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- BirthdayOct 23, 1985
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Dec 28, 2022
Many of us got ourselves into anime because we felt, at the time, that unlike the other visual media, anime was making the impossible happen. The most absurd premises, the silliest plot turns, the wildest character designs—nothing was off the table. It was a world of new possibilities that no other medium even attempted to cover. Where else would you find a comprehensive treatise on parent-child alienation, toxic relationships, and personal growth disguised as a grotesquely violent mecha vs. kaiju battle peppered with Judeo-Christian mythology? Only in anime, my friends.
We've grown complacent and didn't notice the creeping change. As any medium or art form establishes
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itself in the open market, successful formulas inevitably start coalescing and drawing writers' attention with progressively greater force. As they prove themselves in competition, the incentive to try something new and different becomes burdened with greater economic risk, and so the medium has become plagued with safe decisions. An umpteenth romance between Nobody McSelfInsert and a variation on the dream waifu stereotype, a hundredth try-hard teenager shonen drawn out forever, a thousandth power fantasy isekai that relies chiefly on the audience's genre-savviness to establish its world and characters. For better or for worse (in my opinion for worse), these things sell, so why try something different?
Akiba Maid War isn't that. It goes back to the roots, and takes all the risks there are to deliver madness and absurdity with reckless abandon. It's an unapologetically bold effort to bring a breath of fresh air into anime, paying no mind to how silly it might look in the process. It's a loud proclamation that anime can still do things differently and work with premises most ridiculous. It's an inspirational reminder for what made this hobby worth it in the first place. It is, without doubt, a piece of art.
You might've seen people—including myself—comparing this show to a Quentin Tarantino flick. There are, of course, similarities that are on the nose, starting with the iconic Reservoir Dogs walk reference in the opening (the second one this season, in fact!), all sorts of broad genre references, and the flippant campiness. Like Tarantino, the authors are evidently fond of yakuza movies, especially the early Takeshi Kitano and Takashi Miike output. But more importantly, just like Tarantino makes his own movies out of love for movies themselves, Akiba Maid War is a love letter to anime and the culture that enables its popularity. It both pokes fun at and celebrates the otaku culture and all things moe.
There are parallels to draw here. A maid in a maid cafe will bring your order and do her "moe moe kyun" ritual, or whatever it sounds like in the particular establishment you visit. Would you cringe at it, or would it actually make your food taste better like advertised? In my opinion, that predominantly depends on the maid's own sincerity. You understand this is silly, but believe me when I say she also does, and she expects you understand it, too. But if she REALLY pours her heart and soul into the silly mannerisms and catchphrases, you just won't be able to help feeling it come through to you. When somebody gives it their all, it commands admiration and respect no matter how silly the act itself is. You can feel the candor in Akiba Maid War. It is by all means one of the silliest shows of the year, but it does its thing with self-confidence and gusto, and delivers one of the most consistently fun experiences on recent memory without missing a beat. And for that, I can't help but love it with all my heart. This is truly anime at its finest.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jul 31, 2022
Ji-Hoon Jeong, also known as JH and famous for being one of the most thought-provoking Korean webtoon authors around, has graced us with his most ambitious—and easily the most accomplished work to date, finally expanding his range from imaginative but borderline surrealistic dystopian parables to a more grounded, lived-in narrative setting. It feels almost cozy in comparison but aims for the same heights when it comes to writing quality.
The Boxer tells the story of Yu, a silent, emotionless boxer whose intense mental trauma coming from a childhood of abuse has given him a savant-like ability to perceive time as if in a slow motion. Yu
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is trying to find the light that once spurred him to engage with the sport. Failing to find it, he is slowly consumed by the darkness as his coach is trying to shape him into an even more effective tool of destruction, devoid of weaknesses inherent to regular people. Who do you reckon will prevail in this bout?
I've encountered some dark sports-themed comics in my life, and this one sure pulls no punches in terms of the sheer depth and variety of upsetting aspects. People die and get hurt here in more ways than one, and easily triggered readers will find some of the scenes very disturbing. Besides, this is not really a story about boxing per se any more than, say, Taiyo Matsumoto's Ping Pong is a story about table tennis; the sport setting is merely a canvas to explore social concepts and character psychology. It is certainly not a realistic take on boxing, nor is it intended to be one. Much like in his previous works The Horizon and Mosquito Wars, JH has a lot to say on the topics of abuse, trauma, war, ambition, love, human condition, power balance, parenting, growing up, and the meaning of life—and many of his takes are as biting as ever, if not outright depressive at times. Furthermore, much of this is told visually, leading to all sorts of powerful imagery. It's a great read but not an easy one. Thankfully, those who didn't get to fully enjoy his other stories because of the rather heavy-handed didacticism will, perhaps, find this one a lot more palatable thanks to the more grounded setting, developed plot structure, and a surprisingly lovable cast of characters which help put the social commentary and exercises in ethics into a far more relatable context. And just like in his previous works, the takeaway is, ultimately, reassuring—though you may only be able to reach it after having suffered a heartbreak or two along the way.
Yu, the protagonist of the story, is by no means its hero. He is an empty husk, a vessel for his coach's ambition. A lost child who hasn't simply given up on the world—he doesn't even *know* the world to begin with, his mind all too haunted by his traumatic past. All the positive emotions and experiences we regular people have and take for granted in our daily lives are as good as alien concepts to him. In contrast, all the other boxers he encounters have unique, vibrant personalities that make Yu look even more like the unperson he is. But everything changes inside the ring. There, all these bright personalities with rich and interesting lives get to taste the same fear, despair, and helplessness as they realize their opponent might actually not be another human like them. Pity and compassion, pride and arrogance quickly give way to a single emotion: all-consuming terror. As he mechanically dismantles his opponents with surgical, lightning-fast strikes, and as he strips away their desires and dreams by crushing their will to fight back, Yu—and by extension, the audience—can't help pondering why people box in the first place. Unburdened by worldly affairs, he approaches boxing from a place of deep existential enquiry. Is hitting other people fun? Can problems actually be solved with violence? What drives people to persevere in the face of defeat... furthermore, in the face of imminent death? They will eventually die anyway, so what's THEIR reason to stand up to it? What is Yu, himself, trying to accomplish in the ring? Can anyone say something? This seemingly one-sided attempt at a genuine communication, a desperate plight for meaning, produces no satisfying response. But the author doesn't need to throw around vacuous statements and vain attempts at profundity when he can simply put the audience square in the characters' head-space and give personal context to their actions—which is exactly what he does, to a wonderful effect.
Yu's journey is one of redemption: not of his sins but of his own tucked-away humanity. It is a search for vulnerability required to reach and heal a deep-seated trauma. It is a quest of discovering unconditional love that is the key to the joy of life. It's a beautiful, touching character arc, but certainly not the only one you'll grow to love when reading The Boxer. The other boxers' bouts with Yu drive their own personal development, and even smaller characters get a surprising amount of depth in relatively little screen time in a testament to JH's efficiency in narrative delivery. After the main arc ends, the story loops around to the beginning to take a look at some of the other key characters introduced early on and recontextualize some of the themes and questions it raised, integrating a side-plot every bit as worthy as the main one into the complete package. The quirky, off-beat humor from Mosquito Wars also makes a return, and this time JH actually managed to avoid unwanted tonal whiplash. It serves as a welcome reprieve from the otherwise oppressively heavy atmosphere; a reprieve The Horizon sorely needed among all the doom and gloom, in my opinion.
I think it's fair to say that The Boxer shows a delightful evolution of Ji-Hoon Jeong's writing, and it will rightfully take its place as one of the best "non-sports" sports drama around. It's a wild emotional ride with not one but TWO immensely satisfying, cathartic endings—that's two more than what you get on average! Absolutely do yourself a favor and read it; it is available in English on Naver Webtoons' website and app, and some of the pivotal chapters even have a very nice built-in soundtrack. I, for one, already cannot wait for the author's next work.
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jul 22, 2022
It's funny how this works. The Fable's subject matter is something that'd be par for the course in Japanese pop culture of the 60s, the 70s, or even the 80s. But today, in 2022, it feels so out of place it once again becomes a breath of fresh air. There's nothing quite like it in the current media landscape, making any meaningful comparison extremely challenging—and, frankly, unneeded: its storytelling accomplishments stand firmly on their own legs.
The Fable's premise and narrative style occupy an unlikely middle ground between a classic sitcom and a dead-serious film noir. It tells a story of a pair of elite hitmen
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ordered by their boss to retire and try living a normal life as fake brother and sister, strictly forbidden to kill again. Given the obvious difficulties with reintegrating harshly conditioned human weapons back into society, a local yakuza group with ties to their organization is tasked with providing assistance so that the two can kick-start something resembling regular day-to-day life. The operative word there is "resembling", because *of course* it's not going to work out so easily—both because deeply ingrained habits and mindsets don't simply go away in a different environment, and also because circumstances calling for those habits constantly catch up to our heroes. It's an ongoing fake-it-till-you-make-it endeavor.
The manga treats this conflict with an astounding amount of thought and respect for its characters' unusual tribulations. As the result, The Fable's comedic writing is viciously funny but almost entirely deadpan in its delivery. There is virtually no witty dialogue or silly gags, no tired pop-culture references or any fan service at all; almost all the laughs are the result of characters so far removed from the norm being exposed to said norm and its vessels—regular people like us. The compelling and occasionally hysterical nature of these social interactions demonstrate truly smart writing in a premise almost completely devoid of complex plot movement, which is a rare but welcome occurrence. Fittingly, it is accompanied by hyper-realistic art that portrays characters to the finest detail of their body language, giving further credibility to visual storytelling. There is a lot of nuance—something I particularly appreciate—but no edginess or pathos commonly plaguing similarly set stories. It's remarkably down-to-earth in all the right ways.
Needless to say, the characters themselves are the bread and butter of this story, and it's very impressive just how likable they are for how unseemly their background is. Especially considering more than half of the recurring cast are either yakuza or assassins—and make no mistake, they aren't some "heart of gold" type exceptions that conveniently dodge the associated stigma. They are true to form and function, and the reason they're so relatable and fun to follow despite that is a testament to the author's ability to give them depth and humanity. They aren't "good" people by most measures, but they're complex, conflicted, and interesting. In a series where morality is largely expressed in the darker shades of grey, this is relayed in a surprisingly comfortable manner, and as I was reading I never felt like I was urged to sympathize with scum or hate the righteous. The characters navigate on their own moral compasses, but it doesn't lead to contradictions or confused allegiance. Again, good writing right there.
The Fable, much like its protagonists, appears to be a vestige of a bygone era of romanticizing organized crime and hard-boiled protagonists, an artifact out of time. But under its hood lies a funny and heartwarming tale about people on the dark side of our society dealing with their own weird troubles and trying to keep up with the times; it has a lovable cast, it nails a satisfying ending. If there's one point of (perhaps, unfair) criticism I could make, it would be for the manga's overall lack of storytelling ambition: this is not the kind of story that you'll carry in your heart and mind for years, nor it is likely to affect how you think about the world or your own self. It's fully content being only where it wants to be and achieving only what it wants to achieve—but it does so with the skill and integrity of a professional hitman.
Reviewer’s Rating: 8
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Jun 3, 2022
Manager Kim is the fifth entry in Taejun Park's literary universe and stars several minor characters from some of its bigger titles, such as Lookism and Viral Hit (also known as How to Fight). The titular character, Mr. Kim, must save his daughter who is abducted and presumed dead. He's also a former black ops officer and this whole situation makes him very, very angry.
You might think this premise sounds a lot like that movie franchise, Taken. You might even recall the particular dialogue from the first movie that became so iconic: "I have a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over
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a very long career, skills that make me a nightmare for people like you", etc. Indeed, that describes Manager Kim perfectly. This is Taken again, but with even less plot per se, and more Bourne / John Wick / Nobody type of rapid-fire martial-arts-infused, bone-breaking, skull-shattering, mindless power fantasy wish fulfillment goodness. Kim and his buddy Hansu Seong (the Taekwondo teacher from Viral Hit, father of Taehoon) overcome every obstacle with overwhelming force, moving like a hot knife through butter. Whether they will defeat the enemy is not a question but a certainty; the question is how they will go about it.
While that is the comic's only real allure, it is also its main—and glaring—problem. The plot only exists to ensure that our resident human weapon beats as many bad guys as possible moving from point A to point B to point C, always in a hurry but just late enough to miss the primary target. It knows it doesn't have to make a lot of sense for a story like this, so it doesn't even try to pretend that it does, and plays all of its well-trodden tropes straight. Characterization is likewise only deep enough to show who the bad guys are and sort them into imaginary threat level bins which dictate how much effort and creativity Kim and Seong must show when the fight inevitably happens. The martial arts themselves—especially if you come here from Viral Hit which can be outstandingly insightful and grounded about their real-world usage—don't have the kinetic detail and impact they deserve in a work like this. They get the point across but with nowhere near enough meat on the bones to satisfy a real action aficionado. Similarly, there are no clever jokes or witty dialogue to latch onto if you aren't satisfied with the fighting action alone. The whole thing only works to scratch a very specific itch and forget about it afterwards.
There isn't really much else to say about Manager Kim. It's literally an unkillable dude destroying other dudes with no real stakes or quality writing involved. If you come here *only* for the action, sure, it'll go with some snacks and probably alcohol. If you come here for anything *other* than action, don't waste your valuable time and try something else entirely.
Reviewer’s Rating: 6
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May 21, 2022
I don't enjoy the fact that this music video exists at all, let alone it being so popular and highly rated, with over 250 million views and 2.7 million likes on YouTube since its premiere in November 2019.
The song it's based on tells the story of a young man who fell in love with a mysterious woman possessing an aloof personality and suicidal tendencies. Although they seemingly enter a relationship, she keeps pushing the man away and shuts him out, wanting to "end it all". The man is frustrated at his powerlessness but chooses to believe in a good resolution until he caves and develops
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suicidal tendencies of his own—and that's when the two finally manage to connect for real. The video ends with both of them happily falling down from the roof and the woman reaching to kiss the man.
Of all the topics to romanticize, the authors chose suicide. This is a deal-breaker for me because I think anything that glorifies suicide in any way or form can go eat a dick. My grandmother committed suicide when I was a kid; she did it in the bathroom, drunk, while I was in the same apartment, and I hadn't realized what happened until many years later only thanks to sheer luck and my parents' quick thinking. I had friends and acquaintances who had committed suicide and still have more who are on an active watch. I dated a woman whose first love committed suicide and who had suicidal tendencies of her own. My father doubled-down on various forms of self-destruction in the recent years. I went through many years of debilitating depression myself. I am *extremely uncomfortable* with the idea of romanticizing self-harm and suicide because it's been chasing me for most of my life, I know very well how horrible it is and how every bit of media normalizing it isn't helping the situation but is rather making it worse.
That being said, I'm not against featuring the topic of suicide per se, or any other sensitive topic, really, as long as it's treated responsibly. For instance, the portrayal of suicidal mindset in Welcome to the NHK or Goodbye Punpun (both among my favorite works of fiction) were wonderful—and also painful because of how true to form they were. Itoshiki's character in Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei didn't feel offensive, even though the whole thing was framed as a morbid comedy, because the other characters were aware that he was a broken person who needed help and reached out to him in their own ways. Hell, take the quintessential example: Romeo and Juliet, which ended in a suicide of both lead characters. Except... they didn't want this ending—they wanted to be together while ALIVE, and only chose to end their life in an act of crushing despair over the [presumed] death of their loved one. You can make the topic work very well and deliver the impact you want if you serve it for what it is: a uniquely human tragedy, something to avoid and help prevent.
What makes this case different is that it makes suicide seem more like a solution than a problem, offers an idea that instead of seeking help or trying to otherwise tackle the underlying issues that inform death-seeking behavior, ending one's life is a valid option, which it decidedly isn't. It's essentially encouraging suicidal people to take the step over the edge because that—and ONLY that—is how its characters achieve happiness. This is the exact opposite of what a responsible person should be doing. And people still dare to complain in YouTube comments that it's age-restricted and forces a confirmation dialog on them! It's restricted for a perfectly valid reason—its very existence is actively dangerous to people who are at a low enough point in their life to relate with suicidal characters and be nudged in the wrong direction. It's been seen by millions of people, and if even one life was saved by the confirmation prompt, then it was worth the minor inconvenience of a random J-pop fan. One could retort that this isn't the first song on YT on this topic—indeed, not by a long shot, but while I'm similarly unhappy hearing someone like Ville Valo famously asking his "baby" to "join him in death" or any other such drivel, at least the video directors at the time had the common sense and decency not to depict the physical act of doing so. Although it's still an issue, it's not as egregious.
Besides the thematic payload, the video isn't even particularly well-made, so I have nothing specific to fall back on in terms of artistic merits. It looks like an art student's end-of-year project as represented by stilted animation mostly based on loops and pans, where facial expressions only change on a scene cut and editing makes every shot linger just long enough to make one's mind start wandering—perhaps intentionally. There are, of course, amateurish attempts at visual metaphors: knives and butterflies and drops of blood and blotches hiding the eyes; not exactly the most original set, although it still gives the more enthusiastic reviewers some trouble in deciphering them, it seems. Visual continuity could also be better: as an example, take out the first scene of them falling together at 1:43, and it instantly makes the final scene (where that happens again) rhyme with the beginning where the woman falls alone, with the narrative coming full circle without the unnecessary refrain in the middle. I do like the use of the blue-pink color palette, however.
The music is the only truly redeeming quality of this work in my opinion. The song is well-made—I can tell that much even not being a fan of J-pop—but it didn't sell me on the genre nor made me want to listen to itself again, so... meh.
I'd say just avoid it entirely. Even if you're in sound mental health, you lose nothing of consequence by skipping it. And with that, this music video receives the dubious honor of getting my second ever score of 1 (after Kuma Miko) to signify its net negative value.
Reviewer’s Rating: 1
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Apr 27, 2022
It's always a bittersweet feeling when a great long-running series ends, it's a lot like parting with a dear friend who has kept you company for years and could always be relied on to cheer you up. And now that Golden Kamuy has ended its eight-year-long rollercoaster of emotions, and done so on a high note and under its own terms, I'm not treating it lightly when I say it is a gem that only occurs maybe two or three times a decade. You need to read it. If Satoru Noda keeps up the level he set for himself, he may well become the next
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Naoki Urasawa of the manga world. Hear me out.
Set in Japan immediately after the Russo-Japanese War of 1904, Golden Kamuy tells the tale of a young war veteran Saichi "The Immortal" Sugimoto and a teenage hunter Asirpa as they try to uncover the secret location of several dozen kilogram of hidden Ainu gold by assembling a puzzle map... tattooed directly onto the bodies of two dozen escaped convicts, and do so faster than the other groups vying to take the treasure for their own means. It is a grounded, notably adult-oriented, uniquely Asian counterpart to the genre of Western, with one of the tightest narratives you'll ever find in a manga. Unlikely alliances, sudden reveals, chases and shoot-outs, indigenous lifestyle tidbits, surprise homoerotic gags or thinly veiled pop culture references: you never know what awaits you in the next chapter. There is sharp edge but no gratuitous edginess typical of modern seinens, there is deliberate nudity but no tired fan service; the experience is meticulously crafted and always kept fresh and on point.
Akin to an experienced trapper, Golden Kamuy is effortlessly evading the pitfalls that plague long-running weekly manga. Its planning is bulletproof: it's evident that the entire plot was written *well* in advance, down to relatively small details that only become apparent in the final act, as all pieces of the puzzle gradually converge and reveal connections between the characters' backstories that drove their allegiances and set them on a collision course towards each other. It's similarly adept at evading deliberate oversimplification of art: characters are uniquely designed, backgrounds richly detailed. People are never hard to tell apart by their face or clothing, landscapes are lush, urban settings gritty, animals move like animals do (which is not as trivial as it sounds at all). Action scenes are easy to read and track. Male characters—granted, most of them are trained soldiers fresh off the battlefields—have well-defined facial features and chiseled musculature... and yes, you WILL see most of them in various stages of undress, haha. Noda has said it very explicitly that he is fond of male nudity and will keep drawing it in all of its forms. If this is a deal-breaker to you, better turn back now before you're hit in the face with an assortment of burly pecs and tight buttocks.
But what I'd like to specifically focus on are the characters. Golden Kamuy has a very large and diverse principal cast almost entirely composed of adults—with the notable exception of the female lead, Asirpa—all of which have depth, unique personality traits, and funny little quirks that breathe life into their interactions. The main antagonist, the ever-charismatic First Lieutenant Tokushirou Tsurumi, is a delightful character and a strong driving force who deserves at least paragraph all to himself if we're talking best antagonists in manga. No wonder even his allies are so engrossed in his mission they refer to it as the "Tsurumi theater" and call dibs on the front seats. It's a sign of an excellent writer to never have characters with one-dimensional morality or unchallenged idealism as their sole motivation: pretty much everyone in the story has their own agenda, and their factions and alliances only last so long as their goals align—which, when it comes to hunt for money, obviously isn't very long. After all, they are out there for all kinds of reasons: revenge, freedom, historical justice, the joy of battle, love, state interests, honor, family, old obligations and promises, or simply good life enabled by sacks of hidden Ainu gold. It's always such a pleasure to see characters with their own thoughts, feelings, and agency to act upon them. But it's an even greater pleasure to see that their thoughts and feelings are informed by their experiences and remain believable even if not always healthy or relatable. Golden Kamuy is, above all, a story about human beings.
Lastly, but not least importantly, there's Noda's trademark offbeat humor that sets the tone for the series. Golden Kamuy is a very serious story in principle—what with so many people trying to murder and skin each other—and it probably would've worked well if it were played completely straight like a typical Western. But yet another aspect that sets it apart from other similar stories is how utterly wacky the humor is—or rather, when and to which end it is used. The ease with which Noda builds up tension at the turn of a page and immediately defuses it a page later with a well-placed visual gag is nothing short of extraordinary. Very few authors can switch between drama and comedy without tripping over themselves—let alone do it so confidently, with such grace and, at times, almost morbid indulgence. When Noda wants to do a poop joke, he will have the characters enthusiastically point to animal poop for Asirpa to explain whose poop it is and what it tells about the creature it came from. When Noda wants to do a nudity skit, he will have male characters chased by a wild wolverine into a sauna, where, OF COURSE, they will immediately and fully undress and start lashing at each other with sauna whisks. The conveniently sudden appearance of a sauna doesn't even have time to register before you start laughing at the enthusiasm with which characters who just barely escaped mauling begin a whisking competition. Panels, chapter taglines, and action scenarios occasionally reference other manga, live-action movies, and even Key & Peele sketches—without so much as breaking character. (Before you ask: Naturally, there is a JoJo reference.) Watching a master at work is an absolute delight.
Golden Kamuy is an incredibly rare experience that would be criminal to overlook. It fuses together a fast-paced, thrilling adventure narrative, a large cast of charismatic and compelling characters, deep historical insight, and loads of well-written humor—and it excels at every single aspect. Truly a one-of-a-kind manga and my personal favorite.
(If you come here with a question whether to read the manga or watch the TV anime series: definitely read the manga. While the the anime isn't bad per se, it sacrifices a lot of the charm of the original work and cuts too many corners in its presentation. It's just a very watered-down experience.)
Reviewer’s Rating: 9
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Jan 25, 2022
Solo Leveling is the literary equivalent of an 8 year old playing make-believe with plastic toys. I can tell because I used to be one.
It goes like this: DUNGEON RAID START DOOM BOOM LEVEL UP CRACK SMACK BOSS FOUND IT'S THE KING OF VAMPIRE OGRE LORDS WHOOSH WHAT IS THIS BLAM SHAZAM OH NO YOU DON'T BANG KERRANG SKILL USED "ULTRA THROAT SLIT" CRITICAL HIT BOSS DEAD LEVEL UP LEVEL UP LEVEL UP +675 TO ALL STATS YOU'VE FOUND THE ELIXIR OF SUPER IMMORTALITY YOU'VE FOUND THE DARK SWORD OF PAINFUL DEATH +36457165 TO ATTACK YOU'VE LEARNED A NEW SKILL "INFINITE ANNIHILATION" etc.
(No, that's not
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an actual spoiler for Solo Leveling. OR IS IT?!)
But yeah. There are no stakes, no sense of danger, no meaningful character development, no interesting plot, no original mechanics, no dialogue, no personality, no charisma, no maturity. Instead, there is the most quintessential Korean reincarnation power fantasy where the main character immediately goes from a weak shy underdog boy to a tall, six-packed and undercut, stern, poker-faced ladykiller giga-sigmachad who can kill everything by sneezing at it and only keeps getting more overpowered by the minute. Because of fucking course he does. And this is enabled via a faux VRMMORPG interface because of fucking course it is. This cookie-cutter drivel writes itself on autopilot these days. The momentary but overemphasized weakness the MC exhibits in the first chapter is a mere formality to transform him into a completely different person right afterwards, and the moderately tedious grind that he undergoes for the majority of the comic's first half is just as much of a formality to establish him as the most powerful, all-around-capable being in the universe in the second half. The longer it goes, the less it makes you care because there's no struggle and nothing matters. Ever. Plot points are introduced and— oh hey, a kitty is playing with its tail! How cute! Moving on.
As you can guess, Solo Leveling certainly isn't shy of being the most trite thing in existence—quite the opposite: it revels in its own infinitely indulgent tropeyness, it takes pride in being the textbook example of everything that made the genre so boring and predictable over the past ten years and presenting it with the aplomb of reaching the pinnacle of creation. And in doing so, perhaps to its own merit, it outright discards everything that it doesn't want to do. You cannot fail that which you don't bother with, and so what remains is pure shonen battle sakuga with a side of wish fulfillment fluff, with everything else (including everything of literary substance) being decidedly left out. The detailed full-color art serves the goal admirably where it matters, i.e. when characters are striking a pose so that you could marvel at their menacing looks and soak in the edgy atmosphere. As soon as they start moving, however, it becomes a blurry mess where movements are very poorly defined, there's no sense of space, no impact to any strikes—all of which reflects the very nature of the comic perfectly. It has some style and looks great on the surface but is soulless, lazily written, and mediocre by choice.
But to give credit where it's due, at least it knows when to end. So long, leveling.
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Jan 7, 2022
Making somebody laugh every once in a while is not, by itself, a huge achievement. Whenever I'm casually talking to somebody, even if it's a person I've just met, I'm often cracking jokes or making witty remarks—and much of the time they land. Let's say one in three or four does. That's decent for an average person in a social situation but not remotely enough for a successful stand-up act. The goal there is making unfamiliar people who aren't predisposed to liking you consistently laugh at a majority of your jokes. This requires a talent for storytelling, some degree of acting ability and enunciation, and
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a commanding presence that sweeps the audience in the comedian's flow. I have a lot of respect for good stand-up. It's hard, and most people will never be able to acquire all the necessary skills to make it their career even if they try.
This translates to manga as well. Just pasting the text of a joke into a speech bubble, even if it's well-written, won't cut it. The joke needs to be connected to the character(s) telling it, placed into the right context, with artwork that complements it well, and ideally it should feed directly into a different joke or a visual gag to create a comedic continuity. The best comedy manga out there do this so well they can string together multiple pay-offs from a single setup, to the point where jokes pretty much write themselves in the reader's mind with the writer only needing to give it a small nudge: Grand Blue, Gintama, Kaguya-sama, Witch Watch, The Lives of High-School Boys, Detroit Metal City, Monthly Girls' Nozaki-kun, Dungeon Meshi, Hinamatsuri, Nan Hao and Shang Feng, Cromartie High School...
...Hmm, what is it? Huh? You're saying this was supposed to be a Show-ha Shoten review? Oh... Well, unlike those works listed above, Show-ha Shoten kinda sucks at comedy. Badum-tss!
To illustrate what makes it suck, re-read the previous three paragraphs as if they were an in-universe joke performed and narrated by characters in this manga—because that's exactly what its jokes look like. It would spend some time diligently explaining how to perform comedy and how to find the right psychological approach to the audience to make them laugh—and then it would proceed with some of the most tired, flaccid, predictable punchlines imaginable. As if the actual joke is in how flat the writing is. Watching the characters cracking up at something so profoundly unfunny feels surreal, borderline mentally uncomfortable. At some point you start wondering whether the characters are okay, and then whether *you* are okay for not buying into the humor to such an extent. Not exactly something I want to think about reading a comedy manga.
The reason why it hurts storytelling so particularly badly in this case is that convincing the reader the joke was great if they didn't laugh at it is impossible. If it were a more physical subject, like sports or some kind of a military setting, the artwork could've carried the narrative to an extent, presenting something as an extraordinary feat, and the reader would suspend their disbelief to accept it as true because that's how it was made to appear from their point of view. But when the reader deals with something that can be directly gauged with their own cognitive ability or applied to their own perception and experience, convincing them of feats that aren't there just isn't going to happen. And given that Show-ha Shoten's story is a bog-standard competitive shonen formula based around the characters moving up in the world of comedy, it will be something that will always remain in the spotlight with all of its strength and weaknesses.
Speaking of the strengths, it may occasionally be clever to an extent (or at least be presented as such), but the one time it made me laugh in the entire first volume of the story was when it didn't actually try to be funny on purpose. All the other times I had to be *told* that the characters were doing great rather than it being, you know, self-evident from me having a good time following them. If I'm laughing at something, I can already tell; thank you very much. Acting out of character, saying non-sequitur lines, or being silly for the sake of being silly does not, by itself, make for a good comedy. But, to be fair, the bit at the High School Comedy Battle did make me smile because the physical comedy there was at least *conceptualized* well, something to thank the artist for. With all the varied facial expressions and such, I could imagine it being a hoot if it were a real performance (or at least a well-made anime rendition). But I still needed to mentally fill in the gaps left open by writing. And that's all the praise I can give to about 200 pages worth of content released so far.
Kind of a shame for a comedy series, isn't it. It could've been so much better if the jokes were well-written. Well... at least Takeshi Obata's art is still good. That's what you came here for anyway, isn't it?
Reviewer’s Rating: 5
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Dec 24, 2021
Writing a romance story set in Japan in the early 20th century that doesn't feel exploitative is a tall order. Back then, women were still perceived as little more than the property of their parents (namely fathers) with the equally endearing prospect of becoming the property of their future husbands via an arranged marriage. They were mostly uneducated, had very few rights, their career opportunities were severely limited and had all sorts of visible and invisible barriers. Not exactly the best place and time to be born without the fifth limb, as you can imagine. It followed that true romance for a woman of a
...
marriable age was more the result of a blind luck than anything she could control.
Knowing all that, it's hard not to feel apprehensive at the premise which begins with Yuzuki, a 14 y.o. girl from a poor family, being literally sold (yep, for money) to the wealthy Shimas as a bride to their youngest son Tamahiko, whose recently acquired disability estranged him from his stern father and elder siblings. These days it would've been seen as none other than child trafficking, which is obviously a problem, though it should be mentioned that this decision is forced on both Yuzuki and Tamahiko, so he doesn't get a say in the matter, either. All the while, the pre-opening sequence keeps framing Yuzuki as more of a concept than a person, which could've possibly worked alright the first time around, but having it precede every episode (the anime-original decision) is counterproductive at best, and outright dehumanizing if we're being real about it. So the show is definitely off to a rough start, but where does it take us as we go along?
First thing first, it recognizes the main problem—which is already better than some of the more acclaimed shows do in a similar situation (*cough* VIOLET EVERGARDEN *cough*). The forced marriage arrangement, especially through such inhumane means, is a surprise to both Yuzuki and Tamahiko, and neither of them is happy about it. The rumor spreads quickly, and the villagers immediately start looking down on them, even though the decision was negotiated by the kids' parents without giving the future husband and wife any room to decline. Seeing it explicitly called out by both the leads and unrelated characters is definitely a positive sign in terms of where the show chooses to stand in terms of its morals.
Now, if this were a pure wish fulfillment vessel, you'd expect the two leads to quickly ignore that, fall in love at first sight despite having nothing in common, and happily agree to spend the rest of their time together despite having nothing in common (*cough* TONIKAKU KAWAII *cough*), but thankfully, that doesn't happen, either. Tamahiko is heavily depressed by his life seemingly ruined by the disabling hand injury, and is, at first, annoyed by the cheerful Yuzuki's presence. He gives her minimal courtesy as one would provide to an uninvited guest, and is willing to send her back to her parents, no strings attached, so that he could keep wallowing in self-pity like the self-proclaimed pessimist he is. And realistically, this is also the best he is expected to do: despite his inherently higher social standing, he's still by all means a kid only three years her senior, living at the mercy of his tyrannical father who orchestrated the whole thing.
But this is where the show cleverly takes advantage of its historical setting and has Yuzuki refuse the offer on the very reasonable grounds that if this boy showed her kindness right off the bat—even though he wasn't obliged to, even though he had reasons not to engage in social behavior, even though the marriage was arranged against his will—it would probably be okay to put her faith in him. On the other hand, if she were to return to her parents, in all likelihood they would simply get rid of her again like they have already done once. There is no easy or safe choice here, which truly feels bad, but Yuzu asserts what little agency she has in the situation and places her bet on staying with Tamahiko.
And as that somber realization sinks in, it becomes obvious that Taisho Otome Fairy Tale actually understands what it's doing better than most modern romance stories originating in Japan: it's using a very inherently problematic premise for a genuine attempt to humanize its characters and create a positive vibe within its unquestionably dark constraints. And while I can't say it goes very far beyond the bare minimum of what I'd consider acceptable for the kind of challenge it undertakes, thankfully, it does put up a valiant effort towards not becoming yet another showcase of the Stockholm syndrome every time Yuzu is demonstrating her bottomless devotion to Tamahiko. There is enough heartfelt writing in there to make the pair feel like they can still responsibly support and find comfort in each other, even though their meeting wasn't by their choice. They grow to play off of each other and have a certain degree of onscreen chemistry and personal charisma unlike the leads in some less problematic romance series (*cough* TSUKI GA KIREI *cough*). And it wouldn't be a spoiler to say that they do eventually fall in love for real, and it does feel pleasantly nice. It is most certainly a healing story at its core, it accomplishes its narrative goal by showing what it means to heal and be healed, and certainly does a good job at that.
The side-cast of the series, especially Tamahiko's younger sister Tamako, are a pure joy to behold; this is the element that really breathes life into the show, grounds it in reality, and catalyzes the development of the main pair—which is something that, thankfully, does happen quite noticeably. It is through these interactions with the other characters that Tamahiko's view of his life situation (and his relationship with Yuzuki in particular) widens and becomes more adult and responsible, his motivation and joy for life return, and he learns to work around his disability to be a good husband to Yuzuki and avoid ending up helpless every time something bad happens. And Yuzu herself also becomes happier knowing she is safe with Tamahiko, she still has friends and allies in her new life, there are new things to look forward to, and her marriage will not be only about pleasing her husband. (Good God, if I were an avid drinker, I'd probably down a glass of whiskey every time I had to write out something as sad as this.)
One of the main reasons the series couldn't do any better than it managed to is that it's too deeply entrenched in the premise it chose, which set the characters up in all too different positions of power. When you try empathizing with both of the main duo, you inevitably notice how Tamahiko not only starts off vastly more privileged, but *still* gets the better end of the deal by the end—even considering the historic circumstances are already favorable for the kind of character he is. He has more agency at pretty much every turn, and it could be argued that over the course of the series Yuzuki enables him more so than he enables her. Other than a few personal belongings, she has nothing to her name and is essentially a nobody without her benefactor, despite putting in most of the work in their shared household. Metaphorically speaking, she was moved from a small rusty bird cage into a much spacier bird cage with a better view and an ability to fly around the room every now and then in exchange for extra chores to do. At the same time, Tamahiko got what is essentially a new lease on life, a new career, a jackpot of a partner—basically everything that wasn't already provided by his family. Both of their situations have undoubtedly become better, but not symmetrically so, and it's particularly regrettable because the characters are lovable enough to make you wish a better life for both of them.
The other reason the show isn't as good as it could've been is that Yuzu's character isn't explored remotely enough for us to really know her outside the context of her relationship with Tamahiko. Indeed, he is a good and well-developed character, but we only see the story from his perspective, and romance is a game for two. I know this would probably go at odds with the positive atmosphere the series tried to cultivate so hard on such a barren soil, but in order for the romance to truly feel deserved, we needed to have a deeper insight into Yuzu's situation, too: how she felt about being torn away from her old life, how her anxieties and disposition towards marriage with Tamahiko evolved over time, what were her thought processes, when did simple fondness and affection for being treated like a fellow human being turn into genuine romantic love, what other interests she has, and so on. Yuzu's character needed a better look, she deserved it, we deserved it. But, well, at least she's already elevated above the typical servile pleasure robots the female leads tend to be in the iyashikei subgenre (*cough* SEWAYAKI KITSUNE NO SENKO-SAN *cough*). Which, considering the premise, is somehow an achievement. I know, I also feel stupid saying this, but that's the sad reality we have to live in.
Frankly, it's because of stuff like this that I constantly have to lower my standards when reviewing teenage romance manga/anime. Seriously, why can't more of them be like Insomniacs After School, Molester Man, Kaguya-sama, or even Toradora? With characters who have complex and believable emotions, who are influenced but not defined by their past or social group they're written into, who act out the plot but aren't strung along by it? You know, like real people? When it comes to Taisho Otome, it clearly bit a little more than it could chew, but it also had a clear and meaningful vision of what it wanted to achieve, it wasn't a bad effort by any means, and I think it would be fair to say the show is on the good side of the spectrum despite all of its problems. Because if anything, it strives to work *against* the problems of the genre and setting it chose rather than *creating* new problems on the spot—which is already more than a typical Japanese romance can manage. It doesn't do a GREAT job, but it does a GOOD job. And on the very surface level, it just looks cute and leaves a cavity-inducing sweet aftertaste. It's something I can recommend and not feel blood on my hands. Oh god, Japan... just start writing actual good romance more often than twice a decade already, ffs.
P.S. I've read the manga before, and the adaptation is done very well, with beautiful designs that faithfully translate the sugary sweetness of the manga's tone, and I'd probably say it's a superior experience overall. I hope the same team does the sequel as well.
Reviewer’s Rating: 7
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Dec 19, 2021
Mieruko-chan tells the story of a high school student Miko Yotsuya who suddenly became highly receptive to spirits of the dead and other otherworldly beings, and now she constantly runs into them trying to pretend she doesn't see them so that they leave her alone. Fortunately, that helps every time. The title is a play on the word "mieru"—"to see", and that's just about the last clever thing you'll see the series do.
The whole premise of "a girl sees spooky ghosts and is scared but keeps her cool" sounds like something that would wear itself thin almost immediately—and what do you know, that is exactly
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what happens! The situations keep repeating themselves almost one for one: Miko notices something strange but doesn't really do anything about it, a spirit approaches her and starts questioning whether she sees it (they are, apparently, very inquisitive), she maintains her poker face while being terrified on the inside, spirit goes away, Miko moves on with her life until she runs into another one. That's it—that's the formula. The very few exceptions either have the otherwise very distinct spirits inexplicably mimicking regular people so Miko doesn't realize it, or she just attracts their attention on purpose. At no point do we receive any indication that her past experience has somehow taught her anything, or that the encounter has actually disturbed her to the point where it would affect her life going forward. Nothing ever changes, and Miko adapts to her life of being bullied by ghosts immediately. If you add it to the fact that why or how she acquired that ability is never explained, you end up in a situation where it's nothing more than a tacked-on gimmick rather than a plot device used to its true potential.
It doesn't help, either, that Miko's character is a walking lump of contradictions. Her internal monologue suggests she is scared, but she doesn't really act the part. She pretty much never fails to keep her cool in the face of unspeakable horror, but such mental fortitude comes seemingly out of nowhere (is she secretly a Navy SEAL?). She drops her phone out of shock when it starts behaving weirdly, but does well not to flinch at the grotesque imagery that presents itself to her at any other time. Miko's friends are almost completely useless and do nothing except providing occasional comic relief. They never seem to notice how terrified their friend is.
It could be said that it's made this way because it's meant to be played for laughs. Except nothing about it is funny unless you're easily amused by all sorts of gluttony jokes and distressed girls on the verge of mental breakdown—in which case, please go see a doctor about it. I think comedy and horror are a very difficult combination to pull off in general because the emotions that drive them are almost polar opposites of each other. So in the end, you either get something that is too funny to be scary (as it happens most of the time), or too scary to be funny, but never both in a similar measure. Works that successfully balance between the two to ratchet up excitement just enough before changing the tone can probably be counted on one hand. Nevertheless, Mieruko-chan is eager to do both... and, predictably, fails at both. And it's paced so dreadfully that if you were to start watching it at 125% speed, you'd only notice something was wrong during the OP/ED sequences.
I'll give credit where it's due: *some* scenes have unexpectedly solid cinematography and sound design, and they capture the horror atmosphere pretty well. That is, at least until the camera decides to focus on one of the female heroines' tits, ass, or thighs, with buttock curves, panty lines and cameltoes well defined—and it lingers there for many seconds on end. The manga is somewhat guilty of this as well, at least in the early chapters, but the TV adaptation takes it to entirely new and completely unnecessary heights, courtesy of Passione—the studio that made its name on some of the more degener— ahem, "cultured" TV series out there. Yeah, the word is still used ironically in this context, but you can already get the feeling that very soon this will become its primary meaning.
I want to underline just how intently Mieruko-chan is willing to die on the hill of erotic titillation: every few minutes, as part of building up dramatic tension, you're forced to look at a vulnerable underage girl from some of the least appropriate angles just to funnel that elevated heart rate into something else entirely. This is easily the creepiest thing about this show, by far. Let me spell it out for those who still don't understand what the problem is and how it's different from a typical instance of fan service in an ecchi anime: a brief panty shot in a setting where the mood is light and the girl in question is largely in control of her situation (in other words, it's safe for both her and the viewers to assume it won't escalate from there) is one thing. But protracted, persistent creepshot angles in a setting when the girl is vulnerable, afraid, and clearly unhappy, and we expect it might become even worse for her—this is completely different. The kind of difference that separates a joke made in poor taste and being on a list of registered sex offenders.
Now, why in the world would anyone who is mentally healthy be aroused by the sight of a visibly uncomfortable, distressed girl? Is her sexual performance somewhere in the first hundred of questions you might be having at that moment? Do you find being bullied or terrorized somehow cute, romantic, or funny? If so, again, please go see a doctor before it takes root in your worldview and ruins your future relationship or, god forbid, someone else's life. I'm sorry; I'm at the age where spooky scary skeletons do nothing for me, but realizing how many people get off on this drivel is truly disturbing. Fascinating how the series itself is less scary than the thought of dealing with someone who gave it a 10. Miko is a victim in the spirit encounters presented, and most of her actions are just mitigating the damage already done to her mental state. It's not exactly a funny subject, if you think about it for more than half a second. Personally, I find it the opposite of funny—it's actively changing my mood for the worse.
Sure, it gets a tad better near the end, like around episode 10–11, when Miko finally starts taking some agency to behave like a protagonist in her own show and the director—the Interspecies Reviewers guy—becomes slightly less of a creep. The problem is it merely gets from the level of a raging dumpster fire to being almost mediocre. "Better" doesn't mean good; it's far from good. Should you read the manga instead? Eh, perhaps—as far as I'm concerned, neither is worth the time, but the TV series stops at the point where the manga just about gains the semblance of a plot. If this show ever gets a second season and gets rid of the pervy cameraman, I can imagine it becoming comfortably mediocre. What I find truly puzzling is the glowing reception the series had gotten long before it even started to attempt delivering on the potential of its premise (and mind you, the manga at almost 40 chapters in is still nowhere near where it could be if it were written by a competent author). Seriously, if you want good monster horror, try John Carpenter's The Thing or David Lynch's Eraserhead; enjoy your nightmares for weeks. If you want a comedy, try literally any comedy: if you laugh even once, chances are that's already more than Mieruko-chan can get out of you. It attempts to do a lot of things that are completely opposite to each other but does none of them well—not a single thing.
Lastly, there are some very misguided comparisons floating around between Mieruko-chan and Natsume's Book of Friends. The idea is so wonderfully asinine it deserves its own paragraph. Let's get this straight: the two are nothing alike beyond the most surface-level similarity. Natsume is a very kind-hearted series with a pronounced feel-good vibe and a great deal of respect shown to all of its characters. And while it also tends to succumb to the "monster of the week" formula where there can be no overarching development for over a dozen episodes in a row, the protagonist shows a great deal of agency in how he goes about solving the issues he is presented with in almost every case. Miko doesn't: she's just passively drifting along the largely episodic plot, doing little other than getting distressed and showing ass—and being none the wiser for it. It doesn't feel good, it doesn't feel appropriate, it's mean-spirited in both form and nature.
tl;dr scared gurl funey and has nice ass
Reviewer’s Rating: 3
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