The inside cover of Witch Hat Atelier’s sixth volume offers us a beautiful vision of undersea life, all captured through a diamond window pane as Coco stares outwards, hand pressed curiously, almost longingly against the glass. The text echoes both the magnificence of the scene and the necessity of care and confinement, stating: “The Assembly at the bottom of the sea. A bulwark to bestow witches safety, a prison to confine witches daily.” As Witch Hat Atelier has told us time and again, the unbound potential of magic means the most necessary quality of any would-be mage is restraint, an understanding that magic must be handled with care if it is to avoid inflicting more harm than it resolves. Albeit unknowingly, Coco destroyed an entire river ecosystem to save one human life – and to be frank, the fact that she didn’t understand what she was doing is no point in her favor. Humans are capable of unimaginable wonders, but ambition untethered by experience and restraint is frequently a recipe for disaster.
Category Archives: Essay
Blue Flag – Volume 3
The first image of Blue Flag’s third volume, presented before we even get to its opening chapter, is of Taichi and Touma playing happily as friends, captioned with “Together as children despite the differences in their interests.” It’s a moment that captures a great deal about Blue Flag – the manga’s veneration of the incidental, deeply specific moments that survive in memory and ultimately shape our perception of our own life, as well as its indifference to the superficial markers of alleged kinship or similarity that define so many adolescent relationships. No common interest could equal the bond of shared experience and sympathy connecting Taichi and Touma. The people who are most important to us are not necessarily the people who are most like ourselves – they are those who inform and expand our understanding of both ourselves and others, securing their position among those dazzling incidental fragments that encompass our life in retrospect.
Phoenix – Volume 2
The first volume of Phoenix offered a bleak portrayal of human nature, emphasizing how we are fundamentally little different from the ants and the beasts, and how our superstitious clamoring for eternal life is ultimately a self-destructive fool’s errand. Though individuals were occasionally able to rise above the small-minded perspectives and fanatical loyalties that defined them, the overall portrait of humanity was a grim one, a detailing of a species too preoccupied with personal glory to even achieve the philosophical unity with nature of animals. The only balm against this scorching condemnation was the assurance that at the very least, the events taking place were far, far before our time, a reflection of a less civilized era of humanity.
Phoenix – Volume 1
I’ll admit I know embarrassingly little about Tezuka’s life and work, beyond the obvious impact he had as both one of the pioneers of manga and the originator of TV animation. There was short-form anime before Tezuka, but it was the cutthroat bargain he struck in terms of “limited animation” that allowed anime to be in any way financially viable as a weekly television medium. And to be honest, his bargain was itself a pretty loose interpretation of “financially viable,” a labor-heavy yet nonetheless bare-bones adaptive method that still has repercussions in how animators are criminally underpaid today.
Twenty Years Later
Twenty Years Later is the story of João Pedro Teixeira, a leader of Brazil’s rural Peasant Leagues who achieved some notoriety in the early 1960s. Teixeira was vying for more equitable conditions for his town of Sabe’s workers, who were being heinously exploited by the local landowners. Forced to produce cash crops for export instead of self-sustaining food, and constrained within a situation where both their jobs and homes were owned by local barons, Teixeira’s neighbors had no recourse but to come together, using the title of “Peasant League” to avoid the fraught term “union.” This semantic defense did not protect them; Teixeira was murdered on the side of the road while returning his son’s library books, and his league died with him.
Goodnight, Punpun – Volume 3
Goodnight Punpun’s third volume begins and ends in resignation. Its front cover largely defines the drama to come: Punpun lost in a bustling crowd, just one (admittedly bird-like) face among many. In elementary school, Punpun marveled at the infinite wonder of the universe, thinking there might be a destined place for him out among the stars. In middle school, he grappled with a hyper-awareness of his own feelings, lost in the sordid anxiety of first self-consciousness. He was lonely, but he was distinct. Now he doesn’t feel like anyone at all.
Neon Genesis Evangelion – Episode 17
Rather than referring to some psychoanalytical concept or opaque descriptor of the drama to come, Neon Genesis Evangelion’s seventeenth episode is named, quite simply, “Fourth Child.” It is a name that refers to NERV’s conceptually vague yet tonally specific designations for the Eva pilots – Rei is the first child, Asuka the second, and Shinji the third, implying a fourth pilot has finally been secured. Like the use of “angel” as the designation for humanity’s enemies, explicitly referring to the pilots as children carries a certain implication; it frames their battles as something like a meeting of innocents, the curious yet inherently destructive angels reaching out towards the untested, unmolded fruit of humanity. As the previous episode revealed, it is unclear if these angels even mean direct harm to their opponents, or if they simply lack a vector for expressing their intent. If true, they are little different from Shinji himself, who has so much difficulty finding a common language even with his fellow human beings.
A Pale Mirror: Maborosi
Hirokazu Kore-eda makes somber, majestic films about quietly unhappy people, people whose lives didn’t amount to everything they might have hoped, but who still hold a candle for tomorrow. You can chart a direct line from his work back to the gorgeous films of Yasujiro Ozu; like Ozu, Kore-eda understands that the substance of our lives is captured not in the grand acts of defiance or reinvention, but in the countless, frequently indistinct moments between, as well as the spaces in which we spend these moments. I imagine they find a sort of redemption in venerating these segues and stillnesses; for the lonely and longing and perpetually noncommittal, the beauty both these directors find in our everyday interactions is a profound comfort.
Chainsaw Man and the Country Mouse
Late in Chainsaw Man’s fifth volume, Denji and Aki are each presented with a brief parable, the story of the country and the city mouse. “The country mouse gets to live in safety,” they are told, “but doesn’t get to eat delicious food like they have in the city.” On the other hand, “the town mouse gets to eat delicious food, but runs a higher risk of getting killed by humans or cats.” It’s a dichotomy so simple it could apply to almost anything: risk versus reward, stasis versus progress, or the more obviously applicable choice between living in Makima’s devil-haunted world versus running with all your might. Of course, in order to fear the city enough to desire the country, you first require something to lose.
Suspension: Kubitsuri High School
And so we return to the archives of the nonsense-using quasi-detective Iitan, who begrudgingly solves the murders that always seem to darken his doorstep. I’ve generally had a somewhat tempestuous relationship with this series, as while I love Nisio Isin’s prose, characterization, and thematic inquiry, I simply do not care for mysteries and puzzles in the way he does. As such, my experience of these stories involves a lot of sorta halfway nodding off as they detail some convoluted murder mystery scenario, only to snap into focus when somebody starts talking about their feelings.