It’s been six chaotic years since I last wrote about Yuureitou, yet the work is such a singular, insistent creation that jumping into it was as easy as if I’d never left. Yuureitou clearly has a few key influences, and is not afraid to bash them together in strange, sometimes even ludicrous ways, all for the sake of promoting a unique emotional or dramatic result. Part Hitchcockian thriller, part reflection on gender identity, and part grindhouse or Hammer horror, Yuureitou is happy to swing wildly between these passions at a moment’s notice, daring the audience to challenge its nature much like the manga’s characters often do. The manga buries itself in the messiness of identity, and through its meandering course exemplifies the multiplicity of our experience, the reality that we are all composed of jagged, contradictory instincts and emotions.
Category Archives: Essay
Thunderbolt Fantasy: Bewitching Melody of the West
It is always a delight to return to Thunderbolt Fantasy. The production’s puppet theatrics are genuinely entrancing, and Gen Urobuchi is to my mind one of the greatest writers to ever work in anime. His stories of mankind rallying against brutal architectures of despair, be they oppressive governments or supernatural phenomenon, are always brimming with thoughtful arguments, hard-tested themes, and engaging characters. But as a show like Thunderbolt Fantasy demonstrates, Urobuchi is also perfectly comfortable outside of those questions of human nature and utilitarianism, weaving thrilling tales of swordsmen and wizards that are also enriched by his intelligence and wit.
Spirit Circle: Why Do We Live?
Why do we live, and what do we live for? There is no score sheet to play towards in human existence, though some might frame wealth, power, or some other metric as their own measure of success. But can a human life be measured in terms of success or failure? Is failing to seize opportunity failing at life itself, or are such disappointments themselves intrinsic to the experience? Is a life born into suffering worth any less than a life born into splendor, or is suffering somehow meaningful as well? Maybe seeking meaning in life is itself a trap, one designed to rob us of enjoying what is in favor of pining for what might be. If our only certainty is change, perhaps our most vital skill is mutability, and thus “why do we live” demands an answer as flexible as life itself.
Anxiety in the Plague Years: Bo Burnham’s Inside
It’s a little tricky for me to go about “unpacking” Bo Burnham’s Inside, as the special is largely concerned with Bo Burnham unpacking himself. What does Bo feel, and how does Bo feel about that, and how does Bo feel about feeling that way about that – all these questions and more are answered as the special progresses. Across an hour and change of songs and sketches, Burnham offers a wildly self-conscious reflection on the already self-conscious ways we present ourselves as modern, perpetually online human beings, exacerbated by the forced solitude of the COVID age. Through cataloging and critiquing his every wayward thought, Burnham seeks to paradoxically create something universal, something that speaks to a common experience of watching the world burn from inside your own shrieking brain. It’s harrowing, hilarious, and maybe even a touch profound.
The Crafting of Magic in Witch Hat Atelier
From your first glance at its volume cover, it is clear that one of Witch Hat Atelier’s great strengths is its lush illustrations, which delight in both their whimsical form and detail-rich content. Even the chapter index is adorned with herbs and baubles, speaking to the love of tiny mysteries and scene-setting details attendant in this realm of old woods fantasy. A pinch of this rare herb, a shaving of root, and something bright and glittering from the high jars of the atelier; the magical artisan at work is this story’s quintessential image, capturing both the wonder and the skill of true creation.
Hope and Wonder in Girls’ Last Tour
Since its beginning, Girls’ Last Tour has been a story about coming to terms with the end of things. Its very title points to the finality of this journey, preemptively putting to rest any thoughts of surviving beyond the apocalypse. Most stories find their characters rallying against fate with all their might, hoping to change their very destiny. There is no such hope of upending fate here; Girls’ Last Tour knows its characters’ destiny, and is instead focused on the more intractable conflict of how you comport yourself when you know things are ending. When the hubris of assumed immortality is stripped away, what defines us as fundamentally human? When we cannot be comforted by the endurance of our legacy, what else do we have left?
Tending the Fire in Outer Wilds
Standing on the crumbling surface of a dwarf planet, you watch as tendrils of light dance across the earth, chasing shadows as the sun creeps over the horizon. Daybreak sees a glow briefly rising and crashing upon these ruins, the sun their only visitor since times unknown. Camped beside your spacecraft, sifting through the wreckage of a dead civilization, you feel a loneliness more acute than that of total abandonment; the loneliness of absence, of the empty spaces where life once thrived, but no longer. As the light becomes too bright to bear, as the sun reaches a terrifying fullness of form, you think back on your journey, hoping to at least find companionship in memory.
Then, from your scanner, a gurgle of static resolves into a sharp tone: the mournful song of a harmonica. Somewhere out there, someone is watching the same sight you are, feeling that same tug of homesickness, fear, and awe. Even in the darkest recesses of space, you are never truly alone.
Endurance and Inheritance in Girls’ Last Tour
Snow falls gently on a disused battlecruiser as we return to Girl’s Last Tour. In the years since the anime adaptation’s release, our world seems to have spun significantly closer to the future as posited by this story, with climate change, the revival of economic serfdom, and an ascendant far right all pointing towards mankind’s self-inflicted decline. Given our increasing proximity to apocalypse, I can appreciate all the more the lessons provided by Chi and Yuu: Chi’s industrious, pragmatic preoccupation with immediate tasks, Yuu’s zen appreciation for whatever life offers her. Like the heroines of Girls’ Last Tour, we possess no way of directly challenging the conditions informing our lives; whether it’s through busying ourselves with what we can do or learning to “get along with the hopelessness,” this manga seems to increasingly be providing a blueprint for navigating our modern age.
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.
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.