Their relationship shifts from competition to companionship as they discover how deeply art can bind people together. The scenes of Fujino and Kyomoto working side by side; heads bent over desks cluttered with pencils and sketchbooks, are intimately familiar to anyone who’s lost themselves in their craft. I know this feeling well, as I used to lose myself in 3D animation and YouTube content creation, working tirelessly for up to 12 hours a day, as well as, isolating myself from social events to pursue something that felt like my own. These moments from Fujino bring back my own memories of those endless hours, the drive to be better, and the quiet satisfaction of sharing an unspoken understanding with someone who knows the sacrifices that art demands.
Oshiyama’s direction is raw and expressive - with loose character designs and unpolished animation that allow Fujino and Kyomoto to feel incredibly real and unguarded. Their world is filled with imperfect, almost messy animation - character movements that aren’t quite smooth, hands that don’t always look right, even the occasional sappy musical cue that might seem melodramatic but lands exactly where it’s meant to. This style doesn’t imitate Fujimoto’s manga panels directly; instead, it’s Oshiyama’s personal interpretation of how the story should feel rather than look, bringing out a sense of intimacy and immediacy that pulls you into Fujino’s and Kyomoto’s lives. Every cluttered room, every smudge of pencil, every sketchbook filled with eraser marks becomes part of the atmosphere, almost like a second skin. The film’s simplicity and lack of polish add a layer of authenticity - essentially making it clear that Oshiyama poured himself into every scene. This approach transforms Look Back from a mere adaptation into something personal while capturing the beauty and frustration of creativity in a way that feels grounded and honest.
Then comes the moment that shifts everything: the axe attack on Kyomoto’s art college. Inspired by the real-life tragedy at Kyoto Animation, this event shatters Fujino, leaving her paralyzed by grief and self-doubt. She wonders if her encouragement drove Kyomoto toward a fate that could have been avoided, and the “what if” scenario begins to haunt her - what if she had never met Kyomoto, never pulled her out of her safe, quiet world? This regret is a feeling I recognize, as I, too, once reached a point where I questioned the worth of my own work. Like Fujino, I eventually stepped away, feeling that I’d never measure up to others and wondering if my sacrifices had been worth it. The film captures this conflict in one of its most moving sequences, where an imagined Fujino, who had never chosen art, saves Kyomoto in an alternate world. This double reality speaks to the desire we sometimes feel to undo the choices that brought us pain, but in Look Back, it becomes clear that the memories and experiences forged through creation are what keep us moving forward. In the end, Fujino and Kyomoto’s story is not one of regret, but of the small, unforgettable moments of connection that art can create. Through this, Look Back becomes more than just a film about art; it’s a deeply human exploration of why we create, how we connect, and how those connections, however brief, leave an imprint that lasts.
