Every so often, we come across a truly crafted work. A work in which the myriad aspects of its creation are delicately shaped to meet a purpose, to intertwine with each other in loving caress. The work becomes singular and precious in its own methodology; an aesthetic ideal can be observed in its very craft. Belonging to this sparse group is Sengoku Collection’s 18th episode, both a tragedy and triumph of human solidarity.

Any followers of my Twitter (shameless plug) might’ve noticed that I’m a great fan of Sengoku Collection. And why not? Its episodic formula, combined with a staff that possess both an obvious love and craft for the animated art, lends itself to fun. Plain and simple fun. Please pardon my lush enthusiasm. 8C over at Altair & Vega has compiled a useful list  with descriptions and priority markers for the episodes up to this point.

The episode follows Yoshitsugu, a friendless factory worker who sends a letter to Angel who lives on Heaven’s Hill out of desperation. The day has shaken her belief that if one ‘believes in good luck, they will find it.’ So, knowing full well that the Angel is simply a product of her naive fantasy, she sends out the note. Her surprise comes when the letter is replied to, and they develop a friendship over written correspondence. This all falls down when Yoshitsugu comes to visit Angel and finds that she died from overwork. Angel leaves behind a heartbreaking dying letter, proclaiming the two “friends forever.”

To many, this may seem a solely depressing ending. With Yoshitsugu left in basically the same situation as before the fact, how can it be anything but? Angel worked herself to death to buy Yoshitsugu a ticket. She knew full well that she was dying, yet decided to go through with it. Rather than an act of malice on her part, this was an act of compassion.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that there was a lesson Angel sought to teach through her death. Something separate from their shared concept of “random luck”. She wanted to deliver the hope and beauty that could be found within suffering. Heaven’s Hill may be derelict, but that says nothing for the angel living inside it. Yoshitsugu may be silent and foreboding, but overwhelmingly generous and kind. The two share and survive in their joys, not their sorrows. The backgrounds serve as indicators of equality – they live in the same worlds, separated by distance and connected by their humanity. When we assume this perspective, we see the episode in a completely different light, an optimistic lens suited exactly to the contents of Angel’s persona. The world of the episode is harrowingly beautiful and hopeful.

A brutally unpolished painting meets us. Accented vertical brushes are reminiscent of rain, a heavy atmosphere. In our perception, there are two points of focus against the blue-hued backgrounds, the sun and the pillars of smoke. The painted sun shines bleakly overhead. The smoke’s animation is out of place – it shifts eerily and silently to the right, the only thing moving. “This is our world,” the initializing image screams. A raw hodgepodge of beauty and oddity. It was in this place that a burnt out factory worker met an Angel, and became an angel.

Let’s laugh!

A glance at anime since summer of 2011 reveals a world of colour. A myriad of shows, all distinct by various facets of their creation, whether they be art style, synopsis, or even the people behind it. Given this great variety, it’s only natural that we’ve created systems of classification for them, understood as genres. However, often a show fails to fall under a single genre, instead possessing the signs of several. When you take a look at every show, two genres emerge as the most plentiful: romance and comedy. Something strikes us as odd. While the romantic drama or the sci-fi anime may have a continuous plot, it is exceedingly rare to rind a continuous plot in a comedy. Instead, anime comedies tend to be episodic in nature. Why is this?

Let’s first briefly define and delimit two terms which are central to the understanding of this phenomenon. Firstly, “episodic.” This can be a somewhat misleading term, given that anime itself is episodic. For our purposes, the use will be as in “episodic comedy”, or a series of narratives arranged into separate episodes. Episodes can last over the period of several episodes of anime or several minutes (although this is arguably more scenic than episodic).[1] These episodes are distinguished from arcs – arcs serve a concrete, continuous purpose within the overarching plot, whereas episodes will generally be only tangentially connected, if at all.[2] Secondly, a “plotted comedy.” For lack of a better term, what is meant here is narrative that relies upon its comedic elements for action and advancement through the plot. A plotted comedy contains a single continuous narrative, with a more or less clearly defined goal.[3] Central to the furthering of this understanding is that “episodes” can either be used to denote scenes, multiple airings of a show, or single airing. The majority of episodic comedies in anime are episodic on the scenic level.

Since the summer of 2011 to the present summer of 2012, out of the 24 shows that can justifiably be labelled as comedies (amongst other things), a not unusual observation arises: all of the 24 shows are episodic comedies. A quick survey reveals that there is a great variety in material between each. So what accounts for this nonexistence? Let’s take a look at a currently airing show to and an outlying case to find out.

Binbougami Ga!

Perhaps here it becomes necessary to clarify our observation of Binbougami Ga! in particular. It’s noticeable that there are episodic anime with and without plots. Joshiraku is an example of one without: it’s simply the dispersal of comedic moments. Those comedies with plots, however; wouldn’t they qualify as plotted comedies? Beyond the easy way of “well, it’s really just episodic”, we have to dissect idea of genre further to explain. Generally, a show is assigned to the genre with which it places the greatest focus[4] – why Kore wa Zombie Desu Ka is called a comedy rather than a drama, and why  Haiyore! Nyaruko-san is called a comedy over a romance. The focus of this exploration however, is of narrative. In all of the 24 shows, what advances the narratives are not elements of the comedy. What advances the overarching plot in Kore wa Zombie Desu Ka is drama, and romance for Nyaruko. In this way, all 24 shows are episodic comedies, although they may be plotted in another genre.[5] 

So why Binbougami Ga!? If one were to look at its structure, it becomes apparent that the show is a rare deviation: it is an episodic drama. The comedic elements are very reminiscent of such Western cartoons as Tom & Jerry as well as Wily E. Coyote and the Roadrunner. For Binbougami Ga!, the line between a plotted comedy and an episodic comedy, just like the aforementioned cartoons[6], is extremely thin. It has the strong potential that if it were to tilt in just the right direction, it could fall into a plotted comedy- the ridiculousness of the whole conflict builds, climaxes, and the denouement begins. Why doesn’t it fall that way?

It is evident that no small part of this is due in some way to the episodic nature of its drama. To put a pin on the matter, the drama-comedy interaction implies a rather problematic situation. Immediately, one recognizes that the drama of each Binbougami Ga! episode feels rather shoehorned, forced into the narrative. The narrative could flow just as well relying solely on its comedic elements; the drama adds nothing to the overarching plot. The problem manifests: how, if character change (which advances the narrative) comes as a result of conflict and increasing pressure, does one incorporate something so serious into a comedy? The show’s (and many other shows’) answer is to force in drama. 

What we can extract from Binbougami Ga!’s example is that the creation of a plotted comedy is difficult. On one level, one needs to be capable of building conflict and pressure in situations that are by most likely by their nature ridiculous or simply not inclined to accept comedic elements. There are solutions to this problem, but they require a deft hand at the art to come off plausibly. It wouldn’t be so far off to call the structure of the narrative one huge joke. On another level, and a barrier that the show has yet to reach, is that a comedy isn’t a good comedy unless it makes you laugh. It needs to be funny.

The difficulty of compromising conflict and comedy is not the only reason behind the overwhelming quantity of episodic comedy in anime, as we’ll see with our next examples.

Sengoku Collection 8

Sengoku Collection occupies a special place in my heart. It’s charming beyond my wildest expectations, with the majority of the episodes showing a love and technique for the craft. Amongst all the genre that the show’s episodic format has touched, episode 8 happens to be very relevant to the discussion.

Episode 8 is incredibly complex. The statement goes beyond its various reflections on authorship, existence, meaning, theatre formalism, cross-media integration, and subjectivity. It’s even more than the delightful chemistry between the two starring characters. No, the most complex and perplexing aspect of the episode is the glue that holds all the aforementioned together: its plot. The episode is a comedy, and yet manages all the hallmarks of a classically structured plot. [7]. Yet, despite the difficulty of connecting conflict and comedy mentioned earlier, everything in the episode “just feels right.” The conflict is a ridiculous one, the premise is silly, the character interactions are exaggerated. It all builds up beautifully, and despite the quirkiness, comes off as genuine.

OK now that’s enough of me advertising the show. What’s more important for the discussion are the potential implications behind the structure of the episode. ep8′s status as a whole plotted comedy demonstrates that a plotted comedy is possible, despite its difficulty. It also suggests, in light of some more evidence, that plotted comedies may also be difficult in the format of anime itself: the 13 to 26 episode format. One needs only to observe other cases of episodes of plotted comedy, such as 1-2 and 3-4 in Jinrui wa Suitai Shimashita and 16 in Sengoku Collection, to further support this possibility.

Naturally, given that anime itself is episodic, there is an inherent difficulty in making a continuous narrative. This is especially true when you consider that each episode consists of its personal dramatic structure, it’s very own dramatic rising and denouement.[8] Still, while the episodic format lends itself to an episodic comedy and the availability of plotted episodes, it rarely leads to plotted episodes of comedy like the examples above. Rather, episodic comedies continue to use comedy as an extra to fill the gaps left by the narrative. The episodes are assemblages of jokes, not plot.

Anything else?

Best segue ever, right there.

What we’ve identified are two forces acting against the creation of a 13 episode plotted comedy and in favour of the episodic comedy: the incongruent natures of comedy and dramatic structure, and the episodic format of anime airing schedules. If I may add a third, it would be the matter of prestige. Comedy enjoys a lower level of prestige than does drama. This is due to the conception that drama, being the more “serious” matter, requires a greater understanding of human nature and technique to execute. This is not always true, and is a false perception addled by sentimentality. (Especially in the case of melodrama).[9] However, it appears to have taken root in both the audience and creators’ minds. See the immense popularity enjoyed by Neon Genesis Evangelion and Puella Magi Madoka Magica as examples. How many comedies have been lauded as “epic” or “game-changing”? In the anime industry, a largely hit-or-miss market, any artifacts that may draw emotion from the audience, and thus attachment, are likely to act for the benefit of sales. Thus the dependence on drama. The perceived quality of a work is important, and prestige and quality tend to be associated in the mind.

Just some thoughts on the matter, while I get myself back into writing.

Notes on the numbered statements are here.

When writing posts about anime, my ideas come to me in fleeting, effervescent moments. These moments sprout in my head throughout the episode or, having finished the subject, afterwards. The small bubbles eventually grow, and I begin to do some research to get some more perspective on the prospective birth. This egg, having been nurtured, eventually pops and makes its way into substance; it becomes a post.

Most of the time however, these children don’t make it. What may have seemed a wonderful idea grows into a cumbersome and faulty article. I become occupied with matters of life. I lose interest in what I’m writing. Things happen. Posts for me are very much like turtle eggs: all of them struggle to reach the sea, but the majority are devoured by forces out of their control.

Lately I’ve gotten to thinking: what way is there to give these posts their metaphorical grave markers? Some of the posts were pretty neat ideas, too. After a bit of thinking, I decided to make myself a tumblr. In this tumblr, I plan to put all unfinished drafts of my posts. And who knows? Maybe with a bit of necromancy, I’ll make them into full posts.

Strange, wondrous things are possible with fiction. Aliens come and invade the Earth, but eventually succumb to human disease. A secondary moon appears in the sky and breaks a female assassin’s perception of reality. An old countryman deludes himself with fiction itself into thinking he’s a knight and even acts like one. The begotten prince of tyranny liberates his country and world from strife with the help of bipedal mobile armor suits that shoot colourful lasers and make things go boom, helped by a team of women and men whose hair colours span the visible spectrum. We’ve only scratched the surface of what’s possible. And that’s what we want.

So forgive me for saying that Sankarea’s concept (finally getting to my point here) isn’t anything extraordinary. It’s not as nonsensical as Tsuritama, nor is it as down-to-earth as Sakamichi no Apollon. It’s a story of a girl turned zombie. In fact, in light of all the currently circulating stories about undead beings, the premise comes off as rather ordinary. Yet, it’s one of my favourite shows this season. Why? To be straightforward, I like what I see.

WARNING: this post is ridiculously long and image-heavy.

Fiction is the product of the imaginary and the fantastical, the materialization of what we want rather than what is. The false takes the centre stage and grasps our fancy, precisely because its something we can’t live in our lives. This happens so often that we’ve created classification systems for the subject matter – science fiction is a wonderful and widely misunderstood example.

When dealing with a visual medium such as a TV series or film, a world of opportunities becomes available in the fine art of visual composition. Strangely, despite animation’s calls, a good number of anime fail to realize the potential afforded to them. Too often, it seems like the visual is the “casing” for the story telling – a talking head or a hand washing a tea kettle, meaningless shots.

Sankarea flips this tendency on its head. In a spectacular (and gaudy) fashion I had in no way expected, nearly every single shot in the show serves a beautifully dense and precisely crafted narrative purpose.  It’s not just the surface level plot that the show covers in its composition: it covers the subtle emotions of the characters, the conflicts, and even their personalities. In the same vein as a silent film, I’m willing to bet that even if the dialogue were to be removed in its entirety, the average viewer could tell me what’s going on in a scene, and more importantly, the exact emotions each character feels in said scene. And what comes out of this careful construction is what should be an ordinary anime turned curiously extraordinary by a mastery of the visual medium.

Cinematography shares many of the same basic principles of photography. It’s all about capturing and manipulating the path a viewer’s eye takes. For our purposes, the five aspects that Sankarea best uses are: framing, balance, lighting, form, and . A quick overview of the five:

Of course, there’s one major difference between photography and cinematography: the latter is about capturing movement. More often than not this distinction leads to deliberate choices in composition. In anime, where everything must be drawn from scratch (rather than being restricted by technology and positioning) any choices in composition are choices. So with that in mind, let’s take a look at what I consider to be some brilliantly constructed shots in Sankarea. Just as a foreword: one of the most important parts of this show’s cinematography (the movement of the camera) is something I can’t show because videos take up too much memory. Let’s focus on shots. Every shot in the show is neatly balanced – it’s only when the show ramps up its drama that the cinematography boots up to follow. This is a restrained method of cinematography, and is intentionally done to emphasize the more “meaningful” shots. This isn’t anything “deep” at all – it’s more of an exercise in acknowledging the thought that goes into creating a “shot” in anime. All of this may seem “obvious” in retrospect, but it’s fascinating to note that the great deal of the intent behind each shot is registered as a “feeling” or expectation on the viewer’s part until they go back to analyse the individual moments.

This post is going to be rather technical compared to my other ones, and it’s going to be really damn long.

Babu’s death is first up on our list. The first thing to notice is that the action is not noticeably framed. There’s no recurring left, right, up or down image that would focus you to the subject of the photo. No, the greatest contributor to the power of this image is the great play of lighting and balance. Everything in the image is noticeably bleached white, so as to add a surreal effect to the image. Accenting it further is the fact that the three major forms (Furuya + Babu, the truck, the driver) in the image are naturally lighted, which signals to the brain: this is important as hell. And we can tell what happened. Even subtler is the lighting on the ground level. While everything else below a certain line appears to be behind a light “veil” of sorts (including the characters), Babu isn’t. As small as he is, he’s the focus of the image and the characters.

A simple lighting trick here. Here, the lights are used to frame the shot, with Furuya as the focus. By playing with symmetry of the chair pattern and the effect of the light, we manage to get a “sinister” feel from the whole shot. Interesting to note here is that the shot is not chaotic despite the huge amounts of stuff that’s present. This is an interesting play on depth and focus – when an image is layered, the mind tends to separate the image into layers. The layers further away are eclipsed by the closer layers, and thus occupy a lot less importance in the shot. As a result, the first thing we see is that Furuya is busy. It’s only after that we notice the peculiar choice in the harmonic background colours and how the blank space in those helps lend to the atmosphere.

This is one of those moments that we can infer the narrative without actually seeing the dialogue itself, through a sequence of images. Girl’s nervous, girl says something to the boy, boy says something to the girl that causes her to sulk, presumably says something again to get her attention back.

Keep in mind that these images aren’t continuous – it’s the director’s choice to return to this angle repeatedly. One of the interesting things Sankarea seems to love in its composition is to line within the structure of something else, whether this’ll be a window or a building. This shot is called a “two-shot”, traditionally used to show the relationship between two characters. We see it in their faces, which convey emotion splendidly. More importantly, we see it in the body language that’s accented by an intentional breaking of balance. The light in the middle serves as a point of focus for the viewer, and separates the two in the balanced first shot. Furuya, the lantern, and Rea have their own assigned “blocks” as designated by the chairs. The second shot breaks the balance, with Rea protruding into the “boundary” set by the lantern, taking up three blocks so that the balance is skewed to Furuya’s side. The third shot returns the couple to their original positions, but the weight of the image is focused to the left on Furuya’s side. And, in the final shot, the weight is still on the left side but more in-between the two characters.

Now let’s talk narrative and why balance is important for the narrative purpose these shots serve. As you may expect, the dual nature of a two-shot suggests the natural capacity of balance. In fact, the majority of two-shots you’ll see in film or anime are balanced equally. Thus, any imbalance is generally important, and the object that breaks the balance is of utmost importance. The important transition here is between the second and third shots, where the balance is conserved to the left. Despite the fact that Rea overbears breaks the balance, the “weight” is still on Furuya. He’s the one that needs to take action in some way to break the silence, so he takes up more space! And because he does, he’s rewarded with the fourth shot, which takes the weight off of him and puts it between the two now that they’ve reached a consensus of sorts!

Oh, fulcrum effect you make me so happy. The fulcrum/lever effect is an effect that the mind associates with distance and weight: a “farther” object has more weight than a closer object if it is lain out upon a lever. In the same way, our minds make this association and attribute it to the “weight” of objects in the photographs. It lends to a great deal of variety in cinematography and tends to be very important in two-shots as seen here. Both characters have equal agency with each other, as is revealed by their back-and-forth teasing. But there’s a slight weight in Rea’s favour in this scene, and the presence of the lantern accents that slight weight. It’s only natural that Furuya ends up losing this bout of teasing after a shot framed like this.

On to the next episode, where the cinematography enters its full maturity and power.

This isn’t the most important of shots; I’ve only put it here because I wanted to mention again how Sankarea tends to frame a great deal of its shots with objects that are naturally there, like trees or buildings.

There’s another beautiful thing we can do with framing: choosing what to include and not to include in the frame. Despite the cheery colour and lighting whenever the maids are shown, their faces are never shown. This suggests to the audience an air of impersonality, and is off-putting. In this case, it’s not that the maids don’t care about Rea – it’s their faces were so brief in Rea’s life that they’re completely inconsequential to her. And why? Because…

of this creepy motherfucker right here. It’s a rather odd variation on a shot that’s become a staple of the horror film genre, something we call the “watcher” or “stalker” shot. The point of the shot is to frame the shot so that “something” is watching the character or victim. Sankarea chooses to make nothing ambiguous and just tells you straight away, the dad is the “something” and “Yeah her dad is going to be the problem.” We’ve changed our natural question from “who” to “what”.  When you look at the natural division that the window frame causes, you’ll notice that the miniscule Rea is split into “nature” whereas her father’s face is juxtaposed over their house. As you’ll know if you’ve watched the episode, the house is where all the bad shit happens.

Like shit like this. This series of shots is stunningly expressive. The frame of each shot makes no effort to conceal that the backgrounds (which act as an internal frame) are artificial. It’s clearly a photograph. Coupled with the intense lighting, the first shot sends a message to the reader that something might be wrong with what’s going on. The following shots completely cement that feeling with the audience. They become progressively more unnatural as Rea ages. Whereas the bushes of the first picture are at least realistic, the second shot’s trees are poorly rendered and fake. The third one goes so far as to even include the strings that the prop fish are hanging down on. With subtle changes in the internal frame, the atmosphere of each shot parallels the reader’s disgust, Rea’s aging, and the thoughts she’s having that eventually lead to her realization of how improper this is.

We also get a look at what’s happening behind the camera. The shot itself appears to be a two-shot. But just like the series of shots above, the shot attempts to settle unease with the viewer. The shot is actually what’s understood as one of the “empathy” shots – the over-the-shoulder shot. The OTS shot works by having the audience see what the character sees, “being in their shoes.” But what’s actually being seen through his eyes? It’s the innocent Rea (with a halo, no less). And what of the extreme distance that Sankarea chooses to employ in this OTS shot? It’s far enough way that it’s practically a two-shot only distinguished as a OTS by the center line-of-sight. It’s a signal to the viewer that there’s nothing redeemable or justifiable to see in the father’s actions, despite efforts to do so.

Personally, these two shots are my favourites in the entire show up to this point. On the surface it’s a classic establishing shot done with a theatrical transition. Now, take a look at the lines caused by the window panes. In the internal frame (the room) we have four separate blocks caused by lines – they separate Rea from her friend’s family and puts her in her own block by herself. And look at how fantastically grim the next shot is: she’s not even in consideration. She’s completely blacked out as the curtain falls and the family smiles to themselves internally. She’s ultimately outside of their consideration. She’s even outside of the internal frame caused by the lighting (which is unnaturally bright). We also have the unfortunate implication behind the fact that once Rea is removed from the frame, the shot itself becomes significantly more balanced with only the family of four.

Wonderfully empathetic to Rea, this series of shots. Sankarea carries us through a two-shot, and then through three extreme close-ups. Let’s not worry about what the apple can symbolize (we’ve had enough of that with Mawaru Penguindrum). Instead, how does this series of shots make you feel? For me personally, they made me slightly frustrated at Rea’s friend. We have the two alone in their room, capable of discussing anything without parental stigma, and her friend brushes off Rea’s problems with the easy “Just ask him to stop, you have to say something!”, something the audience already knows won’t work because of the OTS shot we discussed earlier (whoo!). To emphasize this, we have an extreme close up to the friend’s legs, which are pretty unimportant, perhaps suggesting that she doesn’t realize (or want to) the full implications behind Rea’s problem. And the beautiful transition back to Rea’s eye, which appears to be watching her friend’s feet. Perhaps Rea realizes that her friend isn’t taking this the way she should, or that this isn’t going to work?

… and to conserve the tension (and serve as an internal cliff-hanger), we cut back to Furuya (OTS shot) watching as Rea climbs up a hill. Yeah she’s there. Again, that “natural” framing caused by the window. There’s a strange lack of balance caused by this particular framing itself: it causes a lack of depth perception on the left and right sides of the hill, which in turn creates tension within the shot. Furuya, being the go-to man when shit’s going down, rushes out to help her.

Oh hey there, lines. Having these two shots together is something you can only accomplish in animation (due to lighting effects). Now, I did mention that form was important, and this is possibly the best example of it. We transition from a hard image, one with colours and set lines for the characters, to one focused on their forms as shadows. And what we achieve is expression. Lighting, line, balance, and form are all wonderfully synchronized here. The only reason to focus on the forms rather than the internal lines of the characters in this shot is to play with the effect of the light. Rea is in front of a red pane, whereas Furuya is in front of a green pane – so why do they both have a green shadow on them? Shouldn’t they have red and green respectively? Take a look at colour symbolism: green is the colour of hope. Both characters are hoping for something. But the hopes are completely different from each others’, as we can see by the fact that they have an entire block of colour between them. And Rea’s hope is poised ominously against the red background, suggesting to the viewer that whatever she wants, it isn’t something nice. After all, red is the colour of blood.

Mirrors are fascinating things. Things always reflect oppositely, giving new perspective to whatever the subject of the reflection is. In this series of reaction shots, we have a hard play on the two-faced nature Rea’s father harbors. Minor things like the OTS shot confirming that we can’t sympathize with the father help to build tension.

And again, we’re at the photographing studio, where Rea’s father has picked an even more extravagant backdrop than the previous examples. The light glares against the viewers’ eyes, and the father’s face is consistently seen in the shadows. The balance in the first two shots stays with the father, indicating the stronger presence (this play of balances is also why you can often identify the “villain” in a movie immediately). Rea knows that this is completely out of the ordinary, cemented by the defiant leer and light shining across her face. Can she do anything about it? No, because her father is an untouchably powerful figure to her, someone “beyond her reach” as the third and fourth shots suggest.

I haven’t really talked about transitions much. Transitions are the visual effects (achieved by video editing) that take place between each shot. The most basic of these is the cut. Most reaction shots are made using this technique to flip back and forth between interacting agents. When a cut makes a huge jump in subject or narrative time, it’s called an “abrupt” or jump shot. These two shots are an example of that technique. Take special note, however, of the consistent colour tone between the jump. Rea’s going to do something with that flower, the reason is because of her father, and this shot sends warning bells to the audience. We know the flower is poisonous from earlier interactions.

You know that shot earlier which I explained was focused on colour symbolism and the forms of the characters? This is what I consider to be the “payoff” shot. In film, everything from the music to the story has a “setup” piece and a “payoff” piece. Just like that shot, the characters are balanced, and the faint glow of colour resides. But now, we know what the red behind Rea was all about: it’s that concoction Furuya is holding up to her. At this point, the shots have built up the expectation that Rea will do something with that potion – and she stores a bit of it in her vial.

A rather plain bit of visual symbolism here. Furuya has helped Rea cross a “forbidden line”.

Easy reference back to the OP sequence, where Rea disappears into a field of like flowers. 

If this image doesn’t creep you out somehow after being bombarded with all that foreshadowing previous, I don’t know what will. A wonderful use of artificial light to create the dual shadows suggesting a sinister intent. That smile falls unnaturally on her face, and the red background makes you remember that she’s holding a smile to hide whatever she’s going to do later.

But her father’s been watching this whole time, and…

she’s stuck. We’re back to a window, much reminiscent of the stalker shot I mentioned at the beginning of episode two with Rea’s father (book end imagery). When a visual image is repeated (just as in narrative), the idea is that something has changed. And her situation has dramatically changed, despite her growing up (taking up more space in the mirror) and being in the same place symbolically (left part of the mirror). She’s behind the mirror now, and she’s trapped more so than ever. The second shot cements this in. Notice how the weight of the picture fights delicately between the heavy-lined door to her left and her bed. She’s got the choice to run away or accept her condition. It’s never going to work to run away physically, so she tries to kill herself. It’s fascinating how unnaturally bright the glass vial is in her hands – the message that she’s going to take her foray into an unknown world.

And quite fittingly for a dramatic episode, the style of cinematography departs quite forcefully from the previous two episodes in episode three. Whereas episode one and two strove for a degree of heightened realism in their craft, episode three opts for a more stylistically emotive series of shots, especially towards the end of the episode.

You see what I mean? But anyways, the reason I picked these shots is because of the choice of colours. All of these colours are significant to the show. The first blend consists of the colours used construction site’s window panes where Furuya made his zombie potion. The second is the red that has already been discussed in that more artful shot of forms in episode 2. The third is the colour of the potion. Just small observations, but they’re interesting to note.

A super bright shot to accent Rea’s tears. Take note of how wholly unnatural this shot is. Not only are her tears black, but her skin is white enough that it blends against the background of this blog and lacks form. The line work is thickly accented, lending to how stark against the background her eyes are.

Rea wakes up. It’s worth mentioning that the line below her eyes is at the same position as the last shot I took from episode 2 (her holding the bottle up). The idea here is to express a degree of continuity and that Rea realizes she’s still in the same position as before she took the potion.

Confirmed for cool effect on target. Rea emerges from behind the blurred door, the blurriness of the door (and the strong leftward pull of the shot) paralleling her unease at trying to run away again. Secondly, the audience is aware that the potion worked on Babu. The question then, is whether Rea is effectively a zombie or not? The blurred silhouette is a staple of horror film (especially when paired with bloodied hands), and it’s played with for questionable effect her. Is it supposed to be ironic, effective foreshadowing, or both?

Again, the mirror trick we talked about in episode 2. Fortunately, the order of things are different! Her mother’s watching with a gentle face, and most importantly she’s on the right side. It’s an active act of defiance against her father’s explicit orders, which breaks the established order of things (in this case, her being on the left side of this repeated shot).

A series of cuts that effectively works as an establishing shot, this particular one serves the dual purpose of notifying the audience where Furuya is and instilling a sense of dread. The clouds are coming overhead, and everything is noticeably darker.

This shot serves a similar purpose as the “stalker” shot way back up there in the post. The combination of an aerial view and unnatural angle that can’t belong to Rea lend to the feel of her being “watched” by someone predatory.

And while the butler isn’t necessarily predatory, the person he alerts certainly is. Just look at those SEETHING FLAMES OF ANGER THAT BURN WITH THE IRE OF TEN THOUSAND FORSAKEN STARS. But besides the obvious visual symbolism, I think the more unsettling question is, what kind of picture was he intending for Rea to star in with a background like that? Take into consideration that there are no lines in this fire, only a poorly graded flame print, unlike the previous backgrounds he’s chosen – ANGER UNRESTRAINED.

Let’s skip ahead a good bit. Now we’re at the scene where Rea’s father tries to prevent her from contacting Furuya. Low angle shot from Furuya’s point of view, suggesting powerlessness and thus a sense of dread.

Can we talk hands for a while? Hands are those funny things you use to eat and stuff with. Now, this close-up wouldn’t really be anything on its lonesome. Why’s it so menacing? The catch is that the audience has been drilled to expect danger whenever the father’s hands are up in frame. It’s conditioning much in the same way Pavlov’s dog was trained, and it’s a technique every director eventually learns to manipulate. The show does it with his eyes as well, but it’s not as pronounced. Here:

Whether it’s slapping Rea across the face in an emotively aggrandized display of anger,

nonchalantly sentencing Rea to a life of what she feels is suffering and oppression,

threatening to castrate an unaware boy for providing Rea with sincere human contact,

or burning in silent anger, the audience knows that his hands are dangerous, and when they show up it’s go time.

Which is exactly why these shots are so dramatically heightened. Rea knows the hands are dangerous, and bats them away in the nick of time. Note also the unnatural lighting in the second and third shots – if you’ve managed to catch on to the reason behind the consistent use of artificial and unnatural lighting in this show by now, good job.

I’ll just break it to you right now. The lighting is purposefully ramped up or supplied artificially in Sankarea when something unnatural or wrong is occurring according to the main characters’ perspectives. Babu dies, Furuya’s world changes. When Furuya is making his potions, the lamps are so bright because he’s working to “create” and artificial “life.” When the father takes pictures of Rea, the artificial lighting signals to the audience that this is wrong. Look at every shot taken so far (and maybe even rewatch the show) and you’ll see that this use remains constant. In the context of the story, it’s used whenever something that drastically influences Rea’s eventual turning into a zombie occurs. Like this shot, wonderfully off-balance and dramatically accented.

Like here, when it’s used for foreshadowing.

Once again, his hand. The use here has a different target, but the effect remains the same. What with all the build up and expectation, we know this is going to go horribly wrong.

See what I mean?

And like I said, we’re getting more stylistic here. I don’t object to it, really. This kind of reaction shot is wonderfully expressive, and to me feels more grotesque than watching the actual thing happen. Don’t really need to explain it, since the picture itself is so fantastically expressive.

The use of low angle shots again for the same purpose as earlier. I actually object to the use of rain in this scene. While it’s expressive of the characters and certainly something that takes advantage of the easily manipulated animated medium, it’s far too cliche, like rain at a confession scene.

A great use of what’s called eye-line matching. Eye-line matching is a cut used to establish a logical connection between two cuts, to observe what the speaker or subject is looking at. It’s used painfully ironically here. Neither party is really “looking” at one another (recall the scene from the first image). And of course, Furuya feels like they never will from this point on.

The frame choice accents Furuya’s choice to turn away from Rea’s death, because he can’t stand looking at it any longer.

Once again, imbalance. A rather heavy use of it, too. Having all that space behind Furuya, in the same psychological vein as the watcher shot, implies that there should be something there. There is, he just heard it! It’s just something that’s going to upset the balance of his world.

There we go with that lighting again. Compare her clothes with Furuya’s.

Did those three images hurt your eyes? Good. They ramp up the lighting to its absolute maximum without making the shot unintelligible, even resorting to GLITTER.

That’s the end of episode three of Sankarea. It’s up for grabs how the show will morph in these terms from now on. I hope you enjoyed reading this incredibly long post as much as I liked writing it! Actually, two more things…

In hindsight, this shot was done in pretty bad taste. It’s arousing and all (in good part due to the lighting HAHA), but I think it’s rudely insensitive to her character. The rest of the three episodes goes on about how bad she feels about being held as a sexual object by her father, and yet this shot goes straight on to sexualize her. This may be a tad bit nit picky, but it does grind on my nerves.

Oh yeah baby, that two shot is wonderful. Couldn’t help myself I’m sorry I’ll leave.

_____________________Additional Comments________________________

Here’s the explanation for the remark I made about science fiction early in the post. There is a distinction that needs to be made between science fiction and sci-fi. I tend to make the case that science fiction is better understood as speculative fiction. Science fiction speculates on the effects of developments in science on humanity as a whole, in this age of progress (and arguably) dehumanization. Sci-Fi, on the other hand takes creations of wildly fictional (or implausible) scientific concepts and attempts to create engaging stories with them. The latter lacks the speculative sentiment that goes into the former. For example, Isaac Asimov’s Invisible Man is a classic example of science fiction. A more recent example may be Card’s Ender’s Game or (albeit loosely) Collins’ The Hunger Games. Examples of the latter include Star Trek and Star Wars. 

I would suggest, if you’re interested in the psychology of photography and image processing, to start here. This is some of the stuff the DP needs to keep in mind when crafting scenes and shots. There’s more to use, but I want to save them for my Mysterious Girlfriend X post.

Interesting tidbit! The same principles in editing (transitions) are conserved in manga and comics by the use of panels. Each panel is a “shot” and the lines separating each panel are the “cuts”.

Good cinematography is rather difficult to find in anime. Like I mentioned, the good majority of cinematography is just something to keep the eyes busy, rather than to impart any meaning to the viewer. And in some cases, this is enough. Take a look at Bakemonogatari and [C] – the money of soul and possibility control. Actually on second thought, unless you’re interested in the thought or craft behind it, don’t watch [c]. It’s a cluster fuck of fantastic ideas that didn’t quite make the cut. But ignoring that, these are two golden examples of cinematography used to make something that might otherwise be boring visually impacting. Bakemonogatari is infamous for the play between extreme close-ups, zooms, and unnatural angle to add an “oomph” to the dialogue. [C] uses some rather advanced techniques with the panning, focus, subjectivity, and choice of lens to make the world of battles something confusing and fascinating and the show would have been amazing if the rest of it wasn’t horrid. On the opposite end, take a look at Gankutsuou, Mawaru Penguindrum, or Clannad. Gankutsuou is a tragedy purely based on its narrative – and the artistic choices behind the cinematography and character design are painstakingly perfect. They convey a narrative on their own. Mawaru Penguindrum uses its cinematography to accent the unnatural and lends itself easily to symbolism and the themes it carries. Clannad, much in the vein of Gankutsuou, uses precise angles to hone in on the characters’ emotions (and convey them successfully to the audience).

DISCLAIMER: Like [C], good cinematography doesn’t imply good narrative or writing. I feel Sankarea is average/decent in that regard. It’s the cinematography that elevates my enjoyment of the show and (I would argue) the impact of the writing.

To be honest, I didn’t have all that much to say about Pengidrum last week. Sure, there were things to say, but I didn’t feel any urgent need to express them, so I ended up not making a post. However, I’m pleased to say that with the fifth episode of Pengidrum, I have found quite a bit to say. I absolutely love how much Ikuhara is able to pack into a single episode.

Aren't they adorable?

We get a flashback of a time when the three siblings were children to start off the episode. The backdrop is that a storm is raging, all the ambulances have been dispatched, and Himari is sick and needs to get to the hospital. Their father, realizing the situation, decides to do what a good father should do: rush your child to the hospital in the middle of a storm. The two brats, Shoma and Kanba, decide to follow their father out of worry for their little sister.

"I wanna go!"

Just a small bit of interesting insight into this. Have you noticed that something is always holding Shoma back from doing what he wants to do for Himari? From previous episodes, we have his sense of morals, obviously absent in Kanba, which prevents him from taking any extreme measures unless persuaded into it by his brother.  The conflict between his sense of what is “right” and what is “wrong” has been the centerpiece of conflict between the brothers, who otherwise don’t seem to be at odds much too often. And now, we’ve added another dimension: Shoma is physically unable to go to the extent that Kanba is able to, for whatever reason (in this case, his mother).

Once Kanba gets to his father, he calls out to him, and something (presumably a window) carried by the wind comes out and shatters ambiguously. And then the always-loved opening sequence begins its reel.

And so, we’re back in the present, watching Himari knit in the hall of the hospital while waiting for Shoma, who’s inside talking to the doctor about Himari’s recovery. In the background, a girl with black pantyhose walks by carrying a bouquet for a person. Interestingly enough, Shoma actually brings up the topic of the hat, which the doctor laughs off as a joke. He obviously hasn’t seen enough anime.

I would say this is symbolic, but "durrrr"

Not much wait is required before we see that Ms. Pantyhose (Natsume) is visiting the girl wearing the red shoes (Asami) that was pushed down the escalators yesterday. They enter a conversation about who pushed Asami down the escalators. It’s interesting to note that in the last episode, someone wearing black pantyhose was standing behind Asami as she fell down the escalator.

Quite an interesting set of shots here. As they delve deeper in Asami’s memory, the lighting becomes more dramatic, and the camera shifts to accomodate a tilted angle. I think it’s an interesting choice, using a tilted angle in addition to a far shot (far shots are typically used in film to indicate objectivity and truth, which Asami cannot grasp). And then, all of a sudden, she remembers, and we cut to a shot of the white flowers. Asami’s answer is ambiguous, saying that she saw “him” before she was pushed down the escalators. Interesting. Natsume proclaims that she has “heard enough”, and proceeds to take out a ball with a penguin inscribed upon it, put it on a laser-sighted slingshot, and aim it towards Asami’s head before we cut away from the scene. So, who exactly did she see?

I feel that the previous question is not as important to figuring out what is happening/going to happen as the following two. The questions to be asked here is whether or not Natsume wants Asami to really remember, and what exactly the penguin ball does. If the idea that Natsume pushed Asami is correct, it would contrary to Natsume’s interest that Asami remember. And in any case, what Asami remembers isn’t about Natsume, but rather an unspecified “kare”. Why does Natsume chose to fire a penguin ball at Asami (which I assume is a malicious action) after she remembers? I fear that there are way too many possible answers to the second question, and I’ll sit back until I get some more evidence to support any idea. Next episode is going to be an incredibly important one.

Now on to the flowers. I love flower symbolism ala Utena, and it’s these little flairs that make give a great insight into what Ikuhara prioritizes and puts to the foreground. The different colours of roses have many different meanings. The white rose is symbolic of purity, unity, marriage, and love. I take it that the flowers here represent the state of unity and love; that way, everything falls into place. The single flower falling from the bouquet here serves a double purpose: Asami’s remembrance would be of a betrayal, thus the use of the pronoun “kare” that she uses; and what Natsume is about to do is in betrayal of Asami’s expectations of her.

And so we see that the siblings are in financial straights about the house, and Kanba is working to find a way to keep the payments rolling in, and shows his determination in a fit of indignation.

Cutting to Ringo, we see that she has a date with her father. This is an a very juicy scene. From the get-go, we get a reference to a certain work that people who have either watched Elfen Lied or are connoisseurs of modern art will recognize: “The Kiss” by Gustav Klimt.

Klimt's most famous work.

Let’s talk about “The Kiss” before I tie it back to talking about the show. First of all, there are many, many interpretations of this work. The most prominent one is the interpretation of the art being a measure of the liberation (found in the extravagance of the gold, and the positioning on the cliff) of love, in a sexualized context (the shape of a penis). Simply said, the picture depicts the richness that is capable of being pulled from sexuality. The woman embraces the man and lets go of all restraint into his hands, hands which direct her lips to his. The difference in clothing helps to accent the difference as man and woman, but the fact that they are both strictly geometric accent the humane love in the depiction.

A less popular one, one which I believe is most accurate, is that in which the female is unwilling. In my opinion, the female’s face is not an expression of pleasure.The man is dominating over the woman, his hands at her head and neck, forcing “the kiss” from her, and she is unwillingly giving in. His crown is indicative of the dominance of a king, a regal presence. The garb that the man is dressed in, rectangles, compared to tangent circles of the woman’s clothes accent the opposition. In my view, everything becomes malicious – it sees the cliff as, rather than a romantic and liberating presence, the fact that the woman is cornered and on her knees, with no recourse.

Of course, there’s a lot more to the analysis to this picture, extending to the medium, the metaphysical, and even choice of material. But admittedly there are people far more qualified to speak of these aspects, and I digress.

Pengidrum's version

Obviously, the version put into Penguindrum is a much, much more romantic version. It would be impossible for me to justify that this version does not borrow on the “love” interpretation of “The Kiss”.  In Pengidrum, we see Ringo leaning up towards Tabuki, who’s face is fully seen and loving. The embrace takes a romantic turn now that the “man” of the picture does not overbear into the female. It fits wonderfully in that, as forced on to the viewer from last episode, Ringo is the “starry eyed” dreamer, and a romantic scenario just as this is perfect for her. I believe that this also presents intentional irony on Ikuhara’s part. In the original interpretation, which this takes after, the woman lets go into the man’s controlling hands. Ringo, in Penguindrum, is the commanding force of her one-sided romance – she uses her hands to force her love into becoming “destiny” or truth. While the reference to the picture can be taken as a joke (and to some extent, I don’t doubt that this is also meant to be somewhat humorous), I feel that, reflecting on what I’ve said up to know about this picture, this is a pretty sad picture. It shows just how desperate Ringo is.

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE.

Then Ringo’s father goes to answer a phone call. I have some speculation as to Ringo and her father. Why is he not using the penguin key chain, if Ringo said they all have matching key chains? It doesn’t seem like he remembers past events, either. This forces me to raise the question: is she really his daughter, and did those events in the past that Ringo claims happened, really happen?

Not sure if this is a reference... I'll call it "Mother".

And then we get a shot of this piece of artwork that’s in the restaurant Ringo and her father are at. At this point, I might be grasping at nothing, but I believe that the following sequence is in line for some incredibly heavy foreshadowing. I prefer to break the picture up into two parts. The first part is the part with the five at the bottom on the picture. I believe that a reference to Himari and her brothers is intended here, and the spoof of her radiant forehead as being the halo of the angel is brilliant. Ringo, as being taken up into the “family” as Himari did in episode 3, is likely the cherub going up to Himari. The stars help me consider that one to be Ringo. So, the question to be asked is, who is the one left in the cloud?

Now for the second part, which I say is the one with the four cherubs playing in the cloud above. It seems like they’re having fun, and the number are four. Four, as in Shoma, Kanba, Himari, and Ringo in the “family”? Well, I certainly don’t hope so, because….

This is what is on top of Ringo’s version of “The Kiss”. Note that here, we have four as well, and that this can apply to either the first half or the second half of the previous picture. The choice to separate this unto a different work is a clever one, as it’s decisively out-of-place in “The Kiss”, thus suggesting that it truly doesn’t belong there. Of course, we have to raise the question: is everything in “The Kiss” to be taken as a whole, or separate? I believe that anything in “The Kiss” is to be taken after course from “Mother”, as the embrace of that kind is Ringo’s ultimate goal, whereas she has been accepted into the family already. I also believe that Ikuhara’s choice to separate the main part of “The Kiss” from this ominous scene was to suggest a discontinuity – “here are the possibilities”, so to speak. So, is this the second or the first half of “Mother”? If it’s the first half (the one with Himari’s halo), then it could be taken as representation that Ringo’s choice to be accepted will cost her dearly (the influence of siblings will be a tragic one). Don’t ever forget the notion of “fate”: we have three grim reapers here; they carry the notion of the “timely death”. If it’s the second half, then it could be the interpretation of the first, but there’s also the possibility that it’s not the main character group. Interesting. I look forward to seeing if it actually plays out like this.

Well, OK, now back to plot.

Knows more (higher), but is left outside. Great shot here.

I’m really glad we’re back to Ringo’s creepy stalker antics. It’s just forcing Ringo deeper and deeper into desperation, and I like that kind of build up. I really do feel sorry for her, though.

After some more flashbacking with Kanba (and underhanded dealings), we’re at the siblings’ place, and Ringo, Shoma, and Himari are having a meal together. I personally love the differences between Shoma’s and Kanba’s methods of getting at things. Shoma decides to play the “good guy” and asks Ringo if he might be able to borrow her diary. Naturally, she refuses, asserting that her fate is written in it, and therefore she needs to keep it on her at all times. She turns the tables on Shoma, then asking his reasons for needing the diary. He begins to explain, and like any sane person, Ringo doesn’t believe it. And then SEIZON SENRYAKU.

Jesus Christ, how horrifying.

And thus marks the first time that Ringo’s ever gone into what I like to call Boushi-sama’s dreamscape. Frankly, I love how in-charge Boushi-sama is in this scene, and verbal abuse is always fun to watch. At the same time, there’s a rather important thing to take out of this conversation: it appears that Boushi-sama doesn’t know what the Penguin Drum is. She refers to Ringo’s diary not as the Penguin Drum, but rather the “Future Diary”. I think the only reason she’s demanding it is because Shoma shows particular interest in it. Perhaps she/he/it too was sent on a mission to retrieve it for a greater power, and doesn’t know what it is? After a bit of arguing, Ringo is sent down the hole Shoma has been sent every time the transformation scene occurred.

I love how powerful her presence is...

OGINOME

RINGO

TOTAL

BADASS

Well, as you can see, it’s become somewhat of a pleasure of mine to see the ways in which Boushi-sama has all the power over the twins, and yet is still vulnerable (this) and helpless (doesn’t know everything, and can’t do everything). Of anything, I think Ikuhara’s female characters are the most interesting, in that they show incredible strength of will. Ringo has phenomenal strength of will, it’s just difficult to see it sometimes because of Ikuhara’s style.

Ringo, being the hot-headed girl she is, throws the hat outside into the rain. Of course, she doesn’t know the consequences of this, and what is previously ridiculous then transforms into “oh boy” as the audience realizes that the hat is important. Shoma meets Kanba, and Kanba goes off to get the hat off of the car. It’s worth noticing here that Shoma is, just like back when he was a kid, unable physically to keep up the chase for “Himari”.

And so, after Kanba is done being a TOTAL BADASS (gee, sure is a lot of badassery going on around here, lately), he manages to bring back the hat and it’s a happy ending for the day. Well, after being dragged around the city on the back of a speeding car that has to have broken at least 10 city ordinances. But hey, already mentioned that this wasn’t going to be physically consistent in my last post.

At the end, Kanba mentions to his uncle that he managed to secure the funds to continue living in the house…

At what price?

So what now? We’re stuck with far more questions that we began the episode with. What’s Natsume’s ultimate goal? Did she really push Asami down the stairs? What do the penguin balls do? What is the price of Kanba’s money? The penguins, like I mentioned in my last post, act as the guiding force alongside the path to “destiny”. I’d assume the print of a penguin on something has to with fate.

And I’d prefer it no other way. I enjoy the stylistic ride that Ikuhara presents, and I can’t wait until everything is put into the light. The next episode will be of incredible importance to the series, and I’m very much looking forward to Boushi-sama’s reaction to what Ringo just did. It’s too bad we have to wait two weeks for it. 

Something big is going to come, I can feel it.

Geppu

What I want to talk about today is the idea of sense. While I had the intention to do this post later in the series, the third episode has arrived to the point where I must talk about this now, since I’ll be using aspects of this post in my later posts. To first do this, however, let me go off and first explain plot design. Bear with me here, since this is some good stuff if you haven’t seen it, and it might be a good refresher if you have. And yes, this does run deeper than what you learned in eighth grade, trust me.

You have to remember, before I begin, the founding idea behind Freytag’s triangle. It is wholly arguable how many acts are in a plot structure, and that’s not the point. The point of the triangle is to remind you that a plot always has a beginning, middle, and an end. There is always a build up until the initiating action, a build up of tension and conflict, a climax, and the resolution. Also, I feel that clarification is necessary for the term “plot”, as many people have the term misconstrued due to it being schooled incorrectly into (fuck you, split infinitives) them from a young age. The term plot is used to define the writer’s choice of events in a story, and how they are arranged in their presentation. This is not always linear, as I will go into later. Also, note that Slice-of-Life shows do not fall under any of the following three major plot designs. They fall under what I like to call the “no plot”. It is exactly as it says: there is no plot besides life as it is presented in the show.

Yuno what it is.

In grand course of plot structure, the most largely recognizable is the classical plot structure. This is what you learned in middle school, and has been drilled into you ever since. This the structure you will observe in 70% of any story that you partake in. It’s the structure you see back all the way in ancient literature (the Epic of Gilgamesh and Don Quixote) to modern film (Inception, The Dark Knight, Iron Man) to modern anime (Rose of Versailles, Code Geass, Death Note, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood). But what exactly does the idea of the “classical structure” mean? The classical story design is contains the following elements: an active set of protagonist(s) that share the same goal and motivation, an active external set of antagonist(s), a chronologically ordered plot, an established set of rules that the reality of the story must and will follow, reasons for things happening, and an ending that completely satisfies all character motivations and leaves nothing important to the characters up to question. It’s notable that in anime, these tend to be the long 24 episode or even three-four cour shows.

And before you get your nickers in a bunch about me listing Inception and Code Geass with “an ending that satisfies all…nothing up to question,” let me explain to you why, in the following sentences, they are classically structured. [MASSIVE SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE TWO, SKIP THIS PARAGRAPH IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS]. It doesn’t matter if the end of Inception is a dream or not; all that matters is that Cole doesn’t care, as long as he can be with his children. He’s reached his goal, is content, and you should be as well. If you’re one of the ones that likes to bicker over whether it was a dream or not at the end, you’ve missed the point of that beautiful ending action completely. As for Code Geass: Lelouch is dead. And even if he wasn’t dead, which he is, he has achieved his goal by the end of the story, and like the example with Inception, you’ve missed the point if you argue HE’S ALIVE or HE’S DEAD.

We need to go deeper.

The second most popular plot design in usage today is the minimalistic plot design, which I would say takes up about 25% of the stories currently out there. Like the name implies, it is a minimal version of the classical film structure. But what about it, exactly, makes it minimal? The largest factor is that it, more often than not, has multiple sets of protagonists, each with separate goals and motivations. The reason it is minimal is that it carries the same weight as a classically designed story, yet it puts less attention to the small things and only briefly goes over the bare minimum necessary. The largest conflicts present themselves in the internal level of the protagonists, although external antagonist does play a role, and thus the protagonists are generally more passive than ones of classically designed plots. The most distinguishing aspect of the minimalistic plot is that it carries what is called an open ending. An open ending is not to be confused with a plot hole. An open ending is an ending which, for whatever reason, points of the plot are left open to interpretation and the characters’ actions by the end can be carried in multiple ways. All interpretations must be able to be logically inferred and supported by the show’s own internal logic. Aside from documentaries, such as Waltz With Bashir, it is incredibly rare to find a purely minimalist plot, but when I say 25%, I generally mean mixtures between minimalistic and classical plot design that lean closer to minimalism. Examples of this mix from anime include Puella Magi Madoka Magica and Samurai Champloo.

We need to go wider.

The third, rarest form of plot design is the  anti-classical plot. The anti-classical plot design is exactly what is written on the tin: it is opposite the classical design. If you would like to think about it so, he classical design is logical and tightly pasted together. The anti-classical design takes that logical design plan of the classical and rips it apart, morphing the subject matter to the discretion of the writer. The three major hallmarks of an anti-classical plot design is that the story is plotted in a blurry and erratic line of temporal continuity, reasons for events are not necessarily a reason and may even be fully disconnected from the events at hand (coincidence), and that the rules of the world that were established are repeatedly broken – characters often contradict earlier developments and plot events may be transformed from sensible to nonsensical. However, these are all intentional on the part of the writer. It is too often that the inconsistent reality of anti-classicism is mistaken for plot holes. Every choice made by the writer is made not to reflect “natural” story circumstances, such as in the classical design, but to express a message or serve as pieces of the writer’s imagination manifesting itself concretely in the story. Most of the actions taken by characters here are symbolic in nature, or completely exaggerated to express a message. Dialogue is usually awkward and unnatural. In short, this is an abstract reflection of the writer’s idea of life. These works are held consistent by their inconsistency. Most works that are deconstructive, satirical, contain aspects of magic realism, or postmodern readily fall into this type of plot design. Some great examples here from film are 8 1/2, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and Memento. From anime, you can observe films such as Paprika, or shows such as Serial Experiments Lain and Revolutionary Girl Utena.

Of course, these are not mutually exclusive. For example, Neon Genesis Evangelion is a wonderful example of a show, which is a deconstruction (yes, in the truest sense of the word, and not the definition by which Puella Magi Madoka Magica is considered a “deconstruction”), that belongs as a mixture between the classical, minimalistic, and the anti-classical. Puella Magi Madoka Magica is a mix between minimalistic and classical. Clannad contains both the no plot and the classical. Kara no Kyoukai as a series is classical and anti-classical.

Now, which do you think is the “best” type of story design? The truth is, they all have potential for greatness. It’s too often I see, especially in the newer generation of “critical thinkers”, that people consider the anti-classical the greatest way. These kinds of shows lend themselves to the “elite” who can understand it, and thus in some way facilitate elitism. They openly denounce shows that aren’t “deep”. Trust me, there are incredibly deep classically designed works, such as Ikiru, that are not overtly symbolic the way they like it. On the same vein, there are those who don’t want to take the effort to understand the implications of many anti-classical works, and thus declare them as “pretentious”. I absolutely loathe that word. It seems that the word has passed into the common usage as almost synonymous with symbolic. The word means: “attempting to impress by affecting greater importance, talent, culture, etc., than is actually possessed” – in other words, a work that is symbolic for a internally consistent and purposeful reason is not pretentious. And yes, it is a negative term.

While it’s true that different designs appeal to each viewer, people fail to understand that neither is greater than the other. For example, I love, love, love symbolism and the nuances of literary and cinematographic analysis. This is one of the reasons why one of the only two shows I have ever given my highest assigned score is Revolutionary Girl Utena. I love works like The Sound and the Fury, and Ghost in the Shell. However, for me to say that they reach the cinematographic brilliance of Citizen Kane; the emotional power of Casablanca, The Grave of the Fireflies, or Arcadia; the level of the gentle yet thunderous conflict in Princess Mononoke; the genius of visual novel medium that is Ever17; the sheer gripping power of Muv-Luv Alternative or Full Metal Alchemist; or the humanity present in Ikiru and Time of Eve would be a horrible lie. All of the works I just listed are mixes of classically and minimalistically  designed masterpieces.

So why did I write the above 1772 words, without even a mention of Mawaru Penguindrum until the end? Well, let me tell you why: because to understand how Ikuhara does his works, you need to understand anti-classical plot structure. And, that Mawaru Penguindrum is subtly (or overtly, depending on how much you can suspend your disbelief) anti-classical in nature.

Case 1: The Penguins

This is something I’ve been keeping track of ever since the penguins arrived. What exactly are the circumstances in which the penguins may make contact with the “real” world? I say this because it’s rather nonsensical, if you’ve observed it up to this point. For example, in episode two, Shoma’s penguin actively touched  Ringo’s friend’s derriere. However, she felt that contact, and yet could not feel the penguin she was stepping on under her foot? What’s up with that? How do the penguins carry physical equipment such as flashlights and cameras, and are unable to be seen by anyone other than the Takakura siblings? Wouldn’t anyone notice that food is disappearing, magazines are floating around, and cameras are flying through the air?  The point where I knew I had to point this out was when the penguin hit the cat in episode 3, grabbed its fish, got attacked, and rolled into Ringo, tripping her over and causing a great turning point in the story in which Ringo and Himari are now good friends.

Clearly, the logic of the penguin’s interactions with the physical world are inconsistent. But, if this is truly anti-classicism at work, why is Ikuhara intentionally making the interactions so inconsistent? I believe the answer lies in the fact that the penguins are a force of Ikuhara’s “destiny” and “fate”. Remember, certain notions of “destiny” declare that the road up to the final destination may be altered, but the ultimate end is always the same. Note that nearly all events important to the plot for meeting new characters with the siblings has taken place with the presence of the penguins and their direct interaction with the world. So, what’s the overall idea? The reason why the penguins’ interactions with the physical reality are inconsistent is because they only exist in order to push events towards the destiny, forcing events to happen that will lead to an ultimate outcome. The interpretation of destiny in this work is clearly that the “road” to the “destination” can be taken several ways, and its in these moments of choosing the “fork in the road” that the penguins intervene physically. The penguins are the Fates, and Ikuhara is using anti-classical elements to accent this.

Case 2: Episode 3's Transformation

OK, hold up. WHY in the world are Kanba and Shoma considering that Himari’s work is that of an illusion, now, of all times? Judging from the reactions inside the scene, it can’t be just chalked up to “being a test”. This should have happened by the second transformation scene, if it were to happen in any case. Actually, isn’t it entirely possible that this scene isn’t in the chronological order, and that it originally is supposed to be the second transformation scene that the brothers have witnessed? Judging from the interactions, this seems entirely possible.

So, why are we being shown this now, of all times? I believe it is simply to further the audience’s confusion. A general sense of confusion, delayed. Odd, but I’ll see where Ikuhara plans to go with this one.

I think it goes without saying that PengiDrum is one of the most talked about shows of the 2011 summer anime season. I’m sure I’m missing a lot of bloggers’ insight on the show, as well as forum discussion as I’m rather limited in my scope for forums, but it seems that way.

That having been said, I immensely enjoyed the second episode of Penguindrum. And I mean, way more than I probably should have. The character interactions throughout the episode as a whole were charming, and the penguins were awesome. I strongly suggest that before reading this post, you complete the viewing of episodes 1 and 2, as there are going to be huge spoilers here.

I love the word "fate."

Quickie on the choice of a toilet as the opening image for this episode. I believe it was chosen for the fact that when you flush a toilet, all the contents of the toilet head towards a singular location. Call it a stretch, but I think it’s a nice, fanciful idea that the water in the toilet would represent “the world”, so to say. The stars? Note that in the opening image, the number is 4. There are four important characters up to this point. Perhaps the stars coming out of the toilet suggest that the four “stars” of the world are escaping the mandatory? Something to think about.

And so, the second episode starts out with the focus of the episode, Ringo Oginome, giving us her speech on “fate.” Right off the bat, the most noticeable thing is that her perspective of fate is completely contrary to that of Shoma’s, to which we were treated to at the beginning of episode 1. Long story short, she loves the notion of fate. Let’s take a look at each of the main characters’ perspectives on fate.

Kanba - Judging from his actions after Himari’s death, it’s rather obvious that Kanba views tragedies as something “that happens,” although the subtext runs contrary to his demeanor in that scene. He appears to be deterministic in his view of fate, but only on the outside.

Shoma - Shoma bears much in difference to Kanba’s interpretation of fate. Shoma doesn’t actively rebel against the notion of fate, per say, but he finds that the idea is one that is sad, and from the scene following Himari’s death, he wants to be able to. As he says in his episode 1 opening segment, if there is such a thing as fate, then God is truly a cruel minister. 

Ringo - As I stated above, Ringo loves fate. However, her view of fate stems from a romantic notion, that of “fated encounters.” To further compound her understanding of the notion, she shrugs off the “bad things” that happen due to fate, instead bouncing it off the Principle of Sufficient Reason. 

Intriguing. We have three different characters with three differing views of fate. “But what about Himari,” you might ask? Himari is a special case, as she is the subject of the fate at hand in this show. We’ve yet to see any expression on her part regarding the idea of fate, and yet, she’s obviously the one most affected by the ordeal.

Alright, we’re back to (almost) normal, after the insanity of the first episode. We still have the penguins floating around all the time (including RAID Pengi, who is the most awesome penguin).

Nevermind. Well, now we’re pitted back into Boushi-sama’s (Nadine wasn’t her name, apparently) world, and she establishes the task that she wants the brothers to perform. Interesting to note about the brothers’ reactions is this: Shoma remarks his lamentation that “last night wasn’t a dream”, whereas Kanba immediately gets to the point and demands that Boushi-sama give him the information necessary to find the Penguindrum. By diametrically opposing their reactions, Ikuhara further elongates the rift between the two characters’ views of fate. Recall back when Himari died, Kanba was planning on what “to do”, rather than “what happened”? Boushi-sama’s interest lies in the future, and thus she sees Kanba as the more suitable candidate. She wants the boys to meet Oginome Ringo, who apparently has the Penguindrum that Boushi-sama desires.

"She has the Penguindrum"

...probably.

I think this small exchange was masterful. From her declaration that Ringo will be carrying the Penguindrum, we gain a sense of superiority and confidence. In cinematography, this is the classic “villain” shot – a shot from a low angle focusing the subject’s face that is usually shaded in some fashion. The shot is used precisely because the idea that the physical high ground (height or location) can translate unconsciously to a sign of “power.” Even better: this shot is taken from the brothers’ perspective. Is Boushi-sama necessarily the villain? No. However, does she appear to be one to the brothers? Yes.

It’s from this platform of confidence that she degrades her position to that of uncertainty with that “probably” in the next shot. Not only has Ikuhara assuaged the menace that could be interpreted from her “classic villain” shot, but he revealed something very important about Boushi-sama. What/oever it is, it only comes from the “destination” of fate. It does not know what happens alongside the way, in the classic notion of a destiny. Her exclamation and execution implies that there is no way to change the “destination” or the “end”. But the question is, if the means to the future CAN be permutable, like her “probably” suggests, can the “end” actually be changed should conditions be right?

Pretty standard anime stuff after that, penguin shenanigans while the boys wait to see Ringo. Shoma gets accused of being a molester, and Kanba drops in to save the day with his good looks and manly charm.

RAID Penguin continues to be awesome. So they see Ringo on the train, courtesy of the girl to whom that rear above belongs to, and decide to follow her to her school. Kanba pulls up a database on the all-girls school, numbers the penguins, and sends them in to do some reconnaissance.

In the process, we get a dialogue between Kanba and Shoma, once again setting up why I believe that Kanba was chosen instead of Shoma by Boushi-sama. Shoma is concerned with the present actions that the penguins are doing, as he feels that they are not morally correct. Kanba, on the other hand, literally says the one line that any person who has briefly studied ethics will recognize instantly.

"The ends justifies the means"

“The ends justifies the means” is an incredibly controversial statement, and a result of a subset of ethical theory called consequentialism. Consequentialism essentially holds that the morality of an action, or set of actions, is justified as long as the consequence of the action(s) is a positive one. Ignoring the fact that the idea of a “positive” result differs between parties, as that’s a debate all on its own, consequentialism is largely based on the interpretation of future events. Consequential ethics observes things after-the-fact, not the action itself. Clearly, this shares something in common to Boushi-sama’s approach. She has messed with the natural order of death, manipulated the feelings of the brothers, and holds their sister in hostage in order to obtain what she wants. It only helps that she  has observed the “after” or the “consequences” of the siblings’ fates. In contrast, Shoma is concerned with the process of “should be”, rather than “could happen.” His concern belongs to the realm of deontological ethics, focusing on “principle” and what is determined as the “moral code” to abide by. This is not something that Boushi-sama even considers.

So, we’re back to the school scenes, watching the girls eat.

And this guy.

Soon, Ringo announces that she has to go, and Kanba and Shoma decide to track her to find out where she’s going. They follow her all over the place, through a lingerie shop…

Take note of the spirals...

and watch her risk life and limb to take picture of a bird’s nest. After that, she meets with the teacher from school, who she’s obviously been waiting for, and shows him the picture that she has taken.

Ignoring for the moment how creepy that is, did you notice that she has a black penguin holding an apple as her cellphone keychain? Where else have we seen black penguins? Well, that would be…

Boushi-sama

and the OP sequence

several times, in fact.

So, what can be said of the black penguin? It’s interesting. Obviously, the black penguin in the second picture does NOT look like Boushi-sama’s hat. That would be the black penguins in the third.  What’s with the third image, anyways? Well, let’s take these two sets of black penguins apart.

First of all, focusing on Ringo’s black penguin. I don’t think it’s all that unnatural for a teen to have some kind of animal as their cellphone keychain, and the apple the penguin is holding is most obviously a reference to her own name, Ringo, which means “apple.”  However, why a black penguin? Any other colour would be fine, but why is the black penguin the one Ikuhara has chosen to represent Ringo in the OP sequence? This will be explored later.

Now, let’s take a look at Boushi-sama’s penguin. The most important fact of it, I believe, is the number 95 in the center of the picture from the OP. 95% is considered the “confidence interval” in most applications that require a form of “confidence” presented in numbers. It’s not absolute, but it is the threshold at which most things are considered “certain”. Once again, we see a tie back to the notion of destiny, and the question I asked earlier: is the “destination” of the siblings’ destinies changeable? Is that 5% something that can be used? 

But anyways, the sensei begins to leave soon, and then Ringo cracks a devious smile:

And the brothers follow her to her house and confirm that she has been stalking the teacher, and that he’s her love interest.

Complete with underfloor dwellings!

And then she pulls out what is likely the Penguindrum: a dairy.

According to her inner dialogue, the events of the future are already written in here. I’m not sure if that means her plans for the future, or the actual future itself, but I’ll just assume the later. An interesting juxtaposition, although it’s been done before: the fact that the future is written in something to record the past. I’m hesitant to talk about the imagery that this image carries, as I have a feeling that I’m missing some Japanese folklore of some type, here. I’d talk about how, just like the cherub and apple of episode 1, the entwined snakes carries an easily confused notion between the caduceus and the rod of Asclepius. But I have a large feeling that I’ll be dead wrong about that, and it’s just my ignorance leading me to a false conclusion. If anyone has clarification on this aspect, it would be welcome.

However, if you’ve noticed, there is an aspect that stands out about the design. This is spiral imagery. I’m talking about the individual serpents on the diary, by the way, since the two of them together produce a helix. For reference to what I’m talking about, refer to the above picture of the lingerie shop. The common feature linking both of them is the presence of a spiral. I think it’s interesting to note that a spiral starts at a beginning and “spirals” out further and further. The first spirals were in the lingerie shop, where Ringo passed through to take a picture and presumably buy some lingerie, if Kanba’s observation is accurate. The second ones are on the diary, which presumably tell the future (albeit, only of Ringo’s interest). I think the spiral is important for two reasons, here. First, clearly, it parallels in its natural deviance the deviant behavior that Ringo is displaying. Secondly, I believe that the spirals are very important to the notion of fate because of its deviance. Once again, the imagery seems to be asking: can enough deviance be achieved to alter the future? (or I’ve been watching too much Steins;Gate).

And so, we end the episode on the notion of destiny. Interesting stuff, and looking forward to what’s going to be done. As a personal bit of speculation, I assume that the reason that Boushi-sama wants the Penguindrum, if the diary truly is it, is that it will allow her to find out events prior to the “destination” that she knows, and control what’s happening. Or, perhaps, she’s a good guy, and wants to save the siblings from a cruel fate? Hm.

OK, so I promised I’d talk about Ringo’s black penguin, so I will. I’m primarily interested to see why exactly the black penguin is holding the apple, which I assume to be Ringo?  Take a note that the black penguin in the OP sequence has a face in the shape of a heart. Perhaps it’s the notion that her world, the apple, is being controlled by love? Or is it something deeper than that? And with that, I wait for tomorrow.

Kunihito Ikuhara

Newer viewers of anime and Mawaru Penguindrum may be somewhat confused as to the hype that backs this new show. The primary question is most likely, “Who the hell is Ikuhara?” This is an understandable concern, as he has not done anything high-key for over a decade, since his completion of the Revolutionary Girl Utena film,  Adolescence Apocalypse. 

The man behind it.

The reason for his absence is that he hasn’t HAD to produce another series ever since Utena. He is not the type of director that needs to produce works every other year. He makes a show, and then leaves a lasting impression throughout the industry. People that have not seen Utena are most likely unaware of the incredible influence it has had and still has over anime nowadays. For example, most people mention SHAFT’s trademark animation style: ridiculous camera angles, full body pans, dramatic shots, the whole works. Unaware to many fans of the SHAFT animation style, the primary influences behind their style are, in fact, the techniques used in Revolutionary Girl Utena.

Now, let’s talk a bit about Ikuhara’s style of direction. Above all else, he is one that prioritizes message over exposition, symbolism over dialogue, and themes over shock factor. Utena is infamous for its visual symbolism, and rightfully so; nearly every single shot in the show has importance in lending to the themes that are present in it, so I won’t bring it up again later in my post, because it’ll be self-evident. A major theme in Utena is sexualization, maturity, and “rebirth”. However, Ikuhara, like the greatest of film directors, brings with his symbolism a purpose. What I mean is that he manages to plug in symbolism that is not a wanton allusion to something meaningless to the plot and message behind his show. The word “pretentious” is not a word that can be used to describe his work. No, he carefully crafts everything to meet a purpose. With him, he brings the full breadth of typical literary symbolism, such as colours, to less commonly seen topics that only arise in discussion of film.

"A picture speaks a thousand words." This? Ten thousand.

Now, with this in mind, let’s take a look at the first episode of Ikuhara’s next definitive work, Mawaru Penguindrum. I’ll be going over Ikuhara’s meticulous symbolism as well as what the show holds in promise. I’m also going to ignore the numerous references to Utena, as that would make me take way too many pictures, and I’ll just stick with the show’s internal logic. The following is why I love Ikuhara.

Mawaru Penguindrum

Right off the bat, we see the usage of a film technique: the initial image. In film, this is used in order to essentially say “this is the primary subject matter of my film.” For now, we’ll ignore the dialogue and focus on the image. What exactly is it? At first glance, it can be either a cherub or baby cupid. However, upon observation of the horn, it is most likely a cherub. A studier of Renaissance art should almost immediately equate this with the (distorted) notion of cherubs representing the presence of God. (In reality, that was the cherubim, but that’s a different matter.) So, why is this important? Well, that’s why Ikuhara included the dialogue as well.

“I hate the word ‘fate’,” is what the narrator says. Let’s take a closer look at what exactly “fate” is. The idea of fate is the idea that there is some force behind the world that predetermines events and forces them alongside a path to a certain end. It is closely linked to the ideas of predestination, causality, and deism, except in the former case, God is the one that chooses what happens, and in the latter case, some deity set the world in action and will never interfere again. I believe that the cherub was chosen on purpose to illustrate this: the main conflict will be over the course of a “fate”.

So, back to the importance of the cherub. Note that it is hovering over Himari’s bed. Now, realize, why would the concept of God (symbolized by the cherub) be brought up juxtaposed against the line “I hate the word ‘fate’”? Simple: we’ve got a battle against fate. In fact, this answers true, as I will further elaborate as we continue. To end, the narrator claims that “ever since that day, we would never amount to anything.” Seemingly contradictory in intention to his initial declaration of dislike for “fate”, he seems to be dealing in absolutes (what fate is), now. And with this, we plunge into the deeper mystery that is Mawaru Penguindrum.

 And so, we start with what seems to be an everyday for the Takakura sibli-

What the hell is with that house? Well, keep in mind that Ikuhara does everything in his show to symbolize something. Here, we see colour  symbolism. But there are too many colours to rightfully mean anything just yet, so hold on to that thought.

And we see that the inside of the house is rather… colourful and dissonant as well. This will be important later. From here on, it’s a rather standard anime development, fleshing out the characters and getting to them acquainted to you.

Well, at least until we get a flashback to something earlier. We learn that at some point previously, Himari has been diagnosed with a disease of the brain, and her days to live are numbered, at best. In a fit of rage, Kanba exclaims that there “must be no God,” for something this cruel to happen to a girl that has presumably done no evil. Once again, Ikuhara stresses the notion of “fate” and its controller.

There’s something rather interesting to note about this shot. First, is the use of a skewed camera angle, to accent Kanba’s feeling of desolation. Secondly, is the use of the light. Light is most commonly used to convey the meaning of “truth” in shows, or that the character facing the light is “opening his eyes” to what’s truly happening. Note that both siblings are facing away from the light. The skewed camera angle helps to accent this, and gives the light the feeling of “falling over” onto the characters. Like fate, the truth is inevitable.

We’re then exposed to an expository scene, in which two little kids walk by the house talking about an “apple,” and how it’s supposed to be the “universe in the palm of your hand.” Well, where have we seen an apple, before?

Here it is.

Oh, right, we saw it in the opening sequence. What’s more, it’s conveniently (shock!) in the palm of someone’s hand. Since we’ve already had some religious symbolism, we might as well talk about the apple. The apple is most conveniently linked to the “forbidden fruit” of the story of Adam and Eve. So, what’s the tie between the show and the apple? Is the universe the forbidden fruit? Keep reading. It’s also an allusion to Milky Way Railroad, or Night on the Galactic Railroad, as you’ll see again later.

And so, we cut back to the house, watching as Himari goes by on her “Himari Day,” and we’re treated to another interesting shot.

We see from this camera angle, Himari laying down with a cage decorated with butterflies overhead. Recall that in the earlier scene, the discussion was about Himari’s fate? Well, Ikuhara does this shot to remind us that even in her happiness, the weight of what is inevitable is about to happen. The cage, or more suitably in this case, the “cage of fate” is looming ominously overhead an unassuming Himari. The butterflies bring another realm to the shot. The butterfly is often seen as a symbol of “rebirth” or “transition”, as they go from caterpillars to butterflies through the transitional phase of a cocoon. Note that the butterflies are outside of the cage, possibly denoting that Himari’s “rebirth” or “transformation” will occur outside the boundary of the “cage of fate”? We’ll see.

And so, for Himari Day, Himari decides that they should go to the aquarium and see the penguins. We’re treated to Ikuhara’s own little artistic flairs with the transition scenes for the subway and whatnot. And then we get outside.

Don’t those two images look somewhat similar? Well, besides the directional influence, of course. The left is taken right after they emerge from the subway, and the right is taken from the opening sequence. On the left, we have two male figures bumping heads with each other, somewhat indicative of the squabbles the two male siblings have with one another. On the right, we have what appears to be a loop that’s broken. Interesting little thing to note.

After looking at the penguins for a while, Shoma goes with Himari to buy a present.

And they get this ADORABLE hat for Himari. Of course, we’re not getting anywhere without some conflict, and fate comes back to bite the brothers in the ass, as they find Himari unconscious nearby. She is rushed to the hospital, at which point she dies after saying her brothers goodbye.

And the poor brothers are forced to watch as their beloved sister dies, without being able to do anything. Truly, fate is a cruel mistress, no? Once again, take note of the light in this shot. Ikuhara takes this moment to take a dramatic shot, wherein the audience can’t see what’s going on beyond the glass. This is done for the audience to visually interpret what the characters are thinking: they can’t do anything. The brothers are looking straight into the light: they’ve realized that Himari’s death had to have come sometime.

With the two brothers lamenting over Himari’s death, we now develop drastically different personalities. Whereas Kanba’s (red) way of dealing with Himari’s death is to push it off and blame fate, we see Shoma’s (blue) opposing view. Shoma screams at his brother, being able to pass off his sister’s death as “something that happened,” and tackles him to the ground. Fate vs Avoidance, classic.

And then, Himari wakes up, with the hat Shoma bought on her head. She begins to speak in cryptics, before the hat falls off and she returns to the peaceful old Himari. The brothers rejoice, as their sister has returned.

The rest of the section about the penguins and whatnot don’t contain much besides Ikuhara expanding the situation in a humorous fashion. And the penguins are adorable. When the siblings return home, they begin to eat, and then the hat gets back on Himari. Get ready, because this is insane stuff, and Ikuhara is an amazing man.

Long story short, this entire following sequence is an extended metaphor combining sex, birth, and exposition. I mentioned that one of Ikuhara’s main themes is sexualization, earlier? So, get ready for some SEIZON SENRYAKUUUUUUUUUUU.

Sperm.

Egg. Notice the clock, indicative of causality.

I'll let you use your imagination.

I believe this is self-evident.

Mother's belly.

Vagina, birth canal

OK, the last picture needs a bit of explanation, but I believe the rest of the pictures got the point well across. The last part is going to be used in the process of the exposition to symbolize the “birth” or “rebirth” of Himari. Also, this scene is also a heavy reference to Milky Way Railroad, or Night on the Galactic Railraod. I choose to believe that it really does represent what I put above, because it’s Ikuhara.

So, here’s the exposition: Nadine, the entity possessing Himari, wants the Penguin Drum, and the conditions for her keeping Himari alive are that the brothers search for it. Suddenly, the symbolism from the cage and butterflies rears its head: Himari has avoided her fate of dying, and is rebirthed outside of the “cage of fate”. Also, here’s a bit of speculation on my part: remember the talk about what the apple symbolizes? Now, remember the talk about the kids with the apple being the “universe in the palm of your hand?”  Remember the shot of the hand holding the apple? Now, compare that shot with this one:

Hand?

Doesn’t that look familiar? Well, anyways, I’m going off on a limb here with my speculation, but here’s my guess: combining everything that’s been said so far, I’m going as far to say as Nadine’s goal is to control the universe, and the penguindrum will allow her to do just that.

Anyways, Nadine then begins to walk down the staircase (vagina), stripping all of her clothes off. I’m going to say that this is her path down “rebirth”, and the taking off of clothes symbolizes being “born as a baby” with Himari’s new life.

Do I sound insane?

And then she promptly goes off to rip out Kanba’s heart (or something to that effect).

Now, get ready for some intra-post Chekhov’s gun. Remember way, way back when I mentioned that colours are important here? Well, if you rewatch the episode, you’ll see that every single shot with all three of the siblings (Kanba, Shoma, and Himari) are dissonantly coloured, with clashes palettes all over the place (just look at that house). However, any scene with only two or one of the siblings active has a natural colour scheme. Why is this important? Because this colouring theme now becomes apparent, in that the three of their lives will now be HECTIC.

And, if the following picture is any indication:

Yes, that's Kanba and Himari

We’re in for a wild, wild ride. It isn’t Ikuhara without incest. I’ve covered a lot less about the plot than there was in this episode, but that’s OK.

Now, this is only a fraction of how ridiculously symbolic Utena was, but this is only the first episode. I expect this show to pick up in spades, soon. This combination of symbolism, camera shots, film-like direction is something that you only get from Ikuhara. And that is why I respect him so.

FABULOUS!

Today, I wish to mention what I believe to be her best voice-acting role to be. This role is none other than Utena Tenjou in Revolutionary Girl Utena. As a great fan of reading into the subtext and exploring visual symbolism in movies, Revolutionary Girl Utena is one of the greatest anime ever produced (and arguably, the best that JC Staff has done). As I remember how much of an intellectual adventure Utena as a character is and a show is, I cannot help but feel sentimental that the voice of one of the most iconic characters in anime has passed away. Rest in peace, Kawakami Tomoko, and may the rose-emblazoned gates of heaven await you.

4.5 Tatami Square

Tatami Galaxy is a simple and brutally honest series, and in retrospect, is my favourite anime of the 2010 year, and I believe that it trumps most shows from 2009, as well.

MINOR SPOILERS FOLLOW.

To be honest, I did not plan on watching this series. It was only by the encouragement of a certain ImperialX, a good friend, that I looked into this series. I wasn’t too encouraged by what I found until I noticed a certain name pop up: Masaaki Yuasa. As a great fan of his works, I decided to view this anime. What I found was a hidden gem.

The story follows an unnamed university student narrator, who I from this point on, I will address as Narrator. It details his tales of trying to find, what he calls in his own words, a “rosy campus life” by joining circles(clubs), and his relationships to others in this conquest.

I’m going to come out with a spoiler here, but it’s something you learn by the middle or so of the first episode, and is what the entire plot is based on. Narrator is allowed to relive his first years at his university, in a time loop, to try and find his “campus life.”

Tatami Galaxy is an anime that is completely about choices. There is no deeper meaning to this anime than the exploration of Narrator’s choices, and how they affect his view of his life and his relationships with the cast. The Narrator makes a decision at the beginning of every single episode, and the show immediately delves into how he spent his two years after joining. He details every single emotion he felt, and throughout the episode, you come to understand exactly who the Narrator is in each decision he makes. Some of these are hilarious, and some of them are heartbreaking.

Everything in the anime is simple and honest. From the art direction to the speed at which Narrator relates his tales, everything is pressed and handed to you on a piece of paper. The execution, for the most part, is beautiful and light-hearted. Even the music; there are no overly elaborate or truly “exhilarating” pieces in the OST.

The writing, to simply say, is beautiful. From its allusion to famous works such as Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis to Robert Heinlein’s “And He Built a Crooked House” (the latter of which has incredible implications behind the story), to every single character’s vibrant personalities, it’s rare to see an anime that does its writing so brilliantly.

The ending, to jump a large gap, is brilliant and heartwarming, an example of how to handle character development. In fact, the anime is a retrospective one. You will likely only begin to understand its brilliance as it enters its final stages. Just as in a great film, you learn WITH the character, and the revelations are astounding (although foreseeable to a degree).  You will likely find yourself looking back at certain characters, and reevaluating their actions, understanding the depth behind them.

However, this is not to say that the show is without errors, and despite how much I love it, I feel the need to tell the truth. The show, as with many in its premise, falls into the trap that many time-loop writers fall into. The show lacks action for its first half (first several loops). When I say “action” here, I don’t mean explosions and deaths. I mean actual plot-advancing, character developing actions taken by Narrator. They take baby steps, sure, but I believe that every action must have an impact, which the first sadly do not. As such, I fully expect that many people may have dropped this series before the midway point. Only in the second half of the series do Narrator’s actions show development and truly explore the consequences of what he does.

I have to say that watching this anime was an adventure, and one of those few series that I would recommend to anyone without hesitation. If you are willing to broaden your watching experience and risk it, the payoff is worth every single second. And if the animation style deters you from seeing this show, I must give you a piece of advice: give it a chance, and it may just surprise you.

All the episodes are available for viewing here, by Funimation.