Kotetsu and Barnaby aka the titular Wild Tiger and Bunny – a nickname the former comes up with for his younger partner, and the evolution of which from insulting to affectionate is a beauty to witness – are widely regarded as the past and future of the hero business: Kotetsu as the old-fashioned, “uncool” relic of simpler times who'll always do The Right Thing with no regards to the consequences to his image or the infrastructure of the city; Barnaby as the icy, PR-savvy young professional who goes about everything in life with ruthless efficiency and not a moment spared for untelevised pleasantries. On a deeper lever, however, the duo's problems stem not primarily from their different backgrounds and the generation gap between them – which are often exploited to comedic effect – but from their complete inability to open up in order to establish anything resembling a genuine partnership. They're both people unused to sharing their burdens, who've made a career out of helping others despite – and the bittersweet irony couldn't be clearer – not even being able to help themselves.
While Barnaby is consumed by the singular goal of avenging his parents' deaths a la Batman, Kotetsu – who talks a good game of being social and cheerful – is just as isolated and stuck in his own head, having lost with his wife not only the love of his life but also his most important confidant and supporter of his heroing. The fact that her death had nothing to do with his profession does not stop him from feeling guilty about not being there for her in her last moments – a sensitive choice on the writers' parts, because while any method of killing off a protagonist's spouse has its dramatic possibilities, choosing to portray the irrational guilt and self-flagellation the loved ones of the terminally ill frequently go through is far more emotionally resonant than any villain-inflicted alternative would have been. Add to this some more irrational-but-true-to-life guilt of a parent who always tries to make the best choices for his kid yet always seems to fall tragically short of making her – or himself – happy, and you've got rich character drama for miles.
If the initial problem the two face is their respective lone wolfing, it seems apt that this is precisely their point of connection, too; the thing they share that eventually allows them to understand the other and be understood in return. If that seems cheesy, it's because it kind of is. It's one of the charms of the show, along with a plot which could be described as nostalgic or predictable depending on one's general fondness of old school superhero stories, and a supporting cast nicely balanced to be big enough to offer diversity yet small enough to avoid making the story feel crowded.
