Yuya Ishii has become quite the peculiar director within the last several years, offering a series of offbeat comedic films that have led him to be one of the most distinctive Japanese directors to come about in some time. With such creative films as Sawako Decides (2010), To Walk Beside You (2010), and Girl Sparks (2008) already under his belt, Ishii has established himself as one willing to tackle and combine contemporary social issues with that of slight humor. This approach has infused his work with an unusual charm and identifiable presence, mainly due to his astute nature as a writer towards his own films. In perhaps one of Ishii’s most realized works to date, A Man With Style focuses upon the emotional impact that losing a prominent member of a family has on those left behind and the difficulty in moving on, all within the confinement of Ishii’s trademark odd humor, seemingly ordinary protagonists, and commonplace settings.

While Ishii’s previous films have been centered on the bizarre day-to-day routines and relationships of its characters, A Man With Style showcases a more serious tone concerning the intimate familial structure of three individuals, all whom face an inability to connect on an emotional level due to them experiencing a tragic loss. The film doesn’t view this loss as overtly sentimental in the slightest but rather as an unfortunate and real occurrence that everyone must eventually face—that of losing someone close to you, and in the film’s case, the family’s matriarch. The film focuses particularly on that of Junichi Miyata in regards to this tragedy, played here by the impressive Ken Mitsuishi. Giving a subdued but emotionally charged performance, Mitsuishi showcases his prowess as an actor in playing the role of a father completely out of touch with his own children and desperately attempting to find some reconciliation. With his newfound position as a single parent, we see Junichi as a man yearning for the past when life was happier—his children enthusiastically supporting him, his health good, and his wife still happily alive. In reality, what we see is a shattered man, but also one never willing to give up on supporting his family—even if it that feeling isn’t mutually shared by his children.

Ishii is keen to show how the family structure is considerably impaired when the mother is removed from it. The social readjusting that must occur is tremendous, with the role of the motherly caretaker being shifted to that of the father figure. In Japanese society, the roles of mother and father are often deemed separate in many ways, with not too much overlap being permissible or encouraged. The rippling effect that results from such a hierarchical shift is not only visibly seen in Junichi, but also that of his two children as well. Toshiya (Ryu Morioka) and Momoko (Jun Yoshinaga) are seen as individuals seemingly lost as to who they are after the passing of their mother, with their detached relationship with their father growing ever so wider. The two have become accustomed to a life of apathy and a clear lack of concern for their future academic careers—quite similar to their father’s initial predicament of getting ignorantly drunk to forget the pain. With this in mind, A Man With Style considers the difficulty in understanding pain and one’s attempts in dealing with it, whether this is seen in self exclusion from one’s own family or idleness in one’s own life, the film doesn’t deliver any simple solution in regards to overcoming such emotional obstacles. Ishii never situates these characters as ones easily removed from the past but rather constantly having to face it on a daily basis, which shows the genuine nature of the film’s narrative. The film’s honesty in conveying such hardships is where it succeeds in offering a portrait of a family tinged with seemingly inescapable memories of the past, an approach that makes their reconciliatory efforts all the more powerful to witness.

Ishii, a director who has effectively brought forth unique characters within each of his previous films, offers through A Man With Style a film that is deeply invested in the healing process of an entire family rather than singular characters. This novel approach establishes the film as a very heartfelt and challenging foray into issues such as death, familial bonds, and the uncertain future. Ishii has certainly shown growth as a director with these ideals, with his vision of delivering a damaged family succeeding in almost every way. While A Man With Style may not be as humorous as Ishii’s previous films, his charismatic appeal for finding elements of comedy in the most earnest of situations is still an ever present facet of the narrative. With a more extensive focus on the intricacies of the family unit in relation to loss, Ishii delegates most of the film towards the necessity of these characters to amend their kinship to one another. This garners the film a significantly more emotional take on the events that transpire over the course of its narrative, with A Man With Style being yet another shining example of the shrewd ability of Ishii as a director to elicit the downtrodden nature of his films with hope and a little bit of wittiness to go along with it.

Winner of the Japanese Academy Prize award for Picture of the Year and based on the novel by author Mitsuyo Kakuta, Rebirth addresses quite a difficult subject—that of child abduction. This is an issue that is often one riddled with hardship, abuse, and perhaps even death, but what happens if the child is safely returned after spending a substantial amount of time with their abductor? How do the emotional conflictions of the abductee’s family fare in their attempt to find some resolution? What does it mean for the abductee who spent their formulative years as a child with someone that isn’t really their mother, and how do they fit back into society once knowing this? Director Izuru Narushima’s Rebirth attempts to tackle these very difficult questions with considerable attention towards the personal and familial turmoil that arises from facing such challenges.

Heralded by a fantastic cast led by Mao Inoue and Hiromi Nagasaku, Rebirth is a film that views the psychological effects of child abduction in a way rarely viewed within cinema. It’s not a film that simply condones child abduction as a wrong—which it does still emphasize to a degree—but allows us to explore the reasons behind someone’s will to partake in such an act. Opening with a courtroom statement by the mother of the abductee, Etsuko Akiyama (Yoko Moriguchi), in which she addresses the concerns over the future of her relationship with recently discovered daughter Erina, we then see this juxtaposed with Kiwako Nonomiya’s (Hiromi Nagasaku) subsequent confessional that she has no regrets for what she did, the film conveys this sense of duality shared between these two “mothers”—one representing the biological and one the maternal. The film further elaborates on how this situation has affected family and friends as well, including that of Erina herself, played here by Mao Inoue in perhaps her most challenging and demanding role yet.

We see the personal issues that Erina faces from her abduction from the very outset of the film. Viewed as a detached, emotionally diminished individual that keeps a superficial relationship with that of her biological parents, Erina is seen as one avoiding becoming close with those around her. We slowly learn that her relationship with her mother Etsuko is particularly tragic, with the film intercutting between the past and present to showcase her strained bond with her. This is perhaps best viewed in a scene where a young Erina, having just recently been returned home, asks her mother if she can sing the “star song” to her—a song Erina learnt from Kiwako—in which Etsuko desperately attempts to do so but ends up sobbing in failure, to Erina refusing to acknowledge that her mother truly cares for her, the film offers up a character that is conflicted as to who she truly is as a daughter. As such, the film is much more a character study of the long-lasting effects that abduction has on an individual, viewed in Erina’s attempts to understand how her traumatic past as child correlates to her nature as an adult woman.

Equally as impressive is Hiromi Nagasaku’s portrayal of Kiwako, who we see as a fragile individual wanting to simply be a mother. The film could’ve easily portrayed her character as someone whom the audience would find distasteful given her involvement in abduction, but returning to the duality that the film presents in the form of motherhood, we slowly begin to sympathize with her plight as a woman unable to conceive a child on her own after a past experience with abortion. The film slowly begins to ease our initial impressions that Kiwako is a woman that should be readily punished for her actions, but we begin to see that perhaps she was more positively influential in Erina’s life than Etsuko ever was. Her relationship to the young Erina transcends her title of abductor, as we begin to view her as an important and thoughtful element of Erina’s early life, with the caring nature of a mother being visible through her strenuous dedication to the wellbeing of young Erina. The narrative parallels the past and the present as well in regards to Kiwako and Erina’s short lived but endearing relationship, with poignant moments shared between them reinforcing Erina’s decisions later as an adult.

The film showcases Kiwako’s raising of the young Erina as a tumultuous journey filled with loving tenderness and eventual heartbreak, as the film’s foregone conclusion is established from the opening moments of the film. We know that Kiwako and young Erina’s relationship isn’t one that will last for too long, which makes the impact of their severance all the more emotionally riveting and heartbreaking. But while the film may be focused upon their inevitable separation, it’s also about the life choices that adult Erina must face given the discovery of her past experiences as a child. The narrative slowly unveils how her brief time with Kiwako could drastically influence a significant event later in her life, even to the point of her facing the same misgivings as Kiwako experienced herself. This may appear as an unchallenging attempt to correlate Erina’s predicament with that of Kiwako’s, but the film never dares to become as melodramatic as its premise may easily lead one to believe. There is a sense of realism here; with Narushima depicting these wounded characters as lost amidst a distressing past that provides no rest for those unwilling to courageously confront it.

At its core, Rebirth is a well-crafted and honest narrative that doesn’t provide any simple solutions to the dilemmas these characters face. Interspersed throughout the lives of both Kiwako and Erina are equal moments of joy and sadness, but Narushima does an exceptional job of encapsulating the fleeting nature of their relationship. This honesty of confronting the past in order to understand one’s futures is where Rebirth shines as a powerful testament to motherhood and personal empowerment. Narushima is seemingly keen on delivering a tale that isn’t marred with overly dramatic relationships that hinge on the edges of reality, but garners an appreciable approach that conveys these characters as removed from being simple archetypical relationships and rather ones burgeoning with immense complexity. Through the powerful performances by Mao Inoue and Hiromi Nagasaku, and sensible direction by Izuru Narushima, Rebirth is a deeply touching and moving experience filled with heartache but also optimism towards the issues it addresses.

Stemming from the manga by author Sakae Esuno, Future Diary presents a darkly twisted tale of survival taking place in what is known as the Diary Game, a game where outwitting the other opponents is not just encouraged—it’s an absolute necessity to survive. Esuno paints this horrific landscape with considerable ease, bringing about the brutal nature of its characters and the devious intricacies of the game itself. With savage depictions of death and bodily destruction being showcased within Esuno’s manga, director Naoto Hosada handles the animated version of Future Diary in a considerably less impacting way visually, all the while staying true to the deranged atmosphere that the manga series is known for. Future Diary is not necessarily a series that is light in what it chooses to show; its issues are mature and frequently unapologetic in its presentation of lunacy in its most basic and revealing form. The series could’ve easily become a showcase for savage violence without much purpose, but Hosada follows closely to Esuno’s source material, drawing upon the psychological framework of its characters in promoting its narrative rather than absolute violence.

This is what makes the series thrilling to watch—with its abundance of insane and diverse characters, the series never really gets lethargic during its course as a show. The plot is constantly moving forward, providing an assortment of increasingly bizarre situations in which the characters find themselves struggling to survive within. The suspense that the series offers through each episode is encompassed by the simple fact that these characters are literally in a life or death struggle, with each of them having to make painful and often times barbaric choices in order to just survive another minute. The series doesn’t diminish this important aspect, promoting its causality for mere survival as a tangible element of the dangerous game these characters have been placed in. There is no moral judgment expressed by a majority of these characters, which really explores the lengths of insanity when it comes to judging at the actions of an individual. Most of the characters within the show convey some characteristic of being mentally disturbed—whether it stems from a horrific past incident or simply because they like to inflict pain—the series is one that looks extensively into the psychopathic faculties of its characters.

This is perhaps most appropriately seen within the character of Yuno. With her crazed love for Yukiteru remaining a constant presence within the show, she exhibits an absolutely frightful possessiveness over him—clearly residing within the framework of being mentally unstable, perhaps afflicted with borderline personality disorder. She manipulates, exerts violence, and even murders for the preservation of her relationship with Yukiteru, often times with a searing sense of glee to accompany her devious actions. Her partnership with Yukiteru remains an important element to the narrative, in which even Yukiteru falls upon manipulating Yuno to a degree as well—even though its mostly from the perspective of him simply wishing to appease her murderous appetite. Their contrasting pairing provides the series with some odd humor as well, as viewers will slowly begin to see just how destructive their relationship truly is. The series works in Yukiteru as the only relatively normal character within the show, which allows us to see just how strange the other characters are in relation to him. Considered a loner by his own accord, Yukiteru is viewed as an individual willing to showcase some moral clarity towards his actions in an environment that doesn’t necessarily advocate for it. We begin witnessing just how emotionally involving the game is, with Yukiteru conflicted over making the right choices with the overtly persistent nature of Yuno never leaving his side.

But with such a narrative that allows for and relies upon the rearrangement of events given the usage of prescient cellular phones, the outcomes it presents may appear to be contrived plot devices rather than plausible solutions. For example, the series frequently focuses upon the hopeless situations in which Yukiteru finds himself in only to miraculously allow for some unforeseen adjustment to the way the Diary Game is played in order to save him. Some of these resolutions just seem entirely too farfetched to be believable, with the better part of them being viewed as simply illogical excuses to get a character out of a dire situation. This even coincides with the likes of certain characters that exhibit superior intuition in order to escape from such dreadful circumstances—which doesn’t make the feasibility of their actions very conceivable. For a series where a multitude of character arcs are being showcased at any given time, Future Diary’s complex plot succeeds primarily through its clever execution—for the most part. The series somewhat struggles when its narrative adheres to the aforementioned plot resolutions, which may irritate some viewers looking for a more intelligent approach towards these inconveniences in its story. Besides this setback though, Future Diary’s narrative remains consistent in retaining a great sense of mystery surrounding the motivation of its characters as well as Yukiteru’s final outcome.

While Future Diary is definitely not a series for everyone—those not willing to venture into the dark recesses of humanity need not apply—the series does a fantastic job in following through on its unique premise. It’s a series that remains suspenseful all throughout every episode, offering an excess of viciously demented characters, a likeable protagonist, and an involving narrative regarding the manipulative needs of human beings. While the series isn’t nearly as violent as Esuno’s manga, Hosoda’s interpretation does adequately reflect upon the savagery that commences in the form of the Diary Game, a direction that should please readers of the manga series. This isn’t a pleasant game these individuals are participating in, and the series makes sure to elaborate on that element in a significant fashion. With a diverse range of characters that are seemingly accustomed to such cruelty, the series remains grounded through the distinctive relationship exhibited between Yuno and Yukiteru—mainly due to just how strangely unsettling it is at times. This element culminates in a series that is eerily humorous in moments but always aware of its solemn nature, resulting in Future Diary ultimately being a highly entertaining, uniquely executed, and horrifying view into the struggle for survival amidst a quest to become God.

Art comes to fruition through countless forms. Whether it’s viewed in a magnificent expressionist painting, a riveting classical music arrangement, or even a sculpture depicting the intricate nature of the human body, art is certainly visible all around us—even if we notice it or not. It is even expressed through one of our most basic necessities as human beings—that of food. Like any other form of art, food can be explicitly thrown together without much care or handled with the utmost attention to detail, resulting in something that is truly special to not only to the individual partaking in eating the dish, but also the dish’s creator as well. Director David Gelb’s film Jiro Dreams of Sushi—with this being his directorial debut—tells a delightful tale of one such creator and his legacy, focusing on the careful crafting of one of Japan’s most famous dishes, sushi.

Those familiar with the Japanese notion of shibui know that simplicity devoid of unnecessary elements is highly valued within traditional Japanese culture. Whether this is viewed in art, décor, and pertaining to this film, the considerable variety of sushi, the formal etiquette that coincides with such food is viewed in a minimalistic, clean, and often times geometric fashion. Working as a documentary on the life of legendary sushi chef Jiro Ono, the film follows Jiro’ delicate preparatory routines and his intricate but simplistic views on sushi and life itself. There is artistry to making sushi, with Jiro representing it as not simply a job for him, but an extension of himself at the very core of his being. To Jiro, creating sushi takes a lifetime of experience—with the film mentioning that his apprentices spend roughly 10 years just learning to prepare the basic ingredients for sushi dishes before they actually get to create them. The film conveys this dedication to the craft rather effortlessly with a plethora of scenes showcasing the tedious yet calculated process that goes into each sushi delicacy, all gorgeously shot in mouthwatering detail. Whether it’s the finesse of Jiro’s hands in shaping the raw tuna over its bed of rice, or the gentle massage of octopus in order to make its texture softer, those who are fans of sushi are certainly going find these scenes immensely pleasurable.

Beyond the film’s utter fascination with all aspects of sushi, Jiro Dreams of Sushi is also a film focusing on the strong bonds that form between individuals within the culinary world, looking at apprenticeship but more importantly that of family. Through this familial approach, we see the trials and tribulations of his two sons—his oldest, Yoshikazu, and youngest, Takashi—as they both question how they are to live up to their father’s mastery of the craft after he retires, or inevitably, when he passes away. Jiro Dreams of Sushi is a film about sushi, this is true, but it’s also about the living up to a family lineage and the fears and anxieties that go along the way in successfully continuing that heritage. While the film doesn’t focus as much on this aspect as one may hope, it does add dimension the circular notion of owning a popular family business, all the while uncertain of what the future may hold. While Yoshikazu and Takashi may be worried about what tomorrow brings, Jiro is shown as one removed from worrying about such things—he’s always one step ahead of them, having planned out their futures long ago in order to be completely absorbed in his craft.

This is no more visible through food critic Masuhiro Yamamoto, who is viewed as our interpreter for Jiro’s appreciation of sushi throughout the film. Not only does he effectively and vividly communicates the importance of Jiro’s role as a master of sushi, but also highlights the artistic nature of the craft as well. The film perfectly exemplifies the latter in a poignant scene where Masuhiro relates Jiro’s creation and presentation of his sushi dishes as akin to an elaborate musical concerto. There is a performance to be found in Jiro’s mastery of sushi, with Masuhiro guiding us through the movements of the meal as to us listening to the crescendos and decrescendos of a musical composition. The dynamics of his craft are vividly relatable through this metaphoric analogy, with Masuhiro painting a fanciful picture of Jiro expressing his philosophy on life through the exquisite nature of his practice.

Gelb paints Jiro as an enigma of sorts—we learn very little about him as a man outside his life as a world-renowned sushi chef. It’s almost akin to the legends of lore, where not very much is known about the individual’s life before the magnificent deeds they’ve performed—in this case, creating some of the most delectable sushi dishes in the world. Those looking to learn more about Jiro as a person may be disappointed that the film doesn’t spend nearly as enough time on his status as an individual, instead allocating much of its time towards his involvement in his restaurant. Jiro is viewed constantly working to better his skillfulness as a sushi chef—he is his work, and he completely understands this. Everything revolves around sushi to Jiro, so much that some viewers might even perceive him as obsessive when it comes to the finer details of creating sushi—but therein lays the beauty of the film. Gelb is showcasing that creating something as simple as sushi, is not as simple as one would think. It’s takes a special talent to bring about the fullness of what food has to offer, and like any other practice, takes years to improve upon—with Jiro himself humbly admitting that even he hasn’t found perfection within his work.

With Gelb’s handling of Jiro Dreams of Sushi with the utmost care akin to Jiro’s handling of sushi, the film succeeds in looking at an art form that has becoming increasingly commercialized with each passing year. The film briefly discusses the use of modern techniques of fishing that have often led to over-fishing, a practice that is detrimental to the sustainment of Jiro’s craft. With the film pointing out the abundance of fast food-type sushi stores cropping up throughout Japan—and to a larger extent, the world—the meaning of sushi as a traditional art form has become awash with a capitalistic priority to replace quality with that of quantity. In a sense, the film portrays Jiro as a curator to a lost and endangered art, showing the care and respect as to glorify its importance as a national tradition. Gelb is well aware of this importance as well, allowing us the view the crucial elements that culminate towards the creation of single sushi dish, with Jiro’s family and staff being the proprietors towards upholding such a time-honored custom. While we may not learn much about Jiro as a person, Jiro Dreams of Sushi remains a quiet, meditative film on the dedication to one’s calling and the family issues that surround that calling, with the 85 year-old Jiro remaining an astute expression of shibui at its very finest.

Mutta and Hibito are two brothers who having witnessed a supposed UFO in the summer of 2006 make a vow to become astronauts when they’re adults. Fast forward to 2025 and Hibito is well on the way of achieving his dream of becoming an entry level astronaut for NASA. Meanwhile Mutta hasn’t been so successful, having being fired from his position as a car designer and taking on a string of dead end jobs.  Mutta is at his wits end but is spurred on to root through his childhood belongings and give his childhood dream another shot. All goes slowly, that is until he is accepted into the JAXA astronaut training programme. Mutta is characterised as your average Joe, he has a good relationship but is stuck in the gutter and dreaming of the stars. Hibito looks more like your standard anime action archetype, sporting a crew cut and the kind of chiselled good looks you would half expect from a movie world astronaut. Aside from childhood flashbacks, we have yet to witness the two brothers meet as adults, I am greatly looking forward to seeing the kind of chemistry the two siblings have.

Telling the kind of story that feels like a big warm hug, Space Bros managed to find a way straight to my heart through its unabashed Steven Spielberg-esque wonderment for the great beyond. This is a show that is perfectly content in being a dose of unadulterated escapism and feeds off our childhood urge of wanting to be an astronaut. Characterised by the likes of E.T and The Right Stuff, this is an anime that takes great pleasure in seeing it’s two characters succeed. Production wise, Space Bros is top notch with endearing character designs, fully orchestrated score and a yellow submarine-esque opening sequence. As of yet we have yet to see any fast paced sequences so i am curious to see how the show holds up in such instances.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching Space Bros, and will definitely be tuning in for the next episode. I can only hope its unusual niche finds its place into viewer’s hearts. Now let us just hope the proceeding episodes continue to be as strong as the opening.

Panda needs a part time job. Spending his afternoons eating bamboo grass and lying on his back zoning out, his mother has begun to grow weary of his laziness and tells him to look for work before assaulting him with a vacuum cleaner. What follows is a series of awkward telephone interviews and a musical sequence in which Panda follows a butterfly down a sun lit garden path and…..ok, it was about this point I genuinely gave up trying to comprehend the plot, and just let the preceding twenty or so minutes wash over me. And what a weird twenty minutes it was. The Polar Bear Cafe in question is a somewhat bizarrely glamorous bistro type business whereby Customers visiting the establishment seemed somewhat unfazed by a full grown polar bear running a business. This leads me to believe that perhaps his cooking skills won them over.  After confiding in the aforementioned Emperor Penguin that the business desperately needs extra staffs, Panda is introduced, and what follows is probably one of the most bizarre interview montages I’ve ever witnessed.

Panda is a cheerfully vacant young chap where as the Polar Bear seems somewhat more mature and worldly. The ages of the characters was not addressed. I suppose their comes a certain point when reviewing a show like Polar Bear Cafe whereby it’s sometimes better to not over analyse such things. The fact that these talking characters are never commented upon by the humans, is one of the weirder aspects of the show; further compounded by Panda’s eventual begins part time job at a zoo. Quite why people would throw money at seeing animals in captivity when scenes earlier they are seen on public transport hurts my head to even think about.

Ultimately your mileage may vary with a show of this type. It’s somewhat pun heavy humour failed to translate well to the dry translation, and for every skit that causes a confused laughter several follow where you feel dumbfounded. Perhaps a limit has been reached with Polar Bear Cafe’s cross culture appeal, this feels like a show very much ingrained within its own cultural heritage. Then again it might just simply be not funny.

The art style is somewhat jarring utilising an almost hyper realistic design of characters that feels equal parts absurd and disorientating. Sadly when compared to the original Manga on which this show was based a certain charm seems to of been lost.  Polar Bear Cafe is a show that requires further investigation before completely writing off. All comedies need time to find their feet (or paws) and an intriguing premise such as this certainly warrants a place in the “one to watch” pile of this new line up.

In this current series (the first for a staggering 27 years) we find Lupin in the midst of his latest heist, as he searches for the secret to a mysterious cult’ leader’s power. In true Lupin style, all quickly falls apart as he learns that he is not alone. The beautiful Mine Fujiko is also after the same prize, and what follows is twenty minutes of sheer joy as we witness these two characters vastly different approaches to reaching the same target. Part of the fun of this reboot comes through the little knowledge required of past series to truly enjoy the escapades on screen. I myself had only witnessed Hayao Miyazaki’s fantastic Castle of Cagliostro and only read the first 14 or so volumes of the Manga. Suffice it to say that this is a show that does not rely on its laurels for cheap nostalgia, characters are introduced with just enough information to grasp their motivations, and rather wisely for the first episode many of the principal characters have been left out, letting new audiences focus solely on our two protagonists. Whilst Lupin’s caper in itself is somewhat threadbare, it provides an excellent groundwork for some fantastic characterisation as the tension between Lupin and Mine Fujiko is almost palpable.

It seems crazy to think that I’ve talked so much about the show and have yet to mention it’s unique art style. Boasting an opening that is equal parts Barbarella and Andy Warhol acid trip, we are introduced to the show with one of the coolest and most bizarre opening tracks you will probably hear all you. The art for the show itself sports a suitable retro styling using a uniquely hand drawn aesthetic with copious amounts of cross hatch shading and pencil marks. Whilst at times this style can prove to be somewhat distracting, it provides the show with a genuine old school vibe that makes it stand out from the crowd of this packed Spring Line up. So there we have it, Lupin III is back! Bringing with it the kind of screwball comedy and classic caper action little seen in its competitors, “Lupin III Third – The Woman Called Fujiko Mine” is sure to bring a whole new generation of viewers and that can’t be a bad thing.

At the moment, the real core of the story came from the introduction of Akemi, the beautiful hostess waitress that eventually Jin finds refuge in. She seems genuinely caring towards Jin’s plight and has what potentially looks to be an intriguing back story, explaining her true motivations. In regards to the aforementioned Players, each of the so far introduced characters sport an edgy calculated design that feels equal parts Transformers and Pokemon. This is an aspect of the battle of the week genre that is usually the most lost on me. Art overall is particularly detailed, with special attention given to the animation of fight sequences. This looks to be a show that in time, will build its fan base through its action as oppose to say; its soap opera like melodrama.

The melodrama in itself felt somewhat excruciating. As soon as you have any principal characters asking someone to define Hope and Death for them all empathy is lost. This is especially distracting when taking into account the character of Jin. He has spent most of his life on the streets, the fact they he has yet to come across such common occurrences s as death, felt to calculated, as if to bring the narrative full circle to an emotional dénouement.

Zetman is a solid show with good production values and the potential to explore all manner of deadly monsters and grand battles. Whilst the show has the potential to go far, its early episodes appears to keep many of its cards close to its chest. Hopefully this will be addressed in later episodes.

More famously known for his film The Grudge (2004), a work which would go on to later gain worldwide recognition as well as an American remake, director Takashi Shimizu has been quite the busy individual when it comes to expanding the boundaries of Japanese horror in new and exciting ways. One of these new outlets has been seen in the exploration of 3D technology within his most recent films, combining the technique with that of horror, a genre he is certainly most comfortable with. With his first foray with such technology being seen within his 2009 film The Shock Labyrinth, we see him return to the technique with his latest film Tormented, resulting in a darkly twisted tale of familial issues gone awry.

Those accustomed to Shimizu’s previous works know that he likes to express the psychological aspects of horror as well as the physical, developing a bizarrely effective relationship between the two. Whether this was seen in The Grudge, a film that presented an awkwardly unsettling relationship shared between a mother, father, and child showcased through the physical entrapment of the film’s characters by the family’s ghostly entities, or perhaps viewed in his film Reincarnation (2006), a work which dealt with a brutal massacre taking place within a hotel and the transmigration of the soul, Shimizu has certainly elevated his work outside the simple perception of Japanese horror. With Tormented, Shimizu once again delivers a narrative that, while seemingly superficial at first, further delves into the psychological states of its characters. But the true question remains—is he effective in doing so?

In many ways, Shimizu does succeed, but his missteps mostly stem from a casting standpoint rather than his ability to direct. Shimizu transforms Tormented from initially being one about a horrific life-size rabbit, to that of a character study coalescing around the family unit. While similar strands of this can be viewed with his previous film The Grudge, Shimizu delivers a world less frightful than the one showcased in that film, focusing more extensively on the emotional connection shared between individuals rather than presenting a plethora of easily disposable characters under the wrath of supernatural forces. Screenwriters Daisuke Hosaka, Sotaro Hayashi, and Shimizu make this most visibly seen within the characters of Kiriko and Daigo Imazato, a brother and sister whose connection to the past remains a crucial aspect to the story. Because of this focus, one could view Tormented as not necessarily a “scary” film, but one that emphasizes the emotional wrongdoings we commit against other people, most importantly that of our own family members.

This approach may not too appreciable for those viewers expecting Shimizu to return to the otherworldly apparitions and ghastly deaths of his previous films, with the film being underscored by traditional elements of Japanese horror rather than them being its main concentration. Those who do enjoy a little analytical bearing within their horror films will certainly be thankful for what Tormented brings to the table, and although not as novel as Shimizu’s previous works, it at least attempts to develop some better understanding towards the characters we see on screen. More akin to the second half of Reincarnation, Shimizu again delivers a cause-and-effect tale pertaining to the actions of one’s past affecting the outcome of their future, with his obvious touch of the supernatural to liven up the premise. The film increasingly becomes centered on the detached relationship between Kiriko and her stepmother, a relationship that once again returns to the notion of beyond the grave grievances—a familiar outlet for Shimizu given his previous efforts. With the rabbit figure being representative of a traumatic past incident faced by Kikiro, the film expounds upon this element therein creating a narrative centered on the anxiety and fear a child may experience when a foster-parent swiftly replaces their biological one.

With the film reflecting the inner fears of childhood expressed through a seemingly innocent creature such as a rabbit, the film is divided between being a psychological thriller and a formulaic offering of the generic monster film. While this approach could’ve easily led to disaster if left in the hands of another director, Shimizu showcases considerable skill and adeptness towards the material, balancing the two aforementioned approaches in a way that doesn’t weakened the focus on family for the sake of having a evil rabbit wreaking havoc. The allegorical nature of the rabbit within the film is addressed in a fashion that refrains from insulting the viewer’s intelligence—which is somewhat a rarity within contemporary horror cinema—constructing a clever and multi-layered narrative. While this is certainly routine territory for Shimizu as a director, there are some surprising techniques he utilizes to deliver Tormented outside the realm of your standard Japanese horror film, perhaps most prominently seen in the technological elements he integrates throughout the film—with the addition of 3D being a major one.

Regarding the promoted 3D aspect of the film, Tormented doesn’t necessarily rely on its inclusion as a primary way to deliver scares, but rather heighten the genre’s more common ones. With the traditional “boo” moments mostly being reserved for the likes of 3D techniques—such as creatures suddenly arising from a dark attic room to sequences such as the theater absorbing Daigo into the theme park-centric alternate dimension—the 3D elements of the film don’t appear as gimmicks simply to have viewers not attend to its plot, as they are carefully dispersed throughout—those expecting an excess of 3D segments will be sorely disappointed. This is a relatively new addition to Shimizu’s abilities as a director, so it’s nice to see him not go exceedingly overboard in regards to the technology.

Where the film somewhat deters from it being able to be placed alongside works such as Reincarnation and The Grudge for their uniqueness regarding the handling of common material though, is when you consider the casting choices of the film’s main characters—particularly that of Takeru Shibuya, who plays Daigo in the film. While one of the most crucial characters within the story, Takeru’s portrayal of the young Daigo is simply not as believable as one would hope, with his skills as an actor diminishing the emotional significance of the film as a whole. Now granted, while he is still a child actor, the film relies upon his abilities to encapsulate the fear and anxiety faced by his character—which isn’t exactly as impacting as one would hope. His acting just comes off as rather dull, especially with the likes of the exceptional Hikari Mitsushima within the film. When both are seen on screen together, Hikari’s acting—as the mute sister of Daigo—is certainly more genuine than what Takeru can offer. Her emotional range far exceeds his, even when such range is more specifically curtailed to his character of Daigo than anyone else. For better or for worse, the escalating fear that Takeru exhibits as Daigo doesn’t effectively reflect upon what the character is experiencing on screen—which is unfortunate given the strong performances by the film’s variety of other characters.

But even with this minor miscalculation on the part of casting, Tormented remains a film that showcases Shimizu still on top of his game. Those who are familiar with his previous film The Shock Labyrinth, will notice minor aspects of that film spread throughout Tormented, which establishes a connection that will sure to please certain viewers. His rearranging—and assimilation—of the traditional tropes of Japanese horror makes the film simple but creatively executed. While some may initially feel that the addition of a giant rabbit is clearly a ridiculous plot device, the film goes beyond simple gratifications to expand its narrative towards family oriented issues rather than common horror. This approach is one that Shimizu—although somewhat frequent within his works—has been able to successfully pull off time and time again. While Tormented’s premise may not be as original as one would hope, it still retains the classic nuances that have made Shimizu one of the most prominent contemporary directors of Japanese horror cinema.

Based on the mystery horror novel by author Yukito Ayatsuji—with a subsequent manga release from Hiro Kiyohara—Another is an anime series that presents a frightening take on the notion of a deadly curse and bizarre rituals as they both collide amidst the backdrop of a middle school classroom. With a narrative that weaves itself exceptionally well around the intricacies of its characters—with their mysterious pasts and motivations remaining the highlight—the series is effective in establishing them as the prime focus. There is a sense of realism that takes precedence throughout the show, even if the premise is seemingly more akin to that of the supernatural in its portrayal. This approach keeps the series considerably practical, providing us as viewers a plausible view into the paranormal atmosphere that the series entails. While other series may heavily rely on its supernatural elements to promote its story—in turn not focusing as extensively on character development—Another instead uses its supernatural elements to coalesce around the plight of the students, faculty, and family members within the series.

There is a sense of absolute dread that permeates throughout the show, where any moment can lead one unbeknownst individual to an untimely and gruesome death. We, as the viewers, start to feel similar to how the students feel concerning this pervading fear of death, with the rapturous effects of the curse remaining consistent. The series handles the curse as something normal rather than abnormal—a routine measure that the individuals within the series must abide by with strict adherence. The curse is seemingly its own entity, a figure whose omnipresence creates anxiety within the minds of all those who come in contact with it. There is real air of acceptance of this fact by many of the individuals within the show, whether it’s the classmates of protagonist Koichi, to even his some of his family members, Another establishes an eerie uneasiness as the series progresses with each episode. In many instances, one could actually find these supernatural occurrences as easily acceptable given just how ordinary they’re expressed within the show, with little reason to not believe them as reasonable incidents considering the ghastly and all to calculated nature of the students deaths. The series could’ve easily succumbed to just displaying gory deaths to simply appease some viewers, but it refrains from doing so, bringing about a nice touch of feasibility to a series that is primarily centered on a supernatural curse.

The actual structure of the series curtails to this sense of uneasiness as well, with practically each episode being devised in a way that leaves viewers guessing as to what will happen next. The unexpectedness of death is transferred to the series’ narrative, where racing against the inevitability of death remains the livelihoods of these characters. Director Tsutomu Mizushima effectively creates a multitude of suspenseful moments throughout the series that provide real leverage to the dangerous predicament that these characters find themselves in. Whether this is found in a character simply hurrying down a flight of stairs, to a seemingly innocent class trip to the beach turning into a nightmarish endeavor, each episode delivers tension-filled moments that are rather ordinary at first but transform into shockingly twisted incidents of chaos. The characters frustrations in attempting to understand the reasons for their dire situation makes Another a strangely addictive viewing experience. With a mystery that is slowly unveiled with each subsequent episode, the series doesn’t give too much away for the viewer to latch onto in order to find some kind of resolve before the series concludes—the narrative expertly dangles the proverbial carrot in front of the viewer, keeping them guessing right until the very end.

But since Another is based around the characters finding some resolution towards understanding and thus ending the lineage of a horrific curse, the element of character development is important. Without it—in this case—the series would not be as interesting to follow, and where the complex nature of the show would not be as involving. Fortunately, character development within Another is one of its most impressive elements, with the characters in the series each having their own relationship to the curse in some fashion. This is especially viewed in the case of the series protagonists, Koichi Sakakibara and Mei Misaki. With Koichi being viewed as the observer towards the audience, we see the unraveling of the origins of the curse and the social hierarchy of his class through his eyes. His initial understanding—or lack thereof—of the curse offers insight for us as viewers into the incredibly perplexing atmosphere that he and his classmates face. His relationship to Mei is even more intriguing, as each of them are ostracized from their community of classmates due to a stringent rule forbidding their acceptance as individuals. Some viewers may find Mei as the archetype of the “quiet female” within anime, but her development is one of the key facets within the series. We see the initial oddness of her character as something to be weary of, but we slowly begin to see her tragic past and how it corresponds to her actions present within the series. With her immense understanding of the curse and Koichi’s inexperience concerning its ramifications, their relationship is one of growth and trust considering the dire consequences that lie before them—and their deep connection to one another.

As with many series dealing within the realm of mystery and horror though, Another may initially appear as a series with narrative issues for those viewers accustomed to a linear form of storytelling. While the series promotes its narrative primarily through the discoveries made by its characters, the series doesn’t necessarily allow information regarding what the curse actually is to reach viewers in a prompt manner. With this in mind, Another is a very unhurried show, and one where discovering everything it has to offer is a lengthy process. The show spends plenty of time towards showcasing how the curse is affecting the current group of students, with an assortment of side characters that detail how the curse came to fruition in the past. This approach may not satisfy some viewers looking for elaborate explanations in each episode, as the show doesn’t divulge many of its revelations until practically the end of the series. Questions such as, “If the curse is specific to that class, why not just switch to another class?” or “Why don’t they just rename the cursed class to something else?” come to mind as plausible solutions to the apparently erroneous storytelling at hand, but the series takes considerable time in addressing them all to some capacity—eventually. While these questions raised may seem as straightforward solutions to some, the series ultimately rearranges aspects that we may have perceived to be truth, only to find out that we were completely wrong. This could be seen as a strength or weakness of the show depending on the viewer, as some may become frustrated due to the length in which it takes to finally address some past clause—only to have newer questions arise. For others, this approach will make the show even more captivating, with intrigue found within every episode.

With animation done by P.A. Works—the studio behind such series as Angel Beats! (2010) and Canaan (2009)—the visual quality of Another is excellent considering its realistic approach. While the series doesn’t call for an abundance of action sequences or elaborate displays of supernatural energy, the series does well to establish a nice atmosphere of realism that further grounds the series. One should not expect Another to focus extensively on delivering such instances to begin with—the series is one constructed to bring about the nonconventional through the conventional—thus removing any sort of exaggerated visual aestheticism. By presenting everyday visuals, the series delivers its otherworldly presence through a purely simplistic viewpoint. Whether this is viewed through the likes of an empty school building, to the confinement of a dark room consumed within freakishly lifelike dolls, Another’s visuals are nicely implemented to accommodate the pragmatic approach the series takes.

Even with some of the structural issues that specific viewers may face, Another is still a well-crafted series. It’s ability to retain its supernatural premise while expressing it through the outlet of conventional means makes it strangely more appealing as well frightening. The slow unveiling of the series’ plot is its biggest strength, and where Mizushima shines as a director willing to not compromise suspense for the spectacle of hideous deaths. The series could’ve easily fallen into a formulaic approach seen within past horror anime, but Mizushima nicely handles the depth of the characters as well as their discovery of the madness behind the curse. While it does takes awhile for the story to progress, once it does it becomes an extremely captivating experience. The story exhibits a real sense of fear and anxiety without being contrived—it would seem that all these bizarre incidents within the series could truly happen, even if one doesn’t necessarily believe in such paranormal affairs. This element of the series, alongside its believable animation and intricate plot, makes Another one of the more intelligent anime horror series to come about in some time—and certainly one of the most impressive overall series of the year.