Editor’s Note: My “episode one article” for Land of the Lustrous turned out to be more of an all-encompassing thematic overview of the show. The show’s themes obviously haven’t changed between episodes, so we’ll be diving into more of the nitty-gritty craft stuff this time. Let’s get to it!
Land of the Lustrous’ second episode opens with a history lesson courtesy of Master Kongo, who tells us that “six shooting stars once visited this world. All six of them fracturing, and giving birth to six moons.” He goes on to describe a mythology that seems equal parts biological and mystical, combining evolutionary changes with florid touches that naturally highlight the symbiotic relationship of history and myth, or our selfhood and our perception of the world. Illustrated through a background like a church window or illuminated manuscript, his words seem intended to assign purpose or destiny to the whims of evolution. Even his initial phrasing, that speaks of shooting stars “fracturing” as their route to rebirth, seems to imply a gemstone’s perspective. To a complex and seemingly meaningless series of biological shifts, Kongo’s certainty implies meaning, or at least a certain steadiness of direction.
Phos could certainly use a little of that meaning or direction. The show’s opening song feels more reflective of Phos’ own feelings, as they swims with wide eyes through a sea of fragmented gems, before shattering as well and joining the churn. The gems of Phos’ world cling to whatever meanings they are assigned, living in a world seemingly without time or purpose, without a future to look forward to or a past to remember. As the episode proper opens, we at last get an aerial shot of the gems’ home, which feels artificial and lonely on every level. From the atmosphere, a striking yet largely featureless island in an endless sea; from closer in, a single temple in an empty plain, like a marker placed and forgotten by some ancient god.
As evocative and thematically appropriate as it is, scene-setting like this could easily diminish the audience’s faith in this world as a living place. Phos’ world physically feels invented and artificial, and thus it’s a very good thing that Land of the Lustrous is so very confident in its worldbuilding and storytelling. And by that, I don’t mean “it has a lot of interesting worldbuilding” – I mean that the mechanics of its world are introduced at the pace its characters interact with them, who act with full confidence and familiarity in all their everyday actions.
Confident worldbuilding, where the characters just go about their lives instead of explaining things directly to the audience, is rewarding in both an immediate and long-term sense. In the short term, such storytelling feels both realistic and propulsive, making both the characters and their world feel more solid and alive, as well as moving the story forward more quickly. In the long term, having characters engage with the mechanics of their world only as they become relevant greatly enhances the impact of those mechanics, and in the meantime, anything the characters brush over due to their own personal familiarity serves as a natural mystery to further hook the audience. It’s a key form of the classic “show, don’t tell,” and it’s a fundamental truth of narrative that often feels lost in modern, wincingly lore-oriented productions.
As Jade and their companions discuss their daily activities, their reflections on Master Kongo naturally illustrate this style of “worldbuilding in action.” The episode’s first major payoff is a great sight gag, as Jade’s trepidation about interrupting the master’s meditation is illustrated through a goofy bit of slapstick ending in their hand flying off. The scene proceeds with the naturalism of a genuine conversation, and offers its own inherent reward (the visual and aural punchline), but it simultaneously establishes a necessary fact of lore that will inform the episode’s later drama: Kondo is truly unreachable while he is napping. Additionally, both this scene and Phos’ angry, ineffectual wrestling in the next one benefit from another neat trick of visual design: how slapstick can often feel more funny and less morbid from a great distance, as long shots naturally offer a sense of safety to the audience, and lessen dramatic tension.
The last scene at the temple offers more naturally conveyed and drama-relevant worldbuilding, as Phos begins to regret their lofty promise to Cinnabar. For all of this show’s many strengths, one of the most important might be just how expressive and charming Phos is at all times. CG animation can have great difficulty with the nuances of character acting, but Phos’ gangly limbs and exuberant see-sawing between joy and despair perfectly captures the energy of a puppy who’s just so proud of having destroyed your shoes. And as Phos seeks guidance, Rutiel’s investigations provide a natural reiteration of this world’s fundamental value structure, where your “hardness” can easily be measured by a simple hammer strike. Most of us have the luxury of not knowing we are objectively weaker than literally everyone around us; given Phos’ overt knowledge of that fact, is it any wonder they goof off and claim defeat from the start?
Ultimately, Jade suggests Phos ask Diamond for help, leading us off towards the island’s vast and featureless grasslands. Even in the show’s outdoor scenes, Land of the Lustrous manages to make clean, compelling geometric patterns within its layouts, using the simplicity of the background and even shapes of its characters as visual scaffolding. And when Lunarians attack, the layouts become even more impressive. Phos’ disorientation is perfectly conveyed through a spinning shot that guides us towards Dia’s flight, with Phos’ body essentially becoming an angled arrow leading our eyes towards the threat. The followup shot depicts Dia with their arms and legs spread, a striking pose that naturally implies their willingness to defend Phos with every element of their body.
As Dia attempts to defend Phos, the strain of the distance between their existing and desired selves comes through as a literal screaming, the whining of stone against stone as their arms crack under the strain. Unlike Phos, Dia isn’t immediately willing to acknowledge their self-hatred; it comes through incidentally, like that shattering noise they hide beneath their immaculate gloves. Dia is willing to die to bridge that gap, and they almost do; in one of the show’s most iconic shots, we see the background turn red and blinding as they look back at Phos, certain this is their end. And when their partner Bort arrives, the distance between the two of them is clear even in their physical arrangement on screen; Bort descending from the heavens as Dia looks up in awe, or Dia lost in the tangle of Bort’s hair, simultaneously awed and shamed by their partner.
Their insecurities laid bare by Bort’s arrival, Dia confesses their feelings, reflecting that “even when hit from the weakest angle, the shock does not travel through their body. The hardest and most perfect among us.” Rutiel’s earlier investigations are thus framed in the starkest possible terms, as we see that even this society’s theoretical “winners” can think only of their inferiority to their own superiors. Though Phos longs for a purpose, in a society where you’re measured on such binary metrics, and where your placement on those metrics can be easily discerned, it’s no wonder that both Dia and Phos feel worthless. Dia both loves and hates Bort, because their feelings have no place to go but towards their superior partner. Cloaking their feelings in overt kindness, Dia’s true sentiments and self-image come through only in reflection, a chipped blade with downcast eyes.
Pho and Dia’s commiseration is cut short by the arrival of another Lunarian, heralded through a series of shots that demonstrate the visual limitations of Land of the Lustrus’ aesthetic. This show’s least impressive shots tend to be the ones where it contrasts its CG figures against a flat background without any sort of larger geometric pattern, which emphasizes the digital artificiality of both elements of their composition. Land of the Lustrous is a beautiful show, but it is not beautiful in every aspect – it understands its own strengths, and works to embody them while mitigating its weaknesses as consistently as possible. That’s how we all get through life, in one way or another; none of us can be Bort, and even Bort is likely beset by their own anxieties and feelings of uselessness. Feelings of powerless or worthlessness, or dissatisfaction with our own body, are universal feelings we can never truly surpass. And yet, we must all seek that glimmer of hope that carries Phos through the end – their acknowledgment that without their presence, Cinnabar would remain forever imprisoned. However worthless we feel, we can find purpose in this world. No one can ever truly be replaced.
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