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Bizarre Cage blends sci-fi and murder mystery. The story is set in a high-tech amusement park called Fantasien, a massive complex filled with advanced surveillance equipment. The protagonist, Takeshi Saito, is a newly hired security guard. His job seems simple at first, but it takes a dark turn when Takeshi accidentally breaks a guidance display, a seemingly innocuous comedic event that unearths a revenge plot, causes a chain of murders and reveals a deep-seated conspiracy hidden within the park's surveillance system, MAOS.

The initial plot is a key strength, successfully establishing an atmosphere of suspense and intrigue. The series opens with a dramatic, eye-catching scene of ... a naked girl committing suicide by jumping off a high building, promising a complex and tragic backstory. The setting of a futuristic amusement park with a suspicious past is a compelling backdrop for a mystery, and the early parts excel at building tension through subtle hints and the suspicious behaviour of its characters. This early promise, however, is not fully realised as the story progresses. The central mystery, which initially appears to be a sophisticated conspiracy, resolves into a more straightforward and conventional revenge plot. The narrative loses some of its initial complexity and becomes predictable as the final motives are revealed. The opening suicide scene is ultimately reduced to demonise the main antagonist and justify & incite revenge.

Bizarre Cage is audio-visually notable, particularly when viewed in the context of its release year. It serves as one of the last remnants of the aesthetically pleasing cel animation style that defined the 1990s. Even though it's your average 90s animation, it stands in stark contrast to the burgeoning mass-produced cheap digital slop of the early 2000s. The character designs are distinct and show personality, the backgrounds, ambiance and sound effects are detailed and immersive enough to create an unsettling atmosphere.

The characters are one of its weaker points; a mix of archetypes that are simply functional to the plot. Takeshi is the reluctant boyscout hero who gets caught in a nightmarish situation. The other security guards and park staff are mostly interchangeable.

While a good story needs a compelling villain, the main antagonist here is a greedy one-dimensional evil rapist. The other antagonist who's the actual perpetrator pulling the strings behind the scenes was a more sympathetic misguided anti-villain, who's again, just another victim of the one-dimensional evil rapist. So in the end, evil is centralised on a single character to be blamed for everything that happened.

Oh, did I forgot this is a hentai? Nothing noteworthy aside from the usual rape and torture, that served to make you hate the villain. Contrasted by wholesome sex scenes with the kind protagonist fucking sad girls to comfort them emotionally.

The primary value lies in its aesthetic, serving as an example of late cel animation. For fans of classic 90s-style anime, the visual experience isn't much considering it's mediocre, and you most likely have already seen far better. Those seeking a complex and surprising murder mystery will find the final resolution anticlimactic. Ultimately, Bizarre Cage is a functional, not groundbreaking, technothriller that is elevated by its visual style, mainly because it was on the verge of extinction.

Having already read the manga (which barely remembered), I decided to give the anime adaptation a try. Unfortunately, it too, failed to leave a positive impression.

Episode 1
The plot is a poorly written incest romance that spends way too much time beating around the bush in the first half. The animation is cheap, relying heavily on recycled sequences—typical of low-effort hentai direction, with sluggish camera movements and barely animated loops. Even the sex scenes suffer: her vagina doesn’t move during fingering or licking at times, the male lead’s penis has an oddly oversized head, and the watery cum sound effects were more off-putting than arousing. The ... sex itself is painfully vanilla, lacking any creativity.

To make matters worse, the episode wastes a full minute (17:00-18:00) on a flashback we’ve already seen in the intro. Then, as if recycling wasn’t enough, we get another bath scene with the exact same fellatio animation—only the background and lighting change. The female lead’s design was the sole redeeming factor.

Episode 2
This episode skips any pretence of plot and jumps straight into sex. The male lead’s perpetually closed eyes were… an unusual choice. The colouring team also dropped the ball—his penis is the same shade as her vagina, which is just baffling. The sex scenes are unintentionally funny, mostly due to her constant glaring, playing into the tsundere fetish. But even then, the 'angry face while calling him baka' routine isn’t as cute as it thinks it is.

Episode 3
Enter a tomboy character who looks like Deku from My Hero Academia but wears a wig in nearly every scene—lazy design much? The episode then delivers back-to-back cowgirl position scenes (both with the wig on, because why not?). Easily the worst volume of the series.

It is a forgettable poorly made adaptation with cheap animation with repetitive scenes and awkwardly framed sex. If you're looking for well-animated, engaging erotica, this isn’t it.

Ghost Cat Anzu grabs attention immediately with its unique animation style. Using cutting-edge rotoscoping techniques, it achieves realistic movement without lifelessness—putting most anime to shame and redefining animation’s potential by blending real performances with whimsy. This French-Japanese co-production transforms a silly, plotless sitcom manga into a poignant coming-of-age story.

In close-ups, every subtle expression is visible: Karin's clenched fists, eye rolls, and annoyed tongue clicks, along with Anzu's ears twitching when irritated. Only in rare wide shots does it falter (e.g., Karin’s stiff backpack grip at 00:23:00).

The naturalistic dialogue (recorded simultaneously with filming) shuns anime’s exaggerated cadences. Karin’s muted 'I hate you!', Anzu’s lazy drawl 'Alrighty ... meow', and Tetsuya’s defeated mumbles feel as if they were ripped from a live-action drama. Even the sound design—moped engines, cicadas, distant train clatter—immerses without overstatement. You likely wouldn't be able to tell whether this was an anime or live action from the audio alone due to how un-anime-like it sounds. Articulation is definitely less pronounced compared to the average anime, but it doesn’t turn into a show with fast-talking characters, as is often the case with this approach. So, if you watch it subbed (which I recommend for a fully natural-sounding experience) you'll likely be spared from that.

The story takes what was originally just a collection of silly manga chapters about a ghost cat's daily misadventures and weaves them into a proper coming-of-age story. While most chapters were smoothly adapted and incorporated with purpose, the production also introduced characters not present in the source material, such as Karin and her family, as major players in the narrative.

Karin, abandoned by her debt-ridden father, insists on searching for her missing father in Tokyo and visiting her mother’s grave—a thread that escalates into a literal journey to the underworld. From Anzu's growth from a reckless freeter to a protective guardian, to Karin's struggle with her mother's death and her unreliable father, the narrative gains emotional weight that elevates what could have been mere empty comedy. The underworld journey is not just spectacle but a metaphor for Karin's unresolved grief.

That said, not everything works. The crude toilet jokes feel out of place. Tetsuya's redemption happens entirely off-screen—we're simply told he became earnest. It felt rushed, considering we don’t actually see him do anything except being tortured by debt collectors. The supporting cast exists mostly for plot convenience rather than meaningful chemistry or thematic depth.

The extraordinary technical execution and heartfelt catharsis make it stand out compared to the other slop from 2024. While its story follows familiar coming-of-age beats that won’t rewrite cinema, it understands growth isn’t limited by age—whether you’re a grieving child, a deadbeat father, or a 37-year-old ghost cat.

Mecha had been a dying genre, and the autumn 2021 season seemed poised to revive it. Announcements sparked hope and joy among fans. Muv-Luv Alternative, a highly anticipated adaptation of the critically acclaimed porn game, rushed and flavoured with an ugly CGI mess, remains considered one of the worst adaptation failures in anime history. Sakugan was an aimless adventure, prioritising a cute girl over the ugly CGI giant robots, so it failed. AMAIM was a more grounded 'real robot' series with politics. While it avoided CGI, it felt like nothing but a xenophobic Gundam knockoff with an obligatory Char clone, a mediocre plot, and forgettable ... characters.

Enter Megaton Musashi to save the day, ditching waifus and Digimons to focus on classic staples in an attempt to deliver a classic mecha experience with a vengeful protagonist, alien invaders, and humanity’s desperate struggle for survival. Except it has ugly CGI and other issues to be discussed in this review.

The protagonist, Yamato, is introduced with a tragic past—his little sister was killed by aliens, fuelling his thirst for vengeance. He stands out compared to the other bland and cowardly protagonists of this season; he's not a self-insert like Takeru from Muv-Luv and he's a cool badass unlike Amou from AMAIM. He’s literally a typical school delinquent with a strong conviction, hot-headedness, and obliviousness to romance—an archetype that has been recycled in countless anime before.

Yamato’s unapologetic pursuit of genocide against aliens is undermined by the show’s own logic. If vengeance is his sole drive, why did he agree to have his memories erased initially? The series introduces memory-altering technology early on, but this plot point creates more holes than intrigue. If the organisation needs willing fighters, why erase the memories of potential pilots? The inconsistent handling of this concept makes Yamato’s arc feel contrived rather than gripping.

Humanity, having lost Earth to aliens, now lives in secrecy, using memory manipulation—a technology employed to maintain morale and a peaceful society after the invasion. The premise of humanity clinging to a false peace could have been fascinating. Instead, the execution collapses under scrutiny. The story’s central gimmick—selective memory erasure and restoration—raises too many questions. For example:

If memory-transfer technology exists to train pilots instantly, why are recruits tested by fighting humanoid robots barehanded? What does punching metal prove about their ability to pilot mechs?

If pilots already have implanted knowledge, why do they constantly ask basic questions about their robot's features mid-battle?

Most bafflingly: Why would Yamato, whose entire identity revolves around avenging his sister, consent to memory erasure in the first place? If he was forced, why would the organisation sabotage its own recruitment of willing soldiers?

These contradictions render the worldbuilding poor, making it unclear whether the memory erasure serves any real narrative purpose beyond forced action and plot convenience.

The fights are fast-paced but lack weight. Despite the desperate war premise, battles feel sterile—damage is rarely shown, alien deaths occur offscreen, and environmental destruction is minimal. Worse, the action is constantly interrupted by redundant dialogue. If pilots have implanted combat skills, why do characters waste time explaining basic mechanics mid-fight? The lone bright spot is the integration of technobabble during battles, keeping the pacing brisk. Unfortunately, this isn’t enough to salvage the mediocrity.

Megaton Musashi tries to revive mecha nostalgia with flashy designs and a familiar premise but stumbles over its own flaws. The protagonist is a checklist of tropes, the worldbuilding prioritises shock over substance, and the action lacks visceral impact.

If you love robots, go back and watch retro titles. If desperate for new content, then there’s AMAIM, which, despite its flaws, provides a richer experience:
Better dialogue: Natural and purposeful.
Complex conflict: Political intrigue between multiple factions, not just 'humans vs. aliens'.
Deeper characterisation: Protagonists grapple with survival and loyalty to their nation, questioning their cause—not one-dimensional school tropes and 'must kill all aliens' vengeance.
Superior animation: Traditional 2D with character designs that don’t resemble a cheap card game adaptation.
Fitting soundtrack: No jarringly upbeat combat music in a supposedly grim setting.

Smother Me is a concise manga with a simple story about young assassins dealing with existential crisis. While not a novel concept in Japanese visual media, it may compared with cult classics such as Crying Freeman, Kite, Phantom, and Gunslinger Girl. A concept often tackling the inability to find peace and not fitting into society. Smother Me is less about those internal struggles and more about dealing with the system that led to the societal decay.

Sold by his mother and forced into a life of assassination, Snake initially finds solace and reason to live through a blind woman, but soon becomes entangled in a ... conflict between two opposing factions with a long history of trauma vying for control over Detroit. Both with acclaimed grand ambtions and noble causes, either seeking to establish order or maintaining the chaotic status quo. As Snake and other characters interact, they challenge and amend each other's perspectives, and search for solutions to their dilemmas—whether to escape, change, or accept a broken world.

It's nothing special plot wise if you consumed similar works like the aforementioned, and the part about gang wars with grand goals is found in almost any fiction with war in it. It perhaps stands out with its devolving art style, becoming increasingly simplified during intense moments. The high-contrast, abstract, UPA-inspired visuals evoke a feeling reminiscent of Samurai Jack or Guacamelee, making for an interesting choice—especially for a story set in America.

My Life as McDull is the first installment in the Chinese animated movie series featuring the piglet McDull. True to its title, it is a slice-of-life chronicling McDull’s life from birth to childhood and exploring his evolving relationship with his resilient single mother and the society around them.

One question that often arises with anthropomorphic characters is whether their animal forms are purely aesthetic or symbolic. In McDull's case, the choice seems largely stylistic, at least on the surface. Pigs are typically associated with unattractiveness and laziness. Despite being naive and absent-minded, he is diligent and earnest. His mother, is mentally strong and successful businesswoman.

The movie ... lacks a focused plot, relying instead on a continuous stream of visually captivating animation interspersed with occasional live-action footage. It was entertaining. Beneath the whimsical visuals lies a thoughtful emotional core, with the narration—delivered by a man's voice implied to be an adult McDull—offering reflective insights on his childhood. While I generally dislike narration, for the reason I meantioned it added a compelling dimension to the storytelling here.

Cultural elements also enrich the narrative. I learned about the traditional Chinese festival activity of 'bun snatching', a peculiar competition that is viewed far less seriously than formal Olympic sports. Despite this, McDull participates with heartfelt enthusiasm, highlighting themes of finding joy in unconventional pursuits and embracing cultural identity.

The animation deserves special mention, though I could easily spend an entire review discussing it. McDull and his mother inhabit a world where animals and humans coexist, with the humans appearing nearly identical except for their clothing and roles. This minimalist approach might seem cheap at first, but it created a sense of warmth and familiarity, almost like watching a play with a small cast of actors. It may also reflect how McDull might recall his childhood—fragmented and not entirely vivid, where memories blur together.

The stylish animation, the deadpan humor and irony, the depiction of traditions, and the heartfelt narration make it a delightful piece of media for all ages. It isn’t a movie you watch for a tightly woven plot or profound social commentary, but rather for its evocation of warmth, laughter, and portrayal of reminiscence.

The concept of a human living among demons, seeking to bridge the gap between two warring species, offers a wealth of narrative possibilities. However, the anime falls short in execution, plagued by various issues that prevent it from reaching its on-paper potential.

The series opens with the Demon King's army engaged in relentless battles against humans. Ike, the leader of the Undying Brigade and grandson of the great magician Romberg, is revered for his unparalleled magical prowess. Yet, his human identity remains a closely guarded secret, as its revelation could spell disaster. This central conflict could have set the stage for a compelling story of espionage ... and moral ambiguity, but the anime stumbles in its delivery.

Pros
- The anime features a few war tactics and espionage elements, though they are simplistic and not particularly innovative.
- No LitRPG nonsense and nerd video game terminology; magic and spells are not explained unless necessary, which is refreshing.
- Morally grey conflict where human leaders, despite facing a great threat, remain selfish and divided. In fact, human leaders are more concerned with the distant future, focusing on securing their future positions after defeating the demons, leading to internal disputes and lack of teamwork.
- The Demon Lord, Dairokuten, has an interesting level-headed personality, believing how humans can have desirable traits (such as humility) demons could learn from to become stronger.

Cons
- Dairokuten does nothing interesting besides sitting crossed legged on her throne. Leaving command to her minions, and by minions I only mean Ike, because he does everything, resulting him to be practically the de facto leader of the demon kingdom.
- Excessive exposition and thoughtless superfluous dumb dialogue.
- The so-called 'genius' protagonist and his 'intelligent' foes are disappointingly incompetent. Ike could have used his mind reading powers at numerous occasions but didn't for reasons, Ike explains his mind reading ability to opponents for reasons, and despite knowing Ike's mind-reading abilities, Jace the goblin foolishly orders an attack directly, only to act surprised when Ike finds out. Not only that, Jace could have at least pretended he was not involved, because mind-reading powers and interrogation are still not proof or evidence that he betrayed the demon kingdom by ordering his underlings to shoot Ike with an arrow, causing Jace's demise. He then challenges Ike as if that would do anything; Jace was already doomed from that point on, as he became wanted by both demons and humans with nowhere to escape. Jace then offers Ike alliance against Demon Lord, rendering all his previous actions unjustified; leaving you wondering why he attacked Ike in the first place. That's not a rational way to start a revolution.
- There is a noticeable lack of tension. Ike doesn't face threatening adversaries, and his human disguise is not convincingly dangerous. He is often seen casually removing his mask at home, making it hard to believe that he has maintained his secret for 20 years before being discovered by a random maid.
- The forced harem elements is non-organic and unnecessary, featuring a naive defenseless slave maid the protagonist protects from one-dimensional evil rapists, a flirtatious mentor witch who supposedly has an unrevealed history with Ike and does nothing besides infodumping and plot armouring Ike with her broken powers, and a succubus who constantly follow the MC begging him for sex, adding nothing substantial to the narrative beyond wish fulfillment.
- The CGI during action scenes is horrible to say the least.
- The opening song and visuals are overly sexualised and misleading, showcasing characters that are not introduced early in the story, which diminishes their anticipated importance.
- Traitors and spies are introduced at the moment they are revealed, leading to random and unimpactful twists. For example, episode 3's titular 'traitor' is a previously unintroduced goblin, making the revelation feel hollow.
- The title 'Strongest Magician in the Demon Lord's Army Was a Human' is misleading. Ike's human identity holds little narrative significance, and he is not the strongest magician by any notable margin. The difference between humans and demons isn't highlighted either, lacking contrast, with some demons resembling humans or being allies with Ike, fighting for his cause.
- The light novel is still ongoing, meaning this is likely going to be yet another incomplete adaptation with an open ending. It's not even a good adaptation, with some scenes lifted verbatim from descriptive narration, which isn't welcome in audio-visual mediums.

Although it is tagged as isekai, it doesn't reveal this element until later, worsening the story as the isekai aspect proves to be a needless gimmick (much like most contemporary isekais). The narrative could function perfectly well without a human being transported into a fantasy 'Dragon Quest knockoff' world; it could have been a generic low fantasy. Additionally, the series incorporates harem elements that add nothing serious or consequential, merely fueling the wish fulfillment fantasies of twenty-something male virgins. Despite its promising premise, it ends up being yet another otaku wish fulfillment power fantasy. It is not entirely without merit, offering some interesting ideas. It isn't complete trash, one step above average current isekai, but that's a low bar to begin with.

I like to categorise softporn anime into three types: Type-A is the unapologetic and shameless, where you might have a pervert flipping up a woman's skirt, the startled woman screams, while the man grinning lecherously. Type-B is the apologetic and shameful, where an excuse like bad weather leads to a skirt being blown up, the woman asks if he saw anything, and the shy man apologises while secretly relishing the memory of her panties, because that's normal for virgins. Type-C is the playing ignorant, where the woman strips her skirt, also her other clothes to change, then gives her breasts' muscles a little massage, all ... in front of a man with both of them being nonchalant and not drawing attention to the act, not because they're emotionless kuuderes, but because the act isn't considered shameful or the concept of shame itself doesn't exist in-universe.

Then the woman is saved from a train molester by the man, A is a scumbag who saved her for himself, or hilariously a sleaze unaware of his hypocrisy. B is a relatable hero for all virgin teenagers. And C, the man chases the molester to retrieve stolen goods because, in this context, it turns out the molester was actually a thief merely probing the woman's body for valuable goods, as the concept of molestation also doesn't exist.

'Waza no Tabibito' falls into Type-C. Presenting a rather lacklustre yet a serious story while constantly keeping the camera focused on the abnormally jiggling breasts and jelly buttocks of women in skimpy skin-tight outfits highlighting their erect nipples. Unlike the characters who don’t seem to notice or pay attention to this, it can be extremely distracting for viewers. This sexualisation could be entirely removed without any slight impact on the plot.

Considering it's highly engaged with its own plot and takes itself seriously is it worth watching for the plot? Absolutely not. Apart from the sexual elements and a few action scenes, there’s nothing original or interesting. The futuristic sci-fi setting about lost technologies acts as convenient magic. It subtly implies how the world is post-apocalyptic because of war and weapons of mass destruction, with a message about harmony with nature. However, it doesn’t explain much about the worldbuilding or the bikini-armoured heroine’s objective, leaving viewers to fill in the gaps. The characters are just plain lost do-gooders traveling aimlessly and helping those in need.

Except for a few scenic frames, the animation is fully 3DCGI, reminiscent of old-school 3D video games. Apart from the sexy women, the designs are plain and lifeless that it's hard to tell male soldiers and robots. The heroine, Techni, at least occasionally shows funny expressions during quick action scenes, which is definitely the only reason I kept pausing. The voice acting for the females was poor; I often couldn’t distinguish between Techni, her owl, and the young damsel in distress who of all names was named Ruri all had similar unnatural, forced, high-pitched tones.

Overall, it’s an admirable effort for an indie work created solely by Matsuena Shun, known for 'Kenichi', a Type-A horny martial arts manga. In Waza no Tabibito you see similar personality and peculiarities, like the care in choreographing sword fights and the attention to detail in animating the heroine’s erect nipples and buttcheeks on the transparent chair she sat on. However, the stock plot is ultimately an excuse for the sex, so it’s safe to say it’s not the main draw. I don’t recommend it unless you find the visuals attractive, or curious to see how far CGI can go with titillation.

Ushiro No Shoumen Daare (Who's Left Behind?) is an adaptation of Kayoko Ebina's autobiography children's book, drawing from the author's own experiences during World War II. This historical drama explores the theme of national pride from a child's perspective, seen through the eyes of young Kayoko.

The narrative begins with Kayoko's carefree and playful life, which is soon overshadowed by the grim realities of war. The initial scenes depict her joyous interactions with family and friends, painting a picture of innocence and normalcy. However, this tranquility is disrupted by the Tokyo air raids, which bring devastation and chaos, capturing the struggle for survival and the acute ... pain of loss as Kayoko's family is torn apart. These sequences are particularly effective in showing the stark contrast between the innocence of childhood and the horrors of war, making the impact of the conflict deeply personal and relatable.

Early, characters express strong nationalistic sentiments, with lines like, 'Don't worry. Japan is God's country' and 'The emperor is here. There is no possibility that Japan will lose'. These expressions of unwavering belief in Japan's invincibility are starkly contrasted by the harsh realities of war that follow. This misplaced faith is a recurring motif, highlighting how nationalism and pride can blind individuals to the impending dangers and consequences of conflict.

A notable moment is when Kayoko and her family are compelled to donate their personal belongings to the military to be recycled into weapons. Kayoko gives away her cherished doll to be turned into explosives, believing it will serve the country for the greater good. The loss of her doll is a symbol of act of sacrifice underscoring the heavy burden nationalism places on individuals, particularly children.

Contrasting this is a scene that underscores the confusion and innocence of children in understanding political complexities. In a touching farewell, Kayoko begins to sing a song to her family and classmates, unaware that it is an American song. Her classmates whisper, 'Didn't our teacher say we couldn't sing this song?' Feeling embarrassed, Kayoko awkwardly stops, but then her mother starts to sing along, encouraging her to resume. This support brings a smile to Kayoko's face, and she resumes singing joyfully, highlighting the innocence of childhood amidst wartime prejudice.

Aftermath, defeated, humiliated, traumatised, Kayoko wanders near her now-destroyed town. Before her lies a scene of despair and misery: Gaunt children desperately peddling tobacco on the once vibrant streets, a fleeing thief knocks her to the ground in a frantic scramble for whatever scraps remain, and lamentably, a boy who resembles her missing older brother polishes an American soldier's boots. This hopeless view leaves her appalled and devastated—a cruel reality check illustrating the profound personal impact of war and defeat.

The direction by Seiji Arihara effectively evokes strong emotions and conveys profound messages about the impact of nationalism and the harsh realities of war. The storytelling, combined with detailed animation and evocative sound design, created a deeply immersive experience. The contrast between the colourful, lively world of Kayoko's early childhood and the bleak, war-torn landscape that follows is striking, reinforcing the film's climax. The portrayal of Kayoko's gradual loss of innocence and her ultimate resilience is both heartbreaking and inspiring. Her journey is a microcosm of the larger national experience, reflecting the Japan's collective trauma and the enduring hope for a better future.

For those interested in similar World War II dramas by the same director, I recommend Hi no Ame ga Furu (Rain of Fire) and Raiyantsuuri no Uta (Song of Raiyantsuuri). The former critiques military censorship aimed at maintaining citizen morale, leading to collective overconfidence and negligence in safety during war. The latter shows a touching bond between a Chinese forced laborer escapee and a mute young Japanese girl, highlighting inhumane discrimination and a deep sense of nostalgia for home and family, further demonstrating Arihara's skills to create deeply moving, historically grounded anime.

Raiyantsuuri no Uta is a war drama based on real events, recounting the life of an escaped forced labour prisoner of war, Inlen, a Chinese farmer who was forcefully taken to a coal mine in Hokkaido by the Japanese military during the Pacific War. Escaping just two weeks before Japan's defeat, after undergoing forced labour, he embarks on a challenging life as a fugitive, yearning to return to China, oblivious to the war's conclusion.

The movie establishes itself with a hooking introduction, showing the escape from the labour prison and seamlessly transitioning into Inlen's life being on the run and struggling for survival in the harsh ... and cold environment. With the goal of returning to China, where his wife, pregnant with his child before their separation, may still be living and waiting for his return, Inlen plants Raiyantsuuri, a Chinese pear symbolising their love. With unparalleled hope and determination, he makes a promise to himself to return home and see his family again.

On the other hand, Tomoko, a Japanese first-grade elementary student living at her relatives' house in Hokkaido, is unable to speak due to a shocking event she witnessed during the war. Often running away from home, feeling like an unwanted burden, Tomoko one day hears a Chinese lullaby in the nearby forest. The singer is Inlen. The unsual dynamic between these two homesick tragic souls who can only communicate with their emotions ensues.

Beyond the suspenseful escape and survival, the movie offers profound and emotional elements, from war-induced PTSD to inhumane labour and the ache of separation from loved ones. Inlen and Tomoko, broken spirits finding solace through a shared lullaby, bridge the gap between their differences – she is mute, and he is Chinese – through sharing feelings rather than words. In the midst of fleeting, peaceful moments steeped in nostalgia and reminiscing about the irreversible past, the evolution of Inlen and Tomoko unfolds as their experiences shape them.

It touches upon the sins of the past through the innocent lens of a child, delivering a powerful message about the responsibility to prevent further pain and suffering, while also emphasising the importance of acknowledging and learning from the harsh and shameful aspects of history. It also subtly touches upon anti-nationalism, reminding us that despite wars and cultural differences, humans share basic needs, whether physical or emotional, fostering a universal connection.

Raiyantsuuri no Uta may lack the captivating animation of higher-budget Ghibli films like Grave of the Fireflies; still, visually, it retains a calm charm that complements its mature and down-to-earth storytelling. It may not boast the grandeur of some war dramas, but it stands as a testament to the enduring human spirit, encapsulating a simple yet emotionally resonant story, distinguishing itself by presenting a surrogate parent-child chemistry between characters of seemingly different backgrounds, yet both complete and nurture each other, weaving a poignant and unique story.