Land of the Lustrous’ fourth episode draws us towards a key turning point in Phos’ overall journey. Though Phos has experienced hardship throughout this narrative, they’ve consistently bounced back, and successfully learned basically nothing from their mistakes so far. That’s actually a key part of the show’s charm; Phos is lazy and oblivious and self-absorbed in ways that we can likely all relate to, and the comedy of those qualities playing themselves out within this resolutely self-serious society makes them a natural point of human connection for this story. But Land of the Lustrous is a story about change, and the flippant attitude Phos brings to all their endeavors will soon be tempered by the fires of life experience. Before that can happen, though, episode four is here to celebrate Phos’ silliness for one last time, as the show briefly turns into an outright buddy comedy.
Having at last been excavated and reassembled from the shell of last episode’s slug creature, Phos now finds they can communicate with the thing, which introduces itself the great King of the Admirabilis, Ventricosus. Unfortunately, as the only one who can actually understand the creature’s noises, the other gems just assume Phos is still kind of broken. In a series all about transformation and reinvention, Phos’ first glorious metamorphosis thus only results in them gaining a squishy new pet, one who’s mostly interested in begging for food and catcalling the “cuties” of Phos’ home.
Episode four enthusiastically leans into the ridiculousness of this situation, letting Phos at last play the straight gem to a character who’s even less respectable than they are. There’s a bevy of incredible Phos faces, with the distinctive expressiveness of studio Orange’s rigs perfectly conveying her boredom, exasperation, and despair. And there are also plenty of terrific physical comedy beats, with sequences like Ventricosus’ introduction demonstrating the comic energy between these two characters. That tiny sequence actually demonstrates a great deal of the craft inherent in a well-constructed joke, so let’s break that one down in detail.
Ventricosus’ self-serious speech is cut short by a jump to Phos flinging the slug in the water, a beat that harnesses both Land of the Lustrous’ talent for smart cuts and its dramatically charged layouts in new ways. Rather than being used to demonstrate the terror of the Lunarians, both of these techniques are now being used in the opposite direction. The actual substance of the sequence is simple: a close-up shot of Ventricosus, emphasizing its exaggerated arm moments and deep vocal tone, cuts discordantly to a middle distance shot of Phos flinging the slug into the water, as Ventricosus wails about being horribly mistreated.
The joke here is a simple “isn’t it funny to watch this creature’s seriousness undercut by Phos’ indifference,” combined with the natural visual comedy of the slapstick punchline, as well as the goofy motions of the slug itself. But by using the show’s natural language of cinematography, the show is able to dramatically enhance the payoff of this joke; the initial close shot demands serious attention, while the mid-distance transition emphasizes the slug’s tiny size and relative helplessness, a trick the show regularly uses for its jumps from emotional drama to the arrival of the Lunarians. When you combine that with the equally discordant shift in voice acting, as well as Phos’ tiny smile of reaction, you arrive at a gag that’s actually composed of around half a dozen tiny micro-gags of thwarted expectations, some of them based in our assumed knowledge of Land of the Lustrous’ default cinematographic vocabulary. Great comedy tends to feel effortless, but it’s based in just as much control of artistic impact as any other emotional effect.
In spite of Ventricosus mostly just being a noisy, demanding burden, Phos sticks by them all throughout this episode, and even agrees to help return them to their ocean home. Phos is a kind person, but their reasons for helping Ventricosus go far beyond simple kindness. Early on in this episode, after Phos learns that Ventricosus met Cinnabar, they reveal that Cinnabar told them their most closely guarded secret: their desire to be taken away to the moon. With just the barest hint of pride, Phos muses that “I don’t know why, but I want to imagine that Cinnabar would have told just anyone.
Phos might not know why, but we certainly do. As someone who believes they are a burden without value, Phos desperately wants to believe that Cinnabar has put a unique trust in them specifically. As we explored last episode, being important to someone is a way of asserting your own value – being Cinnabar’s confidant gives Phos a reason to live, and being their savior a reason to keep living. Believing Cinnabar has put value in Phos gives Phos a sense of purpose. And fortunately, Phos is right – they are likely the only member of their community that Cinnabar wouldn’t pretend to be strong and confident around, simply because Phos seems so humble and pathetic that Cinnabar can’t help but relate to them.
Given how strongly Phos has centered their own value on their ability to be of use to others, it makes sense that like with Cinnabar, Phos would happily forfeit their own time and energy to ensure Ventricosus is happy. But perhaps even more fundamental than their need to help others is their need to do something, to feel like they have use in this world. Early on in this episode, the other gems brushing past Phos on their way to patrol is played like a joke – but at the same time, it naturally emphasizes how Phos is the only one with the time to talk to a slug, while everyone else has a clear purpose waiting for them.
That desperate need for a purpose reoccurs later on, when Phos directly asks Master Kongo about Cinnabar’s useless patrols. Kongo replies with a sigh that “despite repeated attempts at persuasion that merely living was enough in itself,” Cinnabar was unable to accept seeing themselves as a pure burden on the others. Thus Cinnabar actually came up with the idea of the night patrol, and though Kongo understood this to be pointless, isolating busywork, he was forced to accept that this might be one way Cinnabar could retain a sense of purpose.
Our search for clear, satisfying purpose is frequently incompatible with the formless, directionless nature of our actual lives. As Kongo says, “we are too complex to be satisfied with simply living.” He follows that with “but thankfully, we live long lives” – but to someone like Phos, that long life might feel more like a lengthy sentence than a source of opportunity. In contrast, the organic, inherently fleeting Ventricosus claims that “in exchange for taking away everything with it, death gives meaning to life itself.” So does something only possess meaning if it eventually ends? And though this may come as a source of comfort to organic beings, what does it mean for the gems, who never truly die?
Perhaps neither the philosophy of their master nor the musings of a sea slug are particularly useful to Phos. But even if Phos cannot relate to their worldview, they can at least hope to assemble something positive and true to their own life out of the perspectives of others. Though Kongo likely just meant “do your work and stop bothering me,” Phos interprets Sensei’s order to “focus on what’s in front of me” as a directive to help Ventricosus, the slug who is in front of them. The maddening and yet reassuring thing about meaning is that it is ultimately immaterial; providing meaning to your life can come in a million different forms, and for a simple, straightforward person like Phos, simply helping the people in front of you is one of the easiest ways to seek it.
Helping others does not need to be pursued in service of some higher imperative. When seeking a reason to help Ventricosus, Phos’ ultimate, simple declaration that “you’re too weak to get back on your own” is more than reason enough. Phos might consider themselves weak, and they honestly are weak, but weakness is actually one of the greatest quality anyone hoping to truly help others can possess. It was Phos’ weakness that led Cinnabar to confide in them – and for all of us, it is through our failure and fragility that we come to understand and empathize with the weakness of others. The humility of weakness teaches us far more than the hubris of strength.
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