1 of 1 episodes seen
This is a relatively early product of the OVA boom, produced in an industry that had money to spare for extraneous or daring titles—and if nothing else, Roots Search is pretty daring. To start off with, imagine writing a script that included psychic powers, interstellar travel, alien monsters, space stations and star ships and futuristic machinery, and then at the last minute tried to add in religious references to fallen angels, abstract embodiments of the Wrath of God, and a final purge of humanity that takes the form of a fleshy ever-mutating mass of monstrous tendrils and gore. The result is exactly what Roots Search consists of. It might be confusing to imagine how these elements could possibly combine to form coherent narrative, but have no fear; they don’t. Characters die arbitrarily, plot threads are left hanging out in the open, important devices introduced at the beginning are seemingly forgotten halfway through, and the final scene before the credits brings absolutely no resolution to the conflict despite attempting to appear so. In fact, the climax of the piece bears almost no resemblance to the rest of the work, introduces more unanswerable questions, and creates a tension that ignores the narrative tension that had already been building up over the course of the first half-hour—only to present a denouement that is just as unrelated and mind numbingly bizarre as the climax had been. It’s quite a puzzling method of structuring, to say the least, helped no doubt by extremely uneven pacing and a total disregard for a coherent development of character interactions.
The narrative elements aside, the animation isn’t anything all that special either. For an OVA of 1986, it ranks just below average on a scale of smoothness, but characters spend so much time in static positions that it really makes no difference. There are a few well-choreographed shots near the end, but again, they last only a few seconds in length and certainly aren’t worth sitting through the rest of the train wreck unless one is truly interested in this kind of surreality. Colors are dull but standard, and character models, backgrounds, and miscellaneous designs are similarly unremarkable. There’s a fair amount of blood that pops up in brief scenes throughout the runtime, however the more surreal and horrific material doesn’t come until close to the end.
All said and done, there isn’t much of this thing that has much redeeming value. The writing catastrophe is so ludicrous that it might be worthy of any daring enough to blow three quarters of an hour on watching it, but the animation and sound is so dated that there is little to no replay value. For all but the most adventurous journeyers into the underbelly of the OVA boom, I recommend staying away from this title. It deserves its niche in the dustbins. read more
1 of 1 episodes seen
To bite any potential misunderstandings in the bud, I’d like to first make it clear that there is very little by way of plot in this production. A great deal of it seems to be little more than a small but necessary excuse to showcase some incredible and at times mind-bending technical feats of animation and action presentation. This isn’t, however, an inherently bad thing. In fact, the extent to which Birth exercises its action-packed machismo and deliciously fluid eye candy more than makes up for the fact that the film holds absolutely no substance on a narrative level. The characters are defined more or less by their first appearances, and the narrative conflict is focused mostly on defeating mechanical monsters, falling debris, or motorcycle bandits. Things are simple and make no attempt at profundity, maintaining an artistic honesty that’s rather admirable.
That said, the absurd nature of the narrative serves only to highlight the surreal action sequences amidst the surreal settings. It isn’t a story that is intended to make any sense beyond the capacity of its superficial plot. Nonsense, explosions, smoke trails, chases, and falling debris are what comprise Birth from nearly start to finish.
So that brings up the question of what all of this looks like. Stylistically, it’s all rather cartoonish. The characters are ill-defined to the point that it’s difficult to tell when (or even IF) they go off-model amidst commotion. Backgrounds are pale, flat, uninteresting, manipulated images, or blurry textures—something helped no doubt by the mostly static setting. “Antagonists” are all nigh-identical mechanical monstrosities whose only purposes are to provide more exciting chase sequences or to generate a greater amount of falling debris.
But none of this matters in the face of one rather important aspect: the hitherto unparalleled use of animated dynamic cameras and complex tracking shots, influenced undoubtedly by Ichigo Itano’s animation work on the SDF-Macross series. But where the “Itano Circus”, as his technique has come to be called, was used at most three or four times every episode, Birth employs dynamic tracking shots for what practically amounts to a majority of its 85 minute runtime. Simply put, the action never stops moving. Machines burst out of the ground and the camera spirals up their torsos; motorcycles zoom through caverns and the camera follows, twists, and zooms around them like a mosquito; people get into fist fights and the camera jumps back and forth between close-ups of their faces, fists, and body movements all in the same take.
This isn’t even a common practice in modern-day animation works, never mind a twenty-some year old OVA that dwells in relative obscurity. This hyperkinetic depiction of action—if nothing else—establishes Birth as a title worthy of attention especially by modern fans already acquainted with modern-day Gainax titles from the likes of Imaishi.
All of this drooling over animation quality aside, it’s also important to note that although a visual feast, the animation still isn’t even close to ‘perfect’. Lips have a tendency to flap when characters aren’t talking, and sometimes characters talk without flapping their lips. Frames jump around a little, but it’s now worse than any other moderately-budged work from the time period. As should be expected, objects and textures become less detailed as the dynamic cameras kick into play, every once in awhile reducing objects to mere polygons (although this extreme a transformation only occurs in a small handful of scenes). Most of these things are standard fare for a mid-80s cartoon, so there’s really nothing of detriment to be found in this department.
All in all, this remarkably solid, shallow, and enjoyable title has relished in the dustbins for a bit too long. Seeing as how recent Gainax titles and more experimental Production IG, Studio 4C, and Madhouse works have been dwelling on the hyperkinetic and the absurd more and more, Birth no doubt deserves some recognition of a title that—although not doing anything new per se—certainly did hyper-stylized action extraordinarily well. read more
1 of 1 episodes seen
One possibility is to cower on the floor while your love interest is about to be raped, hope nothing bad happens, and eventually get your brains blown out. That works, though few would consider it a good resolution. Too bad you’ll miss watching the pinhead get shot up by his partner.
With these first twenty two enthralling, surreal, and utterly absurd minutes of Masaaki Yuasa’s Mind Game out of the way, one can rest assured that it only gets better. Yakuza car chases, a dancing stripper artist balloon girl, a piano sonata in a whale belly, and general trippy psychedelia are all things the viewer has to look forward to over the film’s hour and forty-some minute runtime that flies by like a bullet train.
For any unfamiliar with Yuasa’s body of work, Mind Game is both his first film and a wonderful introduction to his overall style. He got his start in the 1990s doing mostly key animation work for various programs, breaking into character design and animation direction periodically. Mind Game, however, is his first feature film with full directorial credits. It was animated mostly by Studio 4°C, an animation studio that has come to be known for its oftentimes off-beat or abstract works of Japanese Animation thanks to titles such as this one, as well as the Genius Party and Memories short film collections.
As has come to be expected by anyone who has glimpsed some of his work, the film’s visual appearance is easily its most immediately noticeable aspect—and is so jarring in its stylistic schizophrenia that it will probably put off many viewers just from the first handful of scenes. It hobbles back and forth between crudely-rendered environments and shape-shifting blob people and rotoscoped head-on close-ups for the entirety of the film, unafraid of emphasizing cartoonish over-exaggerated expressions while also managing to mock visual realism with bizarre photographic manipulation. The backgrounds maintain some level of lucidity, however one should not expect any sort of photorealistic renderings from the film.
Cinematically, Mind Game delivers with every bit of zeal, craziness, and energy that one can expect from a contemporary anime film, the likes of which are at least superficially comparable to the more down to earth director Mamoru Hosoda (Summer Wars, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time), and the nearly-as-zany madman Hiroyuki Imaishi (Dead Leaves). Mind Game’s form is solid and eclectic, embellished by its fantastic switcheroo of color pallets and ambiance in order to convey very specific tones. Shot compositions are meticulous and revealing, but there is little to explicitly link his influences to the people who had come before. Yuasa’s rhythm for editing is possibly its most successful feature, as best showcased in the breathtakingly succinct, ambient, and moving montages that divide up and help structure of the film. The montages alone are worth the viewing experience, since even though they may seem arbitrary or meaningless upon a first viewing, the patterns that arise and the underlying narrative flow is sure to be uncovered by interested viewers.
These aspects all come together to define Mind Game as a surreal “art film”, no doubt, but as of yet nothing has been said of the characters, the plot, or any other narrative devices. This is for good reason: Mind Game is so fluid in its plot progression, so dynamic in its structure, and subtle enough in the development of its characters that a succinct commentary on its actual narrative substance is quite difficult. It fills plot holes with absurdity and gleefully skips around any attempts at seriousness or profundity, and its characters are just as much victims of incomprehensible circumstances as they are the designers of such circumstances in the first place.
So what exactly IS Mind Game?
Well, it’s rough and unpolished, it’s meandering, indecent and ludicrous, it’s absurd, it’s surreal, it’s asinine and obnoxious. It’s also heartwarming and poignant, possibly insulting, it’s hazy, blurred, and inconsistent. It’s at once philosophically profound and superficial to an utmost extreme. It doesn’t make much sense when one dwells on its contents, and it joyously defies serious scrutiny should one even attempt it. It is the sum of its parts and yet about absolutely nothing—or perhaps everything—at all. There are subtle jabs to modern culture, blatant jabs at modern consumerism, and general allegories, metaphors, and possibly even a message or two to be found within its crazy imagery and circular plot. This short review isn’t going to tell you what they are, though—that’d ruin the suspense. read more
12 of 12 episodes seen
It is a story of heartache, rejection, and despair. It is a story of loss and of pain, and one that explores a world in which there is incalculable capacity for wrongdoing, cruelty, and evil. It is a story that hits its audience with difficult and complex moral problems, yet it offers very little in the way of solace or resolution for any of the questions it raises. It pulls no punches and promises no answers, and in doing so, retains a sense of honesty with its audience that few works of its nature posses.
And yet, in spite of the horrors and sadness that the world of Kaiba is embroiled in and consumed with, the core cast of characters are simply ones who—similar to each and every one of the characters they meet on their journey—are struggling with the questions of how to be, and what it is that constitutes being. In a world where memories and forms are stolen, bartered, and sacrificed as easily as clothing or food, identity becomes even more fluid and fragile than it is in real life. Kaiba takes this theme and extrapolates it into a reality so twisted and surreal that its commentary is impossible to miss.
Cinematically, Yuasa offers a unique directorial method of presentation that draws far more from Osamu Tezuka’s gekiga than from the prevailing influences of today’s directors. Yuasa’s adaption of Tezuka’s style goes beyond the obvious character model similarities (designed by Nobutaka Ito), infiltrating every nook and cranny of the narrative elements. A reverence for and homage to Tezuka’s method is present from settings and thematic scope down into the minutiae of presentation, particularly in shot compositions and depictions of action or psychoses that alternates between reserved detachment and unforgettable heart-pounding relevance. The surrealistic, futuristic depiction of the thematic emphasis on the relationship and nature of individuality, consciousness, memories, and flesh could be right at home in something like “Apollo’s Song”. The portrayals of intolerable human cruelty resultant from complex, struggling characters seem to spring right out of something like “Ode to Kirihito”. The heavy handed assault of dense symbols and exaggerated physical forms screams for a sense of old-school melodrama that much modern anime generally lacks—or often enough, when it IS present, it is rarely ever handled with the level of versatility and adroitness that Yuasa presents in Kaiba.
But this is not to say that Yuasa is somehow “ripping off” Tezuka’s legendary works in any way—in fact, one need not even be the least bit familiar with Tezuka’s body of work in order to enjoy this program. What maintains Kaiba’s uniqueness is that, both in spite of and because of its use of Tezuka-esque elements, it ultimately offers an experience that is greater than the mere sum of its parts. The skill with which Yuasa manipulates his characters and paces his episodes bridges the gap between the work and the audience in a way few anime series achieve; although the first episode resembles more a dream than a traditional narrative, it doesn’t take long for emotional attachment to form around both the primary characters of the show (as they are sparingly revealed) and the secondary characters that pop up per episode and often disappear just as suddenly. Much of the program retains a quality akin to something of a vague hallucination even after completion, however its narrative remains traditional enough that things like characters, plot, back story, and development are all recognizable.
What begins as a fever dream or a nightmare turns out to be a cerebral quest through amnesia, psychosis, revelation, doubt, and finally trust. Some of its mysteries are slowly unraveled explicitly, others are left to subtle allusions or drift wantonly in a haze of ambiguity. Development of the characters involved with the story of the protagonist alternates between exceptionally subtle and heavy-handed, though often times both ‘subtlety’ and ‘heavy-handed’ development occur simultaneously. It is most likely its themes and tone—outside of the visuals, of course—that will leave the heaviest mark upon its audience; Yuasa’s skill at sculpting atmosphere through imagery and sound is truly worthy of recognition.
In short, Kaiba is not an easy series to watch. It is one that will present to its audience powerful images with powerful connotations that are not easily shaken off by the invested viewer. Its characters are memorable and complex. Its visuals, no doubt the most obvious thing to distinguish it from its peers, may give false first impressions or lend to it unjustified labels of pretentiousness. In the end, it is a work that is extremely difficult to describe in full, and one that is likely to affect each of its viewers in radically different ways.
Recommended for fans of abstract cinema, surrealism, science fiction, Osamu Tezuka, other Yuasa works, or simply anyone looking for a short cerebral series that is nigh indescribable. read more
1 of 1 episodes seen
There isn’t a whole lot to say about this sequel, as it picks up on Lufy’s character almost immediately after where the first installment left her—which was floating in space after a battle. She is rescued and resuscitated by a passing Solnoid ship, only to find that years have passed since she was left to drift. Her character grows a bit over the course of the next forty-some minutes, and in the mean time, a plot involving star system-annihilating weaponry unfolds.
As might be expected for those familiar with the first Gall Force installment, the art direction of Destruction focuses almost entirely on sterile, sleek hallways of futuristic spaceships and uniquely-designed ship exteriors that bare the prominent stamp of the 80s. The backgrounds are well drawn, and for the most part, quite detailed. Character models are the standard Kenichi Sonoda fare just as the film, so expect more of the same. Directing is quite average but highly enjoyable for any fans of the prevailing 80s method. Animation quality hovers above average with the great designs and consistent level of detail, but overall fluidity of movement is about what should be expected from its time.
It’s aged reasonably well and holds up to repeated viewings, but the plot mechanics and animation style keep it noticeably rooted in the old school. Fans of Eternal Story will no doubt find something enjoyable out of this title; however, anyone unfamiliar with Eternal Story will most likely be turned off by its sudden narrative developments and its dated quality.
Recommended for fans of the original Gall Force, Bubblegum Crisis, sci-fi set in space, and/or older anime in general. read more
26 of 26 episodes seen
As stories go, Aquarion plays close to the somewhat contrived post-apocalyptic plot of fighting off invaders or oppressors of another world, and it does this through emphasizing the development of character relationships and exploiting many of the standard tropes most viewers will be familiar with—including, in a mutated form, the love triangle that seems to pop up in many Kawamori-penned works. It combines this with ultra-unrealistic (and stunningly gorgeous) battle scenes that should leave most viewers’ hearts pumping in anticipation and gripped with adrenaline, and these fights happen often enough to leave any action junkie’s thirst fully quenched.
Many of the homages to older works are in a form that comes off as simultaneously lampooning and glorifying the super-robot method of anime series storytelling. This being said, the ultra-unrealism and disregard for physics or reality shouldn’t come as a surprise, and staying true to its super robot roots, this series dives into the seemingly absurd and never looks back. Coupled with its bizarre fights scenes, the series also remains a highly episodic narrative structure that also owes itself to its super robot roots, as it maintains a minimal overarching plot structure up until the final episodes.
However, it is the world-building aspect of Aquarion that leaves its mark upon the audience more so than any of its explicit narrative development. The post-apocalyptic landscape and atmosphere presented is utterly unlike most other mecha series that have come before or since it, as it uses concepts such as reincarnation and multiple dimensions on a level that seriously impacts character interactions. The viewer is thrown into this bizarre and initially unfathomable fictional universe from the onset of the first episode very abruptly, so it takes several episodes before the audience will be adjusted to its ambiance. Some viewers will enjoy the setting after this adjustment takes place, but others will understandably be turned off by it.
The visuals are probably Aquarion’s best feature. The digitally-assisted animation sequences are on par with any series from the mid-00’s, and the integration of the CG elements for the fight sequences are certainly top-notch. Many audiences may be turned away by such a reliance upon the CGI, but considering how convincingly the staff was able to present the explosive, heart-pounding struggles, there’s little doubt of its effectiveness.
Yoko Kanno again shows her versatility with her compositions, but as with another one of Kawamori’s lesser-known series, Earth Maiden Arjuna, her contribution falls flat compared to a great deal of the rest of her catalogue. Within the context of Aquarion, the music suits the action on screen, though—just as with the episodic nature of the whole series—be prepared for plenty of repetition. Fortunately, each cut is well crafted and memorable, particularly the climactic orchestral pieces used during the climactic episodes.
Overall, Aquarion is a solid series for anyone looking for a recent, episodic, super robot show with decent plot & character development and an extraordinary setting, or for anyone just looking for something weird and light-hearted. read more
20 of 20 chapters read
What begins as a story about a bizarre disease that results in horrid deformations turns into an intense psychological journey through the paranoid and the depraved, journeying deep into the mind and adventures of a man whose mutation has turned him into something that is both inhuman yet beyond the definitions of a beast. Coupled with the unfortunate absurdity of Doctor Osanai’s twisting reality is the story of his colleagues, the psychotic-yet-well-intentioned Doctor Urabe, and their boss, the overly ambitious Doctor Tatsugaura, as each of them strives to find an explanation and cure for the disfiguring Monmow disease.
Although the content of the story is quite important and noteworthy, it is the way in which it is presented that makes the story most worthwhile. Tezuka’s penchant for juxtaposing cartoonish caricatures against starkly realistic backgrounds with heavily-nuanced moods and atmospheres is as eerie and unsettling as it is well orchestrated. Yet paradoxically, this ‘realism’ also contains strange proportions that identify it thoroughly as an unrealistic work, and as such, the world depicted in Ode to Kirihito is very effectively revealed to be as surreal as the plot demands.
Even beyond these aesthetics, the layout of the frames on the page demonstrates a highly intriguing use of space and movement that parallels, but does not imitate, a rather cinematic form that his work is known for. It wouldn’t be hard to see much of this comic adapted into a film, for instance, but it would be nigh-impossible to merely use the comic as a storyboard due to how thoroughly the man understands how the reader’s eye moves about the page—something that is best demonstrated through how he manages action, manipulates tension, and creates emphasis through techniques as varied as they are effective.
This book is not without its flaws, however. Ode to Kirhito is noticeably heavy handed in the depiction of many of its core themes, but there are plenty of subtleties to be found by anyone willing to look further than some of the more the exaggerated melodrama. The level of cruelty portrayed also may seem to lack a certain shock value or power that many modern readers have come to expect, but I do not believe this lessons the impact of the story in the slightest—if anything, it is the masterful execution of these acts that makes the comic all the more powerful an experience. The thing to keep in mind is that the story is not one whose story revolves solely around the depiction of cruelty; it is a hardboiled romp through the psychosis of insurmountable stresses and anxieties, coupled with the often-bittersweet nature of real life, that makes this story what it is.
Recommended to any fan of the printed medium, be it comic books, manga, or prose, as well as any fans of film noir, psychological and/or hardboiled fiction, or readers just looking for philosophical undertones in their entertainment. read more
13 of 13 episodes seen
But this isn’t really anything to discredit it for, since it never sets out to be anything like Serial Experiments Lain at all. It’s a slice of life show based on a doujinshi by ABe, and in somewhat typical ABe fashion, it includes the mundane (cram school homework, newspaper delivery) juxtaposed against the absurd (aliens, mother ships, psychic waves). To coincide with the eclectic nature of its content is the eclectic nature in which it is presented. It often paces itself with slowly-developed, mood-oriented ‘quiet’ shots interrupted by (usually) short instances of quick slapstick comedy routines before returning to its understated atmosphere. At times this juxtaposition is rather jarring, but at others, it serves to accentuate the more understated moments that the series is rooted in.
And although it heaps on noticeable amounts of social criticism that isn’t wholly necessary to the plot, this aspect doesn’t really disrupt overall enjoyment. Its more personal themes that revolve around the protagonist, Mayuko, are given far more attention and are developed with much more precision. This was made particularly vivid with exceptional scene composition and a steady hand in editing, offering a wonderful visual experience alongside a thoroughly developed central character.
The rest of the character development is rather puzzling, however. Many of the characters are introduced, presented with avenues for further development, but then seemingly dropped by the end of the series. While I believe this works within the slice-of-life framework that the series operates by, it will probably leave many viewers thirsty for a more concrete resolution. Despite this, NieA_7 offers an excellent cast of characters that, although playing by many of the familiar tropes, are still well written and well maneuvered within their context.
Overall, NieA_7 is a highly enjoyable experience for those interested in relaxed, tone-setting narratives based around the simple things in life. read more
1 of 1 episodes seen
While the level of detail may not be up to most expectations of the casual anime viewer, it should be noted that it more than makes up for this with its smoothness and frame rate. The opening sequence alone will have any audience hooked as Horus beats off a pack of wolves—and is shot so as to be easily one of the most memorable opening sequences ever filmed. This impeccable level of quality is maintained throughout the film with only a few exceptions.
The theme music is memorable, though the rest of the soundtrack is rather forgettable and fairly typical of its time period. It nonetheless suits the visuals it accompanies, regardless of its dated nature. The few "musical numbers" that peek up are used as plot advancements and tone-setters rather than merely to spotlight frivolous musical interludes--and several of them are used to highlight character development. Which brings me to the characters, who--while perhaps two-dimensional--are solidly written and developed within the context of their narrative purpose.
Superficially, it isn’t hard to draw comparisons to the Golden Age of Disney animation; the smoothness and overall quality of the animation is spot-on, and the character models, settings, and color pallet are all reminiscent of Disney’s from the same time period. But that’s where the comparisons end; although the story takes place in a Nordic-like environment in the West, the story remains centered around themes concerning death and vengeance, communal acceptance, and rejection that are largely developed through methods that owe more to Akira Kurosawa than to Walt Disney—specifically the overtly dark atmosphere that hangs about the whole work, and the general level of grimness present throughout the tale.
Hols: Prince of the Sun is a landmark for Japanese animation. It is perhaps best enjoyed by the audience it was intended for, as many contemporary anime fans will probably be turned off by its superficial resemblances to simpler animation, its dated quality, or the fact that it was produced as a children’s story. However, this should not dissuade any fans of older animation or animation in general, as it stands on its own as a great story with interesting visuals regardless. read more
25 of 25 episodes seen
The directing is superb, though I cannot say with much conviction that it’s entirely noteworthy. The signature tracking shots of dog-fighters have been given extraordinary retrofits with wonderful CGI integration, and immediately call to any Macross fan’s mind the meticulously drawn epic battles of the original series and its companion film, yet they still manage to remain largely unique. This lies in the masterful art direction and consistently top-notch quality found throughout the whole series, giving the impression of absolute relevancy yet remaining “Macross” enough to justify just enough nostalgia to appeal to any fan.
The soundtrack is easily one of the series’ highlights (though it shouldn’t be said that it is its best feature, considering how utterly well-done the series as a whole is). Yoko Kanno provides the perfect musical accompaniment to the lovely vocals of Megumi Nakajima and May Nakabayashi. The climax of the whole show provides one of the most interesting medley collages of music I’ve ever encountered, and pretty much reestablishes (or at least adds credence to) Yoko Kanno’s position as one of the greatest soundtrack composers of all time.
And then there’s the narrative. This is a show that takes everything the last decade’s anime had to offer, rolls it up into a single coherent narrative, and manages to not only pull off a great story, but actually USE these tropes, clichés, and techniques as something more than they’re usually intended. Its surface-level plot is utterly brilliant in its simplicity, as it allows the deeper aspects of its meta-themes to shine through—particularly its rather odd-yet-genius juxtaposition of moe, school drama, and slice-of-life with mecha, space opera, sci-fi, and action of apocalyptic scope. While this may not be entirely new to the genre—nor even to the Macross franchise, seeing as how SDF-Macross did something along these lines on its own—it should be noted that Macross Frontier raises the bar with its ability to pull these ideas (and more) into a cohesive narrative structure.
Its seemingly simplistic plot allows for character development in leaps and bounds, to the point that just about every character in the series is fleshed out enough to be a well-rounded and three-dimensional device. Despite this, Macross Frontier remains a heavily plot-driven show, as much of the conflict created between the characters—masterfully handled as it is—remains largely unresolved through interactions and relies on plot-driven consequences in order to keep the whole narrative flowing. At times this peeks through as a detriment, but for the most part the show manages to balance itself out. To its credit, it never fully lapses into ungrounded melodrama and angst in order to illustrate character interaction, and seems to be acutely aware of the fine line between well-executed drama and baseless moaning. In compensation for its shortcomings with overall character drive, the plot takes advantage of allegory and an abundant use of vague foreshadowing to create an ever-shifting storyline that never really has a chance to congeal into a set routine.
This is a series that will have you grinning madly with anticipation, overwhelmed with the intensity of the action, and feeling the impact of rejection, doubt, and loss. It’s a fantastic introduction to the Macross franchise, and it’s the perfect successor to the Macross name. Recommended to any fan of anime. read more