Set six months after the events of Megazone 23: Part One — which ends on a cliffhanger — Part Two feels like it’s from a different franchise altogether. Much of that’s due to Yasuomi Umetsu taking over as character designer; as a result, Shogo Yahagi and the other characters are nigh-unrecognizable from their Part One versions. And though the same studios were involved in the production of both parts, Part Two’s animation and artwork are just so different, not to mention wildly inconsistent. Sometimes Part Two looks fantastic, particularly the mecha and vehicle designs, but much of the time, it’s a mess filled with some glaring continuity errors. (I did enjoy the SilverHawks reference, though.) As for the actual storyline, it’s tacitly connected to the events of Part One even as it feels completely separate and chaotic, as well as far more graphic, sex and violence-wise. (It’s also hard to take Yahagi seriously as a hero given that he has a mullet and wears a “Sex Wax” jacket for much of the movie.) There does happen to be a Megazone 23: Part Three, but based on what I’ve seen and read about it, I have little desire to actually watch it.
My Cultural Diet
Noboru Ishiguro’s Megazone 23 is one of those anime titles that I’ve always heard about but had never actually seen, a long-time classic that was used to create aspects of the American Robotech franchise. A massive hit upon its release in 1985, Megazone 23 is certainly dated. Nevertheless, I found its storyline pretty ambitious. After young Shogo Yahagi chances upon an advanced motorcycle, he lands squarely in the military’s crosshairs and inadvertently makes an earth-shattering discovery that completely changes his understanding of the world around him. Megazone 23 suffers from some wild tonal shifts, shifting between goofy fan service and shocking violence with nary a pause, and it occasionally glosses over the ramifications of Yahagi’s discovery for goofy shenanigans. But it also possesses an anti-authoritarian, cyberpunk-influenced spirit that feels rather refreshing compared to a lot of modern anime, as does the hand-drawn animation, flaws and inconsistencies notwithstanding.
I started watching Fractale way back in the day on Hulu but never finished it. Still, something about it stuck in my memory. So when Crunchyroll offered the entire series on Blu-ray for $5, I figured “Why not?” and bought a copy. Now I wish I would’ve saved my money. Fractale isn’t terrible, but its story — a young boy living amongst virtual avatars gets caught up in a quasi-religious war over a global VR network — never quite delivers on its (bizarre) premise. Which serves only to highlight its other flaws: fan service; uneven tone; inconsistent artwork and animation (different episodes look like they’re animated by different teams, and even in the same episode, characters will look wildly different between scenes); and a gratuitous subplot involving child sexual assault that feels like it’s only there to make the primary antagonist even more villainous. Combine all those things, and it’s hard to shake the impression that writer/director Yutaka Yamamoto’s sense of ambition simply exceeded his ability to craft a compelling story.
I feel a little weird trying to review Hayao Miyazaki’s latest because I think it’ll take another viewing or three to unpack it all. But I’ll say this: those expecting the whimsical fantasies of Ponyo or My Neighbor Totoro will be in for a shock. At first blush, The Boy and the Heron feels like Miyazaki’s most solemn film since 1997’s Princess Mononoke, one that’s almost nightmarish at times. Even though there are fantastical elements, like an army of giant parakeets and a hall of doorways that lead to other worlds, there’s something angry and unsettling beneath it all, starting with the protagonist: a sullen 12-year-old boy who grieves his mother’s death, resents his father’s new wife (who happens to his aunt), and is prone to self-inflicted injury. (And as for that army of parakeets, they eat people.) The story draws heavily from Miyazaki’s own childhood, so none of it feels random or haphazard, and the film’s climax is a very clear message from the director. Of course, being a Studio Ghibli film, The Boy and the Heron’s artwork and animation are absolutely gorgeous and immaculately detailed, outclassing everyone else with ease.
This is an interesting curiosity piece from 1988 that was brought to my attention by Instagram’s algorithm. Directed by Makoto Kobayashi — who wrote the original manga and helped create the mechanical designs — Dragon’s Heaven begins with a 5-minute prelude filled with live-action miniatures à la Masato Harada’s Gunhed and a sweeping orchestral score by Yasunori Iwasaki. It then transitions to the animated story, which is set in a post-apocalyptic future several thousand years from now. There, a young woman and an ancient robot must join forces to defend a desert city from invading forces led by the robot’s arch-nemesis. Story-wise, Dragon’s Heaven is pretty silly and threadbare, but it’s worth watching for the unique mecha designs and visual style, which eschews typical anime aesthetics for something more reminiscent of, say, Moebius. Following Dragon’s Heaven, Kobayashi would go on to work on numerous anime titles including Last Exile, Samurai 7, and Steamboy.
If you were to ask me why I started watching this Netflix anime about a young woman who suddenly finds herself betrothed to a seemingly ruthless man she’s never met, I’m not sure I could give you an answer. (The algorithm works in mysterious ways, I guess.) Given the premise, there’s loads of melodrama as our young heroine — who arguably possesses one of the breathiest and most forlorn voices in all of anime — moves from an abusive household to one that holds the promise of something more. Naturally, romantic triangles and dramatic misunderstandings ensue. The series’ exploration of abuse and trauma adds an interesting wrinkle as does the incorporation of supernatural elements and alternate Japanese history. In the end, however, My Happy Marriage can’t quite integrate all of these elements; it can’t seem to make up its mind what it wants to be. A second season was recently greenlit, which I might check out to see if the storytelling gets any stronger.
There’s no point in denying Akira’s status as an iconic and seminal work of both animation and sci-fi. Even now, 35 years after its release, there are segments that far surpass anything that’s been filmed or animated since, especially when it comes to sheer apocalyptic spectacle. The term “mind-blowing” gets tossed around so casually these days, but the last 30 minutes or so, as Tetsuo’s powers run amok and everyone resorts to increasingly desperate measures to stop him, are exactly that. (And I shouldn’t have to say this, but attempting to capture any of that in live action would be a fool’s errand.) That said, my response to the film was a bit cooler this time around than in the past, and I think that’s because I’ve finally read Katsuhiro Otomo’s original manga. Not to take anything away from Otomo’s adaptation of his own work, but the manga’s storyline is so much deeper and richer. The anime hits all of the important notes, and of course, is a visual triumph, but there’s so much more in the manga.
Considerably more sedate and somber than its predecessor, Patlabor 2: The Movie has everything you could possibly want from a Mamoru Oshii film. It’s got a heady, convoluted plot involving political and military conspiracies, glacial pacing punctuated by intense action, philosophical discussions about the nature of war and peace, highly detailed military activity, contemplative scenes enhanced by Production I.G’s gorgeous cel animation and Kenji Kawai’s moody ambient score, and there’s even a basset hound for good measure. 1995’s Ghost in the Shell is usually lauded as Oshii’s signature work, and understandably so. But you could make a strong argument for Patlabor 2: The Movie being a very close second. In fact, I’d daresay that Patlabor 2: The Movie, which was released in 1993, laid the foundation for Ghost in the Shell’s contemplative cyberpunk.
Based on the Patlabor TV series, which itself was based on the long-running Mobile Police Patlabor manga, Patlabor: The Movie suffers from a rather slight storyline involving a hacker’s plan to infect all of Tokyo’s Labors (i.e., giant mecha used by construction, police, and the military) with a virus. But honestly, I wasn’t watching Patlabor: The Movie for the storyline. I was watching it for the directing (because I tend to like Mamoru Oshii’s aesthetic), the hand-drawn cel animation (which was refreshing after watching so much modern CG-enhanced animation), and the mechanical designs (because giant mechs are always cool). Consider a short scene from the film’s opening, in which a military Labor is aerially deployed and a tiny drag chute is used to pull it out of the aircraft. The attention to detail in just that short sequence alone (e.g., the uncoiling of the chute’s rope, the sense of mass in the mech’s movement) was rewarding enough to justify watching the entire movie.
Do you enjoy watching epic, multi-episode-spanning space battles featuring tens of thousands of ships and maybe even some Death Star-like moon bases for good measure? That’s obviously a trick question, because who doesn’t like watching that sort of thing? But do you also enjoy watching episodes in which characters do nothing but discuss military strategies, debate political theories, and philosophize about democracy, freedom, and human history? If so, then Legend of the Galactic Heroes: Die Neue These may be your next favorite anime. A modern remake of Legend of the Galactic Heroes, which ran for 110 episodes in the ’80s and ’90s, and was itself based on Yoshiki Tanaka’s sci-fi novels, Die Neue These really scratched my personal itch for sprawling, galaxy-spanning space opera, though it gets pretty convoluted with dozens of major characters and storylines within storylines. It’s also an interesting world-building exercise, juxtaposing 19th century Prussia, Norse mythology, and more “modern” cultures in its various futuristic nations. With just four seasons to date, I surmise that Die Neue These isn’t even halfway through its storyline, and I’m looking forward to season five and beyond.
Part of a crop of early/mid ’00s anime that told downbeat, darkly philosophical tales, Ergo Proxy errs a bit too far on the side of philosophizing. (Heck, it has characters named after Ignatius of Loyola, Jacques Derrida, and other famous philosophers.) Its dark, dystopic storyline is existential in the extreme, and as a result, the series often seems far more interested in posing philosophical quandaries than actually telling a cohesive, captivating story filled with characters that you care about. Technically speaking, Ergo Proxy has aged pretty well; the CG-enhanced animation and character designs still look good after two decades, and Yoshihiro Ike’s moody electronic score really does enhance the series’ already considerable mood and atmosphere. Indeed, the series’ sense of style often proves more substantial than its actual substance. Which is ultimately frustrating, though, because what is gleaned when Ergo Proxy sets aside the philosophizing and just focuses on actually telling its story is really cool and intriguing. I can’t help thinking that with a bit more focus and a bit less heavy-handed seriousness, Ergo Proxy could have made its overall points in a much more affecting and entertaining manner.
I’ve never played Dota 2, the game on which this Netflix series is based. That didn’t matter much with previous seasons, but the third season seems to dive really deeply into game lore, with the assumption that viewers are familiar with it. I was not. I loved the animation, designs, world building, etc., but felt completely lost in the last few episodes, story-wise. The finale is obviously meant to be epic and emotional, but it fell flat for me. I suspect, however, that Dota 2 players might have a very different experience.
Cyberpunk: Edgerunners is ultra-stylish and ultra-graphic — much like Love, Death & Robots, it’s definitely not safe for kids — with some truly stunning animated action. (Kudos to Studio Trigger.) It occasionally wrestles with some deeper themes re. technology’s impact on humanity, but Ghost in the Shell it most certainly is not. Sometimes it feels like an edgy tragedy thanks to its melancholy tone, while other times, it’s all about the nihilistic excess. Your mileage will most definitely vary.
I didn’t like this as much as the first season. I like fantastical world building, but it felt like they crammed in way too much into this season. As a result, everything felt rushed and half-baked. But there’s still enough that I like that I’m looking forward to season three.
I’ve never played Dota 2, so I don’t know how well Dota: Dragon’s Blood stacks up to the source material. But as far as high fantasy with elves, dragons, and evil demons go, it’s pretty solid stuff with a suitably elaborate mythology. Also, lots of graphic violence, so definitely not a series for kids. I enjoyed Studio Mir’s work on Voltron: Legendary Defender, and their character designs and animation here feel like a natural evolution.
In this retelling of Beauty and the Beast, a young girl becomes a popular singer in a virtual universe, only to encounter a strange beast-like creature. Story-wise, I think the film tries to do a bit too much, especially in its final act, though its heart is always in the right place. Visually, however, Belle is astounding, thanks to its nigh-seamless blend of cel animation and CGI.
When is a Godzilla title not a Godzilla title? When it’s Godzilla Singular Point. Sure, there are plenty of kaiju and even a version of Jet Jaguar, but it’s bogged down with technobabble about ancient prophecies, extra-dimensional lifeforms, time-bending supercomputers, and something called an “Orthogonal Diagonalyzer.” I guess I want more spectacle from a Godzilla title, and less labyrinthian, Evangelion-esque mythology.