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.

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.

Not many of the scenes were brightly-lit enough to give decent screencaps

I believe it’s unfair to judge the Kara no Kyoukai adaptations against the other Type Moon productions when its source material pre-dates them all, but the fact remains that in terms of storytelling, presentation and character dynamics it’s a classic in the making. I’m not using that term lightly either: I’m choosing my words carefully here, even though I’m using so bloody many.

It’s just as well that there will be an epilogue chapter since there are a few nagging feelings in the back of my mind that all begin with, “Yes, but what about…?” and won’t settle until I see them resolved. How did Mikiya survive a supposedly lethal dose of drugs (unless the Bloodchip he’d had earlier gave him the resistance already)? Who was the nameless woman on the street with such detailed knowledge of the criminal underworld? Where was Touko planning on going when discussing it with Azaka? Who was the girl briefly mentioned in the final scene who could see into the future?

Animation and soundtrack quality alone can’t make a masterpiece but they do create an immersive experience that draws the viewer in; vital when the setting and subject matter are so far removed from our relatively safe, comfortable society. Yuki Kajiura’s contribution can’t be ignored here: the haunting and textured score achieves far more than you’d expect from a pianist, three pretty girls and a high-spec reverb unit; Seventh Heaven is a beautifully fitting end but the opening sequence and BGM meld perfectly with Ufotable’s vivid, grungey imagery.

What a haunting intro sequence it was

The script is an acquired taste I think. Nasu often comes over as obtuse and melodramatic like a Robert Smith or Billy Corgan song lyric with his introspection and gothic-inspired contrast of angst and sentimentality. This series is dialogue-heavy but you really need to pay attention because every line is important in understanding the overall narrative; again, it’s an aspect that you’ll either love or hate but then the whole production is one that you either surrender yourself to or ignore completely with little choice of the middle ground.

My rewatch was essential in that it cemented themes and ideas that the previous outings built on and allowed me to bring the tangled plot threads together, especially since the shuffled chronology gives such a sense of disorientation. The outwardly odd concept of a person being able to only murder once in a lifetime, for instance, makes more sense alongside Mikiya’s monologue in the fourth film that describes how the murderer is both victim and assailant: I took it to mean they no longer value others’ lives so kill their own humanity along with their victim.

I think this is why Mikiya is so desparate to believe in Shiki’s innocence. He alone appreciates her softer side; it’s returning to his dilemma in the second movie when he decides to have faith in her and keep his image of her intact when the evidence is inconclusive. The gripping thriller aspect then stems from that question of how she is involved in the serial killings (paying close attention to the second film with the benefit of hindsight pretty much proved her innocence to me), but she is portrayed as having a grip on her humanity that is constantly tenuous.

I loved the attention to detail in portraying the changes between their flashback and present-day selves – she really does *look* younger here

The recurring description of her conflict is that of the gentle and almost ordinary girl versus the cold-blooded killer, the product of the Ryougi bloodline (be it taught or inherant…the root cause isn’t clear). This isn’t divided along the line between the male and female personas either: she continued to feel the urge to kill after her male personality disappeared, after all. I get the impression that he sacrificed himself to allow Mikiya to take his place as the soulmate and companion to the Shiki who remained.

At this stage the usual course is to bring about the dere-dere breakdown; the best that we can usually hope for from that familiar device is a naturally-paced progression. Here, the complexity of Shiki’s character makes the tsundere archetype seem lazy and simplistic in comparison: she has an unconventional kind of grace and beauty but personality-wise she’s wholly unpredictable and her character development feels more…mature? Which does of course make the resolution all the more cathartic and satisfying.

Mikiya was always the moral anchor – the one to offer a kindly smile, accept the bizarre without prejudice, show compassion but also demonstrate righteous indignation on behalf of the viewer at those who prey on the innocent. He was also the source of Shiki’s redemption and sacrifices much to that end…the typical spineless Anime Male Lead? Hardly. His mantra was to bear Shiki’s sins in her place – a statement typical of Nasu’s idosyncratic turns of phrase, but interpreted by me as a demonstration to compromise and find middle ground outside of both his world and hers.

I’m guessing his life was ordinary up until that night on the snowy hillside. After this he dropped out of college, fell out with his parents, worked for a sorceress and found himself crossing a number of strange and dangerous people…yet he was devoted to Shiki throughout: the one who visited her hospital room every week, the one who kept her company before and after and the one who did his utmost to keep the hope of her innocence alive. By the time he faced Shirazumi he was a bad-ass hero but did so without being gar, macho or even entirely fearless.

Ultimately Shirazumi was a reflection not of what she was, but what she could’ve become. He didn’t have anyone’s helping hand to hold him back from the brink, nor the inner strength Shiki had that allowed her to grasp that hand and save herself. He gave in completely to the destructive impulse and willingly cast aside his humanity; next to the other antagonists we’d seen so far he was the most menacing, least sympathetic and ultimately most frightening (sadly the most cartoonish…that CGI saliva was a bit overdone). If a murderer is both victim and assailant then that applies to Asagami and Fujyou, two humans who killed other humans but were also victims; Shirazumi was just a nutcase who took lives; the homicidal maniac.

As I rewatched I noticed something obvious that ironically never clicked before: Shiki always referred to herself as a natural-born killer so I assumed she was proficient at it. As a destroyer of inamimate objects and creatures that were dead to begin with, it was a natural assumption but she never actually killed another human until the fifth movie – the opportunity presented itself on a number of occasions but the fact that she never went through with it until that point says a lot about how her perspective on the matter shifted.

Shirazumi’s death felt like she acted on the human motives of revenge and love rather than a subconscious urge. I’d like to think the true trigger for Shirazumi’s murder was out of love and self-defence, at least: she was avenging her loved one’s death rather than giving in to that murderous impulse that she had tried so hard to suppress. Mikiya didn’t agree with her decision afterwards but his acceptance and understanding are what matters.

The fact remains though that ‘Shiki the human being’ won over ‘Shiki the killer’ at that point, and even after this I think she walked away with her humanity intact. That uncomfortable scene in which she was bound and helpless was also one in which she grasped the value of life at last: the fourth film showed her First Breath After Coma, as it were, but this was the final stage in her realisation of that Boundary of the title and its significance.

I believe it refers to how Shiki teetered on the knife-edge between the warmth and companionship found in life and the meaningless nothing-ness of oblivion, and how she decided on the former. Her dere-dere breakdown (an understatement, I know) is that of coming to terms with her contradictions and what she loses during the course of the story; Ray had the benefit of reading a translation of the original novel which apparently gives a slightly shifted emphasis at the end. The subtitle of ‘Garden of Sinners’ on the other hand perhaps serves to remind us how subjective morality can be to the outside observer.

I won’t go as far as saying the film plays down the importance of what Shiki lost but perhaps because I’m a sentimental old fool deep down I was happy to accept a peaceful hopeful atmosphere at the end. The stylised sakura blooms, such a contrast to the grim and claustrophobic alleyways and abandoned buildings that formed the backdrop to most of the film, were the welcome relief. Excessively so? What I really wanted was to see Shiki and Mikiya together and happy which is what I got, so can hardly complain now. But then, I still don’t know how the novel handled it.

What am I left with after the dust has settled and I’m no longer waiting for another instalment (alleged epilogue aside)? A few minor doubts about how the final act played out and one or two open ends that fortunately don’t hinder things as much as those of Oblivion Recorder did, for a start. I can’t judge this purely on its own though: even if it were genuinely disappointing it the series was outstanding overall.

The mystery-thriller aspect is brought round full circle with a masterful triple-bluff – that of “Did she/didn’t she?” revealing itself to be more of “Did she/didn’t she/she would’ve done if True Love hadn’t prevailed.” I must admit that the romantic drama aspect meshed very well with this, taking an unlikely pairing and finishing with that pairing feeling like the most natural thing in the world.

Just for the record I stole this pic from a blog called, appropriately enough, Serious Fucking Business, which is well worth a visit

So then, I’m an academic without being an intellectual, watching anime as a layman but one who likes a decent movie in addition to the typical box office blockbuster. I hope I’m not insulting your intelligence here in pointing out that the term ‘anime’ is merely an umbrella term for a set of artistic techniques (animation) and the geography (Japanese in origin); except my own set of standards and definitions need something a bit more specific than this to differentiate a certain type of anime from the rest. No, I don’t have higher education qualifications in this area, but I still want to talk taxonomy. Please hear me out, ‘kay?

This division I have in my head doesn’t run along the lines between the commercial mainstream stuff that sells more DVDs or makes it onto Western TV and cult faves among fans. There’s another difference that exists among a minority of titles: a quick count through my MAL list reveals that out of the 143 I’ve completed so far, this subset that for the sake of argument I’ll call ‘Cinematic Anime’ makes roughly 30 or so, including the Studio Ghiblis. Even though I have a preference for them they still make up less than a quarter of what I’ve watched.

My definition is a bit arbitrary I’ll admit, but it goes something like this: anime that is Serious Fucking Business and is more akin to a live-action film you might see at the cinema than most other anime. This definition is NOT the same thing as depth or art vs. entertainment but to summarise my selection process it’s a title that can be judged on the same terms as its live-action counterparts. I’m not saying these are in any way *better*; rather, they shouldn’t be judged on the same terms. The definition of anime outlined in my second paragraph is just too broad to make this distinction.

To photorealism…and beyond. <3

My list of favourite contemporary directors goes something like this: Guillermo del Toro, Takeshi Kitano, Richard Linklater, Chan-wook Park and Ridley Scott, assuming Linklater’s rotoscoping is a subset of live-action (an aside I’ll get to in a minute). When I think of directors of Cinematic Anime I’d reel off Satoshi Kon, Mamoru Oshii and Makoto Shinkai; they are to me not only directors who make ‘very good anime’ but directors who make ‘very good films’ that happen to be made in Japan using the medium of animation. Both lists here are names I admire because, simply put, they make movies that are consistently enjoyable and impressive both thematically and technically. A good movie to me is a good movie whether it’s live-action, animated or, in the case of Linklater’s rotoscoped efforts, a quirky mixture of the two.

I got onto this train of thought after getting an impression that the Kara no Kyoukai movies felt like live-action, or more specifically felt like they are drawn and written to be as close to a live-action style as possible. The likes of these plus Ghost in the Shell, 5cm Per Second and Only Yesterday have a heightened sense of realism: the backgrounds, buildings, weapons and vehicles are especially lifelike; dialogue flows in a more natural manner; lens flares and camera angles are simulated with what I presume is the intention of helping the viewer forget it’s animated and enjoy it simply as a movie.

There are I’m sure reasons why certain directors work in the medium of animation when what they are doing could look and feel similar if it were shot in real-life locations, with traditional live-action acting and equipment. In Perfect Blue‘s case I believe the budget for an animated film was smaller; in sci-fi and fantasy movies sets and props may be so difficult/expensive to make ‘live’ they have to be done with CG; i.e. animated.

As cinematic Anime goes this is NOT what I had in mind

A simple litmus test I use for deciding whether an anime movie fits my criteria would be to imagine the film being taken to Cannes, Venice or, heaven forbid, the Oscars and running alongside the new live-action movies of the same year. In the current situation there’s a separate Best Animated Film Oscar, as though the judges can’t see past the fact that it has the painted appearance of cel animation; interestingly Waking Life garnered a number of awards in various events and publications for Best Film and Best Experimental Film but also received one Best Animated Film award. Just because the scenes are painted over to give a vaguely cel-rendered appearance, does that mean it’s animation?

Similarly A Scanner Darkly was described as “beautifully animated,” which is a nice thing to say but apart from details like the Scramble Suits it’s a rotoscoped live-action film, not an animated film per se. If you took a live-action Japanese film and rotoscoped it, would that make it an anime film? In which case I’ll be watching Baton with great interest because it’s a rotoscoped feature with two big names in Japanese live action film, Ryuhei Kitamura and Kunji Iwai, as director and producer respectively. Will it look and feel like an experimental live-action or an anime film? Will it deserve to be judged in that way?

I guess the reason why I feel so strongly about this is that most, but not all, anime is too different in terms of aesthetics, scripting and storytelling to be in the same area as live-action cinema; however, for the exceptions to these conventions it seems unfair to me that something as trivial as a painted colour palette or anime-style character designs somehow limits its appeal to just the anime fan when it’s made with a broader, or indeed different, audience in mind.

This is not the issue of its merit as ‘art’ (which Anime Diet covered very well shortly after this post’s first draft was completed); merely whether the fact that it’s animated should be a sticking point in appreciating it as film in a more general sense. Cinematic Anime for me isn’t necessarily more intellectual or innovative than any other anime but it still feels closer to live-action movies than other anime does, and perhaps it ought to be judged, and appreciated, accordingly.