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To say that Darling in the Franxx was, or even still is, a contentious show is underselling exactly how divisive the discussion surrounding it really is. Almost any talking point regarding Franxx resembles a genuine fight among its participants more than an engaged and respectful dialogue between anime fans. These arguments stem from a variety of issues ranging from the surface level critique of the apparent compromises in the show resulting from its existence as a collaboration between industry trend setter A-1 Pictures and zanny, individualistic Studio Trigger; all the way down to debates over the quality of the character writing episode to episode.

But ... no matter your personal feelings towards Franxx, it can’t be denied that Franxx is special in that it has something for everyone. There’s bittersweet and heart wrenching romance for the fans of drama, it’s a coming of age story for the shonen fans, mecha fans and kaiju lovers are covered in equal measure. Aliens, political conspiracy, philosophy, war drama, slice of life, fanservice: Franxx has it all. And there is definitely an argument to be made that in trying to embrace all types of stories, it succeeds at none of them. And while I don’t think this is a fair assessment of its execution, what is more interesting to me about this menagerie of narratives is the inexplicable inability of any of them to have shifted the conversation surrounding Franxx to something more mellow.

Of course every show (or at least nearly every show) will have its religious fans and ardent detractors but I would think that with so much on offer, the vast majority of people would, even if they did have serious issues with Franxx, be able to admit that there was at least one element in it that they enjoyed. But I never see it. Everyone is either claiming that it’s trash garbage or genuinely one of our generations’ greats.

Why? What is it about Franxx that keeps the debate so focused?

By the title of this review you probably already know how I feel about Franxx, but it’s not as though I’m a defender of the show wholesale. It has some serious flaws too, and to really understand why I take the position that I do, we’ve got to analyze everything about Darling in the Franxx. And I mean everything, including a look into director Atsushi Nishigori and even the show’s promotional poster. We’re gonna start with said poster, move through each episode, discussing exactly how beautifully constructed and executed Franxx is, focus heavily on the turning point in episodes 16 and 17, and follow through with a detailed look the cause of what I consider to be a crash and burn in the last third, especially as it relates to Nishigori’s career in the anime industry.

Strap yourselves in, this is gonna be a long one.

To form an understanding of Franxx and thereby be able to examine it from a more comprehensive analytical perspective, we have to identify what it really is. The vast number of elements I mentioned in the introduction obfuscate this to the average viewer via sheer density of concepts but by looking at Franxx’s promotional poster, we can come to a more grounded conclusion on Franxx’s thematic througline.

(Be warned you are going to hear phrases like thematic throughline and narrative execution over… and over… and over… and over in this review).

Let’s take a look at this poster. From a glance it seems pretty simple and standard. We’ve got all the members of Squad 13 with 02 above them and Strelizia in the background along with an even split top to bottom between the red and blue color scheme that defines much of the aesthetic color palette of Darling in the Franxx. However, there’s a lot more going on here with the lines of action in this image and the placement and sizing of these various elements that do actually tell us exactly what kind of show Darling in the Franxx will be without even having yet visited a single episode. Right away we have the color balance between red and blue and the lines of action as they transition from one to the other. Red is a more bold, captivating color, and immediately draws the eye toward it where we can see Strelizia’s face. However, despite being the eyecatch of the poster, Strelizia is not where your eyes are directed. In fact, the lines of action for Strelizia actually direct away from her, moving down and to the right where they first cut across 02, and continue down into the members of Squad 13.

Notice the placement of the individual members and how they’re arranged and sized. Each one has been placed either in the foreground or background as necessary to keep all of their heads within a relatively concentrated space and their shoulders are all set as close to even with each other as possible without making it feel awkward and unnatural through blatant resizing. This placement of the members of Squad 13 does several things, but to keep our focus for now on the line of action, this arrangement draws the eye down from Strelizia, across 02, and then wraps around each one of the members. But there’s more to it. There is an oddly shaped and starkly out of place black piece of a klaxosaur sticking out in the background between Ikuno and Kokoro. This singular piece of design work exists to restart the line of action into a loop, keeping your eyes more focused on the members of Squad 13 than anything else in the image.

This work of design points to what I consider to be the inexorable thematic driver of Franxx, but there is even more in the poster to support it. Notice how, despite being farther back in perspective, 02 occupies the almost dead center of the image on both axes. This is an immediate and obvious telegraph of how she will function as the axis upon which Franxx’s narrative revolves. Additionally, if we include her in the depiction of Squad 13, the characters take up at least two-thirds of the space in the image. And to top it off, though Strelizia is responsible for directing the initial line of action, she remains in the background and her full body cut off, additionally being canted to the side rather than barring her form in a full frontal depiction of hyper detailed mech glory.

All of these elements come together to tell us exactly what Darling in the Franxx is about. People. Real, honest to god, humans. This will be a character story. A story of exploring the dynamics of character interaction, where the tangible details of the plot, the lore, and the visual design, while important, are still more or less window dressing and accentuation to the key component. The human element. And while it is true that this claim can be made about no shortage of other robot shows, if we look at the poster for let’s say, Eureka 7 (from which Franxx draws a heavy amount of inspiration I’d say), we see a huge contrast between the displayed importance of the Type 0 compared to the displayed importance of Strelizia. Note in the Eureka 7 poster how much more immediately prominent the Type 0 is even at just a glance. It easily consumes 75% of the poster’s space, and furthermore, the lines of action support its portrayed importance. The Type 0 forms a sharp, fiercely angular twin line of action from right to left, peaking at it’s head and keeping your eyes trained on its form. Eureka and Renton, the ostensibly principle characters of the show, are shown at accurately relative scale to the Type 0, being small and insignificant to its mass. It even seems to shroud and hunch over them like a protective parent figure, trying to keep your attention from lingering on them too long. With all of this emphasis on the Type 0, one could be forgiven in believing that the Type 0, not Renton, Eureka, and their budding romance is the key player in the show despite the opposite being true. But Darling in the Franxx’s poster tells a much more synergetic story with the actual show’s themes, and as we move through each episode of the show, we’ll begin to see exactly how this manifests and why I hold the position that I do.

First episodes are often a mess, boring, or both due to having so much weight of tasking on their shoulders. There is lore, tone, characters, style, narrative, motives, villians, heroes, and anything and everything in between that a first episode has to at least do something to hint at or establish. To lessen this burden, it’s not uncommon for first episodes to abandon some of these traits on the side of the metaphorical road to make room for what is supposed to shine as the focus point of the show to follow. Which is often a very effective and welcome choice, as it more quickly cues the audience in to where they should be paying attention. However, Darling in the Franxx does not have this luxury of choice. It is a show heavily couched in the use of visual metaphor, and as such, cannot afford to leave any element by the wayside lest it feel forced and an added, unnecessary layer when it is introduced later. Simultaneously though, Franxx does still need to provide an indication of its focal point in the first episode.

To do this, Franxx immediately jumps into a miniature character arc which is established, explored, and resolved all within its first 22 minutes. Episode 1 of Darling in the Franxx opens with back to back reflections of 02 and Hiro on the metaphor of the Jian bird. In so doing, Franxx has within the first minute not only cued us into its heavy reliance on metaphor, which is even more important when we roll into episode 2, but also established the dichotomy of perspective between Hiro and 02. This back-to-back compare and contrast of the views of two characters on the same subject is a direct call to what will be the central narrative driver of Franxx: character interaction by way of character dynamism. Explorations of how people of different views and perspectives come together and clash or learn from one another.

But layered even further on top of this is how these two monologues establish everything we need to know going forward about both Hiro and 02 as individuals. It provides a starting point for their characters which will be used as the foundation for our understanding of their development as well as serve as a known constant when we delve into their respective pasts. Additionally, by making the monologues reflections on a metaphorical folktale, Franxx is hinting at its desire for us the audience to be interpretive about what we see and hear from its characters. Apart from keeping Hiro and 02 from seeming like melodramatic, overly sentimental teenagers thinking only about themselves even though that is exactly what the monologues are in reference to, the Jian is the show’s way of asking the audience to pay closer attention and be an active rather than passive viewer. This statement from show to audience is more blatant in episode 2, where we’ll cover the idea in more complete depth.

But having given us a solid baseline for understanding Hiro and 02, Franxx then proceeds to show us all of the other major characters in much briefer scenes that are the barest minimums for introductions. We are presented with all the other members of Squad 13 and Nana, Hachi, and Doctor Franxx are introduced For added suspension of disbelief, we get a fair amount of establishing shots of the world in which this story will take place. But the most notable part of the ensuing scenes which mostly count only as expository dialogue is how they build tension for our mini arc. This arc is climaxed in Hiro and 02’s first meeting at the edge of the pond in Mistilteinn and consummated at the episode’s end when Hiro enters Strelizia with 02.

This miniature character arc is all about that establishment of character dynamics informing the narrative movement of Franxx that I mentioned. Up until their meeting at the pond, Hiro and 02 have minimal interactions with those around them. For Hiro, this is most pronounced as he doesn’t have a single spoken line toward any other character until meeting 02, the barest minimum of interaction being his reading Ichigo’s text, which lacks any dynamism since Ichigo herself is not present. 02 does have dialogue aboard the cargo ship with both Nana and Doctor Franxx but it is cold, curt, and made under the pretenses of a professional exchange. It is, in and of itself, devoid of actual character just as Hiro’s reading Ichigo’s text is.

This lack of dynamism is starkly contrasted against the vibrant and colorful phrasing both Hiro and 02 use when reflecting on the Jian, and as such build tension through their difference. This tension is thusly broken and the flavor of the show restored and amplified when Hiro and 02 finally do meet and their interaction is both playful, rapid, and genuine. In this sequence, we are shown that Franxx’s strength and enjoyment will be derived primarily from its character interactions. It should also be noted how prior to Hiro and 02 meeting, they had both been encased in heavy shadows and at their meeting, both are thrown into full light, this even more accentuated by 02’s nakedness.

This mark of energy and brightness is brought to a sudden end with the arrival of the plantation security and 02’s present partner, who throws her back into shadow when he covers her face with her military cap. The following scenes with Hiro mirror those of 02 from the episode’s opening, being brief and of a purely professional nature and returning him to shadowed lighting. Even his farewell to Naomi, which on its surface is more dynamic in how it adds gravity via emotional weight, is rendered less impactful by the heavy cloud clover reducing the show’s colors to a sepia gradient.

This is broken by the appearance of the klaxosaur and Strelizia’s fight against it, but it doesn’t regain it’s full expressive power until Hiro enters Strelizia with 02 and she kisses him for the first time. As a true climactic capstone, we are treated to one of only two transformation sequences for Strelizia (this is important when we get to the second one) which is played in riveting, gorgeous detail against a flashy red background and underscored by triumphant rising notes which continue as Strelizia absolutely dominates the klaxosaur in seconds.

If we plot these points along a standard graph for story arcs, we can see how episode one follows it to a tee using only character interaction to build, release, rebuild, and climax within the span of only twenty-three minutes. Not only in this first episode has Darling in the Franxx introduced us to all of the major characters, the world, and basics of the lore it has told a complete story of emotional dichotomy and dynamism purely on the back of its two principle characters’ first two interactions. This takes the writing that was on the wall from the poster and lays it out plain as day that Darling in the Franxx is a show with its narrative driver firmly seated in character interaction.

So, coming off the heels of episode 1’s density of introductions, both conceptual and tangible, Darling in the Fanxx now has room to breathe. It can use individual episodes to more gradually, carefully, and in more detail; develop key ideas, scenes, and characters which will move the show forward. Chief among these is the insistent, heavy use of visual metaphor; and to ensure that it need not dwell too long on this throughout its run, Franxx chooses to frontload it into episode two. This is a bit of the equivalent of hitting you over the head with a baseball bat to make sure you get the point, but as we’ll see, there is a rationale for it. Nishigori’s use of specifically sexual metaphor is aiming to accomplish something very rarely done in most shows, and even more so in science fiction ones.

On the one hand, the discussion of sex in any capacity is damn near guaranteed to happen, no matter how subdued or forward a form it takes, when the show’s main cast are all teenagers. The sexual awakening experienced during puberty is an integral part of growing up, and Franxx does not try to imply that it is not tinged with elements of a coming of age story. It is after all, a super robot show and nearly all shows of this genre have this theme, be it the primary narrative driver or more of a subplot.

But therein lies the oddity.

Because even outside of giant robot shows, the number of anime which tackle puberty, coming of age, falling in love, and the birth of sexuality as part of one’s psyche is basically innumerable. The primary demographic for most shows is teenagers and young 20 somethings, people who will automatically resonate with these themes. The odd thing is, when you examine the shows which do tackle pubescent sexuality, even in the ones that do so immaculately, there is an element of restraint with regard to the depiction of sex. So if we can conclude that blatant sexual metaphor is not necessarily required to tackle these issues convincingly, why does Darling in the Franxx take this extreme angle.

There is meat to the argument that Franxx’s more flagrant display of sex is the result of the influence of Studio Trigger (how could you not make this comparison when they were responsible for one of the most sexually charged shows of the early 2010s, Kill La Kill). However, I don’t think this tells the whole story, since as more than one analyst has pointed out, if Trigger were responsible for these elements, they would have been even more explicit for the hell of it. On top of this, we cannot ignore the fact that Nishigori’s last credit before the Trigger and Gainax split was the even raunchier Panty and Stocking w/ Garterbelt. It would seem to me, that if Nishigori and the folks at Trigger wanted to be sexually forward, they would have pulled out all the stops and not held back at just metaphor.

Extrapolating from this, we can then conclude that the use of sexual metaphor in Darling in the Franxx is a purposeful decision in service of the narrative. However, as previously established, other shows have done an even better job of exploring sexuality than Franxx does and without the intense use of innuendo. And it is here where we begin to see where Nishigori’s talent as a writer and director truly lie. Because Franxx’s sexual metaphor is not in service of the on screen narrative. It doesn’t exist for the characters. They have been raised in a sterile, sexless environment in which the hormonal fluctuations of youth are weaponized for piloting giant war machines. They have no context through which to interpret these situations they have been placed in. For the internal character interactions, this develops characters whose feelings of attraction are more pure and less tainted by lust than ours would be in the same positions.

And that difference is the key.

Nishigori is playing a very dangerous game by having the sexual metaphor be in service to us, the audience. They are there to accentuate our own narrative experience of watching the show. We are the ones who recognize the metaphors for what they are and can draw conclusions about the characters through them without the need for dialogue. The sexuality in Franxx, as so presented, is a blatant, overt breaking of the fourth wall to communicate directly with the audience. Under normal circumstances this would be a terrible idea as such a direct point of contact with the audience generally shatters suspension of disbelief, the continual maintaining of which is more crucial to the success of science fiction than almost any other genre. As opposed to feeling like you are experiencing the events of the show with the characters, inserting this level of sexual communication removes involvement and reinforces Franxx’s existence as a piece of media.

Except, that’s exactly the point. Franxx doesn’t want you to engage with it or become involved. By inserting so many sexual metaphors which force the audience to reconsider the show’s context in reference to their understanding of reality, Franxx is demanding that you experience it analytically; that you remove yourself from it and look at it as an observer. It wants you to be privy to all it’s more subtle nuances and small movements and changes that take place in the character dynamics as the driver for enjoyment. And since doing this is best achieved from the perspective of an outsider looking in, Darling in the Franxx leverages the near universal experience of sexual arousal to place you in that position. Regardless of how you feel about it, sex is considered one of the most taboo elements of life for public discussion. The reservations that we have as a society toward sex, has developed a high level of sensitivity to it in media. And this is where we begin to see Nishigori’s strength as a director and writer. By permeating Darling in the Franxx with heavy handed sexual metaphor, he not only has created unique character dynamics which require no dialogue on the part of the characters for us to interpret, but manipulated our sensitivity toward sex in media to deftly control the way we experience Franxx and direct our attention to exactly which thematic elements he wants us to pay attention to.

We’ll come back to exactly how effective this technique is as we move through the rest of the episodes and explore the development of Hiro and 02’s relationship (which is briefly touched on in episode 2 via Ichigo’s failed attempt to pilot with Hiro) but it’s important to establish this style upfront so we can see exactly how it’s used in the first two thirds and the damage it does to Franxx when it is completely removed in the latter third.

So if episode 2 was all about setting up Darling in the Franxx’s style and tone and establishing the audience relationship to it, episode 3 takes over beginning to move the narrative forward by setting up and establishing the complex web of character dynamics within Squad 13. While we do have touches of development for all of the cast, episode three chooses to focus most of its time bringing the dynamics between Hiro, 02, Goro, and Ichigo to the forefront as their interactions will drive the narrative more-so than the rest.

In order for the interactions between all of them to bear weight, Nishigori establishes that there are multiple dynamics at play here and begins to seed the direction and character they will all converge on. And it’s not who you think it is. But before we explore each dynamic on display, it’s important to understand what a thin tightrope Nishigori is walking with such a large cast upon whom rests all of Franxx’s narrative momentum. It goes without saying that exploration of character dynamics in a show where interaction is the narrative driver is absolutely essential to its success. Not only do these dynamics give us an understanding of the connections a large cast shares, but they also serve as a foundation via each characters’ perspective upon which we can grow a recognition of their key individual traits. As a singular element, these interactions must therefore accomplish two sides of development. But by using lore to immediately pair off all of the cast members, Nishigori seems to have seriously hamstrung himself in this department.

Typically, in a show with a large cast such as Franxx, there is a central main character who has some sort of connection with all of the other cast members and whose interactions with them will incentivize development and move the narrative forward. Unfortunately, what this usually will cause is the creation of a bland and uninteresting main character who seems to be able to do no wrong. Despite their multitude of interactions, these main characters receive no development themselves, resulting in what feels like either a self insert on the part of the author (the LN problem) or a shell proxy through which the audience is meant to insert themselves (the VN problem). Though at first it seems ill advised, Nishigori’s segmentation of the cast into distinct pairs is in fact directly countering this problem and also preventing dynamism overload.

Like with any element of constructing a story, there is a breaking point at which excessive use ends up doing more harm than good. In this case, setting up too much potential interaction between characters devalues development and results in character ambiguity. This nebulous effect only serves to build disinterest in the audience, as there is no way to subvert or confirm expectations with so many variables in place upon which to structure suspense. This simple restructuring of the cast is Nishigori demonstrating his mastery of character writing (and we’ll get to where he most likely learned how to do it later down the line).

However, Nishigori can’t completely remove the value that a convergence character brings to the table. Though there are massive benefits to pairing off the cast, there still does need to be at least one character who has the ability to influence all of the others. Without such a character, Nishigori has no natural way to guide the direction of the plot and would be forced to do so using external factors. And as Darling in the Franxx has already established itself to be a show narratively driven by internal character dynamics, this makes absolutely no sense and would only generate a feeling of contrived development.

If we go off the poster for Franxx, one would naturally assume that this convergence character is either 02 or Hiro and thus far, we have had leanings that Hiro will fulfill this role as most of the cast seem to respect him for his determination if nothing else. Except, neither Hiro nor 02 actually fill this role nor are they suited for it. Even at this point in episode three, we have seen that each of them is strongest as a character when bouncing off one another. What is presented to us is a relationship built from emotional synchronicity: specifically at this stage, a mutual feeling of purpose and a determination to prove oneself. These are aspects of their dynamism that are exclusive to them, both as individuals and as a couple. These elements of their character which have thus far been their drivers are not relayed through any of the other cast members, this being blatantly apparent in Ichigo’s inability to pilot Delphinium with Hiro. As such, their ability to influence the rest of the cast is essentially nonexistent.

So we’re left with only two possible options, and for anyone who has seen Franxx, it should be obvious who it is. Ichigo. Goro can’t fulfill this role because he never really establishes any firm dichotomy with 02. This interactivity is mostly sourced between himself and Hiro, at least for now. There is a strong sense of brotherly love between them, as Goro is the only one we have seen Hiro going out of his way to speak to and seek advice from at that. In their relationship, Goro is like an older brother for Hiro, being wiser and the voice of reason against Hiro’s tendencies toward whim.

But Ichigo. She is primed to be the collective narrative driver, and not just because she has complicated ties to Hiro, Goro, and 02. As the field commander for Squad 13, she has positional authority and respect from the entire rest of the cast which allows her to sit in the driver’s seat of the story and make decisions for everyone involved at critical junctures in the plot. Outside of her connection to the corollary characters as an authority figure, Ichigo represents the widest array of emotional dynamism with the other three focus characters. Between her and Hiro we have a very obvious sense of unrequited love and her own emotional insecurity and ignorance on how to handle it. The nature of their relationship being unrequited is a major additional factor as to why Hiro cannot function as focal character to drive the plot. As it stands, their relationship lacks dichotomy in that its energy is being derived entirely from Ichigo without reciprocation. Her relationship with 02 is ostensibly even more obvious. She is jealous and fearful of 02 in her ability to so quickly enchant and steal away the object of Ichigo’s affection. But there is a bit of a subtext here in episode 3 that layers in a third element in their relationship. Ichigo refuses to acknowledge 02 as being worthy of attention.

When Strelizia dives into the magma energy mine to rescue the other three Franxx, Ichigo’s response to this is not to exclaim her surprise at both 02 (and whom she assumes is Hiro), but exclusively to shout Hiro’s name. Her refusal to acknowledge them both as a pair forming a whole is a much deeper seated form of vitriol toward 02, which will eventually develop into outright hatred driving her actions in episode 14. And of course, there is her relationship to her piloting partner in Goro. The two of them have the longest running interactive development of any of the pairs due to faults in both of their approaches to one another. As of episode 3 though, what we do see is a functional if stiff and professional relationship. They are both purposeful, driven, and share a desire to work together for the good of everyone.

But Nishigori doesn’t just allow this spiderweb of dynamism in Ichigo to bear the full weight of driving the show. He also takes advantage of her more unique position in the cast through the lens of trope expectations. For one, she isn’t the main character. That role is in fact occupied by Hiro and 02. Their job from a technical perspective is to build engagement. They are the ones whose problems and development the audience wants to see resolved most. In this department, Ichigo’s issues are a secondary concern. Additionally, having already previously established that Franxx derives audience enjoyment through powerful and meaningful character interaction and specifically, dichotomy, only Hiro and 02 are really in a position to execute on this factor. With Ichigo having her interactivity spread quite thin between every member of the cast and lacking actual dichotomy with many of them, she cannot push the show in this way. This means that her character is solely responsible for pushing along the plot and not anything else. This division of functions within the narrative which are all typically held by the main character frees both up to feel more fully realized in their roles and as developed characters while also not overburdening them to the point of becoming huge nothing-burgers which would necessarily lack any flaws.

And even more to the point, no matter how sexist it may sound, Ichigo is not a male. With the vast majority of otaku being men and boys, her existence as a woman prevents audience self insertion in a search for echoes of romance. Not only does this preserve Ichigo’s function as purely plot narrative driver, but also harkens back to the point I made earlier about how Franxx wants its audience to engage with it. Segmenting off the cast into defined couples, using overt, visual sexual metaphor, and backhanding attempts at self insertion through Ichigo are all there to continually remind the audience that Franxx is best enjoyed from a more detached level of engagement.

And lastly, as we round out the end of episode 3, some seeds are planted for Hiro with regard to his function as the main character. You see, in shows where romance is less a question of choice (harems) and more a question of time, the development of the relationship is probably one of the most heavily critiqued tropes in all of anime. The initial development and introduction of the relationship is blisteringly fast, done in service of ensuring the audience is well aware that this relationship is going to be the emotional throughline. However, in order to then fill out a full show with continuous development, the relationship grinds to an incredibly frustrating crawl or sometimes even a complete halt. And this absurd heel turn in pacing is accomplished as either one or both of the involved parties waffles over, around, up, and down about how to further the relationship.

And near the end of episode 3 of Darling in the Franxx we seem to be heading straight into this trope. With six of the members of Squad 13 having their lives on the line, Strelizia (and thus 02) must sortie to save them. 02 is of course insistent that Hiro be the one to pilot with her whilst Hachi and Nana refuse to allow it and Mitsuru offers himself up to be Strelizia’s stamen. Hiro is then placed in the position to choose whether to insist he ride with 02 or allow Mitsuru to go with her instead. And he falls right in line with the trope, waffling under the pressure and attempting to run the middle ground to satisfy the most people and still save his friends.

But, Franxx is not in any way interested in running with tropes because we see in the end of episode 3, that Hiro is punished in two ways for this decision. The most clear cut one is the simple fact that in trying to reduce the number of casualties in Squad 13, Hiro essentially offers Mitsuru up for slaughter as he nearly goes insane and almost dies riding Strelizia. And on top of this, we are shown that despite railroading himself into the trope, he does actually struggle with the decision. This is a telegraphed setup for how Franxx will handle the romantic relationship of Hiro and 02 in episode 4. By depicting Hiro’s decision to stay within the safe bounds of character tropes being close to objectively wrong, Nishigori is telling us that his characters are not running on an industry defined script. That the dynamism that we have seen so far is not an affectation of good writing or imagined depth, and that his show is going to stand on its own two feet with a unique perspective on well trodden themes.

It then stands to reason that Nishigori uses episode four to make good on these promises. The majority of the episode’s run time is spent doubling down on and confirming the consequences of the events from episode three. The extent of the mental and physical trauma of Mitsuru riding with 02 is fully revealed along with Hiro continuing to struggle with his choice to remain a passive actor in the world around him. Hiro’s internal debate is further accentuated when 02 confronts him about it directly, trying to discern his motivation for essentially rejecting her companionship. But before we move on to the real meat of this episode, the level of finesse in storytelling by Nishigori up to this point should be noted.

Especially in science fiction, abiding by the golden rule of ‘show, don’t tell’ is rather difficult. Even more so when resting neatly in the realm of science fiction fantasy as Darling in the Franxx does. There is a certain level of ‘telling’ inherent to these stories as the finite details of the rules by which the world operates can’t be fully explained purely by showing without an obviously contrived set of circumstances, devalued by the fact that said circumstances are likely to never again occur within the bounds of the story. However, the other side to this coin, directly spelling out the details of a setting in fantasy and techno babble is not only disengaging for the audience, it creates a set tone; one in which a shift back to showing for the sake of character narrative becomes more difficult and a stark contrast.

But by crafting Franxx’s world to be an explicit component of the character writing through metaphor, Nishigori has allowed himself the ability to never necessarily need to comment on the exact inner workings of the science fiction elements on display. The how of Franxx’s world doesn’t matter and Nishigori’s refusal to comment on it in that regard pushes the narrative naturally toward showing over telling. This further compounds the idea that Darling in the Franxx is a character drama before it is a science fiction story in so much that the most powerful of character dramas achieve their resonance through human interactivity behind walls of insecurity instead of direct statements of fact. Additionally, with so much exploration of the character dynamics occurring as a result of the explicit metaphor, it then also stands to reason that the more overt developments themselves also follow this style, once again asking the audience to engage with Franxx on a deeper, more interpretive level.

This idea of showing over telling to an almost exclusive degree is hugely important in Franxx’s seminal moments, as without being cued into everything Nishigori is relaying through on screen action, a massive chunk of the nuance of the character writing is lost. So much of what happens, especially between Hiro and 02 in episode 4, 5, and 6 is lost without this attunement to Darling in the Franxx’s layered dynamism as very little of it is ever outright explained to the audience.

Because, on its surface, the turning point for episode 4 (and for the show at large even) amounts to little more than an overblown confession scene warped by a dollop of action. Except, it is so much more than something that simple. Viewed with the understanding that Nishigori is well aware of MC tropes and how they shape the dynamics between him and the rest of the cast, Hiro’s confession to 02 and her acceptance of said confession shatters the typical roles of agency between their character archetypes.

It is common to a point of being dull for declarations of affection in fantasy or science fiction shows to be contextualized by a sense of duty, a feeling of destiny, or some other greater, cosmic motivating justification for the feelings of the male lead. But this has already been established to be Hiro’s approach to his attraction to 02 as well as shown to be a near fatally disingenuous denial of Hiro’s personal feelings. As Hiro desperately tries to prevent 02’s removal from Squad 13, he is forced to leave behind these instinctual justifications for his attraction to 02. In a vulnerable stroke of honesty, Hiro declares that his attraction to her is for her person, something deeply personal and separated from the logic of the outside world.

This. Is. HUGE.

This methodology really is incredible with the density of subtext. Firstly, in opening Hiro up with this level of near shameful honesty, Nishigori has immediately established that going forward, this relationship will develop without the need for the overdone trope of miscommunication. The burden of dynamism will fall squarely on the shoulders of them as distinct and interesting characters rather than relying on a situational catalyst. In a relationship consummated via honesty, the idea of miscommunication (which is effectively dishonesty through silence) cannot convincingly drive their personal narratives without feeling overly contrived. This is effectively a massive flex on Nishigori’s part, as he is communicating a confidence in his characters’ ability to carry their own dynamism without the need for authorial intervention.

Secondly, in planting the relationship firmly on grounds of a personally driven emotional context rather than one motivated by destiny, Hiro has further stripped away agency in their relationship from anything other than the two of them. When impetus for a relationship is provided by forces outside the relevant parties’ control, it is negatively impacted both from the perspective of pathos and that of dynamic responsibility. Were it evident that the universe willed Hiro and 02 to be together, the value of the relationship would be compromised as there would be no risk potential of them possibly breaking up. On top of this, by removing the agency of outside sources to dictate the development path of their relationship, Hiro and 02 can only become closer or farther apart via their own actions. Both of these elements combine to once again reinforce their dynamism as a couple by keeping the power of that dynamism firmly within their exclusive control.

And thirdly, the effects of the other two factors coalesce to form a relationship which moves independent of the plot, which I referenced before in my discussion on Ichigo. This creates yet another point of dichotomy within the show; that of the emotional narrative against the plot narrative. The two degrees of separation between 02 and Ichigo allow both narratives to move at paces independent of one another. This disparity creates an environment in which Ichigo’s actions do not directly affect Hiro and 02. As the plot develops at a faster clip than the relationship between Hiro and 02, their reaction to it is ancillary; a reaction to the repercussions of Ichigo’s choices over the choices themselves. The value of this dichotomy is sourced in how it allows each narrative to proceed separately at an independently appropriate pace while still keeping them connected enough to eventually meet in episode 15.

But Hiro is not the only one shifting agency away from tropic expectations in this scene. Where Hiro’s confession wrenches relationship agency into their hands as a couple, 02’s follow on actions alter their interpersonal agent roles. In confession scenes of this nature, the male lead typically must prove that his desires are heartfelt by battling through some form of physical restriction (enemies, traps, etc.) to reach the woman of his affection. While encouraging base sentiments of macho madness and bravado in the target audience, this is more often done due to how the male lead bears so much agency in the story. As the sole driver for movement forward in any elements of the narrative, he can never lose his ability to be the primary actor.

However, in this scene Hiro has been rendered powerless save for the sincerity of his words. This puts the onus for action on 02, and with a sly ‘How can I walk away from that?’, she battles her way in spectacularly dramatic fashion to stand beside Hiro and accept his declaration of love (though we haven’t gotten to the stage where that’s the word they use, which is important, as everything in this show seems to be). While no direct shift of agency has occurred through 02 being the one to hold it in this instance, since she has up to this point been consistently more forward and aggressive about her wants and desires, this does open up opportunities for Hiro and 02 as individuals. Nishigori’s willingness to go against the archetypal standard presents a situation which allows their agency within the relationship to bounce back and forth as they learn to lean on and support each other where each is strong or weak. This is, at its core, maturity through dynamism; a path which can only be convincingly walked through shared agency and is why tropic relationships feel so static and emotionally dead.

So as we move into episode five, the now verbally agreed upon relationship between Hiro and 02 (also now formally recognized as valid by the plot) will take center stage. With how quickly the plot will accelerate forward post episode 6, it is absolutely crucial for Darling in the Franxx to reinforce the relationship of its main characters such that we can believe its ability to withstand the trials and tribulations to come as well as not be wanting for large developmental arcs that would overcrowd later episodes. Episode five downshifts the tone of Darling in the Franxx away from action to allow for a more direct focus on character interaction. This provides breathing room for the audience post the significant dynamics shift in episode 4 and also gives Nishigori more control of the pacing as he transitions from one agency dichotomy to the next.

Because even if we can appreciate the creativity and freshness of reversing the typical agent roles between Hiro and 02, perpetuating these roles would be just as flat and uninteresting going forward as the traditional dichotomy. But simply creating a situation requiring a shift in this area would be both jarring and rudimentary, never mind not allowing for Franxx to obtain an ebb and flow to the pacing of it’s narrative. Therefore episode five acts as a slower, more natural touchstone in the relationship’s evolution, giving us both time to adjust to the new status quo as well as a necessary point in Hiro and 02’s arcs to seamlessly track their growth.

The major development of episode five is of course the realization that Hiro has contracted what amounts to dino AIDS from having piloted with 02. The alien, parasitic growth induces fever and severe physical pain for Hiro with an implication of death soon to follow. On the one hand, the tumor acts as a validity catalyst to Hiro’s confession from episode 4. While Hiro’s motivation for his declaration of love was not internally sourced from a sense of destiny to pilot with 02, the resolve he presents rings hollow if the show conspires to exempt him from the previously established consequences of riding with her. While Hiro remains more resistant to the damage 02 causes to her partners, the fact that he must endure an encroaching risk to life and limb translates to affirmation of his confession being more than lip service.

The growth also functions as a demonstration of the multiplicity of Hiro and 02’s agency within their relationship. Where episode 4 established a set dichotomy between them, Hiro’s tumor is 02’s passive agency at work. In testing Hiro’s mettle as a man and gauging whether his confession is heartfelt, she requires action from him without actively affecting the situation. And in order to meet this challenge, Hiro must step up and commit to his decision, placing the success of their relationship completely within his control. While his insistence on continuing to pilot with her and efforts to put on airs of being completely healthy do accentuate the point, the real impact of his taking on the active agency comes from his lack of regret. Not once over the course of the episode does he even come close to contemplating that he may have made a mistake in choosing to start a relationship with 02. In taking this approach, Hiro has more or less established an agent equilibrium with 02. Where she has gone from an active to more passive role while still retaining some measure of situational initiative, Hiro has transitioned from an agent recipient to an agent responder. By creating this common point of equally distributed agency at the very start of the relationship, Nishigori can use it as a reference point for all of the dichotomy shifts which will occur in the show thereafter. This means that the developments in their relationship are not housed entirely within starkly contrasted peaks and valleys, smoothing out their evolution as a couple into something more believably natural.

However, the beauty of this layered nuance combined with the previously established bases of the relationship runs Nishigori into an unavoidable problem. Hiro and 02 are too perfect. As individual characters, Nishighori has written Hiro and 02 to be perfectly compatible with one another, for their strengths to directly supplement their partners’ weaknesses. Barring intense and dedicated interference from a narratively powerful outside source, their synergy is simply too strong for their relationship to fail. It’s not as though this dynamic is wholly bad, as there is a romantically dramatic appeal to seeing such an idealism be portrayed realistically. And Nishigori has already previously made clear that the appeal of Hiro and 02’s relationship is less in the ‘if they can stay together’ and more in the ‘how do they stay together’.

Nevertheless, this invariably leads to a lack of inherent interest in the two of them when their personal hang-ups are not directly challenging the course of their relationship. This problem is not unique to Darling in the Franxx by a long shot, but in other shows, this issue is usually dodged by merely avoiding any scenes wherein there is no direct development for the couple in question and the expectation is that the audience will assume that whatever they are not shown merely follows in the same vein of perfection already in place. Nishigori though, as discussed, is confident in his characters, and instead of avoiding this conundrum, takes full advantage of Franxx possessing an ensemble cast to create a value proposition for Hiro and 02’s home life by means of contrast.

Specifically, he achieves this through Goro and Ichigo. As mentioned before, the two of them have an interactive arc over the course of the entire show due to their inability to be forwardly honest about their feelings for each other. But rather than use this simply as a side plot to contribute layered complexity between the members of the cast, Nishigori leverages it as a means to enhance the interactions between Hiro and 02 during the calms between storms. Rather than try to hide the nature of Hiro and 02’s domestic life to cut down on the saccharine purity in their relationship, Nishigori throws it into the open right alongside the alternative. This cuts the sweetness therein down to something more palatable. But considering there is significant value in inciting a full range of emotional response in an audience, which includes frustration and disappointment, Nishigori is able to offer the full palette of audience reaction by reserving Hiro and 02 for joy and happiness and Goro and Ichigo for the above negative feelings. This preserves the established dynamics of both couples, doesn’t railroad the audience into a set reception of the show, and adds a level of unpredictability when Ichigo tries inserting herself between Hiro and 02. Through all of this, Ichigo and Goro never lose luster as their own distinct characters despite how essential they are to serving as contrasts. They even undergo their own development while doing so, preventing us from seeing them solely as narrative tools in service of the stories in play.

And the importance of taking the time to more fully explore this interconnected labyrinth of character dynamics is reiterated by episode six. Because the entire episode really is nothing more than a protracted fight scene created purely as a tension build for development between Hiro and 02. I don’t think you could have a more clear communication of how independent Hiro and 02’s narrative is from that of the larger plot, as for over half the episode the two of them keep back from the massive spectacle fight, contemplating how much longer Hiro will outlast the tumorous dino AIDS. Though it occurred first at the end of episode 5, 02 is continuously concerned for Hiro’s well being and probes him about it multiple times despite his many assurances that he can still push on. Before even reaching the climax in episode 6, this creates a clear line of evolution for 02 that she has mostly lacked prior to this point. As an enigma of personality, 02’s internal dynamism up to the beginning of episode 6 has been generated in how she casually and aggressively forces people and the world around her to bend to her own proclivities whilst, ironically enough, remaining rather static herself. In displaying a genuine and perpetual distress (though she masks it behind a wall of teasing amusement) over Hiro’s degrading condition, 02 has moved from archetype to actual character. Where she initially saw Hiro as an interesting creature of curiosity with an apparently coincidental synergy with her for piloting Strelizia, 02 evolves into caring about him as a true partner worth defending at the cost of her own life. Whether by his own direct intentionality or not, this means Hiro’s agency in their relationship has achieved a tangible result, therefore providing a window for the next stage of its growth.

This opportunity is then immediately presented once Strelizia enters the fray and the parasitic growth on Hiro accelerates its harmful influence to the point of knocking him unconscious and nearly killing him. In this instance, Hiro is given one last chance to course correct his decision to stay with 02 in accepting death. Now of course, we as the audience, know full well what his choice will be. It’s only episode 6 and as we’ve already established, there really is no show without Hiro and 02. But that isn’t really the point. Once again, Darling in the Franxx, and by extension Nishigori, is not concerned with the tangible nature of what is happening on screen. In this moment, that Hiro will choose to fight back against his own impending death to stay with 02 is so obvious that Nishigori twists it, such that the intrigue is in why he takes the route he does, not that he takes the route at all.

Because in this scene, the question is not whether or not Hiro will accept death, but in fact whether he will accept life. And there is a defining distinction to make between the two. At the exact second that Hiro falls from his seat in the cockpit of Strelizia, He. Has. Died. There is no ambiguity of teetering on the edge of death here. Hiro has indeed passed from this mortal coil. We are then shown Hiro reliving his farewell to Naomi wherein she encourages him to not give up and to return to 02’s side. Only, as Hiro is dead, this is not actually Naomi, merely Hiro’s understanding of her and by extension, a projection of the part of himself she represents. Noami in Hiro’s mind is the culmination of his failures as a person, and considering his modus operandi up to this point has been a heavily internalized selfishness (exemplified in both his loner nature from episode 1 and rejection of it in his recognition of 02 being someone he cares about more than his own struggles in episode 4), Naomi here is a deification if you will of that selfishness.

If Hiro chooses to join Naomi in this scene, he embraces his selfish desire to live only for the personal thrill of piloting the Franxx, the act of which has killed him, and he will thusly remain deceased. Whereas in deciding to live, Hiro abandons Naomi and experiences nothing short of an ego death. The Hiro who is revived and healed of the tumorous growth is not the same Hiro who fell from the pilot’s seat and died. He has become a new and refocused man recognizing that his relationship with 02 cannot survive from a purely selfish motive even if it began as such. He has allowed the selfish lust of a boy to die, bringing to the surface the mature love of a man, which is why his first action upon waking is to embrace and comfort 02. This is why Darling in the Franxx has a massive Evangelion reference to conclude episode 6! As Eva is a show revolving entirely around the idea of the ego death, Franxx uses it not just as a tongue in cheek pop culture call out, but as a means to ensure that even if you missed everything in the sequence just prior, you are well aware of its implications going forward!

And it is with episode 6 that we reach the end of Franxx’s first arc. The base details of the world have been established, the dynamics and dichotomies between all of the members of the cast are well in place, and Hiro and 02 are at true even footing, both having exercised both active and passive agency in their relationship, ready to make the next step.

So of course the next natural step for the story is…. TO HAVE A FUCKIN’ BEACH EPISODE! I fuckin’ hate beach episodes and I don’t even think anyone will begrudge me this sentiment. They exist purely as merchandisable fan service vehicles of the highest order, even more pandering than fanservice focused shit like Prisma Illya. Of course there are exceptions to the rule like K-On and Mahou Shoujo Site, but by and large they are usually animation quality drop off, boring, meaninglessly titillating (ironic considering Franxx in its normal run time is more enticing on a carnal level than anything in its own fucking beach episode) nothing burgers. And I get the base reason they exist. Swimsuit variants of cute girl figurines sell like hot cakes, and with the rise of digital media 360 no scope killshotting DVD and Bluray sales, the industry needs every penny it can scrape together. The problem comes from the full self awareness of this motivation on the part of the studios.

Because in order to be sure the audience doesn’t just skip the beach episode (like I’m sure many would), it is injected with just enough plot and character relevance to make it necessary viewing material. Most blatantly Franxx does this exact thing with Kokoro finding the book on childbirth for expecting mothers. But in keeping with how any important information gleaned from this episode exists purely to hold audience attention long enough to sell skimpy swimsuit figures, Kokoro finding this book won’t even become genuinely relevant until ten episodes down the line even if it is alluded to from time to time in the interim. As such, it doesn’t even hold value in being shown in the episode as we could have merely been told she found it in the ruined city (which we in fact are through Mitsuru) and nothing of value would have been lost. It is the purest example of a tangible detail masquerading as genuine development.

Unfortunately, I can’t just rage against the machine with this episode and write it off as a painful if necessary drop in the bucket for the production. Because at the literal very end of the episode, we have a crucial scene between Hiro and Ichigo take place as they walk along the water’s edge under a starlit sky. In the sequence, Ichigo’s libido is beginning to break through her up to now stubborn attempts at composed restraint as her jealousy of 02 grows. She playfully probes Hiro, trying to illicit a confession of love, and when this fails to work, visibly begins to psych herself up to do the job herself. And here is where we need to pause and remind ourselves that Nishigori’s brilliance is not in boldly shattering established tropes into smaller pieces than the sand grains on this beach. He is instead a master of taking a known tropic methodology and tweaking it just enough to become something with a glow of artistry. Recognizable but fascinatingly unique.

As Ichigo finally musters the courage to tell Hiro she loves him, Hiro cuts her off with some bullshit about shooting stars, Ichigo recognizes the moment has passed, and the episode ends. Blink and you’ll miss it, but the slight adjustment here to the ‘they told their partner how they felt but something prevented the partner from hearing or remembering it’ does a ridiculous amount of development for Hiro and Ichigo. The first interesting part here is how there was no external factor involved in preventing Ichigo successfully delivering her confession. This removes the agency the environment often has in this trope and recenters the control of the situation back into the hands of the characters, particularly Ichigo. Because there was no reason she could not have barreled on through Hiro’s exclamation to make sure her feelings were understood. On the one hand, this calls back to the dichotomy between her and 02; of the stark difference between 02’s intensely self motivated and driven character versus Ichigo’s subversive and political nature and how the distinct similarities between Hiro and 02 in this area make them perfectly suited for one another.

But it also calls into question our entire understanding of Ichigo’s feelings for Hiro by lacing the romantic proposition with doubt. If Ichigo is unable to manifest the force of will to power through and declare her love for Hiro after we’ve already seen 02 literally whup some ass to do as much, the question must be raised what exactly it is that Ichigo feels for Hiro. While the answer is already clear judging by previous interactions they’ve had, I’ll save it for the moment when it becomes so clear it’s painful to watch and when it most manifests Ichigo’s power over the narrative.

As I said before though, this scene provides huge developments for Hiro as well, and it is through him specifically that Nishigori has twisted the trope. On the first and possibly even second viewing, Hiro interrupting Ichigo just before she confesses might be seen as just the culmination of the trope and little more, done at the expense of Hiro looking like a complete tool. However, Nishigori has up to now been quite careful to keep Hiro’s character writing rather consistent and for him to not conveniently forget events that have furthered his development. His unwavering narrative throughline in this regard is a large reason why I don’t find his design as insufferable as I would have otherwise, as his character inherently defies the expectations the design itself implies. It would seem awkward then, would it not, for even in a singular instance in a beach episode, that Nishigori would allow Hiro’s prior sensitivity as a character to completely fall by the wayside to hold true to a particularly worn out and despised interactive trope.

Point of fact, it would be odd and is why this is not at all the reason Hiro cuts off Ichigo before she can utter those three fatal words. Because Hiro already knows Ichigo is in love with him. While his being able to have an realistic understanding to the inkling is catalyzed by he himself falling in love with 02, we’ve been shown in scenes prior to this that Hiro is at least aware that Ichigo sees him very differently from the other members of Squad 13, even outside their history of having grown up together. In as early as episode 2, we see Hiro express a mild confusion when Goro describes Ichigo’s feelings as seeing Hiro as a sibling. This is not some typical anime styling of the MC as an emotional dunce, but rather a cue into Hiro’s relative certainty that even if he isn’t sure what it is that Ichigo feels for him, it is distinctly not the love of a sibling.

Though we never see him experience the revelation of recognizing Ichigo’s advances for what they are, what we do see is him sticking to the script Goro has given him. As of these instances, it would still be forgivable to assume that this is simply lazy reliance on anime MC expectations to build tension between Hiro and Ichigo, but the scene in episode 7 completely recontextualizes his actions. In interrupting Ichigo, Hiro is trying to let her down in the least damaging way possible whilst also acting as an admittance on his own part that he has no knowledge or experience on how to actually handle the situation. He is deflecting and avoiding the entire confrontation, which while naive in its own way, is still a true and consistent representation of his character as someone still going through the learning process of what it means to be in a committed relationship. His insistence on running with with Goro’s brother and sister script hasn’t been oblivious stupidity, but a more passive attempt by Hiro to reinforce to Ichigo without hurting her outright that he is not interested in her romantically and is forced to stop the conversation dead in its tracks when Ichigo ignores these hints and backs him into a metaphorical corner. From our perspective, we know Hiro’s approach can only lead to even greater tension which it does, but there’s a fine line between giving a character the idiot ball and the character genuinely not understanding how to handle a situation; a line Nishigori gracefully walks with Hiro like he’s been doing it for years.

With Franxx’s sellout to corporatism of a beach episode concluded, the expectation would be that the show moves into its second stretch with some kind of rising action… except… it doesn’t. Episode 8 follows episode 7 as a continuation of what I lovingly refer to as the cooldown effect. I use the term cooldown effect here because of its similarity to the cooling of forged steel to temper the metal into its new form. This type of micro-narrative, especially in shows like Franxx which have a larger or more impactful story occurring on a broader scale, act as a means of emotional and stakes reset for the audience. It seems odd that Franxx seemingly has two of these types of episodes back to back, but at my best guess, the introduction of Kokoro’s book and the scene between Hiro and Ichigo is a functional bare minimum for the episode to not neatly fall into the cooldown effect and as such bred episode 8’s conten

Anime is a cultural product, and for most (even non-otaku), that much is obvious. But the importance of this fact seems underestimated by my estimation. When I say anime is a cultural product, I don't just meant that it is set in Japan and infused with Japanese motifs, tropes, and ideals. Those things certainly play a part, but anime is a cultural product in its ethnocentrism as well. Though we western otaku have embraced anime and gone to extensive lengths to do so efficiently, anime is not really made for us. Anime is predominantly set in Japan, utilizes jokes specific to Japanese locales and language, ... and generally doesn't concern itself with perceptions of reality outside of Japan.

This level of ethnocentrism is, I think, partly why many western otaku go from simply being anime fans to becoming whole hearted weebs. It is a natural, horizontal expansion of interests and significantly increases one's ability to enjoy more of what anime has to offer. Frankly, that it doesn't happen to more of us is more surprising than it happening in the relatively few instances it does. After all, for me at least, part of the appeal of anime is that it is distinctly and blatantly not western in construction. And I can't be the only one for whom such is also the case, whether the source behind it is an outright distaste for western media or just being bored by our native story telling tropes.

But the same ethnocentrism that turns some of us into Japanophiles and draws us to anime over western media is equally responsible for gatekeeping it from others. Because anime is so foreign and uninterested in explaining itself to the uninitiated, it radiates the alien and unintelligible; and we all know humans are most frightened by what we don't understand. So it is with the monumental task of overcoming a facet of the human condition that an ongoing debate rages in our community.

What is the best show for introducing someone to anime?

Answers to this question run the gamut, as one would expect, and are often prefaced by a qualifying question, "What is the person into media-wise?" Regardless of the answer, it's my experience that the anime of choice is so given the honor for 'showing, not telling anime', as it were. The core of the idea is the same as ripping a bandage off quickly rather than slowly peeling it away. Since we value the alien of anime against the culture of our home, we feel this is what should be represented to newcomers. For if they cannot or do not love this more overarching, genre crossing aspect, how or why would they ever watch anime? We want to flood them with as much of what screams 'anime' to us, imagining something in that barrage will stick.

But thinking back to the first show I ever watched (Eureka 7 for those wondering), it being Japanese was not the principle reason I chose to pick it up. Hell, I can't even remember what it was aside from knowing there was a connection to something else I had watched around the same time. Sure, after seeing E7 and realizing there was an entire community around anime, I gradually came to value anime because of it's ethnocentric roots; but the key there is 'gradually'.

I think a good show to introduce someone to anime with should abscond from typical anime stylings and cultural trappings. And I'll be damned if I don't have an exceptional candidate.

Canaan.

Little discussed and likely only half remembered, Canaan was a simple anime original show from PA Works in 20009. There isn't anything overly standout about Canaan from a technical perspective. The animation doesn't cut corners when it matters in the action and isn't unwatchable in more passive scenes. The directing properly maintains episodic suspense without sacrificing intrigue of the overarching plot. And the writing stays easily followable, only flexing in a few key moments for maximum emotional impact. Canaan is a good action fling and doesn't try reaching to be more.

But the show's value as an introduction to anime lies more with its tangible details and their marked similarity to western films and shows of the same genre. Remember, though tangible details are rarely what make a show great, they are what an audience latches onto in the moment. For not being a fantasy or sci-fi show, the most immediately noticeable difference in Canaan from other action anime is in its not being set in Japan. Already in this, much of the ethnocentric alien nature of anime is removed since it would make little sense to stick to Japanese cultural cues when not in Japan. The show is instead set in Shanghai and the border between China and Pakistan.

Both of these locations are far more easily digested by a western viewer. Shanghai itself has been a common setting in countless films as a bustling cityscape which brings in the familiarity of a western skyline while being able to maintain a sense of foreign intrigue. And indeed, this is the approach taken by Canaan with its main characters of Maria Owasa and Mr. Mino. As Japanese reporters in Shanghai, they are strangers in a foreign land but a foreign land not so completely alienating as to be distracting. Their sense of being mildly out of place can be latched onto by the viewer, regardless of whether the viewer is from the West or Japan.

When the show moves out of the city into the desert wilderness of the boundaries of the Middle East, a far more recognizable setting is given to the Western viewer. In light of recent modern politics and foreign affairs, the deserts of the Middle East are a near constant in Western war dramas and action flicks just as the jungles of southeast Asia were following the Vietnam and Korean Wars. As such, the desert in Canaan garners a sense of 'setting association' as it were from a Western viewer, setting and meeting expectations for that decision.

In keeping with taking its setting to the Middle East, Canaan embraces the political landscape of the region by making its entire plot revolve around the shady dealings of the CIA and terrorism as a whole. Political intrigue and the CIA's misuse of the US's power have been a common and easily grasped theme in Western media since the end of the Cold War and well into the modern era to the point of being the focus of entire media franchises like 24. Furthermore, the tendency to have villains function as and receive the badging of 'terrorist' has increased to the point of unanimity in a post 9/11 world. In so choosing these plot details, Canaan need not go to lengths to explain the motives of its cast nor a green anime viewer have to struggle to decipher plot details.

But if a more recognizable setting and easily understood plot details were all that were necessary to qualify a show to be good introductory anime material, Canaan wouldn't exactly hold the edge. Instead, Canaan further reduces its Japanese ethnocentricity with its cast. Specifically their distinctly diverse ethnicities. Canaan herself is called out twice in the show itself as being noticeably Arabic, Yun Yun and Liang-Chi bring in a Chinese aesthetic, Santana and (arguably) Cummings are American, while Alphard seems to be a Chinese/Arab mix. Only Maria and Mino are Japanese. Though nothing each of the characters does or says marks them for being from their respective culture and are so in name only for all practical purposes, the effect is not diminished. In the same way that modern Hollywood (over) emphasizes diverse casts and female led projects (ironic, considering the number of anime where female characters are a consistent focus, Canaan being one of these), simply having this eclectic mix of peoples decentralizes the cultural applicability of the plot.

Furthering this end, Canaan does not steer clear of using other languages when it can. There are multiple instances where citizens of Shanghai are heard and seen speaking Chinese, and of more particular note, the military forces of the US. Those Americans with more extensive voice lines speak in Japanese for flow and clarity's sake, but the President's Secret Service entourage, the B2 bomber pilots, and the task force soldiers which attack the Factory all have their lines in English. This is of particular note because it is not in the broken, mispaced 'Engrish' more seasoned Western anime fans have come to expect and regard with a sort of amused fondness. Though brief, their lines are all just as one would expect of an American film or show. Though this level of dedication is standout to us Western otaku, in a new viewer, this is likely to engender thoughts of how western media sometimes will break from English for authenticity's sake for scenes where all characters speak a different language.

But now beyond the tangible details, Canaan goes a step further to position itself as a prime first anime. As mentioned earlier, much of the vocabulary and setting details are reminiscent of Western government conspiracy action titles. This similarity is perhaps the most important in setting Canaan apart from its anime contemporaries. The show does not stop short with the above specifics; instead even going so far as to structure itself like a Western action piece. Episode plots and rising tension are managed in the same manner, continually shifting from high stakes world changing events the protagonists must give their all to prevent to intensely personal conflicts which test the hero's emotional mettle. That it is difficult to keep from comparing Canaan herself to the likes of Jack Baur, Eggsy Unwin, or 007 himself is no accident. And examining the tangible details as indicative of Canaan's nature as a love letter to Western action suddenly makes a world of sense.

So the next time you are in a position to explain your love of anime to family or friends or have the opportunity to put on something around the uninitiated, remember, similarities to our home tropes isn't necessarily a mark against a show. It might even be a catalyst to bringing more, potentially just as passionate people into our community; something every culture needs to grow and survive. Show your people Canaan.

Confusion Is Normal, Understanding Is Insanity

There are distinct levels of vested interest in anime. At the very top there are the people who know anime exists either by secondary exposure through friends or family or general existence on the internet; but for whom it is always ‘them Jap cartoons’. Below them are the normies, the people who have watched anime but can’t be considered otaku by even stretching your definition to the point of not even resembling the original. These are the guys who will see you watching a show or browsing a booru, ask what it is you’re looking at, nod non-commitally when you ... answer, and without fail follow it up with “Yeah, I watched Dragon Ball Z when I was younger.” And you can of course swap DBZ with any number of shows like Naruto, Bleach, One Piece, etc. Three levels down and we still aren’t even at real otakudom yet. This deeper subset are similar to level 2 and probably did watch all those shows growing up, but they’ve continued to consume anime. Except, the anime they’ve continued to consume is just the uber popular shit that they can talk about with their friends. The stuff you can buy merch for in Hot Topic and Spencers. The SAOs and MHAs of the world.

Finally at level 4, we lapse into actual otakudom. This is where you will find the people who have MAL pages and keep them updated…. sometimes. Who can drop their top ten favorite shows off the top of their head but you’ve heard of all of them from the past three seasons. The people who speak of Evangelion and Cowboy Bebop like they watched them just yesterday (but probably haven’t actually seen them in four years) and who find enjoyment listening to anime reviews from the likes of Mother’s Basement and Gigguk. At level 5 weeb, we come to the area wherein I and most of my compatriots spend their time. At this stage, the desire for reviews becomes desire for analysis. Evangelion and Cowboy Bebop, while still beloved and revered, transform into shows no one on the tiers above us have heard about. MAL becomes necessary rather than convenient. We can discuss shows, concepts, directors, animators, and studios for hours on end with others of our ilk, and what shows others consume due to popularity, we more often than not sneer at and mercilessly rip into.

But there is yet one more level below this. One which few otaku can occupy full time but which all of us level 5s wish we could, and often do dip into from time to time. Obsession lives here. MAL isn’t necessary anymore because all of MAL is just in your head, readily accessed at a moment’s notice. The best work of content creators is spawned from extended forrays into level 6 otaku consciousness. Revelations are born and bred here. This is insanity, and this is where FLCL is no longer confusing.

At otakudom level 4 you may hear murmurings of FLCL. A weird six episode OVA project from back when Gainax was still riding the hype train of what seemed to be an unstoppable library of quality of the likes of Gunbuster, Nadia of Blue Water, and Neon Genesis Evangelion. But aside from an occasional mention likely more in reference to Gainax than on its own influential power, you won’t hear much more about FLCL. The transformation which occurs in context to FLCL between level 4 and level 5 otaku is like the difference between the original Super Mario Brothers and Mario Odyssey. Where you find the name FLCL in level 5 otaku circles, you will invariably also find a swirling mass of debate and argument regarding its intentionality and meaning. Likewise coupled to these discussions will be a culturally passe admittance that for all their opinions on FLCL, many even hardcore otaku do not fully understand what it was FLCL was trying to communicate. Some even posit that it wasn’t trying to say anything at all and is more an animation showcase loosely bound together with flimsy attempts at thematic messaging.

In short, for most, FLCL is indecipherable.

Which is exactly the attitude I held going in to watch it for the first time. That I needed to be prepared to have my mind turned to gooey slime as I tried to grasp its narrative and thematic throughlines. But it was to my exuberant surprise that half way through, I recognized I was watching FLCL completely submerged as a level 6 otaku. I am an insane person, and I understand FLCL.

Which is of course more accurately described as myself having found a coherent and consistent throughline in FLCL. One of the show’s most beautiful accolades is its multiplicitous nature. FLCL exists in a space where its strength of theming and imagery is so powerful and clear it will naturally engender interpretative viewing from the attentive, but it is simultaneously vague and obtuse such that no two interpretations will ever be exactly the same. I know of no other show which accomplishes this perfect balancing act, Casshern Sins being the only one which even comes close.

So if I’m going to start an analysis of FLCL, where in blue blazes do I start? A chronological analysis doesn’t flow well because of how much reiteration and backtracking I would end up doing to explain things or vice versa. A character breakdown fails because of how interconnected and influenced by each other they all become. A narrative exploration is largely pointless since the actual events of FLCL are tied together by only the thinnest threads of continuity and hold fast mostly off the back of thematic interpolation. By my assumption, the best way to talk about FLCL is to focus entirely on its theming, and particularly its singular driving theme.

The nature of maturity. What is it, how is it, and when is it.

What it means to be mature has been a battlefield of storytelling since almost the dawn of time. The Bible, in both the Old and New Testament, tracks the growth of boys in how they become men and even our understanding of history itself is mostly a repetition of the stories of the world’s greats from their humble, naive beginnings through their evolution into politically or militaristically savvy adults who reshape the world in their image. Art imitates life, so it’s no surprise that men like Joseph Campbell were able to find the story arc of maturity in almost every culture’s mythos across time, nor that men like C.K. Lewis and George Lucas used the growth of a man into maturity as the foundation of their tales.

It is in this heritage that we find FLCL entrenched, but unlike other stories tackling the same theme, FLCL seeks not to simply show this path of boy to man, but rather to redefine our understanding of it entirely. And dare I say seeks to redefine the very idea of maturity itself. But if FLCL seeks to reset our mental image of what it is to be mature, we must needs establish what the old guard definition of it is. Or at least, how it manifests, since the idea of maturity is rather nebulous depending on who you talk to. Maturity, per the traditional understanding, is the abandonment of childish idealism, replaced instead by a comprehension and dedication to one’s place in the world whatever it may be. It is responsibility by complete and utter adherence to self sacrifice for the greater good, that greater good being as small as one’s family or as large as all of humanity.

FLCL though, purports a new maturity. One which is damn near antithetical to the classic definition. In the show, true maturity is cast as the final form of the self-actualized individual by means of self-acceptance and rejection of the ultimate sin, greed. FLCL proposes that maturity comes from a full embrace of one’s personal desires, strengths, and weaknesses which the individual then acts on to the fullest extent of their ability, bringing others along the same road not by social indoctrination or force, but by pure example of their exercise of freedom. According to FLCL, maturity is freedom. Freedom from your own self-doubt, but also freedom from the doubt of everyone and everything around you. It is a denial of pre-supposition of what is possible.

But with that established, the question arises… how is this communicated? I WANT PROOF ASH! I here you say. The evidence is in the characters and in key moments in the show, most notably, as one might guess especially if you’ve seen FLCL, in its climactic final showdown. Our first character of interest is, of course, Naota, our male lead; and the one through whom we witness the events of FLCL along with the one through whom we can watch a journey to self actualization take place. Naota as we find him, is actually just a normal disenfranchised kid bitter from his brother leaving for the States on a baseball scholarship. I know right, hard to believe that he’s not the god savior of mankind. And that idea itself is interesting. Because he also doesn’t become the god savior of mankind. Oh sure, FLCL jacks up the visual and lore insanity to a level beyond what even the ‘crazy’ anime do, but for all that, Naota never ascends beyond still being just a normal kid.

It’s critical that in trying to redefine the traditional idea of maturity, FLCL make it plain that anyone can achieve this new kind of enlightenment and that it isn’t some kind of transcendent experience that makes you inherently superior to those around you. Maturity is simply a different perspective on life, not a different kind of life altogether. And we know Naota is a normal middle schooler because of the contrast between a cryptic x-ray image of his skull with his brain inside prior to meeting Haruko and the blatant statement by our heroine backed up another x-ray where Naota has no brain in his skull post their first interaction.

Our initial conception of Naota is that of a confused pre-teen beginning to struggle with puberty and the challenges to confidence that entails. We’ll explore how exactly his situation is accentuated but also pushed ahead through Mamimi, but for now, we must needs discuss Haruko and Naota meeting her. From others who claim an understanding of the subtext of FLCL, I have heard agreements that yes, FLCL is about maturity followed immediately by the idea that Haruko is representative of maturity as Naota conceives it to be in spite of her not, in fact, being mature. Oh my friends, this only seems to tell me you’re still looking at Haruko from Naota’s position yourself. Because while Naota is right to view Haruko as emblematic of the elusive maturity he so desires, his own immaturity has not blinded him to the genuine article.

Haruko is a symbol of maturity wholesale, no qualifiers necessary. She exists as a bubble of self-aware self-actualization, where she knows herself and her goals and cares not for the paltry rules of the societies around her attempting to hold her down. Naota is absolutely right to idolize and be baffled by her. And it is through her and following her example that he grows as a person by the end. And what better way to communicate this than literally hitting someone over the head with it!? Sure Haruko does absolutely belt Naota on the forehead with her guitar, but the meaning here is so obviously subtextual. Upon meeting this unquantifiable woman with more spunk and forthrightness than anyone he has ever seen, Naota’s comprehension of what it means to be mature is utterly demolished. So why not have him literally be knocked head over heels by Haruko and his old conceptions of maturity and insecurities begin to be driven out of his skull in the form of actual monsters and robots.

Enter Canti, the robot who will empower Naota for the rest of the show and the first entity to emerge from his skull. Canti’s metatextual role is just as obvious as the rest of the cast and setting through his introduction. Canti is the symbol of the old guard. Naota’s traditional conceptions of what maturity means, the ideas he falls back on when he can’t embody those Haruko is trying to show him. Canti is an old identity Haruko literally beats out of Naota! God it’s so beautifully simple and complex all at once…

We’ll get to all of the elaborations of these ideas in the episodes to follow, but I want to stop and explore some of the other characters I won’t focus on as much going forward. First we’ve got Naota’s father. It would of course be easy to assume that Naota’s father is the source of Naota’s disdain for immaturity, which while true, is more a problem with Naota and not his father. Let’s not forget that FLCL came out of Studio Gainax, the people responsible for Otaku no Video, the ultimate proclamation that otaku are more mature and self assured than the vast majority of their peers. Noata doesn’t resent his father because he’s immature, he resents him because Kamon is a less decipherable form of Haruko’s self actualization. Kamon is everything Haruko is, the only difference is that he’s not self aware of this fact. He’s just as pursuant of his own personal loves and desires as Haruko, just as uncaring of the perception his actions give him in the community. This is why he and Haruko get along so well, but the singular difference of self aware maturity means he can’t convey his idealisms to Naota; engendering a sense of disapproval for Kamon while he simultaneously stares at Haruko in starstruck awe. This truth is further amplified by Haruko’s attempts to have Kamon also help her find Atmosk only for it to fail. Kamon can’t help Haruko not because he’s unworthy or an adult. He can’t help her because in his self actualization, he has already found his reason to live exclusive to the desires of Haruko, whether he’s aware of it or not.

So where does Mamimi fall on this spectrum of maturity? Her story is rather simple and static through the run of FLCL, which might be a major contributor to why she’s a fan favorite (her dialogue is rather excellent I’ll admit, even if Haruko is best girl). Mamimi is largely representative of most of us. Or rather most of us otaku I should say. There is a far better example of the wider populace in this show. She is a girl caught between maturity and immaturity, unwilling to grow up out of a deep seated fear of change; particularly personal change. Mamimi actually very much loves the self she grew into and is deathly afraid of leaving that behind. She clings to Naota because of this, and in so doing, distorts his ability to comprehend maturity; being that she is clearly lacking in maturity as he himself is, but is also far more cool headed and stoic, as Naota assumes an adult ought to be. For her, he is the anchor of her old self, of a simpler time; but at the same time, through him, she is haunted by Tasuku, her own symbol of self actualization. Where Naota has the very plain and visible emblem of maturity of Haruko, Mamimi’s spark in Tasuku is absent. But that isn’t to say that Mamimi needs him to become self actualized. Mamimi feels so static within FLCL because while all the other characters are either growing and moving forward or motivating others to do so, she is standing defiantly still at a crossroads. She already knows the road to maturity in self actualization, having been shown that by Tasuku. Her struggle is instead simply acknowledging that to follow his example will also entail leaving him behind as a footnote of memory along with everything she knows. The road to self actualization is a lonely one, as it is largely a journey to find meaning in the self, and Mamimi represents the fear many of us hold in confronting ourselves so directly and inciting change in who we are as people as a result.

We also have Ninamori to talk about, but she is relevant to one of Naota’s battles, so we’ll save her for then. Speaking of which, what is actually happening when a Medical Mechanica robot comes out of Naota’s head and he gets eaten by a transforming Canti to demolish them? To reiterate, when he was bashed in the face by Haruko, this was a subtextual explanation of Naota’s revelation that there might be more to the idea of what maturity meant. Cue Canti’s emergence, the symbol of Naota’s conception of his old way of thinking. It is fitting then that Haruko is the one to thusly defeat Canti, as she has replaced the standardization Medical Mechanica represents in teaching Naota how to grow up. And through each episode of FLCL, Naota has a different robot pop from his head which he and Haruko must put down. But it’s crucial to understand that these… summons I guess you could call them… don’t happen without meaning. The horn on Naota’s head doesn’t begin reappearing until Haruko’s actions cause him to question his preconceptions about the true inner workings of the world and maturity, and as such, become a physical manifestation of his insecurities. It’s also notable that Haruko never deliberately causes the horn (or whatever form it takes, which itself only serves to imply the exact insecurity at play) to show up again. This is rather on the nose commentary from FLCL on the nature of self actualization. Which is to say, it’s a mentality, mode of existence, that can’t be taught. Not directly. At best it can be displayed, and Haruko, knowing this, merely does her best to make her actions into good role model behavior for Naota to emulate such that he’ll come to the realization of what it all sources from on his own. She only tries to directly teach and help him once, but I promise I won’t skip that moment.

But if Canti is the symbol of tradition, why is it then that Naota uses him to defeat the emblematic of insecurity robots? That would seem to push a counterintuitive message if Haruko’s self actualization is meant to be the superior mentality. But not only is FLCL not seeking to completely tear down the old guard (as we’ll see by the end), it’s not as though Canti alone takes down the robots in question. He and Naota combine in a new, more bold and striking appearance and transform into a fucking mortar canon. On top of making the case that the classic understanding of maturity is not completely useless, Naota hasn’t just suddenly become self actualized upon first meeting Haruko. He has personal hangups to overcome and without a proper comprehension of Haruko’s ideology, really only has his old ideas to fall back on, ie, Canti. However, Haruko has begun to influence him, even if he hasn’t completely transcended his insecurities, and as such, even mimicking Haruko’s attitude through the lens of immaturity, he can transform the dull, grey, rather basic looking Canti into a viable, potent weapon which he can then use to further grow his recognition of the value of Haruko’s approach. And yet, for all that, Naota’s is a story of growth, and he can’t completely abandon his old stability so easily, which is why he (as the mortar shell) returns to Canti at the end of each fight. Such is the beauty of FLCL at every turn, never wasting a single moment to visually explain not only each action in the moment of its occurrence, but the evolving mentalities of each character.

So Ninamori, arguably the most interesting character if not a favorite due in no small part to how her character commentates on Naota’s own coming to terms with maturity and how her interconnection to the seemingly supernatural events sheds light on their actual meaning I’ve described above. Ninamori occupies a similar space to Mamimi in FLCL in that she is a person caught between the world of immaturity and maturity. But unlike Mamimi who is torn between the two out of a fear of the unknown in only having witnessed self actualization once in Tasuku, Ninamori is torn between the two of them from having only seen the negative power of self actualization when that ability to fully accept the self is tainted by uncontrolled greed. She is plagued by doubt of the real merits of self actualization having watched as it tears apart the marriage of her mother and father, risks bringing ruin to her father’s political career, and puts her into contact with a woman whose only meritable skills are sleazy sneakiness and (ostensibly) having a tight pussy. She wants to hold tight to immaturity for its purity, innocence, and ignorant bliss. But she is drawn and attracted to Naota, initially for his embodying these attributes so perfectly, but post-Haruko for having noticed a positive path of growth in him, though she doesn’t yet recognize it as the road to proper self actualization. Nevertheless, Ninamori still clings to childish immaturity, and when she reveals Naota’s cat ears and he fires back revealing her to have rigged the class play role voting, she has experienced a revelation. In Naota, she has been able to witness both immaturity and maturity, almost back to back in this instance, and with that blossomed feeling of insecurity over which truly is more desirable, the cat ears are transferred to her, hailing the arrival of another robot. It is also notable in this moment that the ears actually leave Naota, cuing us into the fact that in not allowing Ninamori to push him around and force her own desires upon him, Naota has accepted himself and his own desires as actually worth standing up for. The ears themselves having appeared as a consequence of shoving down his own misgivings on playing the cat in the play so as not to make a scene of his displeasure. Combined with Canti and with the help of Haruko, Naota is able to defeat the robot, reiterating how self actualization is an understanding of the world which can only be taught by example. Ninamori would never have been able to manifest her own desires as she does by the end in the school play without Naota’s actions giving her a lens through which to become aware of her own insecurities. It is only under one’s own power that this recognition can blossom, and we see this is the case for Ninamori when she reveals her glasses, her own facade, to be a fake one; and from then on, we never see her sporting them.

Now, I could go on and explain the exact nature of each of the robots Naota fights because I find their implicit representations are, just as with everything else in the show, expertly communicated; but I’m more interested in reaching and discussing the finale. To do that properly, there are two more elements of FLCL that need to be elaborated upon. Those of course being Amarao as an identity in and of himself, and Haruko teaching (or at least trying to teach) Naota how to have a proper baseball bat swing. Amarao is perhaps the most important character in all of FLCL for how his portrayal removes any and all doubt from even the casual viewer that the show is a commentary on the nature of maturity. Because if Mamimi is the exemplar of otaku indecision with regard to the question, Amarao is the living picture of the average person, or the normie, as I’d prefer to name them. And through him, we are allowed to see the two paths Naota can decide to take his growth. On the one hand, he can follow Haruko, accept himself, become self actualized and live without fear of the rejection of those around him. Or he has Amarao’s example, a man forever hiding behind a literal facade of fake eyebrows, always talking, trying to convince himself and everyone around him that he has his life well in hand. A constant pursuit of proving that he is not inadequate, that he is the most collected, mature man on the face of the planet. The purest representative of small penis syndrome I’ve ever seen in media. And as we watch all of Amarao’s personality traits and ideological certainties pile up around him, there is only one conclusion to be reached. He is the most immature character in all of FLCL. He is the end result of allowing society and others to dictate a person’s growth. The product of self sacrifice to the nth degree. Amarao has no definable identity because he has become defined not by his own ideals, but attempting to find meaning in being codified by his opposition. His only certainty is that he is not like Haruko, and if common knowledge holds any weight, we all know that a thing defined by its opposite has no meaning at all. And it is even further telling that throughout FLCL, contrasted against Haruko, that Amarao is constantly trying to convince Naota of the legitimacy of his path. He never shows his apparent confidence in his path in life through any kind of verifiable positive action, instead only ever insisting that Naota abandon Haruko with no proof. Amarao is the ultimate masquerade and as evidence to his immaturity, he never succeeds in his goals. Haruko royally whups his ass, Naota rejects him, and he can only watch from the sidelines as the two of them enact the climatic events of the show’s finale.

And it is important to recognize Amarao’s role and influence on Naota, as this is impetus for Haruko’s own kindness right before the episode six showdown. Up to this point, Haruko has not in any way tried to convince Naota that her mode of living is superior, merely allowing her free spirited self to speak on its own. But introduce Amarao and his talent for seduction (a extension of the seduction of living a life wherein one allows society to make life’s difficult choices for oneself) and Haruko recognizes (even if she’s not aware it’s Amarao’s doing specifically) that Naota is on the tipping point. He needs but one small push to bring him where she knows he is able to go. So she cools her explosive temperment, relaxes her voice and body language, and with a level of care and kindness she has never displayed before, shows Naota the proper form for swinging a baseball bat. Baseball in FLCL is itself representative of self actualization in an abstract form, considering that Tasuku left Japan to pursue it is a symbol of its enabling power for the individual and that Haruko, the emblematic representation of it, is naturally gifted at the sport. Furthermore, even in this instance of more direct involvement by Haruko, she doesn’t purport to force Naota to take her advice. There is no ultimatum she presents him, unlike Amarao, simply conveying her own experience as a path to success.

All of which leads to the turning moment in the show when Naota is confronted with the falling satellite (of course in the shape of a giant baseball). Amarao has taken the expected, apparently responsible route trying to evacuate everyone in the town to safety, but this is the crossroads for Naota. And though he doesn’t fully recognize it yet, he is aware that he can’t keep running and hiding from himself. Self actualization is barreling down on him, and if he doesn’t take action, it will pass him by, his chances to find it will be utterly vaporized, and he will continue to live a life filled with constant doubt at every turn. So he accepts himself, knowing that even if he isn’t the best or most suited to the task, he has to fight for what he values (in this case his entire town and measuring up to his brother’s reputation). And in this moment, this is when he is able to pull a guitar from Canti. He is still drawing on his old knowledge, but he is taking matters into his own hands and has thus made the first firm step on the road to self actualization. He is the one standing in the way of the town’s utter ruin. He is the one backlit by the fires of destruction. He is the one resisting the supposedly inevitable. There is no facade, no assumed image. It is just Naota. But for all his ardent strides in the right direction, he isn’t fully committed to self assurance. Knowing this but wanting to show him his choices weren’t in vain and that however important the individual is, people can fight for good together, Haruko jumps in to help him. By their powers combined they are able to save the day, and the stage is set for the finale.

And what a finale it is.

Because now we have to understand not only what the legendary Atmosk entails, which is a fair bit all on his own, but also that no matter her potency, Haruko is not perfect (and by extension, neither is anyone). There is a lot to unravel about Atmosk, but almost all of it can be explained in how he is described and connected to everyone else in the show’s mythos. First there is the fact that Haruko is seeking him and quote “in love with him”, second we have the fact that he is described as the antithesis to Medical Mechanica, and third that he is given the title of Pirate King. All of these things tell us that Atmosk is the epitome, the absolute purest form, of self actualization and that to contain and use his power is indicative of one’s own sense of self having reached its greatest height. Of course Haruko, who has been the greatest visualization of this ethos in FLCL, would desire to take his power and be in love with what he symbolizes. It would be the final validation for her that she has transcended the need, ironically enough, for the validation of the world at large. This is an important point and we’ll come back to it in discussing Haruko’s imperfections. It also stands to reason under this lens of Atmosk’s symbology that he would represent the greatest threat to Medical Mechanica. For Christ’s sake, in a rare stroke of forthrightness, we are blatantly told that the organization seeks to standardize all life in the galaxy. To let no individual reach heights greater than his peers. Their vessel is a fucking iron. How much more on the nose could you get? Of course the penultimate emissary for resonant individuality would stand opposed in grand fashion to such an organization. But Atmosk is also labeled as the Pirate King, and here is where we get into more heady conceptualization.

Because Atmosk the Pirate King has less to do with being an actual pirate in the fullest sense of our understanding of what a pirate does, and far more to do with what a pirate represents in the literary sense. Allow me an explanation. Piracy is a form of thievery, obviously, but in conjunction with their seagoing ways, a pirate is a pure expression of freedom in classical and even modern literature. Take what you can, give nothing back! But what a ship really is… is freedom… and all that. A pirate is the immutable expression of self sufficiency, humility, and freedom of self actualization. Pirates do what they will, are beholden to no one, and live their lives only at the discretion of their own whims. Now, most of this ideological portrayal comes from their existence as seafarers, but there is an additional component which is derived from their dual nature as thieves. And in classical literature, the heroic thief such as in the case of Robin Hood or the 40 Thieves, is marked by a singular distinction from his villainous counterpart. That not only is there honor among thieves, but that there is no room for excessive greed at the expense of one’s fellows. Pirates of the Carribean does a magnificent job exploring this duality by setting two pirates as hero and villain, making plain the key difference between Jack Sparrow and Barbosa. And I went off on this tangent to explore the implicit meaning of piracy in literature for how Atmosk’s description as Pirate King adds this dimension of understanding to what transcendent self actualization entails.

Certainly Atmosk is the full realization of the value and acceptance of the self, but he also is a representation of its inherent faults and the combat one must engage in to counter them. If Atmosk is the Pirate King, he then subsequently condemns greed, especially greed practiced at the expense of others, as the greatest, most damning sin. And furthermore, this added layer also shows that self actualization is not some mythical object to be acquired and used as a tool. It isn’t a static point one reaches and maintains simply by having done so. To remain so requires constant work and effort; forever watching for a slip into greed and the willful ignorance of the lives of others.

And this is why Haruko cannot obtain the power of Atmosk. Was she grooming Naota to help her summon and acquire him? Absolutely, yes she was. But does this also mean she was abusing her authority as an elder to Naota and using his impressionability to make this a possibility? No. Haruko having achieved a level of self acceptance is able to see the amazing potential it has to free a person from their hangups and allow them to reach greater heights, and she sincerely does desire others to see that same light. Her mistake was in assuming that upon having that revelatory experience, that Naota would automatically want to help her win over Atmosk. And in the moment she refuses to acknowledge their differences in this area, continuing to pursue Atmosk even at full risk to the town, there is a huge dynamics shift between her and Naota.

It is in this final showdown that Naota fully understands himself. It is here where he self actualizes, and in so doing, he no longer has need of Canti. He emerges from Canti’s head, bearing an emblem which is a mix of the two characters which represent ‘child’ and ‘adult’ and bearing a twin neck guitar. He is glowing a brilliant red-orange, the color of Atmosk, because not only has he reached a level of actualization equal to Haruko’s, he has surpassed her. He has recognized that being free of the chains of the desires others wish to force upon you does not equally absolve you of responsibility toward the world in which you live. Naota is self actualized, but he refuses to give in to greed. He has found the happy medium between and values in both the old and new maturities. And thus, Atmosk accepts him and bonds with him to allow him to achieve saving the town. Now Haruko, our old vanguard of self actualization, she has completely lost her grasp on it. She desires Atmosk so fervently that her singular flaw of needing his validation to see herself as worthy loses her her grasp on her own actions. She sinks into the depths of greed, giving no thought to those around her and choosing instead to abandon maturity in pursuit of her own selfishness. But in the same way in which Haruko was able to so easily best Amarao due to their vast disparity in self acceptance, Naota dispatches her with nary an effort.

And the next moment is so crucial in Naota’s development as a selfless seeker of individual freedom. Because he could absolutely hold onto Atmosk’s power if he so chose. But he doesn’t. He understands himself to such a degree that he knows he is not ready for that level of power over the world when he has only just gained control over himself. Instead, he ejects Atmosk, the phoenix form of the Pirate King destroys Medical Mechanica’s iron, and jettisons into the far corners of the cosmos, leaving Naota with the confidence and wherewithal to tell Haruko he loves her. And from this, Haruko is able to realize where she failed, returning to her old self and accepting this failure with a smile and nod. And if this recognition of their continued growth wasn’t obvious, FLCL ends with Haruko bidding Naota farewell in her continued journey to find and obtain Atmosk, having now learned the trap that is greed while Naota, now in highschool, is able to drink the things he likes, confident in his own sense of self and caring not about the bemused looks from his class mates.

And with that, FLCL is over. Within the span of its short run, the show was able to fully explore the ideas and identities of maturity and immaturity and all the forms those mentalities take without once ever speaking of them directly. It is brilliant and succinct. Insane, impossible, and convoluted. I can see why it might be confusing to some, but to the analytically inclined, FLCL is bursting with interpretative questions to be answered. And even for those who aren’t so inclined, FLCL will make you ask questions of yourself, even if you aren’t sure what those questions are, nevermind the answers. But in all honesty, if confusion is the normal response to FLCL, I’ll gladly label myself insane beyond saving.

Casshern Sins and the Uncanny Valley

The Uncanny Valley is a term that originated in robotics and psychology to describe an object’s resemblance to and emotional resonance with a person. For robotics in particular, it was a term to describe the pitfalls of robot designs that looked nearly human but were so obviously cold and soulless that they turned their human counterparts away rather than deriving feelings of empathy. From real world robotics, the idea of the uncanny valley slipped neatly into the realm of science fiction and the robots therein, informing the aesthetics and design sense of such robots as Star Wars’ C-3PO and I, ... Robot’s Sonny.

The uncanny valley is a treacherous, unforgiving, and unpredictable aesthetic pitfall and is largely responsible for the abstraction of the perceivably human in robots, most notably in the mecha genre. It is far safer and aesthetically more flexible to partake in this abstraction as the separation of the tangible details of humanity from humanity’s deeper complexities completely bypasses the threat of diving headfirst into the uncanny valley.

But every now and again, we are treated to creators who dared thread the needle of the valley’s edge, and stand tall with a conclusion more emotionally powerful than they would have been otherwise. True commentaries on the nature of what it is to be human. But where titles such as Ghost in the Shell are lauded for their achievements in this regard, I find it an important distinction to make in how exactly they capitalized on the uncanny valley. While courting aesthetic death and coming out beautiful for it, shows like Ghost in the Shell are not manipulations of the uncanny valley so much as they are demonstrations of our understanding of it.

For true manipulation of the uncanny valley, we have the 2008 show, Casshern Sins. In this largely underrated and little discussed show from Studio Madhouse, the audience is presented with a world in the throes of the apocalypse. A place nearly devoid of human life and populated by robots who are themselves rusting away under the duress of a mysterious force known only as the Ruin. Where most science fiction sets its robot design either in a firmly uniform context for recognizability such as the aforementioned I, Robot or diversifies it over such a wide variety of shapes and sizes as to establish scope like Star Wars, Casshern Sins chooses to merge the two, after a fashion.

There is not a single robot in the world of Casshern Sins that is wholly inhuman. Even the most abstracted of them still retain features we recognize in ourselves: a head, eyes, arms, legs, hands, feet, etc. But across all of the designs present in Casshern Sins, the universal constant is their unique display of a different point along the slope of the uncanny valley. Rather than rely on specific points in the valley known either through common design sense or historical precedent to accomplish an aforementioned empathic response, Casshern’s vast design curve throughout the valley cues us into the humanity of the characters we see.

The most common of robots, and oft the targets of Casshern’s deadly rampages, are only vaguely human. They are definitively machines and we are meant to feel a detached sense of pity as they are ripped apart and destroyed one after the other in quick, brutal succession despite their cries of pain and wails of death. The manipulation of the valley has removed us from them emotionally. They are not as worthy of human considerations because they lack the aesthetic qualities we assign these rights. By contrast, we connect with the pain of Lyuze and Casshern, empathize with Ohji’s desire to protect Ringo, and feel tension when all of them are threatened. And this is accomplished almost entirely without dialogue in a bleak, emotionless landscape through their designs. Their markedly *human* designs. Designs which show very few, if any, signs of the robotics of the former.

This can be observed in action and in more detail in the characters of Dune and Braiking Boss. In the case of the show’s villain, over the course of the show’s 24 episodes, he appears only 17 times, with only about 3 of these being without his cloak hiding most of his design. Additionally, across the show’s run, he only has about 100 lines. Markedly few, considering his importance in comparison to side characters like Ohji. This speaks to the power of the design work across the entire show and by extension the manipulation of the uncanny valley. Everything we need to understand about Braiking Boss’s character is communicated entirely through his design. His hulking size and wider, fuller appearance give him an intimidating presence next to the thinner, gangly robots of the show who share his scale. But more importantly, his obsession with robots’ place in the world with respect to humanity is captured perfectly in his face: a riveted, mask-like visage that aims to mimic a human but is irrevocably mechanical and cold. Desiring what he is not and unable to surpass or even come close to achieving it despite every effort put toward that goal.

Dune, perhaps the most optimistic character in Casshern Sins, is our window to what Braiking Boss could have been. And in him, the uncanny valley is masterfully used to communicate that being human is something beyond aesthetics. Dune begins the show only a few steps removed from the highly abstracted fodder robots Casshern has spent the show murdering en-masse. While closer to Casshern’s size, his face is harsh and square, his eyes communicated by unbroken, thin red lines across his upper face. His limbs are bandaged, hiding what is surely mechanized approximations of human arms and legs; and each of his movements is rife with clinks and plunks of rusted, overworn metal. He, like Braiking Boss, chases Luna, the show’s symbolic representation of existence outside life.

But unlike Braiking Boss, Dune’s more personal motivation is a vested interest in her as a person. As her former protector, he cares for her beyond what she could do for the world; wanting only to see her safe and happy. And upon reaching her, he achieves a feeling of completeness within himself and his design changes more drastically than any other character in the show. His rags, wet with rusty fluid are replaced by his suit and cape of old glory; his hunchback posture is erased and he stands tall, elegant and proud. But most importantly, his face changes from that of a detached robot to one of a chiseled man’s features. He is handsome, sculpted, with brilliant and deep emerald eyes to match. The white, drooping locks of an old, defeated man spring to life, wrapping his face and accentuating his sharp features. Dune’s design leaps the chasm of the uncanny valley with reckless abandon, shocking us into considering how and why he has changed so.

And we are given our answer soon after, as Dune falls in his final defense of Luna. For in his last moments, clinging to what little life is left in him, he sets in motion Casshern’s thoughts (and our own) on Luna’s gift of immortality. Despite his chance to do so, Dune refuses Luna’s offering of eternal life, espousing a belief in the beauty achieved by life wherein death looms. His stark design jump marks the point at which he has found Luna, someone to live for, not simply life in and of itself, as he had been previously. This remarkable sense of the human is therefore translated through his design, capturing the entire message of the show without a single spoken word.

We see this level of character design and valley manipulation used not only to visually communicate entire character arcs, but to establish tonal shifts as well. As mentioned before, our main characters are so near human in appearance that we naturally ascribe humanity to them. However, Casshern Sins goes to great lengths to continually make us question this inclination, asking us to to stop and consider if our main characters are worthy of such generosity and the empathy that follows. Casshern himself is a prime example. For in the show’s moments of calm and quiet contemplation, Casshern’s face is unobscured and his hair is allowed to flow freely. But the second the show shifts gears to brutal violence, a horned helmet envelopes Casshern’s head, plates slide across his face to hide his mouth and nose, and the eyes that were before detailed and able to communicate so much human nuance flash to the solid glowing turquoise of a machine. Casshern in this aesthetic is stripped of all his human affectations, rendered so emotionless that the violence he enacts upon the world in this shape is the only act that seems appropriate.

Understanding our recognition of this dichotomy, Casshern is then allowed to seamlessly rock from one side of the uncanny valley to the other as he struggles to keep himself from fully descending into senseless, unrestrained violence. Over the course of the show, his design shift becomes either more purposeful (the willingness of a soldier to sacrifice his humanity for the sake of those he cares about) or only partial, such as in his fight with Dio near the end of the show (the violence here being a communication of a clash wills, a distinctly human burden).

Furthermore, Casshern Sins embraces the uncanny valley as being as much about visual aesthetic as the presentation thereof. Shot composition and lighting are also used throughout the show and with nearly every character to give us a frightening glimpse into the half-human nature of this dying world of robots and their pursuit of an ideal they can never achieve nor fully understand. With Casshern and Lyuze, in their moments of extreme anguish or mental torment, intensely close but warped shots of their faces will fill the screen as they are wracked with emotions and unable to fully comprehend what such things mean. A similar technique is used with the characters of Sophita and Lizabel, this time seeming to stretch and warp their faces to just off human proportions, expertly dropping us into the deepest part of the uncanny valley to immediately convey just how irreparably broken they have become chasing humanity.

Ringo’s character design uses the same technique, but more consistently. Like the other main characters, Ringo is a human in all but name and her innocence as a child further compounds our perception of her as human. However, Ringo’s proportions are always slightly off, particularly in her eyes, which many times appear slightly too far apart from one another on her head. This is useful for the show to continually but less jarringly remind us that Ringo is a robot like the rest of the cast; but it is such a small, minute detail to her design that it is easily adjusted by simple camera work. In the most humanizing of circumstances, such as her near death in episode 1, the camera is angled such that her dehumanizing features are imperceptible and significantly more empathy is drawn from us, the audience.

Lighting is the realm of the show’s more direct antagonists, Leda and Dio. Initially, they are shown in full sunlight, proudly on display for us as examples, however villainous, of having overcome their robotic limitations and attained a measure of humanity. This is particularly notable in Dio, who highlights Casshern’s weaknesses being so aesthetically similar to him. But as the show progresses and we become privy to the insecurities both characters have, so too does the lighting for them darken. They are more and more routinely shown in shadow, Leda almost entirely consumed by it in her confrontation with Luna, where she is forced to become the physical embodiment of her fears and the vernier of her humanity is fully stripped away. In so doing, the show slowly but surely puts a barrier between us and them, widening the gap between our perception of them as human and their nature as robots. This unbridgeable gap once again shows a manipulation of the uncanny valley on a conceptual level and delivers powerful, wordless narratives as a result.

On the whole, Casshern Sins is a tough watch, at least narratively, not really discussed nor remembered by many. But while a beautifully designed and animated piece worth watching for those aspects alone, Casshern Sins holds a powerful position as one of the best shows to ever experiment with the concept of the uncanny valley. From character design, to narrative arcs and set dressings, Casshern Sins demonstrates a nuanced understanding of our perception of what is and is not human and manipulates the uncanny valley to expertly deliver on themes that would not typically be considered within the realm of ability of robot characters.