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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a direct sequel, Yojouhan Time Machine Blues is a spinoff set in the Yojouhan Shinwa Taikei universe and the events seemingly occur in an alternate timeline, while still retaining the original cast and setting-based context. The parent TV series is certainly not essential viewing, but I find that it enhances one's understanding of Tomihiko Morimi's (original creator) prioritization of character chemistry, which, unfortunately, benefits this ONA's ability to appeal to the audience, especially on the newer side. It's unable to form the full picture of contrasting dynamics alone given the limited runtime, and without that subtext, the already enjoyable humor isn't elevated to comprehensive ... insight into the so-called rose-colored campus life. The shades of youthful philosophies reflecting Watashi's college experience became a mere shadow of themselves, paving the introduction for the titular science-fiction element, where the manipulation of time and sequential happenings are at the mercy of a single remote's suspected location. As a concept, it's completely in line with the overarching style of narrative, but the absence of an exciting finale may dampen the satisfaction of an incredible chase for some.

Shingo Natsume's direction is slightly less snappy, and the fundamental pace of Yojouhan Time Machine Blues is somewhat slower than the "prequel", noticeable in the rapid delivery of the dialogue, which shows signs of intentional space between interactive scenes or drags a bit when rehashing gags. However, Natsume is more than capable, and he demonstrates the punchy personalities we're accustomed to as they parallel each other in a complex order of shenanigans and the looming fear of potentially being trapped in a paradox if something were to go awry. He pays homage to Yuasa's adaptation, merging various references into a product that can be called his own. Science Saru's production mimics the original series well, although replicating the subtle idiosyncrasies is virtually impossible. I've grown fond of the ending track after multiple listens, a vocalization that signals a bittersweet end, not to mention, Asian Kung-Fu Generation's irreplaceable return for the opening. The character acting and shot angles/composition stretch the frames and characters to and fro, enabling a sense of nostalgia for those familiar with these deathly pale faces and unmissably specific voices. A reversal of the irreversible arrow of time.

Films nearing the half-hour mark seem like sort of a trend lately. Perhaps due to the declining attention span of viewers, gradually, the general standards for consumption cease to exist. They've always been around, yet recent advertising promises a more glamorous comprehensive experience. Whatever the case, the runtime doesn't have to be an issue, nor does it even need to be considered a facet of thought when handled in the right direction. Summer Ghost is bewildered, bound by a specific restraint on its cast and to what extent they're written if they're written at all. It's hard to imagine there was genuine effort behind the ... composition of their relative roles in the story, more precisely, the terribly dull dialogue and character beats in a scene. The trio represents various disillusioned selves, youth attached to a glorified future. Individually, each of them is a flimsy topic of emotional introspection, and together, every moment becomes a trivial reflection of hidden secrets. The script fails to incorporate necessary pauses, nor does it indicate hesitation in what's presented as a sensitive area of discussion. Loundraw manages the allotted time quite well, fitting his concept without the tension of haste, but maximizing the element of realization is admittedly a tougher task.

The designs are sharp, similar to his previous work, often exhibiting dreary eyes. Unfortunately, the animation isn't exactly up to par, most obviously frame skipping, especially noticeable when characters turn their head for a change in expression. Character acting is also excessively dull, hardly emphasizing the mood of a situation. Speaking of atmosphere, the cinematography is uniformly impressive, likely the only part of the trailer that remains consistent with the final product. It excels in lighting, background texture, shot selection, and aspects of dreamy visual direction transitioning between reality and the supernatural. Loundraw's first attempt at helming a feature is barely acceptable, unable to balance the rationality of decisions against the wide-angle gentle backdrops of scenery. Utilizing too much circumstantial reasoning to avoid the meaningless expiration of life. Summer Ghost is akin to an actual ghost, a bit transparent, evidently hollow.

The daily lives of guinea pigs turned cars are charming, not necessarily because children's shows offer nuanced insights that can be addictive, although that's certainly part of it, but because the creative lengths achieved here in under three minutes is nothing short of amusing. It's less about the plot lines themselves, and more so the imaginative stop-motion animation coming to fruition through the use of diverse visual language. Pui Pui Molcar stitches storytelling by weaving music, varied movement, and completely transparent facial expressions that are not only easy to read but the sheer spectrum of subtle micro-movements boasting ridiculous amounts of twitches and jumps plus ... many more details evoke genuine investment in the resolution of the Molcars's conflicts. Two particular characteristics worth noting are the attention to their ears and eyes; the former is heavily incorporated into most tense scenes, and the flapping or drooping motions being repeated in a pattern effectively explain each Molcar's current emotion. The eyes momentarily expand when they are in shock, occasionally exhibiting the classic eye pop. Director Tomoki Misato shows impressive comprehension of visual directing, undoubtedly complex from a different angle than composing digital animation.

Misato's scriptwriting bears the credit for most of the standout episodes, where the series of rapid-fire gags are consistently appealing to anyone with an open sense of humor. However, Pui Pui Molcar is not without its originality low points, similarly, the choreographic direction falters when the story ventures into other genres that are less susceptible to being absurdly dramatized. The initial motif is the element of these guinea pigs being vehicles and stretching into other thematic areas or social lessons, inevitably inviting segments that may pale in comparison. Be that as it may, it would be foolish to seriously hold a few inconsistent script dynamics against the rest of the production, a fantastic one at that. The color coordination is vibrant, the set designs are configured with simple intentions and well-lit, and traditional 2D animation makes an appearance when the scope of their dilemma needs the effects. Attaching the no-dialogue educational factor is stimulating for young minds, and the squeaking creatures are honest fun.

Netflix's adaptation of popular manhwa Lookism couldn't be a worse display of indifferent effort, although admittedly, it doesn't benefit from the source material either, and there's only so much one could do to improve a story lacking fundamentals. The baseline premise is that of a hybrid self-insert drama and power fantasy, not always mutually inclusive considering the central direction rarely settles definitively, instead opting for redundant instances of bullying and the occasional showboating from a character that's clearly a caricature of malice, merely waiting to dominated by our lead. There's a stark difference between using the school hierarchy to initiate conflicts and that being the ... dramatic device itself, in which the latter is severely restricted by the need to retcon exposition to justify comically implausible warfare in an academic setting, something the narrative takes oddly seriously. Nevertheless, Lookism has even greater issues beyond gaps in character logic and repulsive dialogue; the supernatural element isn't enticing whatsoever. Partly because there's a lack of genuine suspense, but also because the mysterious details learned about such a phenomenon are willingly ignored until a misunderstanding arises that one would think could have been prevented if Hyung-Seok actually registered his observations about his alternate appearance as opposed to taking pointless notes.

The ineffective character writing is a massive aspect of the script's failure to create tenets of storytelling meant to satisfy the male viewer, which I reckon anyone can notice is the primary goal. However, setting aside the apparent obsession with thin masculinity, the cast's dynamics are painfully recycled, ranging from female characters swooning over (cue flowers blooming on the screen), and males generating hatred at the sight of someone not hideous. These two interactions are incessantly repeated, even during action sequences, as though it's the only available comic relief in a plot that doesn't need to be relieved of anything but the mere fact that it exists. The antagonists struggle to form the slightest convincing reason that could potentially explain routinely despising a classmate they've only just met, and the nonsensical motivations or lack thereof spread into each thematic area, contaminating relatively normal arcs of characterization with segments of unwarranted petty violence. Lookism is never headed anywhere, content with hesitant black-and-white morality dispersed among humor tailored around demeaning not conventionally attractive individuals.

Studio Mir's production values are horrid, almost a borderline unacceptable animated product. They don't exactly boast a track record representative of quality, but the budget one would assume they have at their disposal is nowhere to be seen. The general animation suffers from an often less than satisfactory framerate, barring action sequences, which have their own set of glaring inconsistencies; i.e., poor combat choreography, misguided scene direction, and static lighting (a tinted orange filter pervades numerous frames). There's also a jarring CG stage performance in the finale, composed of shoddy 3D models that have the opposite of the intended effect, resulting in revealing looped motion when the camera pans the audience. This adaptation seems to have slightly improved upon the webtoon's obnoxious character designs through simplicity, although it's likely their objective was targeting an easier time drawing a large cast. The art direction is completely bareboned, hardly utilizing extensive layouts, rather there are reused location shots and transition stills. Sound direction is fairly underwhelming too, especially the dance-pop opening track, albeit the soundtrack has a longer selection than I expected, even if some of it is akin to music on hold. It meshes the worst of Korean tropes with insufferable personalities and awful visuals, a cheap ploy from a now pathetic streaming giant.

It's a bit of a disaster when a romantic film struggles to depict the romance itself, and paired with highly impersonal dialogue, the substance is thinly stretched. Natsu e no Tunnel, Sayonara no Deguchi occasionally remained on the heels of finding a centralized theme to latch onto, but once we've repeatedly witnessed the rehashed ideas of the tunnel and its purpose, there's not much else occurring to warrant interest. Hachimoku's original story is relatively predictable; even within hidden specifics, the outcomes are relatively one-dimensional. There is never an instance of genuinely palpable tension due to the erratic nature of supernatural phenomena, rather everything is somewhat ... normalized, including not picking up the current on the individual dilemmas through a more complex angle. That's not to say a film needs to be provocative in its approach, yet refusal to employ even the slightest hints of dynamic framing limits the potentially promising concept of equivalent exchange.

The tunnel as a plot device is underused, and at no point is the audience given a tangible sense of risk versus reward. Director Taguchi hardly shows any finesse in tailoring the storytelling around the characters or foregrounding a more convincing connection, either between the leads or portraying a bit more personality in the background cast. The minor interactions are discarded as meaningless events, and they hold no influence on the narrative. However, he does handle the emotional urgency from the perspective of Kaoru well for the short runtime, although Anzu's motivation, unfortunately, comes off as narrow and insignificant. I found that the film reasonably managed its minimalism, and while it often only introduces thematic direction, Natsu e no Tunnel, Sayonara no Deguchi still conveys a decent dose of coming-of-age conviction. Studio CLAP put in a commendable effort to salvage the experience, and the general animation boasts glimpses of serious quality, albeit the visual design didn't always coordinate with the overbearing score. A rough analogy for grief and short-lived summer memories.

Needless to say, for a graduation work, this is a phenomenal showcase of storytelling talent. Tomoki Misato's retelling of a classic Brothers Grimm fairy tale merely takes the original's skeleton, whereas the central focus is on an entirely different angle toward psychological trauma, be it memories or permanent scars that are difficult to confront. The innocence of a group of baby sheep is exploited for grim imagery, and this could have easily gone in the opposite direction, however, I commend Misato's choice to rotate the moral compass to responsibility, the conscious choice to protect the defenseless. The film's parallel allegories are extremely effective in developing ... the ominous air that creeps around in many of the scenes, also contingent on an unsettling score composed of low shrieking and augmented scales, only sparsely releasing to build tension upon the fearful eyes staring at one another.

The stop-motion mechanics are very dynamic, utilizing visual techniques that are traditionally seen in digital animation (e.g., jumping into a picture frame, or hiding in a jar). It's storyboarded with consideration of the full view of multiple characters simultaneously making micro-movements for a final sequence that's intricately choreographed, while the camera's approach to this climax is through blocking and below-eye-level shots. The tainted felt material used for the mangled characters eerily contrasts the unharmed sheep, displaying tears in the wool to reveal colors of bruised blue or pink. My Little Goat excels in concurrently producing layers of symbolism, and the sheer success of the narrative in ten minutes is remarkable. I have high hopes for Misato's career, and it seems he's already being recognized for his abilities in his TV debut. A deceptively distorted tale of unconditional acceptance.

Season three understandably struggles to match the previous seasons in scale, partly because we're well past the stage of incrementally stronger antagonists, but also due to ONE reorganizing the format of Mob Psycho's climactic payout. Structurally, similar to what we're accustomed to, these final few arcs are self-contained, although, unlike the prior instances of somewhat cohesive dramatic writing, this conclusion is a scattered attempt at characterization, employing certain events that should have taken place somewhere in the middle area of the story or never. The series is harmed by the length of the final season, and a full slice-of-life exercise in emotion pales in comparison ... to what the viewer has already experienced, a combination of moderately capable genre elements, regardless of how much action is integrated into major plot points or one's impression of such. It's rather predictable where the narrative is headed early on, as there are very few options outside of a deus ex machina confrontation that shocks Mob's perception of the status quo, an ultimately flat realization under the shadow of a tediously roundabout result. The basis of his reserved personality is his unpredictable psychic powers, but the resolution of his insecurities has been generally available en masse throughout each conflict, to the point where one would expect the finale to offer provocative insight into bending the superpower subgenre. Unfortunately, the implications are the same as any other title in this demographic, perhaps even more narrow and eye-rolling than the thematic substance the series initially had.

The style of character writing is more or less the only genuine motif in Mob Psycho, predominant in its closing moments, yet massively divisive in the believability of erratic emotional intelligence over a long stretch that appears fitting, but drags along on a path between friends and foes past and present. It maintains a steady pattern of cause and effect, effective enough if the script is uninterested in original ideas, and that's indeed the case for much of Mob Psycho up to now. Admittedly, it's difficult to entirely discredit ONE's approach to developing a character plagued by low self-esteem, more so in the context of the target audience. There is inevitably sappiness, an oversaturated dependency on friendship, which is completely fine to the extent of retaining attention through entertaining dynamics. This season establishes Reigen as often the sole source of wit, facilitating every functional instance of comic relief, the particular case in point being the hollow boredom most of the dialogue is laced with. Reaction humor has its limits, but even within those restrictions, Reigen sets comic relief in motion. However, the primary unredeemed hitch in the narrative is Mob, or other characters being driven into a power-up corner. It's a byproduct of the story's structure in some capacity, although there are just as many questionable choices, where a certain member of the cast is assigned a strict role through a sudden surge in ability. Most importantly, the presentation of each standardized moral lesson is derived from insignificant conflicts, nostalgic pandering, and regressive development.

Studio Bones has had considerably better production values on various projects, albeit season three's visual technicalities are slightly better than the previous seasons by comparison of storyboarding clarity. It's still not quite up to par in numerous cuts, e.g., underwhelming storyboarding, weak transitional editing, and generally shabby execution preventing any refined key animation from exhibiting maximum quality. Nonetheless, there are improvements too, namely, the excessive esper VFX is toned down, and the formerly borderline incomprehensible sequences have stronger continuity. The buzzing rumors around the extent of hand-drawn effort are a definite exaggeration, as there's no substantial difference across the quality of the series as a whole, and while it's obvious that certain episodes have numerous in-betweens for character acting, it's still not always on-model or relevant in context. The animators employed some unconventional animation techniques, such as the ED's paint-on-glass impressionism, fascinating even if the imagery itself is mediocre, and doesn't serve a visual purpose to the actual story. Wakabayashi and Kawai's collaboration on sound is mainly without issue, and there are a few standout tracks that are synced with the more relaxed atmospherics well. Mob Psycho occasionally finds its stride, but an aimless final act is a far too quiet farewell.