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Shinichi Ishizuka's jazz-themed manga series genuinely loves music and the emotional production of it. Jazz as a genre is just pure soul with roots in blues and characterized by swing, which no other discipline can mimic because jazz can also be undisciplined. Blue Giant's adaptation for the big screen translates the passion well, and actually hearing music helps. The lead character, Dai Miyamoto, is a former high school basketball player turned saxophone player. As a self-trained musician, his theoretical understanding is lacking, which he compensates for with an uncontrollable devotion to honing his skills. It's Dai that holds the writing together in its highs and lows, consistently ... remaining a symbol of unchanging motivation to be the best. Whether or not that's in his near future isn't important, although we do fast forward to a documentary being filmed with people he's interacted with in the past. They all admit to being floored by his intensity, personifying his music as sheer confidence and a loud demand for attention. Ishizuka isn't interested in the fundamentals or details of the artform and instead writes about a climb to the top using instinct and expression. 

There are equal upsides and downsides to the narrative structure, and the latter is mainly a case of being by-the-book dramatically. It's completely predictable, which leads to Blue Giant becoming less and less about stakes and more so about electric displays of jam sessions and performances. Prioritizing music in action isn't the worst creative choice if the writing isn't quite supportive of textured character writing. However, the story does still offer modest philosophies about living for a dream and devoting your all to the hardest part of success, practice. The trio—Dai, Shunji, and Yukinori—practice like hell. Their dynamic gives us slight light-hearted banter but also loosely experiments with talent, beginner's hard work, and unadulterated passion. It's difficult to fully immerse oneself in the literary mechanics Ishizuka uses to accumulate tension, especially if the viewer is familiar with the tenets of the medium. The same applies to me, although I'd argue a calculated process of hitting familiar high notes and giving the audience an uplifting feel-good rush is all a movie really needs to be a good time, which this is. An underdog journey of amateurs improvising what they lack in experience to the pinnacle of Japanese jazz venues.

Hiromi Uehara's score is phenomenal, committing to the originality of the pieces Yukinori writes for the band while simultaneously being inspired by the many jazz pioneers referenced here and there. A lot of the tracks are based on John Coltrane's later discography as well as new wave jazz. Uehara assembled more than 30 elite musicians to compose the soundtrack, beautifully reflecting the hearts of the instruments. There are numerous solos during the trio's performances, and we'll hear the drums or piano going off in their own world, dishing out joyous grooves to overwhelm the senses. The music accompanies an interesting visual arsenal from Studio NUT, and this is where I became slightly divided on animation effectiveness. Complex 2D sequences are nigh-impossible to pull off nowadays in a production time crunch, so studios will resort to CG models. The evolution of 3D integration over the years has been impressive, yet still, the reduced framerate and noticeable stiffness become an awkward moment when editing between close-ups and expressionless flailing. In the long run, it's up to the viewer to decide their stance on the visual product, which also has many standout cuts. 

The best scenes in Blue Giant sort of melt into the atmosphere, showing us nebulous keyframes blending into the audio. Director Yuzuru Tachikawa employs smears that we typically see in his work in TV animation. The film is shot almost entirely in blue, at least when it's establishing any particular location, and switches to gold when we're absorbed by Dai's powerful timbre. Satoru Hirayanagi's art direction is a remarkable aspect of the film's visual storytelling and language, including but not limited to constant glimmers or glints on the instruments, and subtle things like dented cymbals sell the satisfaction of a great performance. At the height of enlivening the animation, the rotoscoped character acting and attention to fingerwork all accumulate to a rush of freeform, often abstract transformative movement. This adaptation has integrity; even in its weaker elements, there is discernible effort to maximize the sound design's giant impact. Dai has a highly likeable personality that one wants to closely follow, and larger-than-life evocative feelings exist in his saxophone. Like jazz, Blue Giant is comfortable in its expression of freedom. 

Mari Okada's inherent knack for the melodramatic surprisingly assumes a lesser role than usual, and instead, she opts for a thought experiment of sorts, choosing to exhaust all of htrer previous ideas around pure coming-of-age thematics. maboroshi is immersed in itself, willingly sifting through fluctuating narrative focus, completely engrossed in the microcosm of identity, or rather, the search for it. I'm fond of Okada's scope in this film, and while it's not her strongest piece of individual character writing (that would be her directorial debut), this breathes new optimism into values humanity has always held in high regard. The excitement of growth and the broadening ... of one's horizons are predominant in the assertive nature of the screenplay. I would argue the film's greatest strength is firmly retaining its frenetic survivalist tendencies throughout its runtime, particularly because the leads rarely cave into the despair of circumstance. The cast is diverse; some are beyond eccentric, crafting a holistic angle on the tumultuous fantastical disaster that the quiet industrial town is faced with.

maboroshi's structure is slightly unorthodox, and the plot slowly answers certain questions at unlikely times, maybe even slipping past an unattentive viewer. It's an interesting mechanic because practically nothing is left unrevealed, albeit the bits of context may boast differing levels of clarity, yet nonetheless, there is indeed an explanation for the mental turmoil stirred by supernatural phenomena. I found the themes of divine punishment to be a clever contrast to the film also posing realistic justifications, and both sides may be mere sophistry disguising the irreversible illusion of time. The viewer's inability to discern the legitimate relationship between the steel factory and the film's ultimate premise is part of the intended goal, as we're aware of the cause and effects but not quite the tangible connection. This approach to abstract leitmotifs is far from Okada's style; on the contrary, she's literal about interpersonal struggles. Whereas this film is much more reserved for the greater part of the first two acts, underpinning a portrait of collective solitude while simultaneously redefining the term.

From what I understand, unlike her prior works that precariously explore similar areas of insecurity, maboroshi is significantly more personal. There is a sense of intimacy that she applies to the script, their blank stares, and the roaring intensity of suffocating in open space. Okada's 2018 autobiography, From Truant to Anime Screenwriter, describes herself as a truant, a common case of severe social isolation and depression. The novel's overarching message details her attachment to the past, giving form to her anxiety during a period of expected exuberance. One could argue that translating these raw emotions sways the narrative unevenly, and it's difficult to not agree with that observation because multiple instances of spontaneity disconnect the viewer with what I would argue are deliberately uncomfortable moments. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to hold the emotional immaturity against the rest of the resolution; however, the visual storytelling operates with honest splendor. The integration of relatively simple mindsets supersedes the cryptic setting.

Mappa's production values aren't necessarily the most noteworthy element; more so, the staff has managed to build impressive technical qualities. The quality of character acting in crucial segments is high, exhibiting micromovements and subtlety to highlight minor glances and moods. Both movement and freeform character animation are often present, characterizing the idiosyncracies of realism. It's weaker in the layout department, and some of the CG environments aren't blended as well as I would have liked, not to mention that I find the locations underused as a whole. Generally speaking, the audiovisual storytelling capitalizes on color consistency rather than background detail, and it coordinates scenes around the mild urbanization of the town. The audio has solid use of non-diegetic sound with varying levels of effectiveness in the score, although the incorporation of 90s tracks was a great choice. I was pleasantly surprised by the powerful performance from Miyuki Nakajima in the theme, an excellent showcase of vocalization and relevant lyrics. Mari Okada dissipates the idea of self in maboroshi, vying for a purposeful reflection on living in and for the moment.

Nabi is fundamentally flawed, narratively warped, and deeply seated within its false notion of nonlinearity. It is structurally incompetent, and regardless of whether or not one can follow the storytelling with hyper-focused attention, warranting that level of investment without the corresponding satisfaction is unfair to the reader. Admittedly, it is in part the fault of translation quality and the team's inability to use autocorrect, but beyond that, writer/artist Yeon-Ju Kim does not have the tenets of her story outlined with clarity. Throughout the greater part of the mid-section, it's borderline impossible to follow the interactions on a contextual level, rather all the unmemorable dialogue is ... akin to word padding. There's indeed a great deal of text, although, in terms of legitimate thematic value, not everything said deserves a spotlight. In hindsight, there are instances of contemplative thought that are rephrased and rehashed more than necessary, or perhaps it's needed because the reader is rarely sure how the current conflict plays a role in the transpiring events.

The series suffers from its large cast, and a combination of same face syndrome and designs choosing bizarre visual representations of shock or intimate conversation. Often, characters will be drawn with different hair colors, closely resembling another member of the cast who also happens to have similar facial features. This issue branches into many areas of storytelling setbacks, and it's apparent that Kim does not fully utilize the strengths of the medium. There are various instances where indicators of some sort would only serve to benefit the effectiveness of the many moving parts of her narrative, and she loses the reader quickly during the countless monologues that segue into flashbacks. The exposition is simply not framed well enough within the bounds of flowery language alongside a slightly unclear timeline. At certain points, a character will be referred to by their former name or a new translation of the original one, and while the scans are a matter of circumstance, denoting a visual shift is not. Refusing to use a narrator or construct a streamlined focus does not create a more compelling experience and on the contrary, it should disguise character intent, not our ability to distinguish them.

The manhwa's merits are frankly few and far between, especially scaled against the self-created clutter. However, beneath the facade of complication, the premise is relatively simple once one has caught on to the similarities across character arcs. Their respective growth treads the same pace as Nabi's political power struggle, another case of something not particularly layered being depicted with unnecessary uncertainty. Kim's grasp on the personalities of the protagonists and multiple deuteragonists is strong, remaining consistent in personal development as well as in plot roles. The story's shoujo-esque style is its primary appeal, maintaining the standard for emotional prose throughout. Internal monologues are purely poetic, and while I didn't find them all to have a convincing purpose, the painterly imagery accompanying these pieces is noteworthy. The art has fantastic spreads in the latter volumes and consistently impressive establishing shots at the cost of severely lacking paneling during action sequences. For fans of the demographic, there's minimal enjoyment unless one is solely interested in the medium itself. A rarely cohesive yet lyrical tale of grief, strife, and revenge.

It's a fleeting collection of memories, short-lived moments, and an undivided appreciation for all that exists and happens. Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou can be best described as a rudimentary stage of observational meditations, capitalizing on the short-lived nature of learning something new daily, while loosely connecting these discoveries through either recurring characters or a continuation of small adventures. Ashinano's intended feeling of relaxation is steadily present, but past the initial intrigue of rarely traveling to new places and meeting new people, it becomes a matter of sustaining the attraction of following Alpha's menial livelihood. Certain chapters legitimately challenge our perception of Earthly attachments, questioning how one ... would continue to find purpose in a post-apocalyptic future, soon to be submerged under water. Then again, the series' best component is this deceptively idyllic setting, yet not nearly enough time is spent exploring, which gives rise to a relatively common issue, repetition that forcibly wanes interest.

As much as I've claimed that the narrative's mild ennui is dependent on Alpha's inactivity, she's also the singular foundation of why any of Ashinano's concepts work, more specifically, her carefree speech pattern and extremely friendly readiness to interact. Structurally, the majority of the stories are sourced around her curiosity or chronicle an acquaintance of hers, who often introduces her cafe to a new character. The constantly moving, circular rotation of almost every prominent personality arriving for a cup of coffee at the humble shop is a satisfying intersection of paths we assumed would cross at some point; it's a small world if you will. Alpha's keen view of behavior throughout the series sparks the bulk of the reader's engagement, as she contemplates where a gynoid's similarities lie compared to the human inspiration for her design. It's a shame the science-fiction principles are hardly addressed, as there's enough material regarding ridiculously high intelligence and sense of emotion for a humanoid robot for a sequel. The technological element is limited to fan service, occasionally posing a theory about how consciousness can be harnessed and replicated.

Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou's scenic value is largely credited to the texture-first approach to backgrounds, accentuating the emptiness of expansive rural areas. The landscapes are picturesque, maintaining distance and detailed intricacies in panels that are slightly more condensed. Coastal drawings experiment with characters swimming, sometimes evoking the sensation of soaring through clouds, visualized by dark ink-shaded streaks. However, Ashinano gives little attention to the actual dystopian parts of the worldbuilding, likely to remain on the lighter side of mystery, but I find the impending danger of water in a seaside environment a necessary geographical insight. There is no consistent plot or direction here, rather it's thoroughly engrossed in laid-back immersion, unable to be intellectualized nor extended beyond the comfortability we've already experienced. The minimalist sentimentality is exciting while it lasts, highlighting communities and living in the present.

The elusive insecurities of adolescence are an ever-popular area of exploration, and supposed relatability, although all of that is entirely dependent on the author's ability to reinforce their characters as emotionally symbolic individuals. At a glance, Asano's subject matter is somewhat accessible, depicting acts of intimacy through the lens of a trauma-induced need for a companion. Nevertheless, his composition of such dramatic trappings isn't as thematically potent as a topic of this nature would benefit from. Naturally, the ages of the cast holds a major role in this narrative obstacle, limiting the story's directional complexity. However, that's hardly a justification for the lack of momentum, the inherent aggregation ... of ideas in a piece of fictional writing. More specifically, the characterization here is underwhelming, and of course, the length of the manga plays a part, but not allowing the reader to gradually immerse themselves in interaction is a disadvantage. It's worth wondering why the two leads interact at all or any character for that matter, exhibiting baseless aggression and simply ridiculous instances of misguided intensity in the narrative's atmosphere. 

In a sleepy seaside town, there exists resentment for an invisible entity, a burning rage toward the idea of being confined to the same realities. Asano's portrayal of the community's dissonant relationships and imminent suffocation is a far more intriguing concept, barely touched upon in the final few chapters. Creating a parallel harmony between the location, disillusioned youth, and their sexual experimentation would be borderline novel. The latter has become a representative feature of this manga, perhaps for the wrong reasons. The scenes of intercourse are not erotica or even meant to be cases of character arousal, and I say that to emphasize the difficulty of capturing a depressive mutual relationship, regardless of the type of explicit acts or the ages of participants. That itself is the strongest merit of Umibe no Onnanoko, even if the provocative expressions are dictated by impulse rather than believable curiosity. In a town this small, around people this familiar, one's sense of self comes into question, and the desire for physical or emotional validation is rampant.

The classy sport of boxing holds many entertaining merits for the average viewer, exhibiting technical precision amongst the most primal physical activity, effectively casting a shiny aesthetic over devastating injuries and sacrifice. Rikudou, like many sports media, attempts the delicate balance between violence and what one could argue is an art form. The manga follows Riku Azami, a boy from a tragic background, who discovers a light of salvation in the combat sport. In his search for purpose, there lie trials and tribulations, but more importantly, Matsubara contains the dramatization within tenets of real-world struggles. While some of it may be telegraphed around coincidence, the ... bulk of it is indeed character growth through stimulating masculine desires. The very idea of pummeling an opponent's face seems like savagery, yet the trained eye will notice beautiful combinations of fluidity, which is depicted here in impressive detail. There is elegance in spilling blood on the canvas under the limitations of merely being allowed your two hands.

As a character study, the series excels in creating consistent parallels across multiple deuteragonists. The intersecting paths to glory is a recurring theme, and Matsubara emphasizes the element of achievement. Unfortunately, it's also occasionally a detriment given the number of boxers introduced, where one will remember a face merely because of a one-liner. Nonetheless, the major takeaway from Rikudou is successful in emanating why athletes even bother staking their lives, and it's noteworthy that the idea of keeping one's fight record clean is discarded early on. Initially, it spends a fair bit of time exploring the middle ground of Riku's past and how he can harness those experiences, although, after the shaky beginnings, the narrative settles into stronger points of archetypes, simultaneously rejecting talent or even hard work as what dictates the direction of a fight. The fights have their fair share of predictability, but ultimately, the outcomes intend to carry personal weight.

Matsubara's visual style has all the right traits for action, be it exaggerated movement or distinct impact shots. The musculature and metaphoric imagery combined with dotted shading make for solid blacked-out X-ray effects. Admittedly, his paneling is not friendly for newcomers to either the medium or the sport, and that's partly due to the terminology not being supported by ample context. There is a lack of exposition that may create varying levels of understanding among readers, specifically during quieter sequences, where techniques like feints and defense are simply implied without the sweet science behind them. My knowledge of the sport compensated for anything the storytelling lacked in clarity, however, I'm willing to acknowledge that targeting Riku's training more attentively might have given the series a better impression in its premature stages. Rikudou intentionally contains itself in the hungriest challenger mindset, perpetually encouraging those who dare to be great.

Shuuzou Oshimi's allegorical notion of happiness is flimsy, not necessarily the literal implications, but it's crafted as an overview of sinister events that occur, merely lingering in the vicinity of supernatural horror. The manga is somewhat conflicting, as it's difficult to acknowledge what it manages to accomplish and simultaneously ignore the dilution of the aforementioned successful elements, often forcing the reader to lean toward the latter by a constant association between storytelling that gravely strays from the narrative's original direction. The early chapters have structural merit, painting a mildly unsettling picture of careful paranoia. Makoto Okazaki's pushover life takes a startling turn after he's attacked ... by the modernized version of a mythical creature whose name one could easily gather from the synopsis, and this unwanted burden segues into a web of similar incidents that indiscriminately traps family and friends alike. His forthcoming misfortune is in part the subject of Happiness, although it's closely attached to maintaining an ensemble cast, which irreparably complicates the story's mechanics.

There would be significantly more value in approaching only Makoto's troubles, a series of personal crises among identity and belonging. After introducing the full breadth of protagonists with varying importance, their characterization is disappointingly undermined by the scattershot dramatic turns struggling to prove their relevance to the initial purpose of finding the titular happiness. It's not as simple as Oshimi just tackling more than he can account for or there not being enough chapters, rather he limits his thematic repertoire, strangely disguising his existentialist message behind heaps of gratuitous violence and psychosexual hinting that is very soon forgotten. I would've greatly preferred a darkly romantic tragedy over the cumulative method of lightly referencing dangling plot threads to solely highlight a new conflict with underwhelming overtones. Happiness is never overbearing, quite the opposite, each arc boasts confused direction, and the gradual momentum is unable to decide who or what should be antagonized, and how the reader will likely interpret deep-seated gaps in progression/worldbuilding.

The art is consistently captivating, strategically employing homages to post-impressionist and surrealist artists. Oshimi's influences vastly dictate the prevalence of certain visual motifs in his works, and while it may hinder the writing, the picturesque representation of any given mood or deliberation is considerably elevated through mimicking styles, expressing admiration. The skies in Happiness are depicted using the bold spirals of Van Gogh; in one instance, the panel experiments with Edvard Munch's mental dread as well, forming a psychological response. Makoto's uncontrolled delusions are visualized in Dali's distorted imagery, a bizarre face of shock and anxiety. The attentive reader will notice inspiration in a few more areas, like the angle of religious criticisms intertwined around adolescent insecurities. Even his advanced shading alternates between solid blocks and crosshatching, so it's a genuine shame that this level of quality is wasted on exhumed ideas from a saturated subgenre. An indirectly perverse search for self.

Academic pressure can be devastating, but Noryeogui Gyeolgwa travels further across the stages of anxiety, and there's a fascinating question that's insinuated, to what extent is Jae-Kyung's life fiction. Unfortunately, my personal theories about possible worlds don't elevate this story's existing capabilities, and it's merely lucky to have stumbled upon an intersection of perfectionist contagion effects. The narrative is rather simple, constructed atop an imminent rush of suspense, and there are very few extended segments that don't ultimately amount to a confrontation, usually ending with Jae-Kyung falling deeper into acute stress. He's controlled by fear, but at a certain point, the source is no longer ... only his father's guilt-tripping, a far more serious divide in mental isolation is born. The scenes involved in escalating the situation effectively sell the premise, although barring despair, the character writing is shockingly dull. Notably, the relationships develop a one-note disposition regarding educational perspectives.

It's apparent that author Akpa's intentions are restricted by a lack of experience, so the strict separation of talent versus hard work is a stopgap measure for lengthening Jae-Kyung's descent, and they maneuver around multiple thematic setbacks for a chance at tension, a vital part of the storytelling's success in criticizing the damage of false reinforcement. Nonetheless, it's difficult to fully commend a work that understands its goal but struggles to use the means to justify its conclusion. I found the abrupt final chapter inconsistent with the central conflict, hasty sensationalistic closure that is disconnected from Jae-Kyung's bewildered characterization. Akpa never foreshadows anything surrounding where the fate of the characters in question is headed, but the reader's gradual interest in the overlapping dynamics is blatantly ignored given the absence of substantial pretext in the closing moments. My qualms considerably reduced the effectiveness of the social message, however, Noryeogui Gyeolgwa holds merit in its use of visual metaphors. The unrefined sketchy art is monochrome, exhibiting thick lines, and one can never go wrong with an Oldboy reference (ants). An indictment of performance anxiety from unrealistic expectations.

Chinese animation can be strange, or maybe the right word is unnatural, in intervals. Regardless of the specific interpretations, their attention to movement is rough, so much so that otherwise passable production qualities pale in comparison. It's not a matter of resembling realism, but the frame-by-frame continuity needs a purpose, something that's missing in Zuori Qing Kong. The motion of a character's upper body alongside their expressions is imperative in relaxed atmospheres, and hyperactive blinking on lifeless faces doesn't quite sell the scenario. Despite these jarring displays, the film has an aesthetic, a sense of visual direction hoisting up the weaker components. It's usually confined ... to scattered metaphorical sequences of either imagination or inspiration, but the art distinguishes itself like we've begun watching a different film, not always a positive per se. And compounding upon its existing faults, the technical merits are all but none. Drastic jumps in quality often serve as proof of studio talent, yet simultaneously they can easily overshadow what the audience had grown accustomed to.

Yijian Gong, the original creator, is seemingly a huge fan of the Slam Dunk manga, incorporating numerous references into the background. There's a short scene early on where the two male leads play a pick-up game of 2v2, and the first Slam Dunk opening song accompanies some of the replicated cuts, which is the highlight of my viewing experience. The story is typical tropey material, bittersweet adolescent romances, and cloudy futures. Gong manufactures the feeling of nostalgia, almost telegraphing it through the initial indication of a flashback. In some ways, it's treading the safe route, satisfied in lightly touching on social criticisms of the Chinese academic cesspool of expectations. The characters are caricatures of love triangle dynamics, an imitation of more substantial relationship writing. Profoundly silly melodrama with self-referential subplots; at best, Zuori Qing Kong is a nod to the manga scene of a different country.

Sexually-charged supernatural erotica, less horror than it is an exploitation of the female body for no apparent reason besides lust. Rather inconsistent in that regard, more explicit in nonconsensual scenes compared to the rest. It makes the claim of visual metaphors in association with spiritual drivel supposedly forming a bond representing peace between two races. Taki and Makie are part of a secret service protecting an emissary needed to finalize a centennial non-aggression treaty, disguising other elaborate conspiracies of unknown nature. Such events pave the way for sadomasochistic escapades of gratuitous gore and sex, usually with demonic women. At one point, it's unashamedly tentacle pornography, ... not quite meshing against the backdrop of blue and red neo-noir. In the case of color coordination, Kawajiri's eye for complementary hues strikes a tension, high-speed drives as street lights zip past. The cinematography may be a single trick, but a pretty one nonetheless. Defined designs are drawn in thick lines, with characters living a rapid urban life, which happens to be the only reason it manages to be watchable, all missteps considered.

I'd argue the pressing counter to a linear narrative, one that is well-nigh impossible to ruin, is the political sphere remaining completely untouched. Acts of terrorism, even assassination attempts, come from a factional authority in the demon world. Wreaking havoc to this extent, yet retaining invisibility in the sense of diplomatic context is nonsensical. It's a product of some cyberpunk and body disfiguration elements, and Wicked City's linear clarity is its downfall. Kawajiri's standout key animation is present in a few action cuts, but unfortunately, the rest of the film suffers from bland panning shots in abundance. A shame seeing the uneven storyboarding being framed with imaginative live-action compositing, and tilted angles rarely used in commercial anime. It's a middling gimmick, not leaning towards the gruesome nor morally provocative extremes of the medium.