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The Internet can be a strange, confusing, and even frightening place. Information floats freely and unfiltered on the web; news articles, gossip tabloids, crazy conspiracy theories, personal information, anything and everything can be found. Not only is the Internet a source of information, accurate or otherwise, it also is a medium of communication, a forum in which someone can express their opinions and connect with others without disclosing their identity or even apperance. In today's world, where the Internet has become just another part of daily life, a story like Serial Experiments Lain, which blurs the line between the digital and reality, feels all the ... more relevant.

Actually, to say Serial Experiments Lain is a story, or at least a conventional one, is a bit of a stretch. It's more like a cyberpunk themed lucid dream, or perhaps a nightmare. The narrative plays out in a disjointed manner, events are segmented jumbled; constantly interrupted by strange tangents on fringe sciences, esoteric ramblings on the progress of technology, and philosophical diatribes on society and "God". The show continuously bombards the viewer with so many concepts and so much information that it is easy to feel lost and overwhelmed by the sheer density of it. Add to that the disjointed presentation of events, and Serial Experiments Lain becomes maddeningly confusing. However, this near impenetrable sense of confusion is the entire point; it captures the zeitgeist of the digital advent of the late 90s, and the anxieties that came with it. Furthermore, in creating this confusion, the show depicts an environment oversaturated with information, in which strangers from around the world can communicate while remaining anonymous.

Titular leading lady, Lain Iwakura, is the 'Alice' to the 'Wonderland' of The Wired (the show's version of the Internet). However, the character herself becomes as enigmatic and strange as everything else in the show. At the beginning of the series, Lain is introduced as an introverted middle schooler with very few friends, and unfamiliar with the Wired. However, as she becomes progressively more outgrowing as she gets more involved with the Wired, to the point of seeming like an entirely different person. Her identity becomes ever more muddled as another "Lain" lurks around the Wired, and it becomes clearer that Lain's life, family, and friends are all not what they originally seem to be. The show understands that person's identity is flexible yet fragile, formed and affected by any any number of factors, most notably how they are perceived by themselves and others. The limitless connectivity of a network like the Wired allows for communication on a global level, but also creates artificiality in those interactions. Data can be manipulated and distorted, people create personas which reflect who they want to be rather than they actually are, and misleading rumors can spread worldwide.

Serial Experiments Lain's surreal aesthetic embodies the show's perplexing nature; creating a nightmarish post-modern cyberpunk dreamscape. The murky color pallet and often garish lighting wash the visuals in a sense of detachment and alienation. The ever present electric hums create an almost oppressive atmosphere, while the guitar centered score work of Nakaido "Chabo" Reichi sounds strange and otherworldly. Notably, this is the first anime artist Yoshitoshi Abe worked on, and even at this early stage in his career in the medium, his unique artistic style is unmistakable. The show may not be one of the prettiest of its time, but the style is so fitting that I can hardly image it looking different.

Serial Experiments Lain is not an easy watch. It's a challenging, almost frustratingly confusing work of science fiction that forces the viewer to really think about what they are watching. Yet it is only better for this, after all, it is the goal of all great sci-fi to not only to speculate on future technology, but also how it will affect the individual and society as a whole. It's bizarre, haunting, and eerily prophetic of today's social media driven world.

Flowers of Evil (or Aku no Hana) is one of the most divisive anime of the past few years. Many decry it as an ugly waste of time, while others praise it for being a brilliant work of artistic expression. Seeing as it ranks this high on my all-time favorites, it is obvious where I stand in this argument. Flowers of Evil is as core-shaking an experience as I have ever had watching an anime. It is a show that so perfectly frames itself in the minds of its disturbed characters that it is honestly frightening.

The story is one of adolescent angst, insecurity, anger, and ... sexual deviance. It follows Takao Kasuga, an introverted middle school student who has a love for literature and a distaste for most of his classmates, even those he frequently associates with. The one person he doesn't think badly of is his crush, Nanako Saeki, whom he idolizes but hardly has any interaction with. That is until one evening, in a single moment of horrible judgment, he goes through Saeki's P.E. uniform and ends up sneaking off with it in a panic when he thinks he might get caught. Unfortunately, he was seen by someone, resident trouble child Sawa Nakamura, who blackmails him into a "contract" with her. From here the show becomes a slow- burning nightmare of adolescence, digging into the darkest recesses of the teenage psyche.

If it isn't already evident, Flowers of Evil centers around deeply flawed, fairly despicable teenagers. Needless to say, they aren't exactly the most likeable of characters. They are, however, incredibly interesting ones. Kasuga is an accurate and brutally honest depiction of a disgruntled teenage misfit who reasons the fact he doesn't fit in because he's special and that 'no one else understands him'. Kasuga is rather asocial, preferring to spend his free time reading rather than socializing with his classmates. He idolizes Baudelaire, but has no admiration for the people in his life (except Saeki). He looks down on most of his classmates for not being as well-read as him, but paradoxically doesn't want them to think badly of him despite actively isolating himself from them. Like many teens, he's self-absorbed yet lacks self-control and maturity, which makes him very susceptible to Nakamura's poisonous influence.

Nakamura, on the other hand, clearly doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of her; she's violently antisocial and her contempt for everyone around her is palpable. Her foul mouth is only matched by the bleakness of her outlook. She takes pleasure in her wanton harassment of Kasuga, and seems happiest when she is prodding him into doing something wrong. Yet behind all the malice, there is something humanly broken about her. Through glimpses into her personal life and the rare crack of vulnerability in her otherwise sadistic demeanor, it is shown that Nakamura is a self-loathing individual who's frustration manifests in her nihilistic worldview.

Rounding out the central characters is Kasuga's crush, Saeki. Unlike the other two leads, she's actually fairly popular at school and seems like a perfectly well rounded teenager... at least at first. The layers of her nice girl image are peeled back as she becomes entangled with Kasuga and Nakamura in a twisted love triangle, revealing deep seeded insecurities. For as popular as she is, Saeki perceives herself as a painfully unremarkable and empty person. She sees Kasuga as someone interesting because of his love for literature, and wants to be close to him because of this. Her uneasiness about his relationship with Nakamura leads her to have an unhealthy possessiveness over him. This is where the brilliance of the narrative lies. Where most other anime are picturesque in their depiction of adolescence, Flowers of Evil is biter and uncomfortable; enveloped in never ending melancholy. While it mighty be overwhelmingly bleak, there certainly is truth in this pessimistic version of adolescence, especially for the damaged characters of this warped coming-of-age story.

Now, it's time to address the elephant in the room, the cause of the controversy surrounding this anime: the art style. Flowers of Evil utilities an animation technique called rotoscoping, in which the animators trace over live-action footage frame by frame. This technique is hardly anything new, it's been used in films such as Richard Linklater's "A Scanner Darkly", and even used for certain scenes in anime. What sets Flowers of Evil apart is the strange lack of detail in the character designs, which needless to say aren't the most attractive and a far-cry from those of the source material. This, of course, is what generated the controversy.

Strange as this might seem, I think this was a brilliant visual decision. The minimalist character designs contrast with the highly detailed backgrounds, which makes the show look and feel like a waking nightmare. It's as if the characters' negative emotions and warped worldviews are leaking in the visual design; the town is rotting and filled with "shit-eaters" as Nakamura would call them.

Hiroshi Nagahama's direction of this nightmarish tale is impeccable. As with his other works, Nagahama demonstrates his affinity for cinematic flourish. The constant re-use of the same backgrounds creates a constricting atmosphere. Kasuga and Nakamura feel like they trapped in their small town; likewise, the viewer is inescapably stuck in the heads of these immensely screwed up adolescents. The languorous pacing of events captures the ennui and emptiness that the characters feel. The minimalist ambiance of the soundtrack encapsulates the looming dread which permeates throughout the show, punctuated by the sound of rolling thunder. The moments when tension finally snap, such as the classroom destruction scene, are simultaneously cathartic and horrifying; microcosms of teenage frustration in of themselves.

Though it doesn't adapt the entire manga, and probably never will due to poor Blu-ray sales, Aku no Hana feels like a full experience. It captures the darkest parts of adolescence with its unique aesthetic and brutal honesty. Perhaps most admirably, it is an example of artistic risk taking in a medium that all too often is too commercially driven.

Fame, fortune, and beauty are the lusts of modern world. Pop culture has turned celebrities into shining icons to be idolized and strive to become. There is a social pressure for women in particular to maintain a standard of physical beauty, especially when they are in the limelight. And this can lead them to take drastic measures. So is the case of Liliko, the central character in Kyoko Okazaki's Helter Skelter, a horror story about beauty.

Liliko is the hottest model in Japan. Her career is booming, and she's everywhere, from movie appearances to talk shows and gossip tabloids. She's on the tip of everyone's tongue ... and treated like Japan's sweetheart. Her beauty seems too good to be real, and that's because it is. Liliko has gone through countless operations; her eye-balls, skeleton, and internal organs are all that remain from her original body. Regular operations are required to maintain her body, as well as copious amounts of drugs. In all respects, Liliko is a "plastic girl" manufactured to be a superstar. However, Liliko is painfully aware that her time in the limelight won't last forever, and has become resentful and self-destructive as her career begins to fade.

Helter Skelter examines celebrity culture with scathing cynicism, exposing the harsh reality and often grotesque nature of the pursuit of fame. Liliko's beauty is only skin-deep, behind her sweet public persona is highly volatile, unstable woman, who has almost no genuine personal relationships. Her "boyfriend" is a spoiled heir she plans on using as a meal ticket once her career fades, she treats her assistant with a twisted mixture of abuse and affection, and lets her boss (whom she calls Mama) run her life. Because of her profession, Liliko is obsessed with her appearances, having meltdowns whenever she notices the littlest imperfections. She's spiteful to anyone she feels might threaten her position, and resorts to sabotage and violence to eliminate competition. All this adds up to compelling portrait of a woman driven to madness and moral decay by her own thirst for fame, and society's fixation on celebrity.

It's tempting to simply to paint Helter Skelter as feminist tirade against celebrity culture, but this would not be doing the manga justice. Okazaki pens the story from a much more nuanced perspective; diving into the darker parts of femininity. Society's unrealistic standards of beauty puts monstrous pressure on Liliko, but she's a willing participant in this corrosive shallowness, making her just as monstrous. While is is implied that Liliko came from an unglamorous background, the story doesn't at all lionize her behavior or even attempt to milk the reader's sympathy. Instead, the focus is on the terrible person Liliko has become. The vitriolic hateful mess she allowed herself to become, implicating her just as much as the societal pressures that come with fame. It's this unflinchingly harsh honestly which Helter Skelter its unique power.

The manga is illustrated with Okazaki's idiosyncratic minimalism, and is a testament to its versatility. In Pink, an earlier Okazaki work, her art captured the flippant carelessness of the characters. Here, the art style is creates an inescapable artificiality which fits the story like a glove. A lot of emphasis is put on Liliko's manufactured beauty, and the loose detail of the art makes any standard of beauty feel fake. Yet, despite being minimal in detail, there are some truly haunting images in the manga, most notably Liliko's drug induced hallucinations late in the story. The only real drawback to the style is some designs look very similar, making it difficult to tell some side characters apart from one another. Also noteworthy is the accompanying illustrations of miserable looking nude women, which put society's obsession with sexualization in a darker context.

Helter Skelter is an relentlessly harsh examination of the shallowness of celebrity culture. It's an unflattering character piece of a woman so driven by wealth and beauty that she becomes nothing more than a decadent facade hiding a rotten core. It certainly isn't a comfortable read, but it's a visceral experience, and one which is well worth the read.

A decade before Madoka Magica subverted tropes of the magical girl genre and spawned a new wave of “darker” magical girl shows, Alien 9 did something a similar vein. Starting off as a quirky sci-fi slice-of-life featuring cute girls fighting aliens, this 4 episode OVA lulls you into thinking it’s a fun little sci-fi adventure romp with its unassuming first episode, and then proceeds to shatter those expectations throughout it’s the rest relatively short run-time. It’s a bizarrely off-kilter yet compelling mixture of quaintness and horror that puts a uniquely sadistic twist on common anime tropes, even by today’s standards. Unfortunately, we’re ultimately provided with ... only a small taste of the OVA’s potential, as its short episode count prevents it from becoming something truly substantial.

The OVA follows three elementary school students who have been selected to be their school’s alien hunting squad. There’s Kumi, a girl much more mature and responsible than most kids her age, and a big sister-like figure to her friends and classmates. Kasumi, an accomplished child-prodigy, who volunteered herself to be part of the school’s alien hunting squad. And then there’s Yuri, a timid cry-baby who was selected by her classmates to be part of the alien hunting squad because she didn’t participate in any other school clubs or activities, and the show’s main focal point. The girls aided by aliens called Borgs, which perch themselves on the girls’ heads like hats, and supervised by the cheerful Ms. Hisakawa, who seems too enthusiastic to push the girls to hunt aliens.

Now, if this situation off to you, it’s because it is. It does pit little girls against aliens, after all. Though it may not appear so strange at first, partly because this kind of thing is commonplace in anime, but also because the show introduces the premise as nonchalant and matter-of-fact. Nobody ever questions the ethics of sending little girls to catch dangerous aliens, Ms. Hisakawa seems to be more pre-occupied with monitoring and taking the girls than the safety of the girls. Early on, the show itself treats some of the alien encounters with a certain lack of seriousness and urgency, often showing them in fun little montages, as if to intentionally downplay the severity of the situation. Even Yuri’s scaredy-cat tendencies are played for some laughs. The show takes advantage of the tropes of the medium to fool the audience into thinking it’s a fun little show, and not questioning the bizarre and unethical nature of what is demanded of the girls.

Of course, it the show doesn’t stay this way for too long, as the danger the girls are in become very apparent and the show’s content becomes progressively more disturbing. After some events that would traumatize any elementary school student, the show stops treating Yuri’s crying fits as comical and more as the harsh and horrifying truth of the situation. Yuri, for all her crying, is right to be scared; serving as the anxious fear-ridden heart of the show. She’s a shy, timid girl forced against her own will to fight aliens and continuously pressured to do so despite her objections. She even starts having nightmares about her ordeals, which are colorful and even child-like depictions of her rational fears. The contrast between the cartoony visual direction and the darker thematic content of the show make the experience even more bizarre and unsettling. Even when the show is at its most surreal and violent, the art retains a certain cutesiness which makes it all the more sinister.

Yuri isn’t the only one that suffers psychologically as the show progresses, however. Mature and confident Kumi, whom Yuri heavily relies on, and even the enthusiastic Kasumi have their own mental and emotional scars. Their familial issues and struggles with responsibility and loneliness are just as relatable as Yuri’s fear, if not even more so. Unfortunately, the OVA’s short episode count only allows a very light examination of their psyches. This inconclusiveness envelops the OVA as a whole; the plot largely goes unexplained and left with a lot of loose ends, including a cryptic final shot which is frustrating on multiple levels. Regrettably, this severely undercuts the show’s impact. For its ambitions, Alien 9 suffers from a curious lack of purpose. It succeeds in subverting commonly used tropes and weaving a grim tale from a cutesy aesthetic, but the hanging plot and rushed catharsis leaves a certain lack of fulfillment as the OVA ends. Sadly, this ultimately devalues what the show accomplishes to an extent, making it a half-fulfilled promise of what it could have been.

The show was produced in the early 2000s, a time when anime was transitioning from hand-drawn cells to digital cells, and it’s pretty easy to tell just by looking at the show. The digital coloring and animation was not the most refined, certainly not as refined as the anime series of the mid-2000s onward. It’s colorful and animated well, but the show doesn’t really pop visually outside of a few creepy surreal moments. The character designs are very purposely made cutesy, with emphasis on the characters round and expressive faces. The alien designs look more weird than threatening; they look appropriately otherworldly, but also oddly unmemorable. The Borgs in particular are peculiar looking, being frog-like creatures with wings that double as hats. The music, like everything else in the show, is deceptively light and bouncy. Mostly composed of xylophone, bells, flutes, and electronic beats, it’s an energetic soundtrack that progressively gets stranger as the show delves into darker material.

Alien 9 is a nifty little oddity that has unfortunately become obsolete as time has passed. Its deceptive façade of cute characters and wacky hijinks with more sinister intentions it hides makes the OVA quite a novelty. Unfortunately, it never actually develops or expands on its themes, characters, or plot. This really diminishes the show’s value to little more than an interesting idea. This lack of development compounded with the upsurge of darker magical girl series pretty much ensure that Alien 9 is doomed to be an obscure novelty from the early 2000s, and nothing more.

It seems that today’s society is obsessed with physical appearance and self-indulgence. People often judge others on their appearance; basing their treatment of others on attraction rather than a standard of human decency. Likewise, people are obsessed with the pursuit of their own happiness, to the point that they disregard the happiness of others and ignore the ugly realities of their situation in order to preserve their own self-satisfaction. This is the viewpoint taken by Moyoco Anno’s manga In Clothes Called Fat, the story of a fat woman living in modern Japan and her attempt at weight loss. It is an unflinching and harsh examination ... of the superficiality of physical appearance, and the extents of what a person is willing to put themselves through to attain even a semblance of happiness.

The story follows Noko Hanazawa, a plump office worker who eats away her anxiety. She binge eats whenever the stress in her life becomes too much for her to handle; a coping mechanism of sorts. “Eat to become stronger” she tells herself as she munches all her problems to the back of her mind. She’s self-conscious about her girth, but she isn’t too bothered by it. She’s satisfied with the few friends she has at work and her boyfriend of 8 years. However, things start to fall apart when she finds out that her boyfriend is sleeping with one of her co-workers, and a sequence of unfortunate events turn her personal and professional life upside down. What follows is a rollercoaster of misguided determination and insecurity, as Noko struggles to lose weight and get her life back in order.

In Clothes Called Fat is not a comfortable read, largely because the subject matter will hit close to home for a lot of readers. Like Noko, most people have their self-image connected to their physical appearance, at least to a certain extent. People have low self-confidence if they are constantly being told that they are fat or ugly or in some way physically undesirable, or if they perceive themselves in such a manner. This makes Noko very easy to sympathize with; especially when her life really goes south, dragging her deeper into a pit of insecurity and dissatisfaction. Her negative evaluation of herself and her constant need for the approval of others, namely her boyfriend, are as heartbreaking and relatable as they are self-destructive. In her desperate attempt to lose weight and win back her boyfriend, Noko overlooks or ignores the harm she is doing to herself. She even turns a blind-eye to the fact that her boyfriend is cheating on her until it becomes too apparent to ignore. By mid-way through the book Noko has lost a substantial amount of weight, but she’s no better off for it; ultimately trading one eating disorder for another.

However, Noko is not the only character that gets attention in the story, nor is she the only one with issues. Noko’s boyfriend, Saitou, has a rather unhealthy relationship with women. He seeks out beautiful and self-assured women whom he cheats on Noko with, but he’s also intimidated by such women and always comes back to Noko, whom he believes will love him unconditionally. Essentially, he is using his relationship with Noko to avoid confronting his own insecurities. The clear antagonist of the story, Noko’s co-worker Mayumi, is a manipulative sadist. Not only does she harass Noko for being overweight, she abuses Saitou when they have sex. Yet it is implied that even her actions stem from some sort of dissatisfaction; a compulsory need to put down others in order to feel superior. Two other girls who work with Noko seem to be friendly with her at times, but more often than not follow Mayumi in order to keep their own social standing. Later in the story, there are a few of Noko’s male colleagues who lament their place in society and pointlessly waste their days away. Every character in the story is dissatisfied about something in their lives, and Anno uses them to deliver broad, open-ended statements on society which don’t put the blame in any one place.

The art of In Clothes Called Fat is distinctive and attractive, and Anno doesn’t hold back depicting the human physique, making the manga decidedly for older readers. The art is somewhat similar to that of Kyoko Okazaki, whom Anno worked under for a time, and other Josei manga yet has a distinct flavor of its own. Most female leads in manga are drawn attractively, so the atypically fat and only marginally attractive Noko makes for a unique heroine. The images of Noko observing herself in the nude and her alarming change in appearance as she loses weight are the manga’s most striking images, along with the graphic sex scenes.

In Clothes Called Fat is not something everyone will want to read, but it absolutely deserves to be read. Admittedly, the story is not flawless, there are some extraneous plot threads and some characters that are frankly unnecessary. It also isn’t a very comforting read; even though Noko comes to a conclusion about her body by the end, it isn’t necessarily an affirming one. That said, this is a maturely told story which covers a very serious and very real issue. It examines eating disorders not only through a physical standpoint, but a through a psychological and a sociological angle as well. It is a painfully human tale of personal perception, and a disarmingly sharp critique of society’s superficial standard of beauty.

When Satoshi Kon died in late 2010, the anime industry had lost one of its greatest talents. Kon’s movies were imaginative, unmistakable works of artistic majesty. His stylized explorations into the human psyche exemplified the strengths of animation like nothing else, while also pushing the possibilities of the medium even further. The striking surreal dreamscapes he conjured up were more than just aesthetically beautiful, they were integral to the stories he told, exploiting the power of visual storytelling to its fullest. The perfect showcase of Kon’s talent is his 2001 sophomore directorial effort, Millennium Actress, a love letter to movies and life itself that stands ... as an incomparable masterpiece of modern cinema.

Though Millennium Actress was his second movie, this Kon’s first original work; Perfect Blue being an adaptation of a novel. Watching the film, it is clear that a lot of passion was put into it, as is Kon’s love of movies. The story chronicles the life of an actress named Chiyoko Fujiwara, who had at one time been the most prominent actress in Japan, but had suddenly disappeared from the public eye 30 years ago. When the movie studio she worked for is closed down, a devoted fan of Chiyoko and his camera man track her down to get an interview, and Chiyoko tells them her life story. Now, what I described might sound dull or trite, but really, no plot synopsis can do this movie justice.

As Chiyoko recounts her life, the interviewers (and the audience) are transported to a different time and place, almost as if they were experiencing her life first hand, except in a strange stream-of-thought dreamscape where movies and reality meld together. The film is an odyssey through Chiyoko’s memories, with the real events of her life intertwined with the movies she stared in. Real events in her life take place in the settings of her movies, and at times the two are almost indistinguishable from one another. Parallels form between the roles in her movies and what is happening in her personal life at any given time, often reflecting her mental state. The two interviewers become so involved with Chiyoko’s account of her life that they themselves become part of her story, filling in roles of characters in her movies or people who helped her along the way. Of course, in reality none of this is actually happening, Chiyoko is simply telling the interviewers about her life and her work in film. It is an unconventional stroke of narrative brilliance that truly feels like someone reflecting on their life, rather than just an extended feature film length flashback.

This unique brand of storytelling gives us a complete portrait of who Chiyoko is as a person. We see her desires, aspirations, joys, affections, doubts, regrets, insecurities and everything in-between; beautifully framed in the recollections of her life. These are often expressed through certain scenes from her movies, which serve as reoccurring metaphors and motifs throughout the film. Other times they are encapsulated in certain items or images, such as the key Chiyoko was given by the painter with whom she is infatuated, or a portrait of Chiyoko the painter made later on. All of this works because in spite of her fame and accolades, Chiyoko is not a larger than life character. She begins acting in movies on the whims of a youthful crush, and her decision carries her to places she never expected or imagined she would be, all the while never quite attaining what she originally set out for. Her life takes unexpected turns, often influenced by the political climate of Japan and other worldly forces much bigger than herself, as well as her own personal relationships and internal issues.

Perhaps the most beautiful thing about the storytelling in Millenium Actress is that it is complex without being complicated. The movie is essentially Chiyoko recalling her life in an interview, a rather simple concept for a story when you think about it, yet it possesses a soulful depth and thematic weight few other movies achieve. Through Kon’s artistic flourishes and narrative quirks, the movie explores how a person defines and remembers themselves. Chiyoko’s films are intertwined with her memories because of how deeply connected they were to her life, to the point that they are inseparable. Certain events reemerge and juxtapose with one another because of how Chiyoko perceives them, and how they shaped her as a person. Certain scenes from Chiyoko’s movies resonate so strongly with her that they take on a new meaning. It’s an astonishing feat of filmmaking, one that is only accomplished through every aspect of the film coming together in perfect consonance.

Kon’s direction in this movie is quite simply masterful. Every shot in the movie carefully constructed; every image meaningful. Not a single frame is extraneous or wasted. He uses an array of varied and unique shot compositions to bestow the movie of a sense of both grandeur and intimacy. Montages exquisitely punctuate Chiyoko’s emotions as she shuffles through her memories. Sharp editing techniques are used to keep the film moving at a brisk pace as well as being used to great comedic effect; while dissolve transitions are used to create a dreamy texture that endows the movie with a sense of nostalgia. Kon uses a multitude of color schemes throughout the movie, all of which he uses brilliantly to paint the emotions running through every scene. Sometimes scenes will be tinted in browns or grays as if they were old photographs, other times they will be brimming with vivid colors. The movie benefits from being animated, as it captures someone sorting through their memories in a way live-action could never accomplish. Though Kon uses an impressive assortment of visual technics, it never feels as if he is needlessly showboating, everything is done in service of the story.

Satoshi Kon often used the music of Susumu Hirasawa’s to score his work, and Millennium Actress features some of the composer’s best. His electro-pop opuses are as musically complex and unique as ever, but are gentler and warmer here, infused with a sense of humanity and emotion which is rarely found in electronic music. There is also a wonderfully frantic piano piece which is incredible at creating tension. Of course, a soundtrack is only as good as it is implemented, and the music in Millennium Actress is used magnificently. It often starts softly, as if to illustrate Chiyoko recollecting how she felt at a certain time; then swells at times of revelation, encapsulating the emotions attached to that memory. It is a wonderful soundtrack that is a joy to listen to, and compliments the movie’s material and visuals perfectly. Of special note is the track ‘Run’ which accompanies a breathtaking montage of Chiyoko’s movies that illustrates the passage of time.

To put it simply, Millennium Actress is a pretty much flawless movie. It is a fine example of what makes movies and animation so magical; taking the audience on a journey through a lifetime of memories that would otherwise be impossible to experience. It is proof that film is an essential art-form, and that animation can be a vehicle to tell mature and deeply profound stories. Satoshi Kon was a true auteur of his time, and it is a shame that he was taken from us when he had so many more stories to tell. Thankfully, he lives on in the movies he made, and Millennium Actress is his crowning achievement.

I’ll be totally honest, I’ve never been a big fan of disaster movies. The premise looks good on paper, certainly. A catastrophe of immense proportions occurs, usually a force of nature, and we follow a cast of characters as they, and mankind as a whole, brave the elements and fight for survival. It sounds great, but rarely do disaster films live up to that potential. More often than not, what we get is a trite drama with wooden characters set to the backdrop of said catastrophic disaster, and of course, a lot of collateral damage. Even worse, most of the time these disaster movies are ... high budgeted blockbusters that do more to sensationalize these disasters than capture the terror of actually experiencing one. Fortunately, this is not the case with Tokyo Magnitude 8.0, a well-researched and rigorously realistic account of a magnitude 8.0 earthquake hitting Tokyo, and the disaster’s aftermath. It is a simple but powerful story that captures the best and worst of the human species in the midst of an extreme situation.

In most respects, the plot of Magnitude 8.0 follows the same formula as most stories of this nature. It follows a small group brought together by the disaster, in this case middle-school student Mirai, her younger brother Yuki, and a single mother named Mari, who the siblings meet in the ensuing chaos of the earthquake. The three decide to travel together in order to get home and find their love ones: for Mari, her mother and 4 year old daughter; for Mirai and Yuki, their parents. As they travel through the ruined city, they encounter the great devastation and numerous tragedies caused by the earthquake, the various measurements put in place for such disasters, and individuals doing their best to pick up the pieces of their lives. At the same time, they must survive the earthquake’s multiple aftershocks and the uncertainty of their loved ones’ safety.

Tokyo Magnitude’s depiction of people during and after a major catastrophe is both harsh and humane. It captures the shock, panic, and sometimes indifference to the plight of others that people exhibit in dire circumstances. Even as Mirai runs around looking for her younger brother, worried sick about his safety, droves of people walk past her too shell-shocked to help. People push and shove and argue in lines for evacuation or supplies, sometimes even taking advantage of their seniority over Mirai and Yuki. These acts don’t come from cruelty as much as desperation, people naturally put themselves over others during times of hardship. And yet, there are people like Mari, who go out of their way to help strangers who are clearly in need, even though they have worries of their own. There are trained professionals working hard to serve the needs of the countless affected by the disaster, and rescue teams searching through the rubble to find survivors. Even in the midst of such devastation, there is hope and admirability, and the show illustrates this just as strongly as its heart-breaking tragedy and harsh realism.

The earthquake and its multiple aftershocks are horrifying and unsparing. Buildings crumble, landmarks like Tokyo Tower topple over, causing more devastation in their wake. People die by the dozens, even as they flee for safety. Homes are shattered and abandoned; families are torn apart. The damage is so wide-spread and expansive that the news can do nothing more than briefly summarize it, covering only a fraction of its extent. It’s a horrifyingly realistic depiction of a natural disaster, one that resonates despite the fact it is animated. The research and effort that the staff put into creating as true-to-life a scenario as possible comes through clearly, and it is quite harrowing. Though the tragedy is very heavy here, it is justified by the realism of the situation. This is exactly how metropolitan area would look and feel if it was hit by an earthquake of this magnitude.

What really separates Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 from other disaster movies/TV shows is its human story, which centers on the grueling and perilous journey of the three protagonists, particularly the negative-thinking Mirai. As the story progresses, Mirai transforms from a whinny and dissatisfied middle-schooler who is irritated by her life to a young lady who is grateful for all that she has. She does so through all the hardship and tragedies she encounters on her quest to reunite with her family; the things she learns, and the things she loses along the way. It’s a conventional story, but one which is deeply impacting, both heart-breaking and uplifting. It’s especially powerful considering the uncertainty of Mirai and Yuki’s parents, and Mari’s family, as the trio trek across the city. Plus, the last half packs a hard-hitting, if somewhat foreseeable, emotional dozy that very well might have some eyes watering. Enhancing the story is the sheer gravity of the situation, which is relatable in part because it is a terrifying possibility for anyone living near a fault line.

As far as Tokyo Magnitude’s technical merits go, this isn’t one of the best animated shows by Studio Bones. That’s not to say the animation here is bad by any means, in fact it is quite good, but it is not up to par with some of the studio’s previous visual achievements. In particular, there are some character rendering issues and the character designs themselves do not allow for as much expressiveness as some other anime series the studio has done. The backgrounds on the other hand are incredibly well detailed, effectively capturing the cataclysmic devastation of a high magnitude earthquake. The direction is mostly straightforward, usually utilizing well composed medium and long shots to capture the characters traveling through the ruins of Tokyo, and close-ups for character reactions. There are some sequences and flashbacks which also add a bit more artistic flare in places, particularly in the last third of the show. The soundtrack by the great Ko Otani is simply exquisite, though the music is not used as often as in other anime. The music supports the material well when it is used, and frequent use of silence grounds the show a bit more in reality.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 is a powerful experience that stands as one of the best disaster stories put to screen. It is frequently sad and emotionally devastating, but also has faith in humanity. It is a reminder of the human spirit’s ability to endure, and even find new strength in the face of great tragedy. The show came out in 2009, two years before the Tohoku magnitude 9.0 earthquake, and in that regard it is unsettlingly prophetic. It is not a stretch to think that there are some real-life stories which are similar to the one in this show.

Noragami is a supernatural action series with a hint of romance produced by Studio Bones. Along with Shinichiro Watanabe’s Space Dandy, Noragami signaled the current wave of productivity from the studio in 2014, after a slump of low productivity and shows with lukewarm reception which lasted a few years. While not all the shows in this new wave are gems (or even good), Noragami is a keeper. Though it does stick rigidly close to genre conventions, the show casts a wide range of appeal, and effectively hits every one of its targets. It is frequently funny, continuously engaging, and on rare occasion even a little ... creepy. Most importantly, however, Noragami has a lot of heart.

The story begins when Hiyori, a kind-hearted teenage girl, starts having out of body experiences and meets a down on his luck god named Yato. Where most gods have shrines or attendants, Yato goes around doing odd jobs as a ‘delivery god’ charging 5 yen for his services. Hiyori requests Yato to find a way to stop her out of body experiences, Yato agrees but says it will be an extended task and will take some time. In the meantime, Hiyori gets drawn further into the world of spirits and gods as she joins Yato and his newly acquired and rebellious Shinki (spirit servant/assistant for lack of better term), Yukine, on their various assignments. All the while, Yato’s dark past is slowly catching up with him.

Noragami is a nicely paced, well-rounded show. It deftly switches between action, drama, and comedy on a regular basis, and does a remarkable job keeping the tone consistent even as it shuffles back and forth. The somewhat episodic nature of the show works well to frame the world in which the story takes place, while giving the cast a plenty of time to develop, and allowing the main plotline to slowly reveal itself over the course of the series. The dialogue hits just the right balance of exposition and character interaction, allowing for explanations which further develop this world and how it works, while never really feeling tedious or dry. Dramatic and comedic moments flow naturally, giving a very good sense of who these characters are and how they interact with one another. Even when the show delves into darker material, it usually does not come across as jarring or unnatural, although sometimes a bit forceful and melodramatic. Really, the execution of the plot and all its elements is quite exceptional.

The strong execution here is very important because the plot, and even characters, in Noragami aren’t anything particularly special on paper. Sure, its world of gods and spirits which exists side-by-side with the world we know is well developed, but it is hardly an original concept. In fact, the setting is one of the most commonly used in the medium of anime; recent shows like Beyond the Boundary and Kami-sama Kiss feature similar settings, and really, they’re only the tip of the iceberg. Having a character such as Hiyori go down the rabbit hole, metaphorically speaking, and entering a world that she is not familiar with is hardly a fresh idea. Neither is Yato’s goofball with a dark past backstory, or half a dozen other plot elements in the show. And yet, the material somehow shines in spite of this. The skillful yet sincere storytelling makes the plot intriguing and emotionally engaging, keeping the viewership invested in the characters and various plotlines even though it is essentially material we’ve seen multiple times before.

Most instrumental to the show’s success is the chemistry between the three leads. Hiyori is a bright, compassionate, and friendly young lady. She’s naïve and unknowledgeable of the mystical world, yet she’s proactive and responsible, always trying to help and understand those around her. In stark contrast is Yato, who seems to be purposely negligent and irresponsible. He’s laidback and only occasionally takes things truly serious, despite his aspiration of being a famous and widely worshiped diety. Unlike Hiyori, Yato can be apathetic to those around him and lets things run their course, even if they lead to disastrous ends. Completing the trinity is Yukine, the confused and defiant spirit of a young teenage boy. Having died at a young age, Yukine is constantly dissatisfied with his situation, and hardly heed the advice and warnings of those around him. He’s also envious of those who have things he does not and cannot have, namely a normal teenage life and friends. These three very different individuals form a makeshift family which is the emotional core of the show. They argue and hurt one another, they console and comfort each other, they have awkward misunderstandings and share laughs. Despite all coming from varied backgrounds and having clashing personalities, there is a genuine connection between the three, one which can sometimes bring them pain, but other times bring them a sense of comfort and acceptance. It’s a connection that is formed through odd circumstances, but one that runs deeper than it might originally appear, and one that the three depend on as the series progresses. The threat of this connection being broken is what makes the antagonists so menacing, and the main plotline so rewarding, even though it is built on a cluster of overused tropes.

Noragami is produced by the prolific Studio Bones, and as such, the show looks expectedly stellar for the most part. The character designs have a bi-shounen/bi-shoujo flavor to them, but thankfully have the best aspects of such designs. They’re attractive and expressive designs, and each character has their own distinct body language. The animation is quite good majority of the time, especially during action sequences. There are a few noticeable technical hic-ups and budget restrictions, but overall it is a very good looking show. It sounds just as nice, with well composed music which is implemented effectively. It’s not a soundtrack that is going to stick in your memory or be considered one of the all-time greats, but it supports the show’s content as all good soundtracks should. Likewise, the voice work from the Seiyuu is solid across the board. There isn’t really a performance that stands out as great, but it is an admirable ensemble effort.

What Noragami lacks in creativity and originality, it makes up in execution. This is director Koutarou Tamura’s first stab at a full-length TV series, having only directed individual episodes or served as assistant director in various project previously, and it is quite an admirable one. It is clear that the staff behind this project cared about producing a quality work, and they succeeded in doing so. Noragami won’t go down in history as a game-changer or anything of the sort, but as it stands, it is a great genre piece.

If nothing else Goro Miyazaki’s sophomore directorial effort, From Up on Poppy Hill (or Kokurikozaka kara) is an improvement from his less-than-impressive debut work, Tales of Earthsea. It’s a much smaller, more modest movie with a simple story, but a better fit for the unseasoned director. It’s a comfortable viewing experience, a gentle coming-of-age story that also works well as a period-piece of early-1960s Japan. It’s a story about looking optimistically towards the future, while remembering to pay homage to the past. Yet, with this said, the movie still feels like it is lacking something, a certain uncategorized magic that flows through Miyazaki Senior’s movies. ... Something that Goro Miyazaki is able to tap into in this movie, but never fully grasps.

Set just before the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, a time when Japan was determined to get a new start and leave the devastation following WWII behind them, From Up on Poppy Hill follows Umi Matsuzaki, the daughter of a sailor who died in the Korean War. Umi is a responsible young lady who not only is active in school, but does more than her fair share of the work maintaining the boarding house she lives in. She misses her father dearly, and raises flags every day in memory of him. In school, she meets a boy from the school newspaper named Shun Kazama, and through him gets involved in the effort to save an old building called the Latin Quarter, which houses all of the schools clubs, from being torn down to make room for a new building. As Umi becomes more and more involved with the effort to preserve the old building, a young romance blossoms between her and Shun. However, the uncovering of a link in their past complicates their relationship.

A mentioned earlier, From Up on Poppy Hill is at heart a modest story which rides mostly on its sentimentality. Luckily, it is quite good at building sentiment. Umi is an admirable heroine who is identifiable enough as a teenage girl that she doesn’t come off as a complete Mary Sue, though she does come dangerously close at times. Likewise, Shun is almost a Gary Stu, but is just enough of a teenage boy to be relatable. Of course, it is the movie’s light tone and optimism which makes such amiability common place; all the characters in this movie are good people trying to do their best. Honestly, it is rather refreshing, especially in face of the cynical fetishism or dower post-modernism that is elemental in many modern anime. Even when the movie’s tone is at its lowest, the feeling that things will get better and work out in the end remains.

It’s this old-fashioned idealism that gives the movie its spark of life. As we view this movie, we get to see the hopes and dreams of a few become the hopes and dreams of many. We see young people pour their passion into something, and have their effort be rewarded, in a country that is working to redefine its identity. Along with all this good will for the future, there also comes a respect for the past. The students’ endeavor to save the old Latin Quarter building is indicative of the movie’s message of honoring those who came before, even while progressing forward into the future.

However, for all the movie’s optimism and good will, it has a distinct lack of bite. There is never a sense of urgency in this movie, no devastating twist which makes it emotionally or thematically arresting. Make no mistake, there is a major plot twist which does test both Umi and Shun emotionally, but it is a bit too contrived to truly resonate with the audience. In all honesty, the twist feels like a gimmick, which is quite damaging since it is the movie’s major source of drama. Despite the potentially squikiness of the situation, this conflict feels oddly trite, and even unnecessary. Given the movie’s light-hearted nature, it is clear that the movie would not follow through with this twist to its fullest, lest it take an uncharacteristically nasty turn due to the repercussions. The movie does resolve this conflict in a way that enforces the theme of honoring the legacy of those who have come before you, but ultimately it feels like an unneeded contrivance.

Goro Miyazaki’s direction here is a definite improvement on his previous work on Tales of Earthsea, but it still isn’t the handiwork or an exceptionally talented director. He plays it rather safe, not doing anything that could be considered a poor directorial choice, but also never achieving anything truly striking or indicative of who he is as a director. He sticks to conventions, never really takes any big risks, and as a consequence the movie feels rather unambitious. That’s not to take away from what is done well here; the movie looks nice and sounds nice. The artwork and animation are up to usual Ghibli standard, which is to say they are very good. The use of the song "Ue o Muite Arukō" is possibly the best decision in making the film, as that song is emblematic to the time in Japanese history the story takes place, and it’s just a good song to boot. However, it doesn’t feel like Goro Miyazaki has truly found his voice as a director just yet.

While not a great movie, and certainly not amongst Ghibli’s best, From Up on Poppy Hill is a commendable second effort by Goro Miyazaki. It’s a fun and charming little film, with a hopeful sentimentality which is nothing short of infectious. It is a work from a director that is still green, but is definitely improving. Hopefully it is a trend that continues as his career progresses.

The original Soul Eater series was a shounen battle romp done right. It was zany, high-energy, and alternatingly funny and adrenaline pumping. It had a distinctive, colorful, and lively art-style that would make Tim Burton jealous, and an off-beat sensibility that separated it from most other shounen. It was a show that bled attitude; simultaneously unique and recognizable as a shounen title. The show is considered a classic of the late 2000’s in some circles, and rightfully so. In stark contrast is its spin-off, Soul Eater NOT, a show that falls firmly into the conventions of its genre; in this case, slice-of-life anime (for the ... most part). Well, that’s not entirely true, some of the magic that made the original such a blast is still there. However, it doesn’t shine through nearly enough to overcome the decidedly over-treaded tropes that dominate the show. This is perhaps why Soul Eater NOT feels so lukewarm, and why it will likely be a disappointment fans of the original.

The show isn’t bad for what it is trying to do, and certainly has some nifty things to offer. This spin-off takes place sometime before the main story, so some of the fun comes from seeing the original cast pop up and get a little insight on a few of them. We get to see Liz and Patty’s edges soften as they go from hardened street thugs to the quirky sisters we know from the original Soul Eater series. It’s also neat to see the beginning of Kim and Jacqueline’s partnership, and why Sid is a zombie. However, the most important bit of information that the show offers is that not all the students in Death Weapon Meister Academy are badass fighters. Some weapons and meisters are just learning how to control their powers so they can live normal lives, these students are put into the NOT class.

Some such students are the three heroines of the show: Tsugumi, Meme, and Anya. They’re a rather odd trio in that Tsugumi is the only weapon of the three, while Meme and Anya are both meisters. Since partnerships usually consists of only one meister, though it can have multiple weapons, it’s up to Tsugumi to choose who her partner will be. Of course, with Tsugumi being the archetypical nice yet indecisive heroine that she is, this is one of the central plot-lines of the show. Much of the show’s duration is spent with the trio getting into misadventures and deepening their friendship, with appearances and cameos from the original cast sprinkled in. Needless to say, this means the show is largely light-hearted fair, with tons of silly shenanigans and a lot of quaint scenes of cute girls doing cute things, though of course it has some dramatic moments mixed in. Being set in as zany a place as DWMA, there is no shortage of strange situations for the girls to encounter or colorful personalities for them to meet. It’s light and comfortable and has a quaint charm to it, unfortunately, it also greatly lacks inspiration. Tsugumi, Meme, and Anya are ultimately too plain of protagonists. They don’t have the extremely distinctive quirks and personalities of the original’s cast; it often feels like someone grabbed the protagonists of generic School Comedy A, and dropped them into the Soul Eater universe. The humor can often also come across as uninspired, not necessarily unfunny, but just too commonplace in slice-of-life anime. The material has a feeling of being done before multiple times, which diminishes the show’s charm. It dilutes the twisted weirdness that made Soul Eater so appealing to begin with, watering it down into something inferior. At times, it honestly feels like a waste of the setting.

Of course, this belonging to the franchise that it does, there is a plotline that involves fighting and nefarious schemes, lurking beneath the slice-of-life antics. Citizens of Death City are going on sprees of violence, under the control of a witch. Sid and other DWMA staff are trying to find the witch causing these attacks before things get worse, and while Tsugumi and her friends are blissfully unaware of the unseen threat, they soon find themselves right in the middle of it all. In stark contrast to the fluffiness of most of the show’s material, this plotline is ominous and creepy. The tonal shift is honestly rather jarring, especially when an episode which is mostly contains light-hearted shenanigans has an eerie scene that has a threat written in what can only be assumed to be blood end the episode off. It doesn’t gel well with the rest of the show’s content because tonally it is on the opposite side of the spectrum. Which is sort of a shame, because the best part of the show is this darker plotline. Shaula, the younger sister of Medusa and Arachne from the first Soul Eater series, is a menacing presence. She lurks around in the shadows, plotting chaos and murder, so gleeful in her evil that it’s almost infectious. The show always gets more interesting whenever she makes an appearance to disrupt the typical slice-of-life fluff, and it’s her villainy that provides the show with its most striking and memorable moment: a day at the market that takes horrific turn. It also puts Tsugumi and her friends through an emotional wringer, giving their relationship some much needed conflict. Unfortunately, the show never strikes a balance to make the tones fit together, and it culminates in a less than spectacular final battle, at least for this franchise.

On the technical side of things, Soul Eater NOT is also a step down from the original series, but it’s still a good looking show for the most part. Character designs are cutesier than before, which is certain to rub some fans the wrong way. However, the world retains the off-kilter and colorful outlandishness that makes it standout as unique, creepy laughing sun and all. The animation concerning characters’ body language and behavior is pretty solid, however, action sequences are spotty. Some fights look good, some look average, and some look genuinely bad. Even at their best, the action sequences here never reach the exhilaration and excitement of those of the first series. The music is pleasant, fits the show tonally in both its silly and serious moments, and is used accordingly. However, it is just not a soundtrack that will be memorable or that supports the content in an exceptional way. It does its job, and little more than that.

I’ve compared Soul Eater NOT to its predecessor quite a bit in this review. While that might not be completely fair, as a show should be judged by its own merits, it isn’t without justification. The sad fact of the matter is that NOT suffers from the same stigma most spin-offs do, it doesn’t live up to the expectations set by the original; both in content and quality. When a show uses the name of a franchise, viewers will have set expectations, fair or not. It’s only when a spin-off adds something substantial or improves upon the material that fans will react positively to it; those kind of spin-offs are a rarity. Unfortunately, Soul Eater NOT is not amongst those rare exceptions. It has problems even when it is not being compared to the original, and ultimately doesn’t add anything of great substance to the much beloved series.