Now and Then, Here and There is arguably one of the most cruel and unforgiving series ever animated—though, not one without hope—and yet it comes off the back of Jubei-Chan: Lovely Gantai no Himitsu, Daichi's lighthearted slapstick comedy from earlier that year. There couldn't possibly have been a sharper contrast... It stands out like a sore thumb even if you consider the projects that he's worked on since, being that he immediately went back to exclusively directing comedy and shoujo anime. This series is truly an anomaly, but what a blessing it is.
Right off the bat, we're treated to one of the strongest first episodes of any anime ever. It begins with somewhat of a bait-and-switch scenario with the first half feeling like the set-up for a standard shounen slice-of-life coming-of-age story; as it turns out, that doesn't end up being the case. However, just because there was a bait-and-switch tactic used, that doesn't mean all of this episode's first half was wasted just to trick the viewer. No: The creators did something impressive by simultaneously using that time to succinctly convey the show's themes in a nice, easy-to-understand package even before shit hits the fan. Those themes are best expressed through the actions and words of Shu, the protagonist, who already gets the opportunity to make it very clear what his core values are—to act purely based on intuition and to never lose hope, even when you've seemingly hit rock bottom. These are values that he firmly holds on to, even if the series tries its hardest to strip them away from him and crush them to pieces.
Shu, as a character, is the most telling sign that Now and Then, Here and There has taken cues from Hayao Miyazaki. He behaves much like those early Miyazaki protagonists, such as Conan from Future Boy Conan or Pazu from Laputa: Castle in the Sky. The three of them all share sizeable physical strength, an unyielding resolve, and a near-infinite amount of stamina. They're also all imbued with childlike wonder and a strong sense of righteousness, often choosing to live the life of a pacifist. Goku and Luffy are other well-known examples of characters who fit the same bill.
However, this series does something with Shu that the other works rarely do with their respective protagonists: It questions him. It questions his very nature and attempts to find out what exactly this kind of person's limits are in such a harsh world. How much shit can someone like this really take? Characters who act so irrationally are bound to learn their lesson one of these days—right? In this series where it feels like every character is calling him out for being wrong, where he must withstand grueling torture, and where hope is almost nowhere to be found...Shu refuses to crumble.
Now, having a character like this as the main protagonist can be a dangerous thing. In addition to potentially severing all suspension of disbelief, their morally fueled tirades run the risk of sounding preachy and triggering a few facepalms more than anything else. Shu isn't guilty of any of that, though, as his real strength lies in the way he influences the development of everyone else in the cast. Slowly but surely, he'll rub off on them in one way or another, leading them down the path of true self-empowerment in spite of their unfortunate circumstances. You also get the sense that this guy is totally genuine. He doesn't try to act cool nor does he try to seem clever and is generally a likable guy.
What's interesting is that, at one point, Shu does begin to question himself after he begins to empathize with the beliefs of a certain other person—beliefs which he normally would vehemently oppose. There's a brilliant scene in which he realizes that the world isn't so black and white, and a revelation like that is difficult for such a straightforward character to cope with. Protagonists from other series, such as the aforementioned Conan, don't often have to think too much about whether or not their beliefs are justified in every context. In Now and Then, Here and There, there isn't always an obvious or easy solution to problems.
Lala-Ru is the fascinating heroine of the series, and, much like Shu, she's derived from several Miyazaki tropes—at least as far as her role in the story goes. She possesses a mysterious pendant that the villains are after (likening her to Sheeta from Laputa), and she holds the key to solving the impending energy crisis of a post-apocalyptic world (reminiscent of Lana from Future Boy Conan). Having said that, her personality is wildly different, being more cold and distant; she had to have been among the first batch of "Rei clones" to emerge in anime's post-Evangelion landscape.
With her striking, alien-like design it's no surprise that she instantly catches Shu's interest. Having probably never met such an odd and quiet person, he's just as dumbfounded as he is captivated. If there's any scene that reminds the viewer just who exactly is supposed to be directing this series, it's this one. Shu's attempts to converse with her are actually really funny and genuinely endearing. The "dialogue" that then ensues is indicative of many things, including Shu's tendency to search for the good in everything, even in his admittedly boring small town. He awkwardly rambles through a list of the nice people who live there in an attempt to make a positive connection with her, but she remains fixated on the sunset. There's only one thing he says that gets a significant reaction from her, and it's for reasons that the viewer won't quite understand until further in the series. That's why this scene is definitely worth a re-watch once you've finished the entire show for that extra emotional impact.
Because Lala-Ru speaks so little, she commands your full attention any time she does. You're bound to find yourself hanging on her every word, since it's clear she has countless invaluable things to say—yet, you'll hear only a fraction. And, though she reveals just a small sampling of what she's experienced through her words—there aren't any lengthy flashbacks to fill in the unimportant details—they're so sharp and so direct that you understand exactly how she's been molded into her current self. After years of enduring various forms of abuse and witnessing the evils of mankind, she's been left in a near-perpetual state of apathy, though she hasn't quite lost her ego or the desire to go on living just yet. The beauty of her arc is that while she exudes an aura of wisdom far beyond the comprehension of Shu or of any other character in the story, she nevertheless manages to learn something important from them: to have just a little more faith in humanity.
Kaori Nazuka's performance as Lala-Ru is exceptional (you may know her as Eureka from Eureka Seven or as Subarau from .hack//Sign). It's essentially her take on the "Rei voice," but with her own unique spin on it. It's soft and whispery but at the same time piercing and delivered with confidence, like an icy wind.
Meanwhile, Shu is played by Akemi Okamura (known for her role in One Piece...as Nami, rather than Luffy as you might expect). Shu really wouldn't be the same without her voice, as she adds a ton of personality to his character that otherwise wouldn't be there in the script alone. Thanks to her voice, you totally buy everything that comes out of Shu's mouth—whether he's trying his hardest to earnestly communicate with others, excitedly going off on tangents, angry to the point of shouting, or, most impressive, when he's speaking somberly from an occasional state of weakness; you buy it all.
Now and Then, Here and There tells a story with many ideas and plot threads but in a relatively straightforward, unconfusing way. In fact, it's so incredibly easy to watch that it feels more like one giant film rather than a series, so marathoning it in one day is no problem at all. This is not a mind puzzle filled with head-scratching symbolism that requires hours of dissecting in order to understand. Its major themes should be pretty clear to the average viewer, though that's not to say it doesn't offer anything for those willing to pay closer attention.
For example, the most significant object in the entire anime is actually not Lala-Ru's McGuffin pendant, but rather an ordinary wooden stick picked up by Shu in the first episode. Simple but sturdy, this stick serves both as a pacifistic weapon and as a metaphoric gauge of sorts which reflects the level of Shu's resolve throughout the series. The stick struggles to stay whole as it gets cut, scuffed, tossed aside, shot, beaten, and battered—All the while, its physical state parallels Shu's mental composure. Never is this more apparent than in the final episode when he finally snaps in a rare fit of rage. Moreover, at his lowest points Shu will be left without his stick completely. It's at these times when it becomes the responsibility of those characters whom he's inspired to return it to him, subsequently renewing his resolve and giving him the ability to act upon his will once more. For the characters who do this, it represents the moments of their arcs in which they finally concede to Shu's philosophy.
Now, as sad as this series can be, it's never cheap. The trauma that's inflicted upon its characters is never for the sake of itself or for a desperate appeal to emotions. Each event, sad or otherwise, occurs to serve a purpose in the narrative. As such, the story doesn't rely on shocking or unconvincing plot twists to keep you engaged; you'll be engrossed well enough by virtue of the strong character dynamics.
For instance, one of the core foundations of the narrative is the relation between Shu and the main antagonist, King Hamdo. If Shu is the epitome of childlike optimism and resilience, Hamdo is conversely the epitome of childish fear and fragility. This paranoid bastard hasn't got a single good thing going for him, being that he's an utterly detestable amalgamation of every possible human flaw. There's no hiding the fact that he's a piece of shit, so right from his introduction—and all the way through to the end—he's presented as nothing other than an evil dictator, though not in the classic sense of the term; he's more of a selfish wimp than any kind of conniving villain, proven to be cripplingly weak and scared for his life in dire situations. Having said that, he does nothing to garner your sympathy, and there's no redemption waiting for him at any point—because frankly, he doesn't deserve it.
You have to wonder, then, how a scumbag like him ever got so much power and amassed such a loyal following in the first place (meant as a satire of real life, perhaps?). One such follower is Abelia, Hamdo's right-hand woman. You kind of feel for her when you see how horribly she's treated by him and when you realize that despite all of that, she's probably using his company as an emotional crutch and desperately clinging to his sparse words of praise; it's got to suck when that's the only kind of love you know.
Indeed, Hamdo's comically bizarre existence in this otherwise bleak setting is as intriguingly out of place as Shu's, but that's perfectly fine, as he fills a necessary role in the story as a symbol of absolute despair. Next to Shu's boundless positivity, the two forces exist so that other, more dynamic characters can bounce off of them in something of a grand-scale chemical reaction. And, since there's really no personal conflict between the two of them solely as characters, their true conflict is instead one of opposing mindsets and the most disparate extremes of humanity.
On the other hand, Nabuca is actually a good-hearted character, but, unlike with Shu, he unfortunately lacks the courage to challenge the corrupt authority. Therefore, he sticks to a safer, more logical approach when it comes to finding happiness, even if said approach jeopardizes his moral integrity. His inclusion in the story expands upon the themes introduced in the first episode, where he continues as the symbolic stand-in for Oda, Shu's kendo rival. Much like Oda, Nabuca can't quite understand Shu's reckless, instinctual behavior.
The great thing about Nabuca is that, unlike many characters of his type, he doesn't try to be "edgy," for lack of a better term. You won't see him smirking like an idiot when he does objectionable things nor will you see him excited to kill anyone (funnily enough, those traits are relegated to another character, Tabool), because he's actually pretty level-headed and the things he's forced to do clearly affect him quite a bit. He comes across as being very human and relatable, with realistic flaws. You want to root for the guy, and you hope that Shu can eventually help him realize the errors of his ways. Many of their interactions stand out as being major highlights of the series, especially one particularly emotional scene during the show's halfway mark in which Nabuca finally shows mutual respect towards Shu in a singular act of kindness.
The visual direction of Now and Then, Here and There is nothing short of fantastic. It's just as immersive and striking as anything else in the series, being both desolate and beautiful. When the sun is out the lighting becomes harsh and overexposed, creating equally harsh shadows. You really get the surreal feeling that this future could just as easily be an entirely different world, as it appears to be nothing but miles and miles of dry stone with very few signs of life—though, the creatures that do appear really add to the setting, and are seemingly pulled straight out of a Star Wars movie. During the many recurring sunsets the majority of the frame becomes engulfed by the dauntingly large sun (which appears to have drastically grown in size over the years). Furthermore, there are numerous fantastically directed action sequences, including one in the second episode wherein stark silhouettes are laid against a vast industrial backdrop. The color design is always on point, too: Darker scenes are often punctuated with brighter glowing shapes, usually of deep red colors, but there are also softer, blue-lit scenes featuring either the full moon or sweeping washes of white light. Each of these two visual styles wholly compliments their scenes' respective moods, be they dramatic or more contemplative.
The characters, oddly, look sort of like plastic figurines. Rounded and smooth with proportions that are slightly on the smaller side, they're also low in detail and feature large, expressive faces—a trait that only helps to convey emotion. In this regard, the characters are once again reminiscent of those from Miyazaki works. While the actual animation isn't always outstanding, it does always serve its purpose. There are never any badly drawn faces lingering on the screen for long periods or time, nor are there any movements that are choppy beyond excuse; it looks pretty nice most of the time, and even at its lowest the animation is merely serviceable, not terrible. However, even in those cases, the solid shot compositions more than make up for things; scenes with barely any motion at all—ones comprised of multiple static shots—can still be stunning, thanks in part to some beautifully painted backgrounds. Regardless, there are times when the animation is legitimately impressive—the sand creature from episode eight and the entire climax of the final episode come to mind, as well as each instance of Lala-Ru's water powers being unleashed. It feels like the creators made use of limited resources (time, money, or otherwise) to make the best possible output, and they did so with excellence.
The soundtrack for Now and Then, Here and There is fucking great. It's composed by Taku Iwasaki, the same person who went on to create the equally impressive Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann soundtrack. The music ranges from smooth, weeping strings to glitchy, claustrophobic electronica and everything in between. Some tracks outright sound like death itself (namely "The Bottom"), with its dark droning synths and jazzy piano runs. Other similar tracks feature eerie strings layered over the synths alongside repeated heavy piano tones or dissonant arpeggiated bells. Then there are more up-beat tracks, some of which are hectic and paranoia-inducing, while others are joyful or inspiring. There's an extremely varied set of tracks here, all of which accompany the visuals perfectly.
However, the series' main theme (or "Standing in the Sunset Glow" as it's called) is the real star of the show, and it's absolutely gorgeous—just unbelievably beautiful, consisting of a sorrowful but uplifting melody initially performed by only a string section. It's played in just about every episode at just the right moments, but the track only gets to be heard with full instrumentation in the final episode—as if it had been teasing you the entire time. Since you'd have already heard it many times in its stripped-down form by that point, you'll have an unexpectedly strong connection with it once you do hear its full rendition—not to mention, the events taking place are emotional enough on their own. In fact, not very much is said during this final episode, and you're not beaten over the head with the reasons for why characters are doing what they're doing—which is true for other points in the series, as well. That's masterful directing, where the visuals and the music can say everything that needs to be said.
Of all the characters, Sara is perhaps the one who's put through the most shit—more than Shu, even. She's the only character besides him to be brought to the barren world of the future and is vastly unequipped for her rough stay in comparison. It's very interesting to see how these two people wind up reacting to the same environment in different ways: Shu incessantly pushes forward, while Sara only loses steam after her luck continues to plummet. To her credit, though, she does show moments of strength—one such example being her beautifully animated escape scene—but she never seems to catch a break. Over the course of the series, Sara spirals deeper and deeper into depression, to the point where she can barely find value in her own life anymore.
Whereas Shu's attempts to persuade Nabuca deal with how one should live according to their heart, his attempts to persuade Sara deal with regaining one's desire to live at all. It proves to be the more difficult task for him, being that he's consistently had trouble putting his beliefs into words throughout the whole series; from his perspective, the importance of living is such an inherent truth that he's never taken the time to piece together why. How, then, could he possibly convince someone else that life is worth living when that person only seems to experience misery? Sara's character arc is extremely dynamic, and it concludes in a satisfying way which inevitably demonstrates—through example—what Shu couldn't seem to express through his words alone. Additionally, Sara choosing not to succumb needlessly to any feelings of revenge after all is said and done is admirable and quite moving. Just episodes before, she had lost control of herself just at the sight of a person whom she had blamed for her suffering.
Ultimately, all of the series' major characters are opposites of Shu in one way or another: Lala-Ru is the detached cynicism to his overwhelming optimism, Nabuca is the cold logic to his burning emotion, Sara is the soul-crushing emptiness to his undying will to live, and Hamdo is the selfish greed to his selfless compassion. And all of them, barring Hamdo, are made better people by the end of the story through their time spent with Shu. He can then feel satisfaction, knowing that his beliefs are true and that great things can indeed happen if you just keep your head up—and so long as you still choose to live.
So, why did Akitarou Daichi never return to this style of anime? Perhaps he felt that he had done all he wanted with more serious territory, or it could be that he simply had enough of it and felt more at home doing comedy. After all, that seems to be his forte. And sure, maybe some of the credit for the way this series turned out really lies with the other staff members who were involved. Whatever the case may be, Daichi's sole endeavor of this kind is more than satisfying and is a masterpiece all the same.
