This accolade is never given lightly. Given its origin, it demands to be an award of the highest order as a recognition of epic courage, selflessness and sheer badassery; spoilers for Super Dimensional Fortress Macross are coming up, by the way.

In the Do You Remember Love? movie version of Macross, Roy Foker dies a heroic death in in battle so his comrades might live; in the TV series however, the events play out differently…and in some ways it’s even more powerful. It happens during a fairly fast-paced portion of the story immediately after a dream sequence-induced clip episode, so a lot of other stuff is already going on. The Macross has returned to Earth, but the occupants are not allowed to leave the ship; Hikaru is recovering from war wounds in hospital; Minmay is suffering from the pressures of new-found fame and as a result there’s a growing rift between them.

The build-up to Roy’s demise is really well done because there are numerous sleight-of-hand plot points to ramp up the tension and simultaneously foreshadow the event. Hikaru is unable to accompany his wingmen, resulting in a last-minute substitute; there’s a promise to see Claudia again with a carefree declaration of what he plans to do when he returns from his mission (as someone quipped in Scream, “when someone says ‘I’ll be right back,’ they’ll NEVER ‘be right back’.”); then the ground crew who inspect Roy’s plane afterwards make a grim discovery in the empty cockpit.

Roy’s final moments are a surprisingly poignant and moving piece of work on the part of the show’s writers: it’s very quiet and low-key. You might be able to put two and two together and say “I saw that coming,” but even so, the ordinary-ness catches you off balance. Most heroic deaths (his in DYRL? included) show the character going out in a blaze of glory but this time it was, let’s face it, how death often is in reality rather than how it often is in stories.

Part of the appeal of the Heroic Death as a plot device is the fact that it celebrates the act of dying with one’s boots on. The idea that someone meets his or her end while at work or doing something productive adds meaning to their final moments of life, and the numerous connotations and inferences are therefore mostly positive. It’s a sudden end that doesn’t occur due to natural causes; it’s a hero’s death.

The original Pineapple Salad scene is nevertheless different from, say, its DYRL? equivalent, and most deaths occuring while wearing boots for that matter. The gunfire is behind them, there’s no fighting or shouting; it’s a quiet, friendly domestic scene quite removed from the violence that preceded it.

It’s more than a man dying with his boots on. It’s a man who has fought the good fight, drawn enemy fire away from a comrade, brought his men safely home then kept his promise to the woman he loves despite being gravely injured…and we don’t even realise how injured he is until afterwards because he didn’t draw attention to his condition. Instead, he joined Claudia for dessert then finally keeled over with a guitar in his hand.

Let me reiterate that last point.

Roy Foker died. With. A. Guitar. In. His. Hand.

Now look me in the eye and tell me this isn’t a true hero.

It’s also important to remember how the series portrayed him. For some reason, I always thought of him as the arrogant, womanising fighter jock but in both this and his younger self’s appearance in Macross Zero he’s more than that, and I feel as though I haven’t been giving him enough credit for it.

Take the peaceful, cool-headed Bruno Global. He often looked out of his depth at first, like Captain Smith on the Titanic: a distinguished veteran offered a prestigious job before he retires, only to see events take a dramatic and unexpected turn. Global is a well-decorated officer with an illustrious career and as such is a good leader in a crisis, but it’s just as easy to imagine him living a peaceful life smoking his pipe by the fire at home.

Roy Foker in contrast is one of those people for whom it is hard to imagine doing anything other than flying a plane. During their time on the ground, the Roy Fokers of this world feel lost and without purpose; they often cause trouble for themselves and those around them because their role as a pilot is so integral to who they are. Hikaru drifted into the job but Roy was destined to fly a plane, live dangerously and do risky, heroic things.

For the most part I look upon the heavy drinking, womanising archetype with disapproval but Roy somehow gets away with it. This is I think partly because he does things most of us secretly want to do – namely drinking a lot, chasing the girls and putting yourself into dangerous situations to look cool – but wouldn’t dare do ourselves. He has the balls and we haven’t.

There’s actually an element of self-control to Roy’s excesses however, in that he can be the sober professional and skilled role model when the situation demands it. Unlike the ‘loose cannon’ type of fighter jock, his ability to behave appropriately when really necessary is as effortless as his ability to misbehave without showing a trace of remorse when he can get away with it.

When at play, Foker was a man of questionable morals but when the proverbial crap hit the fan and there was work to be done, his unwavering resolve to Do The Right Thing was anything but questionable. Although his reputation was that of a man who partied hard, thought monogamy is used to make furniture and relished a fight, it’s ironic to think that his final moments were in the peaceful company of a long-term girlfriend while waiting for a healthy dessert. The pineapple salad.

HE HATES IT

The gritty and unconventional storytelling and aesthetic of Kaiji are refreshing and it’s therefore still a heady weekly dose of ugly, dirty, suspensful badass-ness and, well,  everything that the generic otaku fodder isn’t. The fact that there’s nothing quite like it around right now is as true now as it was way back in ’07…and it still kicks.

Trying to explain exactly why I enjoy this so much is harder than merely saying “it’s different…” however. Apart from the fact that the entire cast comprises of blokes who fell out of the ugly tree and are drawn in thick line-art in the style of the Gorillaz, virtually all of them – our hero included – are worthless losers so it requires some elaboration into why any of them are deserving of your attention. The subject matter is also fairly niche: I’m not an expert on gambling but the choice of games used in the show are in of themselves either too simple or trivial to be sources of high tension or drama.

The first arc of the second season for example is Underground Chinchiro, a variant on cee-lo, a straightforward dice game. Part of the dramatic weight of this portion of the series hinges on the predicament of the players since they’re playing to win money that will earn them a day’s leave from their underground workplace: the exchange rate between perica, the in-house currency and that of the standard Yen means that the small amounts involved in the bets are made to sound like huge numbers, resulting in matches whose tension is appropriate for the bizarre and hellish environment.

The players are also at their lowest ebb so if they’re not playing to escape the crushing boredom of their menial job through recreational gambling they’re desparately trying to scrape together enough cash for the prized day’s furlough. The background to the story arc piles on the pressure and raises the stakes because these guys are so close to rock bottom, in more senses than one.

Apart from the striking visual style – which can best be described as functional rather than aesthetically pleasing – and the meticulous construction of the Underground Chinchiro rules, Kaiji has one or two other narrative tricks up its sleeve. The voiceover style is a brave move in that, like many aspect of the show’s premise, it’s so over-the-top it runs the risk of backfiring and being laughable. Once you get into the series though, it’s pretty damned awesome.

The nearest comparison I can draw is the classic Don LaFontaine movie voiceover style, which was originally intended to sound epic and serious but its over-use has since made it subject of numerous parodies. If you imagine a Japanese version of the late and great LaFontaine following a down-and-out gambler and giving a running commentary of his exploits, you’d have a good idea of how dumb it might sound, and yet how pleasantly surprising it is when it actually works…which it does here.

The over-the-top-ness of the narration pushes the proceedings through the realms of ridiculous and bravely keeps going, out the other side and into the territory of “LISTEN UP AND TAKE NOTICE” credibility. Accompanied by the eerie whispers of “ざわ…” (“Zawa…”, an onomatopeia and trademark flourish of the manga-ka Nobuyuki Fukumoto), the direction throws subtlety to the wind: when the metaphorical door of opportunity slams in Kaiji’s face or when he sinks into figurative despair, you see a door in his mind’s eye physically slamming or him in his imagination flailing in a bottomless pit full of swirling ざわ… hiragana.

This unusual storytelling draws the viewer in and makes you see things from his own perspective, which makes you follow the rollercoaster ride of his triumphs and failings. As far from ordinary life as his current situation is, it’s easy to relate to the predicament of wanting to blow your wages on beer and snacks after a hard day’s work. This is when another outwardly laughable plot point – the pitiful sight of a grown man shedding streams of Manly Tears™ – is painfully significant and genuinely moving when viewed in context of its setting.

When things are going his way Kaiji is full of defiance and good intentions to better his lot but when he meets another crushing defeat he’s a sullen emotional wreck. The Underground Chinchiro Arc is fifth so far and I believe there are more to come so it’s fair to say that his journey is far from over; even so, I find myself cheering him on and waiting on the edge of my seat to see what happens next even though he has a long and painful journey ahead of him. I guess it boils down to our instinctive empathy for the underdog – the lowly working man who just wants to overcome the obstacles in his way and beat the system.

The premise is extreme and the storytelling has all the subtlety of a kick to the gut but once you’re immersed in its wordview you start to appreciate not only the attention to detail in the games themselves but also the psychological mechanics that govern the characters and the decisions they make. The narrative owes its meticulous construction to Fukumoto’s impressive knowledge of both gambling games and the mindset of the people who play them: it’s a cleverly blended mixture of nailbiting chance and shrewd strategy. It’s unpredictable and utterly gripping. ざわ… indeed.

AKGs and Fender combo HELL YEAH (1)

2DT did a good piece about the evolution of moe and how it relates to K-On and the early days of anime heroines such as those in old-school Ghibli movies, which led to me making some massive rambling comment about the characters. There’s a great discussion going on there if you’re interested but I wanted to make a proper job of elaborating on my comment to 2DT’s article…namely how it’s more to do with the fact that I’m a shameless tech nerd.

To summarise my previous experience of this show: I approached K-On as a music-centric comedy with the appreciation of the characters and their goofy charms surfacing later. I’ve not seen many viewers make a big deal out of the musical techniques or equipment though…apart from Lelangir, but that was on his old blog that I can’t find links to any more(2).

K-On has a lot of gags and references that I think musicians would appreciate even more than everyone else, especially early on in the first season (Kakifly is a musician, or knows a few. I’m sure of it[3]). When 2DT’s post prompted me to think about exactly why Mio and Azusa were my favourite characters, this was what sprung to mind: it was down to the music and I could relate to those two more than the others.

Because of the appeal of Azusa as the ‘serious’ or ‘straight guy’ role of serious musician in a room full of kids who want to slack off and have fun, her character is perhaps one that frustrated band members can relate to. My memory of her introduction to the story is a little hazy now but iirc she walks in from the jazz club with plenty of good intentions and proper musical experience, which appears to be wasted when she’s forced to dress in embarrassing outfits and eat cake.

My music geek brain immediately felt for her then asked itself “why a Fender Mustang?” because K-On’s another example of how these guitars enjoy a cult following in Japan (Solanin, anyone?). I reckon part of the reason is the short scale length and slim neck are comfortable for players with small hands; it was originally sold as a student model so the likes of Azusa playing one makes a lot of sense. The controls and circuitry are easy to customise so between this, the playability and the relatively low price, the Mustang lends itself well to youngsters who want to modify or repair their instrument on the cheap.

Why is a (minor) classic of musical Americana popular in Japan? During my online travels around the Mustang history I stumbled on Hisato ‘Char’ Takenaka, a guitarist who made his breakthrough in the mid 70s with a funky jazz/blues technique played on a Fender Mustang. It earned him quite an enduring domestic fan following: I’ve read reviews that call him the “Jeff Beck of Japan”! His hit tune SMOKY has fast, skilful playing with plenty of whammy bar pitch dives and fretboard virtuosity; no doubt the scale length and sensitive vibrato bridge of the Mustang work well with his energetic style, and off the back of this high-profile endorsement Fender found plenty of customers in Japan who wanted a Mustang like Char’s.

Could Azusa’s choice of instrument be a subtle nod to the generation of Japanese kids who were inspired to pick up a Mustang and aspire to be the next Char? It’s an interesting thought. I must admit that any musician is very prone to gravitating towards certain styles and gear because of those who inspire them; I know I was.

Similarly, Mio’s behaviour and choice of instrument immediately made me think “I can see where she’s coming from.” It’s cruelly ironic that she’d rather step back when playing live but for a number of reasons winds up in the spotlight. A crowd of people listening to every note you play is embarrassing so was Mio written in as a leftie Fender Jazz Bass player to get attention and entertainment value from the discomfort that results? Or did I miss another reference this time? Suggestions welcome.

Back when I was still deciding what instrument to play, a friend lent me his cheap Squier Jazz bass (right-handed) to try out. Being a weedy self-conscious sixteen-year-old, I figured that if I did get into a band I could merrily plunk away at the side of the stage…without the fact that playing right-handed felt clumsy and *wrong* to me being too obvious.

There must be many other fellow southpaws out there who are overjoyed when they find left-handed instruments…I struggled for years with ‘rightie’ guitars until the looming threat of RSI in my fretting hand gave me the excuse to track down a leftie bass and make the switch. If it weren’t for hearing the Verve’s A Storm in Heaven I may never had made the decision to learn guitar in the first place but as it turns out, Simon Jones played a J-bass on that album(4). They’re great sounding basses, anyhow.

One moment I found utterly hilarious in the early episodes was how Yui’s choice of instrument came about – most of the time it’s a case of “my hero plays one…” or “it sounds cool…” but “it looks cute!” is very…Yui-esque. I’m not sure though how many people know how much a Les Paul costs when new, but it was the comedic icing on the cake when she walked out the shop with something worth more than what the average adult earns in a month after haggling the clerk down.

Someone of her stature jumping with a Les Paul slung over her shoulder is impressive (5)

The episode where they book a studio when the club room at school is closed highlights the attention to detail in the show’s artwork that probably slips right by all but the real gearheads: the rooms are kitted out with Pearl drum kits, JCM900 series Marshall half stacks, Ampeg SVT bass rigs and…something that could be either a Roland JC120 or some blackface Fender combo. Hard to be sure at that particular angle. It’s like trying to discern whether the realism is repeated product placement or whether it’s for the viewers’ benefit. Not that I care either way.

In any case, I wager this post was probably more fun to write than it is to read, but eh.

Footnotes

1. All the Mio fanart shows her wearing K-701s…how anyone could afford a set of those on a student’s budget is anyone’s guess. I recommend the K-240 mkIIs on personal experience though.
2. I recall him mentioning that Yui’s playing technique improved over the course of the two seasons, such as using different chord shapes. Nice touch.
3. A fan of P-Model and the pillows at least, if the character names are anything to go by.
4. Jazz Basses are used by Chris Friedrich of Caspian and Dominic Aichison of Mogwai too, which influenced my eventual decision. Check ‘em out if you can!
5. Solid mahogany and maple? Those things are heavy!

Back when I started blogging it was all about Haruhi Suzumiya…and that was the first season before everyone got upset about Endless Eight. For Madoka though the opinions I’ve seen so far have been overwhelmingly positive; while in the NoitaminA slot Fractale has met a lukewarm reception and Hourou Musuko has been excellent in a more understated way, Shinbo’s latest offering has set the fandom on fire…consistently and repeatedly.

To answer some of the comments on my first article I wanted – but possibly failed in the attempt – to clarify the difference between expressing pleasant surprise at the fact that I was enjoying a show belonging to a genre I didn’t have much prior experiencing in, and dismissing the said genre out of hand. Simply put, my lack of knowledge of magical girl shows prevents me from saying whether it’s normally capable of credibility and dramatic weight. I’ve read of Princess Tutu mentioned before as a particularly good series and given my appreciation of dark, slow-burning and well-written stories in general, I appreciate the recommendation and will look into it when I can.

My doubts really lie with the concept of magic in fiction in general. Has my science-based education given me an appreciation of SF stories at the cost of my enjoying fantasy/magical ones? It’s an interesting thought. The reason why I’m such a big SF fan is because the underlying ideas have grounding in something recognisable to me; it’s either a current concept or technology applied in a new way, or an extension of them. I feel ‘connected’ and ‘safe’ with science fiction because it has direct link – if even a tenuous one – with science fact. People die when they’re killed; matter cannot be created out of thin air. Writers can be creative and unpredictable up to a point, but they’re bound by certain laws and constraints.

I don’t get the same sense of security with magical stories, simply because the concept of ‘magic’ itself implies anything can happen so I worry that a dramatic cliff hanger or similar tight spot can be solved easily with a wave of a wand, rendering the tension or need for explanation meaningless. Fortunately I’ve experienced some applications of magical fantasy such as the Nasuverse, which mentions ‘equivalent exchange’ and even J K Rowling declaring that in Harry Potter stories “when you’re dead, you’re dead,” that don’t do this.

The best example I’ve so far seen is the magic portrayed in Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea, in which magic has its own laws, levels of influence and knowledge, and genuine elements of cause and effect. To me, it’s so thoroughly structured and has so many parallels to Real Life that Le Guin’s idea of magic is a science unto itself.

MINOR SPOILERS FOR MADOKA EPISODE 9 AND 10

How is this rambling relevant to Madoka? The most important recent development in the story is that magic is not a limitless power – it’s like mana that is measured in finite and dramatically significant quantities, or it’s structured in that there is a definite cause and effect (although it throws up the same paradox problems as any story involving time travel. I’ll let that slide for now). The idea that teenage angst reverses the very power of entropy and greases the axles of the mechanics of the universe was so unexpected! In a way, this adds a SF element to the show but it sets the premise into a tangible and structured form: actions have consequences and there’s a (very cruel!) semblance of order in the universe.

I'm assuming this is a visual gag relating to how it's not worth the cost. Or something

Whether it’s based on hard science or a completely fabricated system in the writer’s head, turns out to be irrelevant when you’re so immersed in the emotional impact. Half the appeal of Madoka is in the marriage of Shinbo’s visually arresting direction and Kajiura’s haunting soundtrack but, as one of my commenters pointed out another important factor is the writing, which can be attributed to Gen Urobuchi.

This is a name I wasn’t familiar with but those plot twists that hit us every week can I think be attributed to Urobuchi’s screenplay. I’m taking a personal interest in how he’s going about it because it’s his novel that’s forming the basis for the Fate/Zero anime adaptation this year but his input for Madoka is superb. Even when you can see a plot point coming a mile off, the relevance and drama still hit you like an express train.

This is a combination of creative talents that works wonderfully, and I wish had happened sooner (if Urobuchi had worked on Cossette, would the notoriously nebulous plot have felt more solid?). In Bateszi’s recent appraisal of the show, and Celeste’s comments that follow, some good points were raised about how Shinbo directs productions that superficially appeal to the latest otaku trends but have undercurrents that go further. Madoka is aiming higher than character archetype fan service or simple tearjerking, even if he steps close to the line at times.

I believe Kyubey is a poor choice for ‘sealer of contracts’ since he lacks the humanity that would allow him to emotionally connect with would-be mahou shoujo and more effectively persuade them to put their lives on the line. Whoever’s using human kids as fuel for a galactic power station clearly hasn’t researched human nature thoroughly enough if a demonic cat is the best sales rep they could come up with.

So yeah. I dig the SF aspects of Madoka but I’ve already been slowly trying to bring myself round to enjoying fantasy too. The direction shouldn’t be written off as just another example of a contemporary anime director’s fan pandering; the writing is excellent and I’m looking forward to more of the same. Most importantly perhaps we have the likes of Homura and Kyouko whose backstories are so powerful and compelling I find myself wide-eyed on the edge of my seat even when the futility of their situations are painfully clear.

The validity of employing scientific theory vs. fantastical magic is irrelevant: the fact that its universe is literally powered by pure, raw emotion is the clearest indicator to me as to where the series’ intentions lie.

“I am the bone of my sword…” and so on. Make of that parallel what you will

I have it on good authority that the magical girl genre isn’t always aimed solely at a young female audience and, if you look at how long ago the Cutie Honey franchise ran before Hideaki Anno did his live-action remake, it never was. In terms of premise and outward appearances Madoka is the sort of thing you’d expect to see kids tuning into on Saturday mornings but what makes it one of the first big pleasant surprises of 2011 is how much else is hidden up its frilly sleeve.

My mention of Hideaki Anno is quite deliberate in that he and Akiyuki Shinbo strike me as being remarkably similar…spiritual brothers almost. If Anno is the antisocial old-school otaku with a room full of mecha figures and 80s VHS tapes Shinbo is the tech-savvy kid brother with an extensive geometry set on his desk and a shelf full of textbooks that teach you how to use the colour filters in Photoshop.

To really put it into perspective, the magical girl genre is one aspect of the anime fandom I purposefully avoided completely from day one as a fan. There are certain things I have virtually no interest in: primetime soaps, most sports, owning a video games console, nightclubs…and magical girl anime is on that list.

Then there are the character designs: they have the innocent, harmless appearance of those in Hidamari Sketch, a show I enjoyed but for wildly different reasons, so I had no reason to believe it was going to ‘do’ serious at all. Simply put, I’ve never got any impression that the genre held any entertainment value for me; if Madoka Magica is just a magical girl anime with Hidasketch character designs, how then did it draw in a curmudgeonly snob like me?

Using the premise of great responsibility resting on characters who are really too young to fully grasp the ramifications of their actions is hardly new; because it retains so many of the tropes and clichés of the genre I’ve read claims that Madoka Magica is being cleverly subversive. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. For sure, the issue of granting wishes is taken very seriously indeed, and it’s weird that the title character hasn’t become a mahou shoujo when we’re at the halfway mark of the episode run.

The fights against witches, the Grief Seeds, all the weird and ‘magical’ bits strike me as a whole family of MacGuffins because the meat of the story – the stuff that keeps the attention of this cynical twenty-something male who usually couldn’t care less about kids with magical powers – lies outside of that. It’s a familiar type of entertainment (magical girl anime) that’s presented in a refreshing way (with Shinbo-isms and Kajiura’s music) and that is I think partly what makes it stand out.

I was intrigued by the idea that Kalafina were selected for the performance of the end theme and the BGM is quite simply superb. I wasn’t drawn to the show on that alone, but I was certainly tempted by the prospect of one of my favourite directors and one of my favourite OST writers collaborating again. The last time I experienced the combination of Shinbo’s direction and Kajiura’s music was the very experimental and decidedly un-commercial Petite Cossette, so what common ground could Hidasketch and Cossette, two such different productions, have?

I’m personally getting a real kick out of the sweet-and-sour blend of sprightly cuteness in the character designs and Kajiura’s haunting score combined with Shinbo’s nightmarish imagery. Some unlikely pairings pull a production in two directions at once with the end result of a directionless mess that doesn’t know what it wants to be; in Madoka’s case it’s a storytelling wolf in sheep’s clothing that turns around and gives you a vicious bite to the rear when you least expect it.

I believe it was the third episode when most of us following the show gave a simultaneous exclamation of “wow…shit just got real.” The dark undercurrents such as the so-happy-it-can’t-last setup of Madoka’s family, the quality writing in her mother’s sage advice and the fact that everyone finds Kyubey creepy aren’t what I expected at all. The whole idea of the magical girl genre – kids barely in their teens making Faustian pacts and fighting to the death – sounds hackneyed on paper but in this case it works. Not only that, it pulls it off with dramatic weight and palpable tension.

Shinbo has somehow made a magical girl cartoon that’s dark, gritty and unpredictable; I won’t go as far as a hyperbolic claim that Shinbo is doing for magical girl anime what Christopher Nolan has done for Batman, but I will admit that Madoka feels solid and its moments of emotion give it a degree of credibility I never expected it to have.

After a couple of big anime disappointments lately it was great to have my scepticism cast rudely aside and stop worrying over what I’m supposed to make of a show. It’s too early to say whether I’ll cite Madoka as a real favourite in the long run but right now I’m thinking of it as one of those titles that reminds me why I’m a fan and why I write for this blog to convey my enthusiasm: it’s inventive, deceptively meaningful and, well, just plain good at what it sets out to do.

The novel laid the philosophy on quite thick but fortunately there’s enough going on in there to make for a decent movie from the SF and conspiracy-thriller aspects without exploring anything else too deeply. I actually think the film would’ve been bogged down with Kyogoku’s long-winded intellectual musings but even with a more digestible narrative it still falls flat and, oddly, seems to be aimed at a somewhat different audience from the source material.

I did think the setup and background was very well done though – the views of Hazuki’s home from the surveillance cameras and the little detail of printing the SVC logo on the side of buses set up the Big Brother society of the novel very effectively. The character designs for Hazuki, Ayumi and the counsellor Shizue were also exactly how I’d imagined they’d be; needless to say it’s subjective but I was pleasantly surprised at how the character designer’s visions of them were so similar to my own.

The rendering of Cat painted her as being slightly older than I imagined…I had an image in my head of someone who was around the same age as the other girls and, for some reason, looked a bit more destitute. I suppose there’s room for interpretation in aspects such as these, so I wasn’t bothered with how they were handled. Mio seemed much more jovial – excessively so – than I felt the book portrayed her…which is an appropriate juncture to start on where things began to go wrong.

My take on the novel’s worldview is that the characters are, by and large, socially maladjusted thanks to their generation’s isolation and reliance on technology. Hazuki for instance comes across as clumsy and stupid here, but she’s supposed to be representative of the kids in L-G and how they find understanding of their surroundings so difficult. There are numerous points in the novel that indicate regular use of hand-held monitors has a severe detrimental effect on people’s ability to judge things like direction and distance; Hazuki has impaired communication skills and sense of physical perspective thanks to the environment she grew up in. The more streetwise personalities of Mio and Ayumi are the exceptions rather than the rule.

One unforgivable change was merging the role of a side-character into Kunugi, the old police officer and ‘good guy’ who works alongside Shizue. In terms of streamlining what is after all a fairly long novel into one feature film, it does require some editing; I thought the way the movie shook up Ishida’s place in the story for example was really well done, since it built up to a tense finale that could leave even those of us who’d read the book surprised.

What the film did to Kunugi’s character however crossed the line. It required a complete U-turn of his morals and values since the loyalties of the side-character in question were the polar opposite: he came out of it in an unflattering light and that left a bad taste in my mouth.

The final act, which involves a showdown at SVC HQ (very reminiscent of the box-shaped lab in Mouryou no Hako, coincidentally), was the only part of the original novel’s narrative that really stretched the credibility factor for me: the idea of a high school girl being able to storm an entire building armed with a plasma rifle is a bit far-fetched, even if she’s a genius hacker. If that was implausible, imagine how much worse it would look if she was on board what can only be described as a robotic cuddly toy…I genuinely have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what the writers were thinking at this point. Why swap a decent concept that’s very cool and just about believable for something so ridiculous?

That reactionface is completely genuine and wholly appropriate

The fact that the film doesn’t make any attempt to dive into Kyogoku’s philosophical angle is perfectly understandable: it’s a necessary sacrifice in delivering a plotline that is able to move along and make sense to a casual moviegoer who hasn’t read the source material. It is however still a futuristic murder-mystery with a gruesome revelation at the end so dumbing it down and trying to lighten the mood earlier shouldn’t be on the agenda at all. Some of the moments of violence were also shown in graphic detail, which only made the contrast more jarring and baffling.

This makes me wonder: who exactly is this film made for? The novel is long, complex and takes a long time to build momentum; it’s thematically dark, mentally demanding and is very serious in tone. Just because it’s sensible for the film to be more accessible, that doesn’t mean it ought to pull proceedings in the direction of some sort of high school action show.  The concept of communication was an important one, but someone decided to use that idea as an excuse for a breezy girly romp about friendship. WRONG.

I’m not suggesting it should’ve been as deadpan as the novel was, nor should it have retained those lengthy bits of dialogue where the characters stand around discussing moral issues – heck, that was heavy-going on paper! – but it doesn’t seem to want to be a convincingly dark murder-mystery either. Except, that’s what Loups-Garous fundamentally IS…there’s no way you can sugar-coat or sanitise this sort of tale without tearing the heart out of it, which is what has happened here.

I’m sorry this has turned into such a rant but it was a solidly-written story with a background that’s equally complex and has plenty to say on several levels…and yet the film somehow manages to completely ignore its strengths, misunderstand its intentions and deliver something totally different and very much inferior. I now feel like one of those Tsukihime diehards by beating my head on my desk and mumbling “THERE IS NO LOUPS-GAROUS ANIME” to anyone who will listen.

On the plus side, it’s made me appreciate the book more.

I really liked these two in the end

I suspect the novel is even better (aren’t they all?) because the artwork and screenplay were a bit clumsy yet the characters were fascinating and, personal reservations about King-esque horror aside, it’s a good story. These were the series’ saving graces, in addition to a wonderfully fascinating moral ambivalence that just managed to make it memorable.

I agree with Omo in his own assessment of the show – the character designs and the way that certain plot points were conveyed robbed them of the gravity they deserved. Ozaki’s reaction to seeing Kyouko turn – namely, using her as a human guinea pig for his battle against the Risen – was painful to watch and spoke volumes about how he was at the end of his tether…but it was one of the many occasions when I was distracted by “dat hair!”

On paper (quite literally, I expect) Shiki works well on a number of levels so the ludicrous hairstyles don’t do it any favours. The small town surrounded by the trees used to make grave markers, the gothic-lolita vamps, the creepy background art…effective aspects often lessened by trivial stylistic quirks.

Whether you loved them, hated them or loved to hate them the characters were remarkably well-written. This is far from the first time I’ve seen vampires carry the emotions and motivations they had in life, but it was still very well done. Nao wanted to be reunited with her family; Tohru still wanted to protect his best friend; Ritsuko refused to cast aside her humanity. They stay with you, lame character designs notwithstanding.

I can’t not put in a few words in defence of Megumi though. She was, quite rightly really, portrayed as bratty and self-centred but I think she was a typical adolescent trapped in a place where she didn’t belong (in that sense she and Natsuno shared some common ground). It’s this point where you have to ask yourself how deserving of sympathy the vampires are, being as they are people who strictly speaking ought to be dead already.

As irritating and thoughtless as she was on occasion, I can sympathise with Megumi’s situation more than I’d like to admit: I know full well how isolated and stifled you can feel in a rural town apparently populated by dull, ignorant people who refuse to accept anyone who falls outside their blinkered definition of the norm, be it something as trivial as someone’s accent or the way they dress.

The final insult was her eventual demise: being violently erased from existence by the very things she’d grown to despise. Many of the vampires were simply restrained and given the stake, but Megumi was made to suffer in excuciating agony and eventually dispatched by people who didn’t seem to care who or what she was. It was physically unsettling of course, but I found it particularly upsetting to know that her final thoughts were very human and understandable: a classmate she had a crush on, a sense of being an outcast, and an overwhelming desire to seek a better life and escape that miserable little shithole of a town once and for all.

The scene that depicted Megumi’s death was so gruesome and sadistic I felt it had to be saying more than just showing what happens to a vampire that gets its just desserts. As I watched her suffer I found myself agreeing with Ozaki in declaring Sotoba to be a town whose collective attitude and behaviour may make it deserving to be wiped off the map.

The townspeople had stopped merely fighting to dispose of the threat; they were losing the moral high ground. If the vampires are monsters for killing to survive, does that make the humans monsters too for doing the same?

The epidemic in my view doesn’t infect just the people who are turned into vampires – in order to protect their families and homes, the people take to doing pretty deplorable things unsettlingly quickly. As a group of women disposes of the vampires’ corpses they stop for a break, one of them reaching out for an onigiri; she notices she literally has blood on her hands, but barely flinches.

The portrayal of the town as a whole, identified by 2DT quite early on, sums up a lot of the good and bad things about a secluded, traditional community. On the plus side it’s small and friendly enough for everyone to know everyone else and look out for each other in tough times, but the events involving the Risen highlight how that can quickly dissolve and reveal the more primitive desire for survival of one’s own.

I don’t want to do anything as simplistic as claim the vampires are bad and the villagers are good, or paint the inhabitants of Sotoba as bigoted rural fools while the vampires are an endangered species that should be left to do their thing with impunity. The truth I think contains bits of both; it’s also a little difficult for me to discern whether the writing is depicting the human condition at its lowest ebb in a general sense, or whether it’s being deliberately critical of that small town mentality.

I must admit I have some negative opinions on the small town archetype thanks to my current situation so I’m perhaps more sympathetic towards Megumi and Natsuno than I perhaps ought to have been. Although it looked too camp to be a completely serious gothic chiller, I still admire what Shiki did in bringing the characters to life: it gives humanity to the monsters and shows the monster in humanity. The impression you get is more mixed than you’d expect from a straightforward horror story about a vampire invasion of an unsuspecting town.

I was also strangely forgiving of Sunako: behind the facade of puppet master her intentions were understandable, if not good for the rest of the town. Had she perished in the flames I’d have felt enormously sorry for her but was her survival a good thing, for her or for anyone else? The question of whether the survivors even ‘won’ can I think only be answered with an affirmative if merely ‘surviving’ constitutes winning. It’s a pyrrhic victory really.

Incidentally, A Day Without Me did a really good two-part restrospective…and the final thoughts from Caraniel, a new blogger I stumbled on in the process of reading it, is worth a read too.

Satisfied that I’d at least discovered something about the lives of characters who were out of high school I then learned that it was directed by Ryutaro Nakamura, which was another happy coincidence. As a matter of fact the storyline of REC is itself founded on happy coincidences and how things sometimes just…happen. Nakamura’s involvement may also be the crucial factor that tips this from being a likeable yet ordinary story into something a bit more special.

The opening scenes are predictable enough: Fumihiko’s date stands him up but at the last minute the quirky and vivacious Aka appears and, with nothing to lose from spending an evening out with a pretty girl, he ends up going to the cinema with her instead. One thing leads to another (thanks in part to the aforementioned house fire) and the two of them end up living together…yet neither is entirely sure what sort of relationship they have.

REC takes a different path to the usual slice-of-life romantic drama however. For one thing, they spend the night together after their first date and then afterwards revert to the original set-up of being two young adults getting to know each other through exchanging movie quotes over teriyaki and beer. Instead of the relationship developing with dates followed by co-habitation, theirs seems to happen in a refreshingly back-to-front fashion but it’s woven skilfully enough into the story to prevent it being a gimmick.

Fumihiko is a junior member of an advertising firm who’s just had his big break – an ad campaign which, again by happy coincidence, soon brings in an up-and-coming voice actress: the girl he recently met and who now lives in his flat. Believe it or not, these ARE all genuine coincidences but this is the only aspect that demands a suspension of disbelief from the viewer: it’s everyday realism from here on in.

The portrayal of their careers offers insight into the Japanese advertising and seiyuu industries but the important matter is how the work-life balance affects a couple’s relationship…specifically the unusual state of affairs concerning Fumihiko and Aka. He’s frustrated that they are living together yet their relationship doesn’t seem to be progressing; she’s concerned that her career will be harmed if her personal life were to encroach on her professional one.

The most important thing here is, as you’d expect, the characters. Aka comes across as a little eccentric: she wanted to become an actress because she idolises Audrey Hepburn (a fact reflected in the episode titles) but she never goes far enough down the naïve ‘cute’ route to come across as a moe airhead. In fact, given her determination coupled with genuine kind-heartedness she’s one of the most endearing anime heroines I’ve ever encountered. Similarly Fumihiko initially seems to be after a repeat of their initial one-night stand but he gradually learns where his priorities really are.

The two leads visibly grow as people personality-wise and their mistakes are of the easily-understood variety. You find yourself hoping they stick together and overcome their problems; there are none of those facepalm-inducing moments where you ask yourself “how can they be so stupid?” I’ve read one or two reviews of the original manga of this, and it appears that whole chapters involve repeated incidents of Aka and Fumihiko making baffling and impulsive decisions, which smacks of filler and patchy writing to me. Surprisingly there are no such things here; I reckon this could be a rare example of the adaptation being more focused and satisfying than the story that inspired it.

I certainly can’t fault the direction. I’ve been an admirer of Nakamura’s work ever since Lain, and both Kino’s Journey and Ghost Hound were a break from the norm too; a straightforward romantic drama seems like a bit of a departure given the weirdness he’s dealt with in the past (stranger things have happened I suppose…such as Osamu Dezaki directing Clannad) but every now and then his distinctive style is apparent.

Take his masterful use of light in scene composition for instance: the colour palette rarely deviates from the usual pastel shades of the genre but when it does, it’s all the more effective. In one particular scene Aka and Fumihiko are in his flat having an argument; there’s a very stark and Nakamura-esque contrast of light and shadow in the room that heightens the feelings of discord and tension.

In another, Aka temporarily moves out and Fumihiko begins to realise how much he misses her being around. The two of them are shown in their separate environments in monochrome, but little details like bottles of Aka’s hair shampoo and her toothbrush on Fumihiko’s bathroom shelf are rendered in full colour. It’s similar to the graduated colour saturation trick employed in the 1983 Tokikake film, and I recall back then how subtle yet eye-catching it was.

The cinematography overcomes the constraints of made-for-TV animation in a way that SHAFT would become so well-known for in their recent Shinbo-helmed productions but it’s merely the icing on the cake for me. Reiko Yoshida’s script and series composition seem to provide the clout in the implementation of Nakamura’s vision – perhaps the same Yoshida magic is what made Aria and K-On! work on the ‘everyday scene’ level in which nothing important happens but it’s fun to watch anyway. There’s certainly a natural, lifelike flow to the proceedings in that the characters have genuine chemistry and come to life on-screen.

The balance struck between making Aka and Fumihiko flawed yet fundamentally decent people is right on the money and it avoids the usual pitfalls of the genre such as gratuitous nudity, abrupt plot developments or whining melodrama. It also has an ending that felt so in-keeping and right…the last thing I want to do is spoil it for you so I’ll leave it there. It’s the perfect heart-warming entertainment to give you a fuzzy glow on cold winter’s evenings – a delightful little series that’s been left out in the cold for too long.

The inescapable factor is the Serial Narrative Compression Effect or, to put it simply, the fact that an episodic TV series has to be squeezed into two hours or less of screen time. Certain details have to to be left on the cutting room floor, others are shuffled around and the thematic emphasis shifts too. Itsuwari no Utahime (a.k.a. The False Songstress) does suffer from these limitations but the streamlined plotline and the production values stemming from the feature film budget are where it really shines.

Looking at previous experiences, there were several options open to Kawamori for this movie. Alienating new fans may not be an issue when the franchise has such a broad appeal to begin with, but anyone who’s seen the Unlimited Blade Works without watching the Fate/Stay Night TV series first will tell you how the experience can be a little frustrating. The remake has to offer something new on its own; it has to leave us surprised.

The summary-style effort whereby existing footage is merely edited down is another option, and is even less desirable. The hack-job that is RahXephon: Pluralitas Concentio proves that this approach can’t offer a smoothly-paced and coherent storyline: if a set of production notes in the DVD box is essential to make sense of who’s who and what the heck is going on, something has gone very badly wrong.

An alternative approach, which The False Songstress takes in my opinion, is to retain the general concept, character traits and relationships but make use of the second chance with a bigger budget to tell the same story with new footage. This way, it’s an acceptable compromise through keeping much of what made the original successful in the first place, but isn’t held back by trying to twist the old structure into a new shape.

The end result is a surprisingly enjoyable film, albeit with some sacrifices made. Alto and Ranka already appear to know each other and the two hour duration means that, between the battles that form the opening and finale, the pacing slackens off quite noticably. Even so, it’s still the Macross Frontier story I know and love – there are none of the jarring changed allegiances and character roles that made the Eureka Seven movie so difficult to enjoy.

As a matter of fact I’d say the majority of us who loved the series will find much to love here too. The feel, the chemistry, the spirit of Frontier is unchanged; there are just some minor tweaks to keep it fresh and exciting. In fairness this is mostly on the presentation front because when it really matters this movie looks…pretty damned awesome actually.

I was wondering what Yoko Kanno’s Universal Bunny mini-album was in aid of, but it appears that the new songs were written with The False Songstress‘ concert scene in mind. Quite frankly this is one of the movie’s highlights because the sheer spectacle of that segment is up with the best of the Macross universe…which I think was a deliberate gesture. The name-dropping of Sharon Apple, Fire Bomber and Minmay herself felt like this particular offering was a genuine attempt at breaking the fourth wall and providing fan service of the highest order on both sides of the screen. And it worked.

Similarly the space battle business is I imagine breathtaking on the big screen and is the point where objective assessment of how well it fares overall goes flying out the window (not that you should assume I can be entirely unbasied about anything Macross-related anyway). It also makes this a genuinely worthwhile experience and saves it from being just another cash-in. The final shoot-out is set in motion by what is, as far as I can tell, the only significant deviation from the TV storyline; and it presents yet another take on how the power of galactic pop can save the day.

The Alto/Ranka/Sheryl love triangle is effectively set up, albeit without any more verve than before, but the subplot about Sheryl being suspected of spying but eventually financing a rescue mission on her Galactic Idoru credit card was indeed the movie’s Crowning Moment of Awesome. Her role in the story is already somewhat different from her fallen-star TV incarnation, and we’re not even yet into the second half.

There’s only so much I can write about how I was a one-man Reaction Guys re-enactment at that point, grinning so widely that the top of my head was ready to drop off. For all its flaws The False Songstress is about placing familiar characters in a bigger, bolder and more expensive-to-animate spectacle…but crucially keeping the essence of Frontier intact along the way.

Perhaps the best way of summing it up is that it’s just different enough to keep the viewers on their toes and spectacular enough visually to justify the cinematic budget. Seeing how similar ventures had failed in the past perhaps made me more relieved than I ought to have been that the Macross franchise won’t be joining them. Even discounting the “it’s good because it could’ve been so much worse…” argument though, it’s left a few new threads for the second film to pick up…and then there’s the music. Goddamn it, that music…

Oh yeah. A happy new year to everyone! It feels good to be able to write again.

I remember watching this for the first time when I was around four or five; the reruns were a few years later, when I was around seven or eight and able to appreciate it more. At that point my family had a single-floor house in Norfolk with a cherry tree in the front garden; rewatching this has dredged up memories of living in that place and sitting in front of the old 4:3 CRT Sony TV set. Good times…and now I can see how good they were.

For the benefit of readers who weren’t around back then, MCoG was a collaboration between a French team of writers and a Japanese studio, the now-infamous (if only for Naruto) Pierrot. Nostalgia value is an important factor here but even so, there’s plenty on offer in this series to make up for the so-so dubbing and cheesy 80s synth soundtrack.

Hell, I can’t even recommend this on animation quality. This is typical early 80s: recycled animation, 100% hand-drawn cels (and does it show) and Westernised yet rather primitive character designs. The children’s VAs did a convincing enough job but as for the supporting cast…I’ll say it’s a dub that shows its age and leave it there.

I can’t stress enough how large an impression this left on me as a kid though. The premise is the typical children’s adventure story set in a far-off exotic land with epic journeys and tales of hidden treasure, but MCoG has a lot more going for it than other saturday morning 80s cartoons; perhaps because of its multi-national origins, this doesn’t feel particularly Japanese at all. For one thing the imagination invested in it is in a league of its own, which is why its storyline and ideas stayed with me.

It’s a combination of a fantastical story and a background based on some real historical figures and events (early episodes even feature the notorious conquistador Francisco Pizarro). This lends an element of realism and more importantly draws on a wide range of known facts, archeological conjecture, myths and legends, then throws it all into one big melting pot that cooks up an unpredictable yarn that I’d never experienced before…and haven’t seen the likes of since.

I admit that it’s still constrained by some of the conventions of the genre – some plot points and feats of heroism are a bit improbable to my cynical adult eyes – but within those constraints it seems to be aiming higher than merely entertaining little tearaways so their parents can sleep in or make breakfast in peace. Every episode is rounded off with a live-action documentary segment that references the events that precede it; be it ocean travel, Inca architecture or South American geography. I guess they were intended to be educational, but it’s delivered as bits of trivia so the young viewer learns a thing or two without realising it’s trying to teach them something.

Whether this show succeeded in nurturing my own interests in geography and history I can’t say for sure, but one thing I’ve noticed now I’m looking at it in a more grown-up light is how it presents heroism and the concepts of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ characters. The Spaniards are by and large greedy buffoons but the GAR navigator Mendoza seems to be equally motivated by gold fever and concern for the welfare of the youngsters. Part of this fatherly concern is I think due to the fact that he rescued Esteban, the protagonist of the story, as a child but his morality is harder to pin down early on in the series.

Esteban is inquisitive and courageous but, like the other two younger main characters and unlike the adults, he travels to the New World in order to learn the truth about his father. In true kids’ adventure style, the children want to be reunited with their families while running rings around the grown-ups, who of course are obsessed with finding treasure and Cannot Be Trusted. It’s a neat example of a show that exploits the generation gap by making the young viewers feel like it’s ‘their’ thing – my parents couldn’t see why I enjoyed this show, but I was actually happy about that.

On one hand it’s a playful romp in which the three kids see amazing sights and do cool things, but the setting is one of turmoil and quite brutal moments of history; nevertheless it’s not nearly as sanitised and played-down as a more modern show of our political correctness-obsessed age might be. Interestingly the heroism they show isn’t gender-specific either; by which I mean the boys don’t go about the action and derring-do while the girl sits around waiting to be rescued. The Inca girl Zia shows a few traits of the now-familiar Miyazaki heroine as she steps into harm’s way, solves puzzles and keeps up with Esteban and Tao on their perilous journey.

Although they show moments of childhood trepidation and occasional terror, the three of them overcome the obstacles with boundless reserves of energy and determination. It’s a more old-fashioned approach I suppose in which the young viewer relates to their fears but looks on in admiration when they overcome them and looks forward to the next instalment. Again, it’s hardly gritty and true-to-life for all the research that must’ve gone into the historical backdrop, but as innocent escapism goes I’m hardly complaining.

Way back in my childhood I loved the way the series showed far-away places, bizarre technologies, lost civilisations and brave kids on the adventure of a lifetime; the only productions that even got close during the intervening years are perhaps Miyazaki’s Laputa and Akane’s Vision of Escaflowne.

So, yeah. Production values and the sheer age of the thing make MCoG a bit of a hard slog at first, but I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s on a similar level as those two. Memorable characters and cool ideas count for a lot – for what it’s worth, there was another show that was airing in Japan around the same time that proved it too…a certain quaint little animated nostalgia-fest called Macross.