I agree that this works in the film’s favor, and lends more to overall experimental atmosphere of the film, but I could easily see the common anime viewer getting completely drained from watching a film like this. I have extreme patience, and this film most definitely requires that. One of the films biggest minuses is this, and even I’ll admit it. It’s one of those films that can be considered so experimental that it will either turn people off or provide an excellent opportunity for viewers to speculate and interpret what they just watched. I would say that if you fall into the latter category, this will be a fulfilling experience. The symbology expressed in the film can also be viewed as a hit or miss with viewers. While I personally found it interesting, I can see viewers becoming quite frustrated in not being able to completely understand the symbolic themes that run throughout the film and would probably rather give up. These qualities can be viewed as both the gift and curse of what Angel’s Egg has to offer in terms of mythological, philosophical, or psychological views on what constitutes visual entertainment within the medium of art.

Considering the many talented individuals behind Angel’s Egg production, it comes as no surprise that the film looks fantastic. From the lush and eerie landscapes to the original character designs, Angel’s Egg is a joy to look at. The abstract use of visual symbolism is one of the main elements within the film, and it’s through this visual imagery that the viewer can begin to understand what the film truly addresses. Since the surrealism in the film is prominent, it’s only natural the animation would coincide. But, one of the most striking elements Angel’s Egg is the score composed by Yoshihiro Kanno. This is exactly what a film needs if it’s presenting surrealistic vision. And with little to no dialogue present, the reliance on visuals and music is extremely important, and the score is beautifully done.

Overall, Angel’s Egg is a tough film to digest thematically, but for what it’s worth—and this is a gross understatement—the film is perhaps one of the finest in experimental animation. It’s a visually stimulated and existential journey into the mind of pure imagination, and it seems like one of those animated films that rarely ever get made. No doubt from the minds of Mamoru Oshii and Yoshitaka Amano, Angel’s Egg is a complicated but unforgettable film that begs for multiple views.

Stemming from the light novel and manga by author Ryohgo Narita, Baccano! is perhaps one of the most original anime series in years due to its complex narrative structure. Its presentation is certainly one to be admired, as it expertly weaves between the past and present, establishing keen insight to the series’ substantial cast of characters and their backgrounds. With the first episode consisting of a delirious collage of sadistic imagery, humorous situations and perplexing character interactions, it is certainly a confusion introduction for any viewer. But once Baccano! settles into a considerable pacing after its initial episodes—a notion that could easily be taken as an understatement—it slowly builds and centers its narrative around a singular night on a railroad train entitled The Pussyfoot. It is here where the series constantly returns to focus on key characters, intersecting their roles to one another amidst the backdrop of mafia warfare, serial killers and supernatural immortals. Using that night as a focal point, Baccano! implements a series of sizable flashback sequences that take us ever deeper as viewers into the bizarre and twisted view of a Prohibition-era America and beyond, intermixing the harsh reality of that period with otherworldly ancient occultism.

With such mature themes expressed throughout Baccano!, it is definitely not for the faint of heart. With its brutal depiction of death, torture and mutilation, the series does an excellent job in portraying the frenzied nature of an era where violence was perceived as a nature solution to most problems. With the aspects of violence being heavily implemented throughout the plot, the series also inserts various moments of humor and drama to offset it. While some of the violence may certainly be deemed over-the-top for some viewers, it delivers a refreshing outlook to an already creative approach, mainly because of the series’ diverse cast of characters. This is where Baccano! works incredibly well. Given the rather large cast of characters, the series takes its time to explore their pasts and motives. Alongside the rather fluctuating narrative structure, the series doesn’t introduce characters only to have them dissipate as the series advances—rather, the opposite occurs. The cast of Baccano! each get their share of character development, mostly reserving an entire episode to showcase their history and involvement up to the point of that fateful night on The Pussyfoot. This approach allows the characters to seem less archetypical in nature and more individualistic, allowing us as viewers to get to know their mannerisms and personalities. Granted, while some of the characters do in fact seem rather superficial at first, their confrontations and interactions redeem their perceived lack of individuality, thus showcasing just how contrasting they truly are. In essence, Baccano! doesn’t necessarily have a “main” character in a tradition sense. The series moves from character to character at such a rapid pace, that a viewer isn’t given much time to adjust to any one overall character. This again cements the unconventional approach offered consistently by the series, delivering a plethora of characters that complement the its encompassing plot.

Concerning the animation, the look of the series is somewhat inconsistent at best. While many of the highlights of animation stem from the action sequences, some episodes do look better than others, with noticeable drops in animation that seem oddly out of place at moments—which is often the case with series over twelve episodes in length. What the series does do an adequate job on though is envisioning a gritty Prohibition-era New York City and Chicago. While being one of the few anime series to be situated primarily within America, the series brings an authentic look to its surroundings—from the architecture of buildings to the attire that characters wear; the series establishes itself visually pertaining to that specific time period. This artistic choice brings about muted and gray colors that permeate throughout the series, giving it a shabby vintage appearance that plays well into developing its world and also playing upon a realized nostalgic factor.

But considering the creative approach that Baccano! strives to deliver in terms of narrative, the series will perplex some viewers because of such an approach. In fact, the initial episodes may appear to be chaotic in nature considering that the plot does constantly leap back and forth, let alone allow the viewer to accurately absorb what’s occurring on screen. This is certainly not a series where one should not pay attention to details or skip any of its episodes; it would be a huge disservice to do so. There is so much plot compacted into each individual episode that it’s remarkable to see just how well everything ties together as the series progresses. There are narrative leaps that literally span a century or more within certain episodes, which may utterly baffle some viewers expecting a logical narrative structure to easily guide them along the way. This is not to say that Baccano! is inefficient in terms of coherently providing a narrative that is easy to follow, but it’s just an approach that requires a viewer to acutely observe the time leaps and motivations behind a character’s actions. If adhere to, the series delivers a superb plot that reflects upon the notion of life, companionship and even the very structure of conventional storytelling itself. The non-linear atmosphere of the plot is both intriguing and at times frustrating, but the series has a magnificent way of slowly unveiling elements of the plot, only to resolve them in a cross referential fashion in later episodes.

Despite the rather complicated yet engaging nature of the plot, Baccano! is still a relatively interesting and creative premise for an anime series. It’s this adherence towards an element nonconventional storytelling that truly establishes the series as one that can stand out amongst many of the anime series within the last decade. It has a refreshing cast of characters that don’t necessarily come off as individuals we’ve viewed in previous series, with considerable time given to each for character development. While not certainly for everyone, the series delivers a mature form of storytelling that doesn’t easily attempt to portray characters in a rigid dichotomy between good or evil. In many instances, our initial perception of characters change substantially throughout the course of the series, each time introducing us as viewers to a new an interesting facet of their lives. Admittedly, the violence is certainly graphic at times, and this may be the deciding factor in certain viewers wanting to continue watching the series, but for those who don’t mind such choices, it plays an integral part in showcasing the psyche of some of its characters. As such with its narrative, Baccano! is a series that may require multiple viewings to completely understand its intricate plot and necessary connections, in turn also making it one of the most compelling anime series within the last several years.

For viewers who may be more familiar with Miyazaki’s later work, such as Princess Mononoke, My Neighbor Totoro, Kiki’s Delivery Service, and even Spirited Away, Castle in the Sky might seem more like a “simplistic” good vs. evil fairy tale, and it unashamedly is.  Its characters are based on “archetypes” and are consequently not as multi-layered as the aforementioned films.  That said, the film maintains all the ingredients for the kind of timeless classic Miyazaki is capable of:

Breathtaking animation?  Check.

A wondrous musical score?  Check.

A solid and intriguing plot?  Check.

An aural of warmth and wonder?  Check.

Memorable characters (despite the aforementioned issue)?  Check.

So in short, one can easily pinpoint how this movie differs from most of Miyazaki’s output, but there’s so much to appreciate in Castle in the Sky that one would be hard-pressed to dismiss it.

The film begins with a bang, literally, when a magnificent airship is attacked by a gang of “sky pirates” and their leader, a wizened but still vigorous woman named Dola.  The pirates are in search of the airship’s prisoner, a lonely little girl who has been taken away from her home.  Her name is Sheeta, and she possesses a crystal that contains mysterious powers.  Just when they are about to grab her, she escapes by climbing outside her cabin and dropping through the clouds.  (All of this, before the opening credits!) As she falls, the crystal around her neck sparkles to life, and Sheeta literally floats down from the sky, landing safely into the arms of Pazu, a boy her own age who works as a miner.

When she stirs from unconsciousness, Sheeta learns that Pazu is an instant friend and eager to help her in any situation.  But the genial youth has a tragic burden on his shoulders:  his late father once discovered a mysterious floating island named “Laputa” and took a picture of it while astride an airship, but nobody except Pazu believes it exists.  As further proof, he shows Sheeta a book which contains further evidence of Laputa, including its people and supposed treasures.  (In the original Japanese version, this is, in fact, “Gulliver’s Travels” by Jonathan Swift, but in the English language version, it is simply his father’s journal.) He is eager to clear his father’s tarnished name by building an airplane to discover Laputa for himself.  Just then, however, the two find themselves on the run from Dola and her sky pirates (which include a trio of burly but not very smart or brutish “boys” who refer to Dola as “mom”, when the latter always chides them, “Call me Captain!”).  After a thrilling chase on a train chugging over a steep chasm, Pazu and Sheeta escape into the mines where they meet a kindly old man named Uncle Pom, who “speaks” to the rocks underground—he tells them that Sheeta’s crystal is a long forgotten mineral (volucite in the original, aetherium in the English version) that was used to empower the island of Laputa.  If Sheeta’s crystal is misused, he warns, the world will suffer great unhappiness.  Pazu and Sheeta set off again, only to be captured by military soldiers under the command of the shady Colonel Muska, who, it turns out, is also interested in Sheeta’s crystal and will stop at nothing to unlock its darkest secrets.  In a surprising turn of events, Pazu is sent back home, where he finds Dola and her gang; these guys transition into true allies as they help Pazu rescue Sheeta and set off in search of Laputa before Muska does.

It’s not hard to guess how the story is going to turn out, but Miyazaki nonetheless manages to cram in enough interesting plot points, depth, and momentum to keep audiences interested for two full hours.  Part of this aspires to how he designs the world of Castle in the Sky.  Aside from settings underground, above ground, and, well, above the clouds, the artwork is rich with detail and imagination.  From Pazu’s simplistic hometown to the haunting caverns with shimmering rocks, from the dreary interiors of the army’s stronghold to the titular structure itself, everything is as fully realized and gorgeously rendered as any of Miyazaki’s other worlds.  Contrasting the primitive settings are the technological marvels that are very reminiscent of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.  There are airships (from the ominously powerful, zeppelin-like Goliath that the army provides, and a much more run-down, comical craft called Tiger Moth), dragon-fly shaped flight-crafts called “flapters”, trains, and robots.  Yep, robots.  But don’t worry, these robots are not the kind of shapeshifting, bulky, heavily armored giants one would expect to see from, say, Transformers, but rather, they are more simplistic in design.  These robots are extremely powerful and can decimate anything with massive laser blasts, but at heart, they are gentle creatures who only serve to look out for remnants of the citizens of its home country.

Speaking of which, Miyazaki’s love for nature is also highlighted in this film:  in the latter half of the story, when our protagonists finally find Laputa, the wonders it holds are similarly fascinating.  At its heart–a grassy garden with beautiful plants, and a gargantuan tree serving as its center.  The only creatures who dwell there are the aforementioned robots as well as birds and little animals (in fact, the robots who protect the garden seem to be especially fond of the creatures).  In what may also be an amusing bonus, fox-squirrels from Nausicaa (probably Teto’s cousins) make a cameo appearance in this very scene.

Adding to the charm are the characters which populate this tale; Dola, in particular, is arguably the most memorable of the cast.  An initially gruff and bossy elder, mainly driven by greed, is actually softhearted (however hard she tries to show otherwise), and it is endearing to see her gradually transition from a potentially villainous character to a true ally.  (This is a common trait of most Miyazaki films.)  She provides for the funniest moments in the picture, as do her boys, the brash but shy Louie, burly Charles (Shalulu), and freckle-faced Henri.  One particularly hilarious scene involves a street brawl between the pirate boys and Pazu’s boss, in which both men compare their muscles before rushing into a punching match (this can be seen as a somewhat “cartoonish” moment in the film, but not at all to its detriment).  In another, all three become fascinated with the sweet-natured Sheeta, requesting her to bake desserts and even resorting to helping her out in the gully… or rather, competing to do so.  Muska also deserves mention, mainly because he serves as the major antagonist of the film.  Most Miyazaki features are often devoid of a villain with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, and that’s what makes Muska stand out—he is obsessed with power and is simply evil personified.  He’s manipulative, smooth, sly, and dangerously treacherous—when Muska unveils his true colors, he becomes totally psychopathic and ruthless.  Like Dola, he commands every scene he’s in with a deliciously villainous aura and is all the more memorable for it.  Even the supporting characters, from the kindly Uncle Pom, to the army soldiers (including their easily exasperated but not very intelligent General), Pazu’s boss, and even the high-pitched little girl who chases a pig out of a house are all memorably defined.  In fact, the supporting cast is so strong that the lead characters, Pazu and Sheeta, may seem like the least interesting characters in comparison.  They’re likeable, skillful, and loyal, and develop a very nice relationship.  But that’s really all they really are.  That said, it really is not a deal-breaker—and other than that, both are very much worth rooting for.  (It is also to Miyazaki’s credit that, even though Sheeta does have to be rescued, she still manages to show some backbone.)

Viewers spoiled by the more lavish, flashy backgrounds found in Princess Mononoke and Spirited Away may find the visuals in Castle in the Sky somewhat dated, as the film was, after all, animated more than twenty five years ago.  As such, there are some places in which the animation comes across as a bit limited.  Frankly, however, compared to many other films produced in this era, the actual artwork is phenomenal, the character designs are classic Miyazaki, and every frame is lovingly crafted with skill, detail, and wonder.  The animation is all the more spectacular during the action set pieces of the film, which are every bit as exciting and thrilling as a George Lucas/Steven Spielberg blockbuster… perhaps even more so.

The major attraction to Castle in the Sky, however, is in its musical score, as provided by Joe Hisaishi.  The main theme for the title structure is haunting and melancholy, and the rest of the pieces have a distinctively beautiful style that the composer has become synonymous for.  Every note of this score enhances the images onscreen and inject the overall tale with a quality that goes above and beyond its requirements.  Interestingly, the score has also become a major source of debate for many fans of the film.  The original Japanese version has a rather sparse approach to its music, totally contributing to about 45 minutes of the overall film.  It’s also obvious that the score was produced electronically, as there are certain cues that come across as somewhat dated in their gratingly synthy nature.  In the Disney-produced English version, Joe Hisaishi was commissioned to extend and rework his score for a full performance with a symphony orchestra.  A lot of purists have detested this new score vehemently, declaring that it only succeeds in destroying the film, yet anyone unfamiliar with the original score won’t even notice.  But it ultimately doesn’t matter whether this new score was composed to appeal to audiences uncomfortable with lengthy periods of silence (as one executive declared), or if it was a case of Hisaishi trying to improve his work.  What really counts, is that the new score is simply phenomenal; the tunes are every bit as vibrant, and the crisply recorded quality of the orchestra lends a very fresh, epic tone to Castle in the Sky.  There are many scenes in the film which are arguably much more powerful with the new score, particularly an initially acapella choir piece at the end of the picture (which is abruptly cut short); in this new version the orchestra gradually crescendos as the piece reaches its climax.  It’s the sort of music that would make John Williams blush.

Longtime Anime buffs may notice that this film bares a strange resemblance to Gainax’s Nadia:  The Secret of Blue Water, in which the characters and storyline share a similar formula.  As charming as that series is, though, it suffered from taking a complete 180 degree turn at its midway point, turning into something unbearable and mind-numbing.  (In all fairness, though, the show does end with a bang.)  Castle in the Sky, meanwhile, remains more consistent in its flow and never once derails into campy nonsense (as mentioned, there are some cartoonish parts to this tale, but not exaggeratedly so), and it’s arguably all the better because of it.

All in all, Castle in the Sky is a mesmerizing, thrilling, funny, and ultimately delightful film that could very well be considered Miyazaki’s most accessible film.  Even if the plot is predictable, it is told with skill and manages to keep one intrigued.  Its characters are endearing, it looks great, even after all these years, and it is simply a lot of fun.  Be sure to put this film on your “must-see” list if you’re going to discover Miyazaki—it’s one of his best films ever, and I highly recommend it.

(There are two different English versions of Castle in the Sky; aside from Disney’s version, which was recorded in 1998 but delayed until 2003, there was an earlier dub distributed by Streamline.  There are a number of purists who have been harshly overcritical of the Disney version, with some firmly stating that this previous version is superior—mostly for not having the new music and having its leads sound less mature than the new version.  Personally, however, I think the Disney dub is fantastic, and easily surpasses the ‘80’s dub, which I found to be just plain bad and totally devoid of any life.  Although naturally, with a cast that involves Mark Hamill and Cloris Leachman, you can’t go wrong.  Read all about it in my article for The Dub Reviewer

Atsuya Uki’s Cencoroll is more or less a film constructed entirely by the author himself. Stemming from a one-shot manga by the name of Amon Game—and with the backing of anime Distribution Company Aniplex—Uki was responsible for directing, animating, writing and designing the film solely on his own. Uki’s transition from his original source material to an animated mini-film showcases the broad and creative talent behind both the creation of the manga and film. It takes tremendous time and talent to turn one’s own vision into an animated reality, and Uki has been successful in accomplishing not only that, but also in the finalize product itself.

What’s so impressive about Cencoroll as an animated film is that it’s so bizarre on a variety of levels. The usage of creative measures are showcased abundantly within in the film—from the strangely plump and dull looking creatures known as Cenco’s, to the rather outlandish duels that take place between them, Cencoroll truly transports the viewer into a realm of abnormal and eccentric circumstances. This bizarreness doesn’t distract from the film though but only reinforces stylistically what the film is striving for in terms of conveying its otherworldly presentation. The animation is crisp, vibrant and distinctive and establishes the tone of the film from the very beginning.

One thing to mention is the incredible transformation sequences that the Cenco’s perform throughout the film. The fluidity of such scenes really shows the technical prowess that Uki has for understanding the amorphousness nature of his creature designs. This prowess is showcased primarily within the battle sequences, which are a treat to watch not only for their creativeness, but also for their exhilarating tempo. While not many battles are showcased due to time constraints, the few that are shown is what makes the film stand out as a prime example of the quality of animation.

And while visually stimulating, one begins to wonder where the actual substance of the story is to be found. Since this film is based entirely on a one-shot manga, the story is considerably lacking for the most part. This should be expected, and to suspect otherwise would be a great disappointment. The film feels almost like a teaser for something bigger, detailed and more realized—an ode for what’s to come. The scope presented showcases a beautiful and imaginative world that is just teeming with technical brilliance, but at what depth? We really only get a glimpse at what Uki has to offer in terms of visual flare, with not enough time to fully engage with the world through story. This is obviously a hindrance to the overall film, but the animation seemingly makes up for it.

As for the characters, we first have Tetsu—the surprisingly relaxed protagonist of the film. He pretty much brings an air of confidence when necessary, especially during the confrontational segments. We then have Yuki—played by voice actress Kana Hanazawa. While known primarily for her Moe voice roles, Kana does an exceptional job as the inquisitive Yuki. Yuki unexpectedly gets caught up in a battle between Tetsu and our next character—Shu, all the while gaining extraordinary powers herself. Viewed as the antagonist of the film, Shu literally appears out of nowhere to cause havoc and destruction in pursuit of attaining Tetsu’s Cenco. While relentless, Shu brings a rather obnoxious sense of cockiness to the film, which I found to effectively counterbalance Tetsu’s rather intrepid mannerisms—which makes for some interesting confrontations. Considering that the film is only 30-mintues in length, they were intriguing to say the least, but more time would’ve been appreciated towards development.

Quite similar to the background of another successful up-and-coming director by the name of Makoto Shinkai, Atsuya Uki has presented a surprisingly detailed and involving world with Cencoroll. The most tragic realization one will inevitably come to after viewing the film is that there isn’t another film or series planned at the moment, but we can always hope. For all it’s worth, Cencoroll is still a visionary film from a rather talented and promising new director. I believe we need more films and series like Cencoroll, not entirely in the sense of the weirdness it offers, but more so in the spirit of elevating the exploration of what anime can offer in terms of creativity. While the ideas shown in the film have been done before, it most certainly expresses them in a most unique way. Here’s hoping that Atsuya Uki has a promising future ahead of him—he most definitely deserves a chance.

As a director, Makoto Shinkai has found quite the success within a relatively short period of time within the field of animation. With two impressive films already under his belt—works that include the visually stunning The Place Promise in Our Early Days (2004) and 5 Centimeter Per Second (2007)—he has already been labeled by various critics as the “Next Miyazaki”. Quite a strong appraisal for sure, given that he has written and directed only three feature-length films and several short films and television segments. Compare this to Miyazaki’s rather outstanding and impactful breadth of past works, and you can see that while the comparison can be made—and even justifiable to some capacity—the fact remains that Shinkai simply doesn’t have the work behind him to elicit such a comparison. Couple this with Shinkai’s adherence towards not truly implementing different thematic qualities in his films, and you can see that his growth as a writer and director has become somewhat fixated on one particular genre—that of romance—without venturing towards exploring a more broad appeal within his works. With Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below, it is apparent that Shinkai is aiming to establish that crossover appeal, bringing about a film that may alienate fans of his previous works, but also garner him respect for his willingness to widen his creative sphere as a director.

It would be wise to mention that Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below is unlike any of Shinkai’s past films. Expanding upon creating a more realized world than his previous works, the film imagines a breathtaking alternate world—known here as Agartha—that exists in the center of the Earth. With a worldly background quite reminiscent to Mesoamerican culture in its usage of mythology, attire, and architecture, the film is easily Shinkai’s most imaginative and creative setting as of yet. Always a strong point within his creations, the visual quality of the film is certainly it’s strongest attribute. From the lush country backdrops of Asuna’s home town, to the vast mountainous and rolling plains found in Agartha, the environments of Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below are some of the most impressive scenery viewed in an animated film for quite some time. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the film’s characters, many which aren’t particularly creative in their design. This has always been somewhat of a weak spot for Shinkai, where the locales of his films are considerably more elaborate in appearance than the character themselves. There are numerous characters throughout the film that are strikingly similar to the designs brought forth by Studio Ghibli, which may further comparisons between the two directors, not in the likes of creativity, but for Shinkai and character designer Takayo, Nishimura they would appear to be simply imitating the style of Miyazaki. Whether this stems from the facial features of the characters, to even the Quetzal Coatl creatures found within Agartha, the similarities are certainly visible and apparent. Perhaps if Shinkai pushed to retain more of his own visual styling in terms of the characters and creatures, the film would’ve been more distinctive in this sense, but the similarities don’t necessarily help the film to any degree. With his own stylistic touch and visual flair seen throughout the environments he creates, Shinkai should be subject towards improving the character design to the same degree, with Nishimura following suit.

Putting visuals aside though, the narrative of the film is also somewhat different in its approach. Those looking for significant traits of romance to be the focus of the film—a prominent aspect his past films—won’t see much of that here. This in itself may come as a surprise to some viewers expecting the film to be centered on romantic themes resulting in first crushes or loving embraces, traits that Shinkai has proven to be adept in portraying in the past. While some of these themes still find their way into the narrative, they certainly don’t take precedence over what is essentially a tale centered significantly on loss and the emotional costs it takes to overcome that loss. This is certainly a new direction for Shinkai, as it has the film dealing with a diverse range of genres that definitely expand the depth of his abilities as a director. As such, Shinkai is essentially exploring new ground within Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below, which in turn—as with anyone trying something new for the first time—showcases that he has some difficulty with the material at hand. While there are sporadic moments of familiarity to Shinkai’s previous works showcased towards the beginning of the film, once the film enters the world of Agartha, it exceedingly becomes a rather uneven combination of action segments and dramatic interventions. This approach does indeed break away from Shinkai’s conventional directorial style, but it also shows his shortcomings as a writer to fully develop such an expansive narrative as the one seen within the film—and the various genres that coincide with it. Given the scope of the film’s story, the film’s central theme seems to be that of loss and dealing with the ramifications of that loss. As most of Shinkai’s previous films focused on the act of separating from a loved one in some capacity, he approaches Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below from a different perspective, this time focusing specifically on the aftermath of losing that special individual. This is where he does excel at as writer—perhaps due to it being familiar territory for him—bringing about a rather truthful reflection upon such a saddening issue. While this thematic quality of the film is present throughout, it appears most prominently at the film’s conclusion, which provides the film with an emotional backing that is unfortunately quickly concluded.

Given that this was a considerable task for Shinkai and studio CoMix Wave—it was their most expensive undertaking yet, which should be duly noted—one should view the film simply as a preview to Shinkai’s considerable potential as a director more so than being a film that can stand alongside his stunning previous works. The ambitious nature of the film doesn’t particularly play well to Shinkai’s strengths, but it does allow him to test the waters surrounding such ambitious narratives, hopefully further developing his talent in the future. If more effort were implemented towards expanding the intricate and universal theme of loss, the film would’ve easily been viewed as a significant step in improving upon its rather superficial premise. While fans of his previous works will certainly find the film as a great departure from many of the elements that made him famous, one can see the imaginative process and effort that are necessary components for growth as a director. Perhaps if the writing was cleaned up, the story would have been much, much intriguing to follow, but this doesn’t deny the film from being an extraordinary visual treat for viewers old and new alike. While certainly flawed in many ways, Children Who Chase Lost Voices from Deep Below still remains a very visionary and expressive film that should appeal to those viewers outside the range of Shinkai’s previous works, even if it is hindered to some extent by its unoriginal plot.

From reading the synopsis of Code Geass, one can assume it consists entirely of a struggle between two absolute causes—in this case the Japanese and the Britannians. This initial outlook of the show would be detrimental because Code Geass provides not only an insightful look into the struggle for national independence, but also for the conflicting ideals that the individuals within the series face in how to approach such a situation, whether they be for it, against it or in the middle of the spectrum. Surprisingly, Code Geass is a very politicized show, not only for its realistic portrayal of an imperial presence over a nation—in which the dominant class ruthlessly suppresses the aboriginal inhabitants—but also in how it showcases the tremendous calculation and effort that promotes the advantageous nature when such fertile ground for a revolution comes to fruition.

The main protagonist of the show is Lelouch, a character that offers a solution to the suppressed people of Japan to help them gain their freedom. Of course, the plan he has devised doesn’t entirely go as planned, and he has to constantly recalculate his next move in order to take into account unforeseen consequences. The idealistic views that Lelouch holds in the beginning of the series are slowly transformed towards the latter half of the show to that of him becoming somewhat of a realist. This is where the beauty of Code Geass derives from. We begin to see his actions as questionable, not because he personally agrees with the performed actions, but because he knows that they are necessary in order to arrive at his proposed goal. When he is labeled a terrorist by the Britannians towards the beginning of the series, it’s blatantly apparent its just propaganda put forth by the imperial ruling class. What makes the show all the more interesting is that, due to unwarranted circumstances imposed upon him, Lelouch has to actually resort to terroristic measures to get his point across at times. This is just one of the many fine examples of the debatable responses established by the series.

We also discover that starting a revolution is not as easy as it sounds, even more so when there are various factions all vying for a piece of that revolution. Which brings me to another strong point of the series—the supporting cast. What amazes me about this show is that not only do the supporting characters have widely differing views on the current political climate that exists within their world, but that characters who you would consider to be within the same political sphere might oppose one another in terms of how one should address a problem. This paradox is effectively examined within the characters of Lelouch and Suzaku; both who want to bring justice to the world, but just happen to be on the opposite sides in administrating it. This allows the show to convey the realism that is warranted when handling such mature subject material addressed within the plot.

And with all the good things to say about Code Geass, there were some things that irked me when I watched the show. For one, there were some instances in the show that placed too much of an emphasis on minor characters that didn’t really go anywhere. Development-wise, more time could’ve been spent on addressing the main characters of the show. Secondly, and this is a direct result of the first point, is that some of the supporting characters are given little to no background regarding their motivation. Why do certain characters think that way? Why does one group believe that ideology? Why does a character continue to follow that path?

These are questions that I began to ask myself when watching the show, but they are not too much of a factor to consider in terms of understanding the overall plot. Lastly, the juxtaposition between the struggle for independence and certain filler episodes were quite stark to say the least. The story is essentially segmented into arcs, which allows for plenty of action and plot development, but also for some downtime in between major arcs. Not to say the pacing is bad, it’s probably some of the best pacing I’ve seen for awhile in a 25 episode anime series, but I felt the filler episodes could’ve been better constructed in regards to the overall presentation of the plot.

With animation done by Sunrise and character designs by CLAMP, I must say that the art style of Code Geass is very unique. Like all CLAMP designs, the characters are exceptionally tall and skinny, which might turn off some viewers, but they are still all thoughtfully designed. The same goes for the mechanical designs, which lends themselves to some very interesting set pieces that involve them. Concerning the sound of Code Geass, Hitomi Kuroishi and Kotaro Nakagawa composed the music, and I must say it’s excellent. While utilizing many of the same pieces throughout many of the episodes, I felt the dramatic atmosphere of the music really played well with the show.

Overall, I must say that I really enjoyed Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion. I found it to be very fulfilling as an anime show that essentially contains everything that makes anime what it is. Coupled with drama, action, suspense, and romance, Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion should reach a broad demographic of people who enjoy any of the above-mentioned genres, and the show doesn’t attempt to allow one to overtake the other. It’s one of those particularly special cases in anime in which its popularity is well earned, and it’s a great introductory series to showcase the cultivation of what anime can offer.

Stemming from the novel by Eto Mori, Colorful is a film the explores the concept of death and how it not only affects the individual, but also those that surrounded them. It’s quite fitting then to have the story begin with a young teenager named Makoto who has just committed suicide, and our unknown protagonist—viewed as a amnesiac spirit—having the opportunity to live again through the Makoto’s disastrous actions. What soon develops is a story that intently looks at the theological philosophy of “rebirth” and the remedying of mistakes made in a prior existence. Since Buddhism within Japan is prevalent, the notion of rebirth is often times used as a metaphoric extension that suggests traits being carried over into a new body. There is a cycle of life and death that is particularly important within Japanese Buddhism and where Colorful gains considerable ground as an examination of the afterlife—even it is met with lighthearted flair.

But Colorful is also a film that delegates much time to look into the spiritual ramifications of suicide on the individual, peers and family. Part of the film’s focus is exploring how the characters that were within Makoto’s life before he committed suicide are viewed and judged by the amnesiac spirit that presently accompanies his body. What we soon discover are the numerous factors that led to his suicide, with the amnesiac spirit beginning to see and experience the factors that led to Makoto to make such a decision. Since suicide within Japan has been a significant problem for the last 20 years, the film selectively chooses to look at how such a dire result can stem from bullying and emotional deviancy within the life of teenager. Remaining socially relevant this way, Colorful gives us a portrait into how the many hardships that the youth within Japan face can ultimately lead to unfortunate circumstances.

With the concept of a youth committing suicide remaining at the forefront of the narrative, the film also gives us a look into how such an action can have an effect on people that knew the person as well. Since suicide is often strictly associated with the individual that performed it, Colorful asks us to see the actions that had led the person we know as Makoto to commit suicide in the first place as somewhat common. We see the culmination of events that led to Makoto’s untimely demise and how the people around him influenced his decision. This is particularly showcased through the likes of his family, all who had contributed to Makoto’s suicide, even if they didn’t intend too. With Makoto being revitalized through the implant of the film’s amnesiac protagonist, we begin to see how his miraculous return brings the family slowly back together and to reach out to each other in ways unlike before. In fact, the film shows just how much the people around a Makoto can change for the better given his return to life. This further extends to Makoto’s peers as well, each who holds a dark secret that Makoto must discover. It’s these spiritual tests that provide the film with a great insight into how perceive our own life.

In this regard, Colorful is not an easy film to digest. In many respects this is what makes it most appealing. Dealing with difficult subjects such as death, suicide and the afterlife are often met with much difficulty within the realm of animation, but Colorful maturely handles these subjects with ease and believability. As the narrative slowly unveils the reasons for Makoto’s unfortunate demise, the film becomes an emotional recollection of love, loss and regret. Director Keiichi Hara—most known for his work on Crayon Shin-chan—vividly conveys this agony in the subtlest of ways. Filled with tense arguments and emotional confrontations, Colorful is presented with a sense of realism that coincides with its supernatural premise.

Considering the foundation of the film is constructed around the spiritual essence of the soul, the film primarily focuses on the interactions of its characters. This is where the film could potentially become a problem for some viewers. Those expecting to see the same supernatural experiences prominently viewed in the beginning of the film to stay consistent throughout will be sorely disappointed. Colorful is more akin to a live-action film in pacing than most animated feature films, so while displays of the extraordinary may sporadically appear throughout, its focus remains on the normality of life and how precious that aspect truly is. The film meticulously examines the intricacies of Makoto’s day-to-day life—which may prove as a bore for some—but given the backdrop of the storyline, it also proves to be one of its strongest strengths. Considering that our unknown protagonist is given a second chance at life through the body of Makoto, realizing the importance of the minutest interactions is crucial towards us sympathizing with the character’s overall dilemma.

The visuals of Colorful are on par with the name of the film as well. Similar to the work of Makoto Shinkai, Colorful beautifully reflects the true-to-life environments in which it so accurately portrays. This further leads into the realism the film presents—save for the spiritual realm, which is represented purely as an otherworldly place devoid of any emotion. With such vivid environments we can view the cast of characters in a more realistic light and consider that they live in world as authentic as our very own.

It would suffice to say that Colorful is a film that appropriately reflects the fragility of life. Offering up an acute examination of the possibility of a second chance to correct ill-conceived decisions of the past, the film certainly provides some plausibility considering its supernatural premise. It’s this correlation between the two elements that makes the film surprisingly enlightening, as it is entertaining. There is an underlying context within Colorful that once revealed, easily transforms the film into an emotionally riveting journey that solidifies its plot as of one spiritual relevance and importance. The film highly succeeds in this regard, becoming a quiet observation on how we view and appreciate those around us, and most importantly, ourselves. This is where Colorful garners its most significant contribution towards the audience, providing an excellent exploration into how we should measure friendships, family and ourselves as momentous aspects that culminate into what we know as life.

The year is 2071 AD. The future is now. Driven out of their terrestrial eden, humanity chose the stars as the final frontier. With the section-by-section collapse of the former nations, a mixed jumble of races and people came. They spread to the stars, taking with them the now confused concepts of freedom, violence, illegality and love, where new rules and a new generation of outlaws came into being. People referred to them as Cowboy Bebops. Spike Spiegel is bounty hunter looking for such people, and together with his partner Jet Black, traverse the known galaxy in search of the next bounty.

Cowboy Bebop is simply one of those animated series that might not appeal to people at first, but after the viewing initial episode, it will certainly come as a surprise at how creative it truly is. Seemingly playing homage to a variety of films, themes, and cultures, the series distinctly establishes itself outside the realm of conventional Japanese animation and instead chooses to forge its own path. With a setting within the realm of science fiction, the series wisely offers a world that seems entirely realistic considering our present time. Free from many of the elements that accompany science fiction in general—whether that be space aliens, giant robots, or laser guns—the series delegates itself towards presenting a world that is quite similar to our own albeit showcasing some technological advances. Certainly not as pristine a future we would see in other series or films, Cowboy Bebop decides to deliver a future that closely reflects that of our own time. This aspect of familiarity does wonders in terms of relating to the viewer, and it presents a world that certainly resembles our very own. Going even further, the series presents a vision of multiculturalism concerning the future. With the rapid growth of globalization within our own time, its fitting see this implemented into the series that came out in 1998, which is often an element rarely seen within many animated series during that era.

This is what the series does fantastically well. Reinventing all the genres it incorporates is not something you see every day, but Cowboy Bebop does it well—for the most part. Considering that the series is as broad as it is, the episodic nature of the show might discourage some viewers due to its sporadic approach. This is certainly not bad per se, but within the context of absolute continuity, the series explores various genres within the confinement of individual episodes, which might be discouraging for some. Those looking for a strictly linear fashion of storytelling won’t certainly find it here, which presents somewhat of a dichotomy for viewers accustomed to such narrative structuring. While the episodes are quite sporadic in nature, the series does remain quite focused on its characters throughout their trials and tribulations. Even the self-contained episodes provide excellent viewing, mainly because they’re just as engrossing in enveloping the viewer further into the established world.

Besides the setting, what truly stands out within Cowboy Bebop is the characters. Rather seemingly archetypes throughout the initial episodes, as the series steadily progresses we find these characters developing into individuals with depth and immense background. With each main character being distinctive in appearance, their history and personality is just as robust. Viewed all as individuals with a past, the characters all deviate from their initial archetypical nature established in the beginning into something entirely refreshing unto itself. Whether it’s painful memories of a forgone love or trying to regain one’s own memory, the series delegates much time towards the emotional journey the characters undertake to sort out their perplexing past. The story showcases these characters as real people attempting to deal with their past, and it remains a consistently engaging element of the show. Consider the character of Spike for example, a bounty hunter trying to outrun a dark criminal past that’s slowing catching up to him. Spike knows the inevitable, but his determination to rid himself of the wrongs he committed in the past makes for exceptional viewing. No only does he—as well as practically every other character in the show—grow throughout the series, but we begin to notice them as individuals all attempting to deal with their rather complicated histories and inner turmoil. These characters all share some sort of internal confliction, which ultimately allows the series to break away from the stereotypical character development often viewed in other series or films.

On a side note, Shinichirō Watanabe and company seemingly pay homage to the 1970’s animated series Lupin the 3^rd with their construction of Spike, Jet, and Faye. Sharing similar visual attributes with Lupin’s Fujiko, Jigen, and Lupin himself, the series also shares many elements found within Lupin as well—grandiose action sequences, humor, and a shared rivalry between the cast. While quite similar in many respects, Cowboy Bebop does away with solely focusing on the characters in a humorous light, instead choosing to develop them further as emotionally involved individuals. In essence, the series might appear to be a visual ode to Lupin, but the similarities between the two diverge greatly as the series progresses, effectively establishing Cowboy Bebop in its own terms.

Regardless of this, the show still presents a plethora of changes concerning it tone. With episodes consisting of humor, violence, battles, drama and horror, the series expertly transfers from one genre to the other all the while weaving an intricate tale. It’s this variety that I feel provides the series its greatest strength and most certainly contributes to its substantial popularity. This is essentially a series that offers little bit of everything to every viewer and does a superb job of it. Because of this—and this is certainly par for the course—the series narrows down its main focus onto Spike in its latter half. While the wide cast still retains their moments during this period, the series coincidentally suffers from being somewhat contrived within the space of the few remaining episodes it has left. Spike’s past, while explored tremendously throughout the course of the series, gets concluded rather expeditiously towards this segment of the show. While we learn a portion of Spike’s criminal involving past, the concluding episodes seem somewhat rushed in an attempt to wrap things up. Certainly more time should have been dedicated towards fleshing this portion out—whether that would’ve been more episodes or allotment of time—but this is just a minor quibble considering the splendid narrative of the series.

Another facet of series that excelled immensely was that of the music, composed by Yoko Kanno and her band The Seatbelts. Always one to push the boundaries of music, Kanno delivers an exceptional soundtrack that is as varied as the series itself. The music is essential towards establishing the mood of the series, which it does to such a high degree—it easily becomes a welcomed extension of the series itself. From blues, country, jazz, rock, and even classical, the music certainly reflects each episode in its own capacity. It’s also interesting to note that a majority of the episode titles reflect that of a musical style—certainly a creative way to provide some foresight into what the episode will entail. Consisting primarily of the musical genre of jazz though, the soundtrack is certainly appealing in its wide breadth of musical compositions. In this regard, the soundtrack stands separate from many of the pop-infused scores viewed in animated series of that day. From the initial jazz-fueled opening theme, all the way to its soulful closing, the music within Cowboy Bebop is perhaps its most notable element. This is great considering that the soundtrack can be easily listened to as stand-alone music separate from that of the television series, which certainly showcases the resonating beauty of it.

Cowboy Bebop presents a huge leap in what Japanese animation can offer in terms of presentation. Its culmination of themes is simply astounding, and it’s a series filled with an imaginative style that permeates throughout its course. The series certainly has style, but also contains substance to go alongside of it—even it is somewhat jumbled at times. Regardless of this, the production of the show—from its music to its animation—is simply impeccable to the say the least. Watanabe and Sunrise did a fantastic job of presenting a uniquely crafted series that is as creative as it made itself out to be, all the while expanding the creative scope of what animation can offer. It should come at no surprise then why this series has garnered the success it has—it simply delivered something different. This rich vision has presented Cowboy Bebop as a series that can’t really be duplicated, but most certainly admired. While Shinichirō Watanabe and Sunrise would go onto to produce another unique take on Japanese animation with the Edo period series Samurai Champloo (2004), this series is considered one of the prominent catalyst in furthering the impact of Japanese animation within the Western world. A gateway series for its broad appeal in almost every aspect, Cowboy Bebop is simply a series that presents deep characters, a multi-layered storyline, and fantastic music. It’s one of the prime examples showcasing that Japanese animation can obtain universal appeal—with Cowboy Bebop certainly being a series that showcases this with immense ease.

Stemming from the manga series of the same name by Jinsei Kataoka and Kazuma Kondou, Deadman Wonderland offers a look into a merciless future where murderous impulse, sadistic pleasures and destructive mayhem pass as entertainment to the ailing public masses. It’s through this madness that Deadman Wonderland works effectively well as a portaitof a society that has certainly decayed to the point of moral detachment, let alone being removed from subscribing to actions of moral obedience completely. The series also look at the corporatization of the prison-industrial complex—in this case, to the point of monopolization—where profiteering from the misfortunes of its prisoners is deemed as a way to improve the progress of a nation’s recovery effort. Offering social satire on the inevitable corruption and immorality that stem from unchecked systems of authoritative power within this environment, the series looks at just how perverse a society can become given the right motivations and propaganda behind it. Perhaps more appropriately noticeable is the clear use of a Darwinist model to convey the dire consequences of the situation elaborated upon in the series. Given that setting of Deadman Wonderland taking place within a prison, a certain subculture arises where the strong truly do dominant over the weak and how external forces manipulate this model for their own advances. This can certainly be seen within the likes of the protagonist Ganta—a young boy wrongly accused of mass murder and essentially made to defend himself against the onslaught of the other prisoners and prison staff. Perhaps more akin to Japanese author Koushun Takami’s 1999 novel Battle Royale, Deadman Wonderland looks at the depravity of social order in order to teach people how to behave properly.

But what starts out as keen social satire though ultimately diminishes into the area of the supernatural as the series progresses. While this certainly was expected given the nature of the beginning of the series—in which Ganta’s classmates are brutally murdered by a being known only as “Red Man”—once increased elements of the supernatural are introduced into the plot, they essentially overcome and end any sense of satire that was initially present in the series. What once provided a strikingly dark, realistic and in many cases plausible tone to the narrative is sorely missed as the series re-establishes itself on fierce and violent confrontations with individuals who showcase unnatural abilities and strengths. This might be fine for some viewers, but given the premise established in the beginning of the series—where we find Ganta just struggling to survive against crushing odds and somehow prove his innocence in an setting quite foreign to him—to see that aspect of the series be diminished was rather disheartening to say the least. I wanted to learn more about the world of Deadman Wonderland—its history, its characters and even the Deadman Wonderland prison itself. While the world of Deadman Wonderland does indeed begin to grow throughout the series, especially with its sizable amount of characters steadily being introduced throughout, one begins to ponder if the series will end well considering the ever-expansive narrative. This is exactly where the main problem of Deadman Wonderland lies—at a mere twelve episodes in length, the series never truly gains any significant closure.

Given the nature of the manga releases—which at the conclusion of the anime series has yet to be completed—Deadman Wonderland feels entirely too truncated for its own good. With the manga series not even completed, the anime series leaves a lot to be desired and its conclusion does not effectively resolve many issues that were made out to be of considerable importance during the series. While key elements were established throughout the course of the twelve episodes, it never fully feels resolves them considering the allotted time to elaborate on its story. This severely underplays the scope established by the series early on, instead resorting to leaving the viewer constantly out in the dark if they’re not familiar within the original manga in any capacity. Proposing the standpoint of a viewer who hasn’t read the manga series up to this point, character development will seem extremely lacking within the anime series whereas in the manga it’s plentiful. This is simply one of those unfortunate circumstances where an animation company has a great—albeit unfinished—source to work with but can’t successfully figure out a way to draw it to a fulfilling end that doesn’t solely rely on the original source material for inspiration. Many anime series have fallen into this dilemma before, so it would appear to be a rather normal occurrence when dealing with anime series derived from manga, but its rather discouraging to see such a fantastic premise gone to the wayside. Not to say all anime series originating from unfinished manga turn out to be disappointing—the anime Fullmetal Alchemist (2003) proves otherwise—but the potential for Deadman Wonderland to be a truly extraordinary series is rather diminished because of these directorial choices.

Of course, all these problems could easily be redeemable if the series is given a second season. From where it currently stands, Deadman Wonderland is a series that has a very interesting and creative premise not often seen in other anime series. With the showcasing of absolute brutality and bloodshed consistently throughout the series, Deadman Wonderland is not for the faint of heart, which may turn off some viewers but elicit praise from others. It’s most certainly one of the most violent and controversial series to come along in awhile, but acting as a spectacle of death, carnage and torture can only get you so far. While the satire may not be as prevalent as one would hope for, it’s still visible in segments throughout the series. I was certainly hoping for the series to continue along this direction, but implementing elements of the supernatural does indeed make for some imaginative albeit hollow action sequences. With ferocious battles and villainous characters, the series is most certainly an exhibition of a cruel world where survival of the fittest is not simply an understatement—it’s the absolute truth. Ultimately, Deadman Wonderland is a series that had all the right components to make a successful transfer from the pages of manga to the animated screen, but sadly stumbles in attempting to reach its full potential. Regardless of these setbacks, Deadman Wonderland does remain an adequate companion piece to its manga counterpart—hopefully a second season can come in the near future to fulfill the scope offered by its source material.

From the very first episode, Eden of the East sets out to absorb the viewer into a world of mystery, intrigue, and creative endeavors. For a series that establishes such a high standard for itself through the use of its production values, it’s still able to provide an excellent opportunity to explore such relevant topics thematically surrounding a present day Japan—and in certain aspects, the world—within the confinement of its running time. Issues such as the NEET’s (Not in Employment, Education or Training), societal complacency in times of terrorism, and the abuse of absolute power are all current real-world dilemmas that lend Eden of the East an air of realism and relevancy towards the viewer. This background allows the show to ground itself amidst its plot’s many extraordinary devices and present a relatable atmosphere that doesn’t take itself entirely too serious. Considering that the show is humorous throughout many of its episodes, the series is still very dramatic in its portrayal of national and world events, never afraid to remind the viewer that throughout all the joyous escapades showcased within the series, there is a real world out there that must be acknowledged and taken into account for.

This is where I think Eden of the East succeeds greatly. The direction by Kenji Kamiyama (Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex) hits full stride here, and he brings about a vividly realized world that exists outside of the one that the main characters reside in. This is no small corner of the world in which the characters inhabit and interact solely between one another—quite the contrary. Eden of the East takes point to provide an encompassing tale that includes the entirety of the world in explaining its story—and how the characters influence it. The broad scope in which the story evolves increasingly becomes more suspenseful the further it progresses. With Kenji Kamiyama taking the helm, he is seemingly unafraid to try creative and unique things in order to explain a rather conventional story in the most unconventional fashion. An underling of Mamoru Oshii himself, Kamiyama establishes Eden of the East as a show unrecognizable in any form to that of an Oshii creation—from the look of the characters, through the fleshing out of their personalities through the use of humor, Kamiyama has definitely presented a series that allows him to stand out as his own personal creation, seemingly devoid of any influences from Oshii himself. This is not to say that influences from Oshii wouldn’t have helped, but it does give Kamiyama room to strive for a more mainstream appeal in terms of story presentation.

All these attributes allow Eden of the East to flourish as a creative series unlike many seen today, but the narrative does get somewhat flustered as the series arrives at its climax. For all the glamorous animation done by Production I.G. team, the series falters under its own ambitions. What we have here is a story that seems massive and engaging at first—and no doubt it appears to be just that—but soon befalls to some rather outlandish circumstances that underplay the original intent of the story. Bizarre and unexplained events transpire that make little to no sense whatsoever, character motivations are lazily explained and never to the extent that we fully understand them as a viewer, and absurd choices made by the characters throughout the series do little-to-nothing to make us care about their fates. This is compounded upon when you take into consideration the abundance of characters that the series introduces throughout—characters that aren’t exactly fleshed out as one would hope and really only serve as superficial devices towards advancing the plot.

These hindrances don’t necessarily dilute the function of the plot to be effectively entertaining, but it does showcase the extreme weaknesses that protrude for a series that is a mere 11 episodes. Considering the dynamic plot in relation to the amount of episodes, this eventually leads to the series showcasing perhaps one of the worse examples when attempting to effectively concluded a plot —it infers to the viewer in the final episode that they must now watch two films to conclude the story. This removes the possibility—and strength—for the series to stand out as a standalone show that could have held its own weight without the complementary addition of the films. While I don’t necessarily blame them considering the length of the series, it doesn’t help the overall appeal of the series to be considered nothing more than an introduction towards the films, and somewhat forces the viewers to now watch them in order to conclude the story. Not to perpetuate any bias against the future films—mainly because I haven’t seen them yet—but it just seems a little agitating to not have them provide at the very least a more conclusive ending to the television series before venturing into creating two films.

Despite many of these hindrances, Eden of the East still remains a fine example of how far Japanese animation series have come in terms of technical prowess. Removing many of the cliché elements showcased in other series, Eden of the East has managed to provide a distinctively rich tale that doesn’t attempt to follow the conventional route in exploring its story—instead diverging from that route in order to find new and creative ways to do so. Considering that one will still need to watch two films to complete the entirety of story, Eden of the East still has the opportunity to remedy many of the problems listed above and ultimately end the series on a solid note. If this can be done, then Eden of the East will be considered one of the best examples of what Japan has to offer in terms of animated projects. Until then, Eden of the East remains a series that is overly ambitious for its own good.