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Taniguchi often reads like some of the old impressionistic writers. Form, time, direction all seem to have their own shape; they breathe on their own accord. The world then is distilled down to sensory syllogisms, where truth and fiction really are just extensions of one another. Consequently, all that seems to matter is the continuity of perception and the exaltation of sense, transforming into ephemeral experiences embedded in some forgotten psychology. These are never presented as factual, but as fleeting moments offering glimpses into all that was lost. These stories are appendages of the self: ones that serve to internalize the world and externalize the ... individual - ones solely predicated on perspective. What is seen, what is felt, and what “is” are all units crafted by an ever-changing reality, shifting not only in a temporal space but within the abstract confines of the mind. Perception is powerful.

Nothing encompasses the aforesaid more than Taniguchi’s acclaimed manga "Haruka na Machi e", or otherwise known as "A Distant Neighborhood." It’s a work that seems to override traditional form and structure while challenging linearity and time to bring forth a compelling narrative with stunning artwork.

Before discussing the actual story, Taniguchi’s art in this manga must be mentioned. As striking and thought-provoking as the story is, the art is sublime. Taniguchi draws with a sense of realism and nostalgia – a style that suits this story almost perfectly. His stories often feel like meditations or Zen-like introspections of the mind exercising itself onto the world. The moments in between that are being grasped, coalesced, and digested by the senses and cognition are expressed poetically and with the utmost clarity. Expressions, space, distance, textures, gradients, forefront, backgrounds are crafted with an unreal degree of precision and artistry. The narrative is thoroughly rooted in the art and its often through the art and imagery that much of the progression takes place.

Additionally, the story is equally compelling.

The premise starts off deceptively simple: a 40-something everyday salaryman (Hiroshi Nakahara) takes the wrong train. He notices the scenery changing into something unknowingly nostalgic. Eventually, he ends up at his childhood town.

Things have changed.

He too has changed.

The streets he once knew are unrecognizable. His old home and parent’s shop have also disappeared. Unsettled, he goes to pay respect at his mother’s grave. He falls asleep and upon waking, strangely finds himself transported many decades into the past – when he was only 14.

Again, the streets change. Again, he changes.

From this point onwards, the story focuses on Hiroshi’s decisions to change both, his world and of those that once inhabited it. He still retains all his knowledge and skills as an adult, and so embarks on his second chance to redeem his past and perhaps his future. HaruMachi confidently conveys the complex completeness of each emotion and conflict. Taniguchi exerts complete control over the intricacies and depth and subtly reveals them through intuition and imagery. Hiroshi encounters the same interactions and events but tries to alter them to get more optimal outcomes, whether it be finding love with the prettiest girl in school or helping his frail mother. Yet the focus is never on the meaning of these interactions or how they will change Hiroshi’s life. The future has already transpired. What’s important is Hiroshi’s inevitable realizations about himself and his place in the world. What’s hidden beyond the entirety of this current timeline is push for acceptance, through understanding all that/those he could not and did not.

Thus, this is not an exciting time travel story. This is not a narrative hung up on changing the future. Time and history are all living; dismissing their autonomy is out of the question. What then HaruMachi sublimely shows is the opposite: despite the feigned ability to change things within a repeated microcosm, in the grand scheme of cosmic affairs, things will remain as they need be. What matters is perception and how that perception evolves into awareness (and to inherit the ability to alter that as needed, to live, if not with contentment, then at least with acceptance).

The ideas about self-awareness and acceptance echo across the work. These arise from an ethos of a society that is designed to discourage individualistic fervors and the results of such a design on the individual questioning it through their own existence. This is truly where the art shines. Much of the initial set up is Hiroshi traversing his environment while recollecting and subconsciously, lamenting. Taniguchi crafts the slivering pieces of the past, through the elaborate, naturalistic setting as it was and as it is, revealing the bridge between Hiroshi’s memories and his emotions. Both are at risk but impeccably visualized through the transitioning realities that Hiroshi experiences. It’s remarkable how each idea is translated into an image, from the sweeping scenery to the colliding characters. It’s all attuned to create an atmosphere that moves alongside fate, never to rebel against it, but always to affirm it.

There are two crucial events that reinforce the established nature. First is the eventual breakup of Hiroshi and pretty girl, Tomoko. Second, is his father’s abandonment. The most defining and personal event for Hiroshi seems to be his relationship with Tomoko. She was the prettiest girl in the school and in the original timeline, has married a diplomat and moved abroad. During Hiroshi’s “redo” he impresses her with his maturity and knowledge and they start dating. Tomoko falls hard for Hiroshi, but slowly recognizes the fact that she simply cannot understanding him or his feelings. Their relationship is thoroughly developed and despite her being smitten with him, she becomes increasingly upset and insecure due to her inabilities. She runs away. And so, ends that romance, as well as any hope for finding love and fulfillment in his future family life.

Second and arguably, the most important event in Hiroshi’s redo is the unchanging event of his father’s sudden departure. It is explained that at some point in his 14th year, Hiroshi’s father abandons them, which implicitly causes the early death of his mother. Reliving his life, Hiroshi comes to realize his premature understanding of his parents and their lives. He wants to save his family. He wants to protect his mother. He wants to know why his father abandons his perfectly stable life and loving family. On the night his father is meant to leave, Hiroshi confronts him and demands an explanation. His father wants something more; he wants to escape the never-ending, looming existential dread and to find something life-affirming. This poignantly captures the reasoning for the time-skip and the internal truth that haunted Hiroshi from the get-go.

He too suffers the same dread as his father. Forced into a life of unfulfillment, where neither his family nor his job offers any solace, he finds himself “escaping”. The time skip thus is a mere tool, one that he embraces fully, to live out his teenage desires where he knew he had concrete goals and desires that could lead to happiness, regardless of their impermanence. This duality of change and stasis is heavily manipulated throughout the story, but they are also simply tools for attaining the awareness needed to realize the limitations of self-imposed control and influence. And so, he unsurprisingly returns to his original timeline.

Again, he changes.

In spite of changing many events in his “redo”, things in the present are as they were. Nothing is different. Tomoko is still married to the diplomat, living abroad. His wife and children are who they were prior to him leaving. Friends and family who were dead are still dead. He’s still a 48-year-old everyday salaryman with a heavy heart. Nothing changed, except now he’s fully self-aware. Nothing evolved except his perceptions and his resolve. Ultimately, that’s what matters. After all,

Perception is powerful – it can and does change everything.

A corrupted woman is soaked in sin and gradually torn from her soul. Her purity that was once unscathed is now an unbounded commodity. Piece by piece, she is dismantled until the only thing that’s left is flesh and blood. From the ashes of unadulterated youth, now rises something else. The transformation from beauty to grotesque is immediate. A woman is either a maiden or a witch. A sin or a sinner. An unknowing victim or an unholy perpetrator. The existence of both is morally reprehensible. Here we have the scripture of ye old storytelling embedded in every culture, every time, and in every form.

Nonetheless ... every artifice, every duality inherits a line that exists to challenge it. A tempo-spatial blip where white melds into the black – where Angels mingle with Demons, where grotesqueness is beauty, where tragedy births empowerment, where witches ARE women – explodes with a forgotten force. That coalescing blip takes form in Belladonna of Sadness (Kanashimi no Belladonna): a powerful visual enigma that mesmerizes with bizarre aestheticism and erotic storytelling (one that many will probably write off as a “deep” hentai and in the process, dismiss the work so passionately fueled by the revolutionary spirit that drives all provocative art).

Belladonna is the third and final installment in the Animerama series (adult-themed films) conceptualized by Osamu Tezuka, but due to his early abandonment of the project, it was sought through (in 1973) by Eiichi Yamamoto and produced by Mushi Production. Adapted loosely from the non-fictional musings in La Sorcière by Jules Michelet, Belladonna follows the vicious downfall of a young girl named Jeanne, and thus, her metamorphosis. Even though Belladonna takes influence from Michelet’s book, it is not a literal re-telling. The novelty of Michelet’s work, however, should be noted. La Sorciere attempted to trace the rebellions against feudalism and Medieval practices that subjugated women and peasants. Riddled with folklore, fairy tales, and religious theory, the book opened a new sympathetic vision towards the oppressed, and what eventually manifested into “witchcraft”. Belladonna is a tale about oppression, but also about revolution. What starts off as a fatalistic chain of events steeped in sexual violence and tradition, morphs into a darkly, disturbing tale of empowerment (featuring Satan symbolized as an ever-growing penis, lots and lots of other phallic imagery, and intense psychedelics visuals).

The aesthetical direction in Belladonna is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Sequences of stylistically-independent paintings that are tied by motion. Styles include Klimt-influenced artworks where the female body is the everlasting focus. The only place where precision in detail matters is on Jeanne, and partly her husband and abusers. Following in the symbolist tradition, many embodied the elements of Decadence. These paintings were full of lurid, exploitative objects that were flourishing with mystical context. Decadent art called for transgression and taboo and expressed them through dreamlike visual poetics. Belladonna adapts this with acuity. Abstract, expressionistic paintings also take hold here. The use of placement, distance, object and how they come alive, both with color and shape all reveal this. There are scenes that are built entirely on geometric progression. The painting starts at one point, transforming into a set of shapes that blooms into the eventual scenery. Kaleidoscopic backgrounds and mural-stoned-faces swell up the screen, while continuous mutations and distortions keep the atmosphere full of psychedelic vigor. It’s like a never-ending party in the 60s. The art-style is intensely experimental and frequently disorienting. The styles and influences here are endless: watercolor paintings, ink-stencil portraits, sketchbook graphics, bubbly cartoons, and the list goes on – of all the various art-styles contained in this film. Even though the film ranges in the kind of techniques it employs – many of them being direct contrasts to one another – it never hiccups, not even once. The continual change in style becomes equally as important for the story. It’s a story with centuries of sociopolitical turmoil, unveiled through centuries of art evolution on canvas. And the best part is that it’s always fluid and always flowing.

Consequently, Belladonna's art is demanding, bold, highly erotic, often-etched-imminently, and absolutely unforgiving. The shots move ever-so emphatically; scenes feel as if being drawn out right then and there. The horror here transposes itself not just as a genre, but a state, an endless feeling that seduces the senses while suffocating the mind. There are scenes comprised of simple shapes, lines intersecting, and splashes of unending red and black that are more horrific than most horror films attempting to be anything more than a gore-fest nowadays. The film functions in directional panning waves that slide from painting to painting, with minimal movement and sparse dialogue. One of the most laudable aspects was the use of motion. Films, at a very fundamental level, need to master the skill of motion; to be able to capture the mobility of ideas in a visual format. In the same way that sometimes silence speaks louder than sound, stasis expresses visual ideas more potently than systematic movement. It’s animation revised: unbridled by traditional sequential movement, materialized through motion on canvas. Stasis then becomes as important as motion. Belladonna proves this with its delicate and deliberate staging and execution.

Now really, what is Belladonna about? The aesthetics tell it all. The “how” is infinitely more valuable than the “what”. Even then, there is still plenty to bask in, narratively. Belladonna is a purely visual experience, but isolating the narrative is worthwhile. Reconnecting with the earlier synopsis, Belladonna tells the seemingly unfortunate tale of Jeanne. On her wedding night, as custom dictates, Jeanne and her husband Jean must receive the okay from the baron (through paying ridiculous monetary “gifts”). As they cannot meet the high demands set by the Baron, Jeanne is subjected to ritualistic rape by the Baron and his house of ghastly courtiers. From then onward, Jeanne continues to suffer at the hands of her time, repeatedly violated by those in power and by circumstance, she finds herself in an old-fashioned predicament: compromising her humanity. It’s not original in its premise. Tales of religious persecution, power, and transformation almost always follow a similar formula: striking a deal with the devil. Therefore, the story unfolds on a two-fold: first, on the degradation of humanity and second, on the revival of it.

What sets Belladonna apart is its perspective and thematic subversion. The apparent importance of religion, tradition, and all these concepts that arise from scripture of society all take a backseat for Jeanne’s place in the world. She becomes the singular point of relevance amongst cosmic indifference, where she comes before the judgments of the world. This is crucial for the second half of the story and the ultimate, conclusion. The perspective here is refreshing, in the ways many modern fairy tales are, especially those with a female focus. The one that immediately comes to mind is a collection of short stories by Angela Carter titled The Bloody Chamber. These tales are of the revolutionaries — the nontraditional, and those unaligned with the religious depiction of “woman”–, where through the crevices of preordained evil and sacrilegious, arises positivity in the form of empowerment and transformation. These are far more important than redemption or “survival”. It’s history, art, and humanity revisited but with the scales tipping the other way. Thus, the devil becomes a tool. Evil becomes a means to an end. The deal becomes a means to an end. The body is shown to be purely material and the spirit/soul as mere propaganda. Things that held the greatest amounts of meaning become empty remnants in the face of ultimate transformation. The most important point is that woman and witch remain synonymous. This isn’t a movement to destroy humanity, but to revolutionize it.

Jeanne makes the deal and becomes a witch. Yet, she doesn’t seek revenge in the old-testament sort of horrific way. She sets the way for the townspeople and all those that violated her to find hell in their own manner, whether it’s through hedonism, paganism, or partaking in 24/7 orgies. The Black Plague is also a thing, here (and the origins are hilarious but terrifying). Jeanne helps those struck by the plague (using various plants and concoctions) and becomes their savior. With her “help”, the villagers willingly walk on their personalized road to perdition. (Belladonna is a nightshade plant. The root was used to make medicine, but the leaves and berries are deadly. It’s named after Venetian ladies who used it to dilate pupils for striking appearances). Jeanne assumes her rightly place as the Belladonna who in the wrong doses, proves to be lethal and insurmountable. As Angela Carter reformulates the heroine/woman in modern fairy tales, “Like the wild beasts, she lives without a future. She inhabits only the present tense, a fugue of the continuous, a world of sensual immediacy as without hope as it is without despair,” we find ourselves seeing Jeanne reflected in the very same words. Jeanne descends into –what we perceive as– madness, a form of clinical hysteria from any angle. Despite that, there is something far deeper settling in her reverie: “The girl burst out laughing; she knew she was nobody’s meat.” And that very Carter-ian depiction becomes the absolute state of Jeanne.

Even with the inevitable “end” of Jeanne, the story holds true to what actualized empowerment entails: continuation. It doesn’t end with the body.

Experiencing Belladonna is very much like falling down a bottomless rabbit hole. A visceral drop where one experiences each grain of the twisted earth, swallowing wholly, their entire state of being. The dive isn’t measured. It’s freefall so fast, one almost feels like they are suspended in air, motionless. During those moments, every sensory receptor is attuned to an unknown, unearthly frequency. It’s a film designed to enthrall the senses and heighten all temporality. The kind of thing people do drugs for. Spectacularly, it achieves this for every second of its runtime. Enter this with an open mind. Belladonna knows for she is woman and witch, and both exist here simultaneously.

The background of NANA feels like an endless white night. Things seem to be continuously in motion; beginnings and endings wrapped up in an infinite wave of falling snowflakes waiting to melt into each other. The forefront sits in perpetual twilight; characters seem to be eclipsed by their own shadows with barely enough to catch a glimpse of who they are. The entire landscape depicts the frigidity of life rising from frosty gales to a calmer ether, only to revert to stormier lands. Movement here isn’t linear. Nothing is. NANA, as a whole, is pure kinetics; an explosion of emotional energy circling, clashing and always ... in motion. This is all infused as a careful exploration of fate, transience, and relationships in a modernized setting. NANA as a work fully invokes the power of pathos while taking “drama” to new heights.

Based on the acclaimed manga by Ai Yazawa, Studio Madhouse adapted NANA into a 47-episode series. The story follows the pivotal journeys of two incredibly “different” girls bound by the same name and circumstance. Nana Osaki and Nana Komatsu are planets apart yet exist in the same sky, tethered by each other’s gravitational force. Nana Osaki is externally a cool cat, adorned in Vivienne Westwood – the quintessential punk queen with a voracity for musical success. Whereas, Nana Komatsu, who garners the nickname “Hachi”, is a dreamer who sees, breathes, and dreams in pink; her ambitions don’t extend beyond finding her fairytale romance. Both are headed to Tokyo to pursue their various dreams (one to establish the perfect domestic life with her boyfriend, while the other wants to form her band and actualize her musical ambitions). Fate brings these two together as roommates and the narrative unfolds to reveal the tender anatomy of relationships and the power they have to shape people and their respective worlds – for better or for worse.

Then, what makes this work more than a seemingly run-of-the-mill drama about two girls discovering the pains and gains of life? What does it possess that other philosophized-by-life dramas don’t? The answer is simple: understanding. Yazawa writes candidly about people and the world, not as a spectator, but as someone clearly living in it. Nana portrays an acute understanding of how people are and their complexities that are simply written off as natural proclivities. There is reason even if Fate seems to play some indiscernible part. There is meaning even if chaos seems to rule it out. However, what’s impressive is not the mere incorporation of “understanding”, but “HOW” the work manages to create a stylized drama that is as visceral as the cold touch of the wintry night that it starts on.

Even with its luridly icy sensation, NANA is never detached or impersonal. It may be highly temperamental, but it never indulges in its own despair. It’s often cold but driven by the innate warmth of its living, breathing cast, who aren’t just personifications of suffering or “insert-theme.” This is partly what makes it sublime in its approach to drama. The drama isn’t a descriptor or a simple add-on. An event doesn’t happen so it can be “dramatic.” It doesn’t happen only in effect. There is an ebb and flow; a serpentine path painted with emotional uncertainty. The characters drip with it, but the difference is that they own it. There is accountability here. Events happen for the characters as an extension of them. They don't occur only as a platform for causality (which makes all the difference).

Considering how easily emotional appeals can be manipulated to rehash emotional evocations, NANA remains earnest. There is a purpose in isolating feelings; to let the characters lather in them, not just merely show them; to explore them to such a degree that the feeling/the state itself becomes autonomous. Loneliness becomes its own character, as does love, as does happiness. It is as transient as it is eternal. The characters are so refined that it’s hard to separate them from the elements that define them. Drama is all about nurturing these humanistic nuances and intricacies in its own habitat. Yazawa knows this all too well. Instead of showing these conditions as mere outputs of a decision or situation, they exist on an aqueous spectrum blurring the lines used to divide them AS a part of the being that gives them shape and substance. Then, causality only becomes a mean, just like Fate, just like chaos, not the end. Ultimately, that’s what makes NANA idyllic as a drama, and even more so, as a story driven by life.

Holistically, NANA showcases its prowess for drama through natural rawness, unflinching realism, and scope for understanding its subject matter(s) on a cellular level. The picture is impressive, but what makes it a pinnacle of its kind are the details – the pieces of storytelling that it utilizes to convey its narrative.

First, there is perspective. Works revolving around the musings of “life” usually have a philosophy driving their vision of it; Nana has perspectives. What the series employs are contrasting, continual planes that converge with each other to give a wholesome view through Nana and Hachi. Their interconnectedness matters more than their seemingly opposing natures. The perspectives confess, observe, share, and exploit the hearts of the events and the characters. The episodes start with a stream of confessional thoughts spilling onto the screen and morphing into the events that transpired them. Structurally, this does two things: One, it offers balance. Two, it contextualizes. This approach helps establish reliability because there are two narrators. This naturally aids in mitigating the problem of the unreliable narrator. The image becomes complete even if it is in broad, disconnected strokes. This show is unwavering in its personalization, and both perspectives will establish that with an uncanny persuasion.

Additionally, there is the context. The synergy between Nana and Hachi creates its own ecology. This isn’t something that is easily fabricated by romanticizing the power of friendship. It is pure symbiosis, of two lives reflected through a continually cracking mirror. As the story progresses, the bifocal gaze of the two melds into one. Even the apparent contradictions between the two begin becoming whole. At first, Nana and Hachi seem to complement each other but gradually start inverting their traits. The evolution of each character is highly dependent on this progression which is why context is crucial. Hachi and Nana, along with the supplementary cast provide this even when the truth is far from being transparent. Although, getting to the truth feels trivial anyway. What the structural decisions do at their very core is reinforce the means (never the end). The importance of every word, emotion, and event that happens is preserved and with it, parts of the individual and their entire world for that moment in time.

That is what matters. These moments where time comes to a standstill and that instance singularly defines the world. Incepted through bursts of chemical reactions - frozen yet in flames - quietly burning everything around them. A tempest consumed by shadows of the past and uncertainties of the present. Where entropy orchestrates all and everything seems to fall into contradiction; where dreams are simply just dreams; where expectations are merely mesmerizing mirages in the distance; where love isn’t a fairytale; where the importance of understanding each other becomes more important than anything else that could ever exist. All of this is the essence of NANA’s characters. Hachi, Nana, and the rest of the cast are crafters of their own moments. They coat the ashen night-sky with them. Constellations composed of moments; visual strings connected by the last and the next, in a cycle of change. It is through these anecdotal glimpses that these characters take form.

The characters embody this candid usage of memory, singularity, and understanding. There is much emphasis on individual events and actions. These subtleties develop to reveal how the characters are constantly at odds with themselves (even when the tone seems to be lighthearted, and all seems to be well). This is why the symbiosis between Nana and Hachi becomes so vital because their moments are not only reflected in each other but formed by each other. Additionally, it’s their relationship that breaks the feigned insularity of the other characters. That doesn’t mean they don’t have their own identities as does the rest of the cast. Everyone has a dynamism to them: their own palettes, shades, and gradients. Good. Bad. These words have no place here. Bound by insecurities, identity, and passion; constantly seeking themselves in a game of hide-and-seek, these characters are more than just adjectives and a system of traits. The show doesn’t waste time in judging its characters because it has so much to say about them.

Even then, the one that seems to be the most misunderstood and unfairly scrutinized is Hachi. She is by far the most superficially flawed character. That is never shied away from. That makes her easy to hate or dismiss as a standard shoujo lead. Hachi is perplexingly idiotic. She flings herself into the worst situations and finds herself in a never-ending state of ambivalence. Not only that, she creates disharmony between many other characters like Nana and her band members. Unlike, Nana who is easily likable due to her strong candor, intense personality, and devotion to her principals and goals, Hachi is unstable, unreliable, and utterly whimsical.

What really substantiates her as a compelling character is how she is unapologetically grounded in her humanistic tendencies and flaws. This gives her a kind of awareness that the other characters, except for Yasu (Nana’s longtime friend and drummer for her band), just don’t have. Everyone acts like they are in control, regardless of how fragmented their reflection is. Where everyone else is running from the phantoms they fear, Hachi absorbs them. Nana is about as broken as they come but constantly hides her inner turmoil; stubbornly trudging through hardship and heartbreak. Pride means everything to her. Nana survives by hiding her true feelings, while Hachi lives by constantly embracing them. Hachi is fundamentally an honest character. She subconsciously recognizes her lack of control and her predispositions. Though, she often seems to be driven by her pseudo-idealization of romance which often recycles itself in ways worse than the last. She owns up to her wretchedness and attempts to reconcile; to change. Though, this doesn’t make her immune. Her awareness is often drowned out by her naivete resulting in incrementally worse situations (almost to the point of becoming stuck in a self-prophetic rut). Still, amidst it all, she remains transparent. There are no contrivances necessary with her. Transparency can be far more compelling than clarifying opaqueness, for what lies under the milky sheath is never truly clear.

Conclusively, the characters are superb because they are etched with all the shades of humanity. The physical and psychological are all accounted for. Character and emotion; feeling and action; change and stagnation; a sincere lust for meaning and acceptance are all encompassed by these characters. The best part is that there is no room to judge. The hearts of these characters beat in such sync with our own; that the only thing that’s left is empathy and understanding even if it shrouded in frustration.

All this is packaged visually by Madhouse. They did an exceptional job adapting this series. There is a certain grittiness to the visuals and atmosphere that keeps the show from wandering too deep into the typical shoujo aesthetic. The series depends heavily on delivering rawness and realism. Otherwise, there is a nice balance of bubbly, bright scenes (in all their shoujo glory) contrasted with the necessary grunge required to keep the actual spirit of the story intact. The characters' idiosyncrasies are also poignantly preserved. The aesthetical and auditory direction kept the maturity of NANA blossoming throughout the show, despite its shoujo dispositions.

One further thing to note is that the manga is still publishing. The anime ends on a controversial note. For many, it leaves much to be desired. In the context of the story and especially how its told, the ending works. The story moves retrospectively. It doesn't bring the necessary closure needed to substantiate all the complexities it introduces, but it provides enough insight into what's important. It leaves room for more because there is more, but keeps the sanctity of the story still flourishing onwards. Another criticism it has received is its slow pacing. The pacing is slow as this isn’t a show focusing on high-octane plots. It is about people. It seasons itself over time, maturing with its characters, and their lives. It never feels redundant nor inflated. There are silly subplots but they aren’t superfluous; for they always work in tandem with a character. As aforesaid, the show never treats anything as an end. Sometimes things happen with no end and sometimes things spontaneously end. The point is that there is something concrete beneath it which ultimately sheds light on those involved.

That is what drama is.

Time lost in an emotive frenzy. Moments molded from remnants of what passed. Transformed into what is to come. Even in the calm, something moves. The scenery here is indeed a bit too chilly sometimes, laden with the melancholy of yesterday and the loneliness of tomorrow. Even so, the present waits in an ethereal stasis; attempting to understand itself. Remembering, being, and accepting; it’s all here, often presented as unyielding blizzard internalized by those who live it. As the single snowflake finally dissolves upon touch into a pool of white, to become something more than just one, those walking in NANA also find themselves inseparable from those around them. Nothing is perfect here. Nothing needs to be.

For what happens here is relentlessly flawed yet at the same time, essential and real. What happens here is, life.

The camera zooms towards a slowly-expanding earth from the eyes of the outer Celestials; it glides closer and closer until finally reaching stasis on a face bidding goodbye to her present domain.

As liftoff begins, the heroine speaks her last lines as the shot fades from the heart-clenching scene to a cluttered office, where one man watches the same scene on his little desk-television. Interrupted by the call of his coworker, he rewinds the tape and the one scene changes into a montage of the actress’s life - in reverse.

These scenes and the actress in them, the man watching the actress, and the co-worker beckoning the ... man ultimately become the driving force of one of Satoshi Kon’s cinematic masterpieces titled Sennen Joyuu (or Millennium Actress).

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Cast for the lead star of this intricate narrative is Chiyoko Fujiwara: a fictional actress of the past whose name once rested on every citizen’s breath, who has now surrendered fame for a private and reclusive life.

Yet, her isolation hasn’t left her forgotten; as the film moves with the aforesaid ‘man’ named Genya Tachibana (a producer), and his somewhat aloof camera-man, Ida Kyoji, who set out to interview and document the now-aged Fujiwara. The film wastes no time in frivolity as the seekers find the sought and meekly, in their own star-struck daze, ask for a humble interview.

The demure, soft-spoken actress – eyes filled with nostalgic wonder– surprisingly accepts and begins to iterate her story. The scene fades from the present-day home of Fujiwara where the three are sitting cozily, blanketed by the serenity of her presence, to a snowy day many decades in the past where both Genya and Kyoji physically walk through the memories of Fujiwara’s youth as she remembers…her past as a girl and as a woman as she recalls her the path to stardom.

As her memories solidify, Fujiwara begins to recount the personal and historical events with supplementary and insightful commentary from her interviewers. This is all set on a grand stage by Kon who ingeniously parallels the reality of Fujiwara’s fading memories and the fantastical culmination of it all relating to her pursuit of one man. Her chance encounter with a revolutionary and the love he transpires within her becomes the foundation of the film. It is a sublime, subtle achievement that actualizes the passion of one’s woman’s love, as she chases her beloved throughout time and place.

Unbounded by reality, her motives and actions may initially seem unfathomable and even, foolish, but that is the essence of love in all its power to will absurdity. Still, many may find her character unappealing or even trope-y of the tragic romance queen or yet-another-empty-vessel-of-a-woman-only-to-exist-for-a-man. However, all qualms will be gracefully dispelled as the film cannot be solely undermined by gender complaints of a shallow characterization, because what the film aims to be, what Fujiwara ultimately becomes and shows us, is far grander than reducing the film to a superficial love story. Furthermore, Kon’s films are never about complex characterization, but using unremarkably simple characters to tell a grand story with deeply-rooted themes; a marriage of style and substance, where style irrefutably becomes substance.

Even then, there is a subtle familiarity to be found in her obscure romance which is illuminated by its ambiguity, beautified by its innocence, and engaging due to its complete grasp on the psyche of both Fujiwara and the events that follow: the events that define a millennium of history and the actress who defines a millennium.

Fujiwara’s love is the driving point for her, but not the entire focus of the film as Kon paints pictures-a-many, and with each progressive frame, the romance falls back into the periphery and something more [un]real, more ubiquitous, more opaque takes the reigns. With the passage of time, Kon reveals to us the transitory nature of love, the dissipating and ever-changing landscape of society, the dichotomy of fantasy and reality, the evolution of cultural trends and cinematic progressivism, the sanctity of memories, and lastly, the history that brought it all together, during one place, spaced out in centuries through numerous films, with Fujiwara as our first-person guide.

Essentially, what Kon presents to us is an extremely imaginative work that can be viewed from multiple perspectives, but what it can be seen from one angle as is a tale of impassioned human will - lost in its own irrationality and driven by its incongruity - with no threshold or limitation, which provides to be the perfect base for a tale drenched in fantasy just as much as it is in reality.

As she tumbles through many roles, she fuses her own desires to find love, and her passion becomes engrained in every role that she plays. Yet the bewildering success she garners from this never satisfies her. The thrill ‘was’ really in the chase, and though something unattainable was the product of that chase, it never stops her: and that is the essence of Fujiwara’s story and the canvass on which Kon paints his masterpiece of epic proportions.

One caveat of this film that has been argued is its homogenized appeal said to be geared only for the Japanese viewer. The reason being is because this film may feel uninviting and be stifling at times, especially with the historical contextualization or the character dynamic between Tachibana and Fujiwara which is somewhat reminiscent of a romanticized otaku-idol dynamic, or even the overall sentiments and feel of the film which is very much rooted in Japanese culture and iconography.

However, as a non-Japanese viewer I can confidently assert that there is still much to be loved. From the extravagant homages to various directors, films, and icons to the sympathetic characters to the artistic-directorial skill; there is something extremely universal about this film that extends beyond the scope of any one nation and thus debilitates any claim of a homogeneous appeal. It’s a work with unfathomable scope and ambition that will resonate on multiple levels, whether it be absorbed as a film of impassioned love, or coming to terms with one’s ghosts from the past, or a technical production of the highest cinematic caliber, or just an entertaining mélange of myth and history told through reels. Regardless of how one approaches it, it is hard to deny the merit and absolute talent that constitutes this film, no matter where one hails from.

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The focus reverts to the initial frame: of Fujiwara staring into the camera, dressed in her astronautic gear. It pans out as her rocket blasts off as she takes her final odyssey into space.

The camera rescinds into the background, with the lights coming to a stand-still, and the reel finally stops.

The cosmos is silent…

Yet the legacy of Chiyoko Fujiwara in Millennium Actress continues to shine not in just its world, but also ours.

Wrapped within the coils of the night, two young girls dance as if in a trance, illuminated by the crystal-white moon. They continue twirling; hypnotized by each other’s company as waves of cherry blossoms encircle them, following their every move. The two girls are distinct from one another. Kanako is a beautiful, intelligent girl with ideas beyond her years, while Yoriko is a timid girl who aims to be Kanako, in body and mind. Kanako offers Yoriko this chance as she tells her that they ‘are’ each other and that this life is just one of many conduits that hold their endless cycle together – ... as one another.

Cascades of cherry blossoms continue to fall menacingly as if harboring some secret and beckoning some turmoil.

Elsewhere, a man traveling on a train finds himself in a deep slumber. Upon waking, he finds an unknown man sitting across from him speaking to a box. Puzzled, he looks at the stranger hoping for some answers. The stranger is quick to oblige as he slowly opens the box, revealing the head of a girl –seemingly alive and quietly vocalizing, who looks eerily familiar.

Thus, sets the stage for the complex tale of Mouryou no Hako.

Adapted from the novels of Natsuhiko Kyogoku, Mouryou no Hako is the second installment of his Kyōgokudō series (Kyogokudo is otherwise known as Akihiko Chuzenji; he serves as one of the primary characters). The 13-episode adaptation intertwines multiple narratives to create a dynamic mystery that’s entrenched in Japanese folklore and Eastern philosophies. Contextually, the story is set in post-WWII Japan and centers around serial killings which involve young girls getting killed and dismembered, and then left to be found in seemingly random places. The point that sets these murders apart are that the body parts always found neatly packed in a box. Mouryou no Hako can roughly be translated to “The Goblin’s Box”.

Even though the bizarre nature and methodology of the murders would naturally seem to be driving factors of the mystery, it remains superficial at best. The events that define the mystery deal with the aforesaid girls, Kanako and Yoriko. Yet, the significance of the two girls lies in what their relationship represents for various entities, rather than them as individual characters. To elaborate, it is their story, which initially seems to be running independently, that is the binding force of the narrative and the characters that follow. This creates multiple story-lines that then start to run in various directions, often clashing and interjecting, in a sphere of constant chaos, while retaining the true spirit of a stellar mystery. The work breathes enigma; constantly exhaling an air of confusion tinged with curiosity and thrill, but one that never over-extends into contrivance or nonsense. In turn, then, the murders function more as an auxiliary measure to explore the full scope of multiple subject matters, which stretch far beyond just a cat-and-mouse game.

Mouryou no Hako follows a non-linear, non-chronological format to relay its events. The series is broken into entries, from the perspectives of various characters, which reads like a diary that’s out-of-order. However, there is order to these events since it’s the characters that are the pieces of the overarching puzzle, rather than the events themselves. Time feels almost stagnant; irrelevant. Yet there is a cycle; a rhythm to each account that is composed through intersecting observations, literary expositions, and a calculated exploration of the supernatural and temporal.

Each character has their own manner of unveiling their perspective or information. This allows the work to capitalize on many different elements. First, it gives the work the ability to move with unpredictability, making it potent in its revelations and plot(s). Second, it helps narrativize the characters as a functioning and integral part of the events and story, rather than just voices narrating them. Often stories of this nature have a hard time selling compelling characters and personalities unless they have a titular Sherlock or Poirot to go along with it. Even though there is a “central” detective (in the form of Kyogokudo an onmoyji, which is a practitioner of a niche kind of magic, occultism, and natural science), almost every character involved shares the burden and thereby moves as a unified unit or agency. This is partly what makes the structure and narration of the anime so interesting, especially when looked at from a character’s point of view and what role they play in the overarching tale. However, this also means that characterization in the traditional sense is not the show’s aim. This does not mean the characters are badly written or poorly constructed. To clarify then, the characters are not notable because of their individualistic transformation; nor do they really “develop” all that much. The characters are who they are; stagnant, but with something to say. It’s what’s being revealed through these characters that is far more important than who they are (or become) from beginning to end. Yet, they aren’t lazily constructed. All the characters have their idiosyncrasies that play into the narrative in a way that enhances it and offers much to appreciate about how this specific work uses its characters to craft its puzzle, piece by piece - and each piece matters.

Nonetheless, it’s what is being revealed through the pieces that become the heart and soul of this show. The conversations and expositions carry the true genius of this series; from its substance to its style. To really distil it down to the core, it’s important to re-establish the many disciplines it invokes as Mouyou no Hako is not just a mystery, but many shades of humanity. It draws inspiration from the traditional Japanese literature, the philosophies of the East, religious paradoxes and hoaxes, spirits and spirituality, science and séance, warfare and medicine, and of course, the mystery that arises from combining all these elements and neatly packaging them into the “Goblin’s box”. The crazy thing about it is that it works, and it works on so many levels that it’s almost astounding that it's able to pull off such a chaotic cacophony and turn into an orchestral masterpiece.

Therefore, the core of the series is one giant mesmerizing kaleidoscope; endlessly alluring with its wondrous elements, full of color, and mystery. What makes it really work is undoubtedly its writing, atmosphere, and presentation.

First, the writing. For many, this could be a detractor, but the show (as expected) is very dialogue heavy. There are episodes just dedicated to dialogues and exposition, and to many, this may seem extremely heavy-handed or imposing. However, the quality and impact of what’s being conveyed is so well-done, and so integral to the actual plot(s) that once everything is contextualized, it’s hard to not be blown away by the sheer beauty and profundity of some of the dialogue. Furthermore, there is a serious psychological aspect attached to the writing. It doesn’t just drop containers of pretty sentences and philosophies, rather the writing is more focused on making a psychological impact on its characters and its viewer. Even with its often-detached-lecture approach, the vitality of the writing goes a long way and leaves its imprint far after all has been said and done. Thus, if there was ever a show to balance the scope of Eastern mysticism and an enthralling mystery, this is it. And nothing more than the writing – the fluidity of it, the insight of it, the prose of it, the meaning of it – crystalizes its place as one of the best of its kind.

Second and finally, is the atmosphere and presentation. The writing is brilliant as are many of the other elements, but the way the show integrates them together is a feat in and of itself. The work relies heavily on atmosphere to do this and uses visual and audio cues to then heighten every frame or shot or the series. The show utilizes pauses, silence, and the occasional wind chime in the middle of dialogue or narration with such precision that it almost feels purely like a work of horror, and it wouldn’t be hard to argue that it may be given the sort of fear and discomfort it effortlessly creates. Visually, the series is haunting, too. It uses sepia tones to create a look from the past but maintains a life-like art-style both in character, and backgrounds to give it the edge it needs to remain gripping and unsettling. It feels and looks aged, but the presentation does all it can to manipulate the setting into an insidious nightmare that captivates and terrifies.

Mouryou no Hako is the quintessential mystery. However, calling it just a mystery is a disservice since it transcends the very genre it assumes and transforms into something completely different. There is much to be loved about what this series accomplishes, and a holistic, first-look review such as this can barely scratch the surface of it. Yet, this isn’t a series that can ever be argued as universally appealing, even if tries to cradle the cosmos in its arms. It practices esotericism to a possibly faultable degree, which can easily be conflated with “pretentiousness” and “over-indulgence” to the dismissive mind. This does make the show highly inaccessible since a lot of the subject matter falls into very segmented niches and requires a close follow on the dialogue and its progression (which is fast-paced and dense).

Nevertheless, to walk in the dark, into the unknown night is not something enjoyed by most - and Mouryou no Hako is precisely that. It tampers with subjects and themes that are arguably part of human nature, but ones that lie in the shadow. Under the veil of a serial killer’s murder spree, it’s motivations extend far beyond what’s understandable for a mystery for it tries to grasp the core of being on not just a temporal plane, but realms that lie outside cognition. However, there is a sublimity it strives for, like the fully-lit moon in the passing night, bringing forth what’s been hidden, and as such, the series rewards those who can tread in the dark; with a light at the end that’s worth basking in, even if it means struggling with the unknown and unfathomable.

The streets glow with a crimson hue.

Upon closer gaze, a pattern of five-pointed leaves stained with a fiery red flutter in synchronized elegance, encapsulating the essence of an enigmatic tale told in the 12-episode anime titled Saraiya Goyou or House of Five Leaves. Based on the manga by Natsume Ono, Saraiya Goyou tells a slow-burning narrative revolving around an unemployed samurai named Masa, who in simple desperation, finds himself hired by Yaichi – the leader of a small band of thieves who call themselves the Five Leaves.

The bulk of the series focuses on the dynamics between the members of the Five Leaves, specifically Masa ... and Yaichi. Naturally then, this series is an entirely character-driven drama that entices with a very clear handle on its ambitions. Surprisingly enough, the fundamental strength of this series comes from its ability to deceive; from the characters to its progression. The series keeps itself under a veil, revealing in perfect doses, what’s necessary to tempt and assume, only to taunt those assumptions back into their flawed origins. It is in no way a standard samurai tale featuring spectacular sword fights or thrilling wars between conflicted states; rather it aims to do something far more basic than that and that is to tell an unassuming story about individuals trying to find their place in a fragmented society, where meaning is lost, and relationships are forged through coin and sin.

The character’s journey to find sanctuary, belonging, and one’s self - when there seems to be very little hope - is a premise that echoes throughout time and land, and can be found really in every medium. What sets Saraiya Goyou apart in its story-telling is the mechanics it uses and the subtlety it does it with. All of the characters that are part of the “Five Leaves” find themselves together, bound by an unspoken contract and sense of camaraderie, but what’s important here is: why? The manner in which the series examines each individual’s motivation for doing so is nothing short of magnificent. Under the ruse of “criminal activities” whether its kidnappings, or thievery, or blackmail, the activities of “Five Leaves” are never the focal point, but rather it’s the interactions, reactions, and the impact of each respective crime on the band, and the individual characters themselves and that's what elevates the series. Thus, the show is able to streamline what it wants to do at all time, which is fleshing out the characters with every scene, and it does that, without skipping a beat.

As the crimes escalate in risk, so do the vulnerabilities and traits of the characters regardless of how deceptive they may have seemed, initially, which brings up the strengths in the development of the individual characters. From the naïve, black-eyed Masa who suffers from a lack of confidence in his craft and himself; to the enigmatic white-haired, powder-blue eyed Yaichi with a seriously deceptive smile; to the reserved, lone-wolf-type Matsu – the gang’s spy – who is as reckless as he is reserved; to Take, the sultry geisha with a sharp tongue and undying loyalty to the gang; to Umezou, the unofficial member with a stained past trying to clean up his present and future, yet offers the Five Leaves his tavern as their meeting place. All of these characters with their idiosyncrasies and quirks are a pleasure to witness as they try to fulfill their own goals while maintaining the House of Five Leaves. It is astounding the amount of meticulous effort that went into each gesture, interaction, and conversation when evaluated elementally, and how those come together to give dimension to each character, and the relationships that come as a product.

The last defining point of the characters is their design. Saraiya Goyou is not only unique in its content, but also in technical achievement and aesthetical quality. The art-style of this series is very peculiar. Uneven lines, big circular eyes blobbed with a simple pattern and one color, mouths drawn in a way to make the Joker envious - the way the artistic design comes together is indeed very different, but for a series as out-standing, as it is, it complements it perfectly.

Even the background art and the music that accompanied the story-telling were equally fitting such as the subdued use of color except for very intentional markers such as the crimson leaf, or Yaichi’s eyes, or objects that consistently enhanced the mood or scene, contextually or situationally. The serene shamisen accompanied by the jubilant accordion and flute seemed to be the instruments of choice and bode well, as they really heightened the time-period it was depicting. Overall, every element seems to have been crafted only to tell this story, and Saraiya Goyou is that series where everything just came together in just the right way.

As slow-burning as this show is, it’s worth experiencing for all those who enjoy a well-seasoned, character-driven tale. It isn’t flashy. It isn’t in your face. Saraiya Goyou is more like an impressionistic painting, which requires patience to fully appreciate the details. The strengths lie deeper than a first-look like within its stylistic choices, its clandestine characters, its simplicity, and unparalleled elegance.

Though, don’t be deceived; even though it may run at a relaxed pace and seem indifferent to action, the impassioned crimson-hearted House of Five Leaves and their members will surely persuade you to stay until the end…

The wooden curtain opens with a sinister smile revealing the first scene:

A wave of vibrant, whirling umbrellas cascade down the street; the rain continues to pour in assorted shapes, accompanied by the patter of hollow conversations latching on to the sounds of its perpetual fall. On top of the path rests a towering hotel embellished by color, wood, and ruse. Slowly, an enigmatic wanderer appears at the gate of the inn, with a wooden box strapped on his back requesting to stay there. He is identified as the medicine seller. Shortly after, a young pregnant woman, dressed in desperation, finds herself at the same inn; ... seeking shelter and protection.

There is, however, something amiss in the rainbow-tinted inn, and right away, its secrets provoke the senses; they seem to be everywhere – in the walls, in the unseen guests, in the corridor. After a heated argument between the innkeeper and the girl, she finds herself in an isolated room, lathered in opulence but infested by shadows of all shades. Following this unsettling vision, the show starts to bare its true face. There is something indeed amiss here and the Medicine Seller’s true purpose is brought forth: he came to hunt the horrors that plague the inn, otherwise known as “Mononoke”.

That is the basic premise of the 12-episode series titled Mononoke. The series is divided into five arcs, in which, the Medicine Seller (or Kusuriuri) attempts to seek, hunt, and exorcise these otherworldly spirits known as Mononoke. Essentially, Mononoke could be defined as a class of spirits, however, the ones Kusuriuri is concerned with are closest to humans, because they manifest from humans. These are corrupted entities that seem to bring sorrow, suffering, and destruction where they go and to who they haunt. Thus, this is a tale of the unknown, of mystery, of psychology and pathos, of ancient lore, and lastly, of horror that may disguise itself as a series of ghost stories, but only superficially.

One of Mononoke’s greatest strengths is its ability to intertwine the aforesaid elements with subliminal insight that gives it its multi-dimensional form. Most supernatural stories will focus on the imminent horror factor, or inducing temporary fear simply by virtue. Mononoke does something completely different. Rather than focusing on the external fear synonymous with the spirit(s) and their curses, it looks inward, to the living, rather than the dead. This is meticulously explicated by Kusuriuri’s methodology. In order to exorcise any Mononoke, he needs to first recognize its Form (physical), Truth (circumstance), and Reason (motivation). Much of this is revealed through digressing into the psyche of the parties involved in each arc, where Kusuriuri exploits the inner turmoil of each respective character and how that turmoil projects itself on to the Mononoke in ways that are not just terrifying, but often times, heartbreaking and utterly human.

Really, it’s the “human” element of the series that makes it so compelling which is mostly through the manner it incites and decrypts human nature and its capacity to wander in the dark. It’s carnivorous, yearning for fear and emotion; yet, it isn’t done through manipulation, shock value, or contrivance. Rather, Mononoke opts for psychological precision. The show doesn’t aim to deliver some insane amount of singular “character development” but rather uncover what lies in the dark, and thereby showing the ability for what is presented as good, innocent, virtuous to be equally bad, tainted, and sinful. Consequently, the show is heavily driven by its themes and self-contained plot rather than individual characters.

The aforesaid will lead many to flock to the notion of “bad characterization” or not enough “character” “development”, but one needs to contextualize what a work is actually trying to do/achieve before arbitrarily applying a set of self-drawn commandments. Characters can be utilized in many different ways as can a story be told in multiple ways. The characters of Mononoke are outwardly static, including Kusuriuri but that does not mean they are superfluous. They are internalized or “developed”/personified in many ways, whether it be through human analytics brought forth by yours truly ~the Medicine Man~ or the interactions, actions, and reactions that are revealed as a product of surfacing truths and unearthing secrets. Mononoke functions as a collective exploration of the temporal realm through the supernatural and both are interlocked by these ordinary characters that are deeper than they may initially look. Essentially, the characters are immensely important, for it is through them and their stagnation that the show is able to conduct its psychological experimentation.

Each character’s predicament is sealed by fate, but the stories aren’t about the end; they’re about how such an end could come about and the choices that led to it. By dissecting the unknown, Kusuriuri finds himself in the middle of intersecting realities that are as terrifying as they are tragic. What makes all the stories consistently effective is the finesse with which the show handles each character’s state, and the mononoke that transpires from them (whether they be a projection of corrupted desires, or a product of unrequited yearning, or a manifestation of unspoken crimes). Therefore, the “unknown” or “horror” isn’t really about the monsters or ghosts, but what creeps inside seemingly ordinary folk, and the will that could innately exist to ignite suffering. Through these various arcs, the characters in those arcs, and Kusuriuri himself, Mononoke presents accounts that are deeply disturbing and equally enlightening.

Furthermore, this also reinforces the unacknowledged strength of episodic structures. Mononoke shows that the quality of the plot or other elements isn’t internally compromised if the work lacks a continuous/overarching plot or a constant cast developing linearly and consistently. Its anthological nature fares well for it and its intentions for it turns out to be far more vicious in its horror, tragic in its drama and stylized in its art that every piece of it comes together effortlessly. It fully embraces the power of the medium and extends its boundaries far beyond traditional story-telling into a work of innovation, wonder, mysticism, and art.

And, elementally, nowhere else does this concentrated sublimity appear more than in Mononoke’s visual presentation. The best way to describe the art and animation of Mononoke is: idiosyncratic. It is so particular and unique that I’d be willing to wager it exists only to tell the stories that Mononoke did.

Right off the bat, the art style may come off as incredibly gaudy, over-the-top, and immensely theatrical (Curtains open and close at whim supported by decisive gongs dictating the flow of various scenes; highly sensitized color palettes are constantly at the forefront, clashing in folly, but never jarring; costumes and getups are so lurid that they seem to have fallen right out of a stage set; faces are painted with perfect expression that each frame seems like a change of masks, rather than emotion). Yet all of this works beautifully. Mononoke reminds me of something running in an aged-Kabuki theater, at least aesthetically, which is actualized through the bizarre sets of color, costume, and personalities, the artistically-tuned performances, and the emphasis on extravagance.

Mononoke’s visuals are a feat in and of themselves, but the real laudable aspect is how that art is integrated into the narrative. The reason I stress to call this work, a work of “art” (besides its literal merits) is because of its ability to use its elements to create something whole that transcends its own platform and deliver – with individuality, acuity, and sincerity – its subject and themes with clear prowess and understanding (of itself and its ambitions). Take its approach to horror for example. Even though the art-style is the last thing from traditional horror, given how theatrical it is, the way it infuses horror is with complete subtlety.

To elaborate, each arc is extremely claustrophobic, as in, the framing or setting of the arcs always occur in a juxtaposed manner. Whether it be stuck in a room of a humongous hotel, or a ship on the open seas, or a prison cell, or a train car speeding through a tunnel, the unsettling feeling of being “boxed-in” never leaves. It produces this inescapable void from the get-go and maintains that in the background, but it’s by far one of the most prominent things it does to invoke and sustain fear and discomfort. Not only are we forced into the corners of depraved minds, but we are confined there, with an evil that has the capability to exist everywhere, and within everyone. Furthermore, its usage of color is one of the best I’ve seen. Works of horror will generally opt for a gloomy, desolate mood which favors subdued grays, blacks, with the exception of red for obvious reasons. Mononoke on the other hand probably utilizes every color on the spectrum but does so effectively. I would never have imagined that such a palette could ever tell stories so terrifying and do so with the power that they do. Combined with its psychological propensity, the visual direction of the series is one of the best I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing; both as a work of Horror, and as a work of Art (and for once, we don’t have to separate the two).

Mononoke is a superb show, but it isn’t for everyone. It is unconventional in every sense of the word. It relies heavily on its own art, such as the barrage of interconnected, but flashing painting like images, or color-doused symbolism to tell its story. Not everything is spelled out here, and a lot of the stories feel like stories within stories since they do stem from various Japanese lore (such as about the concept of Mononoke itself, or what certain acts/paintings/symbols signify). Yet, it is accessible enough, universal enough, that it still communicates the stories of these people, spirits, and time wonderfully. Additionally, as much as I have praised the art, this style can be off-putting to many since often times it might prove to be distracting enough to deviate from the actual narrative. The cut-out style of many backgrounds is a good example of this. Lastly, people under the impression that this is a run-of-the-mill horror featuring gore porn or cool fights/deaths, let me be the first to convey that is not the case. The horror is more personalized through the tragedies of each situation, not through spirits killing randomly (as one would find in a Hollywood tale of biblical possession).

Truly, there is no better way to watch Mononoke, than as if watching a play. Yet, good art has the ability to transfer fiction into reality, and acquaint its consumer with its own feelings and dilemmas. In effect then, the shadows that lurk on the stage also lurk off-stage. And as the wooden curtain closes with the last gong and a similar smile, and the once busy street full of spinning umbrellas is left barren, Mononoke will also leave you with shadows of your own; standing on what you thought was a stage.

Prologue:

Lands bound by Magic, Lore, and Myth brimming with fabled creatures and tall-tales are the life force of fantasy-based works. Works of Fantasy tend to be products of pure imagination; the bridge between “what is” and “what can never be” often makes these works innately tantalizing. They have the ability to transport the audience into the fantastic, the absurd, the unreal, but, magic and trickery of the imagination displayed in effective works can invert these “fairy-tales” into something that feels far more real.

The aforesaid effectiveness depends primarily on one element when it comes to Fantasy, and that is world-building. There is nothing that single-handedly matters ... more within this genre than its setting and the internal mechanics and laws that bind it. Consistency plays a crucial role here. Among the creations that have excelled with this element thoroughly – both internally and externally – one truly stands out as a defining work within the animated medium, and that is the tale of Kemono no Souja Erin or Beast Tamer Erin.

And the tale goes something like this:

I. The Girl with the Emerald Eyes

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived a girl named Erin with bright emerald-stained hair and eyes. Erin lived in a simple town, with her mother and friends, where she spent her days quelling her curiosity. A quick-witted child Erin was, with a never-ending desire to learn.

Erin’s town was like any other small town in the old days, but one thing that set it apart was that it bred and nurtured creatures called Toudas (wondrous reptilian-like creatures), which were the military force of the overseeing kingdom. The town and its people were responsible for the well-being of these beasts, and no other person was more fitted for this responsibility than Erin’s mother. She was a Touda specialist and a descendant of the clandestine Mist People (who are feared and isolated for their strangeness and rumored magical capabilities). Immune to the realities of her world, young Erin dreams of nothing more than to follow in her mother’s mystic ways, but then, one day…

An ill-fated event forces Erin into an unknown world torn between beast and man, where her realities, dreams, and fears all collide simultaneously.

Thus, the 50-episode series - adapted from the fantasy novels of Uehashi Nahoko - chronicles the evolution of Erin and her world through a superbly crafted coming-of-age tale.

II. The World & its Dwellers

The world of Erin looks like one out of an old medieval fairy tale: filled with rustic, pastoral towns’ part of a bigger kingdom nestled in lush, scenic landscapes stretched under an ever-changing sky. The subdued use of cool and warm colors keeps the world pleasant to look at, and it’s also accompanied by fitting music. The frequent use of lutes, harps, and other stringed instruments are used to create a very appropriate atmosphere that not only refines the world but enriches it.

These small towns are ruled over by a Queen whose empowered by legend and divinity. There are intricate social, political, and historical nuances interwoven throughout the narrative that function to explicate the world. The lands feel enchanted, but they also carry a sense of closeness because of the universal struggles that define them, such as the ongoing political strife between kingdoms, or the perpetual battle for control waged by Man on Nature. Yet, none of this is imposed in a detached, impersonal, or heavy-handed manner, rather explored through the eyes of the inhabitants and creatures that dwell in it.

Additionally, the fantastic or magical element in this series is also very well handled, for even though the realm is based on magical properties, it never once uses that to be lazy or as a device of convenience to introduce or resolve a plot point or character dilemma. This allows every facet of the show to shine on its own, and every element then builds the world further, better, and expands it beyond its own horizons with a swanlike grace. Consequently, the narrative not only maintains its world cautiously but advances it with a consistency that is imperative in a work like this (The gaps inherent to any work of Fantasy have to utilize some mode of reconciliation so that the viewer is able to walk that bridge, [willingly] suspending their scrutiny, and allowing them to sink into the world being presented. That persuasion has to manifest consistently). The internal mechanics effectively keep the world tied together with candor and believability.

Not only are the internal mechanics of the world woven with a master’s stroke, there are some external additions that heighten the “fantastic” feel. For one thing, the story is often narrated by an aged sounding woman, who often introduces, recounts, and explains the story in an eerily familiar way. This gives the feel of being literally told a story, and then slowly falling into the rabbit hole of events as the pages turn. Often time, external narration can feel jarring or alienating, but the way it’s utilized in Erin is incredibly fitting. This bedside storytelling sort of keeps a nostalgic flame of “story-time” burning throughout.

Besides the narration, much of the story is reflected through the eyes of Erin, and her friends (human and non-human alike). The world of Erin is indeed one to praise, but the cast is no less impressive. There is a diverse range of characters that accompany the plot of Erin, and all of them are individualized in a manner that speaks not only to how well they are “developed”, but to the overarching world and plot: everyone feels necessary and has a role to play. Motivations are extensively explored, thereby making most characters greater than the sum of their parts, and not easily definable with black and white terminology. Yet more than motivations is the relationship and bonds created between the characters that really add elasticity and dimension to the respective personalities. As a result, there isn’t much superfluity to be had or cardboard cutouts to fill up space which makes the cast fairly dynamic, with purpose, and entirely enjoyable.

Yet, it would be a disservice to the work to leave it at that. It must be noted that Erin herself is one of the best-crafted characters I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing within this medium. The phrase “the journey is sometimes more important than the destination” perfectly captures how Erin’s characterization is approached. A huge part of character development relies heavily on this “journey”, and the series handles this with the utmost excellence. The prime reason for why Erin’s character is so effective is the balance of internalization and externalization. Effective development depends on many elements but these two factors really play a difference here. They can basically be thought of as internal, unsaid characteristics (internalization) versus how those elements are then externally embodied (externalization). How Erin’s, and by extension, her journey are presented are one of the same; one cannot separate the two, and a perfect example of the two aforesaid elements. This keeps her character steadily palpable while fleshing her out with proper momentum, and eliminating any obtuseness or ambiguity. This often translates into the viewer fully empathizing and understanding the character, because they can comprehend the situations being presented, and more importantly, feel as if they are a part of the journey that Erin goes through.

III. The Moral(s) of the Story

The most interesting bit about this work is that it’s marketed for children, which explains some of the nostalgic factors, devices, and generally simplistic philosophies/presentation. This, however, is a gross understatement since Erin features some intensely dark moments, and mature themes that can be reduced for argument's sake, but when holistically evaluated, are quite heavy. This isn’t actually that surprising since many of the tales we encountered during our childhood are layered with complexities that if re-explored would probably retune our initial perceptions. Erin too follows this format, without the sugar-coats. If there is light, there too must be dark - as children, the latter part often gets understated, but it still exists, and Erin embraces that entirely without falling back on “magical” happiness. Even though everything comes together, Erin focuses on what it takes to get there, thereby moving beyond the “and they lived happily ever after” conundrum. This is why I hesitate to call this purely a “children’s show”, and would much rather opt to call it one with universal appeal.

Essentially, the world of Erin is one full of wonders and complexities, but it conveys many things at heart that are powerfully human. There are plenty of themes and “morals” that are internalized smoothly with the characters and plot, and thus, feel a part of the narrative. For example, the depiction of man’s continuous struggle with the elements (including him/herself), and the powerlessness and devastation brought upon by such a struggle is depicted in a way that’s unparalleled. Much of this is shown in a very “as is” light, but along with the implications of what such a dichotomy entails. Yet, it’s unlikely to remain just observers. The series does a splendid job garnering complete investment in the problems, and nuances of this world without force-feeding any of it.

Mushishi is probably the only other series that I can think of that translates that specific theme/struggle as potently as Erin does. Of course, the difference in how the stories reconcile and resolve this struggle is extremely different but the undercurrents of each tale flow similarly and naturally together, as the river to the sea.

IV. Sticks & Stones, and Farewells

It’s obvious that I’m a huge admirer of Erin, and have an immense amount of respect for everything about it; from its writing to its atmosphere. However, as with anything, it isn’t perfect. The biggest issue with this series is undoubtedly the pacing. First, there are a rather unhealthy amount of flashbacks infused into the work, which makes the series feel a little dragged out. Whether the intent of these flashbacks is to continuously be informative in nature, or for emotional impact, the frequent use of them feels a little manipulative, and excessive. Second, due to constant reiterations of past events, the slowness of the series becomes quite tangible at points, which gives off a very imbalanced impression. It’s not enough to go into full filler territory but often treads on the line between necessary and filler.

Even with its slow-seasoned, and at times, repetitive nature, Erin transcends all of its flaws effortlessly.

Kemono no Souja Erin is truly a testament to the power of imagination - one that that revamps the fantasy genre’s lore and law - and should be experienced by all for its enchanted lands, mystic dwellers, superb story, and of course…

The Girl with the Emerald Eyes.

Under the dimly-lit canvas of a rustic theatre, surrounded by the sounds of slowly-plucked shamisen, waits an audience for a performance of great tradition. Gradually, a man wrapped in an dignified air approaches the center of the stage, sits elegantly on his knees, takes a slight bow to welcome his gazers, and proceeds. Thus begins a performance commonly known as Rakugo or the Japanese art of oral story-telling. Rakugo involves the storyteller to orate a comical account designated between two or more characters, generally playing all roles, distinguished only by slight nuances in behavior, tone, and gestures.

Rakugo has been a classical trait of ... Japanese art and culture since the Genroku period (of the Edo era), but has dwindled in popularity and appreciation in more contemporary times. Though, grief can be spared because with this winter’s wind came a show that revitalized this once-felt obscure art-form and turned it into the driving point of undoubtedly the season’s best show, Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu – a charming character-driven series with tightly-knit interactions and exploration, a marvelous setting, and a bond between subject and its characters that’s entirely commendable.

Set some time after WWII - during the rapidly changing social landscape of Japan - the series follows a freshly-released prisoner who desires to learn the ways of Rakugo and gets taken under the wing of a national master named Yuurakutei Yakumo. The story changes focus from the present tale of the apprentice to a narrative of the past, concerning the master and his deceased friend Sukeroku, along with the slowly-withering art of Rakugo. Now while the premise may seem a little daunting and even a bit boring; nothing is farther from the truth. Of course, the series is an entirely character-focused, unhurried drama, so this does imply a lack of flashy fights, gratuitous panty-shots, and overpowered heroes championing the world, but in its stead what it does offer is a compelling, evocative experience that really has a handle on its ambitions.

The setting, subject matter, and characters are integrated so atomically well that the entire ride is just consistently smooth. The pacing is well-balanced due to everything being finely focused and progressed with clear direction that it leaves no room for wasted effort or filler messes. The combination of these elements along with the tact and grace with which they are implemented, makes this show a worthy title.

First, there’s the setting. The show creates its foundation through a comparative/contrasting lens; a great structural move that tells the story, through story-telling – literally. It is absolutely marvelous to see just how well it is able to integrate its backdrop/setting into its forefront, just like a good theatrical performance would; giving it the feel of a truly refined work with each frame adding something to its overall quality. The setting is heightened by the show’s ability to capture the atmosphere and sentiments of Japanese society at the time, especially in relation to both the character situations and their Rakugo. Even though very subtly depicted, the show bases its portrayal of Rakugo from the perspective of slow decay. After the wave of post-war reality hits, it causes a serious sense of disenfranchisement amongst the culture and people. This allows western senses and modernism to penetrate with a force much greater than it did in the past which augments the gradual but steady disintegration of various cultural arts; Rakugo being one of them. This backdrop plays to almost every nuance crafted whether it is the evolution of characters merely depicted by their change in attire (from traditional Japanese yukatas to fashionable western suits) or the erosion of public attendance in Rakugo houses relative to other more western venues. These subtleties may go unnoticed individually, but are definitely materialized when evaluated holistically and especially when examining characterization.

In addition to the impeccable setting, comes the strongest point of the series: characters. The character dynamics, exploration, and evolution are sublime. The entire series revolves around self-actualization in a way, through one’s art, and everything else revolving around it. The two protagonists, the now-master-Yakumo-then-Bon-chan or “Kiku” and his boisterous friend Sukeroku are a delight to watch, as they tumble through various struggles and events, trying to perfect their Rakugo while trying to find their reasons for doing so. Both characters are perfect complements of each other and really play off one another to add dimension to overall characterization, and each other. The artist’s journey and the character’s journey intertwine like a destined love affair, growing together through both pain and pleasure.

This is why characterization in this show can be looked at on two-fold: from the art, and the individual dynamics. The former really lays the foundation because it not only introduces the world of rakugo in context, but integrates in a manner which complements the “act”. The performances are not just intricate illustrations of the art form, but also essential in tracing the metamorphosis of the characters involved, specifically Kiku. Therefore, the way Rakugo is treated isn’t necessarily just a detached device, but embedded in the heart and motivations of the characters, while also delivering with full force and depth the nature of Japanese story-telling, and the skill that it requires.

Then, there’s the stellar dynamics between the characters themselves. Even though Kiku is the star of the stage, almost every other character feels multi-dimensional, with their flaws, motivations, and importance properly conveyed and explored, individually, and in relation to the bigger picture. Almost every “struggle” is important and is referenced in some form of development, whether it is for Kiku or the others, giving these characters a sense of realness, complexity, and palpability that isn’t easy to accomplish. For example, alongside the two main characters is another side character named Miyokichi (Yurie) –a geisha initially carrying the romantic tide of the series - who acts as sort of the fodder for the emotional evolution of both characters, while also adorning her own individuality as an important element of the show. Her role on paper is solely of a foil but she (and others) end up becoming actualized entities of their own; proving how well done the palette of characters are.

The strength of the characters produces a resounding effect for the overall series that helps give it a strong sense of focus, result, and even thematic resonance. The sheer admiration and dedication that is reflected from the characters exudes the essence of “living for the dream”. Sacrifice, brotherhood, kinship, relationships, family, and most importantly, love, is so wonderfully crafted through the fibers of Rakugo and those in this story that weave it, ultimately into a beautiful tapestry. And love here doesn’t necessarily denote romance, but the kind of love that drives one’s passions forwards and gives meaning to lives. It is a love that transcends beyond description and can only be felt through creation, art, or in this case, Rakugo. And this work does an excellent job embodying and expressing that love.

To bring the series its final touches of splendor is the animation and sound. The animation flows smoothly, with soft, bright colors that play to the vibrant tone of the show. Backgrounds are very nicely done as they bring out the juxtapositioned nature of the setting. The old but stifling feel of fading tradition is contrasted with lively modernized elements that consistently coalesce and enhance the narrative. Furthermore, the music is oddly fitting as it combines instances of jazz or blues against the classic tunes of Japanese strings and compositions. Surprisingly, never once does any of this clash inappropriately, rather works in tandem to heighten the atmosphere, mood, and give full depth to the setting that contains it all.

Really, there is no detractor in this show that innately brings it value down. Of course, this series won’t appeal to everyone as it is very focused on the internal dynamics of its characters and the external passions that define them. Many of the episodes have 10-12 minutes of just Rakugo performances which could be burdensome to few, but as mentioned before, the performances are essential for they aren’t just superfluous additions but character-defining points. Lastly, since it isn’t a complete adaptation, there are loose ends to be had, and deliberately, but none of those take away from the narrative that is actually presented.

Essentially, this story is one worth telling, and even more so, worth listening to.

Now, art forms come and go, evolve and dissolve, and keep humanity breathing with their own life force. Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu shows the intricacies of that process through the lives of two men who through their art, change themselves and each other. They are a reminder of the eternality of art (even if the world changes) and those who create it (regardless of history that burns and rises). So even when the shamisen stops playing, and the dimly-lit theatre stands alone, we can still hear the stories of Sukeroku and Kiku, and Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu is proud to do us that favor.

It’s not a surprise that Inio Asano (the acclaimed creator of works like "Oyasumi Punpun") cited Okazaki Kyoko as a heavy influence. For those unfamiliar with either Okazaki or Asano, both are revolutionaries within the medium. Their hard-hitting realism driven by “a need for truth” regardless of how bitter, and laced with explorative psychological power has shook and captivated the world with every frame. Both are truly masters of portraying various facets of the human condition and the world that shapes it. From that familiar cut comes Okazaki’s short but powerfully evocative piece titled ”Helter Skelter”.

The manga follows a high-fashion model named Liliko who is ... something of a Frankensteinian creation; the “final” product of repeated surgical transplants, stitched together by artificial fluff. Nothing about her is real. The world she lives in is artificial so why shouldn’t she be? What could possibly be wrong with being a legitimate product demanded by one’s environment? Okazaki answers these questions in the most literal, grotesque way possible while revealing something essential. Through Liliko’s descent into a sure form of madness, where she is mentally and physically falling apart, Okazaki speaks certain realities about her condition (and *perhaps* ours). Being at the rise of Japan’s fashion/modeling scene, Liliko flourishes as a top candidate but in order to please her position and her fans, she must struggle voraciously. She must eradicate herself on the inside and outside, and in the process, lose the little bit of identity she so dearly tries to hold on to. In effect, the story is one about inevitable self-destruction; it’s so heavily apparent, it seems almost fatalistic.

“Helter Skelter” isn’t really about showing a demanding and spiritually-exhausting industry, but about the horrors of losing face (literally) at superficial whim, while emphasizing the need to retain individualistic spirit, especially of one’s true self. Identity is eternally important and key here. Japanese creators and artists of all kind have struggled with this topic as a product of their ever-changing collective society and are constantly attempting to resign to individualism and self-expression, and this is the primary undercurrent of ”Helter Skelter”. Liliko is both a visual and physical lie, and her face isn’t hers, but of the many that find themselves faced with the kind of internal erosion Liliko does. It is a huge understatement and a disservice to this manga to reduce it to some generic commentary about how horrible the fashion industry is or whatever. It is so much more. It’s one of the most brutally honest pieces I’ve read within the medium that is able to combine so many intense themes into one heart-wrenching narrative. And this shines brilliantly through the story’s main character Liliko.

It seems that Okazaki must be some sort of human-istic genius that she’s able to create such a contrasting, and unfounded character like Liliko who is both a woman of shame (and artifice) and a symbol of empowerment, as diluted and wrong as the latter may seem – she is, undoubtedly. Her perpetual acts of self-destruction are probably the only things real about her and the only times she experiences real joy (even if they seem illusive to us). The graphic, cold sexual acts, the remarkable lust for attention, the revolting deeds brought on by jealousy all make her seem incredibly villainous from the eyes of society, and for moments, to the reader. Yet, something real continues to beat under all that vindictiveness that keeps Liliko in the heart of the reader’s sympathy. Perhaps, it is the sharp fatalism, or perhaps something more. A woman like her can never be destined for happiness; it is impossible, but through her decadence, her vile nature, and her trapped personality that everyone around her tries so hard to destroy, a woman exists that fights viciously - even if subconsciously and in vain - to live for herself; the way she wants.

And nothing accentuates the impact of this narrative more than the art.

Okazaki’s art in “Helter Skelter” is spot-on. It’s sketched with little regard for beauty – each line portraying the inner distress of the work’s essence. It’s messy at points, overtly simplistic, and wildly raw – and that’s precisely why it works. That which is beautiful is often deceptive, and there is no deception in Okazaki’s art. Those wishing to revel in decorous, sparkling art will not find it here, and it’s actually a little silly to read criticisms demanding that. The entire point of this work is to avoid that. Okazaki aimed to focus on the ugly side of “beautiful”, to present the concept as an insanely real phenomenon that is destructive, revolting, and evocative. Her art achieves just that. There is absolutely no merit in beautifying that which is not and was never supposed to be. Her art remained true to the intentions and ambitions of her work and I found it absolutely fitting considering the subject matter and tone of this work.

A last point of interest that must be addressed relates to one of the genres that this manga falls under: Horror. Think back on what the horror genre entails. As a general rule, it must invoke some degree of fear. Now most horror works focus on monsters, the supernatural, or various external entities that gridlock the characters of the story, and by extension, the consumer into an impasse blocked by some scary or fear-inducing phenomenon. Most successful horror is able to do that because it forces the viewer to speculate the possibility of it translating into reality or at least by producing a shock-value effect that just genuinely disturbs the mind. Now, “Helter Skelter” isn’t standard horror, but it is very appropriately placed into horror for the very fact that it induces a kind of visceral fear that may be guising itself as discomfort or disgust, but it is fear nonetheless. Imagine: when the monster moves inside your head, into the very cranium of your being, and unleashes its destruction from within, the psychological toll and weight it brings can be nothing but devastating. Consider it a possession of sorts, but not by a supernatural entity or some biblical demon, but one that has long existed within you. That is why Liliko is terrifying. That is why “Helter Skelter” is terrifying. It is real and you can feel it in your bones.

This is truly a fantastic work. I stumbled upon it on whim and was introduced to a world of chaos, which was morbid and real. Okazaki deserves all the acclaim she gets, and really leaves no room for surprise that one of the greatest mangaka of our generation has cited her as a sole point of influence. For being a short in length, only nine-chapters, what this narrative manages to bring forth is nothing short of amazing. Overall, “Helter Skelter” is a disturbingly eclectic manga suited for those who yearn for mature works not just geared towards “women-issues”, but ones that paint grander sentiments about society, identity, and the duality that exists between both.