The first thing that struck me about Blue Flag was its attention to detail in terms of how clothing hangs on the bodies of its characters. For a great deal of manga, those classic school uniforms might as well be attached to the characters themselves, moving neatly in sequence with their own movements. But in Blue Flag, the unique stresses and hanging edges of clothes that don’t quite fit you are always apparent. You can see where the cast’s clothes stretch, see the lines of bone beneath the fabric, and see how different characters either successfully transform their uniforms into an expression of self, or resign themselves to the shapelessness of clothes that never quite fit them.
It’s a trick you can only pull off if you’re an artist with an excellent grasp of weight and anatomy, like Blue Flag’s talented KAITO. But it’s also a choice reflective of Blue Flag’s generally thoughtful storytelling, and consistent attention to detail. Just as the characters within each panel are composed in such a way that you’re always aware of their clothes and environment, so too does the overt composition of panels convey more than straightforward information.
In Blue Flag, panel placements and shapes are never chosen purely for the most efficient conveyance of narrative information. Instead, panels are designed to echo the relationships of the characters, as well as set the story’s pace and tone. KAITO consistently uses panels and their absence as punctuation; a panel fading at its bottom edge, only for the edge to return some distance down the page, naturally conveys a scene transition and the passage of time. Panels are abstracted into direct punctuation, and repeated visual compositions are often used to create natural comedic punchlines. Pages are rarely entirely filled with panels – often, the prominent negative space is used to imply the imposing silences surrounding these characters, or how much difficulty these protagonists have clearly asserting their own space. For a quiet and character-focused story like this, the empty spaces between overt action are sometimes even more important than what is ultimately said.
Blue Flag is a delicate drama that lives in those spaces, and celebrates the things we find ourselves perpetually unable to say. The first protagonist we’re introduced to is Taichi, who’s essentially resigned himself to being a background character in his high school life. That resolution doesn’t fill him with bitterness, though; he’s well aware that his situation is a result of his own personality and inaction, and is comfortable living in the shadow of his popular, exuberant childhood friend Touma. But one day, he finds himself more or less accidentally helping his shy classmate Futaba get closer to Touma, resulting in all three of them becoming friends. And from there, a messy love triangle starts to slowly but surely develop.
Though it’s theoretically about the painful disjoints of communication endemic to high school, and the terror of knowing the end of high school is approaching, its conflicts are rarely presented as overt confrontations. It focuses rather on internal struggles, missed opportunities, and the often painful contradictions between our fundamental desires and overt self-image. Taichi bears some initial resentment towards Futaba, but it’s not because of any specific thing she did; it’s because her constant failures felt like a sharp reminder of his own inadequacies. And when Futaba begins to fight through her weaknesses and insecurities, his shifting feelings towards her come across as perfectly natural. If Futaba can change to be a person she actually respects, perhaps he can too; and if this weak person so much like him can actually demonstrate such personal strength, how can he not fall in love with her?
Blue Flag may be subtle in terms of its emotional conflicts, but that’s not to say it’s lacking in sharpness or specificity. Moments like Futaba’s acknowledgement of her own self-hatred are illustrated with brutal clarity, and one of the manga’s greatest strengths is actually its specificity and naturalism of dialogue. Both shoujo and shounen manga can have an issue with characters expressing their feelings through generalities, but Blue Flag’s characters tend to both relate their emotions and grow closer over the course of highly specific and totally convincing incidental conversations. It is these offhand conversations, as well as how successfully the manga’s visual storytelling conveys the tenor of its scenes, that really brings these relationships to life.
Just as Blue Flag is unwilling to embrace convenient stand-ins for genuine dialogue, so too is it intensely critical of comforting narrative convention. While its drama is largely constrained to the emotional realm, its overt narrative moves quickly through the establishment of its core relationships, and if a narrative conceit like “sports day is approaching” is introduced, you can be confident the manga will actually reach that payoff in short order. This snappy temporal pacing naturally evokes the actual experience of the final year of high school, while simultaneously echoing Blue Flag’s general distrust of shoujo cliches. Theoretical emotional victories like “we finally talked” or “we finally hung out together” are given none of the reverence they tend to receive in such stories, preoccupied as they are with validating the feelings of audiences going through very similar circumstances. Instead, that threat of finality and reality of a larger social world always hangs overhead, conjured again and again through the question “what is your actual goal here?”
It’s a question that Taichi first raises to Futaba, after first giving her advice about getting closer to Touma. Talking with your crush and establishing a friendship is great, but are you actually planning on trying to date this boy? Do you understand what that means in terms of your priorities, and your day-to-day school life? Are you willing to sacrifice in order to achieve this goal?
Taichi first fields these questions to Futaba from a position of relative emotional safety, himself not feeling particularly invested in their answers. But when Futaba’s friend Masumi throws those questions back in his own face, and reminds him that he’s meddling in a situation that won’t necessarily result in anyone being happy, he’s forced to reconsider his own position. And the answer he arrives at is painful in its unvarnished, selfish honesty – though he’s willing to help Futaba with these games, he ultimately hopes she fails, because he’s come to care for her too much to let Touma have her. That, in turn, prompts him to choose the easy escape himself, and break away from the situation in order to avoid Touma rejecting Futaba – but Futaba herself refuses to let him, drawing him back through the personal strength he first fell in love with.
The relationships between all three of these leads forms a messy, irreconcilable circle – Taichi is in love with Futaba, Futaba is in love with Touma, and Touma himself is actually in love with Taichi. This painful triangle could easily result in an uncomfortably unhappy manga, but Blue Flag is actually an incredibly buoyant read, brimming as it is with such love for all three of its leads. While other paragons of this particular space like Evangelion or Oregairu tend to embrace how our differences in desire and perspective result in mutual suffering, Blue Flag finds joy and solidarity in the mutual misunderstandings of its characters right from the start. You can easily see how all three of these lovestruck teens see each other, and it is a beautiful sight.
It’s also extremely funny, incidentally. While KAITO’s mastery of paneling and overall visual compositions might be most dramatically expressed through this manga’s more somber material, those strengths also result in a bunch of punchy visual gags, and even more great character expressions. Futaba and Taichi are wonderfully dorky heroes, and Touma stands as their extroverted but clearly introspective counterpoint, a thoughtful companion that brings out the best in both of them. I wish all three of these mixed-up teens all the happiness in the world, and am already eager to visit them again.
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