of an archaic world well in its twilight era.

Like most large-scale problems, different people within the world of Little Witch Academia have varying ideas of how to best carry on the tradition of magic. The most toxic of these is the attitude of Professor Finnelan.

Professor Finnelan is necessary to the narrative but thoroughly unlikeable and unsympathetic due to her role. At every turn she values discipline, order, and appearance over actively nurturing talent. She’s the type of teacher who would turn away a student that genuinely wanted to learn if they didn’t look the part and has shown that she will blatantly favor students who meet her specific qualifications. Witches like Finnelan are feverishly grasping to the old ways of magic, unable to bend the rules one iota even if the passage of time or a specific situation renders those rules obsolete. Little Witch Academia has had no qualms about figuratively pointing at Finnelan and saying, “This is the problem. People like her are the problem.”

Alongside Finnelan there is the staff of Luna Nova, most of whom adhere to the same traditions or are generally incompetent. Headmistress Miranda Holbrooke goes with the flow. For most of the Little Witch Academia this means that she generally follows tradition because that’s what has always been done. Over the course of the series her shortsightedness has cost the school money and resources. In Episode 14, she is immediately enchanted by Professor Croix’s modern magic and brandishes her new magic tablet in Professor Ursula’s face by the end of the episode. Headmistress Holbrooke is kind-hearted — and voices support for Akko despite the troubles she causes — but incompetent. The rest of Holbrooke’s staff aren’t much better.

Episode 14 also introduces would-be villain Croix. We don’t know her precise goals yet — they could be as abstract as advancing magic by any means possible to destroying Luna Nova entirely — but she represents modern magic, or the fusion of magic and modern technology.

Croix is also presented in opposition Chariot. The two know each other, presumably from their own time at Luna Nova, and are pitting against each other visually in the opening, like Diana and Akko. This points to the two being foils not necessarily enemies.

Thus far, Croix is painted in a harsh light. She is manipulative and uses her skill to effectively trick the Luna Nova staff into implementing her system of magical robots. Yet, it’s difficult to imagine Little Witch Academia using the character of Croix to denigrate techonology. Finnelan is still a far worse adversary for magic than Croix — clinging to tradition while ignoring possibility.

Little Witch Academia‘s most celebrated character is that of Shiny Chariot. Chariot was not naturally talented but remarkably passionate. All she needed was hard work and dedication to get her to where she wanted to be. Although Chariot has been discarded by the magical world, she affected multitudes of people with her showmanship. She brought the figurative magic to literal witches’ magic.

Now Akko looks to follow a similar path.

Akko was always a stand-in for a young animator who underestimated how much hard work, practice, and yes, dull repetition, transforms a person with raw passion into the best in their field. In the words of Yoh Yoshinari, “Akko’s like someone who joined the industry out of passion but without actual technique, so she can’t draw clean lines for in-betweens. Yet she has that egocentric confidence about being able to draw good key frames despite that.”

Solving the problem of magic dying isn’t something that can be accomplished by one person alone. Magic cannot be saved with an attitude like Finnelan’s, nor the wishy-washy agreeable nature of Holbrooke, nor solely relying on technology like Croix. Like any art, learning tradition is important but not everything. Using new techniques or technology isn’t everything.

Even passion isn’t everything.

No one thing will save magic. Both tradition and innovation are important. They shouldn’t oppose each other. Rather, they should support each other with passion driving a person forward. Little Witch Academia isn’t finally getting to the plot, that same plot has always been the backdrop. With Croix, the series gives us not a big bad, but another viewpoint to add to the larger picture.

“Humans live in the city, tanuki crawl the earth, and tengu fly through the air. Since the city’s establishment humans, tanuki, and tengu have maintained a delicate balance. That’s what keeps the great wheel of this city turning round and round. And watching that wheel spin is more fun than anything else.”

-Yasaburo Shimogamo, The Eccentric Family, Episode 1

This monologue from tanuki Yasaburo Shimogamo opens the first season of The Eccentric Family. After a season turmoil, warmth, forgiveness, and love, these words close the season as well.

The first episode of The Eccentric Family‘s second season eschews Yasaburo’s monologue about the hierarchy of tengu, tanuki, and humans in Kyoto. It wasn’t at all what I had expected.

But it was more affecting.

Rather than Yasaburo’s familiar mantra of the lives of humans, tanuki, and tengu, The Eccentric Family 2 opens with the story of a young, female tanuki. Yasaburo is our narrator once more, but this time he begins his story like a fairytale. “Once upon a time,” he says. “There lived a tanuki who was young and fresh as a peach, and carried herself light as a mountain hermit.”

By the coloring of the tanuki in question, we know that Yasaburo is talking about his own mother. And, although the Shimogamo family patriarch has only been shown in flashbacks, it’s easy to presume that the dark-haired kid who yells at her is none other than Souichirou Shimogamo himself. Yasaburo confirms this moments later, and the camera flashes between one of presumably many childhood fights on the steps Tanukidanisan Fudo-in Temple, to the day of their marriage on those very same steps.

Much of The Eccentric Family‘s first season revolves around lingering effects and fallout from Souichirou’s untimely hot-pot demise, all while showing the sometimes symbiotic, sometimes hostile relationships between Kyoto factions both human and supernatural. Although the words of Yasaburo’s monologue for the first season were detached from his own emotional state — or that of his family members — The Eccentric Family took no time to dive into personal matters immediately. Complex and nuanced familial relationships were juxtaposed with tanuki ridiculousness. It was a series where holding up a cell phone to a frog could have you in tears.

Thus far, the second season has been a bit of the same, but with an inevitable twinge of longing for the first season — or perhaps just longing for the enigmatic Benten. Yasaburo’s introduction is the real-life fairytale of his parents — childhood friends who later became lovers and made a family together. Rather than leading with an overview of social hierarchy, he leads with a personal anecdote, relying on the emotional connection formed with viewers of the first season.

Although it is far more affecting than his simple introduction of human, tanuki, and tengu, this only lasts for a few moments before jumping immediately into Yasaburo’s latest antics, Benten’s absence, and the return of Professor Akadama/Yakushibo Nyoigatake’s son.

Palpable tension between the returning Nidaime and his father takes the forefront, but is immediately pushed aside to introduce the dangerous Tenmaya: a deceased human who escaped from a painting of hell. Although there are a few affecting notes here and there — Yasaburo carrying the professor after his “fight” with Nidaime mirrors their walk to a taxi in the first season — The Eccentric Family 2 has focused on the addition of two new characters to an already crowded mix.

The opening scenes of this season’s first episode promise a similarly intimate look at the Shimogamo family for which The Eccentric Family is so beloved. Hopefully it will continue to deliver on this front. Family politics, relationships, and arguments formed the backbone of the first season, complemented not overshadowed by the series’ supernatural antics.

Supernatural stories at their finest ensure that — no matter how grand of a spectacle their conflicts become — they never stray away from intimate experiences with which their audience can resonate.

For example, one of the most affecting scenes in The Eccentric Family is that of an eldest brother holding up a smartphone to the ear of one of his younger brothers, a brother that just happens to be a frog. Visually, it’s ridiculous. Emotionally, it has the power to move a viewer’s heart, becoming an iconic image.

In its first season, The Eccentric Family started big before focusing on the personal struggles and triumphs of one tanuki family. This allowed the second season to immediately narrow its focus with a personal anecdote, then cast a wider net, capturing a few more conflicts before honing in on the personal once more. The problems and warmth of the Shimogamo family remain in the background — including a wonderful scene where Tousen, now the Shimogamo matriarch, visits her elderly mother — but the series has now shifted to include the devilish human trickster Tenmaya, and Professor Akadama’s (tengu Yakushibo Nyoigatake’s) estranged son Nidaime (Junior).

It’s extremely charitable to categorize Nidaime’s relationship with Professor Akadama as strained. There is a massive gulf between father and son and its creation is not something that we are privy to as viewers. The Eccentric Family is often cagey with narrative reveals, choosing precise moments for maximum emotional impact. Some things are never explained at all, but left to stew or simmer beneath the surface. Familial relations are hardly simple, and often no explanation is more impactful than providing exposition.

The reason behind this particular rift between father and son doesn’t really matter but the effect radiates outward regardless. Nidaime’s absence presumably begat Benten who ended up learning what Professor Akadama wanted to teach Nidaime in his stead. Whether Satomi Suzuki wanted to learn these things or not, she is now an influential force of tremendous power at all levels of this Kyoto’s tengu/human/tanuki hierarchy, likely as a direct result of Nidaime’s departure.

Unsurprisingly, Nidaime’s new mansion is one of Benten’s first destinations upon returning to Kyoto from her European vacation. While watching Benten square off against Nidaime in his own home — on his own late 19th-century chaise — we are treated to a closer glimpse of Nidaime’s temperament thanks to his interior decor.

Ruffled cascades over hourglass drapery, an assortment of musical instruments that include a harpsichord, two harps, and a violin, an oriental rug, a bell jar filled with flowers that presumably do not age à la Beauty and the Beast — Nidaime’s new home is an odd museum of 19th century European romanticism on the outskirts of Kyoto. Lest we think that these decorations came with the house, Nidaime’s belongings were shown in Episode 1 during his hotel stay. He had already unpacked his tea set, bell jar, various globes, and other knick-knacks within his hotel room when Yasaburou visited Nidaime to deliver Professor Akadama’s letter of challenge.

His and Professor Akadama’s rooms couldn’t be more different. The small apartment inhabited by the professor is dirty, disorganized, and filled with discarded convenience store lunch boxes or empty bottles of booze. The only thing the two have in common are globes and maps on display. Nidaime’s decor oozes taste and wealth. All Professor Akadama’s apartment oozes is stale liquor, sticky and sour. Nidaime’s belongings are a physical version of Yaichirou Shimogamo’s bossy airs. Both wish to be recognized as greater — or at least as great — as their fathers before them.

Despite Benten’s recent European tour and physical absence from the first two episodes, this episode’s title, The Scent of Europe, refers more to Nidaime than Benten.

A long time ago, Nidaime went on his own “European tour.” We still don’t know exactly what happened between him and his father, or if Professor Akadama is his parent by blood. Nidaime could be a result of another human kidnapping situation, like Satomi Suzuki.

Benten’s relationship with the professor has always been ambiguous and complicated. Part child, part captive, and part romantic interest (from the professor’s point of view) she both resents him and cares for him. She still carries guilt from her part in his now flightless existence, and purposefully distances herself from him. It’s not difficult to think that Nidaime carries similar conflict in his heart towards his father, as shown by his appearance, actions, and interior design.

When I was younger, I read a picture book called The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse. It’s one of the more popular Aesop’s Fables, like The Tortoise and the Hare, that are often given to children. I read it when I was young. So young that my memories of that age are mostly flashes of images or conversations rather than fully-developed scenes.

Ultimately, the lesson is that, while things may seem better in the city, there are perks and downfalls of living in both the city or the country. Neither is perfect and, although the country’s downsides are more easily visible, country life with safety and comfort is often preferable to the opulence and dangers of the city.

This same lesson lurks in the background of Sakura Quest, the latest iteration of PA Works’ working series that aims to tell stories of people and their professions. Previous anime in this series include the generally well-liked Hanasaku Iroha and critically-acclaimed Shirobako. PA Works has also tackled similar themes of city and country in Tari Tari.

Despite using this tried and true backdrop, Sakura Quest is a difficult show to pin down. At times, it tackles challenges and benefits inherent to Japanese country life with nuance. At other times, it comes across as insincere.

No other character challenges the value of sincerity quite like Sanae Kouzuki. Previously an overworked office drone, Sanae left Tokyo and moved to rural Manoyama. Her impetus for moving was the realization that anyone could do her job. She was wholly replaceable, proved by how someone else easily filled in for her when Sanae worked herself into a hospital visit.

Upon moving to the country, Sanae puts in little to no effort. She becomes a shut-in, never leaving her house while allowing garbage to surround her in a nearly-dark room. The only light source is her computer screen, where she writes about her wonderful, natural adventures in the pastoral wonderland of Manoyama. Nearly every word is a lie.

Beauty blogs jumped into my mind immediately while I smirked at Sanae’s blog post, but anyone who has read hobby or specialty blogs  — yes, even anime blogs — will immediately recognize Sanae.

Sincerity has become currency in so many things, but especially in blogging, or anything on the internet, really. It’s something that brands want to tap into and slyly market without the consumer noticing who exactly is pulling the strings because so few things are wholly sincere. The idea that Sanae would peddle sparkling rural pastiche for popularity is hilarious because it’s so believable, as is her failed marketing of Manoyama manju as “fancyccult,” a mixture of fancy and occult designed to lure tourists to Manoyama in droves. It sounds exactly like something that a town would want social media influencers to find just weird enough to love, inspiring posed photos against Manoyama’s scenic backgrounds.

What makes Sakura Quest sincere — far more than Sanae’s blog — is that it doesn’t call out Sanae directly. Nor does it call out anyone for their mistakes and over-reliance on cheap gimmicks in the myriad of attempts through the years to bring droves of tourists to sleepy Manoyama. One of the most egregious offenders is the cantankerous Ushimatsu Kadota, who heads the Manoyama tourism board and has been fruitlessly making the same mistakes for years. Sakura Quest protagonist Yoshino Koharu became queen of the town, another gimmick, due to his blunder and subsequent stubbornness.

Yet, it does ensure that these characters — Uchimatsu included — learn why their efforts, even the seemingly well-intentioned ones, have failed. It always comes down to sincerity. Sakura Quest consistently asks its cast, “Why do you want to revitalize the town? What are your true intentions? Does the town really need ‘saving?'” Most of the time, the answers are inherently selfish, ignoring Manoyama’s needs in favor of building an unrealistic tourism hotspot that few people want. They’re also nuanced and character-specific, giving many members of the cast surprising depth, especially those who initially appeared as one-note wacky townspeople.

That being said, when compared to the rest of PA Works’ oeuvre, I can’t help but think that there are more than a few strings visible behind Sakura Quest. Many of their series have dealt with returning to the country from the city and finding that it isn’t so bad after all. The story of Hanasaku Iroha‘s Yuina Wakura sticks out as a particularly bad example, where her mindset changes very quickly from hating the idea of staying in her town and running her family’s hot springs, to finding her passion for it. I’m not saying that Yuina’s motives — in her own words, trying to add fun and adventure into her life — weren’t selfish, but Hanasaku Iroha didn’t even allow her to live in Tokyo for a time to find out. Yuina’s change of heart always rubbed me the wrong way in what was otherwise a fun series.

In all of these series — whether they’ve lived there all their life or are a Tokyo native moving to the country — the majority of characters learn to love the country. Sakura Quest sets up Yoshino’s journey along these lines, dropping hints that her family is from a different part of rural Japan and she went to Tokyo to escape. Similar to Yuina, Yoshino seems to idolize Tokyo for all the wrong reasons, stubbornly sticking to its touted glamour even when her 32 unsuccessful job interviews say otherwise. She became the town’s queen/tourism gimmick under duress and desperation. Now she’s come around to the idea enough that she’s putting effort into her job. All that’s left is for her to proclaim that the country is indeed better than Tokyo, embracing what she once scorned and left behind when she was younger.

It’s frustrating to perceive these strings in a series that is otherwise treating this overarching conflict with nuance and a fair amount of delicacy. Sincerity is difficult to come by and I can’t help but wonder just how much, or little, of it Sakura Quest has.

“Emotional pattern: yellow. Predictive ability: zero. Objectivity: zero. Traits: impulsive, selfish, pushy, simple, clumsy, carefree.”

-Croix’s personality analysis of Akko Kagari, Little Witch Academia, Episode 15

In Little Witch Academia Episode 15, modern magic professor Croix peers into Akko Kagari’s brain. The results are unsurprising. She has no natural ability. All of her top personality traits are negative — or at the very least, their complimentary nature is open to interpretation — although her yellow emotional pattern could be representative of bravery.

All of this matches what we already know of Akko’s character. From her in-universe actions to interviews with creator Yoh Yoshinari, Akko is not a complex entity. Wholly driven by her impulses and passions, she stumbles into most things by chance. This chance, or luck, is responsible for her acquisition of the Shiny Rod, an ancient magical artifact.

Does Akko care that it’s a powerful magical object? Not really. What matters to her most is that it was once owned by the witch she reveres: Shiny Chariot, or Chariot du Nord.

Akko’s empty-headed nature is hardly new to the anime protagonist. An overwhelming amount of anime default to a more generic character presumably to appeal to a wider audience. Akko somewhat fits this mold, very purposefully. She’s supposed to be an average person, not necessarily for audience-insert purposes — although it’s certainly easy to imagine young girls wanting to be Akko — but also because of her alternative role as a stand-in for an average artist or animator.

Even Akko’s character design is bland when compared to her group of friends. Lotte Jansson has short blonde hair, under-rim glasses, and freckles. Sucy Manbavaran has a sallow complexion, heavy-lidded eyes, and a toothy grin. Amanda O’Neill stands out immediately with shocking, bright hair, green eyes, and a very athletic build. Constanze Amalie von Braunschbank Albrechtsberger, Jasminka Antonenko, and of course, Diana Cavendish all stand out due to their character designs, all of which fit their personalities perfectly. By contrast, Akko is remarkably average.

Whatever Croix was expecting from Akko’s brain — presumably little, based on how easy it was for her to manipulate Akko into turning over the Shiny Rod (or Claiomh Solais) — it probably wasn’t something as simple as the images she received. Akko trying to fly and failing. Akko proclaiming the wonders of magic. Akko saying that she wants to be Shiny Chariot.

Above all else, Akko is simple. Through Croix’s analysis, we don’t learn anything new about Akko — arguably, neither does she, since these are all things that Akko has said publicly, multiple times, at a fairly high volume — but we do see what’s missing.

Akko has no ulterior motive.

In a world where every other character represents a path for reviving magic, including Akko herself, Akko is the only one who wants to revive magic for the joy of magic. She might want to fly before she can crawl, or animate master keyframes without putting in the effort, but she loves magic for the excitement and enchantment of it all. Even Diana, who was also inspired by Shiny Chariot as a young girl, went down the route of adhering to tradition, nurturing her talent into something truly awe-inspiring to both her peers and her elders.

It’s easy to characterize Akko as a selfish person, since she’s guided by her impulses and rarely restricts herself from doing exactly what she wants. However, her interest in magic, for lack of a better term, is pure.

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

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

The first flower shown in A Silent Voice isn’t a flower at all. It’s a firework. The Japanese word for fireworks is 花火 (hanabi). Literally translated, it means “flower fire.”

One, small firework shot from a riverbank that inadvertently saves the lift of Shoya Ishida in the opening scenes of the film. As Shoya is about to throw himself off of a bridge, a firework disrupts his thoughts. He walks away from the railing.

When Shoko Nishimiya tries to take her own life later in the movie, the attempt is framed with the grand finale of a fireworks show.

Fireworks provide the backdrop for both suicide attempts in A Silent Voice. This is a purposeful choice by director Naoko Yamada, who makes the most of anime as an audio visual medium throughout the film.

Since A Silent Voice is centered around the arrival of a deaf girl, Shoko Nishimiya, to Shoya Ishida’s elementary school class — and their interactions for years to come — animation and cinematography not only help frame their story thematically, but aid in allowing the audience to further understand Shoko’s situation. Just before her suicide attempt, she is shown feeling the vibration from the sound of the fireworks, one of the few times that she can “hear” something in the series.

Hanakotoba, the Japanese flower language, is meant to communicate a strong emotion or impression from giver to recipient without needing words. This is something that Shoko desperately needs in any form, especially when her initial attempts at communicating with her classmates via notebook only serve to facilitate their bullying. Similarly, ikebana, the art of flower arrangement, is meant to unify humanity and nature through minimalist but careful presentation. The simple act of arranging allows for moments of spiritual reflection and a small, peaceful moment where one can appreciate the beauty of nature.

Fireworks have their own meaning in the tradition of Japanese aesthetics, exemplifying impermanence and transient beauty — a moment in time that will never come again. Using them as the backdrop for both Shoya and Shoko’s respective attempted suicides adds an extra layer of ephemerality. All of life is ephemeral, the fireworks seem to say. it would be a shame if either Shoko or Shoya’s moments ended so soon.

Throughout A Silent Voice, Shoko is primarily represented by two flowers: a white daisy, and what appears to be freesia, in both red and blue.

Daisies have been used in other anime — Chidori Takashiro from Kiznaiver was also represented by a daisy flower — and symbolize purity or a return to innocence. This is especially true if the daisy is white. As a gift, daisies send a message of faithful, almost childlike, love.

When Yuzuru Nishimiya dreams of her sister Shoko the night their grandmother passes away, it’s in a pool of blood surrounded by daisies. We later learn that Yuzuru has known of Shoko’s suicidal tendencies for a while, and had plastered the walls of her room with photographs of dead things in an attempt to turn Shoko away from death.

Daisies frame Shoko on the ground when she is assaulted by former classmate Naoka Ueno, and remain a few moments later when Shoko apologizes profusely to Miyako Ishida for Shoya’s hospitalization. Although daisies often represent a return to youth, or the innocence of childhood, they can also symbolize new beginnings. In this case, Shoko is beginning to realize the affect her suicide attempt and actions have had on others — well outside the direct result, Shoya’s injuries — and is creating a new beginning for herself. Her default response has always been to apologize. This is the first time where it seems like Shoko truly means it with every fiber of her being. She sobs at Miyako’s feet, begging for forgiveness.

The white daisy frames Shoko, but other colored daisies appear as establishing or pillow shots between scenes towards the beginning of the movie. Purple daisies follow a scene where Shoya discovers Shoko at her desk and lashes out at her, causing her to retaliate and vent her frustrations for the first time, and yellow daisies are shown after Shoya finds out that Shoko transferred schools. The purple and yellow daisies could also be cosmos, which have similar connotations of innocent and pure love.

Neither situation is particularly uplifting or happy. However, in both appearances further remind us of Shoko’s faithfulness. She was cleaning mean graffiti off of Shoya’s desk in the first scenario, and presumably is still thinking about him, even after she transfers, in the second. Despite the fact that his primary feeling towards Shoko at the time is guilt — especially when the bullying is turned towards him — the flowers are a constant reminder of her faithful innocence.

Following his physical altercation with Shoko, Shoya cleans off his own desk. A small pot full of light blue iris-like flowers is visible just above his right shoulder. Shoya says the words, “She really pisses me off.” Venting his frustration as he realizes that she was trying to clean his desk. This is the other flower that frames Shoko, cyclamen.*

*I initially had incorrectly identified this as freesia and am updating the post to reflect this.

This flower appears in red and in blue as the classroom flowers for the day. Cyclamen has a few interpretations, some of which are conflicting.

Like Shoko’s daisy, cyclamen can also express love, but it’s a more determined and lasting one. Rather than innocence, cyclamen are gifted to show a deep, unwavering affection. Some have called it the flower of true love.

Rather than this interpretation, A Silent Voice could be calling to another meaning of cyclamen, resignation or goodbye. The plant appears several times in the classroom, and its first appearance is notably outside of the music room, where things begin to immediately go wrong between Shoko and her classmates when she tries to sing and they stifle their laughter. It again appears in her hands when Shoya writes a mean thing on the blackboard and pretends to erase it. She thanks him, another expression of her sincerity, but his teasing will escalate and eventually lead to their parting for a few years.

There’s one last meaning of cyclamen that could apply, and it’s a love that is rare or to unusually difficult to grasp, another nod to a deeper kind of admiration or love. Shoko and Shoya’s relationship is a difficult one, regardless of whether they end up together romantically or not, but by the end of the film, there’s no doubt of their admiration for each other.

This is the first of two posts that will focus on flower language in A Silent Voice. The second will look more at establishing/pillow shots in addition to foreground/background focus and framing.