Fullmetal Alchemist (2003)

Don't look away, Rose! You need to see what happens when you try to bring a human to life, when you cross into God's territory or whatever the hell it is! Is this what you want?!  -Edward, Episode 1

Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only truth. -Alphonse, Opening Sequence

As an almost universal rule, I loathe long-running anime series. Tiresome and pointless shows with emotionless plot arcs and minimal character development such as Dragonball Z and Inuyasha plagued my youth, when my access to anime was limited to Toonami and (later) Adult Swim. Even Naruto, a series in which meaningful plot events take place and characters change significantly over time (a rarity in its genre), eventually ran too long and too thin for me to care any longer, and that was six years ago (the series is still ongoing).

Fullmetal Alchemist (2003) is different. First of all, at 51 episodes and one feature length film, it's not nearly as long as other long-running shonen. It's a series with a very intent and simple purpose: find the Philosopher's Stone and get the Elric boys' bodies back. For the Elric brothers, this singularity of purpose gives their lives a certain direction and urgency which those around them often envy or admire (sometimes both). So, too, should other series creators envy and admire what Fullmetal Alchemist achieved. It is a show which told a grand, expansive tale with many characters and a complex universe, but kept the series tightly focused on two characters and their quest.

The show's flash-forward/flash-back approach to its beginning is not a new invention, but it's better executed here than in any other series I've seen. It kicks off with the heart-rending, incredibly intense human transmutation scene which sets the show's plot in motion. It's amazing how much character and emotion is imported into the first two minutes of screentime: Edward and Alphonse are instantly engaging and vivid. The flashback is not merely to set up the show, either. It is thematically tied to the two-parter which opens the series. By the end of the episode, we know so many things about the world: the Philosopher's Stone, the status of a State Alchemist, the taboo on human transmutation, Edward's height complex and brashness, Alphonse's humility and kindness, and we see the characters surrounding them: scared, desperate people who cannot accept death. We even get a glimpse into the cosmology of the world: while Edward mocks Rose's blind faith, he's no atheist. He knows that there's some cosmic power out there, but it's crueler and craftier than any benevolent God from a holy book.

The two-parter comes to a horrifying, violent conclusion as it introduces yet another key element: chimeras. The series is fascinated by aberrations of nature and cruelty to animals, concurrent with the theme of unethical science. In the episodes leading up to Scar's introduction, the series in many ways shows just how right he is: alchemists are cruel to animals and often even other people (especially those close to them), they create delusions of grandeur, and they cannot cope with death or failure like normal people. Refusing to ease off the intensity, the show jumps back to the brothers' origin story in "Mother," as Alphonse's narration and the haunting image of their parents disappearing from their lives determines the show's themes more beautifully and concisely than even the best-written anime theme songs.

There's a great deal going on in Fullmetal Alchemist intellectually, far more than most action-driven shonen. However, it's ultimately about two things: family and death. There's a common stereotype that teenagers think they're invincible, that they are reckless and carefree due to an inability to conceptualize mortality. Fullmetal Alchemist is a show about two teenage boys, in which the frailty of human life and the finality of death are made more clear by the supernatural elements, not less so. By the seventh episode, which climaxes with a harrowing chase scene and an almost equally harrowing near-murder once the tables turn in Edward's favor, the audience is thoroughly convinced of the fact that while the protagonists are children, the series creators are not afraid of showing tremendous violence done to them. Despite his status as the titular character (and of course, a teenager), Edward is shown to be far from invincible.

The homunculi are perfect villains for the story's theme: they are both aberrations of nature (specifically their near-indestructibility) and products of failed human transmutations. Sloth in particular is a tremendously powerful villain because she represents the alchemist's ultimate dream and ultimate fear: conquering death and failing, respectively. Indeed, while he accepts the finality of death early on, much of Edward's character arc is his coming to grips with failure, and the innate inability to apply his scientific genius to his personal life. While also not an uncommon theme with immortal characters, the homunculi's hatred of their immortality is made all the more powerful by the alchemists' dogged attempts to achieve it. The deaths in the show, even of minor characters and villains, hit you like a ton of bricks. Despite the occasional over-the-top action scene, the violence can become very gruesome, bloody and shockingly realistic when it needs to be. Although Seiji Mizushima's direction on Neon Genesis Evangelion was brief (and for a rather ill-conceived episode), one crucial lesson he seemed to take away from the series was the way to compare physical trauma and psychological trauma.

Arguably the most memorable death on the show is that of a very minor character at the time: Nina, the daughter of the psychotic Shao Tucker. Not only does this sequence explain the show's themes in a memorable fashion-- Tucker himself is all that Edward fears he could become, and is set up as a symbol of alchemists' curious brand of psychosis-- it becomes the emotional focal point for the rest of the series. When Tucker is brought back near the end, it all makes a kind of terrible sense, as Edward is once again brought face-to-face with the taboos of alchemy, now with full knowledge of the philosopher's stone. His first transgression was as a child; now as a near-adult, there's a real chance that Edward will falter in his pursuit of an ethical solution to his problems. The first time was tragedy, the second time could merely be farce.

In its own way, the original Fullmetal Alchemist serves as an argument for the art of adaptation. The series continued through a radically different plotline from the manga, as a result of its production moving along more quickly than Hiromu Arakawa was writing the manga. But Sho Aikawa, troublesome writer that he is with regards to some of his other projects, wound up pulling the series together into a deeply emotional, thematically consistent work. There is no doubt that the plotline with Dante and Van Hohenheim is deeply weird, poorly explained and out of left field from the rest of the story (not to mention the alternate universe aspect which was only hinted at before the last two episodes). But the homunculi-- particularly Lust, Sloth, Wrath and Envy-- are the real antagonists of the story, and serve as excellent foils to the Elric boys (particularly the latter two). 

Aikawa wrote a story based around the Elric brothers' maturation, the way their relationship deepened and changed with the new trials they were faced with, and most importantly wrote a story which rose and fell on them, with no extraneous characters complicating the ending. Fullmetal Alchemist is a series about family and death, put upon a backdrop of questions regarding unethical science, government, karma, and the cosmos. The final conversations of the series revolve around the show's own philosophy of equivalent exchange, and most importantly it calls itself out on its limitations. What's more, it implied that it would this whole time. "In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only truth" Alphonse says. He almost sounds incredulous saying it, blown away by a child's polarized worldview, and now conscious of the many ambiguities and moral grey areas of life. That's what Fullmetal Alchemist does unlike any other show I've seen: it shows a childish view of the world and explains in detail-- without being condescending or overly cynical-- that any worldview which is black-and-white, overly rigid, or based on a singular rule is going to be limited and ultimately erroneous. Despite its admitted flaws, Fullmetal Alchemist is an astonishing achievement, one which its "sequel" series, as it were, unfortunately did not live up to. More on that next time.

Welcome to the N-H-K!

I first read about Welcome to the N-H-K! last semester, as part of my Modern Japanese History class. The semi-autobiographical novel written by Tatsuhiko Takimoto became something of a phenomenon upon its publication in 2002, as an expose of sorts on the life of a hikikomori individual. The manga and anime became successful, if further fictionalized (particularly with the anime) versions of the story. Although the concept of "shut-ins" exist in the west, often such individuals' issues are associated with agoraphobia; regardless, the concept of hikikomori is certainly not alien to a western audience, but remains fairly specific to Japan.

Herein lies one of three major issues with the series: if one is looking for a quick, easy crash course in some prevalent social issues or tensions in modern Japan, this show fits the bill. But in doing so, it loses some of its focus: although otaku (intense fandom of manga and anime) and lolicon (pornographic or pseudo-pornographic depictions of young girls, always animated so not literally child pornography) cultures are certainly relevant and necessary parts of this story, the show extends itself into commenting on insular forum groups, suicide pacts, pharmaceutical dependency, cults, pyramid marketing schemes and online gaming. The show itself features no plot in a conventional sense, so it is unfortunately guided by a proverbial game of social-problem hopscotch, jumping on a series of hot-button issues. If one wonders why, if Neon Genesis Evangelion was really about depression, that it was couched in a complex sci-fi scenario, this show is a good answer. Some sort of forward momentum is needed in any series.

The second major issue is fairly simple: this series doesn't need to be 24 episodes long. A 13 episode formula would work perfectly for this kind of story, in which character development is the sole driving force of the episodes. The show's length leads to the aforementioned absurdities. How and why a reclusive individual such as Sato could possibly be caught up in all these situations and subcultures is apparently no object for the writers, who simply shove him into situations at a moment's notice. Finally, as a less crucial issue, for a series which is largely unafraid of lascivious content and exploring the inherent creepiness of sexual fantasies as conceived of by people who have a limited idea of how sex works, the show inexplicably removes all traces of drug use, which is a major element in the novel. However, Takimoto himself downplayed this element in the manga (which he wrote as well), but whether the reasons were purely artistic or to make the content more palatable is unclear.

It bears mentioning that Welcome to the N-H-K! is an undeniably well-intentioned show. It strives to humanize desperate, pitiful, creepy and unscrupulous people, putting the audience in their shoes while making it quite clear that such behavior does not come recommended. It is thorough and ruthless in exploring the sexism plaguing the otaku culture and Japanese culture on the whole, serving as a deconstruction and critique of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl in the process. It's a show which understands that mental health issues do not simply disappear and that the suffers are not at fault for their conditions, but also refuses to infantalize such people and claim that they have no moral responsibilities.

But what of the series as art? In that sense, the show varies wildly, rising and falling on its chosen theme. In the stunning first episode, all systems are going. The scrupulous animation (not present in mid-series episodes) focuses in on the small, realistic details in Sato's life. Indeed, I'd imagine that one learns a lot of things about their belongings and apartment if they never leave it; things they never would have noticed before. The soundtrack's eclectic mix (at times reminiscent of Yoko Kanno's stellar work on Cowboy Bebop) delivers each moment with force, expertly portraying how dramatic it is to perform everyday activities when one is a social cripple. The strength of Satoru Nishizono's writing- portraying horrific trains of thought and paranoid delusions- is also in full effect. When I watched Sato try to bring himself to function normally, practicing the simple act of speaking and introducing oneself, I felt the social anxiety of every job application, godawful orientation day and forced introduction in my life come rushing back. I feel that for any moderately shy and awkward person, there is plenty to relate to in N-H-K. But with this stellar first episode, the show kind of burns itself out, so to speak.

The next several episodes are strong in some aspects, but are ultimately unmemorable. When the chosen theme shifts from a harrowing look into the mind in isolation and the intrinsic human separation built into modern life to what is unfortunately a small-minded critique of the porn industry, the show loses steam. For all of the show's aforementioned good intentions in painting an ugly picture of the flaws in Japanese culture, it can sometimes paint in overly-broad strokes. The argument that eroge and hentai make Japan's young men view women as sex objects seems to be a bit of a chicken-and-the-egg scenario. Objectification and sexism has always existed; isn't it more likely that the gender politics issues in recent porn games and movies were created by sexist prejudices, rather than the other way around? As the topics become less and less relevant to the hikikomori condition, they lose the authenticity which drives the show's drama. When Takimoto wrote the novel Welcome to the N-H-K!, it came from a place of soul-baring honesty. Conversely, the anime sometimes feels like Nishizono and director Yusuku Yamamoto simply co-opted this story as a launching pad, especially when they delve into the evils (real or imagined) of multilevel marketing schemes and online gaming.

One of the show's strengths, however, is the balance which is brought to every character. The female characters, particularly Misaki and Hitomi, are portrayed somewhat more positively than Sato or Yamazaki, but are certainly not angelic. They have needs and wants, and while they seem to manipulate Sato at times, they do not devolve into misogynistic stereotypes of conniving women: they are just as unclear as he is as to what exactly they want from him. Like basically every character in the series, they are simply desperate to make their lives happy and meaningful.

While several characters seem to have some kind of sob story- Misaki in particular has a classic Mary Sue tragedy of a backstory- Yamizaki is a helpful character in his overall groundedness. He's not depressed, he wasn't raped or beaten or hooked on drugs as a child, he simply suffers from being a lonely young man surrounded by a culture which caters to his demographic with endless commodities. Alternatively, the show says that Yamizaki suffers from his own (minor) mental condition: otaku. The line between Yamizaki's neurotic, misogynistic, highly obsessive otaku lifestyle and that of Sato is so blurred that Sato's conspiracies begin to make a sort of terrible sense. Sato theorizes that "People who are drawn to otaku culture are already solitary or neurotic people; using anime and other media, the N-H-K has intentionally turned them into hikikomori." Give Yamazaki another year and a monthly allowance, and perhaps he'll go the same route.

The end of Welcome to the N-H-K! cleverly puts the secondary characters like Yamazaki and Hitomi at a distance, allowing the audience to wonder if they truly lead happy lives afterwards. As for the central two characters, the drama between them unfolds in a somewhat predictable but nevertheless powerful fashion. It also provides the right combination of conclusion, thematic resonance, and ambiguity. The show never sought out to answer the question of "what causes hikikomori?" Sato wanted to explain that to himself, to shove the burden of his life onto another entity. But the show goes out of its way to say that there is no blanket explanation, and that the causes and symptoms are different for everyone. Instead, Sato turns this self-rationalization in the form of a paranoid delusion into his strength. You need an enemy, he says: "it doesn't have to be the N-H-K. Call it anything. Call it God, if you want." More simply, however, "it's the basic assurances of staying alive which allow someone to remain hikikomori. In a way, it's a very luxurious lifestyle." The show doesn't presume to be a cure to the hikikomori condition, but gives a single case study: causes, symptoms, and eventual self-treatment.

The series is at its best when either being hyper-focused on one period of time inside Sato's head, or showing the progression of large chunks of time. The show notably focuses on the changing seasons, and truly captures the feeling of winter mornings, the bitter nostalgia of move-outs, and the relieving return of spring. It focuses on the parts of life that are inexplicably painful or difficult: introducing yourself to a stranger, actually working on a project even when you have plenty of time, getting out of bed in the morning, and so forth.

But for all of its topical allusions, stream-of-consciousness writing and psychologically damaged characters, the show only occasionally manages to achieve true poignancy. In its lesser moments, it combines the creepy and uncomfortable aspects of a tell-all memoir with the hackneyed and sentimental aspects of an unlicensed biography. At times it is reminiscent of an Oscar-bait film and at other times it borders on pornography. In trying to create a mature, relevant, "serious issues" drama, Yamamoto too often got lost in the social commentary and never reached the emotional or artistic heights which the source material allowed for. Welcome to the N-H-K! is certainly a show which says something, but falters in an attempt to say too much.

The End of Evangelion

Warning: Strong language and spoilers ahead

The most obvious comment I can make about The End of Evangelion is that its title is immensely ironic. With Rebuild of Evangelion, a series which appears to be an attempt to make the most ground-breaking and fascinating anime of all time into a cookie-cutter, paint-by-numbers mecha series, often playing to tropes which the original Eva itself spawned (I imagine a grotesque ouroboros with Rei Ayanami's face as a visual metaphor for the whole enterprise), Evangelion is not over. But my goodness do I wish it was. For those utterly confused by the existence of End of Evangelion-- that is to say, those asking why this movie directly contradicts the timeline and events of the rest of the series-- I have no good answer, other than that diehard Evangelion fans were extremely disappointed in Episodes 25 and 26 and Gainax decided to make a movie to provide an alternate ending to the series, drawn by the irresistible smell of profitability from fan hate-boners. After all, the opposite of love/commercial viability isn't hate, it's indifference. I should add that before I continue, I wish to do away with any trace of critical seriousness or "professionalism," seeing as this movie did away with any trace of the basic requirements of writing, pacing, plot and tonal consistency. So, on that note, let me summarize my feelings on the film right here: fuck this fucking piece of shit movie I hate it so fucking much.

So what's left to say after that, really? Well, my feelings towards the film as an actual cinematic experience are recorded above, but if taken in the proper context, I believe the film makes a fairly well-articulated statement about knowing when enough is enough, and that some things are better left unsaid and unexplored. There's a classic phrase in writing: "Kill your Darlings". Roughly translated, this means "don't be a pretentious douchebag". It's valuable advice to writers at any level. With End of Evangelion, I get the sense that Hideaki Anno dug up every single darling, as well as some fan "what if" scenarios, and put them onto the screen in the most overindulgent, unsubtle way humanly possible. And you know what? Some people actually like this movie as a film experience. I would say good for them, but I wouldn't mean it. Good for Gainax, who profited from condescending to their audience and using the logic that a movie with lots of shiny things, explosions and gratuitous nudity will inevitably be well-received.

With a movie like Star Wars: The Phantom Menace or End of Evangelion, in which a beloved series' progenitor appears to systematically destroy his own franchise (either intentionally or unintentionally), it is difficult to point out what is wrong with each film because the simple answer is everything. Each film not only bears no similarity to a good movie, at times neither is recognizable as being part of the form of cinema; they are groundbreaking in their ineptitude. End of Evangelion is bafflingly incapable of telling a coherent series of events, writing characters with any discernible logical motivation, understanding space and time as concepts, or using basic point-A-to-point-B plot development, as exposition and climax are constantly jammed together in the same sequence. The film gets to the point where every 5 minutes a new object, invariably named the "pseudo-religious noun of pseudo-religious noun" is introduced as a plot device and then immediately used to no knowable effect. The jerkoff characters in the control room are given a weirdly huge amount of screen time, as they continue yelling out the plot while SEELE invades their headquarters and the entire surface of the earth appears to be decimated (I understand that they're an underground operation, but how exactly is their equipment still working after all that?). The main characters all bear little resemblance to the complex, well-developed people in the series and instead become drooling caricatures or the complete opposite of their pre-established personalities. Shinji is set up to be not a traumatized and cowardly but ultimately empathic boy-- he's a catatonically depressed, useless, perverted wet blanket. He doesn't seem tormented over killing Kaworu so much as "sad because reasons." Asuka is suddenly and inexplicably brought out of her depression (along with the staggeringly stupid reveal that her mother's consciousness is in Eva-02, speaking of which, wasn't it more or less rendered useless in Episode 24?) only to be killed off almost immediately. Misato turns into a bizarre fusion between an action hero and a pedophile.

But these are all symptoms of a much greater disease in End of Evangelion: subtlety is done away with entirely. Every ambiguity is replaced with bombast. Misato doesn't touch Shinji's hand for him to shrink away, she gives him a full lip-lock and a terrifying promise of sex at some point in the future, before promptly dying (despite seeming perfectly fine moments before). Gendo doesn't stay in the shadows as Rei's rapist, he shoves his hand into her crotch. The religious imagery used sparingly beforehand turns into a major plot device, while Kabbalah symbols and crucifixion imagery are thrown about willy-nilly. And Shinji turns out to be TOTALLY GAY because he's now a creepy pervert who hates women, or something. Yet I believe this is all evidence of what was ultimately Anno's project with this movie; on the one hand, he was poking fun at the fandom, showing just how terrible it would be if all of the major ambiguities and questions were answered. At the same time, I believe there are a few moments in here which Anno might have actually liked but decided to cut out because he knew they wouldn't work.

For instance, Rei rejecting Gendo and asserting her own personhood is an interesting idea for a scene and could work well, but there's no reason why Rei III would want to do that because she hasn't learned everything Rei II did. Further, Rei apparently decides not to use Lilith for Instrumentality but instead starts the Third Impact, but given Shinji's internal breakdown, it becomes difficult to tell the difference between the two, especially because at the end it seems like only Shinji and Asuka (wasn't she dead...?) are around, having chosen individualism over being part of a vast cosmic soup. The idea of Shinji's choice being more about the ability to live as an individual than whether to go on living or not is a decent one as well, although now his mental breakdown seems to be almost entirely about how much he's afraid of all women (an idea that comes seemingly out of nowhere) and due to this fear/hatred is drawn towards Kaworu. I was already rolling my eyes pretty hard before the "is this better, Shinji?" line in which giant-Rei shifts into giant-Kaworu, but that one made me look like I was in the throes of demonic possession. I think this is largely a response to a trend which continues to be a problem in the otaku community, which is the sexualization of all female characters in a series. This comes despite the fact that the show already addresses the sexuality of all three of its female leads at least in brief, and often shows the negative effects of the culture's expectations of female sexuality. Misato wants to be desired but to also have no desires herself, Asuka views sex as a means of gaining self-worth, Rei has been convinced that as a girl, her sexuality is not her own, and Gendo's molestation is simply something she must accept. What more does the show really have to say? Well, nothing. But that's the point. The fans wanted the show to be sexier. This is what happens when you try to make Evangelion sexy.

The film also looks nothing like Neon Genesis Evangelion; once again, some of these visual ideas seem kind of neat, but Anno probably cut them out of the series because he figured out they didn't belong in the show. In the movie, I think he directed the art team to go apeshit after handing in whatever kind of incomprehensible mess the script was (I imagine it on 200 pages of a legal pad, written in blood). Here are a few examples of how the art direction went completely off the rails in this movie:

While I do appreciate that Shinji's reactions to the events taking place approximately mirror my feelings while watching the movie (lots of tearing of hair, gnashing of teeth and screaming "make it stop!"), the characters are drawn with extremely exaggerated features and expressions sometimes, which never happened in the anime. Nor did Rei have enormous breasts (oh, excuse me, she's Lilith now? Well of course, now everything make sense!). Nor did hardly any of this fantasy bullshit ever happen in the show, and the movie simply introduces these elements with essentially no explanation. By the way, what the hell does "the pilot's ego can't take this much longer" even mean? Like Shinji's going to go more and more insane the longer the events of this terrible movie keep going on? Can't say I blame him, then. 

There is a certain bitterness to the message of End of Evangelion. Late in the series' running, Anno became extremely disenchanted with otaku culture: fans who wanted the wrong things from anime, didn't understand the series they were fans of, and expected the authors of the show to cater to their desires. Further, after the series finale, Anno received a slew of nasty, angry letters and even death threats from former fans who claimed he had ruined the series for them. Some of these letters are even flashed up on the screen in End of Evangelion, making the point clearer to the audience: you don't write the fucking show, leave me alone. Indeed, the central metaphor to the story is Shinji masturbating over Asuka's catatonic body. It's as if Anno is telling you right from the beginning: I am completely jerking off here, and you won't even know it. End of Evangelion is a cautionary tale about both self-indulgence and the effects of an avid audience on the artistic process. While I do appreciate the message, it seems to have been lost on most, and the movie is painful to watch. I truly wish the fandom had accepted the original ending, and I definitely wish that no-one threatened to kill Hideaki Anno. Because if one or both of those things had never happened, maybe this film would never have existed. For me, the true end of Evangelion is Episode 26, no questions asked. If this movie is actually supposed to replace it and be part of the cannon, I honestly don't care.

Because fuck this movie. Fuck, fuck, fuck this goddamn movie. Oh, and also:

Does anyone want to make the argument that this movie isn't stupid?

Neon Genesis Evangelion, Part 2

The difficulty with writing about a show like Neon Genesis Evangelion is that it is so dense and so rich, with so many great moments (other series, even good ones, are lucky to have even one great scene for every six that Evangelion has) that many are ultimately lost in the mix. Evangelion is the kind of show which can establish Toji Suzuhara at first as a simple-minded jerk, then an emotionally vulnerable boy who clings to his sister as the last thing he has to maintain his identity and personhood, and then gracefully show his transition (or rather, sad resignation) to becoming an Eva pilot- the very thing which he hated Shinji for beforehand-- all within about an hour of screentime. The show has a capacity to show relationships which other series and films find difficult to portray, or perhaps never do. Toji and Kensuke can never rid Shinji of his sense of loneliness because their friendship is entirely conditional and mostly superficial. It's the kind of commonplace, unromantic friendship which lesser series choose to ignore. In Episode 17 ("The Fourth Child"), we see that Toji is no idiot: he knows Hikari's feelings for him but acts oblivious. He doesn't want to hurt her, and doesn't want to get hurt himself. Yet Evangelion shows this with minimal dialogue, without unnecessary and heavy-handed comparisons to the central characters (see? Toji and Shinji are just the same!). It's the kind of series which not only respects but expects the audience's intelligence to guide them through.

I've always found the frustration surrounding Episodes 25 and 26 confusing. To me, it's not an obvious route, but the most logical route to resolve what the show is actually about. Episode 16 ("Splitting of the Breast") started a trend in Evangelion: the characters' personal lives and the conflicts with the Angels were drawing closer and closer together. Asuka is a character who sees her ability as her only form of self-worth, as she envies Misato's ability to be seen a sex object. Her decline in performance as an Eva pilot is proportional to her personal decline, leading to catatonic depression. Rei, meanwhile, has begun to learn that there is a difference between her personal life and her role in NERV. The most beautiful part of Rei II's arc is that as she forms a personality, she keeps what's been central to her this whole time: sacrifice. She's always been told to sacrifice herself if necessary, because she's expendable. If this one dies, just get another one from the tank. But Rei II learns that it's not always an ideology or an institution you live for- especially not one as crooked and thuggish as NERV- sometimes it's people. She's learned to love Shinji, as much as she's capable of love. Her sacrifice is not for Humanity or NERV or even to win, it's for him. Gendo would probably hate her for it. But there's an axiom in Evangelion if ever there was one: if Gendo Ikari hates you, you're probably a good person.

Finally, as the fragile social life Shinji had begun to build comes undone, he finds everything he's ever wanted while alone on the beach. It's a little on the nose, as Kaworu stands atop a winged statue whistling "Ode to Joy". We know that he's a little bit too good to be true. By the time Kaworu syncs perfectly with Eva 02, it's become completely obvious. But it isn't to Shinji, or maybe he's just become great at pushing things which bother him to the back of his mind. For some time now, the Angels have given Shinji a role and a place where he belongs. The audience might very well be wondering what will happen once he's beaten them all. Maybe he has as well, except for that aforementioned skill of his. Kaworu finally brings Shinji true purpose and happiness, and then forces him to take it away from himself. Maybe I was wrong that the show is neutral towards its protagonist-- near the end it's mercilessly cruel towards him. But that's the point: life is cruel to Shinji, and his real struggle this whole time has been with the will to live, and his noted lack of it. By Episode 25, the Angels are defeated. All that the plot could possibly do is move towards the mysterious Instrumentality Project, and actually showing the process of the Instrumentality Project, well, I believe the point Anno was trying to make with End of Evangelion was that doing so would be an utterly abortive effort (but more on that next time). The show has been about the characters struggling with their lives which they hate. What better way to portray that struggle than to reach deep into the characters' minds? Episode 26 is not only plenty climactic for the show, it's the most genuinely triumphant climax I've ever seen.

Speaking of Kaworu's hymn of choice, much has been made of Evangelion's religious imagery and themes. There is some merit to simply handwaving it away, as director Kazuya Tsurumaki claims the imagery was simply to give the show a distinctive look. Anno himself treats the religious themes in the show with a bit of tongue-in-cheek humor, stating "I chose the word 'Evangelion' because it's Greek and it sounds important." The religious references are often apocryphal: Kaworu identifies the presumed 1st Angel named Adam as actually being Lilith, Adam's supposed first wife before Eve (his third), according to an apocryphal Kabbalah text. Rei uses the Lance of Longinus, named after the legendary spear which pierced Jesus' side (the Roman soldier is not named in any of the gospels), and there are only four named angels in the Bible (Gabriel, Michael, Raphael and Uriel), the other names come from elsewhere. What does this all amount to? In a sense, I think it's simply an expression of Anno's appreciation for religion as a collection of myths.

Conversely, it's also an expression of religion's inability to impart meaning upon someone who feels his or her life is meaningless. Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam) all hold that life has intrinsic meaning. You're here because God put you here, and if that's not good enough for you, go to hell (literally). Shinji's life seems to have as much meaning and purpose as can be had. He's the savior of humanity, and one could see him as the obvious messiah figure. However, he doesn't accept this role, and feels no sense of purpose or gratification. While he acts as the central figure of a series of events which appear to be prophesied in some capacity, religious images like the Christian cross appear, but they signify nothing. To me, the religious images are like an atheist (or in Anno's case, an agnostic) walking through the streets of New York City, passing by infinite churches, as well as several temples, synagogues and mosques, knowing that these buildings mean everything to some people, and nothing to him. Kaworu, himself supposedly a part of this Kabbalahan cabal, represents Anno's refutation of Buddhism:

"Humans constantly feel pain in their hearts. Because the heart is so sensitive to pain, humans also feel that to live is to suffer. You're so delicate, like glass, especially your heart."

One can note a hint of condescension from Kaworu (and perhaps Anno himself) explaining that humans, in their ignorance, feel that to live is to suffer because of their sensitivity. Although Kaworu eventually causes Shinji tremendous pain, he doesn't betray him the way Shinji thinks he does. He shows him a major point Evangelion has been leading up to: life is what you make of it. Meaning is not intrinsic, but constructed. Although he is unlike any other Angel due to his ability to connect with Shinji emotionally, Kaworu is indeed not human. He explains that "life and death are of equal value to me... And, you are not a being who should die. Your people need the future."

There is an interesting theme of homoeroticism in Shinji and Kaworu's friendship, one which is introduced almost immediately. Shinji, at least, clearly interprets it as such. In time, however, it's clear that as an Angel, Kaworu does not really have a gender or sexuality. They do, however, have physical intimacy; rather than connoting sexual feelings, this physicality actually represents innocence. Episode 24 ("The Final Messenger") is full of references to the Book of Genesis and the Fall of Man. Shinji and Kaworu's relationship is like a friendship before original sin. Indeed, in the (in)famous bath scene, Kaworu doesn't even seem to realize that he's naked. 

Sexual shame is a prevalent theme throughout Evangelion, particularly in Episode 25, as Misato tortures herself over her sex life. But as she does so, it seems increasingly unlikely that she's actually promiscuous at all. Rather, she seems to be struggling with certain cultural expectations: that as a woman she should not express or even have sexual desire, that she should not enjoy sex, that she should not allow others to see her as a sexual being. With regards to the last of these, it becomes clearer just what that aspect of her relationship with Shinji is: she wants to be desired, but she doesn't want him to know that she has desires herself. She wishes to buy into a culture in which men want and women are wanted, but this wish is frustrated by the fact that she is a human being. Shinji also views sexual desire as a source of shame, as he wonders whether he truly likes the girls in his life for who they are, or for what they represent to him as an adolescent male. It's because of this that his friendship with Kaworu is so precious to him. Their friendship is intimate, and yet without a sense of exploitation: the very Aristotelian definition of a good friendship.

Then there is that very Freudian revelation: that Yui Ikari is (in some sense) Eva 01. I say it's Freudian because the circumstances could all present a very common trope: the Oedipus Complex. After all, Shinji hates his father and regularly enters his mother, so to speak. While hallucinating in Eva 01, he fantasizes about the girls in his life (one of whom is Rei) before ultimately recognizing the female consciousness as his mother, who then appears idealized and, of course, nude. But I don't think that's what Evangelion is getting at. I don't think it's saying that due to childhood trauma, Shinji lusts after his mother (or rather, the idea of his mother), and I don't think it's saying (in true Orson Scott Card fashion) that Shinji is indeed sexually attracted to Kaworu as the result of his trauma and neuroses. Shinji doesn't want sex. At least, not primarily. He wants love. Indeed, he wants for it. As the people in his life clearly value him only for what they can get from him (even as Misato mourns his apparent death, she still refers to him as "my Shinji" rather than seeing him as his own person), he slowly gets the sense that his mother is the only person in his life who's ever loved him (or at least unconditionally loved him). Indeed, it's appropriate that Rei, the recovered remnants of Yui, eventually does learn to love him, but she's been too warped and manipulated by Gendo for him to know it.

Speaking of Gendo, has there ever been such a loathsome and detestable character in any series? His apparently legitimate attachment to Rei may be a product of his devotion to Yui, but the show strongly implies that Yui's fusion into Eva 01 was no accident, but in fact a means of controlling the Eva. Given that many of Shinji's victories come from Eva 01's "berserk" mode (i.e. Yui's consciousness snapping to life in order to protect her son), it seems likely that Gendo simply used her as a pawn. The fact that he took Yui's family name is also interesting and indicative of some kind of real relationship; and yet we see that he is also an adulterer and a child rapist, that he had no sense of fidelity towards Yui or towards Ritsuko now (a plot point which has always bothered me; it's largely unexplained and comes out of nowhere). The fact that Gendo is in no way a traditional antagonist actually increases the audience's hatred for him. Most devastatingly, he essentially gets what he wants in the end.

Shinji, for his part, gets nothing. He is estranged from Misato and Asuka, the Rei he knew is dead, his familiarity with NERV and their practices makes him dislike and distrust everyone in the organization (for good reason), and he is forced to kill the only real friend he's ever had. Until Episode 26, this is a series in which the bad guys win and the well-intentioned are manipulated into moral compromise, ultimately losing not only their dignity but their ability to be unequivocally called "good guys". In the entire series, the most likable character with the fewest moral hangups is Kaworu, the last Angel. But in Episode 26, we see that while Gendo has gotten what he wanted, he hasn't succeeded in removing Shinji's personhood and humanity. The ending of Neon Genesis Evangelion is jarring and strange, as we see an alternate reality in which Shinji lives a normal life with decent parents and real friendships. But this all leads up to a greater point, one which is stunning in its simplicity and lack of profundity: life doesn't have to be like this. In the end, there is nothing about Shinji's life that he really likes. It would have been much better if his mother were alive, if he didn't have to pilot the Eva, and if his father were a completely different person. But those things were never pre-determined, they happened due to people's choices, most of them made outside of his control or understanding. Now, as he transitions into adulthood, he sees the ability to escape his past and realizes the joy in the fact that the future is unwritten.

Neon Genesis Evangelion spawned many imitators, most of them ill-conceived. It's difficult to try to recreate what is ultimately an extremely personal project by a brilliant auteur. However, I think it opened the door for the truly artistic anime series which would come after it. Hayao Miyazaki, brilliant director that he is, strayed from anime drawing styles and conventions (after Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, the first project on which he and Anno worked together) to create what were ultimately excellent, off-beat Disney movies. After Neon Genesis Evangelion, it was a reaffirmation of the anime style as a means of creating art. I can't imagine Cowboy Bebop, Big O, Fullmetal Alchemist or, of course, FLCL (created by Anno's protege and Evangelion episode director Kazuya Tsurumaki) without Evangelion. Those series are all brilliant, with deeper meanings than their individually entertaining and action-packed episodes portray. But nothing can quite match the intensity and the catharsis that is achieved by Neon Genesis Evangelion. I don't quite understand what it means, but I've always found the last three slides of the show (what I believe to be Anno's direct statements to the audience) perfect, in their own mysterious way.

Thank you Father. Goodbye, Mother. And to all children, Congratulations.

It's an ending that would go down in history, but for all the wrong reasons. More on that next time. 

Neon Genesis Evangelion, Part 1

I've already talked about Neon Genesis Evangelion a fair amount, perhaps too much. Some part of me hopes that in writing these I can get that impulse out of my system. It's not likely, though. Yes, Evangelion is my all-time favorite series, but it's also the series which sets a standard for all others in my mind. With some series, the comparison can be fairly direct: in the case of Attack on Titan, another disaster scenario which explores psychological trauma, I felt like Evangelion served as a useful foil. The same goes for the noir/mecha anime The Big O, particularly in its heavily Eva-influenced second season. In other cases, the comparison is far less direct. For instance, the heavily acclaimed series Breaking Bad's fifth (or fifth and sixth) season has lost its luster for me because I no longer get why I should be watching Walter. Did the show only set out to create a smart, capable character who gets under your skin with a particularly infuriating kind of evil? Well, Evangelion already did that using far less fanfare and screentime with Gendo Ikari, who's also smarter, more capable, and more evil than Walter White could ever be. Further, unlike Breaking Bad, Evangelion takes place in a neutral world; it doesn't favor Shinji one bit. Sure, he's more or less the best Eva pilot, but there's a reason given for it. The show never breaks plausibility and logic to favor the protagonist's needs or wants.

Because I want to spend a little more time with Evangelion (I plan to make this a two-part post, followed by a review of the film), I'd also like to make some boiler-plate remarks on the blog so far. First of all, thank you everyone who read, gave feedback, and passed the blog along. It means a great deal. In summary, the feedback I received was largely critiquing an issue with regard to my perspective on anime as a whole, and another issue about my toothless review of Attack on Titan. I'd like to go ahead and address this briefly, because these are excellent points.

Skip ahead to the next still for the part that's actually about Evangelion.

The first issue presented was that in this blog, I am essentially setting up a "Japanese anime>other animation>live action" model. I will admit, my favorite series are anime (Evangelion, Fullmetal Alchemist, Serial Experiments Lain), but right behind them are Twin Peaks, The X-Files, and Mad Men. I think the short run-time of most anime series works to their advantage, and they can tell detailed, complete stories in a satisfying manner. They have the narrative conciseness of films and the expansiveness of television, and combined with the unique storytelling benefits of animation, they tend to make for better series, in my opinion. Indeed, I find long-running anime series such as Dragon Ball, Bleach and Inuyasha insufferable. Most of my favorite films, however, are live action, by film greats such as Francis Ford Coppola and Stanley Kubrick. In other words, animation is not a prerequisite for greatness by any means.

The other issue was my use of a very contentious word: perfect. Attack on Titan, I am told, is not perfect. I also neglected to point out the thin characterization and erratic pacing plaguing the entire first season. To be honest, though, the pacing didn't particularly bother me at any point. I think it sped up and slowed down for dramatic effect, exactly as it needed to. As for the characters, there are quite a lot of them in Attack on Titan; some of them are conventional characters who are given backstory and detail (Eren, Mikasa), but most of them are representative of a theme. Authority, fear, self-interest, and misanthropy are all themes which Attack on Titan conveys, and some characters are an embodiment of those and other themes (shouldn't be hard to figure out who's who among the four I listed).

But in a larger sense, I view seasons of a show as a totality, a sort of meta-film in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Thus, a great season can still have bad episodes. Indeed, in two of my favorite seasons of television I've watched recently, (Mad Men Season 3 and Breaking Bad Season 4) there were several weak episodes in which I began to lose patience with the respective shows, but as each drew to a close, they revealed a tightly written and logical work expanding over 13 episodes. It didn't matter that Mad Men Season 2 had a more solid and consistent 13 individual episodes; at the end I wasn't transported by their totality in the way I was by the show's far more uneven successive season. Thus, I believe that the totality of Attack on Titan Season 1 did everything it set out to do; it is perfect for what it is. I don't think it will ever surpass Evangelion because the project of Attack on Titan is (amazing as it is to think) less grandiose and less ambitious, and thus I don't think it'll ever reach Eva's olympian heights. But it's still everything I could have wanted from it, and that's good enough for me.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is not a flawless show, either. It is quite unlike Attack on Titan in that its flaws are not buried in the woodwork, only noticeable after the fact. Rather, the flaws of Evangelion scream in your face. From the very first moments of the show, we see that it is tacky and dated, as the synthesized horns blare out a lazily written and tonally inappropriate theme song (don't even get me started on the cover of "Fly Me To the Moon" or its bizarre remixes which function as the end credits song). The show itself has tonal shifts which are utterly jarring and unexplained, often signified by the even more grating flute tune which scores the "lighthearted" scenes, which mostly portray Misato's alcoholism and often feature Shinji being abused in some capacity. If these scenes are intended to be comic relief, the relief (and indeed, the comedy) is lost on me. The show also fails to make Ritsuko a believable character; rather than psychologically exploring her personal life, we are simply told facts about it which make little sense given how little context we have. And although some of them are excellent, episodes 8-15 can feel irrelevant, formulaic, and out of touch with the rest of the show. The most egregious example of this is Episode 9, "Moment and Heart Together". Although Anno and Satsukawa's writing is far below par here (the trick to beat this Monster of the Week is through the power of synchronized dance!), Seiji Mizushima's direction is also jarring and out-of-place, an amazing fact considering his stellar work on another of my favorite series, 2003's Fullmetal Alchemist. 

Whew. Okay, I think that's my complete gripe list. I could go into further detail about how I find other episodes like "Magma Diver" lame by comparison, like well-executed episodes of a far less interesting show, but given how much navel-gazing the show ultimately amounts to, sometimes it's good to step into the real world. Although these episodes themselves lack the features which make Evangelion truly unique and great, I appreciate the fact that we are given a complete view of these characters' lives. For most of the show, Shinji is depressed, Asuka is lonely and frustrated with everything, and Misato feels personally vacuous and clings to her status as a sex object to feel a sense of worth. But those are the characters' unique conditions, they are not their entire personalities. They have real moments of triumph, friendship and (perhaps) love. Evangelion is a show where the human characters truly feel human, and the alien characters truly feel alien (with one key exception). The Angels are completely mysterious in their intent. Are their names on the nose? Is their purpose simply to wipe out humanity because humanity's nature is evil? I doubt it. The Angels are inscrutable because it's likely that alien life would have no commonality of language, culture, or behavior to humans. We can't even tell if they truly have consciousness. This is a testament to the way Hideaki Anno's writing works: even though he presents a fantastical situation, the details make it feel true to life.

The first episode of Evangelion is a triumph in its own right, perfectly setting up Shinji's character, and his relationships with Misato, his father, and Eva 01. Shinji's mantra ("I musn't run away!") is somewhat childish, it grates on the mind in a kind of indescribable way. It's also taken directly from Anno's life:

They say, "To live is to change." I started this production with the wish that once the production complete, the world, and the heroes would change. That was my "true" desire. I tried to include everything of myself in Neon Genesis Evangelion—myself, a broken man who could do nothing for four years. A man who ran away for four years, one who was simply not dead. Then one thought. "You can't run away," came to me, and I restarted this production. It is a production where my only thought was to burn my feelings into film. -Hideaki Anno, July 1995.

Shinji is not an audience stand-in, although he may appear to be, as he is introduced to Tokyo-3 and NERV along with us. The audience may see some of ourselves in him (I myself see too much for my comfort), but he is not the sympathetic protagonist featured in most television shows. He's a character whom we pity. He's not "the one" because he chose to be. Indeed, he repeatedly tries to resist his role as humanity's protector. Partially because that's a lot of responsibility to shove on a 14-year old, partially because he feels like he's being manipulated by his father (which he is, and has every right to be sick and tired of), and mostly just because he's scared. In the first episode, as Rei is brought out on a stretcher to be loaded into Eva 01, we see Shinji's main redeeming quality: empathy. It's a characteristic which turns out to be rare in this world, one which his father probably doesn't know exists, much less possesses. Indeed, one wonders where Shinji got it from. Even Misato (who seems to care for the boy in some capacity) simply encourages him for the sole purpose of not dying. 

The details about Rei's injury are not explained until a later episode, and while it is fairly obvious that she is simply incapacitated so that Shinji must step into the role of Eva pilot (i.e. the plot requires it), I've always found it extremely apropos of the series. The narrative might rise and fall on Shinji, but the world surrounding him doesn't. In time, we'll get to know the stories of the First and Second Impact before he was even born, and the mysterious passing of his mother. More importantly, most of the central characters of the story have been at NERV for some time. Rei's injury shows that they have been living lives outside of him; they don't just go into carbon stasis when he's not around. On the one hand this is just a nice detail because it makes the world feel lived-in. On the other, it is representative of Shinji's central feeling about himself and others: he doesn't matter to them, life will go on anyway. Isn't that true, though? If you were to die, not only would 99.99% of humanity not know about it, even the people closest to you would ultimately get on with their lives. Shinji knows that he's an unnecessary person, and yet within the first 20 minutes of the show, we see that he's completely central to humanity; or at least to Eva 01, as it mysteriously swoops in to save him.

Misato is not an Eva pilot, but she's nearly as important to the story as Shinji. The two of them, as Anno put it, "are unsuitable—lacking the positive attitude—for what people call heroes of an adventure. But in any case, they are the heroes of this story." She does, however, bear a passing resemblance to an active hero. She displays a poise and confidence in battle situations which Shinji does not. She seems to take real pride in winning battles, whereas Shinji just seems traumatized for most of them. Yet the first time we see her, it's a photo she's sent to Shinji along with Gendo's request for him to come to NERV Headquarters. Of course, Misato sends a flirty picture displaying her cleavage, but also draws arrows pointing to her breasts with the comment "pay attention". It's a little on the nose, but it works. She's not confident that a picture of herself, an attractive woman in her late 20s, will appeal to Shinji; but more importantly, she insists that he view her as a sex object. In the second episode, Misato decides that Shinji will live with her, rather than in some godforsaken bunker at NERV Headquarters. In the moment, we're just relieved that maybe an adult will show him some kind of kindness and affection. As the series proceeds and we're exposed to Misato's alcoholism and thinly veiled depression whilst their relationship becomes more fraught with tension and sexual ambiguity, maybe the best we can hope for this boy is that he is left alone and not taken advantage of.

Rei is in many ways far worse off than Shinji. She seems calm, collected and efficient. More simply, though, she has simply accepted a worldview in which she is an object to be manipulated by others. In her school uniform, she looks awkward and uncomfortable in her own skin. She's in her element, and almost graceful and beautiful, in fact, when she's in a plug suit-- a part of the machine. She rarely speaks because she has no expectation of being a person; it is only when Shinji does bring this expectation into their dynamic that she begins to think that maybe her life could be different. In one of the pair's first scenes together, Shinji somewhat creepily enters her apartment and finds what appear to be his father's cracked glasses on her dresser; this gave me a sense of foreboding I couldn't quite put my finger on. Rei is hardly bothered by the debacle that ensues except for the fact that Shinji has the glasses; she seems to have no sense of personal space and no sense of violation from Shinji (albeit accidentally) touching her inappropriately. 

The scene shows Anno's and episode director Keiichi Sugiyama's attention to detail, and the show's capacity for the power of suggestion. The apartment is sparse; bare, in fact, except for a bed, a dresser, Gendo's glasses, and a bunch of tissues and bloody bandages on the floor. Why are the tissues there? Does Rei have a cold? I think not. The bandages are remnants of her injury, but they get the subconscious going about blood and the female body. Then you have to wonder about the tissues. Then about Gendo's glasses. Then about her weird attachment to him. And then you see just how unconcerned she is with being groped. In all of a minute, a major aspect of Rei's character is delivered without any dialogue pertaining to it. It's also the last indication of it until much later in the series, but it defines every time she talks about Gendo, leaping to his defense and showing uncharacteristic aggression. 

Despite its monster-of-the-week quality, the show resists falling into a formula due to the episodes being structured around the characters' personal experiences, rather than the battles. Several episodes (most of the more important ones, in fact) are devoid of battles, as the conflict between the characters is more than enough, especially upon Asuka's introduction. The Angels, while they are alien and inscrutable, often represent the Eva pilots' issues in sophisticated ways. Although the cables the Evas are attached to are actually called umbilical cables-- a fairly blunt reference to the Evas' origin--angels like Ramiel represent intrinsic fears or issues in the characters, not simply the theme of the week. Ramiel bores down into Tokyo-3 and towards NERV Headquarters, towards Rei's secrets which reside down there (even though we don't know it yet). Internally, Rei fears where she comes from. She lives in the present because her past is too complex, too frightening, too ugly to think about. Yet here is Ramiel, boring down through the walls of NERV Headquarters which, like Rei's psychological walls, ultimately cannot keep everything out. In the first of many gripping episodes in the latter half of the series (Episode 16), Shinji is trapped inside Leliel, the mysterious dark orb. When he comes to his terrifying realization ("Blood! I smell blood!"), it's clear that he's experiencing a primal adolescent fear: fear of being infantalized, of losing all agency. Subconsciously, he's realizing that although he's inside Leliel, the alien womb, is his state in Eva 01 all that different? Or is his personal life? Now, even during his transition to manhood, he still lives, moves and breathes at the behest of others.

Depression is not an intense, prolonged state of sadness. It's something else entirely: a lack of feeling and of meaning. It's this incredible dichotomy that keeps me coming back to Evangelion. Without a doubt in my mind, I think it is a show about depression. Despite this, the show makes you feel so much and means so much. The show is visceral in its take on psychology; the intense violence which the show builds up to in the latter half of the series matches the fever pitch of emotions within the cast of characters, but the physical violence can't shake me to my core the way that the directors of Evangelion (most notably Masayuki and FLCL director Kazuya Tsurumaki) portray both adult and childhood trauma. The show can be awkward, tiring, and painful to watch. When it comes down to it, though, no other series has really come close to saying anything to me as much or as well as Evangelion. I haven't quite explained exactly what it says, and realistically speaking I probably can't explain it all. But there's always next time.

P.S. I tried to make this post less spoilery for people who are just curious about the show but maybe haven't seen it all yet. The next post will be spoiler-tastic.

Shingeki no Kyojin (Attack on Titan): Spoiler-Free Edition

When I first watched Attack on Titan (literally translated as "Advancing Giants," a less catchy but far less misleading title), I recommended it to friends as a spiritual successor to Neon Genesis Evangelion. In retrospect, I don't really know what I was thinking. Other than some fairly superficial similarities-- a last-bastion-of-humanity situation (not really the case in Evangelion), and an attack by a relentless enemy with no known origin (not really the case from Attack on Titan, if what little I've heard from the manga is true)-- the two shows are radically different in their storytelling approaches, universes, and characters. What I think I meant to say is that Attack on Titan represents a monumental achievement in anime, the scope of which can only be compared to Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Evangelion to me represents when anime broke out of the boring merchandise-pushing mecha anime genre, most iconically represented by Transformers, as well as the hollow and formulaic nonsense of fantasy series like Dragonball Z and Sailor Moon. Our protagonist was not a huge tough guy, a powerful giant robot, or a magical girl with eyes and breasts the size of oranges and melons, respectively. He was a sad, lonely, severely depressed adolescent boy, who struggled with self-loathing and an abusive father. It was a show in which there were no heroes, only flawed, vulnerable, complex human beings. It was a personal show, one which delved fearlessly into the subjects of suicide, child abuse, adultery and rape, and was the result of its auteur's own history with depression. In Evangelion and Shinji Ikari, pitiful little creep that he is, Hidekai Anno redefined the way that an animated story could be told.

Attack on Titan is an achievement of a different, perhaps less profound kind. First, and most obviously, it became really popular with international audiences very quickly. Second, it represents a revolution in distribution: Attack on Titan came out in 2013, and in the same year it appeared on Netflix in the original Japanese with subtitles. This is the first time in my lifetime that audiences on either side of the Pacific are both eagerly awaiting the next season of an anime series. And finally, it has the finest animation of any anime series I've seen to date, outstripping even the glamorous Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood with its flawless integration of CGI to create the dazzling three-dimensional fight scenes. Just as the Vertical Maneuvering Gear lets the courageous Survey Corps move in new ways, Attack on Titan boldly and dazzlingly brings anime into a deep, three-dimensional world.

But these achievements should not overshadow what is also just an excellent season of television. The first 25 episodes of Attack on Titan are a nearly flawless portrayal of a richly imagined universe, memorable characters, and a deeply intriguing plotline; one which does not drive the story but provides an exhilarating undercurrent. As anyone who has seen the last frame of Episode 25 knows, there's a mystery behind the Titans, the Walls, and Eren which is yet to be uncovered by the characters, but we're eager to be right there with them when they do.

It's the animation which first draws us into Attack on Titan. These scout troops, their mission, and their dialogue are not intrinsically intriguing, but it's what they are chasing (obscured for now, but the grotesque and terrifying design of the Titans will be revealed by the end of the episode), and the way they are chasing it ("Don't break formation! Ready your Three Dimensional Maneuvering Gear!" the captain barks) which is important to us and them. These characters are (mercifully) not our heroes but representative of a central theme of Attack on Titan: as we are bound to learn, these men are all going to die, and we as the audience aren't going to feel anything. Life is fragile, so fragile that sometimes we can't bring ourselves to care about people dying. It's part of the brilliance of Tetsuro Araki's direction (in shining form, far outstripping his at-times clunky work on Death Note) which shows us both the difficulty to understand casualty numbers as human beings, and the surrealism of knowing someone for a day, a week, or a lifetime, and that person no longer existing a second later.

Attack on Titan's first episode also shows its hero from the side of the grown-ups, the common-sense folk, and then shows how much of conventional wisdom is based in cowardice. Eren is irritating, brash, and loud. He thinks he's tough when he's really not. And guess what? The little brat is absolutely right. Living in a cage is not only humiliating, but unsustainable. He who sacrifices freedom for security deserves neither, and as it turns out, he gets neither. But Eren's no better for it. Everything he knows and loves is destroyed in mere minutes, and as he screams and cries, hating his child's body and his inability to save his mother, you can tell than inside he wishes that all this time he was wrong and poor Kalura was right.

Eren is essentially (Evangelion protagonist) Shinji Ikari's inverse. Eren is all externalized emotion, all animus and machismo. His confidence is a self-fulfilling prophecy, as with an average build and intelligence he graduates 5th in his class. He might have some hangups with his father, but he's got more serious things to worry about. He's a born leader, dragging nearly all of the other top 10 graduates (as well as his best friend/conscience Armin) into the dangerous and unpopular Survey Corps. But we also see in this boy not only the confidence, the leadership, and the dogged determination of a hero. We see his psychotic, violent nature; we see a boy who is not quite yet a man struggling with issues we'd never want to place on our worst enemy, let alone a 16-year-old.

This leads to perhaps the one and only immediately recognizable flaw in Attack on Titan: Eren and Mikasa's backstory. Although at first extremely realistic in a way you hadn't thought of before, exploring the results of the concentration of different ethnicities into one nation-state as well as the rise of mobs (specifically sex slavery) in a post-apocalyptic world, the sequence goes from terrifyingly realistic to downright silly in a matter of seconds. It just barely functions as an explanation for the weirdness of Mikasa, the show's favorite freak show.

Mikasa and Eren's relationship is fraught with childhood trauma. But Eren seems to have a more or less healthy regard for her. Although sometimes when he's pissed off he'll say she isn't, he considers her his sister. She's one of the people in his life who reminds him of what it's all for. After all, once all the Titans are dead, what's his life going to be without her? In Mikasa, however, we have an ostensibly strong, determined and independent woman who in fact has an identity which is totally conditional upon Eren. Her motivations are based solely on his interests, her actions always mirror his actions. When she's not fighting Titans, she has no agency. Eren mentions her hair's getting long and she cuts it.  Why? Because he said so. She's lucky that at least in this sense Eren's not abusive, but at this point, would she even know the difference? It's my sincere hope that the second season actually seeks to answer this question, and more. After all, the show is hardly squeamish. A look at the possibility of Mikasa's quasi-incestuous feelings for Eren with a sympathetic eye could add another layer to its already excellent character development.

In this fashion, I think Attack on Titan actually takes the opposite approach from Evangelion. In Evangelion, the drama was internal: these characters' inner trauma and psychological issues were played out on a massive scale. The fate of the world hangs in the balance, and it's up to Shinji to get over his abandonment issues. In Attack on Titan, we see the effects of physical devastation, the loss of family members, and feelings of hopelessness and loss on the characters' personalities. Armin, who is the most grounded and psychologically normal of the central characters, is the series' Shinji. He's the coward in all of us; he's not always what he like about humanity, but he's what most of us are. Most of us probably would stand there in terror until the last possible second, while the suicidal bastard tried to save our lives. Conversely, Armin is admirable in confronting the grey areas and unpleasant ethics of war. In the best sequence for the character (I won't say much because the title of the episode itself is something of a spoiler), he states what could very well be the show's mantra: "Good person. That's a term I don't care much for. I feel like those words are simply what people use to call those who are convenient to them."

Attack on Titan has come under some hot water in South Korea and among Japanese progressives for militarist themes. American audiences may be quick to draw comparisons between the Titans and Godzilla, and the hopeless situation of the city's military and resources may be seen as a parallel to Japan's near the end of the Second World War. I really can't say what the political ideals of (manga writer) Hajime Isayama or Tetsuro Araki are. All I know is that the satire of religion and portrayal of the king (or perhaps Emperor stand-in) as a bumbling idiot out of touch with his people are not common facets of conservatism. If it is indeed militaristic or conservative in its politics, it's nothing if not idiosyncratic in this regard.

For instance, I was at first skeptical about Levi. He's something of a trope in anime: the reserved, talented cool guy. It's unfair to this character that I immediately thought of him as the series' Sasuke Uchiha (major character and fan favorite in the Naruto series who works well as Naruto's foil but not much else), and I was not swayed by the tiny detail that he's a germophobe. The whole character seemed like a lazy trope fusion, as his skill often serves as a deus-ex-machina to the plot as well. But as the show placed him and Eren in an unusually close relationship (in proximity if not in relation), he became one of the show's most important characters, representing the complicated relationship between authority and the individual. "I don't know which option you should choose," Levi explains. "No matter what kind of wisdom dictates you the option you pick, no one will be able to tell if it's right or wrong until you arrive to some sort of outcome of your own choice." If you choose to defy authority, you are asserting your agency. But in following authority, one cannot shake off the burden of agency: the choice to follow is still a choice. Eren soon learns just how true his words are: Levi might be a powerful soldier, but he's only human.

Attack on Titan does an excellent job of setting up likeable characters who seem like they may develop into relevant side characters, only to snatch them away a few episodes later. Their deaths make the brutality of Attack on Titan real and harrowing. After the initial shock wore off from the first seven or eight episodes, it seemed that perhaps the show would relent in its slaughter of beloved characters, eventually settling into a formula. But once again, the writing (led by Yasuko Kobayashi) proves itself above tropes and formulas: the battle constantly changes and evolves. Despite the amazing model for fight scenes with the Vertical Maneuvering Gear, the conflicts change in setting and scope. As in a real war, conflict is but just one part of the enterprise, as strategy, politics and personal drama are all handled deftly. It's the kind of show where I wouldn't be surprised to see Levi die in the next season (in fact, it may be a wise move) because that's what makes the show satisfying: rather than merely fulfilling our expectations with excellent execution, it defies our expectations and the execution is even better than we had hoped for. 

Although she's not a major character (though she may indeed become a central character in the coming seasons), I can't end this post without talking about my favorite character: Zoe Hange. Once again, Attack on Titan rises above playing to tropes and stereotypes. Hange is quirky and unsettling to others, but she's not the nutjob or village idiot. On the contrary, she's the most intelligent character in the show. She's utterly fearless; so fearless that she actually feels empathy for the freakish Titans, a trait which Eren would have hated her for beforehand, but in time he gains an appreciation for. When they talk through the night and into the morning,  Eren finally begins to understand who she is and what she wants: victory does not come from mere might and violence, it comes from understanding your enemy. There might be hope for the little psycho after all. But back to Hange, she is everything Mikasa is not. She simply does not take crap from the chauvinistic men at the higher ranks of the military. Why would she? She's smarter than them, she has ideas, and she's not afraid of 30-meter titans, she finds them cute. I love Hange because she's a feminist character in what is in no way a specifically feminist show, and when she hatches a plot or runs a test, or whispers "I'll tear those secrets right out of you" to a Titan, I can see that she's going to be the real hope for humanity.

As I said, I think Attack on Titan is, so far, essentially a perfect season of television, with few obvious flaws. It is notoriously difficult to improve on perfection, but I feel confident that with such a richly imagined universe, future seasons will be able to change the show's dynamic. We've already had violent, harrowing disaster scenes, exhilarating action scenes, and political drama. Further insight into the supporting characters' lives as well as unveiling the mystery of the walls, the Titans and Eren should be next on the menu. With the way Season 1 wrapped up, it seems like that's exactly what Araki and co. plan to do, if not until 2015. Oh well. As Mikasa says: "The world is merciless, and also very beautiful."