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Understanding is overrated. Incomprehensibility is the new clarity, and contradictions are the new consistency. Confused? Good, so am I.

Some stories can only be enjoyed through understanding, while others must be enjoyed through experiencing. Paprika, for one, firmly falls in the second category. Comprehending Paprika on an intellectual level is comparable to nailing Jell-O to a wall: the harder a person tries, the more hopelessly confused he’ll become.

Those familiar with Satoshi Kon’s other works (particularly Perfect Blue and Millennium Actress) should already be well acquainted with this visceral style of storytelling. Put simply, Kon’s trademark style has always been to set up his film with an ... interesting, easily understandable premise. From there, however, his films transcend into delightfully illogical chaos. One can try to connect isolated scenes from his films into a linear, understandable narrative, but the result only serves to sidestep the director’s true intentions.

Paprika is no exception to this. Despite its engaging premise, the movie’s literal events become as intellectually inscrutable as a Teletubbies episode. Paprika falls mid-flight in its execution of the plot. Caught in a web of its own reverie, the film loses coherence as its travels down a pipe dream of its own construction. Although it succeeds in whisking the viewer away to an abstract landscape, several questions raised throughout the film are left unanswered.

The animation serves as a key component to the storyline. Much of the film revolves around the dream world, and Paprika’s visuals beautifully flesh the characters’ dreams out in a way that only an animated film could do justice. The importance of the animation further deepens later on as the border between reality and hallucination becomes less and less indistinct. In the movie’s own way, Paprika is able to show this gradual merging (and the subsequent chaos) vividly.

In terms of visuals, Paprika is nothing short of pure artistry. Every screenshot moves like a living painting and each scene is seared into the brain. Whimsical, and bizarre, Paprika is a feast for the eyes with its parade frenzy of drumming frogs, eerie dolls, and marching appliances. As the line between reality and fantasy is blurred, Paprika becomes a virtual bridge between the two polar worlds. These transition sequences are seamless and beautiful, altogether creating an imaginative flow of symbols and metaphors.

Composed entirely by Susumu Hirasawa, Paprika’s soundtrack consists of synthesized hyper-ballads, Vietnamese chanting, and electronic techno beats. In other words, it is the perfect soundscape for the hallucinogenic imagery offered in Paprika. Every electronic powered track is spell-binding and creates excellent pacing that drives the animation sequences along with full force. Notably, the film is unique in that it utilizes Vocaloid samples for its soundtrack, creating a mechanical yet organically exotic feel to the tracks.

Sadly, most of Paprika’s colorful cast is lacking in character development and depth. The main villain, although painfully obvious, had no bona fide motive for his malicious actions and scarcely had any progression. Similarly, side characters were extraneous and unnecessary, especially detective Konakawa whose actions served no purpose other than to move the plot along. Although the shy, plump scientist Dr. Tokita played a larger role in the film, his character lacked some much needed development. As a result, most of Paprika’s cardboard cutout characters served as devices to force feed the plot rather than draw us into the beautiful world it created.

There is a glimpse of depth within Paprika herself, and her second self Chiba is just as interesting. The contrast between the charming Paprika and the icy Dr. Chiba is the most alluring aspect of her complex character. Despite this appeal, the film sadly fails to explore it enough. Chiba’s multiple personality disorder is too perfect of an opportunity to neglect, and her own psychological struggles should have been a pillar of the film’s plot.

Words fail to describe the visual splendor and terror of the film’s journey into the subconscious mind. Some are going to try to push Paprika as a complex and intricately plotted intellectual exercise, while others will deride it as nothing more than a little eye-candy. In my view, the show is neither of these. The film’s entity is a dream in itself — an event to be experienced, rather than understood.

My initial expectations of Tiger & Bunny were skeptical at best - a show about mascot superheroes plastered with corporate logos brings to mind some dubious product placement anime. Or even worse, the cutesy title could've foreshadowed some hybrid ecchi fest involving bestiality. Luckily, T&B isn't as shallow as it might suggest; instead, it's an unabashed parody that celebrates its superhero roots as well as deconstructs them.

In the corporatized world of Sternbild City, commercialism is king; heroes not only fight crime, but they also play up for TV ratings, their CEO's expectations, and "profit-points". With the companies calling the shots, these superheroes seem more like ... walking ads for Pepsi, Amazon, and Bandai rather than selfless Samaritans. Only 30-some-year-old Kotetsu Kaburagi, aka "Wild Tiger", remains the old-school hero who puts peace above profits. As a man "past his prime" (and with a daughter back home), Kotetsu must adapt to the changing times where heroism has become a commodity; all the while, a younger, savvier crime fighter named Barnaby steals the limelight.

Despite the cynical twist in its premise, T&B is an action-comedy first and foremost; the show playfully pokes fun at itself at every turn. The first arc of T&B is your typical buddy-cop show starring the eponymous duo, Kotetsu ("Tiger") and Barnaby ("Bunny"). As expected, the old lion veteran get paired up with the naïve, reckless rookie. There's a clash between ideologies, the odd couple fights, and hilarity ensues. The situational comedic timing in T&B is brilliant, and several scenes made me genuinely "lol". Comic book fans may savor the subtle nods to X-Men, Batman, the Joker and Harley Quinn. Due to its tongue-in-cheek attitude, the anime's first half feels more like a spoof of Marvel comic duos rather than a serious critique on heroism.

Although T&B executes its comedic bits fantastically, the same isn't always true for its drama. The show gradually evolves from the buddy cop antics of the first arc into more serious plot developments and characterization. Barnaby's tragic past involving his dead parents, already an unoriginal angle, comes off angsty and cliché. Kotetsu's conflicts are rarer and more compelling; not only does he face competition from a younger breed of heroes, but he also struggles to be a decent (albeit absent) father. The tension between the two partners in crime becomes a litmus test of trust while a darker, sinister plot brews just beneath the surface.

All too often, the show lapses into contrived situations in order to get viewers emotionally invested. Barnaby just happens to fly in at the right moment to save his falling partner; a miraculous typhoon creates the perfect rescue mission and the duo (surprise!) share the exact same powers. The show is full of convenient coincidences that just deflate the drama and dispel any sort of tension. As such, even though T&B has some genuinely funny and exciting moments, it also has some eye-rolling ones.

Despite the sloppy (and at times illogical) writing, I nevertheless found the show wholly entertaining. Sunrise succeeds in executing the anime well enough to keep it fun, despite its narrative laziness. In the end, I didn't cringe from the cheesiness so much as I enjoyed the show as earnest entertainment. Due to the excellent direction and pacing, T&B manages to juggle action, drama and comedy with great ease.

Sunrise's superheroes look like they were cut straight out of a Western comic book – and that's a good thing. Character designs are refreshingly crisp and colorful; each one is distinctive and bursting with personality. There's also a nice contrast between the heroes' flashy, sponsor-splashed costumes and their unassuming day clothes.

The actual animation is somewhat of a mixed bag; occasionally, the quality drops due to some sloppily drawn stills. I'm not a fan of the CGI transformation sequences, and the clunky costumed fights don't exactly thrill. T&B is packed with these action scenes, but where it lacks in style it redeems itself in fluidity; motions and movements are quite natural throughout.

T&B's soundtrack is smartly placed; slice-of-life portions are accompanied by rustic, bluesy guitars while drama scenes are suitably orchestral. During crime busting sequences, there's a jazzy, heart-pumping theme reminiscent of James Bond or The Incredibles. Newsflash jingles act as constant reminders that we're literally watching a show within a show, and Hero TV buzzes like a proper media microcosm. Although not download-worthy, T&B's score always answers its call of duty.

Shounen fans may recognize Barnaby's seiyuu (Masakazu Morita) as Bleach's Ichigo and Kotetsu's (Hiroaki Hirata) as Sanji from One Piece. In T&B, these two perform flawlessly, playing off each other with hilarious repartee. Even tense, dramatic scenes are well-acted and naturally convincing. Rounded out with a solid cast ensemble, voice acting in this series is stellar.

As expected, Tiger & Bunny's main duo drive the machinery of the plot. The dynamic between the heroes creates the perfect double act; Kotetsu endears himself as the dorky "funny man", whereas Barnaby is the naturally stoic "straight man". Their banter translates into comedic gold, but the show elegantly breaks down this stereotype as the two grow to trust one another. Kotetsu, in particular, is an extremely likable character; he's a washed-up ojisan whom everyone mocks, but his confidence and selflessness make him genuinely sympathetic and easy to root for.

The colorful side cast of superheroes adds an extra layer of perspective; minor characters are given spotlight episodes revealing the person behind the persona. How he/she became a hero and what motivates him/her are explored, forming a group of charismatic, lovable personalities. From the oblivious "King of Heroes", Sky High, to the "Dragon Kid" Pao-lin, T&B sports a lively, affectionate cast of characters. My only gripe is that Rock Bison and Fire Emblem didn't get enough attention while the Blue Rose episodes were by far the weakest; the skimpily clad superheroine seems more like fanservice fodder rather than a fleshed out character.

Alas, T&B's villains are mere caricatures in comparison to their heroic counterparts. The plot begins with a rogue-of-the-week format that fails to develop the bad guys beyond your average thug. The morally warped Lunatic is a disappointing vigilante whose twisted sense of justice feels like a cheap imitation of Light Yagami. Although Jake Martinez is a crafty opponent, his character is stereotypically evil and frankly unmemorable. Not until the final act of the series does a worthy villain emerge.

Still, T&B doesn't quite escape the pitfalls of predictability or the bland, uninspiring villains throughout the show. Although it's by no means perfect, Tiger & Bunny offers a brilliant twist on the classic superhero genre while remaining faithful to the charm of its conventions.

Cowboy Bebop is a whole collection of classic genres, all mixed into one series and all done right, to the point that it breathes new life into a very stale genre. If ever there was a series more deserving to be a sleeper hit, Bebop is it.

Many times have I visited Cowboy Bebop, and every time we've parted company I leave with a sense of how great a conversationalist Cowboy Bebop truly is. How it tells beautiful stories with nothing but ink, paint, computers, and sound. How it seems to transcend it's own media and become something unto itself. Nothing to be worshiped or canonized, ... but to be viewed with a measure of respect, and perhaps awe, that such a thing ever took place at all.

Cowboy Bebop, that's the story. There are cowboys and there is bebop, set against the backdrop of the future and space. The series concerns itself with the lives of Jet Black, Spike Spiegal, Faye Valentine, and Ed. The series itself tends to revolve around sorting out each characters past and reconciling it with their present selves. What sets Cowboy Bebop apart from similar series such as Outlaw Star is that these stories are actually interesting.

The places they visit are far from what one would expect. Instead of Neo-Tokyo with its shiny, impossibly tall skyscrapers that never end, we have Neo-Tijuana, with its dusty dirt roads, run down shacks and migrant workers. Space is ethnic, but not in the Star Trek sanitized for the sake of politically correctness way. Each colony reflects a melting pot more akin to Los Angeles or New York City than any Blade Runner wannabe ever could.

Characters from Cowboy Bebop each have stories to tell. Each deals with its past and present as best they can, although often times not very well at all. The plot is linear as far as the time line is concerned, but there isn't a penultimate goal sought after. In terms of the classic definitions of conflict, Cowboy Bebop tends towards the man versus himself, or man versus man types of conflict. The principles of Cowboy Bebop do not seek paradigm shifts, do not seek to change the world for the better or worse, but simply to live to see another day. This struggle to live on is what makes Cowboy Bebop so enjoyable, and what gives a humanity to the principle characters that they would otherwise lack.

Animation directors strive for different goals. Some, like Hayou Miyazaki seek a balance between we humans and nature. The director of Ghost in the Shell, Mamoru Oshii forewarned us that advancement without restraint presented dillemas with no solutions. Shincihiro Wantanbe gave us, with Cowboy Bebop, twenty-six pictures of a world coming to terms with its past. The methods vary, with death, resignation, and an eyes wide shut attitude dominating.

But never are these heady themes forced upon us with a heavy hand. They are at many times hidden behind sharp humor, attention to detail, and jaw dropping animation. Only two times are these themes truly brought to a head: at the twelfth and thirteenth episodes (parts one and two of Jupiter Jazz), and episodes twenty-five and twenty-six (parts one and two of The Real Folk Blues). And at these moments the music gets better, the animation sharper, and like true climactic moments, they stay with us long after we finish watching them. Everything in Cowboy Bebop seems to breathe with life and motion, even in otherwise stoic scenes, and it's a rarity and a marvel to behold.

Never before or since has such a catalog of music been assembled for an anime, any anime. The principle creator of Cowboy Bebop's music, Yoko Kanno, took the high-road. She hopped from genre to genre in leaps and bounds while never taking from the animation itself, but infusing it with a pulse that at all times seemed perfect. Sometimes characters are defined through music, like Gren, whose sax playing pronounces him melancholy, disillusioned, and cavalier. Three original soundtracks were put together for this anime, each one is distinct and non-repetitious. Listening to them on their own gives you new appreciation on the quality of Yoko Kannos gift.

The concept of Cowboy Bebop is not original, but its execution is outstanding. The characters are not original, but how they interact with the world around them is. The music can be defined by genre, but the impact on the individual cannot. The animation has been topped over the years, the cgi definitely shows its age, but there are still moments of raw beauty that are still unparalleled. Cowboy Bebop is not a rite of passage in anime fandom, but it should be a signpost, showing you the difference between the sublime and the ordinary.