Back to Scheveningen's Profile Scheveningen's Profile

2205: A New Journey is a decent continuation of the series, adapting the original Space Battleship Yamato sequels for a contemporary audience. For anyone that is a fan of the series, original or remakes, this is a good sequel as any and rights a lot of the missteps seen in 2202 Warriors of Love. That said, the 8 episodes of 2205 attempt to do too much with too little time. It has also reached the point where the series feels like it is beginning to buckle under the weight of its legacy.

The major strengths of the Space Battleship Yamato remakes are still evident. The music ... and sound effects are excellent. Animations are crisp, and battles are spectacular. 2205 has thankfully reduced the scale of its battles, with the Yamato fleet comprising only three ships. This number is on the small side, and the inclusion of some generic escorts would have enhanced the battles without them getting unwieldy. That aside, the space battles are now dialled back to the comprehensible level where we can follow the main ships during the action and know their capabilities. The Hyuga and Asuka are fantastic additions, complementing the Yamato by adding a dedicated carrier and support ship. The integration of Cosmo Reverse System technology into the Asuka, in particular, gives the battles in 2205 more interesting tactical dynamics since the ship is able to do things like project wave motion barriers. The Gamilian Fleet has also been appropriately dialled back to a few capital ships like carriers or Dessler's flagship and their escorts. While there is still a fair amount of chaff in the mix, the generic ships provide the opportunity for the show to give a visual indicator of damage inflicted to the Gamilans when the escorts are destroyed. This gives the battles a tempo and crunch to them since we never feel like the Yamato and her allies are fighting with impunity. All this combined gives the action a significant amount of readability since we are not overwhelmed by the sheer number of ships to the point where it becomes mind-numbing. Ultimately it results in much more dramatic and gripping combat since we have a focal point for our attention and can keep track of the moving pieces.

On the other hand, the Dezariam Fleet suffers from being incredibly generic, with their designs feeling like uninspired space pancakes with ship masts attached to them. While perfectly serviceable, the lack of distinct designs between their capital ships and escorts makes the battles feel like combat against a homogenous blob. There is little sense of the damage inflicted mattering, which occasionally gives the actions a sluggish, repetitive feel. Arguably, the Dezariam fleet was never the focal point of the battle, as is revealed in the latter half of 2205, but it still detracts from the overall action since they start to feel like a static, throw-away inclusion. The worst offender is probably the Bolar Federation fleet, but they only appear briefly as more of a plot point than an actual actor in the story.

The plot feels like it is trying to accomplish too much with too little screen time. The central mystery around the nature of the Iscandarians and their relationship with the Gamilans is quite well handled. It is a compelling explanation as to what happened to the Iscandarian people, among other things. However, its fundamental weakness is that it constantly tries to recontextualise Dessler with the emotional punch of this plot line hinging on it. This would always be an eventual problem for any remake following the original's plot closely. In 2199, Desler is the archetypical mad dictator and is shown to be cartoonishly, or more charitably, absolutely evil, even to the point of being unhinged. It is difficult to return from that to being a misguided or misunderstood leader willing to go to any lengths for his people. He did not so much as cross the line as blow past it when he decided to drop New Baleras onto Gamilias. The argument can be made ex post facto that Gamilas was a dying planet and that action would finally prompt the migration. However, it is so extreme that nothing about his concern for the Gamilian people in 2205 feels coherent.

This is the weight of Space Battleship Yamato's legacy causing its remakes to buckle since the only option to avoid this would be to rework the plot around this. That is also not an easy decision since there was no guarantee that 2199 would be successful enough to warrant remaking the original Yamato's sequels. So not adapting this central character and plot element faithfully may have ended up being more of a slap in the face to fans than an improvement. However, this now creates problems for both 2202 and now 2205, which they struggle with. While it is possible to overlook this and sympathise with Dessler's plight and be invested in his quest to save the Gamilan people, it lacks the emotional resonance it could achieve if 2199 had been reworked. Still, his portrayal throughout the series has done enough to sell his relationship and attachment to Starsha, giving that element of the plot a strong emotional punch when it concludes.

The human side of things is where the character and plot become extremely bloated. Screen time is stretched between developing the new junior crew of the Yamato, the return of Yabu and the consequences of his actions in 2199, and finally, it attempts to address the personal turmoil in Kodai. Of course, they do overlap at the climax of 2205, but it is plain to see that loading four plotlines into an 8 episode run is pushing things to the limit. The first casualty is any story beats or developments involving the original crew of the Yamato. Some attention is paid to Yuki, but little is done to delve into the relationship between her and Kodai. Even the exploration of Kodai's sense of guilt and responsibility due to the cost of bringing him and Yuki back from the higher dimension is barely explored. It is disappointing to see such a central character sidelined to such an extent, especially since he is now the captain of the Yamato and a natural viewpoint to follow. Most sections that involve Kodai are restricted to being more general scenes that concern the whole of the Yamato in combat. While that means he never devolves into a secondary character, little is done with him on the character front. His weighing guilt is more declared solved after he is chastised a few times by other characters rather than by him going through the appropriate reflection. Again, this all comes down to a distinct lack of time in 2205.

Time is instead dedicated to attempting to flesh out the new crew of the Yamato. While all of them are secondary characters besides Domon Ryuuske, they all feel distinctly underdeveloped, even by that standard. What little development time is spent on some of them leaves that as little more than stereotypical characters at best. While the hotshot pilot, knuckle-headed marine and nervous engineer are all perfectly functional character archetypes, they do not contribute much to the richness of the story. There was inadequate time to flesh them out in any case, and adding any subplots to give them depth would only bloat the series. This leaves only a rushed development that squarely pins them into their archetypes instead of something more drawn out and organic. However, this outcome is still, at best, a sacrifice out of necessity instead of a laudable decision they made to avoid bloat.

Much of the time saved is used to build up mystery and menace behind Domon's goals and intentions. His back story gives him ample reason to be conflicted about the Yamato and Kodai, but not to the extent the show's framing suggests. He is made out to be surprisingly sinister at the start before we see the later episodes from his viewpoint. This framing feels heavy-handed and ultimately goes nowhere. There is a simple lack of raw run time to cement doubts in the viewer's mind about him. It leaves all the suspicion around Domon ultimately feeling like melodrama since it is quickly defused and made out to be nothing but paranoia and prejudice. The viewer never feels he is threatening since there is nothing substantive to back up what the framing of 2205 wants them to believe. Nor does the viewer feel much sympathy for Domon or a moment of vindication for him because there is little time to get attached to him or the new status quo he is put into after suspicion falls on him. The same problem of a lot of 2205 recurs here in that his backstory is under-explored relative to its potential, or at least the depth the narrative suggests it will uncover. Although his inner conflict is better resolved than Kodai, it is only marginally better. Again, there is simply not enough time for it to resonate with the viewer and feels like a declaration that his feelings are solved than a convincing conclusion.

On the positive side, Yabu's storyline is the most complete, but that is due to it being a relatively simple redemption story. He was already characterised 2199 as an outcast and something of a coward, preparing all the building blocks necessary. His narrative of growth and finding a place to belong helps him rise to the challenge at the plot's climax. The show attempts to use Yabu's plot to buttress Domon's by having them fall into the same situation as outsiders on the Yamato. This is mildly effective since it takes a known character and links their situation together to encourage sympathy by extension from the viewer. However, the rushed timing makes it feel rather noticeable instead of as natural or inconspicuous as the director probably desired.

In the end, Space Battleship Yamato 2205 is still a respectable sequel. It has all of 2199 and 2202's strengths in its fantastic visuals and space battles. This sheer strength makes it engaging enough to be worth watching. Though beyond the entertainment, there is little to dig down into. Its short run time hamstrings it and forces 2205 to sacrifice how far it can explore its characters and themes. It ends up feeling like wasted potential since an extension of four or even just two episodes would have created enough time to delve into Kodai's character or flesh out Domon and the other new crew members. Even then, the issue of Dessler's initial characterisation has no simple solution and will always require the viewer to overlook the incongruence. Overall, Space Battleship Yamato 2205 is a solid 7 out 10. Maybe up to an 8 for a fan of the series. It is entertaining and visually engaging but suffers from its short run time instead of any major missteps by the production team.

Lycoris Recoil is one of those shows where one is unsure if it falls into the form-over-substance category because it was a deliberate choice or failed to dig down into the themes it suggests. There are actually some interesting ideas beneath the veneer of an inherently absurd but visually polished spectacle about schoolgirl government assassins. Usually, most shows make it more or less evident whether they intend to explore the ideas driving their plot and shaping its world or simply just gloss over them for entertainment. But Lycoris Recoil is harder to place since it leaves many conclusions about its themes and message as implicit ... questions. Usually, a show does this as a demonstration of confidence or even sophistication that not everything needs to be blatantly spelt out for a viewer or that in the absence of a simple answer, showing instead of telling would be more appropriate. Then we have the genre and trappings of Lycoris Recoil and the fact that this would not be the first time A-1 Pictures and Aniplex have chosen to produce a vapid show that poorly masquerades at intellectual self-importance (case in point, GATE).

The stigma against what A-1 Pictures has done in the past aside, Lycoris Recoil's main strengths lie in its presentation and characters. The most obvious thing, from the character designs to the illustrations at the cuts in each episode, is the show exudes style. Combined with the excellent fluid animations for its combat scenes, it produces an extremely eye-catching show that does merit watching it primarily on this basis. The mass appeal of Lycoris Recoil is further enhanced by the strong performances from Anzai Chika and Wakayama Shion as the leads. While Chisato and Takina fall into fairly standard archetypes within both anime and the buddy-cop genre, they are done with an exceptional amount of polish. There are just enough quirks and unique mannerisms to avoid our leads feeling like a flat copy and paste of character stereotypes in so many other anime these days. This draws the audience in since they are familiar with the archetypes the characters fit into, which ultimately has a "fill in the blanks" effect, making them seem unique and accelerating the attachment to them. While the cast in Lycoris Recoil does not break any new ground or do anything particularly deep with their characters, they still ooze charisma. These two elements are probably sufficient to draw in most viewers since it utilises the two most broadly appealing things about entertainment: action spectacle and charismatic character performances.

However, a show must have some plot or, if not at least, premise for its characters to interact within and show off their animation chops. This is doubly true for shows with action or combat as a significant part of their genre or setting. There must be a reason why the characters need to resort to violence when that is a rarity in any typical environment. A drama or comedy in the mundane world does not need to justify its setting since the audience can take it as a given. On the other hand, Lycoris Recoil does need to at least pay lip service to the question of why their version of the contemporary world exists in the first place. While quite a few viewers can probably overlook this entirely since they are sold on the spectacle alone, the show still needs to earn its increased suspension of disbelief from the wider audience. Without the question of why something so obviously cartoonish like an assassin organisation solely made out of high school girls existing being answered, Lycoris Recoil and other shows like it risks devolving into just mindless action with no sense of what drives it. While that may be passable as spectacle entertainment, it is significantly less compelling. When the premise is lacking, it is hard to be captivated by a character or invested in a plot. The author or director's hand becomes more apparent, the characters begin to feel like artificial constructs, the story becomes a means to an end to get to the next spectacle, and the action becomes nothing but cheap violence.

The plot itself is somewhat trite yet also somewhat contrived at the same time. Despite this, it fully serves the purpose of the show as being a coherent vehicle to move between action pieces and further flesh out the characters and ideas. There are some instances where things border on plot contrivances. Still, these are excusable since the show was not established as an intricate mystery or psychological battle between characters. It is mildly jarring when Takina pieces together the motivations and connections of all parties at the show's climax. While the viewer is presented with all this information and can make these conclusions relatively easily, it's a bit of a leap for any of the characters to do so since we are privy to scenes they are not present at or know about. Everything was still appropriately set up, though some of it was a little too transparent to be praiseworthy. Still, it is better to be mildly obvious and achieve clarity than attempt to be complicated and end up as a contrived mess. Some chance events in combat that are necessary for the plot still feel like they show too much of the author/director's hand. But these are partly due to how much attention is placed on them by the shots for the sake of clarity than due to it being beyond the suspension of disbelief.

Lycoris Recoil does make some attempts to answer why the premise for its show exist in the first place. Some of the answers are more obvious hand waves which are largely acceptable. Frankly, why a secret organisation would have a flashy uniform has no reasonable explanation. Neither is why they are all teenage girls. So the stereotypical one-off mentions of solutions are acceptable. The uniform is a form of "urban camouflage" to blend in with real school girls in public. While this is paper thin, at least there is a kind of logic to it, and the show does not do itself a disservice by trying to justify it further. And why they select orphaned girls is for the presumably stereotypical reasons that it would be easier to train and condition them from young and that they would not be seen as inherently threatening, allowing them to blend in.

On the other hand, it does attempt to answer some of the broader questions as to why this Japan needs a secret assassin organisation. And this is where it becomes incredibly messy in its answers. Ostensibly, the Lycoris program is meant to combat a rampant terrorist threat in Japan. Why this comes about is never reasonably explained. While this can be taken at face value, it does make a more skeptical watcher's eye twitch at the potential implications of this show's ideological position. The entire Lycoris program, in short, is essentially a government-sanctioned assassination group that removes "threats" to public order through killing without any due process. These threats are all accessed and selected by a highly advanced AI with seemingly no human input, checks or safeguards. And to top it all off, this is all kept secret to not alarm the public and shatter their idea of peace. Where Lycoris Recoil stands on all its themes is remarkably unclear for a set-up that seems designed for the classic story of a rebel cop saving the day and unearthing the weaknesses in their unethical organisation.

On one level, Chisato and Takina take a stand against the Lycoris program. For Chisato, it is evident since she refuses to kill despite the other Lycoris agents being almost flippant about it. Although describing her as a pacifist would grossly stretch the word's definition. While how her non-lethal ammunition can punch through car doors but not penetrate a person's body is absurd, at the very least, it is still meant to cause some measure of harm to incapacitate a person. And for Takina, her character arc is about learning to follow her own judgement instead of rigid orders, even if there is a price to pay. And it includes the more human element of learning to value her personal connections and loyalty to them over her attachment to abstract ideas and organisations like DA.

By extension, the Lycoris program itself is not shown in an unreservedly heroic light. There is always a subtle sinister tinge to how they are presented. Lycoris agents like Fuki and Sakura are brash and aggressive while coming off subtly as conditioned to view the Lycoris program and DA as an entirely justified ultimate authority. The killing of targets is rampant and emotionless, while the deaths of Lycoris never seem to phase Commander Kusunoki. It is especially in seeing the Lycoris being killed where it feels like the show is actually intelligently leveraging its premise. There is something naturally upsetting about seeing a girl being killed, even if they are meant to be a trained assassin themselves. Though there is never a blatant statement by characters protesting or highlighting any of this, it subtly makes the viewer uncomfortable, breaking up what could have devolved into an endless and mindless action plot with cute girls. To give credit where it is due, it is hard to claim that Lycoris Recoil is blindly siding with its titular organisation and presenting its actions as uncritically beneficial for the nation. It is just that it is never blatantly (and in the cases of most other anime, clumsily) highlighted by the main characters denouncing the Lycoris program in a speech or having a "are we the baddies?" moment.

The conclusion, which has the DA again cover up the plot's climax by essentially hoodwinking the public, is the natural extension of the ideology of the Lycoris program. Simply put, their entire rationale is that the nature of their peace being artificial does not detract from its value. In other words, the ends justify the means, and the value of abstract truth is subordinate to material results. Although the villain, Majima, calling the Lycoris program Machiavellian sounds like nothing more than the show trying to make itself sound smart, it is actually a succinct and appropriate conclusion for once. And despite the absurdity, the public being gullible enough to believe the cover-up after some extremely apparent damage could be a subtle statement. With how ridiculous the lengths of the cover-up reach, attempting to pass off the Lycoris operation as a live-action performance in the prelude to a movie, it is easy to see this as being critical of the public psyche in Japan. They are willing to accept anything, no matter how nonsensical or blatantly false, if it benefits them—in essence, being willingly blind in exchange for simplicity and security. The public is as much to blame for the existence of the Lycoris program as anyone since they are implicitly shown to be willing to pay this insane price for it.

While this all sounds remarkably interesting, subtle and even sophisticated for a show that, on the surface, is just cute girls doing Gun Kata, it is unfortunately not that simple to give Lycoris Recoil all this credit. Where the show falls apart is in its villain, or more accurately, how it tries to provide Majima with a basis for his actions. Again, it would be passable to have the show's villain be a bog-standard anarchist terrorist or psychopath and leave it at that. It's incredibly trite, but it serves the purpose of most action shows. Yet, since Lycoris Recoil is taking a subtle magnifying glass to its enforcers of order, so does it attempt to examine what motivates Majima to destroy this peace. The thing about Majima's motivations is that they are entirely abstract. Not in the sense that he is a political idealist of some sort or is actually an anti-authoritarian rebel. But instead, he is sowing terror and chaos to expose DA and the Lycoris program for being just as unethical as him by forcing a response. In essence, the show attempts to point out that the only difference between the "heroic" Lycoris and the "villainous terrorist" is government fiat. It makes this point somewhat since both organisations are brutal and operate outside the law. Without any legal constraints or the moral high ground of being bound by them, it is possible to argue that Majima has a point and that the Lycoris program is just another organisation using violence to shape the world in its preferred image. The problem is that Majima himself justifies the existence of the Lycoris program because he is apparently violent for the sake of it.

Instead of giving Majima some political or even ideological motivation, for instance: having a loved one be an arbitrary target of the Lycoris, believing that the extent of power the Lycoris program wields to be a latent threat, or at the very least just believing an illusory peace is wrong because it is not real, they just make it such that he is encouraging violence of the sake of it. Of course, some lip service is being paid to the idea that the security brought about by Lycoris is immoral because it is founded on an illusion. But it unwittingly promotes the conclusion that the drastic powers of the Lycoris program are necessary. Lycoris Recoil portrays the public as constantly on the precipice of a descent into violence. There is a comical number of foiled "terrorist" or other violent attacks on display in the initial episodes to demonstrate the skills of the Lycoris agents and the DA's all-reaching power. This is where the failure to answer why there is an upswing in terrorism comes back to bite the show since it now implicitly states that it is just the natural course of development society takes. It misses the opportunity to examine the motivations or causes of the upswing in violence as being due to some kind of societal pressure, alienation or even political dissatisfaction. But this point of humans being naturally inclined to violence is hammered home with the inclusion of the enigmatic Alan Foundation, whose goal is to promote natural genius, which by cliched and hackneyed extension, includes genius for violence. This all suggests that the natural state of humanity, society, or somesuch is not only chaos but brutal violence. Ironically, this justifies the necessity of the DA and Lycoris program since it seems they are the only thing keeping them in check. If the illusion of peace were to break down, it would lead to a cascading collapse into violence, at least according to the logic presented by the show.

This confuses the conclusion that Lycoris Recoil is making on one level since it is critical of the DA. It is tempting to try and give the show even more credit by seeing this as a nuanced conclusion about how using violence for control ultimately promotes violence as a response. And that excessive control will eventually breed resentment and then resistance to itself. But the problem is that the inclusion of the Alan Institute angle that indicates that all of this is "natural" genius and means Lycoris Recoil, on another level, suggests that society needs to be controlled. This entirely changes the tone of the show to having the Lycoris program being, at worse, a necessary evil. Finally, the genre and presentation of Lycoris Recoil comes back to haunt it as all of this is subtext or below the surface. Following the tone of the show's conclusion, it shows the cover-up as being positively received by everyone, with all the main Lycoris being happy and still somewhat naive yet desensitised regarding the mass violence they have perpetrated. In essence, the lighthearted tone, necessitated by its cute girls do Gun Kata premise, undermines any of the more interesting things of substance it was trying to do under the surface and promotes its sinister conclusion as being benign and justified.

I know nothing about the writer of this show, who goes by the pen name of Asaura. So it is hard to make any conclusions about his authorial intent based on knowledge of the provenance. Still, I will admit that I was initially suspect of Lycoris Recoil of having some deeply unsavoury ideological leanings hiding under its exterior. In a way, it is preferable to find the show contradicting itself so thoroughly since it feels more like an oversight than an attempt to push some ultra-authoritarian philosophy and then fail at it miserably, like in GATE. And despite the premise having all the potential to be vapid, I was pleasantly surprised to find some substance underneath. Though, because of the veneer of the show and how subtle it is at times, it is apt to question if it is giving the show too much credit or if it is a genuine example of including political themes without being blatant and intrusive. And at the same time, because of how confused its conclusion about its themes and ideas are, it is hard to rate the show highly. It can only go so far on style alone. Despite my personal bias in favour of any performance by Anzai Chika, my overall preference still places greater importance on a show's intellectual and thematic bite. And it is impossible for Lycoris Recoil to evade this expectation given the themes and questions it has voluntarily raised in its premise and attempted to answer. Unfortunately, the expectations cannot go back to simply being a cute action show.

Overall, Lycoris Recoil is exceedingly charismatic, an achievement in its own right. It also successfully integrates its themes and ideological problems into the show without appearing dry, convoluted, or disruptive to other elements like character or pacing. However, because it is so contradictory in its conclusions, despite its subtlety at presenting its thematic problems tacitly, its potential is far from realised. Ironically, even in its themes and ideas category, it again scores points for its execution instead of on substance. Despite its flashy charisma, it is hard to give Lycoris Recoil more than a 7 out of 10, given its glaring weaknesses. Perhaps it could go up to an eight on the style and entertainment factor alone. Still, given my preferences, it is hard not to penalise it for such great missed potential and confusion in its exploration of ideas.

That said, Lycoris Recoil has set itself up for a sequel. While it is demanding to fully explore its weighty ideas in just 13 episodes, it is possible to dig into them in subsequent seasons with more finesse. Though it cannot undo the contradictory nature of this season's plot, it can springboard off it to be something truly exceptional, that rare show with both an abundance of style and substance. But regardless of if that comes to fruition or not, that will be the merit of its sequel, and it is hard to award points to a first season, even if it is necessary to set that up.

Aoi Hana is simultaneously a subdued yet remarkably realistic story about how complicated growing up, first love and being in a predominantly single-gender environment can be. While I am clearly not a girl, from my personal experience going to an all-boys school, as well as direct observations and anecdotes from friends that have gone to all-girls schools, Aoi Hana is remarkably true to life. In a genre where many shows feel like they are fetishising relationships between girls or diving headlong into melodrama, Aoi Hana focuses on the difficulty of being in a position of liking someone from the same sex and how complicated it ... can be. While the show is ultimately sweet and has no over-the-top melodrama, it does not glamourise how difficult it is to realise that you are attracted to the same gender and coming out of the closet.

The first area where Aoi Hana shines is how it captures the culture of an all-girls school. For better or worse, girls at that age who have been in a mono-gender environment for much of their lives are much more open about expressing their affection and admiration for each other. While to an outside observer, it is possible to see these interactions are almost romantic or at least too cloying, they are very much the norm. These acts of affection, like compliments and hand-holding, are by and large platonic that come about due to the environment. While Fujigaya does fall into the stereotype, or perhaps more accurately, mould, of a wealthy upper-class girls' school, these very much exist in many east Asian countries. This is grounded in the details such as Fujigaya having a chapel indicating its origin as a mission school, which in east Asia tends to be much posher, wealthier and more historied than an average municipal school. This setting is fantastic and ripe for the confusion that comes with growing up and having a first love, which is doubly confusing if all your peers around you are all the same gender.

Instead of diving headlong into a romantically charged or awkward and suggestive relationship between Akira and Fumi, who have just reconnected, Aoi Hana focuses on how they, as characters, react to the situations around them. It does not cheapen or fetishise the closeness between their characters, with their affection being first and foremost as friends, at least initially. Fumi's character is a more direct examination of how she acknowledges and deals with her attraction to other girls. On the other hand, Akira's story looks more into the uncertainty and complications of becoming socially entangled in these relationships. Both these characters have to deal with the line between the usual closeness between girls and romantic overtures becoming blurred. For Fumi, this places a great deal of pressure on her as the innocuous admiration and fangirling over seniors begins to take on more romantic overtures. She cannot express her affection as freely as other girls since it is now burdened with other connotations. At the same time, she has to sit by and watch other girls heap gifts and praises on someone she is attracted to, all while wondering if there is something more to their actions. This makes Aoi Hana compelling since the characters' internal conflict carries much of the narrative's attention instead of solely intercharacter conflict that melodramas rely upon.

That being said, the stand-out character of the show is probably Sugimoto since she is the central conflict point for most of the narrative. While she could be seen as just the archetypical tomboy, her character actually highlights interesting things about the dynamics of the relationships between girls. Her popularity and appeal to many of the girls in the school does not just stem from her being a highly visible overachiever in both the basketball team and drama club but also from her masculine way of presenting and carrying herself. In addition to being true to life in many cases, this also implicitly raises the question if Fumi and many other girls are drawn to her because of her masculine manner instead of actually being interested in her due to her gender specifically. On the other hand, Sugimoto's story also raises the question of if her affection for Fumi and, by extension, other girls is genuine since she is also attracted to a man. Of course, there is the simple possibility that she is bisexual, but the narrative does not just rest on this simple answer. Although the idea of same-sex attraction being "just a phase" is cliched, it does raise the genuine question of why this stereotype exists. Sugimoto's character is interesting since her tomboy image is eventually revealed to be a reaction to being rejected. She developed this persona to become who she wanted to be by sheer force of will. So this suggests that Sugimoto's attraction to girls may be reactionary, or perhaps is simply a product of desiring intimacy and having the only suitable people around her being other girls. Though more likely since Aoi Hana does not settle for simple answers, a combination of all of the above.

This is where Aoi Hana shines in its character subtly, depth and sophistication, where most of the questions and tension it raises are kept natural and implicit. So much of this tension and uncomfortable questions are conveyed without dialogue, either through the characters' behaviour, both visually through expressions and lingering shots, and, more importantly, what they choose to leave unsaid. It avoids the nasty melodrama that many other shows devolve into because they lack the finesse to explore these questions without resorting to characters monologuing about it or clashing outright to make it clear. Or even worse, most other anime, yuri or even standard drama-romance, lack this depth at all. In addition, Aoi Hana includes a limited cast of male characters, which pushes it from simply being a yuri pandering show to a show delving into relationships between girls. The male cast is exclusively minor supporting characters but adds this depth of realism and suspension of disbelief since the world within the narrative is not just some contrived fantasy where only female characters exist for the sake of audience appeal. And as said while talking about Sugimoto, their presence always tacitly poses the question of if some of our character's attraction to other girls is driven more by circumstance than anything.

Despite this subtle and sophisticated dive into its themes and characters, Aoi Hana is still lacking in some areas. Despite the lack of melodrama generally being positive since it helps with the suspension of disbelief and avoids cheapening the characters or themes, Aoi Hana indeed lacks that gripping dramatic punch that really draws a viewer in. While the drama of Sugimoto's situation and response to it does give the narrative some bite, the issue is that she is not billed as the primary protagonist of the series. Much of the screen time is spent in Fumi or Akira's perspective, which are more often than not passive. It is interesting to dive into their character, but it is hard to call it dramatically compelling since much of their reactions are often melancholy or pouting. It is realistic, endearing and quite relatable but does not necessarily make the narrative as engaging as it could be. At times it feels like the choice of the show not having Sugimoto as the lead has structurally hamstrung it since the focal point of the narrative and drama is not the primary point of view. While this is common for shows that are more character-driven than plot-driven, Aoi Hana's characters lack that final spark to make up for this weakness and invest the audience completely. The art, sound and voice acting are also nothing particularly remarkable though thoroughly competent. Perhaps the art adds to this mellowness since it uses a slightly desaturated pastel watercolour pallet, and its style is in the vein of that used in shojo manga.

What is left is that while Aoi Hana is a sweet show with a subtle depth and realistic sincerity, it is also far less engaging than it perhaps could or should be. While this is very much in the spirit that J.C. Staff and the original manga were going for, it is hard to measure up against a show with both appropriate drama and depth. While strong in exploring its themes, it is hard to call Aoi Hana a truly excellent show. Much of its devotion to sincerity and realism are in tension with being dramatically compelling or engaging. However, it is hard to hold it too much against the show since it is a difficult, if not essentially impossible circle to square. Overall, Aoi Hana is a 7.5 out of 10 though much closer to an 8. Its characters lack that final spark to draw a viewer in and make up entirely for all the limitations created by its structural and tonal choices. However, it is nonetheless an excellent show and is exceedingly strong in its themes which is perhaps the most important area to get right when tackling these topics.

Build Fighters is a love letter to all Gundam fans that tells a light-hearted and sincere story revolving around Gunpla kits. Removing the weight and baggage of most mainline Gundam series that deal with war and mobile suits as weapons, Build Fighters is instead a celebration of Gundam as a pop culture icon. Rather than a protagonist thrust into the midst of conflict, the show adopts the plot of a sports anime with an aspiring competitor seeking to prove themselves in a tournament. It is unabashedly a show aimed more at kids and young teenagers than something dourer or "serious". Yet there is plenty for ... an older viewer to enjoy, both in its well-integrated references to other media in the Gundam franchise and the plain and simple fun of the series. Choosing to use a Gunpla battling sport as a premise is nothing short of genius; the ultimate wish fulfilment of fans of all Gundam media. It provides an excellent basis for both a tried and tested sports narrative and an excuse to integrate mobile suits from different series.

Though its central plot is nothing new or innovative, it is a highly competent rendition of your standard athlete's story. It cuts away a lot of the fat of other narratives in the same vein, like the threat of a club shutting down or some inter-school rivalry. Instead, Build Fighters focuses squarely on the competitive tournament aspects of its story. It lets its characters' motivation and competitive spirit carry the emotional weight and create stakes instead of resorting to some external pressure. Where it shines is that Build Fighters goes beyond the regular trappings of a typical sports anime in what it can do with its matches. Even though they are narratively just plastic models, the battles between these heavily modified mobile suits are spectacular, rivalling the main series. Although the stakes are technically far less since there is no threat of death, it is still nonetheless emotionally compelling with the attachment the characters have to the Gunpla they made themselves. Like other good sports anime, it concentrates on emotionally investing viewers in the aspirations and goals of the characters to make the outcome of matches matter. In fact, Build Fighters uses the lack of death as a threat to its advantage in how brutal its battles can get. With no danger of injuring its pilots, the amount of damage that the show puts its mobile suits through is extreme. Going beyond the damage that could realistically be shown in traditional Gundam narratives, Build Fighter's battles often outdo all but the most climactic clashes of the mainline series. It ratchets up both dramatic tension and spectacle, putting many fights in more "serious" shows to shame. In addition, it gets exceedingly creative with the type of battles the characters fight, bolstering its traditional one-on-one matches with some creative clashes like armed races and mass free-for-alls.

Backing its spectacular battle scenes is its fantastic mobile suit designs. Not only do they have a whole arsenal of iconic models, but the new mobile suit designs are excellent as well. They exude creativity and add style with their modifications on the original mechas they are based on. The battle sequences themselves often take advantage of the Gunpla battling premise to allow more fantastical mobile suits and weapon systems instead of being forced to adhere to the more real robot or realistic style options. This gives the action a myriad of options to wow the viewer and keeps things interesting. The only limit to what kind of style or strategies the various competitors can employ is the writers' creativity. It includes the use of support mecha, detachable remote weapon systems, and even mobile armours, to name a few of the ideas utilised during the various battles. This adds an additional element to the usual battle-focused story's attribute pillars. Beyond just the combat skills and strategy, there is now an emphasis on the construction quality of the fighter's Gunpla. Though this idea is somewhat nebulously represented at times since it is questionable how aesthetic elements like a better paint job, a matt overcoat, or panel lining would make Gunpla superior in battle. Even then, this is more a reflection of the ideals of what makes a real-world Gunpla model good translated into the show.

This trifecta of skills necessary to compete well in Gunpla Battles gives the show's characters differentiated strengths. Build Fighters makes the excellent choice to have its protagonist Iori Sei be an outstanding builder but very limited in his ability to actually control his Gunpla. It does wonders for his character since he is not all capable on his own, making his relationship with other characters necessary as he relies on their help. His timidity in most areas is sharply contrasted with his obsession with all things Gundam, making him a strong surrogate for the audience while still being his own, highly endearing character. This is contrasted by Reiji, who has excellent fighting abilities but knows absolutely nothing about Gunpla, their capabilities, or how to build them. The symbiotic dynamic between the two creates some great character moments both when they clash and come together. Sadly, Reiji is the weaker part of the duo due to how straightforward and rather simply he can be read most of the time. That and his part of the plot surrounding his origin and the mystery of the plavasky particles feels tacked on. As if the writers did not feel confident enough in their own ability to tell a compelling sports narrative that hinges on the investment of the audience in the goals of the characters. Instead, the general mystery surrounding the plavasky particles feels weak and actually detracts from the core plot of the Gunpla battle tournaments. It is far too fantastical for a series that focuses on more down to earth themes like good sportsmanship and love of the sport.

That being said, Build Fighters is very tongue in cheek about many of its supporting cast and the references it draws from the main Gundam series. The series even has its own Char clone in Yuuki Tatsuya, which everyone, from time to time, does note how absurd the situation with his identity is. That and Rambal Ral becoming a coach character for our protagonist all serve to keep the show's light-hearted tone while celebrating the Gundam franchise as a sort of mash-up. While these references may go over the heads of Build Fighter's main audience, these elements give older viewers the occasional tidbit that will definitely put a smile on their faces. In addition, the whole supporting cast is quirky and entertaining in their own right, the easy standout being Yasaka Mao as one of Iori's direct peers. Sadly, some supporting characters like China, who were incredibly endearing in their earnestness, fell by the wayside towards the end as she faded more into the background with the height of the tournament. Nonetheless, the supporting cast is still one of the show's great strengths that adds charm to its fairly by the numbers plot and heightens the emotional connection to each of the battles.

Overall, Build Fighters is a mash-up and love letter to the Gundam franchise. Its premise and characters are exceedingly endearing, and it never fails to put a smile on even an older viewer's face with some of its references. Despite it frankly being a glorified toy commercial since the entire premise revolves around the product of Gunpla, it is undoubtedly glorified to the appropriate level to make Build Fighters its own story worth watching. Despite the plain and simple fun that Build Fighters offers, appealing to every Gunpla fan's inner child, the shoehorned mystery of the Plavasky particles does drag it down somewhat. Combined with the relatively standard striving to best the best sports tournament plot, it is hard to say Build Fighters is truly standout since it is not very creative in this aspect. That being said, the plot is exceedingly competently executed and is an excellent example of a classic sports story done right. Overall, Gundam Build Fighters is a solid 8 out of 10. It is definitely something all Gundam fans should watch to put a smile on their faces since they will get the most out of it.

War in the Pocket is a concise story that excellently captures the tragedy of war, especially through the eyes of a child. Unlike the more traditional Gundam fare that takes the perspective of soldiers, or at least a protagonist that is thrust into combat, War in the Pocket follows characters with significantly less agency. As a short story set near the conclusion of the One Year War, it tells a much more intimate story focusing much more on its characters than the action. In fact, it would be possible to take out a vast majority of the Gundam elements and the action scenes and still ... have it be a compelling and moving war story. No small feat or praise for its writer and director.

War in the Pocket contrast the child-like wonder at all things military with the stark reality of how cruel warfare can be. This is done by having one of the primary point of view characters being Alfred, a young boy. Alfred is written as a highly intelligent child, able to manipulate situations when he needs to and think critically about problems he is presented with. Yet this never comes off as someone with an adult's intelligence or perspective being shoehorned into a young character. Like many young boys, he is fascinated with military hardware and playing soldier without truly grasping its implications or the danger that comes with it. He has little understanding of why the war is being fought or any ideological loyalty to any side. Like any kid playing soldier, he simply wants to be involved in the action and do what he perceives as cool or meaningful. His enthusiasm and naivety make him both incredibly believable as a character and highly relatable. Who among us did not think the same way at his age or have seen that reflected in others. War in the Pocket precisely captures how someone his age thinks and acts, endearing Alfred to the viewers. What is so sobering about his character is when he finally comes to see the horrors of war and how he reacts and changes. It is an experience he can never return from, made all the more hard-hitting when it is contrasted with how his friends still view war as childish fantasies.

Similarly, Bernie is the archetypical young soldier, not quite a full adult yet who is still looking to prove himself. In a way, he is an older, more mature reflection of Alfred. Like Alfred's desire to be accepted by his friends and later the authority figures he finds in the soldiers, Bernie wants to be recognised as a competent full-fledged member of the military. While he has a much clearer understanding of the war, he has still yet to see it in its full brutality. Though better equipped than Alfred to handle the stress and anguish that comes with his role in the conflict, he is not immune to its effects. Unlike a paragon character that would embody the ideal soldier, he gets scared and is shaken by the combat he goes through. His character arc of eventually rising to meet them makes War in the Pocket so moving as a character drama but also so tragic. He gives a much more human perspective to a soldier at war. Like most people, he is ultimately motivated by his personal connection rather than any abstract ideals like heroism or loyalty to the Zeon cause. This is contrasted heavily against Chris, who is both a far more accomplished and able solider in subversion of initial expectations. His growth never outmatches her as a soldier. Still, his character is far more compelling since, unlike Chris, he has to face very personal elements of war while she still ends it with some emotional distance intact as a pilot. In any other show, the scenario of Bernie growing into an older brother figure for Alfred and his budding relationship with Chris would be a classic tale of boy-meets-girl. Tragically, war is not merely a backdrop to this story and is an integral theme it addresses.

With its excellently written protagonists, War in the Pocket is a profoundly moving story about how ordinary people react to war. Alfred is a child that is involved way in over his head, and Bernie is a low-ranking pilot, both of them have little agency to shape events. Events outside of their control are thrust upon them, and how they react is the core focus of the narrative. It is tragic how little of an effect they have on the eventual outcome of events, but that is also the show's point. It makes the viewer empathise with them as trying to stand against an impossible current and emphasises the intimate nature of War in the Pocket. The politics and grandstanding of the One Year War are left almost entirely by the wayside as we take the perspective of people forced to bear the consequences of that. Any greater context we get to the events on the Side 6 colony are just snippets into the brutality of both sides. The Federation effectively uses the civilians of the colony as camouflage for their military operations, bringing them into harm's way. And Zeon engages in indiscriminate attacks to neutralise that military presence. In a cerebral sense, Side 6 is a legitimate military target. But that lack of discussion of acknowledgement serves to underscore that it does not matter to the people directly involved.

In this, War in the Pocket addresses a significant point of tension, or even contradiction, in Gundam and other media about war. Military hardware, giant mechs in particular, are cool. They are entertaining to watch, and the spectacle of combat is exhilarating. Yet the context for this is almost always a war. The consequences of which are always severe and bloody. The action and battles are always starkly contrasted by the almost picturesque or mudane scenes of life in Side 6. Or they are more soberingly followed up with the characters confronting the aftermath of the action. While there is a decent amount of mobile suit combat, it is hardly the central attraction of War in the Pocket. The scenes of conflict are used sparingly at only critical moments in the plot, ensuring that they do not detract from the show's themes or tone. The music is quintessential eighties pop that would be almost better suited to a serial about high school drama, only heightening the contrast. It all serves to reinforce how tragic the events are and how scarring war can be when it is brought upon an unsuspecting populace. War in the Pocket's conclusion is then made so much more tragic, not just in its climactic conflict but also in how the show closes with those not directly affected by war finding it so much easier to move on or make light of it. It leaves a gnawing sadness at how impactful the events are for our characters, but how in the larger scheme of things, it scarcely matters, even to those closest to them.

Overall, War in the Pocket is not just an excellent Gundam story, but a general war story. It captures a child's perspective so viscerally that it is almost impossible not to feel for Alfred as he tries to prove himself to the soldiers and as the effects of war reach him. There is not a moment wasted in this short series that can be effectively watched as a 2-hour movie. It is well worth the time for any viewer with no large context needed from other Gundam media. War in the Pocket is deserving of that 10 out of 10, for how it can tell such a profound, personal and tragic story while being so concise. It is something other shows never achieve or take far longer to reach, a sign of how well War in the Pocket is constructed.

While Space Battleship Yamato 2202: Warriors of Love does still continues to carry the spirit of the original series, it starts to falter under the weight of that legacy, failing to adequately adapt and modernise it for a new era. As a sequel to 2199, the only strength it really carries forward is the fantastic visuals and models for its ship to ship combat. But aside from spectacle, it falters heavily in terms of its plot, themes, characters, and at times, even comprehensibility.

The most apparent issue with Warriors of Love is the extreme plot bloat that only heightens the convoluted nature of its ... central themes. While 2199 was fairly concentrated, with only two significant subplots that eventually tied into their journey to Iscandar, 2202 has arguably four or even five of these crammed into the same space. This leaves some of their themes like the proliferation of Wave Motion weaponry and the question of integrating AI control on Earth's warships woefully underserved. Warriors of Love does raise interesting questions with a thematic resonance with the rest of the franchise, yet it never has the time to deal with them. The inclusion of Teresa ends up being more of a plot catalyst than an actual plot point, an excuse to dump exposition and prepare for a deus ex machina, than anything that furthers the themes or events. The need to adhere to this element from the original Space Battleship Yamato II hamstrings a plot that should be focused elsewhere. Probably entirely on the conflict with the Gatlantians and their attack on Earth. In fact, it sacrifices a lot of the time its predecessor 2199 spent developing their characters to cater to the myriad of plot threads. This presents a fundamental problem since character development can be done in smaller, more contained stories that buttressed the central plot. That was how 2199 handled a chunk of its episodes which eased the show's pacing and added an emotional depth to the stakes. Warriors of Love adds more characters to the cast while being forced to use its time outside the central narrative to attempt to flesh out its side plots. Even writing out some of the Yamato secondary crew early on in the season does not alleviate the pressure for screen time. As a result, none of its new or old characters feels particularly well developed, and the sheer number of subplots ensure that none get enough time to fully realise their potential.

This general overload spills into its frankly confusing central thesis of questioning what makes a being "human". While the general idea of the emotional experience being a powerful core part of human existence is eventually put across, it is done in such a convoluted manner that it undermines its already very irrational premise. The use of irrational here is not meant to be pejorative, but rather its literal meaning in that it hinges on the lived experience instead of any genuine philosophical basis. The problem lies in that 2202 does not let their character's motivations and conflict carry this emotional thesis across but instead tries to deliver it like an intellectual one. You can have your characters debate and agonise over something like deploying the Wave Motion Gun since it is an ethical quandary. On the other hand, something as intangible as love and its meaning or as a source of motivation is something that must be more parts demonstrated than monologued. All Zwoder's rambling does is obfuscate and convolute the relatively simple point he is making and drag it into the depths of melodrama. The irony is that there are already stronger character moments that demonstrate this on screen. Kato's pain of having to choose between his duty or his sick son embodies one of the central themes of 2202. That love is both a great motivator but also an incredible source of pain, and that this emotional experience is integral to understanding being human. Yet it is a mere subplot and never replicated in other areas. Warriors of Love seems either deeply insecure about how simply its idea can be put across or really does think in such a self-aggrandising way. And neither reflect very well on its construction.

Translating back to the characters, this also means that all of them either stagnate or are incredibly shallow. None of the characters are leveraged to dig into the theme of love and emotions being central to human existence. Instead, they constantly veer into melodrama since the show never develops their motivations clearly and spends time using their actions as just a means to further the plot. In particular, the reintroduction of Desler is done in both a hamfisted and contrived manner that only tangentially ties into an examination of what people will do for love or in an emotional state. So much of 2202's run time is spent trying to clumsily recontextualise Desler's actions from 2199 that it feels closer to a retcon than being presented with a different perspective. Barely any of this was set up in 2199, and sadly, Warriors of Love does not earn enough goodwill with the viewer to have them give it the benefit of the doubt and accept the changes. Nor does 2202 reward anyone who does overlook this since the radical changes to Desler does not add any substantial value to the plot or themes of the story. Again, these all feel like inclusions for the sake of drawing plot elements from the originals without effectively integrating them. Sadly, it just comes out as a confusing eclectic mess that is only saved by its still impressive spectacle and the viewer's pre-established connection to the characters.

Even then, the spectacle of the massive battles veers from exaggerated into ridiculous at times due to the endless escalation of things. The only battle which does not suffer from this is the opening engagement between the Gatlantians and the combined Earth-Gamilan fleet. There is still a sense of manoeuvring and gradual attrition on both sides, with the fleets maintaining formation. The scale of the battle with the number of ships involved was already verging on being unwieldy, but the focus on the Yunagi and Kodai's actions kept it in check. 2202 then repeatedly jumps the shark by attempting to outdo its previous battles in terms of scale and spectacle. While it is initially visually impressive to see hundreds of ships endlessly fire at each other, it soon loses its lustre and becomes a mind-numbing experience. Without any narrative focal point in the battle, it is just ultimately a series of explosions that reduce to nothing more than eye candy. While that is important for any action show, it cannot fully compensate for its other failings.

What makes this worse is the scale of the battle, and the weapons employed start to shatter the viewer's sense of disbelief. The Karakum-class Battleship is already shown to be a colossal vessel that dwarfs other battleships. To then immediately raise the stakes by having the Gatlantian fleet be comprised of literally thousands of them makes it hard to take seriously. Part of what creates a convincing fleet engagement is the variety of ships present. Just having walls and walls of one ridiculously large ship class flood into the battle feels simply uninspired and absurd. Again, the irony is that 2199 knew how to write excellent naval engagements and understood that merely increasing the scale endlessly did not necessarily increase tension. The battle at Balun in 2199 appropriately only occurs late into the season. Even then, the writer/director knew not to let the spectacle of thousands of ships attacking the Yamato overstay its welcome. Similarly, Operation M at the start of 2199 does not outstay its welcome and gets its point across. There is an understanding that spectacle can only hold for so long before viewers lose interest, which has been lost with 2202. Ship to ship combat is at its best when there are fewer vessels that undertake more intricate action. Again, the irony is that 2199 already did this well with the excellent battle of the Rainbow Star Cluster, which only involves five ships and their air wings. The viewer can follow a sense of tension, stakes, move and counter move. Warriors of Love going in the exact opposite direction is a tragic disappointment that is only compounded by knowing how well its predecessor executed their action scenes.

On the more technical front, Warriors of Loves fails to balance the campy retro origins of many of its ship designs and ideas with more modern, "harder" sci-fi interpretations. Some elements are adapted well enough, like the asteroid shield from the original series being written in as a legacy of the Izumo plan. Others like the Karakum-class sits on the knife's edge of this, having exaggerated features like its main mast being literally three turrets stacked on top of each other. This finally goes into the territory of the plain absurd when they introduce the Gatlantian supercarrier that launches its planes by spinning its flight decks like a drill. There is no logical reason for this, and it looks ridiculous. This shatters the suspension of disbelief since it undermines the spectacle of the action while drawing attention to the fact that so many of these designs already bordered on the insane or even plain stupid. This was already a mild issue in 2199 with the idea of battle carriers and the four decked carriers that obviously lacked the appropriate internal volume to house the rest of the ship's systems. However, the strengths of 2199's other elements allowed it to be handwaved and viewed as an exaggerated stylistic design instead of absurdity. A similar problem can be found in the Gatlantian battle tactics, with their legionary cannon utilising ships circling each other in a cylinder formation being absolutely ridiculous. This pushes the boundary of what is already closer to space fantasy and into the realm of pure camp. It undoes so much of the serious tone and effort put into the technobabble by showing battle scenes that are so detached from any semblance of sense. It discards the suspension of disbelief that 2199 earns by mirroring naval combat and goes straight into the epitome of appearance over substance by coming up with wild detached ideas.

But perhaps worst of all is the mass proliferation of Wave Motion Guns. While it is an impressive sight to see a whole volley of them being fired, it actively cheapens one of the central themes of Space Battleship Yamato. Wave Motion weapons become a dime a dozen and are shown to have mostly middling power and effectiveness. This undermines the idea that it is a dangerous power that the cast of Space Battleship Yamato bares a heavy heart whenever utilising. When combined with the general lack of debate over the Wave Motion fleet's use, implications, or ethics, it significantly detracts from 2202's thematic strength. It feels almost like it is spitting in the face of one of the strongest points of 2199 just for the sake of spectacle and leaves Warriors of Love feeling even more like melodrama dressed up with action. While 2199 balances out the strengths and weaknesses of a space opera, 2202 seems to dive headlong into the genre's pitfalls. Sadly, the strengths 2202 brings to the table, like the interesting ideas presented by the inclusion of the Ginga are not developed enough to compensate for this. And while the action involving the CRS and the Black Bird technology is creative and engaging, it does not make up for the other elements lost in 2202's breakneck escalation of scale.

Overall, Warriors of Love is a disappointing sequel that devolves into a convoluted mess. It attempts to do too much and hamstrings its own central themes by aggrandising what is a simple idea. Love and emotional attachment has the potential to resonate with viewers more than more distant concepts like duty, heroism, or the moral burden of war. Yet its contrived delivery and mess of multiple plot threads make its theme of love either incomprehensible or hard to take seriously. This thematic weakness (made worse by its casual use of Wave Motion guns that retroactively cheapen even 2199) is barely propped up by the spectacle and emotional scenes. The latter are few and far between and are achieved mainly due to the viewer's investment in characters from 2199 than any new developments.

The rating system here lacks the granularity to properly rate this show. It is still technically competent, and the spectacle is undeniably entertaining, at least initially, and if only for what it shows than any of its implications. Yet it fails so drastically in other areas that it is hard to give it a 6. On the other hand, a 4 feels too harsh since the show is still comprehensible and eventually gets its point across. Objectively, Warriors of Love is likely a 5.5 out of 10. Not due to its mediocrity but due to its fundamental problems in certain areas. Yet it still can keep a viewer invested through its initial hooks, unlike other shows that lose their audience. And even a frustrated viewer will still be inclined to stick around to the end, strung along by the action and the hopes of finally comprehending the motives and themes of Zworder. Sadly, with how the rating system is, Space Battleship Yamato 2202: Warriors of Love is far closer to a 5 with all its problems than a 6. I would still recommend this to fans of 2199, but only them. At the very least, it will present some good combat scenes and enough context to watch 2205, which will hopefully be better.

Space Battleship Yamato is a sci-fi classic, contemporaneous with other genre giants like Star Wars and Mobile Suit Gundam. This remake is a resounding success at capturing both the original's spirit and awe while improving it in many areas. While it is largely faithful to the original's story and characters, 2199 updates its more dated elements while fleshing out and adding to others. In many ways, this is what every remake, or perhaps more accurately reimagining, should strive for instead of just attempting to replicate the original exactly.

The core plot of Space Battleship Yamato remains timeless and as grand as ever. Faced with an alien ... threat, a lone ship and crew embark on a mission with the fate of earth resting in their hands. While perhaps a little trite in this modern era where the idea has been repeated ad nauseam in many works since then, 2199 demonstrates it still has the chops to retell its story without losing its lustre. The journey of Yamato is put on grand display with its modern animation and models. The visuals are nothing short of superb, with the ship to ship action being both intricate and spectacular. The reimagined designs of many of the ships strike a balance between their very retro shapes and a modern update to bring them more in line with what we conceive as the appearance of future technology today. At its heart, the new model of the Yamato is even more impressive than its previous incarnations, with many detailed additions like RCS thrusters and missile ports. Similarly, the crew uniforms have been updated to something more modern while keeping much of their original colourful design. The sound design and scoring is another incredibly done adaptation that balances the nostalgic and iconic sounds of the original opening with newer pieces. The weapon effects are crisp while the musical cues and stings remain fresh and evoke their intended emotion until the last episode. A particular highlight is the Galactic Pilot March which nicely fills in the role the Warship March had in the original version without the historical baggage attached to the latter song. It is astounding how the elegy variation of the march is so effective at evoking a sense of sorrow. All the music is employed effectively, and it serves to highlight the emotions in the scene or battle, bringing out the flair for the dramatic this classic space opera has.

Although sci-fiction has moved to prefer "harder" elements like more realistic space combat, 2199 recreates the original's charm of having its space combat be more akin to ordinary naval warfare. While it makes use of and shows combat taking place in three dimensions, many scenarios are callbacks that are more analogous to a naval battle of the past. Namely, the Battle of the Rainbow Star Cluster and Yamato's encounter with a submarine that hides in a parallel dimension when submerged. While it does gnaw at the suspension of disbelief slightly for a viewer that is more absorbed by the technical aspects or plausibility of Yamato, it more than makes up for it with the impressive spectacle and the understanding that these elements are intentional. In many ways, this entire series is a homage to naval warfare and the grand narratives that surround it. Knowing this, the remake expertly toes the line between its space combat being an analogy for the grand scale action of fleets in WWII and the associated disbelief that comes with translating it into space. The spectacle is always sufficient to earn enough goodwill with the audience to accept and understand the intent of the show instead of being hung up on the, at best, semi-Newtonian physics being presented.

Space Battleship Yamato impressively has the substance to back up its flashy appearance. Its grand plot about saving the earth in an interstellar conflict is grounded in themes about the price of war and the moral ramification of their actions. The most interesting element is Yamato's Wave Motion Gun, a spinally mounted superweapon with massive destructive capabilities. While the crew make use of this out of necessity, it is plain to see that they come to struggle with its implications. In essence, they know they have perverted a gift from their saviours, the Iscandarians, and utilised it as a weapon. At the same time, the Wave Motion Core is the means by which the Yamato is powered and is able to travel faster than light through warp. It is easy to see that Wave Motion technology is a metaphor for nuclear power or other destructive technologies. Yamato tackles this theme in a robust manner, combining it with examining the character's struggles at using the power they wield. The metaphor of the Wave Motion Gun is an excellent allegory in that it is distant and fanciful enough to not feel heavy-handed or oppressive in the way it explores its themes while also being an obvious parallel. It allows the show to still indulge in some of the spectacle relating to its technology without feeling like it is ever getting "too real" with the food for thought it is offering. Minor thematic aspects have also been tweaked to bring it more in line with the times. A particular highlight is the destruction of the Yukikaze in the opening scenes of the show. In the original, her Captain refuses to follow Admiral Okita's retreat out of the shame of defeat. While no doubt a somewhat authentic motivation at the time it was written in the 1970s, harking back to the idealised honour code of Japanese officers during the Pacific War, it feels too harsh or dogmatic for modern sensibilities. This has been reworked to the Yukikaze fighting on to cover the retreat of Okita as a sacrificial action. A much nobler and endearing quality to a modern viewer. All this demonstrates the expert adaptation of the original series, knowing what to bring over, what made these themes resonate, and how to adjust them if necessary.

The characters of Space Battleship Yamato are also accordingly fleshed out, with highlights being the XO Sanada and, surprisingly, the Gamilan people in general. Benefitting from an entire twenty six-episode season, 2199 has the time to dig into its characters and explore many of their histories and motivations in some more one-off episodes. At the same time, it keeps the plot relatively tight, with its central focus being on Yamato's attempts to get to Iscandar and their challenges. The more character-focused episodes always feel well integrated into the main plot as sort of interludes as they travel through space. 2199 delves much further into its characters than the original, exploring their backgrounds before the Gamilan War and how its experience shapes them. They never detract from the story's momentum or feel as if the Yamato is lacking urgency, which can be a danger in plots with a time-sensitive element. The show also integrates and experiments with some interesting storytelling methods with these episodes instead of just simply relying on flashbacks or character monologues/internal thoughts during a scenario. In particular, the episode focusing on Analyzer's interaction with Gamilan android and the Jirel Sisters' attack on the Yamato are particularly interesting. They reveal things about the characters using the metaphor of a story told over the ship's internal radio show or the dream-like psychic projections. It gives the characters some much-needed depth while also finding a way to interpret and integrate some of the original's more campy ideas and scenarios in a more modern form with some artistic flair.

A highlight of 2199's greater complexity and it being an evolution on the original Space Battleship Yamato is how it deals with the Gamilans. Compared to the original, where the Gamilans were very thinly portrayed as an entire civilisation built on warmongering, 2199 shows us the complexity of their society. They are now multi-species, a clever way to explain the original's early animation error that gave Gamilans beige skin for its first ten episodes. There are also competing factions of pacifists, reformers, and generally honourable members of the Gamilan military that the Yamato encounters instead of a monolithic fascistic block. Additional ambiguity is also offered when humanity's sins are brought to light, in addition to questions of their possible hypocrisy of employing wave motion weaponry. Sadly, this increased complexity does not benefit all characters, with Mori Yuki still seeming relatively flat compared to the development others received. It is still a step forward from how she was characterised in the original series, but she still finds herself being relegated to being a supporting love interest or a passive actor for much of the time. Perhaps this is more due to her character's background being an amnesiac, but it was nonetheless a bit disappointing. Similarly, Dessler is still quite one-dimensional as a villain, being an almost diabolically evil dictator. While this is nothing new and even somewhat fitting for a classic grand narrative, this lack of complexity in his motivations for his imperialism comes back to bite Space Battleship Yamato in its later stories, something the remake could have possibly pre-empted better. Despite this, the principal characters are still handled well, and the extensive cast never feels like too much of a burden on the story, with each member getting time according to their importance.

Of course, even with its face-lift and greater exploration of its characters, Space Battleship Yamato does retain some of its more dramatic and even operatic elements. After all, the original was more parts space opera than any kind of hard speculative fiction. While the remake dials down on the more melodramatic elements and a lot of what would be today considered as camp, it is still very much a core part of its identity. This means there are dramatic turns in the plot and a focus on character emotion as opposed to cold hard logic. While they can sometimes feel a bit like a deus ex machina, or being irrational from a detached viewer's perspective, that is part of the point and charm of the series. It is a space opera through and through, meant to have dramatic turns and climactic battles with what are, by modern standards, archetypical characters. Yamato is also never meant to be cerebral like other giants in sci-fiction such as Legend of the Galatic Heroes or Star Trek. The crew of the Yamato are first and foremost human, and it is in the show's spirit to show this emotional conflict instead of what might be more "realistic" of a military where everything is handled with dull professionalism. In fact, neither 2199 nor the original Yamato pretends to be some kind of hard sci-fi. It has always made its tone clear that it is more parts space fantasy and adventure than anything else. The premise itself of the original with the Yamato's hull being rebuilt into a space vessel is inherently stretching disbelief which should be a clear signal that this plot is a vehicle to tell a character story instead of a detailed hard sci-fi exploration. 2199 keeps the spirit of this by integrating that detail while aligning it more with more hard sci-fi expectations instead of attempting to over analyse and do away with it. While the space opera approach is fraught with its own separate issues, the original nor 2199 ever fall into those pit traps since they know what kind of narrative it wants to be. Attempting to pick apart the technical details (which, like most science fiction, is mostly technobabble anyway) or specific chronology misses the point. What is more important is that character motivations align with their actions and that there is an emotional core to the plot's conflict.

Overall, Space Battleship Yamato is an excellent reimagining of the series that carries on the original's spirit and then some. It is one of those timeless classic tales that is the epitome of what a space opera should be. It goes above and beyond the original to bring Space Battleship Yamato into the new century, balancing its more classic "old-fashioned" storytelling elements with a more modern take. 2199 is simply a must-watch for anyone interested in the genre to see one of the pillars of the more science fantasy side of the spectrum. Even if only to see why it is so influential.

Along with Space Battleship Yamato, which was always more parts space opera than military fiction anyway, Mobile Suit Gundam forms the foundation of both the military and real mecha genre in Anime. Despite its age, it is evident that MSG is an influential and compelling show, even to this day. Even then, it is hard to recommend it to anyone more due to it ageing in some less than ideal ways. This age makes it difficult to review since the groundbreaking elements of a late 70s anime are now to be expected or even subpar in some cases. At the same time, it must be ... acknowledged that this is due to MSG's influence having propelled the military and mecha genre to its current standards. On the other hand, some of its flaws have only become exacerbated and cannot be entirely written off due to MSG being a product of its time.

Sticking closer to a science fiction military conflict, MSG has an exceptional commitment, for the time, to portraying a war fought with plausible mecha equipment. While frankly a wildly impractical means of combat and showing an unrealistic level of durability, there is an undeniable charm and effort made to consider how mobile suits would be employed. Combined with some striking military detail, like the missiles fired in the opening episodes being wire-guided, it effectively sets the tone and expectations for the series, focusing on the grit and technology of the conflict. The dated 70s animation does hold this back quite a lot, lacking the ability to express complex battles while also not having much raw spectacle to draw in viewers. This made it difficult to watch at times but also unfair to hold against MSG since it was a serialised show from four decades ago. This tone and aim falters even more with the very unrealistic retro-futuristic style used for some vehicles, especially the almost comical way White Base deploys its armaments in exposed and extendable platforms. It is still an admirable attempt for what started as a children's television show but does feel a little hard to love.

The absence of any alien antagonist also reinforces this idea of an examination into human conflict. In forgoing the easy option of fighting a literally inhuman enemy, MSG opts to tell a tale about humanity and our relationship to war instead of using conflict as a cheap narrative vehicle to tell a black and white story. The real problems start to arise because this aim conflicts with the narrative decisions the show takes. MSG seems unable to decide if it wants to be a serialised, almost villain/battle of the week, style show or if it wants to concentrate on being a long-form narrative one. This is partly due to the constraints of late 70s television, but it is a severe detriment to the show. The episodes after White Base arrives on earth feel particularly meandering, with only a few of them doing any character building. Garma and Rambal Ral are interesting characters, but that is with the benefit of having seen Origin and the later additions to UC Gundam. With just what is provided in MSG, there is a distinct lack of depth and what is there is not explored anywhere near its full potential. This can be said about the entire conflict between the Earth Federation and Zeon in general, with any ideological motivation behind the conflict barely being examined. With the remainder of the story after they return to space being rushed, it is also plain to see that the reduction of MSG's original 50+ episode order significantly hurt it. However, the stagnating and meandering earlier portions also make it apparent that the episodes were not used efficiently.

A lot of MSG is bogged down in elements there were clearly made so that the show could ostensibly claim it was targeted at children or at least young teenagers. The elements of sometimes slapstick humour and the inclusion of the children on White Base beyond the point where it was reasonable creates this jarring contrast to the more sombre and dramatic moments in the show. Part of this can be attributed to the time it was made in and the limitations imposed on it by its sponsors, but it definitely detracts from the war drama that MSG is clearly striving to be. On the science fiction front, the concept of Newtypes, while frankly more parts science fantasy, is one of the more interesting elements of the show. This again is distinctly underdeveloped and detracts from the full realisation of the show's premise. The saving grace of MSG is probably its final episodes, where it starts to distil the elements that would make mobile suit combat so iconic. The one on one duels between exceptionally gifted pilots, the personal rivalry/antagonism, and finally, the massive space battles. While still conceptually strong with its military elements, it still ends up feeling halfbaked even after accounting for its age and production circumstance.

Sadly, the character elements of MSG fail to bolster its incomplete conceptual strengths. While many characters like Char, Amuro and Bright would become iconic, charming and fascinating characters, there is surprisingly little done with them in MSG itself. Char's position as this ideological third pole in the conflict is underdeveloped and barely brought up at times. Consequently, Sayla and her backstory with Char does not get very much development and feels like wasted potential. On the other hand, Amuro's character is never really delved into, not entirely falling into the reluctant warrior archetype nor the aspiring ace pilot. While there are interesting moments where there are inklings of his complexity, the show remains cognizant that he is a fifteen-year-old boy thrust into battle. The lack of dialogue, even eventually discussing his struggles at times, makes many of his actions feel more petulant than a severe reaction to war. Again, it is somewhat understandable given the show's target audience and serialised nature. However, this show of brooding anger and then failure to address or add depth to it with dialogue seems to plague most Gundam series moving forward. It leaves Armuro with seemingly little ideological motivation for combat and the more emotional aspects like his feelings about war and personal loyalty to the White Base crew underexplored or left entirely to inference.

On the other hand, Bright was a stand out character, acting as a paragon mentor who struggles to live up to his duties. His effective characterisation is likely due to him having a relatively flat character arc by nature, which is more suited to the narrative pacing of MSG. His interactions with Mirai and the moments of weakness where he deals with the consequences of his command are the most mature and stand out moments of MSG. It is also probably the clearest indication that the story MSG told was better suited to an older audience. Surprisingly, another well-done character was Kai, who managed to grow past his initial impressions. This was not quite a smooth transition, with two episodes highlighting his change before he faded into the background again. Yet, it was more than sufficient for a member of the supporting cast, and it was a pity that this treatment was not given to Hayato or Fraw. The most interesting character was perhaps Lalah, mostly because she was the main conduit that connects Amuro and Char as well as introducing the idea of Newtypes. However, she enters the narrative far too late to make a substantial impact on the show. Again, it goes to show how MSG's most interesting moments are in its latter half, yet that was sadly cut short.

Overall, Mobile Suit Gundam is undeniably an influential show and pushed the boundaries of what themes animation could cover. Despite some of its lacklustre character moments and extremely dated animation at times, it still stirred up plenty of emotions by the climactic and harrowing battle in the final episodes. It is more of a pity that the story could not be the war drama it clearly wants to be and would have excelled at. In particular, we never really dig down into the failings of the Earth Federation or the more ideological questions that come with an examination into war. Nor do we get the real depth of character that more personal war dramas live or die by.

If I were around in 1979 and old enough to watch MSG, I would have probably given it a 9. Maybe even a 10 if I had never seen the original Space Battleship Yamato. However, there are plenty of problems due to its constraints that drag the show down a lot. Things that even the benefit of age cannot smooth over. While I still think it is a strong 7 and even at times an 8, I cannot really recommend this to anyone who is not already a Gundam fan. There are times where it is hard to watch, and its age means that its successor series accomplish a lot of what MSG sets out to do in a more polished and developed form.

Tatami Galaxy: surreal, hilarious, visceral, eclectic, profound. It is the embodiment of magical realism; if Murakami and other contemporary classics of Japanese literature in the genre had their essences extracted and turned into an anime. In fact, this is no exaggeration since Tatami Galaxy was adapted from its original form as a campus novel. With snappy dialogue that brings the characters to life, witty narration that embodies the voice and tone of Tomohiko Mormi's writing, and charming visuals echoing traditional woodblock prints, Tatami Galaxy exudes style. One that succeeds in capturing the essence of uncertain youth and the student experience that is almost a preoccupation ... in Japanese life.

Although the theme of how to achieve an ideal student life is prevalent in anime, there is a strong reason for it. Being a student is one of the few ubiquitous and almost universal experiences in Japanese life, capturing the imagination or emotions of many. Remembered fondly as a more carefree time, one with untapped and nearly limitless potential, it is also a source of a great deal of uncertainty for those moving through it. There is a great deal of expectations built around the school experience, through no small part by the abundance of stories centred around school and campus life. Many of them paint unrealistic expectations, some as a means of vicarious wish fulfilment, others the unwitting products of its creators looking back with too much nostalgia. Tatami Galaxy in many ways questions and lampoons all of it with its absurd and whimsical take on the many possible paths in university. While it has sharp rhetoric, at times revealing the potentially hollow and ridiculous nature of many student pursuits through its parody, the story never strays into cynicism.

Tatami Galaxy achieves such a whimsical and surreal blend of an acerbic protagonist in an absurd world by keeping its roots as a novel. It understands that the visuals and sound serve to heighten the narrative as an atmospheric element instead of the core focus. The biting dialogue and monologues are still kept in balance by the exaggerated and sometimes abstract atmosphere. What we see on screen is not necessarily what is objectively occurring, unlike a multi or third-person perspective common in anime. For instance, Ozu is described as having the appearance of a tengu, but we know that is not literally true. Yet, he is animated differently, and his "real" appearance only comes through as the opinion of the protagonist shifts. It highlights that everything we are seeing is filtered through the lens of the protagonist, which also used to reinforce his monologues or juxtapose them for humour. Much of the writing is also kept to its novel roots, forgoing the usual anime style of dialogue. Most anime tends to focus heavily on colloquial but tonally exaggerated speech styles, something uncommon in novels since diction has to carry most of the voice. On the other hand, this allows novels to get away with more complex construction, of which a hallmark in Japanese literature is the use of the formal first-person singular: Watashi. It is a different kind of exaggeration that steers away from the "naturalistic" style to one with more linguistic flourish. While not necessarily superior, it provides an essential tonal frame for Tatami Galaxy and is the source of a lot of its wit and humour, keeping the shows framing close to that of a novel. The charm and atmosphere is derived from viewing things through the lens of their protagonist and hearing their scathing inner thoughts on the world, something novels as a medium excel at. All this combines to give Tatami Galaxy an exceedingly strong tone that alone can captivate viewers.

The premise and narrative of Tatami Galaxy is quintessentially Japanese magical realism. With the ambiguous appearance of a time loop as suggested by the visual of Kyoto University's clock that ends every episode, the narrative explores the different possibilities of university life. From this premise, the show draws much of its humour and themes with our protagonist quest for a socially fruitful university life. The different scenarios the protagonist finds himself in introducing us to more of the cast and getting ensnared in increasingly zany escapades. A sense of anticipation builds as the viewer recognises more elements and characters that remain constant in each iteration. It makes later scenarios even more amusing since the viewer remembers a different perspective of events or has information on characters the protagonist now lacks. The recurring cast and their predictable behaviour gradually gives us a subtle sense of interconnectedness that eventually culminates into a larger story. While the different timelines follow the same general plot structure, Tatami Galaxy never gets repetitive. Each of them has elements to distinguish themselves and make them uniquely entertaining. More importantly, they know when to abridge repeated sequences like his conversations with the fortune teller to avoid boring the viewer, leaving enough to maintain the established pattern.

With each new timeline, we begin to piece together more fixtures of the protagonist life that remains static regardless of his own actions. Although rewatching the earlier timelines would shed some light on certain events, the order they are presented in is very much intentional. Humourous and absurd elements aside, the repeated timelines build this sense of inevitability and immovability in some parts of our protagonist's life. Most obviously, he is stuck with Ozu and often runs into Akashi in various ways. While each scenario does highlight how his life could differ quite drastically, they are never radically changed. This mixes a competing idea that a person has only so much within their direct control and should attempt to make the best of it. Some scenarios are distinctly worse for the protagonist, like the universe where he joined the softball circle and, arguably, his entry into the Lucky Cat Chinese Restaurant. Even if the protagonist can avoid those particular disasters, there is no avoiding what is, for lack of a better word, fate. In this case, fate or destiny is not one specific scenario but a certain set of constants that give the protagonist unavoidable problems. Or if viewed from a different lens, opportunities and entertainment. Perhaps many scenarios are not pleasant experiences at the moment, but they do make interesting memories.

Tatami Galaxy leans towards the conclusion that you make do with what you have and try your best despite knowing that there never will be an ideal life. The hilarious misadventures of each timeline perfectly culminate in the surreal climax of the series. Even with muted, monochromatic colours, the visuals of the finale are haunting. The art propels an already mind-boggling and unnerving premise to genuine existential dread. Although strong throughout the story, the art style reaches its peak, conveying much more than words could achieve in this setting. There is only monologuing and variations in the same confined location, yet these are the story's most gripping moments. It dispels even a shadow of a doubt about whether they should have adapted the novel into an anime. It makes full use of the visual medium, adding to the narrative in ways words on a page cannot achieve while retaining the spirit and charm of the book. Even though the conclusion reached is simple and without substantial change in material circumstance, the internal revelations of the protagonist are incredibly potent.

Although there is a plot, the nature of the story with its different variations on the same scenario does not lend itself to being plot-driven. True to its campus novel roots, it is not plot but experience-driven. In that, it is not even necessarily focusing on a change in its characters but on what we see them go through and learn about them. Some might not get over the fact that there is no clear answer to which timeline, or more aptly, the universe our conclusion takes place in. Or perhaps it was all an internal delusion, and there was only one timeline. Is it really a reflection focusing on the possibilities that could have been? Or could it be more of a love story? Our protagonist coming to terms there is one person more important to him than any possible life he could have. This literary ambiguity is not for everyone. Some might be frustrated with the lack of absolute clarity, but this is to be expected from an adaptation of a novel and a core part of its surreal charm. If anything, how some elements of each timeline relate and connect indicate the novel's superb planning that alone could justify its existence. Maybe not as a traditional narrative but as an exercise or exploration into the structure and variations of stories.

Overall, Tatami Galaxy is one of those few shows that genuinely deserve the title of masterpiece, polished and profound. In a way, this feels a bit like cheating since it was adapted from a literary novel, an advantage few other anime have. It gives Madhouse an already robust story that tackled deeper themes in unique ways. And while the artwork, voice acting, and adaptation were extraordinary, they were already starting from a place of strength. Although they have vastly different aims, it is admittedly easier to score something aiming to be profound higher than something done chiefly for entertainment. Even with that bias working in the benefit of Tatami Galaxy with its complexity and literary trappings, it still undoubtedly earns its score. In particular, this show will resonate with anyone who has gone through or is currently in university despite the exaggerated world; Especially for me, with Kyoto U being a lot like my own alma mater.

Shirobako is, by its nature, a unique show. Not just due to its subject matter about making anime, but the questions the show poses its creators. Although the summary presents the show as a character-centric narrative, it is actually more premise and concept driven. While Aoi's is the primary perspective we follow, the focus is firmly on anime production and its challenges instead of an intimate character journey. The same problems and questions the characters in Shirobako are challenged by were also undoubtedly faced by P.A. Works to some extent. While the answer to the series more abstract question: why artists create, is not ... particularly complex, the metanarrative still makes it intriguing to think about. What elements of the anime industry do they celebrate, and what are they critical of? How in-depth do they go into the creation process? Even the choice of shows Musashino Animations makes within Shirobako reflect some element of the writer's outlook. All of this goes beyond the usual ideas of authorial intent since this show draws attention to questions about its construction that other anime do not.

It is interesting to look into the background of the director and producers of the show, being industry veterans. Their experience and understanding bleeds into the show, allowing it to exude the feeling of authenticity, for lack of a better term. Like almost every other anime, Shirobako is some level of heightened and idealised reality. Despite that, the show can successfully convince the viewer that what happens on screen are struggles faced by animation and production staff. Not just on an intuitive level where the problems that arise seem logical, but on an emotional level, to the point where it resonates with anyone who has attempted a creative endeavour before. By extension, the compelling portrayal of anime production helps to support the wide cast of characters. We empathise with everyone in Musashino Animation because we are made to understand the challenges of making anime. This approach to anchor the narrative is the opposite of most shows which rely on compelling characters to invest viewers in the premise or plot. The framing and focus all confirm that the core of Shirobako is in its premise, with characters being essentially a supporting element.

The characters in Shirobako are numerous, and beyond recognising their appearance and roles in the company, it is hard to remember many of their names without putting in some effort. Although there are visual reminders with their names and positions being flashed on screen, a la Legend of the Galactic Heroes, none of it really sinks in until well into the series. While this would be detrimental for a character-driven narrative, this actually adds to Shirobako's style. It captures what it's like to be a new employee or in a company, only recognising people by their roles for some time while also highlight the sheer amount of people required to produce animation. As a result, we never feel that Musashino Animation exists solely for the viewer's or narrative's benefit. Through opening midway in production just as Musani airs their latest work, the series introduction provides an organic entry point and perspective to this world. It avoids any excessive background and dives headlong into the immediate crunch faced by Aoi and the rest of the Musani team. While this is mildly challenging to follow, it succeeds at creating a cheery but tense atmosphere that draws the viewer in. We get the feeling that Musani has existed long before Aoi joined and will continue making more shows even after the series closes. All this culminates in creating an incredibly compelling and believable narrative and setting clearly based on real experiences.

With a wide cast of characters, it's understandable that many of their personalities have some degree of exaggeration; Both for entertainment and better distinguish them. While the core cast is endearing and compelling, they all have distinctly less depth than most anime that focuses on real-life topics. More than anything, the cast serves the purpose of exploring anime production. The show is not afraid to write characters out midway to add to its atmosphere of working in an industry with high turnover. While this understanding becomes quickly apparent, the show's opening undermines this by initially framing Shirobako as a story following five friends as they enter the anime industry. Ultimately, this point barely factors in until the second half of the season, and even then is not a vital part of the show's emotional core. One possibility is that this is a residual plot threat from the show's initial conceptualisation that made it through. What makes this speculation more interesting is that Shirobako draws attention to itself as a constructed narrative. It writes the characters in Musani creating a story that evolves as they progress. While this narrative within a narrative makes everything Shirobako presents doubly interesting, the opening's focus on Aoi and her friends does not do any favours in conveying what kind of show it intends to be.

While most shows would aim to create an immersive narrative, with the goal of creating a complete suspension of disbelief in the moment, Shirobako toes a fine line. For instance, the unrealistic frantic driving scenes, full of air time and drifting, are references and homage to Initial D. Similarly, there are military references peppered throughout the first half of the season, culminating in Musani taking on a project involving military aircraft. When you consider the Shirobako's director also directed Girls Und Panzer, it seems hardly surprising. While all this is clearly a bit indulgent, it also strangely supports the show on another level since it reinforces the idea that Shirobako was made by people who love and understand their field of work enough to put in these references. It gives the show a self-aware, meta-referential quality that runs parallel to its own internal narrative. While a lesser production would probably bungle that, Shirobako seems to balance the two effortlessly. Amazingly, it invests the viewer in the characters' struggles while also keeping them aware that all elements within it are intentional creative decisions.

Although definitely an idealisation of what it is like to work in the animation industry, it still asks you to consider why it chooses to polish out or leave in the roughness of specific areas. Shirobako consistently paints working at Musani as demanding and unpredictable. All the characters are run ragged throughout the series and late nights are ubiquitous. Though part of this is Japanese work culture in general, they show the animation industry to be particularly frantic, cutting close to deadlines despite their best efforts. Yet despite all this, all the characters come to a positive conclusion about their work: that it is fulfilling and challenges them to grow. Of course, this is to be expected since it would be somewhat contradictory to make a bleak narrative about this subject. Even then, they never question the value of their work or its merits, merely the toll it takes to produce it, a refreshing secure perspective that does not feel the need to excessively justify its existence. They know that their work entertains and makes people happy, and that's enough most of the time. It also shows the difficulty of breaking through as a voice actor and the pressure on newer actors. A testament to the skill of VAs, who at times are playing a character who is voice acting a character, it makes you think about what kind of emotions the real VAs must be feeling. They definitely experienced the same struggles and may be feeling it as they performed since all those close to home roles are fairly minor members of the supporting cast. All these elements are effective at engendering sympathy for not just the characters but the real-life creators as well, tying together the two parallel layers of the show.

Despite these strengths, they feel almost academic at times, which creates a feeling of distance from the character narrative. Even though the internal story is compelling and certainly above average, the struggles and growth of the characters lack the emotional punch to really make Shirobako outstanding. Part of this is the choice of plot in the series, covering the production of two shows as its focus instead of following a specific character journey. While this gives clear plot goals and an intuitive opening and closing to the series, this is not well integrated as a personal narrative. It might have been better to compress the first twelve episodes into as few as four to serve as an opening act, a taster to set the atmosphere, introduce the cast, and establish the start of their arcs. This could have been followed up by expanding on the second half of the season, having the girls cross paths to fulfil their character motivated goals. In particular, the current narrative feels like it sidelines Shizuka specifically since she never gets the breakthrough the other characters do. While probably realistic and adding to the show's visceral atmosphere, it is also not very narratively satisfying to have her come in only at the last moment. This approach would create a stronger emotional throughline and journey while preserving a lot of the series's charm, allowing it to achieve the best of both worlds.

However, their current distribution is also entirely understandable since it allows them to explore the differences between creating an original work and an adaptation. In the end, the lack of a deeper exploration into characters is missed potential instead of a flaw. The current cast are all endearing and captivating in their current iterations, no easy feat with such a large number of characters, but fall short of truly dynamic characters. As the show attempts to explore their motivations, it stops after a surface-level glance, largely concluding they do it for passion. While this is perfectly fine, and in a way accurate since many creatives are motivated by feelings that are hard to precisely articulate, it also feels lacking. The absence of major pushback in questioning the drive of the team prevents a deeper level of characterisation since the main obstacles to them mostly become external. There are some internal struggles but they mostly deal with self-doubt in their abilities than in their goals. Of course, this is a bit unfair to Shirobako since its tone and narrative focus does not lend itself to a deep character struggle. Yet its lack of bite in this area leaves it feeling incomplete, not quite surpassing its trappings of a feel-good show with an interesting premise to strike an excellent balance that would make it outstanding.

In the end, Shirobako's focus lies in showcasing how anime is produced and does so with a rare authenticity in its tone. It succeeds tremendously, creating not just an entertaining show but one that makes viewers ponder more about the media they consume and how they treat or view its makers. Personally, it made me appreciate the unique structure and quality KyoAni has even more. Despite the fascinating subject matter and how undeniably effective it is at managing its different layers, Shirobako is still part character journey. With the depth of their characters and exploration into them feeling lacking, it is hard to give it a 10 out of 10. Even then, this is one of the few shows that everyone should watch since its subject directly relates to all anime, regardless of their preferred genres.