It’s no more an eroge than Tsukihime and F/S N are if I’m honest. I would’ve thought the story-to-smut ratio would have to be lower for it to qualify since, like those Type Moon forays into the genre, Katawa Shoujo involves a lot of reading to get to the H-scenes so it’s plot-driven before anything else; outside of fiction written for a young audience, characters end up in bed together every now and then in many romantic drama stories anyway.

Thinking about how it approaches the themes it addresses, it’s less of ‘a story about disabled people’ and more ‘a story about people who happen to have disabilities’. The distinction is a subtle yet important one. It goes hand-in-hand with the idea of the storytelling being respectful and tasteful; I don’t think KS is intended to be an exercise in challenging people’s perceptions of the disabled in society per se. The problems and challenges that the characters face are not their respective disabilities: they’re connected, but are nevertheless separate.

Each affected character has overcome the obvious problem, but where KS gets interesting is in its portrayal of the knock-on effects. The core messages of this VN for me then were “look beyond the obvious” and of course “this is a story about people, not their disabilities.” Once I understood those facts of the writing, I was able to really appreciate what it sets out to do.

On my first read-through I ended up reading Emi’s route. It was in retrospect a good one to start on because it was relatively uplifting and comedic, and as a character Emi is likeable into the bargain. There were dark undercurrents later on but it set a nice direction for me in showing a character who has overcome her challenges, and in being by her side Hisao is able to move forward in life.

My favourite route overall though was Hanako’s, although it was somewhat darker and more tense in tone. It was for me the most well-written, mainly because the characterisation and the way Hisao brings her out of her shell were so cathartic and satisfying. It also subverted the common trope of ‘rescuing’ the girl from the situation she was in (by pure chance, a recent comment on my rather old post about the Heaven’s Feel route of F/S N reinforced my thoughts on this).

You’d expect Hanako’s route to get to know her and consistently help her…except, if you go too far into ‘knight in shining armour’ territory you hit the Bad End. Paying attention to the hints from Lilly and old Mutou-sensei though, you realise that the school is a means for preparing the students for the outside world so the pity of others is not helpful to them at all. Simply put, the only way to save Hanako is to give her the means to save herself.

I found this to be not only a clever bit of writing in terms of gameplay mechanics, but a realistic and true-to-life portrayal of the problems encountered by people affected by such things. Haruki Murakami references and character design aside (again, in another case of the “look beyond the obvious” mantra, she’s actually very pretty), I loved Hanako’s story: it goes on to use the H-scene as a plot device in an unusual way and delivers a Good End that is…just read it. It’s great.

Rin’s route was a bit of an odd one because unusually it’s not really about getting to know and understand the heroine…as a matter of fact, Rin doesn’t understand herself either. To make matters even more complicated, the decision points were very challenging so despite the emotional payoff I didn’t enjoy it as much in the conventional sense: I was unable to mentally work backwards through her background to get a grasp of why she’s the way she is, so the full force of the storytelling was a bit lost on me.

No story is perfect, especially when the narrative is branching and each component branch has a different writer; Shizune’s route for me highlighted how some are bound to be weaker than others. As a character she’s pleasant enough; I know there are fans of her character type out there even though I’m not one of them, but the issues I had were more to do with the character *development*, inconsistent pacing and relative lack of decision points.

In contrast, Lilly’s route was…pleasant is the best way to describe it. Again, I was fortunate in my choice of reading order because it had a warm, serene vibe and the final act actually felt more ‘final’ than any of the others. There was the additional benefit of the other heroines featuring prominently too: an issue I often have with multi-path stories is a difficulty adjusting to the shifted focus in each. I couldn’t start a route on the same day as finishing the previous one, for example, due to my sentimental attachment to the characters but when Lilly’s route features Hanako and even includes a lunchtime scene with her, Emi and Rin as well as Lilly I didn’t feel as though I was ignoring them.

Although it’s a closing thought, mentioning the hero at this point is actually rather appropriate; the protagonist of first-person perspective VNs is usually a tabula rasa figure in order for the reader to project his or her own thoughts and points of view onto him, but in this case Hisao has a backstory of his own and often the story is as much about him overcoming his issues as it is the heroines overcoming theirs. It adds to the interactive nature of the story in that we see Hisao help the heroine of each route, but at the same time the relationship benefits him as well. It’s a time for Hisao to mend his broken heart, in more ways than one.

VNs translated into English aren’t exactly commonplace, and in terms of subject matter I daresay KS is unique. I’m tempted to call it an experiment in open-source teamwork, and a successful one at that, but I’d be selling it as short as I would be if I were to call it “that 4chan dating sim about the disabled girls.” It’s not perfect – perhaps because of the voluntary and amateur nature of its creators or simply because no work of fiction ever is – but as a piece of storytelling it’s still impressive.

Maybe 4LS were mistaken in keeping a title that needlessly throws up extra preconceptions, or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference; I don’t know. The VN format isn’t for everyone of course, and KS embraces certain tropes and aesthetics of the Japanese medium that inspired it so it’s not really intended for the mass market anyway. For the record, I found the experience of reading it very rewarding indeed, and my gratitude goes out to the people who helped to bring it to completion.

Final notes

I wrote some short-ish commentary on each route as I went along, in the order that I read them in. They go into a bit more detail than I did here and I’d only be repeating myself if I were to do a long copypasta, so here are the links in case you’re interested.

• Emi’s route
• Hanako’s route
• Shizune’s route
• Rin’s route
• Lilly’s route

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.

I’m sure the obituaries and tributes to Satoshi Kon from his family and friends will be formed as I type and my sincere condolences go out to them. I’m afraid I know nothing about who he was as a man: I sadly never had the opportunity to meet him. His work however is something I’ve become very familiar with over the years, and it’s my love of this that I want to express, as my way of acknowledging what he achieved.

What grabbed me straight away about Perfect Blue was the assured storytelling and startling realism. Because my anime experience at that time was limited to Gainax SF, family-friendly Ghibli and the usual newcomer’s “anime=cartoons” prejudice, it was a revelation to see an animated film so sophisticated, so complex and so…grown-up. It’s a notorious yet rewatchable film that I still recommend to this day as one of the greats. Hard to believe it’s a directorial debut.

Next up for me was the Magnetic Rose short, part of Otomo’s Memories anthology. Again, the realism was striking – especially when it’s set in outer space in the future – but its aesthetics and blurring of reality and illusion can largely be attributed to Kon. Then I saw Millennium Actress at a convention, expecting another Perfect Blue, but it’s nothing of the sort. It uses that classic Kon-ism of seamlessly connecting what’s real and what’s imagined to tell a biopic-style tale of one woman’s life that’s very different in tone and content, if not techniques.

The sumptuous visuals of Millennium Actress and the tenderness of its story made it another one of my favourites, in no small part because the romantic element was handled with such subtlety, and because it felt like a filmmaker’s love letter to the medium of cinema as a whole. His ability to draw the viewer in, allowing me to enjoy it as a movie rather than mere animation, was uncanny and a rare gift.

Tokyo Godfathers was different again, taking on the uncool and somewhat taboo subject of homelessness and weaving it into a somewhat fantastical and heartwarming story. For all my talk of how Kon’s direction and writing is imaginative and mature, this title highlights another important element. Again, I can’t comment on how fun he was to be around in real life, but this and all his work exhibits a wonderfully dry and sharp sense of humour. Often it’s very dark and pokes fun at society and human frailties, yet there’s a firm grasp of hope and a celebration of humanity in there.

Paranoia Agent is the black sheep of the bunch, being as it is a TV show. Regretfully, my final three discs of this went missing shortly after I watched it so my memories of it are hazy. I recall a lot of social commentary tied in with the mystery thriller aspects though, showing Kon’s sharp satirical eye on the world around him as well as his keen sense of what makes for an immersive fantasy world.

Which brings me to Paprika, his most recent and therefore probably most well-known film. I can’t stress this enough: Paprika is pretty much the only occasion when I didn’t find myself thinking “the book was better…” of ANY screen adaptation. Yasutaka Tsutsui’s novel is a fascinating SF effort that delves into what happens when dreams pop into the real world but I can’t imagine a better candidate for directing a movie of this than Kon.

If this film is indeed his last (there’s another that’s unreleased, but I don’t know how close it is to completion) it’s a fitting way to remember him. It’s thought-provoking, imaginative, well-paced and artistically spectacular animation for adults; just watch it if you haven’t already. Really.

I honestly don’t know what else to say. We often hear that there aren’t enough good directors around, and the likes of Miyazaki and Takahata are old themselves. Forty-seven is really too young for anyone to go but in that time Kon has made a big impression on a lot of people, and I can say with absolute sincerity that every title he’s directed is downright excellent.

I hope this conveys how important Kon’s work is to me, but more importantly I hope it encourages those of you reading this who haven’t seen any of them to look them up. It’s a shocking tragedy that he’s gone so suddenly but everything he did from Perfect Blue to Paprika is still brilliant. So go watch ‘em.

If there’s one thing I find fascinating about contemporary Japan it’s the presence of contrasts that are baffling to an outside first-time visitor. This has been heightened in the past decade or two by fundamental changes that are inexorably altering the society’s status quo, so the ramifications for its defining features of harmony, tradition and smooth routine are quite striking.

Given the current international economic uncertainty, the knock-on effects on industry and everyday life are as noteworthy now as they’ve ever been. What makes this a significant film is that this ultra-modern yet tradition-based Japan is rarely portrayed at the grassroots level: it’s a refreshing change to see a filmmaker point his camera away from the familiar high-rise cityscape and focus it on the ordinary working people who ultimately make the country what it is.

The people in this case are the Sasakis, a family comprised of office manager Ryuhei, his wife Megumi and their two sons Takashi and Kenji. From the outset their lifestyle is shown as typical: functioning day to day with a strict formality. As soon as this premise is established we see Ryuhei lose his supposedly safe job to cheaper foreign labour and it becomes immediately apparent how fragile the neatly-ordered domestic arrangement can be.

Anime and manga fans are familiar with how ‘outsourcing’ is making waves in that industry, but job security is a hot topic in the economy in general. The Sasakis’ predicament is a case study and I suppose a metaphor for the problems that the Japan of today as a whole is facing: people set themselves on a course in life but they are, understandably really, ill-prepared for unforeseen uncertainties such as outside influences. When the unexpected occurs they are lost.

Because Ryuhei’s change in status is so sudden he cannot adapt quickly enough – he conceals the shock and shame of redundancy from his wife and children, pretending to go to work then spending the day at job centres and soup kitchens. His attempts at finding alternative employment are almost as laughable as they are genuinely tragic, but in fairness he’s had the way of life he was competent in snatched rudely away and replaced with limited, unfamilar options. Interestingly, he’s not alone. During the course of the film, other respectable-looking men in business suits fall in and queue up with the jobless and homeless, which suggests that the problem is widespread, but never overtly acknowledged.

I appreciated the setting in that it’s the quiet suburban environment of narrow streets filled with small, cosy family homes; the colour palette is full of muted browns, beiges and greys rather than the bright neon and gleaming glass of Shinjuku and Shibuya (it reminded me a lot of Asakusa and Machida actually). I can’t comment on Kurosawa’s credentials as a horror film director since this is the first movie of his I’ve seen but this humdrum environment breeding a palpable sense of unease and impending disaster, coupled with the predicament of individuals at the mercy of unseen forces outside their control, are as effective here as they would be in a psychological or supernatural thriller.

The downward spiral of this film is more pedestrian and everyday than that a horror movie but in some ways is equally alarming. Ryuhei carries on his charade while his domestic authority crumbles; Takashi makes a career decision but hesitates in telling his parents for fear of their disapproval; Kenji seeks escape from being a class misfit by taking piano lessons in secret using his lunch money; Megumi carries on her role with quiet dignity in the face of painful loneliness and isolation, yet it’s clear she has has mounting doubts about her husband’s credentials as the traditional authoritative patriarch.

With the exception of a couple of scenes involving physical violence and raised voices – all the more shocking because of their infrequency – the entire affair is extremely subtle and restrained. The performances are superb, and background music is used sparingly. My only criticism is a sudden divergence in tone late on in the second half which carries a brilliant kind of tragic comedy that made me unsure whether to laugh or cry at its poignant absurdity, but goes against the grain with what precedes it.

Things get back on track for the final arc though, which returns to being stoic and understated. The simultaneous declarations from Ryuhei and Megumi of “Can I start over again?” are followed by moments of almost God-given redemption then a symbolic return home: battered, dirty and exhausted, they and Kenji walk in separately and sit at the dining table in a heart-wrenching echo of the harmonious opening scenes. The only verbal acknowledgement of the strangeness in this return to normality is Kenji’s nonchalant comment on his father’s dishevelled appearance.

The poetic finale speaks volumes with no dialogue at all, holding back from drawing conclusions but leaving things open-ended with an appropriate balance of cautious optimism and the inescapable fact that things are bound to change, whether we’re prepared for them or not.

Above all, the combination of quietly effective cinematography and an unflinching study in the characters and their motivations is what makes this feel so genuine and relevant. It avoids excessive sentimentality over their misfortunes or criticism of their flaws, resulting in a portrait of contemporary Japanese family life that never pulls its punches but stays true to telling a recognisable human story. The intimate view of their lives makes them living, breathing characters rather than the cut-out archetypes the film’s premise may suggest: I was mindful of the mistakes they made, but I couldn’t bring myself to pass judgement on them when their situation has no easy answers.

I’ve no idea what’s up with the current fad for live-action adaptations of anime and manga these days, although I’m pretty excited about the feature-length effort of Solanin. The thing is, it’s so easy for me to imagine how well Inio Asano’s graphic novels can make the jump from paper to big screen since he has such a keen eye for scene composition and, to coin a hackneyed phrase, a finger on the pulse on what makes ordinary ‘real life’ people tick. He captures snapshots of everyday life events with the flair of a skilled photographer; What a Wonderful World! pre-dates it by several years but the intentions, and end results, are similar.

I have to admit though that WaWW feels like a rough draft of that because these same ideas and narrative techniques are present, but in a more fragmented and scattershot form. The kids in a rock band are growing up and adjusting to adult responsibilities while simultaneously leaving the carefree days behind; friends deal with the loss of one of their number while questioning where their own lives are heading; couples meet, live together, fight and reconcile. The signature style, that of a sensitive and quirky narrative approach reminiscent of Haruki Murakami told through grittily realistic artwork similar to that of Hiroki Endo, is quintessential Asano.

Because the story arcs are contained within their own chapters there isn’t room to develop them as far as those of Solanin so even the most powerful subplots are unable to gain much momentum. That’s not to say they aren’t moving – some had me laughing out loud (which gave me one or two funny looks from other occupants of the staff room) and some had me fighting back the tears (likewise, probably) – but I can only wonder how they could’ve panned out if given the opportunity.

This was I think intentional. This artist’s eye – as much like a filmmaker’s camera as images on a printed page  – studies the trials and absurdities long enough to give a grasp of what it means, then moves swiftly on to the next. They’re connected in that the events are occuring in the same town around the same time, but the overall impression is that of a whistle-stop guided tour through the worldview; read in quick succession, it certainly felt that way to me.

Some of the chapters really hit you during their short duration  – Syrup is concerned with an eccentric guy with a cough mixure addiction, but it’s only after a startling and tragic finale that we, and the characters, learn anything about what sort of person he really is. Another highlights the traumatic effects of schoolyard bullying, but goes further in examining the factors of cause and effect equally. My favourites are the romantic drama segments and those that deal with the trials of young adults looking for their place in the world. Asano never offers answers; rather, he merely sets out the situations and feelings but with exquisite, sometimes painful, clarity and leaves the reader to draw the conclusions.

Others didn’t really say much to me though. They were disposable in that the effect they left on me was short-lived and they didn’t stick in my mind like some of the others did. Perhaps this was an experiment on Asano’s part for later works such as Solanin or his mind-bending Nijigahara Holograph, or perhaps it was an attempt to get as broad an exhibition of the story’s general concepts as possible. These throwaway chapters often just show the nature of the state of affairs, and that’s it. They do however succeed in stirring up memories and emotions from the reader’s own life experiences in a way that’s almost Shinkai-esque.

Even the story arcs that don’t really *go* anywhere, or are merely absurd and surreal, offer little nuggets of truth about life in today’s world and draw a bit of beauty or profundity from simple, everyday things. Judging by his age I’m assuming Asano’s childhood was spent in Japan’s 1980s economic boom then he witnessed the more recent upheavals of the 90s as a young adult and struggling artist. His most striking hallmark then is that his stories have an autobiographical feel, which gives the dramatic moments much more weight than they would otherwise have.

In this uncertain age when people feel isolated and anxious about what the future will bring, it’s well nigh impossible to make sense of anything; a good place to start I guess is what’s right under your nose: family, friends and the town you live in. The locality of the town in What a Wonderful World has a few weird and wonderful elements to it but the majority is, from a distance, dull and ordinary. The skill in this manga is pulling meaning out of these ordinary moments, getting inside the heads of the people and making you identify with and care about them. In a rare moment of lucidity, the eccentric Syrup guy sums it all up: “there isn’t a right or wrong way to live your life.”

This won’t be the best Narcissu article around so I do at least apologise for that. Its subject matter, approach and underlying messages are quite unusual so I suspect a definitive judgement on my part wouldn’t be particularly valuable anyway. So, yeah…bear that in mind when I recommend it (it’s free and completely legal to download, after all) and you later read it for yourself and think, “hey, I thought you said it was good…” Needless to say there are spoilers after the jump.

I’m going out on a bit of a limb here in saying that my overall impression of Narcissu isn’t that of an altogether downbeat tale. It’s a simple and straightforward one from a narrative standpoint, but there’s enough under the surface to prevent me summing it up as simply happy or sad. The premise is depressing on its own but what makes it special is the the rest of the story, the symbolism used and the light it casts the events in.

The main arc is a road-trip kind of affair, which makes it very linear and lacks the decision points that many VNs have. I wonder if it was a deliberate artistic decision to depict events and experiences constrained by inevitability through a medium that normally offers numerous ways out or alternative ends; what is more likely was a desire on the part of the writer to accompany a light and quickly-readable text with static pictures.

The image of Setsumi, as immortalised in countless soft-focus watercolour-style pieces of artwork such as the one above, makes it all too easy to dwell on the tragedy of Narcissu‘s story in a young life cut tragically short. The ‘neutral’ portrayal of her character is possibly one area in which I can say objectively that the writing works well: she isn’t heroic or unlikable, courageous or cowardly. She’s ordinary but reduced to a state of muted resignation, as any average person her age would be if they were terminally ill.

The same can be said of the protagonist too. He’s a bit of a blank slate personality-wise – which is advantageous in the VN format really – but doesn’t behave wildly outside the boundaries of what a typical reader would expect him to. Not that it’s easy to imagine being in a situation like theirs, but that is perhaps one of the aims of the work in the first place. How the hell would I react to something like this? Not as stoically or matter-of-factly as these two would, I suspect. That’s a criticism of my own weakness rather than a criticism of a well-thought-out story, by the way.

The reason why I find this to be a partly upbeat tale is that ‘happy’ or ‘sad’ are very subjective indeed. Narcissu‘s theme of imminent death is a stark example of this; please bear with me if what I’m saying now is stating the obvious because it’s something that I think is easy, and understandable, to overlook. The way in which humans view and react to experiences is peculiar in that a terminally ill person on a good day can be happier than a healthy person on a bad day. It’s a strange fact of life, but it’s also the reason why, for me, this story is so poignant.

The relative nature of happy and sad experiences means that a simple road trip to look at flowers, something that’s barely worth a mention in typical slice-of-life storytelling, is anything but trivial in this case. Faced with a choice between dying at home or dying in hospital, the protagonists take it upon themselves to make their own decision in choosing neither.

This is where the story goes into social commentary, which is where I can’t provide anything more than personal opinion based on my own conjecture. If Japanese hospitals are exactly as is portrayed here (I’ll let the plot holes go because any errors are as minor as they are irrelevant), it poses interesting questions in regards to palliative care. In this story, two people have to steal a car and go on the run just in order to live out what’s left of their lives; that in itself is saddening to me because their families, friends and doctors for whatever reason showed insufficient understanding.

The writer certainly seems to have some things to say about the Japanese medical system and its society’s attitude to terminal illness, but because my medical/scientific and philosophical/religious backgrounds are UK-based I really can’t say if these criticisms are valid or not. If for the sake of argument the course of treatment in cases like this is indeed as it is in this novel, I’d say there are a lot of things that need to be discussed and addressed.

I do still get an impression that the ending was a partly upbeat one though. It’s a given that the ending could never have been a happy-ever-after type so what the characters are able to achieve within this cruelly constrictive life is what matters. Setsumi’s final scene cannot be viewed without a significant feeling of sadness…and yet, it’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Even in a makeshift swimsuit on a cold January day the irrefutable fact is that, against the odds, she’s there.

I wasn’t surprised at having a lump in my throat by the end; I was surprised however that the tears shed were not wholly those of sadness. I felt sorry for Setsumi because her aspirations were reduced to something so simple, but I felt happy for her in that she did at least realise them. In her final moments, she was happy. It’s not much, but it’s everything to her.

Similarly what she leaves behind isn’t a great deal at first glance but considering how isolated both she and the protagonist feel it’s significant in that she leaves him with some memories that nobody else is likely to have and, quite frankly, he ended up knowing her better than anyone else did. Most importantly, each in his or her own way chooses a path that isn’t dictated by others – a decision like theirs then takes on infinitely greater significance. The writer had this to say:

No matter what it is that you felt, as long as you felt *something*…

That which you felt is, for your part, the *all* of this piece.

My conclusion is that it succeeds in that I got this message very clearly. It could be argued that the whole thing is pointless because it’s a simple little journey and because She Dies At The End. But for me its modest aims are mirrored in the modest ambitions of its characters: the narrative, and its subjects, draw meaning from something that could have been meaningless and devoid of hope. I cannot stress enough, however, that this is what I personally took from it.

Her graphic novel is not an historical document. The whimsical slice-of-life angle doesn’t prevent it being meaningful though: fundamentally, history is about people and the relevance today of the events that occured then. This story is therefore very relevant even though the individual stories of this event are fictional; it also manages to convey hard-hitting subject matter with subtlety and restraint.

I’m neither American nor Japanese, and the bombings happened over thirty years before I was born so I feel a little uncomfortable with forming an opinion on it. My feelings on the events are strong, if mixed: my gut reaction is that the bombings should never have happened at all. On a detached analytical level, a weapon that destroys so much indescriminately has very limited practical use; on a more straightforward, human level I simply can’t accept the killing of other human beings on such a scale.

In reality, the background is more complicated: wartime atrocities of varying magnitudes were carried out by both Japan and USA so it’s naïve and over-simplifying to say that the attacks were morally right or wrong. They certainly brought a quicker end to the war, saving lives on both sides, but even though Hiroshima was a military target many of the bomb’s victims were civilians so it still doesn’t sit right with me. But then, I’d be judging people from another time and place by my own standards; I can’t imagine what went through the minds of those who made the decision.

The moral and ethical questions will probably never be answered so the best solution I can come up with is for us to learn from it and ensure it never happens again. It cannot be undone so, if nothing else, this way the suffering of those involved will mean something. Kouno doesn’t explore the US point of view, nor does she give the bigger picture regarding who started the war and how. It’s about one town – Hiroshima – and its inhabitants who were affected.

The first chapter follows one of the hibakusha trying to get on with her life ten years after the bombing: survivors of the attack were troubled over being unable to explain how they survived, and some felt guilt for escaping what claimed the lives of people they knew. One scene is a flashback of the aftermath drawn in shocking detail but until the last few pages of the chapter it returns to a relative feeling of normality. The closing dialogue is particularly moving and leans strongly towards highlighting the victims’ plight but I view it as merely conveying the point of view of one character, as opposed to voicing whatever opinion Kouno herself had.

The other two pick up the tale later on with associated friends and family in the years that follow. It effectively sets up a sense of continuity in bringing the course of events nearer to the present and shows that the events of 1945 continue to resonate after all this time, whether or not it’s outwardly evident. The fact that it’s already forgotten by the younger generation was I think a principal message of the novel, although the idea that life goes on is another significant point made here.

I initially found the art to be rough, sketchy and almost childlike. This simplicity brings the characters and their environment to life and, as some critics pointed out, adds an appropriate sense of fragility to them. The resulting innocent and harmless atmosphere also makes the really sad and shocking moments all the more powerful; the fact that the storytelling avoids heavy-handed sentimentality or biased moralising is an important part of why it’s such a readable piece.

Apart from those disturbing depictions of the bomb’s after-effects in the opening chapter the story does not show the incident itself. It’s instead concerned with the everyday: relationships, growing up, deciding what to do with your life…ordinary things of course but made somewhat extraordinary given the looming shadow in the background. The fact that this looming shadow is merely alluded to allows the narrative and the significance of its events room to breathe.

It goes without saying that this is, in parts, a sad story. Tragic things happen but what makes it more interesting and therefore more effective is that it’s not altogether sad. I recently outlined how a completely downbeat tone is counter-productive and this is a case in point: there’s no longer much value in reiterating how devastating the Hiroshima bombing was. Showing how lives were affected, on the other hand, is very valuable in understanding why it should be remembered.

Kouno explains in her afterword that although Hiroshima is her home town she’s not a hibakusha; she wrote the story because people outside of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, even those elsewhere in Japan, didn’t know the details about what the bombings meant for those who lived there. I admit that I don’t know anything outside of what history lessons and TV documentaries taught me so getting a feel for this, even from a fictionalised second-hand source, is helpful in this understanding.

The success, for me, of Kouno’s story is that Hiroshima is not portrayed as a mere dot on a map or a dead monument to history that needs to be mourned. It’s depicted as a living, vibrant town and although there are moments of tragedy and loss, it never descends into melodrama. It reminds us that the town and its people are alive and very much a part of this world – a world that should not dwell on the past or forget it either.

I can watch some stuff, such as The Place Promised…, Laputa and Paprika over and over; I’ve watched others once but they’ve sat gathering dust ever since. There are one or two purchases that I actually regretted, despite the titles themselves being very good. Actually, they were…too good for their own good.

I saw The Sixth Sense on TV years ago and Shutter Island recently at the cinema so, since the appeal of mystery-style stories relies so much on the twist endings, I can’t see the point of watching them again. For most other things it’s about the journey not the destination, so there’s usually enough enjoyment to be had even when I know what happens.

There are some titles that I consider to be brilliant but ironically I’ve only watched once. It requires a bit of hurried explanation when recommending them to other people with “you have to see this! What? Hell no, I’d never sit through that again.” The wartime ones are the worst for this: I borrowed a copy of Apocalypse Now off a friend but would never get my own copy.

It really is a fantastic film though: it’s well acted, has stunning cinematography and right from the throb of helicopters blending in with that haunting song by The Doors it’s one of those memorable must-watch classics (yes, go see it if you haven’t already). Similarly, no self-respecting movie fan should go without watching Grave of the Fireflies. Again, it gets pretty much everything right: the artwork is fantastic, the direction fluid and the story deeply moving.

The fact that the story is deeply moving is its greatest strength, but it’s also a problem. Simply put, Grave of the Fireflies is too devastating to watch again and again. It’s an emotional tactical strike that unflinchingly hits you with the true horrors of twentieth-century warfare and its messages, quite rightly, will stay with you forever. I watched to the end in awe at a story well told, then asked myself “why would I want to put myself through this again?”

Saikano is another masterpiece of character drama and commentary on the nature of modern warfare (the artwork is a bit off at times, but that’s Gonzo for you). The characters are flawed yet engaging, the drama convincing and assuming you take the mecha musume-style element allegorically rather than literally, it’s one of the most affecting pieces of animated television of recent years. Again I was floored by it but only once, because I felt that one viewing told me all it wanted to say.

The strange thing is, I usually appreciate dark stories. Cyberpunk is often dystopian, Satoshi Kon’s humour is black as pitch and Kinoko Nasu puts his characters through bouts of pitiless suffering that make me wince. How are Apocalypse Now, Grave of the Fireflies and Saikano different from, say, Nausicaä and its post-apocalyptic setting or Nasu’s gothic-tinged supernatural thriller Kara no Kyoukai?

To quote the ever-eloquent Ursula le Guin, light is the left hand of darkness: the most rewarding stories for me are often dark ones that, at some point, offer hope. It’s probably not a spoiler to say the protagonists of Grave of the Fireflies do not survive since it’s pointed out in the first few minutes and Saikano has the whole of humanity self-destruct. As parables for the loss and utter waste of war I can’t fault them, but do I need to be told twice when it’s stated so clearly and effectively?

I can rewatch Kara no Kyoukai despite the death and suffering of people who quite often don’t deserve what comes their way mainly because the central character goes through self-discovery and redemption during the course of the series. Even though some characters meet their ends in undeserving fashion this journey feels satisfying because of the resolution; it’s about the sacrifices made and lessons learned. The villains are either punished or released from their inner turmoil, which gives their downfalls significance.

Similarly Nausicaä is possibly Miyazaki’s most downbeat movie thematically apart from Mononoke Hime but again, there’s a promise of new life growing out of the ashes of the old in both cases. This is where the divergence happens for me: all I take away from the Saikanos is a clear message of waste and innocence lost. I’m not denying that their messages deserve to be heard but I don’t need to be made to feel miserable to get the point.

It’s obvious that War Sucks: innocent people suffer and die for nothing when the same objectives could be achieved through peaceful means. Being told just this on its own doesn’t offer much else to the table, no matter how pretty the artwork or how convincing the characters are.

Futatsu no Kurumi, a.k.a. Two Walnuts, is another historical wartime drama; this time a twelve-year old goes back in time and experiences the horrors of the 1945 firebombing of Tokyo first-hand.

It’s not a great movie. The artwork’s simplistic, the animation looks cheap and the direction is clumsy in that the CRY HERE moments feel manipulative on the part of the writers. In fairness it’s probably intended to be an educational film for today’s kids who won’t know a thing about what wartime Japan was like for youngsters of their age but that’s the point: it’s intended to be educational (I learned a thing or two about the Japanese WW2 home front from this too). Crucially the protagonist takes something away from her harrowing experiences: she learns from the events and is changed by them.

I like dark and angsty stories; not because of the darkness alone but because bigger lows have more relevance when next to some highs – it’s about contrast. A piece of music that uses dynamic changes, i.e. alternating very loud and very quiet passages, moves me more than pieces that are either loud or quiet all the way through. Narratives, either in a film or in written word for that matter, work the same way.

The issue is complicated by many other factors of course, such as whether the visuals and music are easy on the eyes and ears or how how well you relate to the characters. When I see them lost, uncertain or in pain I can sit through it if I feel confident that, even if things don’t turn out well in the end, their experiences will at least mean something. There’s more to storytelling than merely making you laugh, cry or perch yourself on the edge of your seat: I prefer the characters and the viewers to walk away with something they didn’t have at the beginning, even if much was lost along the way.

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.

I can see why it’s one of those sleeper hits because of its realistic setting, live-action feel and they way it appeals to the josei or seinen demographics, without limiting itself to either piegeonhole. As I said in my previous post a healthy slab of realism is a good thing, and Noitamin A has a history of being a good place to find it. This title also goes even further than the pleasant surprises of Clannad ~after story~ and Solanin in breaking through the glass ceiling of portraying life after high school. Win.

It’s a niche title nevertheless, mainly because the ages of the characters and the issues it addresses. I guess the bottom line is the stars of the show are at a similar age to the target audience, which is probably relatively small. I won’t be rude and say that most otaku wouldn’t be able to relate to the characters because people in this series actually have jobs, but the fact remains that most anime fans are youngsters while Hiroko…isn’t. Aiming for such a minority audience makes it more personal somehow, which appeals to me.

There’s a streak of knowing wry humour running through the whole affair yet it never unfairly judges the characters. Rather than coming across as stereotypes that are intended to elicit sympathy or derision they are shown as they are: ordinary people like us getting on with their lives as best they can. Within these humdrum trials of ordinary stuff happening to ordinary people there’s a lot of truth…and a lot of warmth too.

Since the payback from watching this series is through the attention to detail, the little things are what make it so wonderful. One scene shows Hiroko struggling to make dinner while her boyfriend Shinji sits back in the living room; for whatever reason the food overcooks, but Shinji sits back and decides not to intervene. It was Hiroko’s turn to cook the dinner and as such it’s her responsibility, not his.

Relationships succeed and fail on little things like this: from an impartial outsider’s perspective Hiroko was cooking for both of them so it’s in his best interests to save it from burning, whoever’s in charge of it that day. This doesn’t seem like much but it’s a symptom of the barrier that’s been building up between them: they are drifting apart without realising.

Since neither Hiroko and Shinji are unfaithful the only cause really is their devotion to work. The core of Hataraki Man‘s message is the personal price we, the young(ish) adults in society, pay for the emphasis we place on our careers. My view is that you work to live, not the other way around (if I were currently in a job that meant more to me than something that merely pays the bills maybe I’d thimk differently though). In their case it’s not a case of merely working each day; the time to push and put in 100% is now.

The results of this well-meaning philosophy of giving it your all are clear: Shinji is faced with (at least to me) the familiar dilemma of “is this what I want to do with my life, or is the risk of a change too great?” and his relationships suffer. Similarly Hiroko is so driven that the respect she gains from her co-workers is a poor substitute for having time to herself – the title refers to her ‘work mode’ mindset that kicks in when a deadline is due.

We’ve all loaded up on strong coffee and snacks to get a piece of work done but the way that this single-mindedness to meet the deadline at all costs was presented is very interesting: in Hiroko’s office it’s implied that when she’s in Hard Work mode a masculine side surfaces. Is this making some sort of pro-masculinity statement? Don’t women these days juggle work with childcare and other traditionally female tasks? Aren’t women just as hard-working and dedicated as men?

I must make it clear that I didn’t detect any misogyny or misandry here: rather, it’s a portrayal of one person making a conscious effort to temporarily be someone else in order to make a given situation easier to deal with. Tellingly, her favourite snack allegedly has a high oestrogen content…she values her femininity but puts it to one side when she believes the circumstances demand it.

I think that when Hiroko does this she loses something in addition to her femininity…her sense of perspective perhaps? She casts aside her sense of time and her awareness of everything that isn’t work-related, just to get the task in hand completed. The masculinity of this frame of mind stems from its single-mindedness: we blokes do after all suck at multi-tasking (reading the paper while sat on the toilet doesn’t count) so Hataraki Man mode is the manly display of a one-track mind.

Hataraki Man is indeed concerned with gender-specific difficulties faced in today’s world but the main point I got from the show was how modern life, and careers in particular, puts pressure on everyone. The eventual break-up between Hiroko and Shinji was mutual: both are workaholics and neither is more or less to blame than the other. Again, the series doesn’t judge or criticise: it tells things as they are and leaves the viewer to make up his or her own mind, and is much more mature and satisfying for that.

The length of the series works a little against it, however. The episodic structure gives way to a more complex multi-threaded plotline just as it’s winding up to a conclusion, but that’s Unfinished Manga Syndrome for you. The supporting cast are all really entertaining though: every one of them has his or her own story to tell and the on-screen chemistry plays out in a really organic and lifelike way.

The uneasy (yet strangely heartwarming) dynamic between Hiroko and the gruff Sugawara was a pleasant surprise too; there’s that openness left at the end but what I remembered most about him was that strange penchant of his for taking photos of empty skylines. Considering how a pervading theme of the series overall was that of putting your personal interests to one side for the sake of your career, those little moments where he lets his true, more sentimental, side reveal itself were just plain awesome.