What separates the ‘angry men duology’ from Bakemonogatari is that in the former, anger is an irreconcilable symptom of an omnipresent societal injustice. In Bakemonogatari, justice is not instituted from above by a malignantly faceless entity, i.e. the law, but rather, it is a series that is concerned with a purely introspective and individualised sense of justice.
An immediate effect of this differentiation is that anger, as emphasised through Mayoi, is something that can be worked through, understood and resolved, against the instant emotional instinct to rebuke or reciprocate it. As such, Bakemonogatari’s narrative approach could be summarised as an extended and at times obfuscatory depiction of cognitive behavioural therapy, but administered from someone who sees the answer to repressed autonomy in Dogen or Nishida Kitaro, rather than in Freud.
Directly matching its distinctively dynamic visual direction, the dialogue demands full attention from the viewer, operating on multiple simultaneous levels of wordplay, jumping between the apparent object of discussion, character flashbacks, references to both contemporary otaku convention and classical mythology, with a treatment that suggests all the above form one coalescent entity, and it accomplishes all of this while still remaining not only comprehensible, but engaging. Recalling the fact the scenes are so unconventionally long, the reason such a technique is able to work is precisely because of the rhythmic fluidity of its dialogue. While a series with a far less stylised approach would rely on a more developed sense of plot and world-building to keep viewer attention, Bakemonogatari recognises that the dialogue is its schwerpunkt, and each of its remaining constituent elements are balanced accordingly.
The editing of Bakemonogatari is reminiscent of Tetsuya Nakashima, with its mixed-media cross-cutting that, as with the dialogue, suggests a distorted and subjectivised perspectivalism. While the use of abrupt cuts and unusual points of focus for extended still shots may contribute to the overall effect, its other aspects of visual design provide a more comprehensive application of these ideas, predominantly via the use of colour and the depiction of its setting. Sharp, overpowering colours provide filters for many of its scenes, particularly red and orange, which evoke a sense of estrangement, especially when placed alongside its architectural design which is reliant on industrial, uniform patterns. Kafkaesque housing complexes, fences and power lines envelop the screen in a suffocating infinitude, and which all appear to be in place to support a burgeoning urban populace that is never seen.
Hanekawa makes a catchphrase out of “I don’t know everything, I just know what I know”, and just as her knowledge is limited despite assumptions to the contrary, the same is true of vision, as it pertains not just to Hanekawa, but to everyone. The perspectivalism denies the camera’s assumed position of an objective, comprehensive view, aligning itself closer to a hyperspecific version of reality that reflects the perceiver’s current state of experience (a viewpoint vaguely in line with the aforementioned Nishida). From this limited perspective, the editing, visual design, and the dialogue all interconnect with each other, acknowledging that moving beyond what is afforded by one’s own vision may be confusing or contradictory, but Bakemonogatari shows that despite the inherent difficulty, the process is always insightful and worth being witness to.
