Their sound is described as partly shoegaze, but to my ears the similarities are somewhat limited next to the early-90s bands of that genre; they do make use of the female vocals paired with distorted guitar-based arrangements and they also strike a balance between catchy melodies and experimental noise though. The songs are also quite punk/new wave- and powerpop-influenced so I’d say they share as much with the pillows and early Supercar as, say, My Bloody Valentine or Slowdive.

Before guitarist Chiemi Ishimoto left the band (for personal/medical reasons rather than musical ones; not that it makes it any less saddening for all concerned) their overall sound was focused around her jangly guitar riffs and Natsuko Miyamoto’s tooth-rattling distorted bass lines. Yoshino Tsutomu eventually filled the role of permanent drummer after Reiko Gotoh’s departure that occured just before their breakthrough recording deal but the song arrangements are very tight and up-tempo so the importance of a good percussionist/drummer shouldn’t be understated.

It’s also important to mention Natsuko’s vocal style, because it’s so distinctive: powerful and emotionally charged, but not screechy or shrill. Unlike the more commercially successful outfits that rely on poster-girl good looks, Masu Dore followed the indie route in that they’re reliant on the songs themselves and the unbridled energy of their live shows. The main reason why I think Natsuko is such an egaging stage presence is this frantic yet skilled musicianship as opposed to her image; she’s the kind of performer who’s cute in a scary-beautiful kind of way because she doesn’t seem to be trying.

Discography

The Kirameta demo is comprised of three songs that reappeared on their self-titled debut mini album but the two closing tracks of the latter have more in common with the up-tempo sound and power pop template of their more recent material (undoubtedly benefiting from Dave Fridmann’s production). It also features Endroll, a wonderful nine-plus minute instrumental more reminiscent of Acidman’s jazzier moments, and the opening tracks share this looser, softer feel.

Echoes of the Fridmann influence carry through to World Is Yours, which is generally more focused and structured without losing the signature sound. I’m reluctant to call this one ‘heavy’ because it isn’t, but it’s certainly punchier; it’s closer to what I’ve heard in recordings of their live performances. There are more overdubs and even a few instances of double-tracked vocals, reflecting the more professional and polished production. The bass parts are more complex and sit higher in the mix too, so it keeps the sense of immediacy and barely-controlled chaos without feeling commercial or overproduced.

Their third record, and first full-length, Zero Comma, Iro Toridori no Sekai, is probably their most polished and commercial-sounding to date and was released a few months before Chiemi’s departure. This was actually the first of theirs I heard but as much as I love it, this one probably isn’t their best so far. That said, it doesn’t discard the aspects of the band’s sound that fans know and love…it’s just a bit of a worry that Natsuko’s the only remaining member of the original line-up (at the time of writing they still have at least one live date on the horizon). Of course, Shonen Knife’s current incarnation have only one founding member in common with their original roll-call, so I don’t want to write off Masu Dore just yet.

It would be a shame from a personal point of view to see a band disintegrate or lose the quirkiness that makes them special so soon after discovering them, but I really hope they can move forward and hopefully achieve the level of recognition closer to what they deserve.

The plot synopsis is hard to summarise but at its core Love Exposure is a coming-of-age romantic comedy. Its intertwining plot threads feature graphic gore and manga-style violence, domestic strife, panty shots, teen angst, sexual and religious taboos and numerous awkward boners. To reiterate: not for the easily offended. It’s still bloody genius though.

The only film I’ve seen that even remotely resembles this one is Survive Style 5+, which was observed by one critic as “Pulp Fiction on steroids, and with better acting.” Both of these films share some stylistic similarities with Tarantino – such as unusual yet effective choices of music, Ravel’s Boléro being a good example in this case – but lack the self-indulgent glorification of sex, violence and other fetishes; Love Exposure does feature some shocking moments but at least doesn’t portray them in the same way that Tarantino does. Shock value – and fetishes – are key themes in this movie but I felt differently about them here…and even the awkwardness- and discomfort-based comedy of the coming-of-age aspect weren’t too offputting, as is often the case for me.

The length of the film is an important point, not least because I’m one of those viewers who’s guilty of the “…side characters and minor plot points cannot be fully addressed in the running time of a stand-alone feature…” criticism. Love Exposure seems to have realised this so takes the time to go off at tangents, stops to introduce and follow up on incidental people and events, and maintains a comfortable pace without letting boredom set in.

The price to be paid for this is four full hours of your life and if I were to be honest, would it be a much worse film if it were slightly shorter? No, not really. It takes longer than necessary in order to go where it needs to go but there are none of the resulting stodgy, languid moments or shaky acting you might expect. The fact that Sion Sono’s writing is able to sustain itself over such a duration is remarkable but the expansive screenplay also gives the characters the breathing-room they need to develop. Since pretty much everyone of any importance in the film is emotionally fucked up in some way or another, I can’t emphasise the importance of background and development enough.

As much as I could go on about how unpredictable the story gets at points, the larger-than-life characters really make this film and the performances, particularly from the younger members of the cast, are outstanding. Takahiro Nishijima pulls off the bemused, frustrated adolescent Yu Honda with both likeable goofiness and genuine pathos; Sakura Ando is gleefully ruthless as Aya Koike while holding the crucial element of sympathy for her shocking and tragic upbringing; and Hikari Mitsushima as Yoko Ozawa…yeah.

Most J-cinema geeks will remember Mitsushima as the sweet and innocent kid sister in the Death Note live-action efforts but I was floored by the realisation that this gal can act. My first impression actually was “Hot damn! She’s GORGEOUS…” but after reining that in I was amazed at how she stole scenes on professional talent alone. The humour is for the most part slapstick or pitch-black farce but when the drama kicks into overdrive the cast absolutely shine.

I’ve read that Sono is interested in the life story of Jesus but has no particular religious stance; although Chrisitanity takes a significant role in the story of Love Exposure it’s more a case of examining how individuals’ faith and beliefs shape them and those around them. I expect the religious aspect is controversial among the domestic audiences for different reasons: the Zero Church cult bears an uncanny resemblance to organisations such as the notorious Aum Shinrikyo that made headlines in the most shocking way possible in the 1990s (for more info on that incident, I recommend Underground: the Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami).

I don’t think that social commentary was on the agenda here though. A pivotal moment in the movie (and another dramatic high point for Mitsushima I might add) is a recital of a passage from Corinthians that lays the themes of faith, hope and love bare and manages to present the religious, superficial and more seriously romantic aspects of the meaning of “love” fully. It kick-starts the dramatic and blood-soaked finale as Yu realises the depth of his feelings for Yoko (as opposed to merely noticing how she gives him a tent-pole in his trousers) and resolves the other main subplots in a way that makes staggering sense.

The ‘extreme’ moments suggest that this film is an exercise in being as lively and firecracker-under-your-backside startling as possible so it’s a bit of a surprise to realise that its extensive plot and eccentric cast are all in the name of an in-depth and remarkably affecting character study. Perhaps because of the four-hour duration or perhaps because so much batshit insanity happens during the course of the movie, the ending is all the more jaw-dropping and satisfying.

The time I needed to physically watch the thing was the main reason I put it off for so long, but within minutes of Yura Yura Teikoku’s Kudo Desu finishing over the end credits I went straight to ordering my own copy despite the fact that payday was still a week away. The striking storytelling and memorable characters made such an impression on me but I appreciate the fact that it’s so long, dark and twisted it’ll be more of a cult title than a mainstream hit. For all the importance placed on the importance of love, understanding and family I could never comfortably sit down and watch it with my own…

Ultimately it made me grin like a loon and gave me that rare ‘drained in a good way’ feeling and that of wanting to tell anyone who will listen about how it’s one of the best movies I’ve seen in months. And Hikari Mitsushima is still HAWT. ^_^

*And I might add more original screencaps when my retail copy arrives.*

“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.

This is an extremely unusual series, which is why I’m not surprised that it’s already virtually forgotten. It’s straight-faced and serious as hell, challenging the viewer from the outset by starting off very weird indeed. And it gets weirder. Even so, I found it to be a piece of sheer bloody genius with a multi-layered maze of a plot that starts off with bizarre yuri overtones, moves into hard-boiled detective fiction with serial killers and femmes fatales, dabbles in esoteric Japanese folklore and rounds it all off with a closing act that reaches Nasu-esque levels of twisted insanity.

I don’t use the term ‘Nasu-esque’ lightly: his writing is the only other example I’ve seen so far that holds a variety of disparate themes together and pulls it off with such audacious flair. Mouryou no Hako begins with a severed head then introduces a poetic shoujo-ai subplot that does little to prepare the viewer for what follows; it’s one of the oddest ways to open a series but is a good way of drawing in those who’d appreciate the rest of the series while warning away everyone else.

Needless to say it’s very Relevant To My Interests, and I daresay that the original novel would be even more rewarding in terms of appreciating the additional details of the story. I didn’t know what to expect from the use of CLAMP character designs in this situation but they add a vital air of stylised gothic elegance to a realistic 1950s setting. The ‘CLAMP touch’ works well with the shoujo-ai aspect and sweetens what is an otherwise very thematically dark tale. I don’t know why it was decided to set the story in the 50s either, but it picks up on the feelings of rebuilding and profound change that must’ve been felt in the post-war period.

The atmospheric side of Mouryou no Hako is I think a major part of why I found it so compelling. The relationship between Yoriko and Kanako plays out in a dreamlike fashion but there’s this formless something lurking in the shadows that’s telling you that the flowers, pretty girls and moonlight are deceptive. Sure enough, it veers into murder-mystery territory with the police tramping around on the trail of a crazed killer in the sweltering summer heat, and there’s an ominous-looking box-shaped building full of scary-looking medical equipment hidden away in the woods.

This building is one of several examples of the way this series employs recurring themes and motifs, the most obvious being that of boxes. Marrying the concept of the hako, or box, with the other half of the title, mouryou, is the point where the series made its only mistake though: the Mouryou are allegedly creatures of folklore and a full two episodes or so are devoted to the terminology and derivations.

I daresay this is interesting in itself, and of course tossing in seemingly unrelated plot points that promise you they’re significant later on is all part of the general approach of the show. That is to say, there are a lot of things in here that are more significant than are immediately apparent; even so, going into such dry, hard-to-digest and ultimately irrelevant detail about the history of the word mouryou isn’t one of them. I felt a bit cheated at that because after such a gorgeous opening and, later, a brilliantly disturbing ending it broke the flow. The metaphorical idea of the mouryou does however effectively play into the story’s themes of morality and madness through obsession.

Another thing I really appreciate about this show is that the narrative jumps around and expects the viewer to put the pieces together, picking up clues as they go and taking it upon themselves to work out what to do with them. Such a mature approach to storytelling is rare (even more so now, in light of recent events), although for every viewer who loves it there’ll be another who finds the experience frustrating.

Mouryou no Hako is an ambitiously-mixed cocktail of concepts and aesthetics that are so varied that the chances of failing would’ve been high. Surprisingly the aforementioned verbose stream of jargon is the only point where it stumbles because CLAMP’s shoujo character designs make a wonderful contrast next to the blood-soaked violence, the historical setting is perfect for a film noir murder-mystery and when the concept of the mouryou is used in the context of the serial killings and mystery elements, the mystical and realistic complement each other rather than clash.

The ‘rewatchability’ of the show is also an important point, which includes those pre-opening-credit excerpts of short stories written by two of the characters. They are indeed important but it’s not until you watch the series in its entirety that you understand where exactly they fit in. I must admit that this was one more thing that genuinely surprised me, so for fear of spoiling it I urge you to see it through to the end if you’ve made a start on it and like what you saw.

Cat Shit One is very, very different from pretty much everything else around right now, which is reason enough for me to recommend it on its own. The idea of anthropomorphised rabbits rescuing hostages from armed terrorist camels is indeed absurd but it was surprisingly easy for me to forget the sight of cottontails twitching prior to an all-out firefight because it was, with this quirk aside, hell of a lot of fun. So much so that I was able to accept the concept and simply enjoy the action.

I’m reluctant to call the character designs a gimmick for a number of reasons. Firstly, the very sight of them looks bloody weird and plays into the hands of my twisted sense of humour. Secondly, the use of animals’ facial features cleverly avoids the Uncanny Valley you often encounter with CGI/motion capture efforts featuring human characters. The third reason wasn’t evident in the opening episode, but it leaves things open for a deeper message later on: portraying the various factions as different species of animals avoids sensitive issues and potentially serious ramifications for the production team.

That is to say, it’s fine to see rabbits and camels slugging it out but using different nationalities and/or ethnic groups of humans in a similar situation would pretty much force the writers down a serious route and run the risk of offending people (and let’s face it, offending people in this day and age is like shooting fish in a barrel. If the barrel was small. And the fish were already dead). This way, they can be as serious or as jovial as they like and choose whether or not to make genuine Real Life social or political statements as they see fit.

I didn’t detect any meaningful subtext at this stage – it’s basically twenty or so minutes of Rambo-style military action and very few clues concerning the background, but for now that’s enough for me to declare it to be excellent. I suspect this first episode is merely an introduction to the main characters, plus a good advertisment for funding of later instalments; with it being an ONA like Eve no Jikan, we can only speculate about when the subsequent outings will be ready for airing. I reckon there’s a merchandise opportunity for Cat Shit One plushies…

It’s more Black Hawk Down than Watership Down to be sure, but I was really impressed with the way everything was rendered. I used to play Operation Desert Storm 2 with friends at uni, and the general feel of Cat Shit One is like that and the war movies I sometimes watch with my dad (although it might take some convincing to get him to watch CGI rabbits). Considering how it’s an indie piece a la Studio Rikka I was mightily impressed with the CGI – it’s near as dammit to flawless visually, which is no mean feat considering how the big-budget Appleseed led the field five or six years ago.

This includes the details regarding the weaponry and vehicles: it’s telling that the closing credits include a name for the role of ‘military research’, and damn does it show. The terminology, tactics and equipment all look wonderfully convincing, just like a classy first-person shooter or bona fide war movie. The support chopper for instance looks like one of the Russian Mi-24s, which made me wonder who these guys really work for…a private organisation kitted out with export gear, I expect.

The opening credits are, ignoring the obvious factor of the animal cast, just like a proper war movie too. It comes across as being a pastiche with every sign of a few tricks up its sleeve, but is holding them back while the audience adjusts to its quirky premise. The pacing makes the whole episode one long adrenaline rush but at this point it doesn’t really tell you one hell of a lot: Perky is GAR, Botasky is a bit of a wimp but delivers the goods when it matters and the overall experience is a lot of straighforward fun.

Even so, there isn’t much plot to speak of here. Perky and Botasky are sent in on a mission that we see them carry out from start to finish but we’re told nothing about who the CMS are, why they’re there or even the enemy’s objectives. I really ought to read Kobayashi’s original manga because the potential for that socio-political commentary is really interesting to me and the Vietnam era story arcs might fill in the gaps plot-wise. Sadly initial searching suggests that it fell into Out-Of-Print Hell along with a lot of ADV’s titles so it’ll be scanlation-only for the time being.

So, yeah. Cat Shit One has my wholehearted approval. It’s bad-ass and tremendously entertaining, but how the follow-up episodes can build on this is anyone’s guess. I’m certainly expecting a long wait before anything of the sort happens because the artistic side of things strikes me as very time-consuming and labour-intensive. Because such a lot of care and attention has been poured into the production, it’s worth checking out but if the characterisation and plotting can keep the pace I reckon we’ll have another cult classic on our hands.

The first time I watched this I felt a bit overwhelmed by the visuals so didn’t really grasp what it was trying to say. I guess it was slightly wasted on me at the time but watching the three episodes again, across as many days, worked better for me so now I really feel I appreciate it more than I did then.

I was also shopping around for music recently and picked up the OST. Oddly enough, the fact that it’s Kajiura helped a bit in understanding the message behind the story because the similarities in the music, and the aesthetic of the OAV overall, reminded me of my beloved Rakkyo and the themes surrounding it, in a roundabout way. The excessive amount of thought I’ve poured into that series in recent months helped get my analysis of Cossette into order at last.

Both stories involve an unconventional romance subplot and are accompanied by gorgeous blood-spattered imagery that reflects this (the fact that it’s gory but still beautiful is I think an achievement in itself). In both cases the main relationship is tested by the two protagonists’ inner conflicts and supernatural external forces that also influence how it progresses. I found the issue of self-sacrifice particularly interesting because Eiri’s suffering for Cossette’s sake reminds me a lot of what Mikiya goes through for Shiki by the end of the seventh KnK film.

Granted, it was a similarity in BGM that forced me to make the connection and the parallels are limited, but in both series the romantic bonds between the lead characters are very different from the feelings of friendship and/or infatuation that everyday life and more conventional pieces of fiction work with. The unusual idea of demonstrating your love by suffering on another’s behalf is another area in which the themes of both titles overlap.

Cossette emphasises this more perhaps, but I felt both that and KnK examine how far people are prepared to go in the name of love, and additionally demonstrate how such experiences affect their relationships with others. I also noticed that Shinbo’s story and Nasu’s portray the overwhelming, blinding effects of romance by leading an innocent, ordinary soul out of his own world and into harm’s way.

The Mikiya/Shiki dynamic is a wonderful thing and I hope I’m able to discuss it at greater length soon (hint: someone, get the full novel published in English already. I BEG OF YOU). I found Mikiya’s steadfast faith in her innocence to be deeply moving, and the way in which he was ironically the last to realise how deeply he’d fallen for her was realistically portrayed too. That business of declaring how he was prepared to bear her sins in her place was I felt Nasu’s typically idiosyncratic way of highlighting, among other things, how true love involves accepting the other’s faults.

Eiri’s bearing of his love interest’s sins is a little different, however. She superimposes her former fiancé’s soul onto him and redirects the curses that resulted from the betrayal and her tragic death, in the hope that the pain inflicted on him will somehow atone for the wrongs committed against her. This later takes a surprising turn as Cossette begins to fall in love with Eiri too: she begins to regret using him in this way and, as he points out, he may have inherited Marcelo’s soul, fate or whatever it is, but he isn’t Marcelo.

I initially thought Cossette was a tale of obsession, and given how disorientating the visuals often are it’s all too easy to be distracted (as much as I love Shinbo’s approach in this OAV, I will concede that this can be a problem for some). Now I believe that it’s more of a tale which asks us what true love means: Marcelo was supposed to be in love with Cossette but he selfishly killed her in order to prevent her growing old and becoming someone different from his image of her.

Eiri on the other hand is entranced by the story of Cossette as played out in the Venetian glass and later captivated by the enigmatic image of Marcelo’s portraits; I suppose you can debate the validity of an attraction based on what Eiri’s love for Cossette is based on, but the fact remains that Marcelo murdered her over an ideal while Eiri wants to seek out the ‘true’ Cossette and save her.

That twist in the final episode flew over my head the first time but now I’ve had a second chance, it makes the narrative more satisfying. The contrasting art styles of Marcelo and Eiri are a metaphor for their attraction to the heroine of the title because Marcelo wanted an eternal unchanging image while Eiri is inspired by a living, moving character trapped in an unlikely place. The most dramatic piece of symbolism for me is when Eiri paints a portrait of her - in his own blood for crying out loud! – which lifts the curse. I don’t know about you, but I thought that was pretty hardcore.

I’m still a little undecided over the effectiveness of the ending though, assuming the interpretation of Cossette’s spirit living on in Shoko is correct. The running time prevents much development of the supporting characters sadly, but from what little I saw of Shoko I liked her: she was the girl-next-door and crucially was, well, real. For that reason I was kinda rooting for a Eiri/Shoko End but after learning the full tragedy of Cossette’s backstory…who wouldn’t feel sorry for the girl trapped in the afterlife for being murdered by the one she loved?

Cossette is convoluted, unsettling, disorientating and obtuse…the fact that it’s intentionally so makes the sentiment of people who don’t like it all the more understandable. Perhaps because I’ve come back to it after watching several of Shinbo’s other shows I was able to go along with its more eccentric moments with less conscious effort. The music heightened my enjoyment a lot too, and I’m still amazed at how Marina Inoue produces such a deep, complex singing voice that’s so different from her vivacious dialogue delivery. Gem is a lovely song by the way.

As in quite a lot of stories like this, the overall aim of the OAV was to create something that looked beautiful and captivating as opposed to encouraging the viewer to dwell on the details, so in that sense it succeeds…but then, I always felt that way about it. Only when I caught one particular train of thought by chance thanks to the weird way my brain makes connections with certain things did I think beyond that. I suppose that’s the thing I really want to get across here…Eiri had to see past the superficial image to understand the depth of his fascination with Cossette, and I ended up doing the same.

So I thought I might as well write about Perfume. Music dominates a lot of my spare time: I immerse myself in as much as possible, ignoring the usual boundaries of time, trends and genre in favour of my own so sometimes my tastes are a bit unpredictable. My fascination with Perfume is a guilty-pleasure kind of thing, but not completely so.

As in, I’m again asking myself “why am I enjoying this when it’s such a departure from everything else in my collection?” They are after all commercialised and have this aura of image, of marketing, of popular shallowness, for want of a better phrase. And no, I’m not going into that K-on business again after what happened last time. I’m merely saying it’s a departure from most music I listen to.

Bands that sound like this don’t usually appeal to me but I really enjoy Perfume…and not just because it consists of three attractive ladies in cool outfits (although I’m not denying that helps). I have a feeling that they aren’t a typical manufactured electro-pop girl-group (I’m using the distinction between ‘group’ and ‘band’ very deliberately here), and my acceptance of them can largely be attributed to that.

I’ll admit that on the surface they sound and look manufactured. I’d even go as far as to say they represent everything about commercialised pop: they’re marketed as a sound and image rather than self-made songwriters, they sell zillions of records and the lyrics are generic to the point of being nonsensical at times. I even find the voices peculiar.

The vocals are put through so much digital studio trickery that their own mothers wouldn’t recognise them; I’d put money on them being indistinguishable from a skillfully-used piece of Vocaloid software in the next five years (and I don’t think that has to be a bad thing). Hell, the visuals at their gigs look like something from Sharon Apple in Macross Plus (again, not a bad thing?).

Perfume are therefore a textbook example of a commercially successful, chart-friendly electropop group that projects a futuristic, popular image. I also admit that my own personal methods of appreciating and classifying music are weird enough anyway…

Let’s start on ‘genre’: the concept that music fans hate because it unfairly pigeonholes things, but we grudgingly accept because it’s useful on occasion. I like alt-rock, post-rock, classic rock, shoegaze, nu-gaze, blues, classical, electronica…but where does Perfume fit into this nebulous world of mine? It’s too poppy to be alternative, to electronic to be rock…and clumsy self-conscious people like me are generally averse to dance music (I’m working on it. Not the dancing…just the appreciation of dance music).

I found this pic at The Bonkurasu Brigade ages ago and found the manga-style artwork cool…I finally have an excuse to post it

How would I classify Perfume? Here’s where it starts to get interesting. A while ago I jokingly referred to My Bloody Valentine as ‘post-pop’ in the sense that, despite it being a form of sonic experimentation that sounds like nothing before it, chief songwriter/guitarist Kevin Shields insists that he sets out to write straightforward guitar songs. Nobody who listens to Isn’t Anything or Loveless can call it *just* guitar pop – nevertheless it is, beneath the pitch bends and liquid reverb atmospherics, five-or-less minute songs made up of ordinary guitar chords. Perfume are *just* electro-pop…only not.

Before going any further I have to link to the official promo video for the Triangle version of Edge, which is possibly my favourite tune of theirs so far (the album overall isn’t their best though). The video itself is really fun – it has images from End of Evangelion mixed up with concert footage, wild computer text strings blinking across projector screens, and is a neat test for whether you have photo-sensitive epilepsy or not if you hit fullscreen in a darkened room.

It shows Perfume as an energetic live experience, which makes them more than some sterile studio-only act. Making records is one thing, but putting on a live show that draws people in is a different matter; some artists are more comfortable in the studio while some attain fame/notoriety through live gigs. Jumping around like mad AND singing is damned hard (are their vocals dubbed for gigs? Feel free to clarify this for me)!

The title track to the GAME album is another example of the quirky Perfume sound: there’s this tooth-rattling fuzzy bassline that cuts through the pretty-shiny girly shimmer and feels so unexpected and incongruous…to the point where I felt the need to invent a new genre definition for it and the caffeine rush of Edge: ‘bubblegum industrial’.

Listening carefully to the arrangements, this robotic and meticulously-produced electro isn’t quite in the same league as the usual chart music to me. I don’t follow the UK or Japanese charts but what I’m used to hearing is more formulaic than this – it has to be in order to be ‘safe’ from putting mainstream fans off and losing sales (not that it stops Lady Gaga…). As significant as they are in terms of financial revenue, Perfume’s cybernetic heart may well be an indie one.

Towards the end of the Edge promo the screens display the line “what is DISCO?”, along with some eccentric stage work that’s different from ordinary choreography. What I’ve heard of Yasutaka Nakata’s work on Capsule covers similar ground to Perfume’s current sound but he strikes me as being more eclectic and experimental; my assumption is that Perfume’s songwriting duties can largely be attributed to him, and as such they’re an experiment on his part to dabble in the mainstream and challenge its conventions.

Does Nakata dislike formulaic, commercialised chart music and wants to subvert from within? Or are Perfume a demonstration of his closet love for it? Or, more interestingly still, are they an attempt to marry popular marketability with indie cred and imagination to push the electro-pop envelope? I haven’t had chance to listen to their early Shibuya-kei-inspired material for comparison but I view Perfume in their current incarnation partly as a vehicle for Nakata’s songwriting.

The end result shouldn’t matter when the songs are as fun as they are, but part of the appeal that Perfume holds for me is that they come across as band who have gained the acclaim of a headlining pop act – even playing the Budoukan – but underneath they’re an experimental outfit that innovates as well as entertains. Because they placate the Industry – playing the GAME[sic] – with the choreographed dance moves and catchy hooks, they can get away with the commercially riskier innovative moments.

If you’re reading this blog at all you ought to be able to understand where Chain Mail is coming from with this. After finding it tucked away virtually unseen in the manga section of my local Waterstone’s and buying on impulse, I suspect the only people I know who’d appreciate its innovative ‘multiple viewpoint’ storytelling as I did are those I converse with online. The ‘net and the artificial realities it provides attract us all for very personal reasons but the overall promises of diversion and communication are the same.

In the case of Chain Mail three high schoolers receive an e-mail from someone calling herself Yukari who offers them the opportunity to collaborate in a mystery-thriller story with each ‘author’ taking on the role of one of the tale’s four protagonists. None of these girls know each other in real life but each has her own motive for writing a piece of fiction with complete strangers: Mai is a music fan feeling cut off from the superficial local scene after studying abroad; Sawako is a shy introvert suffering from school bullies and the loss of her mother; Mayumi is dedicated to helping her best friend succeed at badminton but is forever in her shadow.

Since empathising with the characters of this novel relies on your tolerance for the insecurities and neuroses of the average Japanese high school girl, I suspect mileage may vary. That said, it’s not hard to understand how these ordinary kids are fed up with the way their lives are heading and why they’re so keen to create their own fantasy world to escape from it. I felt for all of them to some degree since we see both their personalities’ strengths and flaws during the course of the novel, not to mention the way in which the narrative effectively sets up their circumstances and points of view.

The crime thriller aspect is interesting in itself because it’s never clear who Yukari is, and the dividing line between the girls’ lives and the fiction they are creating blurs with such frequency the general experience is that in which you’re constantly trying to guess ahead and work out what the hell is going on. The intellectual aspect, as it were, is balanced well with the slice of life and dramatic ones as you see why the girls get involved and how the experience affects them.

After the four girls begin this story of a student, her tutor, her stalker and the investigating detective in between the trials and dramas of their own lives, the novel gets really interesting. Another common plot device is that of the art imitating life; in this case real events and feelings the girls experience bleed into the plot twists of the Chain Mail story, and soon it works in the opposite direction. Without spoiling too much, a genuine kidnapping is reported in the news as one of the Chain Mail authors mysteriously stops posting and the others begin to feel an eerie sense of being watched as they update their own contributions from their mobile phones.

One asks herself if the compulsion to check for updates and write more (something I can relate to as a compulsive writer, internet addict and one who knows the meaning of “a watched inbox never fills”) is akin to a drug addict holding out for their next fix: she’s consciously aware that the Chain Mail project is her crutch for supporting the burden that student life has placed on her. Another finds it prompts her to re-evaluate her own priorities and interests; there is also a keen sense that it’s something private, precious and therefore must be kept hidden from outsiders at all costs.

The chapters are cryptically introduced with quotes from famous philosophers such as Friedrich Nietzsche. Initially I thought “Nietzsche in a Japanese light novel about high schoolers? What gives?” but the connection is an important plot point, rather than pretentious name-dropping it seems at first. Resolutions to these phychological mystery stories often require some suspension of disbelief and this is no exception: the explanation is a bit far-fetched but I’ve seen and read a lot worse (yes, Satoshi Kon, I’m even looking at you). The resolution is realistic enough though and made me smile at the bittersweet yet appropriate way in which it wrapped the intertwining threads up.

The translation is always something that has me frustrated: unable to read kana or kanji with any fluency yet irritated by clumsy adaptations, I admit I’m hard to please at times. I’ve read one or two that are wonderful while some are downright awful but Chain Mail comes out on the more natural and readable end of the spectrum, which is a pleasant surprise considering how Tokyopop have been met with mixed reviews of their text novels in the past. It’s intended (I think) for a teenage readership, its protagonists are adolescents and the story-within-a-story needs to reflect that too; the prose is straightforward but doesn’t feel stilted or awkward.

As an aside, I found the story to be particularly immersive because the events all unfold in the bustling, cosmopolitan cityscape of central Tokyo. The little details like place names and even brands of drinks in the vending machines gave me a sensation of familiarity. Granted, a foreign tourist won’t feel exactly the same way as an introverted teenage resident but reading the descriptions of their surroundings took me right back to the crowded capital and reminded me that, even in a place such as this, it’s still easy to feel disorientated and alone.

I know Tokyopop’s manga titles are largely well-known ones and are stocked in most places but their text novels often receive less publicity and are harder to find. I hadn’t heard or read a thing about this one and merely skimmed over the synopsis on the back cover while looking for other things, so it was pure chance that I picked it up at all. In the space of a few days I was utterly hooked and looked forward to my next coffee- or lunch break to see where the story would go next. Although it’s squarely in the light novel/young adult bracket the “Ohshitohshit I was supposed to be back at work ten minutes ago but I’m still reading!” effect it had on me ought to indicate that it does its job well. It’s a shame then that it’s been so overlooked for an easily digestible page-turner.

Since this is a text novel there aren’t any screencaps or scans. The cover art looked a bit nondescript so I turned to Danbooru and my holiday photos for breaking up the wall of text. Yes, this is Shibuya, and some of the landmarks are mentioned by name in the novel…the last photo especially.

To be honest I’m not following many currently-airing shows, partly because putting my new PC together coincided with the beginning of the new season so I’m still playing catch-up. I’ve learned to pay close attention to the noitaminA schedule though because it seems to cater for the tastes of more ‘alternative’ and eclectic viewers. I’ve noticed some real favourites came from there; Trapeze (a.k.a. Kuchu Buranko) is another one of them.

It is indeed fabulously good at giving injections. I suspect Mayumi is around for Irabu’s benefit more than anything judging by his reaction to her regular vitamin shot administrations, not to mention the fact that they have no medical benefit whatsoever to the patients. Nice subversion of the gratuitous fanservice thing there (although I’ve spotted a few other potshots at otakudom every now and then too. Merely looking unconventional is an act of rebelling against the industry norms, right?).

I have to wonder what the deal is with Irabu; it’s like watching an episode of House if someone had slipped some disco biscuits into his vicodin because his psyche is almost as scattershot as those of his patients’. One moment he’s a young guy then he’s a manic older fellow with a bear’s head mask; his character has two separate VAs too. Considering how animal heads superimposed onto human bodies is one of the show’s metaphors for their respective conditions it wouldn’t surprise me if he wound up on the couch himself by the end.

Mayumi’s role is an interesting one. She doesn’t know how to dispose of clinical sharps correctly so I can’t help but question her professional credentials but one or two episodes showed her providing more appropriate counselling than her superior (which isn’t saying much, I know). They’re an interesting double act – I honestly think calling Irabu a manic genius is giving him too much credit unless future episodes prove otherwise, and as for why it has a tsun-tsun gothic-lolita nurse, I’d reply with “why the hell not?” ^_^

To be perfectly honest, even thought I have no specialist knowledge in the field of psychiatry and psychology Irabu’s methods vary between the merely bizarre and the downright unconvincing to me. I’m sure there are plenty of you who are more informed on these matters but it’s fair to say there’s a lot of artistic licence employed in depicting the conditions and the recommended treatments for them. Fortunately good old Fukuicchi is on hand to peep around the door in the fourth wall (literally, I might add) and remind us that it’s just a TV show.

The treatments may not bear much resemblance to reality but what really matters is how much humanity runs through every episode. I’ve started to notice how the events of different episodes play out in the general vicinity of the others (which incidentally makes rewatching quite rewarding) despite the fromulaic self-contained structure, so it’s something I can enjoy consistently every week in an episodic fashion. It really is something I could blog about every week if I could be arsed find the time for it because every episode is a separate tale with its own messages and meaning.

As we find out the background of each individual’s condition the explanation and resolution that follows is even more interesting because the viewer learns so much about them as people. It’s an unconventional way of introducing characters to be sure, but as obvious as it might seem in saying how psychiatric treatment gets into a character’s head I’m surprised every time at how I feel I’ve got to know them so quickly.

That’s testament to Trapeze‘s knack of reaching beyond the constraints of its formula, really: twenty-five minutes after meeting the case of the week for the first time, I not only feel that I know what makes them tick but also care about what happens to them. And I can say this about every one of them to date. I guess that’s the only drawback with the episodic structure at this stage: I wouldn’t mind a follow-up episode for each of them to find out how they get on after Irabu and Mayumi intervene.

Trapeze deserves kudos for using some great Denki Groove tunes in its soundtrack; it also should be congratulated for its innovative artwork, especially the rotoscoping and psychedelic colour palette that Masaaki Yuasa would be proud of (the director worked for him on Kemonozume, unsurprisingly). There’s method in the madness once you tune your mind onto the director’s wavelength in order to see how the themes and ideas are meant to be interpreted; after that you start to appreciate how the art and animation must be more labour-intensive than its jerky, lo-fi appearance may suggest – reminding me of another innovative director, namely my old fave Akiyuki Shinbo.

Most importantly though, it has some really life-affirming demonstrations of the human spirit triumphing over life’s obstacles that makes for surprisingly feel-good television. Whether it’s Irabu’s treatment, Mayumi’s vitamin injections or even the motivation for self-examination that results from the events of each episode, the end result is that the patients learn a bit about themselves so can turn their lives around. It’s surprisingly sympathetic too -  even the episode dealing with erectile dysfunction cracked me up…but I was laughing with the guy at the absurdity of his situation rather than at him, which is I think where the storytelling really shines.

Hitomi Kanehara is an interesting lady. As I always do when reviewing an author for the first time I make a point of reading the biography blurb at the beginning of the book to get a feel for his or her background; Kanehara’s is, to put it mildly, unconventional. Her status as a professional writer, although it was aided by the endorsement of well-known author Ryu Murakami whose edgy and controversial works bear quite a similarity, is still surprising given her early life and education. Considering how Autofiction is focused on a twenty-something female writer who also had a turbulent adolescence you can’t help but wonder where the inspiration for this striking novel came from.

This possiblility that the book’s title should be taken literally is dangled in front of the reader’s nose from the outset but whether it’s a clever bluff on Kanehara’s part is something I wouldn’t hazard a guess on. Anyhow, the character of Rin and the events of her life are a fascinating if somewhat unsettling read: the first few pages pick her story up soon after her wedding, then successive chapters take up the narrative at points earlier on in her life. Telling stories in reverse is nothing new of course (taken to extremes in the likes of Memento) but in this case the approach serves to dig into the troubled psyche of the protagonist, peeling away layer after layer of insecurity and paranoia as it goes.

It’s always difficult for me to judge the prose of foreign language authors because my criticism might be misdirected: are its shortcomings and strengths the result of the original writer, or the person who translated it? Here I’m not sure if I am indeed witnessing a remarkable writer in Kanehara, or whether David James Karashima is adept at creating a startling atmosphere when translating from one language to another. I’ll give the two of them the benefit of the doubt and say it’s a bit of both.

I’m not actually overly concerned whether it’s Kanehara and/or Karashima who is responsible because the end result is brilliant either way. Rin’s first-person narration flows effortlessly despite her mood swings that throw the tone from one extreme to the other: one moment she is declaring her undying devotion to her husband; the next she is hating him for what she perceives as infidelity. This ever-shifting perspective is carried over to her earlier encounters and relationships that may not justify her behaviour but certainly go some way to explaining it.

I don’t want to spoil things by spelling out the details but Rin’s life is a mixture of personal failings on her own part, such as rejecting offers of assistance from those around her, and instances where those who are in a position to help letting her down or neglecting her. The tragedy at the heart of it all is that, for all her psychotic episodes and occasionally violent and self-destructive behaviour, Rin is a lonely and misunderstood individual who just wants to be loved as much as anyone else.

The world in which she lives, that of a seedy underbelly to modern Tokyo which is rarely depicted in fiction, let alone elsewhere, contributes to Rin’s fragile and disturbed mental state. The vulnerability of a young woman who tries to fill the voids in her life with cheap alcohol, unsavoury nightclubs and unsatisfying romantic entanglements is poorly suited to this environment but is too insecure and self-deluded to find a way out. This environment may not be familiar to many (even those of us who have visited the city themselves) but the prose succeeds in drawing you in and portrays it so vividly it’s almost painful at points.

I was left a little disappointed with the conclusion though. The final chapter, portraying a fifteen-year old Rin, doesn’t seem to go back far enough: the origin of her mental disturbance would settle things once and for all so for me it doesn’t completely explain where it all really began.

On reflection however the scattered snapshot approach, an interesting modern variant on slice-of-life storytelling, is still very effective in trying to explain a personality who is, perhaps intentionally, very difficult to understand. How blameless is Rin? Is the fact that she’s fooling herself into thinking she’s happy tantamount to being genuinely happy? I think the ambiguity of Kanehara’s underlying message, and indeed the complexity of her character is probably deliberately open to interpretation because much of the enjoyment of this novel is coming up with answers of your own.

I think Rin’s emotional problems go largely undetected by those around her because she hides her insecurity so well by outrageous, extrovert behaviour; a persona which is considered in many situations to be a sign of confidence and contentment. The reader of course sees the frightened and unsatisfied young woman who dwells within so can see how such assumptions can be tragically misguided. In a way it’s a cautionary tale in that a contemporary, conformist society can let the vulnerable slip between the cracks but at the same time suggests that those individuals find themselves in such positions also through their own volition.

The first-person viewpoint is especially important in a novel such as this because the important plot points often take place inside his or her head; a more objective view would have a different atmosphere entirely, and would fail to convey part of the story’s message. Reality feels like a runaway train, apparently impossible to control (or is it?); the conflicts and traumas are internal, and as such require an up-close and personal point of view to appreciate. It feels like a very personal account, which once again leads me to ask “Is this novel autobiographical?” and fail to find an answer. For that too it’s a very clever piece of work.