Narrative and Consequence

Imagine, for a moment, the tale of Johnny Protagonist. Johnny is the son of a great martial artist, and is determined to uphold his father’s legacy. With a grand tournament approaching, Johnny sees his chance for glory at last, and trains hard to perfect the skills his father once instilled in him. In round after round, Johnny demonstrates cunning and courage, deftly defeating his opponents with one after another of his father’s legendary techniques. At last, Johnny reaches the final round, and faces off with the student of his father’s old rival. At this point, Johnny pulls a pointy hat out of his gi, says “I was actually a wizard this whole time,” and turns his opponent into a newt.

In your mind, does Johnny’s tale qualify as a satisfying story? If expanded to the length of a novel or television series, would you feel like Johnny’s wizard reveal was a meaningful payoff for the time you’ve invested in this character, and the challenges you’ve seen them overcome? Do you feel satisfied by that relationship between exertion and result, and are you sufficiently hooked on Johnny’s world to wish to follow his continuing adventures?

Buckle up, folks. Today we’re talking narrative and consequence.

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Chainsaw Man and the Poverty of Our Dreams

Chainsaw Man commences with a grim litany of prices paid, as our hero Denji recounts all the body parts and organs he’s sold to winnow down his overwhelming debt. Having hacked off all expendable kidneys, eyes, and testicles, he announces he’s reduced his debt to a mere thirty-eight million yen. It’s not a price he could reasonably pay, not a price he expects to pay with all the fruit of his desperate labor. It is a death sentence, executed by way of a thousand financial cuts, and it will follow him until the day he finally gives up.

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Seeking the Ineffable in Otherside Picnic

When I set out to write up Otherside Picnic’s first volume, I figured it’d be best to first investigate the story’s formal predecessors: the original novel Roadside Picnic by brothers Arkadis and Boris Strugatsky, as well as its acclaimed film adaptation, Stalker. The context seemed vital for really digging into Otherside Picnic’s approach, but more importantly, both Roadside Picnic and Stalker are beloved works of fiction, and fit squarely within my own preferred genres. I’ve read countless works of weird and speculative fiction, forever captivated by stories of humanity at the fraying edge of reality, meaning it was only a matter of time before I dug into the Strugatskys’ vision on my own time.

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When Bleach Was Great: The Ballad of Ichigo and Rukia

Hello everyone, and welcome to Wrong Every Time. Today we’re going to be engaging in a somewhat unusual exercise, as I’ve been assigned a unique request: expand this tweet on Bleach characters’ Ichigo and Rukia’s suitability as a couple into an entire article. I was initially intending to decline, because it was a tossed-off tweet about a series I hadn’t fully read in decades, more intended to be an emotionally charged stab of nostalgic resentment than a critical thesis. But upon further reflection, it does feel like there’s a bit more meat to this feeling than “the couple I liked didn’t get together.” Framed more generally, the narrative failings of Bleach stand as a handy example of the narrative pitfalls of shonen storytelling altogether – so let’s dig into this topic a little, and see what we can suss out.

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Dead Dead Demons and the Banality of Apocalypse

Late in Dead Dead Demons’ first volume, its boisterous heroine Ontan stares out over the city of Tokyo, a vast alien mothership hanging silently above. In spite of the imminent threat, the city is quiet. After months of frantic news reports, the mothership has become just another feature of the skyline, an accepted feature of the modern age. Ontan has news for her complacent city. “Everyone seems to have forgotten what happened that day, and are living their peaceful lives as if it’s a given. But I have something I’d like to tell them: there’s no such thing as an endless summer break!”

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Blue Flag – Volume 2

Blue Flag’s second volume starts off with a reminder of the first thing that struck me about the first volume: the careful attention this story pays to the way clothes hang on the body, and project confidence, insecurity, or any manner of other emotions purely in the fit of the fabric. 

It’s fitting for a story about adolescence to be preoccupied as well with the awkward physicality of our outfits – how some of us seem to exude natural confidence at all times, while others seem perpetually uncomfortable in their own skin. It’s also fitting for a story by KAITO, who is so capable of conveying emotions through presentation, as with their masterful use of paneling. Gaining comfort with both our bodies and our feelings is a circuitous learning process, and though some of Blue Flag’s leads seem more confident in their clothes than others, they all struggle with the difficulty of presenting an authentic self.

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Spirit Circle: A Comfortable Boredom

“It’s hard for me to hate you,” Touko admits in Spirit Circle’s fifth volume. This isn’t a happy revelation. It’s spoken with bitterness, more of an accusation than an apology. And it’s easy to see why: hating Fuuta makes everything easier for Touko.

With Fuuta serving as the target of her rage, all of the injustices that have befallen Touko make a certain kind of sense. In our chaotic and frequently tragic world, it can be comforting to believe all of your problems are a result of some specific antagonist, some malevolent force that is specifically denying you the happiness you deserve. The idea of getting revenge for a grudge inherently implies some faith or hope in the order of things. When you were wronged, that was a deviation from how things are “supposed” to go, and you must “set things right” by punishing the person who caused this deviation. We cling to villains because the truth is much scarier – that life is simply chaotic without purpose, and bad things often happen to good people.

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Why It Works: The Beauty and Excitement of Exploring New Art

I’ve got a big Why It Works piece this week, all about the benefits of expanding your artistic horizons. I feel like people often see this process as something like homework, so I tried to focus on both the satisfaction and the immediate benefits of branching out, rather than framing it as any kind of obligation. Bringing great but lesser-known works into the light is one of a critic’s highest callings, so I hope I did right by my duties this time, and also that you all enjoy the piece!

The Beauty and Excitement of Exploring New Art

Why It Works: How Usopp the Liar Became a True Hero in One Piece

You all knew this One Piece rampage would inspire some articles eventually, right? Well, here’s the opening salvo, as we explore the journey of my current favorite One Piece character. Usopp’s journey was fascinating to me for several reasons, but the article’s right there, so you might as well click through. I really enjoyed writing this one!

How Usopp the Liar Became a True Hero in One Piece

One Piece

Why It Works: Hope Lights the Way Through Desolation in To Your Eternity

For this week’s Why It Works piece, I wrote a response to To Your Eternity’s phenomenal first episode. I haven’t been cross-posting my Why It Works pieces, since I link them all on Twitter anyway, but I’m particularly proud of this one, so I figured I’d post it here too. Here’s the piece!

Hope Lights the Way Through Desolation in To Your Eternity