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Gege Akutami's manga Jujutsu Kaisen is deranged, taking after Attack on Titan's grotesquerie and Hunter x Hunter's horror movie aesthetics. Thankfully, Gege was inspired by Togashi's creativity for supernatural abilities as well, leading to Jujutsu Kaisen being the most ambitious and engaging shonen action series of its decade. This season renders these fights exhilaratingly, with greater clarity and intensity than the manga. Director Shota Goshozono and his staff do the complete opposite of merely animating the panels (during one fight there are regular cuts to a moving POV shot) while also, even more impressively, avoiding the share-ready showboating that plagues many big anime productions. These ... battles are thrilling episodes of danger and kinetics, not fourth wall breaking animation showcases to be appreciated out of context. They are tense, violent and frightening; one gasps at the characters' feats of impossible strength as if seeing them in real life. That immersive spirit is precious, now as ever.

Equally importantly, someone on the staff for this second season has a bigger heart than Gege, which shows most in the first few episodes that depict the backstory of Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. A montage of a beach time hangout, a strikingly grounded moral argument over a game of basketball, and an infectiously innocent, sweet portrayal of Riko Amanai handily elevate the flashback above the manga's depiction, but the killer is the opening and ending for this stretch of episodes both being rendered as though Geto and Gojo are the two best-friend main characters of a 50 episode adventure series. It's a stunning, sentimental gesture. The series does eventually drown in its own nonstop combat, but even that brings more poignancy to a lovely early episode where Kugisaki and Fushiguro plot to get Itadori a date with an old classmate who crushes on him (Itadori and Kugisaki even bicker at length about a new horror movie!). Beauty is all the more beautiful when it seems so far away.

Throughout Kaiji, Fukumoto submerges the audience in the subjective experiences of individuals going through extreme suffering. He does this not for the sake of a detached notion of "psychology", but rather to induce an edifying empathic response. These are mythical stories, tapestries of human life, suffering and the inextricability of the two from each other. The famed, repetitive sequences in which we enter into someone's (usually Kaiji's) thoughts and are barraged by wavy lines, screaming, neurotic thinking and visual metaphors involving death, not only dramatize our (contemporary) suffering but link it to eternity. Fukumoto relates all to all: we see Job in the characters and ... we see ourselves in them too.

However, Fukumoto tends to spin such a yarn out of the intellectual battles that Kaiji ends up in that readers are left conflicted. Half sharing in the agony of Kaiji's psychosis, half delighted by Fukumoto's witty plot twists. Part 4 of Kaiji makes the solemnity and universality of the story more apparent and inescapable (even oppressive) than in past arcs. This is apparent in the gruesomeness of its main "game". The meat of the story is nail biting but it is too obviously disturbing to be entertaining. A life or death mahjong game does not force you to consider its lethal consequences at every moment, but the "Salvation Game" of Part 4 is disturbing in its very visual construction. It is not only this factor that makes Kaiji Part 4 so grave, however.

Part 3 is mostly magnificent and jubilant, but undercuts itself more often as it goes on, and Kaiji begins to truly panic. Most potently, the victory that Kaiji eventually achieves becomes slightly underwhelming because Fukumoto highlights the randomness of it all. Kaiji didn't "deserve to win", and he barely escaped being cut into pieces. When the psychopathic villain Muraoka is defeated and Kaiji is not only spared but given millions of dollars, Kaiji expresses ambivalence rather than joy. It isn't just that he doesn't seem that happy about the money. He also begins to feel sympathy for Muraoka, who, while writhing around on the floor out of madness and agony after losing, has wet his underwear.

Part 4, then, picks up right where Part 3 left off both narratively and thematically. Fukumoto shifts Kaiji into the background for the entire Part and dramatizes the inner lives of the chillingly cruel villain Kazuya, and three new characters, Mario, Chang, and Mitsuyama. The former is a revelation: through Kazuya's deranged, vulnerable speeches detailing his sympathetic but evil ideology, Fukumoto makes the Dostoevsky influence present in his depiction of inner monologues extend also to long, emotionally charged discussions of what is essentially theology. While Kazuya talks about his belief that human nature is unchangeably completely evil, like a great Dostoevsky speech, revulsion at his hatefulness and incorrectness take a back seat to compassion and partial understanding. Fukumoto gives him the floor, and Kazuya expresses his thoughts so vulnerably and fully that the reluctant Kaiji feels it; he is unable to completely refute Kazuya, not only because Kazuya is a better rhetorician, but also because Kaiji knows he's onto something. He does not merely see a twisted logic in Kazuya's explanation. Kaiji empathizes with the suffering, and ultimately the cynicism, that Kazuya expresses. To see yourself in someone you despise is true connection, and to depict that as an artist, particularly in a genre that thrives on treating opponents as less than human, is true boldness. That Kaiji continues to disagree with Kazuya despite feeling the sincerity of his longing for understanding and mutual honesty is what makes it work. It's the difference between a work that evokes the universality of human experience and a nihilist polemic.

One may imagine that the time spent with the new characters, three incredibly poor and incredibly close friends, must be less moving than that time spent with Kazuya. After all, Kazuya's perspective as someone born into immense wealth is one we have not seen before in the series, whereas Kaiji himself is, like these three friends, poor, caring and sentimental. But expanding the focus beyond Kaiji and people he knows makes it clear that the mythical aspects of the manga serve its empathic purpose, rather than the other way around. If this had been a manga about immortalizing the struggles of Kaiji alone, then the empathy shown towards Kaiji (or even his "equals" like Kazuya, who he gambles against) would be tools that aide the depiction of some sort of battle of the gods. Fukumoto, thankfully not a tedious writer, does the opposite, and places the audience so totally in the experience of Mario that it is as though he was the main character. As he once related the reader, Kaiji and the history of man's suffering, Fukumoto now links Mario to Kaiji, and Kaiji to Kazuya. The particulars of life and suffering are not limited to rich or poor, Japanese or foreigner nor to major characters or minor. It's immensely rewarding because Mario's life is not only so similar to Kaiji's but also so different from Kaiji's, as revealed through numerous evocative details of backstory and inner monologue. His childhood of working long hours in the heat, scavenging through garbage to make the equivalent of one US dollar a day is too moving to be reducible to a thematic purpose. As is his love/hate relationship with his spirited, generous, happy Christian brother, whom Mario describes as "the weird one" when compared to the countless men in their environment who, under such cruel conditions, simply gave up. In one mind blowing moment, Kaiji even seems less virtuous than Mario! Had the notion of universal experience been (over)emphasized to the point that the specifics of individuals' selves and lives were overlooked, the manga would be no less tedious than those aforementioned stories which seem to assert most people as backgrounds for the all important duel between protagonist and antagonist.

Though it is in many ways a tangibly sickening, cynical work, Kaiji Part 4 is not unsettling. We all know we suffer unbearably. Fukumoto responds by pointing out that everyone else suffers just as much. It's as much a comfort as it is a challenge.

This review contains spoilers.

After the disparaging, somewhat despicable TV series wasted Anno's talents on telling millions of viewers to give up on life and embrace their deepest pain as being their entire entity, the wishywashy auteur returned to make an actual work of art and clarify his message. He succeeded! End of Evangelion respectably reshapes the narrative and message of the original series into something that at the very least attempts to give meaning to the suffering that got us here. The film not only validates the premise of the original series, it is also a shockingly powerful work of art in its own ... right. Anno's originality and bravery pays off, with more actually great images and restraint than is present in the entirety of the TV series. He even finally lands the dissonant music aesthetic, in one particularly concentrated hit of cinematic horror that I won't soon be forgetting. And yet, End of Evangelion is still far from a great film. There are two main reasons for this: its nature as a sequel to the original Evangelion, and Tsurumaki's involvement with the first half.

The connection to Neon Genesis Evangelion is an unfortunate albatross that End of Eva is unable to shake. Since the characters and build up are all contained in the original series, this film cannot be watched without having seen that series. This is a chore in and of itself, since I would never endeavor to tell anyone to watch that show ever again. Additionally, because it is part of the same artistic project, the tone and main themes have already been established. Since Neon Genesis was the least inspired, least creative and compassionate thing Anno had ever made, a work whose environment and cast of characters is hostile towards even glimpses of tenderness, End of Evangelion was set from the beginning to be similarly sterile and just as unnerving.

These characters, in my opinion, are simply not human or 3 dimensional in any way at all. Seeing as this film was made relatively quickly after the end of the original series, it makes sense that Anno was not able to reconstruct these aestheticized dolls into humans quite yet (though eventually he does do that) Because of this, he doesn't even try to have them connect to one another. For the entire section of the film Anno directed, there is hardly what I would call a vulnerable moment, with one debatable exception. This is a solid strategy, as having uncomfortably fake scenes that intend to be sensitive and emotional is far worse than just not having them at all. Instead, Anno chooses to express ideas and feelings through the synthesis of image and sound, as well as through language. In this way, the film is triumph. Existential dread, lust, death, mercy, psychological confusion and loneliness are at the very least memorably captured in impressionistic sequences of pure cinema. While I am impressed by these sequences, the film is so fractured in its structure that some of them, including the legendary ending, come off as equal parts brilliant and random. Anno's best work (and great art in general), reaches the heart and soul deeper than the senses and the brain.

This coldness is emphasized massively in the first half of the film, which was directed by Tsurumaki Kazuya. Tsurumaki is a disciple of Anno and one that was not at all ready to handle a project of this size. His section of the film is no better than the TV series on which it is based, filled with nonsensical character beats that lack any weight or tone, as it speeds through all the relevant plot information as fast as possible so it can get to the part that actually has something to say as soon as possible. But because this is a sequel to a "mecha show", it needs to have a "mech fight", so they throw in a gratuitous, violent fight scene where Asuka fights nameless, faceless monsters and has a nervous breakdown of sorts disguised as an epiphany in the process. This scene is terrible not only because it serves as filler, condecending the audience with flashy action like a mobile in a baby's crib, but also because of how it tosses the character of Asuka around like a ragdoll, showing her no compassion as it plays with her feelings mercilessly. The iconic opening scene in which she is objectified and sexualized by both the protagonist and the film for the sake of mindless self indulgence makes her treatment later in the film even more objectionable. That the animators attempt to make this disturbed, pointless action scene look "badass", while making sure to overanimate as many details as possible for extra brownie points on their resume, is the cherry on top.

The other cast members fare no better in this misguided first half. Ritsuko, Rei, Gendo and Misato are treated just as poorly as they were in the original series, but because this is an ending they are also now allowed to be unceremoniously killed off. Whether this was to tie off loose ends or just because the staff is sick in the head is up to interpretation, either way it isn't art and more importantly it isn't good. The transparency in regards to how little this film cares about these characters places great emphasis on Shinji as the one and only character who matters. This makes sense considering the content of Anno's flawed but brilliant second half but is still disheartening. Making Shinji the focal point of the entire film and essentially the universe is not only creepily inhumane towards his peers and loved ones, but also trivializes his experiences and feelings by turning him into an all important monomyth character. For all the talk about Shinji's cowardice, End of Evangelion reveals what Shinji always was: a superhero, no more complex than Naruto and no less idealized than Zeus and Poseidon.

End of Evangelion is a valiant effort to salvage a terrible situation that reaps some moderate results. The film's lows are low, simultaneously banal, creepy and disturbing. Even its best scenes retain a certain shiver, which is ultimately part of the overall work's charm but serves as a detriment when nothing actively jaw dropping is happening. Had Anno directed the entire thing with no restrictions and no Tsurumaki, I don't think it'd ever be anything close to a personal favorite. Still, there are pieces of a great film here and I could not take away from Anno his endless creativity when it comes to endings.

A decade ago, Jacob Chapman made the case that the fatal flaw of Neon Genesis Evangelion was its existentialist thesis, one that assumed the sustainability of "creating one's own personal universe" within its premise. To me, this critique got to the heart of the show better than any other that I had heard, and I retain that it is true. Now, however, I see so much more to dislike that the existential angle seems like just the outer shell of what is a truly rotten core.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is a classic example of a common fallacy, the projection of "humanism" at the expense of having ... any compassion for the individual. For all the series' musings about how you need to live, laugh and love, nothing here seems to suggest that the actual characters at the center of the story matter to the creators. "Emotional moments" seem jerry rigged to endear the audience to the characters and series by appealing to relatable struggles and classical melodrama (orphans, unrequited love, the betrayal of a friend), in the end all this does is prove that the characters themselves are nothing more than dolls for the series to play with. Shinji can do and say whatever the narrative of the show demands because he's not unlike Luke Skywalker or Harry Potter at heart, a faceless cypher for the audience that can be thrown into the depths of despair, bravery, rage, insecurity or compassion for the sake of a point. This is no less true of its objectified bunch of young women, who play as whatever their anime stereotype is combined with objectifying sexualization and a couple of one note clandestine desires that make the series appear "psychological" without it having to actually care about any of the characters.

It would be glib to suggest that a work can't preach a message of love and compassion while also having what I perceive to be flat characters, and I can't deny that evaluating the sincerity, believability and humanity by which a character is portrayed in a story is far from an exact science, but when this same work is also built around romanticizing the idea of all humanity returning to an amorphous collective consciousness, those flat characters begin to appear more suspicious in their intentions. Are Shinji, Asuka, Rei, Misato and Gendo husks because Anno and his team are bad writers, or because the message of the show, from the beginning, was to downplay individuality and act as an ode to giving up? Since I am a fan of Anno's, I would hope he would never intend the latter, and yet as a fan of his I also know for certain that its not the former. The show's belief in, nay, insistence on conformity and the death of the self (not for the sake of spreading love and kindness at the expense of one's own comfort but rather to serve a nebulous idea of "the greater good", which in this show's eyes is something like everyone in the world dying) contrasted with its disingenuous appearance as a "compassionate character study" is the essential problem in my eyes.

To even discuss the individual elements of form at play here may seem fruitless when considering the ideological mischief at the heart of the work, but understanding those component parts is a step towards understanding the how, what and why of the final product. Hideaki Anno is, relatively, a master of composition, texture and color. It would be hard, even, to find a television anime from this time period that equals the wealth of creative and detailed designs, appealing colors and fluid animation that is contained in Neon Genesis Evangelion. It's not as if these memorable images contain any pathos or expression of worth, mind you. Form isn't inherently artistic, and that is vividly expressed here in violent, precisely composed action scenes that serve no actual purpose in the narrative and suffer from a complete lack of humanity or kineticism. Some moments could be seen as tense, which I suppose is a compliment but exaggerated tension in a vacuum is a brief, insubstantial "pleasure", not unlike a cigarette except duller and more uncomfortable. The Hideaki Anno that crafted the wonderful, restrained mech battle at the end of Gunbuster episode 5 is nowhere to be seen here, a show where nearly every episode has a fight and not a single one is pleasant. "Horrific" could certainly describe a few of them, I won't deny the memorable terror of seeing a 14 year old boy stab a monster with a knife and scream bloody murder while doing it, but since that doesn't build to anything it isn't worth much. My point is not to undermine every aesthetic accomplishment Anno and his team managed with Evangelion, but rather to explain why I believe even those aspects are ultimately footnotes in what becomes the lingering memory and impact of the overall series. From my point of view, these action scenes serve to unnerve the audience, emphasize certain imagery, occasionally continue the characterization and pad out the episodes so they don't feel completely empty. Adept technique in service of insidious ends is only worth as much as those ends, and if there's a hint of showboating or glamor in that (as I very much suspect is present with the opulent, masturbatory action sequences in Evangelion), then it is even worse.

The music in Evangelion is far less superficially impressive than the way the show looks, though it has somehow maintained a hypnotic grip on the culture regardless. Atypically for Gainax, Neon Genesis Evangelion's score is made up of entirely forgettable tunes that do a decent job of convincing the viewer that what they're watching is anything other than a thin veil of color, geometry and sexualization intended to distract them from the real message lying just beneath. The show's opening and ending theme songs pretend to be worthy of note but are only so because of a few mysterious properties. The show's opening, A Cruel Angel's Thesis, is a generic, somewhat tonedeaf popsong played over some undeniably interesting rapid cut images that explain quite a bit of the show if you pay enough attention. As you likely already know, this song has managed to become incredibly popular despite not sounding that unique, and to be frank, this spell is not lost on me. I know every single word sung over the course of the 90 second sequence played at the beginning of each episode of Neon Genesis Evangelion, and I honestly don't know why that is. I've never particularly liked this show, nor the opening, even during times where I had a lot more respect for its construction. There are quite literally hundreds of anime openings I like more, from shows I like more, that I've listened to more times and more recently. Thus, I will give credit where it is due. It's a catchy song. As is "Fly Me To The Moon", the iconic ending theme which sticks out far more than the opening and yet is also a magic trick. It's a slow song, it's a famous song, it's in English, it's set to a somewhat striking, odd visual, and the lyrics are vaguely dramatic sounding. All of these surface level elements distract from it not really being a good ED at all. It's not particularly emotional, nor fitting for the series, nor are the lyrics or visuals meaningful or profound in really any way. Just like the opening and the fight scenes, it's memorable and shows clear competence of form, but in service of nothing.

"Memorable and competent but fundamentally illusory" is an apt descriptor for everything about Neon Genesis Evangelion that doesn't involve mankind's collective, unconscious return to the original ancestor. If there is any meaning to the inherent strange artifice of this series, of action scenes that look cool and frightening but evoke nothing, of characters who cry and hurt but have no souls, of music that affects importance but carries no weight, it is that it serves to disconnect the audience from their humanity enough to make the "medicine" of the show's ultimate theme go down easier. If the uncomfortability caused by the contrast between ostensible quality and internal darkness was intentional on the part of the staff, they would certainly be malevolent geniuses of some kind, yet I think its more realistic to say that goodness cannot be truly faked in the pursuit of ill begotten gains.

To say that a team of artists and their production committee decided to create what was, at the time, a completely one of a kind TV anime, only for the purpose of manipulating their audience into caring enough about the show that it can tenderly encourage them to give up on life at the end, would be a bit grim and unrealistic. Yet it would certainly be no more unrealistic than saying that the same effort (and capital) was put into sincerely helping an artist realize his selfless, sensitive vision of a new kind of mecha anime. The truth is most likely somewhere in between, as the series' messiness and uneven writing speaks to some kind of honest production cycle, while Anno's references to Godzilla and Mobile Suit Gundam reflect what we know to be his interests. I am aware as well that Anno has struggled with depression in his life, and that those struggles are very likely an inspiration on the characters and themes explored in the show. I am also aware that what I perceive to be callous and impersonal characterization is very common in anime (and art in general), even in other works by Anno, so it is just as fair to say that the depiction of characters in Evangelion was simply an aspect of the show that I feel does not work and was made with not particularly out of the ordinary warped intentions. On the contrary, however, studio Gainax seems to consistently advocate for the themes I find to be particularly heinous in Evangelion, those being conformity and misanthropy. It is also a bit unbelievable to me that so much money and marketing would be put into something that is actually bleedingly loving, heartfelt art, as many fans may see this series. Based on this information, I would conclude that the final product is a blend of the actual interests of its creators, the subconscious desires and biases of those creators, formal showboating, attempts to appeal to a popular audience, and fully self aware propaganda.

The core issue here, of emptiness disguised as understanding, is typified in the series' contrast to Mobile Suit Gundam. Tomino's original treatise against war made powerful use of its mechanical imagery. On the inside of cold, unfeeling husks called "mobile suits" were fragile, precious human beings. Amuro's virtues, flaws, pain and triumph were contrasted against one another to create a holistic portrait of a life, which then emphasized the anti-warmth shell which he inhabited. The whole environment was made to be unfit to sustain the sensitivity of what we see, and Tomino makes that clear immediately and constantly. There is no reason that Anno should make the same series that Tomino did, in fact that would be bad in its own right, but the choice to make the mechs biomechanical and the environment so nondescript reveals the intentions of this project. The humanity of the characters isn't contrasted with the inhumanity of the machines or the violence because, in the eyes of this show, they are one and the same.

Kazuya Tsurumaki doesn't have the pedigree to properly explain the supposed greatness of his consensus masterpiece Fooly Cooly. The parts of Kare Kano which he directed are infamously mediocre, his half of End of Evangelion is far less special and emotional than Anno's, Diebuster is always dull and sometimes worse, and who even remembers Dragon Dentist? I revered Fooly Cooly for many years for its density of ideas, creative animation and endearing soundtrack. It is becoming clear to me now, though, that although it is Tsurumaki's best work by far (until 4.0 baby, fingers crossed!!!!), it is not as big of a jump from the ... rest of his career as I had thought.

FLCL is famous for its experimental and humorous shifts in visual style, and that is done skillfully to an extent. The opening episode, with its slow-mo 360 camera moves, moving manga sequence and fluid mecha battle scene, is the best showcase of this visual insanity. There is an aspect to which Tsurumaki is using this kookiness to hide not being as competent at visual pacing and storytelling as his teacher Hideaki Anno, but that is not debilitating. The help of experienced director Masahiko Otsuka, who directed episodes 1, 4 and 6 is a big reason for the style being able to work, though. If all 6 episodes had been as weightless as episodes 2 and 5, the show would have soon been forgotten. In fact, in my mind, episodes 1, 4 and 6 have pretty much always been the reason to actually watch Fooly Cooly as an adult, as opposed to just reading about it on the internet or something. Those episodes have the most striking imagery, sure, but more importantly they have pathos on top of backbone. None of the episodes are wacky nonsense, but those three don't even feel like wacky nonsense. They feel like controlled, exciting nonsense, and Naota's emotional development in those episodes is atypically vivid for this show's standards, with clearer beats and structures than the other three episodes.

Everyone knows FLCL is a coming-of-age story but how many ask themselves if it's an especially good one? Naota is a decently human protagonist, more understated than Shinji, but he's so sedate he borders on unremarkable. At least half the episodes move forward with so little stability or weight that its difficult to be affected by what's going on without multiple watches, and even then it's more intellectual acknowledgement of a linear narrative than anything else. It's not as if his maturation is especially moving, comparing his bold declaration of self in Episode 5 to a similar scene in Gunbuster Episode 4 makes that pretty clear. The metaphors in the series for different aspects of puberty are also too materialistic and literal to be profound. A dull horn appears on Naota's head, representing an erection and, as far as I can tell, nothing else. It serves only to disconnect from Naota's actual feelings, not express them. The same is true for glasses without lenses, bubbly soft drinks, and bushy, removal eyebrows. These qualities are so blatantly metaphorical that it's difficult to take them as narrative (perhaps that's my fault for watching and studying the show so much when I was younger), but not especially meaningful in a nonliteral context.

It would be dishonest to say FLCL's metaphors don't serve any genuine artistic purpose, because I can think of three. Firstly, some of them simply are traditionally effective. One particular character burns down buildings with borderline subconscious pent up rage. It's absurdism with emotional history, which combines action, character and feeling. Another important purpose that the metaphors serve is that of tone-setting. The iconic opening scene, in which Naota's peaceful relaxation (which he hates) is interrupted by Haruhara Haruko smacking him in the face with a guitar, would simply not be the same if Naota realistically fell to the ground in pain and was then taken to the hospital. Absurdity is still one of FLCL's greatest strengths, especially on a first or second watch, and I wouldn't take that away from it.

Unfortunately, the third purpose that these metaphors serve is not a good one. This is a personal philosophical point, but then again so are all of these. It becomes increasingly obvious to me as I get older that FLCL quite strongly resembles conformist propaganda. Left-handedness, historically the sign of a black sheep by virtue of being far rarer than its starboard equivalent, is shockingly a symbol in FLCL for essentially being "one of the bad ones". Haruko and Naota's big brother, Tasuku, are the two left handed characters, and both are shown by the narrative to be "incorrect" in how they live their lives. Haruko by the series' ending, though I won't spoil that here, and Tasuku by his adultery and his choosing to leave Japan to go to America, which of course is a sin in the eyes of this nationalist construction. That the only image we ever get of Tasuku is a truly bad vibes polaroid of him with his new girlfriend is twisting the knife, I suppose. Once you notice it, the anti-rebellious (or anti individualistic?) mentality of FLCL becomes laughable, as if it was directed by a parody of a religious father from the 1960s. Motorcycles? Guitars? America? Sports? Get those things out of here! Stop chasing cool girls you actually like and get married to your modest, wealthy classmate that you hardly know.

This aspect becomes even more insidious when you place it in the context of the show's legendary rock-and-roll soundtrack. The soundtrack, performed by the Pillows, is of course very good in the realm of anime, though many of the tracks blend together to an extent, and they definitely don't improve the songs they take inspiration from (listen to Don't Look Back in Anger and then go back to One Life and weep at the Pillows comparative inadequacy.) Still, many of the best vibes in the series owe much to the Pillows, and even the most impressive action scenes are only able to have such rhythm because they're timed to the music. The problem is not the music itself, or how it's used, but that it's included at all in this show. By promoting the series with (dorky) punk iconography and ostensibly stylish rock and roll tunes, Tsurumaki and his team are attempting to rope in particularly rebellious kids, as they are the targets of the propaganda message of FLCL. The irony of this being that The Pillows are hardly edgy at all. Their earlier albums were thornier, but the soundtrack for FLCL basically sounds like the Beatles with some added, surface level, flair. I don't think anyone in 2000, or 2020, thinks listening to the Beatles, or Oasis, is in any way punk or rebellious. The fact that the music, the element that was intended to grab the punk crowd, ends up being dressed up Dad music is the real kicker here.

I must admit I am personally saddened by the bait and switch of this seemingly fun, creative anime which reveals itself to be a trap to encourage nothing especially good, as if they intend to flatten the Japanese youth's spirit with Medical Mechanica's iron. I may be looking too deep into things but if these themes are not intentional then the show is gibberish, as I've never heard interpretations that say much different, they only phrase it in a nicer way. These conformist themes are also very in line with Neon Genesis Evangelion and Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, there's historical precedent for it. It's disappointing that so much effort and artistry went into something so negative, but then again that is the history of cinema and animation in a nutshell.

Innovative mangaka Mitsuteru Yokoyama used his talents mischievously, but his inspiration was not in vain. Director Yasuhiro Imagawa and his team, intentionally or not, breathed new life into Yokoyama's oeuvre with Giant Robo: The Day the Earth Stood Still. Formally and morally, no greater purpose could be found in Yokoyama's collection of occult tales than what is expressed here. It's stunning that such a complete artistic work exists, let alone in the barren wasteland of negative creative nourishment that is the anime industry. That the entire thing feels almost accidental, had a terribly managed production schedule and is missing multiple intended extra seasons serves only ... as proof of its paradoxical (providential?) perfection.

The ridiculous fanboy plot of Giant Robo should not work in any way yet reveals its seriousness from the opening scene. It's an incredible train chase made of kinetic reversals and visuals, introducing the world of Giant Robo as an incoherent smorgasbord of figures and cultures that reflects the chaos of adult life. What could, in concept, have been another dreadful monomyth spiced up with retro manga tropes turns out, in practice, to be something more accurately described as a faction war where everyone is trying their best while also being wrong, and no one has the whole truth.

The history of art weighs heavy on Giant Robo's shoulders, quite literally from the Ancient Egyptian architecture on the titular robot's face, but also more abstractly in its writing, which constantly defies expectation and definition by virtue of not just wisdom, but moral sincerity. This unstoppable train of a plot that blends Wuxia, ancient myths, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Mitsuteru Yokoyama and Yoshiyuki Tomino could easily have been merely surprising and inventive, but Giant Robo isn't willing to stop there. The hopeful innocence of Daisaku, the series' protagonist (but not the main character), brings together the disparate worlds and baggage of the massive cast into a cohesive thesis. After dismantling the idols and ideologies of these opposing worlds, Giant Robo isn't content to give its audience an easy answer, and thus Daisaku is not simply a ray of perfection in a sea of weasels. Nor is he the only truly honest player in this game, though there is plenty of painful dishonesty to be found. He's not even necessarily right in the grander context of the story, nor is he the ultimate role model in the eyes of the narrative, but the series, and half the cast, recognizes his sui generis devotion to true open-mindedness, something greater than team spirit or passion. In the context of a universe full of misguided soldiers, too blind to step back and see the big picture, having such a good-natured kid to bring some hope back is more than welcome.

Imagawa's baby is more than a respectful, compassionate treatise against idolatry, though that would certainly be special enough on its own. It's a triumph on multiple levels, artistically. It's a testament to ingenious pacing that a series with this many characters isn't unwatchably confusing; that it is also actively engaging on an emotional and visceral level in addition to that is a truly inimitable magic trick. Part of that is due to the clarity of its emotional beats. Bleeding kindness, heartfelt determination, real connection and its absence, love, jealousy and of course sacrifice are depicted vividly and without didacticism. Witnessing the struggle these characters face doesn't only convey thoughts about the world, it allows the audience the opportunity to see beyond themselves and feel complex emotions, both empathizing with the characters in the moment and also, often conflictingly, recognizing (and feeling) what said instance means in the greater context of the narrative. These meanings are more than thematic, they're psychological, personal and universal. A powerful example would be Gin-Rei's speech at the end of episode 2; it is incredibly striking on its own yet continues to gain meaningful layers as the series progresses, up until the finale. Is it tragic? Is it beautiful? Is it a moral truth, or an expression of her subconscious troubles? It's all of the above and more.

That legendary moment at the end of episode 2 would not be nearly as effective as it is now without the magnificent score by world-renowned composer Masamichi Amano. His orchestral pieces for Giant Robo are bombastic and varied but also nuanced and sensitive. That this massive score contains tracks as tender as "Taisou and Yoshi" alongside exciting genre pieces such as the Main Theme is a real feat. It would be good enough to listen to on its own, but thankfully you don't have to, as this wonderful music has perfect company.

The visual sensibility of Giant Robo fits its eclectic spread of influences perfectly well. It's a retrofuturistic world, already an oxymoron but of course it gets even weirder, as the cast travels from snowy mountains to cities that resemble Paris if it had gotten taken over by Ancient China, and sci-fi fortresses that look more like Angel's Egg than a mecha anime for children. There is no world map in Giant Robo; it's more like a 90s adventure game's concept of a planet, but the absurdity of the entire tone allows that to be a strength instead of a weakness, emphasizing the creative and expressionistic qualities of such a loose construct and downplaying any predicted unimmersive value. The connected, semi-believable insanity becomes the new atmosphere, and this is expressed in the mech and character designs as well. Each of the three major teams is made up of the widest possible variety of kooky fighters (with equally kooky abilities) and impractical robots. This has an obvious surface level effect, allowing for exciting conflicts and unforgettable images, but it has a greater psychological effect as well. This visual style not only compliments the writing by matching its diversity, but aides the thematic throughline of numerous, sovereign identities living, interacting and colliding with one another. An ironic consequence of this concept, which would seem to divide the cast into bubbles, is that these differences heighten the similarities between these characters. The visual contrast between a bald shaolin monk and a classy French thief serves to emphasize the common humanity they share (because they nonetheless are a part of the same team), not obscure it. It's a beautiful idea, one that only works because the heart and foundation is there to support it.

It's always been strange to me that the genre elements of Giant Robo are the most frequently discussed, but in contrast to its contemporaries, it's easy to see why. The animation quality in Giant Robo is nearly unrivaled in the realm of mecha anime. The action scenes in the work of skillful artist Yoshiyuki Tomino seem static and cheap when placed next to the restrained genius of Giant Robo's electric battles. More expensive, opulent mecha titles such as Neon Genesis Evangelion, Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann and Code Geass may attempt similarly fluid animation but lack the engaging emotional core and weight of Giant Robo's relatively rare action scenes, and their pretense brings them down. In my experience, only the epochal space massacre in Gunbuster and gritty, tactile city brawl in 08th MS Team match the vision and technique of Giant Robo, and even those two don't even attempt the complexity that Imagawa pulls off in the grand finale. Tying it up with such moving expressions of spiritual philosophy on multiple sides would constitute showing off if it wasn't so involving.

It seems almost like fate that the greatest works are so often plagued by foiled plans. In the realm of cinema there are numerous examples; shots that were never filmed (L'Avventura, American Graffiti), lives cut tragically short (Sam Peckinpah, Andrei Tarkovsky), works taken out of their creator's hands (Numerous films by Orson Welles, Micheal Cimino), etc. Yet are we worse or better for it? These films are fantastic, and art would cease to be worth creating if there was a perfect work out there. Is an artist's original intention for their work always the ideal scenario? It would be great arrogance on the part of the human race to say so, I believe. Tragedies happen, undeniably, but no one can fight the ocean. Best to work with it, not against it. Sometimes artists recognize this and do so intentionally, and other times the truth prevails as if by the grace of God. That is to say, perhaps this world, in which Giant Robo was intended to have sequel and prequel OVAs that were never made, is fine how it is. Any open ends or questions left by the series are implicitly and inspiringly answered by its final shot. Why risk opening up this better-than-perfect anime to possible ruin by wishing for its continuation? If the extra materials were disappointing, they would be a blemish on Giant Robo's name. If they were just as good, well, perhaps life would be a tad unfair.

The series being literally incomplete joins a few other hiccups, such as awkward pacing in episodes 4 and 6, occasional loose plot elements and a visual style change in episode 5. But Giant Robo's valiant attempt to be its best self inspires a philosophy, rather than acting as a textbook or ideal. Its strengths (and weaknesses) don't eclipse, they encourage. To be amazed is to be uplifted; to be amazed and left still wanting more is to be inspired. The great thing about Giant Robot is that at the end, the door is wide open.

Tetsuro Araki's 2011 anime Guilty Crown seems to be among the last of a dying breed: ambitious, plot driven original anime with large stakes and a sizable episode count. Shows like this were never common, but we've gotten to the point where a mess like Code Geass inspires tinges of nostalgia in my heart. The rarity of these kinds of self serious original anime in the last 10 years gives Guilty Crown much inherent intrigue, but also makes its flaws all the more disappointing.

It's difficult to overstate Araki's gargantuan vision for Guilty Crown. Superficially, it's already a series that combines fantasy, mecha, teen drama ... and political elements, much like Code Geass. The attempt to tell such a genre hopping story with consistent production and in only 22 episodes is impressive on its own, but Araki's baby is unwilling to stop there. Religion, psychology, and culture play a uniquely massive role in Guilty Crown; the series’ sci fi story is astute enough to realize these elements are not so disconnected. The best expression of this is the “Voids”, physical manifestations of one’s soul that are used as the main weapon in the series. It’s a creative conceit that necessitates creative, expressive abilities, but there’s much more to it than that. The concept acts as a criticism of industrialization (and shonen action series), as each person is only what they’re physically worth, but it expands beyond that. The sexually coded way in which Voids are retrieved from the host is also key, and develops throughout the series, blurring the line between interpersonal sexual objectification and mass media dehumanization. The inherent emphasis placed on the individual’s self by the Void system is important in expressing the spiritual viewpoint of the series, which ties back into its socio-political criticism of Japan. The brilliance of the Voids isn’t the density of what it expresses, but rather how that density is holistically woven into Guilty Crown’s many seemingly disparate ambitions.

Guilty Crown is blatantly a plot driven show, and I would not make the case for its characters as unbelievably profound (especially not Inori), but psychology is nonetheless essential to the series’ ethos and it does an admirable, sometimes faulty, job integrating those themes with human pathos. Narration and subtle characterization brings weight to the story of Shu Ohma, the otherwise typical self insert protagonist of this epic story. Ohma exposits his psychology onto the audience with believability, expressing his milquetoast personality and quotidian observations with the candor that only extreme emotional disconnect can bring out of you. Shu's admission that he always agrees with whoever he's talking to gets to the heart of passivity. It’s not judgemental or fetishistically downtrodden like the incessant whining in Mirai Nikki or Neon Genesis Evangelion. Shu’s emotional journey is the driving force of Guilty Crown, and his struggles with selfishness, heroism, weakness and sometimes kindness are the most vivid moments in the series. The other characters are less interesting, though quite a few of them do surprise with the direction they take throughout the series, such as the brave warrior Ayase and one shockingly complex classmate of Shu’s. Mostly, the other characters act as psychological foils for Shu, and in this regard they are effective, particularly in the first half. The episodes focusing on Shu’s internal feelings in regards to his classmates, teammates, mother, and leader are the best in the series because of this Shu-centrism. That most of these episodes are in the first half is disappointing to say the least, but considering the variety of themes that Araki attempted to tackle with the series, is also understandable.

Guilty Crown is the birthplace of composer Hiroyuki Sawano’s now famous musical style. The particular brand of vocal track theme songs (with gibberish lyrics) adopted here was apparently striking enough to be worth copying and diluting in Attack on Titan, Kill la Kill, Aldnoah Zero, Seraph of the End, and probably everything else Sawano has worked on in the last 8 years. Since here this musical style was an actual idea and not lazy plagiarism, it’s used with shocking restraint. Araki has the sense not to overwhelm the audience enough to ruin the impact of his big setpieces, so the music often goes into a more understated mode than one would expect. The best example of this is the first episode, which smartly follows its wild musical cold open with mundanity, as opposed to going right into the opening theme. Doing so would have exhausted the audience, and would lighten the weight of such intensity. Small mercies like these are what turns the ending of episode 1 into the platonic ideal of a theme song drop. Araki does still overuse Sawano’s bombastic theme songs on occasion, and oversells some moments to the point of losing their effectiveness, but he deserves points here for keeping things more alive and pointed than his contemporaries.

Guilty Crown clearly intends to be a visual spectacle, and it succeeds shockingly frequently, particularly in the first half. The action is occasionally boring due to overstimulation, but never looks actively dumb, unlike most anime. The frequently inventive voids and not-choppy animation is a great help, certainly. The locations, character designs and shot choices have clearly been carefully considered in a satisfying manner. At its best, its a completely immersive audiovisual experience. The show also tends to do a good job of distracting the audience during more stationary scenes, and Araki’s decent sense of rhythm, auteur kineticism and burgeoning sense for visual symbolism are central to that distraction actually working. I must admit some walk cycles look pretty bad regardless, but that I can at least say its only some and not all is moderately impressive. It’s a production that looks expensive while being significantly less gaudy and more immersive than something like ufotable’s Unlimited Blade Works (which is also pretty alright).

As I’ve frequently hinted at, Guilty Crown’s biggest weakness (aside from typical anime shortcomings) is its inability to carry the weight of its ambitions. Pacing problems begin to appear around episode 9, where some moments fall much flatter than they ideally should. Things fluctuate throughout the second cour, from occasional brilliance back to weightless and emotionally confusing. The last 2 episodes are particularly underwhelming as a result of this. The writing itself is not atrocious for the final episodes (though as a Christian I don’t love it even conceptually, plus some childish self aggrandizing sneaks in), but the way they are directed is noticeably awkward. It feels like the show should have been 25 or 26 episodes at least, though not any more than that. It’s simply not a resonant conclusion, and that’s not a small issue for an epic narrative like this one. The cracks were definitely there for a while, though. I’m thrilled an original anime like this got to get made, but I think it would need tweaks from the very beginning for it to have ever been a real masterpiece.

From the beginning with his distinctive episode direction on Gungrave, Tetsuro Araki established himself as an auteur. After the stylish insanity of his Death Note and Highschool of the Dead adaptations, it’s hard to imagine many anime directors more worthy of their own original project. There’s something beautiful to me about watching a show like Guilty Crown progress and unfold, even with the knowledge that many of its symbols and themes were likely added by producers. This blend of self serious romanticism and genuine artistry is inspiring in the attachment it inspires in its audience and the heart put into it on the part of its creators. Its fluid approach in terms of structure and themes is also atypically cinematic and, frankly, valuable (at least in my view) in the realm of anime.

Lucky Star's nonchalant introduction places the audience in a position of a hapless outsider and keeps them at that distance for the rest of the show. There is no concession to the audience in Lucky Star, a show that would rather let the audience appreciate the beauty and nuance of life and friendship than create a hollow facsimile of those things that tends to the audiences' needs. This is an odd comment to make about a comedy show, especially a comedy show starring mostly cutesy teenage girls, but I think it gets to the heart of what makes Lucky Star so special for those who ... love and hate it. It's not a show that seeks to impress anyone or be anything other than itself.

The characters in Lucky Star refuse categorization. Any rigid idea of who the characters are or archetypes are quickly refuted by paying attention, which has the effect of giving the characters naturalistic personalities that logical archetypes cannot replicate. Everyone is smart in their own way and dumb in their own way, nerdy in their own way and cool in their own way. Kuroe is as much of a strict teacher as she is a "wacky" one, and as mellow as she ever is volatile. This is not to say that the characters are undefined, but rather that they express a wide variety of feelings and interests under the umbrella of their own personality. Their personality isn't defined by their traits, their traits are colored by their personality. This holistic method of expressing personality defies not just definition but also linear characterization, as information about the characters is revealed neutrally and achronologically. The show can almost be watched in any order, which would be loose to a detriment if every episode wasn't filled with moments and gestures to appreciate. In this structurelessness, the audience can find layers of truth to appreciate about the friendships of the characters and everyone's personality on its own. It sounds ridiculous to say, and maybe it is, but this borderline not written structure allows Lucky Star to capture a certain essence of the transience and beauty of so much in life, and all the complex feelings that come with that.

All of this is made possible not just by the vivid personalities of the characters and the incidental humor of their interactions, but also by the form by which the show is executed. Lucky Star extends an ethos of audience as spectator through its visual design, which is shockingly uninterested in impressing anyone. The idea of "sakuga moments" are completely absent from Lucky Star, a series that would rather look consistently good and immersive than be a scattered mess of peaks and valleys. Both Yamamoto and Takemoto display a subtle mastery over the frame, making Lucky Star one of the only anime that truly benefits from being watched on a TV (See also: Soul Eater), as a computer screen is truly a disservice to the precise compositions and lovely impressionistic backgrounds. Plus, watching the show on a TV is more passive and observational (at least for me), which really fits the tone.

Lucky Star's serious expression of beauty within an anime/otaku context is the last major aspect I believe is worth focusing on. Less explicitly referential works are more traditionally "respectable", but that's an elitist notion of art. The characters reference Japanese media of all kinds, most of these references thankfully go unexplained by the show (certainly I don't understand most of them), which as opposed to limiting the show's appeal, paints a portrait of a specific subculture more specifically. It's only natural that a slice of life work of any kind specifically focuses on a time and place (American Graffiti, I Vitelloni, Summer at Grandpa's, Dazed and Confused) in order to, ironically, relate even more truly to universal experiences. Specificity also allows Lucky Star (and all those other works I listed) to exist in their own space in addition to building on their inspirations.

Lucky Star is an important reminder of humility in a sea of pretense on the side of artists and consumers. Hopefully I haven't deluded myself into thinking that out of my own pretense, believe me I've considered it.

The experience of reading Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind is agonizing to the point of causing the reader to question what they ever liked about JoJo to begin with. This cold, ominous story is sandwiched between two truly great works (Diamond is Unbreakable and Stone Ocean), which only make its interminable runtime of nothing but dull action scenes more maddening.

Despite taking place in his beloved Italy, Araki seemingly had no fun at all writing Part 5, as there is somehow less appreciation of Italian food and architecture here than in Parts 2 and 4, which take place in America and Japan respectively. The frequent ... references to The Godfather feel more like textbook metaphors than loving or meaningful quotes. The depiction of the mafia as a demonic cult is true to life and fascinating, but it is conveyed with such neutrality I wonder if the manga even views this as a bad thing.

Metaphors are a central part of Part 5. Quirks like Mista's superstition resemble literary foreshadowing more than the silliness of prior character quirks, and even the stands themselves are more metaphorical than ever. While Stands as a representation of a character's heart was an idea in Parts 3 and 4, it is a core element of Part 5, with almost every character having a clear symbolic meaning to their stand's design or power. These meanings range from disconcerting and strange to genuinely profound, though most exist in a relatively neutral space. While this all sounds complimentary, it comes off more as cold than intelligent or insightful. The characters appear to have strings above their heads.

The characters themselves are not mostly unlikable, though. Bruno's crew is a mixed bag with a high average, with Trish and Mista being solidly engaging characters with distinct character arcs, and Narancia and Abbacccio being truly beautiful souls with memorable arcs and character details. Certain events involving Narancia in the story feel quite sickening and sadistic to me, in a way that taints his prior sincerity and dedication to Bruno in my mind. These 4 characters are the highlight of Part 5, and carry its weakest moments.

Unfortunately the main protagonist and antagonist of Part 5 could probably legitimately not be worse. Giorno Giovanna, our personalityless Christ figure, goes from tender, brilliant, hotheaded genius to psychotically violent without ever changing his blank expression. If Giorno had only the former Mary Sue qualities he would be no more frustrating than Part 3 Josuke, but the existence of the latter is frightening in a way I can't really put into words. Is Araki's idea of Jesus seriously a stone faced Freemason who yells "USELESS USELESS USELESS" when he pounds people to death with his tulpa? Is this personality schism supposed to represent how Giorno has both Dio and Jonathan's blood in him? That sounds reasonable, and it may be a result of bad translations, but I feel he totally whiffed in that regard. Araki attempts that same idea to much more effective results in my opinion later on in the series anyway.

As a contrast to Giorno we of course have a satan themed antagonist. Superficially this is something I would normally get behind as a Christian (after all, he is the villain) but the treatment of this antagonist is so sadistic and creepily flat I would be uncomfortable with calling it agreeable to me in almost any way. The villain of Part 5 and the eventual final confrontation with him reminds me of King Hu's Dragon Inn in a bad way, I feel like I'm missing something philosophical on both accounts and I'm not really sure I'd be impressed if I found out what.

Ironically, despite being so boring, Part 5 is also horrifically violent. Araki has always been a sick fuck but nothing in prior parts seems as monotonously insane as the fights in Part 5. The villains come off as so pathetic and confused (though also extremely evil) and the fights go on for so long that the whole part acts as a deterrent from reading shonen battle manga as a whole. I will admit though, the kindness of Bruno's crew members balances this out a bit, for sure. There are creative moments and tender moments in some of these fights, particularly the ones involving Trish, but the main emotions I had while reading Part 5 were boredom and disgust. Relative to other shonen battle manga, these fights are still more exhilarating than average, but I expect more from Araki.

It may just be the scans I read but the art seems to be a noticeable step down from the endearing, sweet panels and facial expressions of Part 4. Part 5 as a whole acts as a transition from the more lighthearted, uplifting and sincere Parts 1-4 and the increasingly literary, religious and mature Parts 6-8, but it sure is a rough transition. It loses most of what is great about Parts 1-4 without having yet gained the poetry and complexity of Parts 6-8. There are metaphors, allusions, interludes, all that smart seeming stuff, but it tends to lack grace and heart. Even moments and reveals that should be energizing and fun strike me as thinly veiled "sugar to help the medicine go down".

I do not like being harsh on JoJo and there are elements of Golden Wind to appreciate, but ultimately over the years it has never grown on me. Considering the likable characters and patches of creativity Part 5 would likely have earned much higher praise from me had the ending been good at all, but unfortunately that isn't the case. At least it's over.

The 3rd Part of JoJo's Bizarre Adventure is a noted sea change from the compact, straightforward Parts 1 and 2. Stardust Crusaders is the most epic in scope of the first 3 parts, but it suffers as a result of the episodic journeys taken to fill the space of that ambition. This is the part that begins the "monster of the week" format that fills out the rest of the series, and where the self contained nature of the franchise becomes clear.

The set up for Part 3 is more fitting for a video game than a manga, as its broad nature allows for battles with ... random bad guys to be added or taken out with ease. Araki, having not become fully comfortable with Stands yet, struggles to keep these fights memorable and creative throughout the first half of Part 3. Some are refreshing and add to the ongoing sense of adventure, but others are varying degrees of dull. While the latter camp can be more easily forgotten about in manga form, and still does add to the overall weight of the story, they are unfortunate and drag down the series majorly as a whole. This padding makes certain underdeveloped characters and regrettable plot elements seem even more frustrating, as the extra time spent makes it feel like we deserve better.

These more uninteresting filler battles bring out the worst in our brick of a protagonist, Jotaro Kujo. Throughout Part 3, Jotaro is shown to be both untouchably strong and untouchably smart, with dashes of great kindness and great bravery on the side. Araki soon realizes Jotaro is boring and turns the endearing, relatable Polnareff into the main focus for most of the fights hence forth. Other cast members, though overall less charming than Part 2's cast, range from lovely to a tad confused. Araki has bitten off more than he can chew, and does not start getting control over his mouthful until about halfway through Stardust Crusaders.

The second half of Part 3 brings out the strongest elements of what came before. Exciting, creative battles with great humor and originality, and occasional moments of pathos, though not as powerfully as in the first two parts. I'd almost wager the last third or so of Part 3 couldn't possibly have been any better, as Araki raises the stakes with ingenious timing and rhythm, all the while introducing his now essential technique of actively sculpting the reader's perception of time. Sculpting time is an inherent part of all narrative storytelling (I stole that thought from Andrei Tarkovsky, I'm not creative), but artists tend not to wield this hammer with as much conscious control as Araki begins to at the end of Part 3. The blood curdling tension of a great JoJo battle is one of a kind, and Araki's manipulation of the reader's experience of time through panel size, focus, level of detail, etc. is an essential piece of that.

Still there are deeper issues with Stardust Crusaders. JoJo is, for the most part, a fatalistic story (see: FATE), though I'm aware it contradicts that to an extent, but Part 3 takes this fatalism to an unsettling degree. "I'll never forgive you" is a phrase uttered ominously often by our supposed heroes (including one especially demonic instance from the usually kind Avdol), and it colors the tone of this familial struggle towards authoritarian bloodright, as opposed to a classic battle between righteous and evil. At best, this redemption-less fatalism adds an uncomfortable undercurrent to the story being told. Araki must be aware of this, though, as he goes to great lengths to undo it in Part 4.

Araki's artistry is as strong as ever, and his cleverness finally reaches a comfortable place in the second half of this part, but small holes are more numerous and crippling for Part 3 than for the previous parts.