Back to moozooh's Profile moozooh's Profile

Oh man, where do I even begin with Shiki... It's such a confusing series which tries to be many things at the same time, and I can tell it also tries to execute at least some of them well, but it always, ALWAYS falls just short of the mark—that is, when it doesn't outright shoot itself in the head while doing so.

Firstly, there's the plot which is one of the most 2000s things I've ever seen, riding Japan's biggest wave of fascination with vampires, other demonic creatures, and edgy bloodshed in general since the bubble-era OVA boom, heralded earlier in the decade by the ... likes of Hellsing, Elfen Lied, and Higurashi. The premise here is actually solid and has everything in place to execute a proper horror narrative; you can even trace clear lineage both to Bram Stoker's original Dracula novel (and some other early vampire media which heavily relied on tense atmosphere rather than shock and gore) and Go Nagai's seminal Devilman manga whose influence can be felt especially strongly in the second half of the show. But the issue with horror as a genre—and I know this because I have watched and read well over a hundred horror stories across different media, though mostly live-action movies—is that when it fails, it almost always fails in execution. Just knowing what is scary only goes a short distance toward making it so. And Shiki is sadly one of those, stuck firmly in the camp of genre examples whose execution gave them enough identity to be recognized but prevented them from rising above the mediocrity all the same.

It's not the lack of ambition that ruins it—far from it, actually—it's the general ineptitude at defining what it wants to be, diligently sticking to it, and making well-informed directorial decisions. Some of the bad experience I had with Shiki can be attributed to inconsistent pacing which starts out relatively steady until it suddenly collapses into a black hole right at the very end. Some is certainly the fault of confused messaging: the show cannot decide what exactly it's trying to say, if it even understands that at all. Character narration occasionally inundates serviceable attempts at visual storytelling with unnecessary or tacky commentary, ruining the positive impression. Visual design, editing, and cinematography can shoot for greatness in one scene and turn into horrible amateur slop right in the next, or just kill its timing or scene transition, creating a lot of unintentional comedy—an inconsistency also felt in the general tone of the presentation and odd attempts at fan service which goes all the way into creepy territory at times (do we really need to see women in their underwear so much?). Unless you know what you're doing really, REALLY well, you cannot successfully be goofy and scary at the same time—at best, you're just going to be goofy all the way because the tension you so carefully build up gets defused before the emotional pay-off hits. At worst, your inability to properly maintain tension will bore or annoy the audience. It sure annoyed me, for example.

But if I were to put my finger on what *really* sinks this story, it's the characters, their dialogue, and the bad decisions they make. For starters, we have three main point-of-view characters, not unlike the original Dracula novel. But check what these characters are:
— a gruffy dope with a pathological inability to delegate or ask for help because he never properly separated from his controlling parents;
— a melancholic dope who writes r/im14andthisisdeep fiction on a half-baked quest for self-discovery because he never properly separated from his controlling parents;
— an obnoxious teenage poser dope with edgy demeanor and zero emotional intelligence because of his controlling parents he is yet to separate from.

This might take a bit but see if you can spot a consistent pattern between these. The pervasiveness of this single set of traits makes me think all three might've been based on the same person Fuyumi Ono has known, and perhaps was infatuated with, in real life. The blatant romanticizing of what is, by all means, juvenile and toxic behavior is very shoujo-coded ("you can fix them, girls!") which is in line with her previous works as a shoujo manga author. This, by the way, is also clearly reflected in character designs: every chin is a bladed weapon, every hairdo as well as most of the main vampire family's wardrobe feel designed for a Vivienne Westwood or Alexander McQueen runway, and of course there's a fashionista girl who just can't wait to get out of the boonies to show off her fairly impressive gothic lolita outfits to a more discerning audience. The stylistic influences aren't exactly subtle; perhaps this was an attempt to capture some of the success enjoyed by Clamp's forays into the general and shounen demographic throughout the 2000s—in which case sure, I get it, but it also feels a little weird to have such obviously striking looks in what is presented as a quiet backwater village. Yet another case of inability to decide whether they wanted immersion or recognition and trying to mix both.

The issue with these and other characters is that they're written to be almost uniquely horrible, and the interesting thing is that, for once, it's not because all of them are stereotypes—although many still are, of course. It's because they're record-breaking, terminal-stage idiots who can't spend a moment without saying or doing anything mind-numbingly stupid or annoying. The series is 24 episodes long in total and not 12 or less only because every decision they make is genetically engineered to prolong the plot as much as possible, time after time—logic, common sense, and consistency be damned. The plot outright RELIES on everyone's incompetence, forgetfulness, spinelessness, or incredulity to continue uninterrupted when it could arrive at its much later points much sooner if the characters with agency bothered to try being rational for once or just remember what they were going to do a moment earlier. This results in several disjointed courses of action that get abandoned as soon as they're shown to the audience to avoid accidentally speeding up the plot. This is incredibly, almost unbelievably infuriating to see, and then also utterly confusing when the plot decides it doesn't need all this stalling anymore, puts several episodes' worth of action offscreen and wraps everything up in a truly abrupt and unsatisfying fashion that never properly resolves any of the themes raised nor meaningfully completes most of the character arcs.

Of course, this also translates to dialogue and general interactions which can only be described as persistent aura-farming, in which the main three characters outright indulge at every feasible opportunity and in their own specific ways, such as by being a nihilistic edgelord, spouting vague nonsense, or trying to do everything by oneself (and immediately failing at it). And then there are also characters without aura who are simply obnoxious, like the token queer guy whose face is begging for a punch in every single scene he's in—amazing LGBTQ representation from Japan, as usual. There sure is a lot of variety in how these characters can make you mad in this show, I'll give it that.

This is honestly tragic. It makes me appreciate series like Devilman: Crybaby, Kaiji, or Paranoia Agent (let alone something like Akira or Evangelion) a lot more because their respective directors had enough creative vision, visual media experience, and self-restraint to make tense, scary, or devastating scenes truly haunting without doing anything extraordinary to achieve that—so much so that just recalling them in memory is enough to give me goosebumps. It's hard to explain exactly why what they do works so well; it's a result of many little finely tuned aspects working in unison so you just feel it when they do their magic. Shiki does have its one brief moment of greatness in episode 20.5 which, ironically, isn't even part of this MAL entry as that and the other unaired episode were released only on home media and are considered specials (but I can't be bothered writing a separate review for it). And just like what I said earlier in this paragraph, it's executed so much better than the rest of the series not because it does something clever or unusual, not at all—it simply remains perfectly consistent in its tone and thematic payload delivery without being interrupted by any of the annoying characters' stupid posturing or bad decisions. It's also the one episode that feels the most like the best parts of Devilman, its adaptations, and spiritual successors which juxtapose humanity at its moral twilight with genuine monsters driven by pure animalistic impulse. I just wish it didn't adopt the worst parts of Devilman instead, namely its erratic pacing and the almost universally panned unsatisfying ending.

With that in mind, I can't help imagining how excellent this show could've been if it could maintain this level of consistency and self-restraint throughout. But with it being as it is, I just can't find anything in it that I like that also wouldn't subsequently be ruined by ineptitude on every possible level of execution. Much like its characters, it tries too hard to make an impression where it should've just played it smart and steady. It COULD be scary, it COULD be unnerving, everything was in place for it! Gah! Of course, good horror is actually really hard to do, I get it; I guess I just wanted Shiki to be good and ended up disappointed that it so clearly wasn't because for some reason I didn't want to accept that one of the very few shows tagged "horror" on MAL that is rather close to 8.0 in rating could actually be so ineptly executed even though this should've been my base expectation just on statistical probability and personal experience. I really should trust those more in the future.

I don't really expect many people to read this review given that the show it's for is over a decade old and has long left the public discourse, but watching it gave me too much genuine frustration I just couldn't keep in. Despite all of my negative impressions, several of my friends really do enjoy it a lot on their own subjective merits so I don't know if this is something that comes down to personal vibe; perhaps it does. But I cannot recommend it in good conscience knowing how many times it made me want to punch things. This is not something I wish on others.

Medalist is the kind of story that appears maybe once a decade. Filled with rich, memorable characters and interesting dynamics, integrating exciting plot beats with existing problems and peculiarities of figure skating, having meaningful things to say in avenues similar stories hadn't really explored yet.

I will not hesitate to call the original work behind this adaptation a masterpiece and, without any doubt, the best ongoing sports manga—at least if we don't count Real which is on an indefinite hiatus again. You don't normally see something executed at this level of craftsmanship in every respect; it's by all means an incredibly rare anomaly that, I hope, ... will in due time make Tsurumaikada a superstar author.

Which brings us to this anime—and, sadly, an anomaly it is not. It's the latest addition to the VERY long line of adaptations that don't live up to the works they are adapting. In fact, this one, in particular, seems to be doing its darnedest to aggressively diminish the impact of every scene and does not even shy away from misrepresenting their tone—and, in consequence, the characters themselves, which is a grave sin for any adaptation.

To those who don't understand what I'm referring to: please compare the scene of Hikaru's first jump in front of Inori to the same scene as it is portrayed in the manga. Medalist is a very "show, don't tell" kind of manga, and the director of this anime is either legally blind or completely lacks comprehension of visual storytelling—because you cannot possibly tell me Hikaru's emotions or the tone of the scene were conveyed remotely faithfully in the adaptation. The phenomenal storyboarding of the manga makes it abundantly clear for anyone who bothers to look.

Things like this erase much of the crucial visual storytelling. A visual representation of a formative experience for the protagonist had its impact surgically excised, a plot-important glimpse into a rival character is gone completely. Of course, it's not the only example—just the most egregious one. It takes real skill to be so average, so inept, and still hold a directorial position at a studio. Maybe he's a medalist at that, and this is what the title is about! Obviously, I didn't have any illusions about ENGI being able to deliver a quality adaptation (when do they ever?), but misrepresenting the main characters wasn't one of the downgrades I expected. That's just evil.

And it's not like it had to be this way. There have been many cases of anime adaptations elevating the original manga—or at least matching its quality where it matters. Last year's Frieren and Dungeon Meshi were fantastic recent examples. They made good, informed efforts on the part of very capable people who were passionate about doing justice to the source material. I don't see that here, and while I absolutely adore Medalist as a story and would give it glowing reviews any day, I cannot recommend it in the anime form in good conscience knowing how inferior it already is to the original work.

The sad thing is if I didn't know better, I likely wouldn't even realize what I was missing out on because this adaptation's blunders are all intentional decisions, making them look deceptive in their consistency. It means not just anime-onlies, but also those who generally prefer watching anime to reading manga may confuse one of the best-executed stories of recent times for a nice show about figure skating. This might actually be what I'm seeing in the other review praising the direction (of all things), or at least the evidence I have points me to this conclusion.

I can't go back in time and ensure this adaptation goes to a top-tier studio instead—which it deserved. I can only hope that if you're reading this, I can convince you not to make the mistake of thinking this is all Medalist has to offer. So if the anime caught your eye and you want to experience the story at its peak—which is FAR more impactful than you will see here—do yourself an enormous favor and read the manga instead.

I wasn't planning on writing any reviews for this season, but Kinoko Inu surprised me. Twice, in fact: once when its first episode turned out to be the most emotionally striking premiere of the season (if not the entire year), and then once more when I saw its rating stabilizing in the criminal range of the low 6s—which it did not deserve AT ALL. The first surprise was a happy one; the second, not so much.

So what are we dealing with here with Kinoko Inu? I assume that most people would look at the poster and think this is another lighthearted kids' show like Bananya ... or Chi's Sweet Home. Let's just say it's anything but, and the manga it's based on is published in a seinen magazine alongside Monster Musume (yes, *that* Monster Musume). It deals with pretty heavy themes, and perhaps more so than making you smile, it's prone to making you cry. The fact that it maintains a positive outlook and uplifting tone doesn't change the fact that some of scenes it shows are emotionally devastating and cut very deep for everyone who has experienced the death of a loved one.

Kinoko Inu opens with our protagonist Hotaru, a writer in his early twenties, finding himself stuck in a debilitating, self-perpetuating loop of grieving over the loss of his beloved dog Hanako, his only remaining family member throughout most of his life. That is when the eponymous Mushroom Pup suddenly sprouts in his backyard and tries to help Hotaru move on from the tragedy—sometimes using very... unconventional methods. It's a heartwarming and occasionally funny story about family and processing loss, and there aren't many of those coming out these days that focus on such heavy subject matter with the nuance and delicacy it deserves.

The first episode came out of the left field and completely blew me away, and I was naturally afraid that the rest of the show wouldn't be able to live up to it. Thankfully, episodes 2 and 3 just kept hitting me in the feels, so it looks like it might keep up this momentum to emerge as one of the true hidden gems of the season. It's doubly impressive that, so far, it manages to beat Natsume's Book of Friends at its own game while airing alongside it, but somehow, here we are. So move aside, Nyanko-Sensei: you are only the second-best adorably round pet character this time.

I bid you good day, tired adventurer. Have you grown weary of the endless deluge of isekai and reincarnation in your fantasy? Have you yearned for characters that have empathy and compelling motivations? Perhaps you would be partial to stories that don't rely on familiar tropes and instead seek to subvert your expectations?

Give Sengoku Youko a chance.

I know, its current rating of low 7 isn't exactly a great sell in the age of inflated scores, but hear me out. It's the kind of story that starts off in a very modest fashion but continuously picks up momentum as it goes. With nearly every single episode, ... you're watching its best episode yet. What starts off as a road trip turns into an epic tale of love, friendship, and camaraderie.

The author, Satoshi Mizukami, has earned his cult following for a reason. His works showcase a very particular style of storytelling focused on creating a diverse cast of unique characters with compelling motivations and letting them figure out the story based on what these motivations are. In his worlds, there are no truly good or truly bad people; rather, there are people who care for different things and finding themselves in misfortune or conflict with each other. You could say it's kind of like Game of Thrones, except not edgy or cynical; quite the opposite: the character interactions in Sengoku Youko and Mizukami's other works are remarkably warm and soulful—to the point where you end up loving the entire cast, and even antagonists can be empathized with.

This adaptation by studio White Fox isn't breaking any records in terms of production values and cuts corners relentlessly where it can afford to, but it's clearly crafted with passion and is honestly much better than I would've expected for a very niche manga from the late 2000s, showing respect to the original work and enhancing it where possible. The early episodes are the weakest episodes as I've alluded to earlier, mostly due to the source material's somewhat haphazard pacing and the need to fit six volumes of manga material into a single cours of TV runtime, but once it finds its stride mid-season, it's all smooth sailing from there. The soundtrack by the famed Evan Call is fantastic as usual and helps set the tone for the action, and the opening by MindaRyn was one of my favorites from the winter 2024 season.

Overall, the first season tells a compelling story by itself, but in the grand scheme of things it merely serves as a setup for the main bulk of the narrative. And trust me: the second half, coming summer 2024, will reach much greater heights. I, for one, cannot wait.

In a medium as rich and successful as anime, there are lots of genres that become so saturated with well-trodden tropes and canned story beats that they inevitably become completely and irrevocably stale even for their staunch aficionados. Occasional attempts at narrative subversion may try to steer such genres in a new direction, but those are far and few in between and don't always hit the mark with their tone and execution.

But every once in a while there comes a work that doesn't attempt to say anything new; instead, it takes everything the genre has become known and loved for and tries to make it ... as cool and fun as possible, pushing existing tropes to their limits. It demonstrates not just its own strength but the fact that the genre itself can still be great. It's something you can watch and be overcome with gratitude that such a love letter to the genre was made. 100 Girlfriends That Really, Really, Really, Really, Really Love You (or Hyakkano for short) is that kind of work we needed for harem comedy.

I can't blame anyone who might think at least some of the words in the title are an exaggeration. The twist is that they aren't—in fact, there's no twist! It really (really, really, really, really) is a comedy about a high-school boy, Rentaro, blessed with 100 soul mates instead of just one. With the unfortunate caveat that a horrible fate awaits them if he rejects any or is rejected himself. So he does the most straightforward thing possible and dedicates himself to assembling them into a harem.

What puts Hyakkano apart from virtually every other harem is that, for once, it isn't a competition for the guy's affection. As one of the original manga's taglines proudly suggests, this is a harem where every girl is a winner. Their comedic stereotypes belie the emotional depth they're written with. They bounce off of Rentaro and each other, they care for each other, they don't blend in with the background, and the key to that is who Rentaro is to all of them.

And this is the part where Hyakkano really puts literally every other harem to shame. Rentaro is the glue that holds everything together, he is THE gigachad, the be-all, end-all of boyfriends in any romance; comedic or otherwise. He's not like any of those dense, terminally thirsty horndogs, nor is he the uncharismatic, genre-savvy self-insert: he's actually what every boyfriend (or husband!) wants to be. He's fully sincere in what he does, he is 100% committed to all of his relationships, and he really (×5) loves every one of his girlfriends as much as they love him. He makes your grand gestures towards your loved one seem throwaway in comparison, and he always finds the best way to his girlfriends' hearts. He's such an incredibly great, larger-than-life man that it's literally impossible not to take him seriously. That's why this guy isn't just the best harem protag of all time—he's in the running for the best protags as a whole, and I'm not saying this lightly. There are a million Gary Stus in anime, and this one does the ground work for all of them.

It's such a rare and unexpected gift in a media landscape that can't seem to find a healthy middle ground between indulging in overexaggerated, self-defeating shyness/awkwardness tropes or forming pairs solely by author's decree. Who'd have thought that an affectionate parody of the lowest-brow form of romance fiction would actually show something its much more serious counterparts are so often missing? You know, like a romantic partner paying attention or simply being there for their loved ones and showing them good time?

Hyakkano is definitely not as low-brow as its genre suggests. The comedy is consistently uproarious and there's never a dull moment—but at the same time, it never goes for the lowest-hanging fruit with its jokes. There are ecchi scenes, sure, but there are no cheap panty shots; it earns every gag with clever writing and character setups. How about that? The Crunchyroll subtitles for the show are, thankfully, some of the best I've ever seen, and they help the comedy along very smoothly. This is further punctuated by excellent direction that nails both framing and comedic timing; a rare feat, in fact.

Hyakkano is bizarre and confusing even by anime standards, but it uses its silly nature to deliver great entertainment both to newcomers and savvy veterans. It's a love letter to the harem genre, it's gut-bustingly funny, it's just a good time all around. So I really, really, really, really, really recommend it to everyone.

Dungeon Meshi has been a wonderful, overwhelmingly well-orchestrated rollercoaster of emotions; one I just couldn't get tired of.

It started as a relatively simple (at least that was the impression) sword-and-sorcery parody meant to deconstruct the concept of eating monsters. It really is disgusting if you think about it for a moment, isn't it? Would you love to eat a rabid dog chasing you, or a snake about to bite you? That's the kind of mental struggle the characters had to go through at the beginning.

And it would be perfectly alright if it had stayed just that: a comedy around eating disgusting things. But the story ... eventually evolved into a compelling adventure where the procurement of food is not a comedic gimmick, but a unifying theme around which characters are exposed and relationships develop. And the best part? By the way you make it to the halfway point, you begin to realize everything has been planned and foreshadowed from the very beginning.

It bears repeating that Ryoko Kui is an incredible talent. She is very well-versed in both human and animal psychology, and the command she has over her characters is undeniable. Their interpersonal dynamics are some of the best I've ever seen in any story. They feel familiar but don't conform to any stereotypes; they are completely distinct from each other but have instant onscreen chemistry. And their behavior is one hundred percent convincing, true to established character traits and informed by their past experiences.

These experiences are the key to everything, and I can't get enough of the grace and finesse with which every character's development is presented. Every event the party goes through has long-term consequences. Every little thing remains in their memory as the author is meticulously tracking every aspect of the dungeon's closed ecosystem. A bar of "very good" soap is lost in volume 1, which is noticed in volume 3, and then it is found in volume 7, leading to a bath scene, leading in turn to another bonding experience for the party. The author will never fall so low as to beat you over the head with verbal descriptions of the characters' growth: she just shows you the gradual progress as it happens, both cause and effect, and trusts your intelligence to connect the dots. It's depressing how rarely I see authors in traditionally pop-entertainment genres show so much respect for the audience.

The exact same reverence is given to the setting. Although it can be easy to dismiss it as another banality inspired by Tolkien and Dungeons and Dragons, that would be missing the forest for the trees: the depth of fantasy and mythology lore explored and the precision of weaving it into the setting is well on par with the best works in the genre (and I'm not talking just about manga!) and opens new perspectives even for die-hard fantasy fans. The dungeon inhabitants' physical attributes are articulated in a unique style and follow the internal logic of the story. Kui has a *lot* of shorter stories and random designs showcasing her love for mythical creatures.

This goes lengths to show passionate research put into it and makes for a lot of interesting and often gut-busting interactions among the cast. And the fact that no experience is ever truly lost with the group leads to a lot of sitcom-like comedy that naturally emerges when well-written, quirky characters are put together in any sort of unusual scenario. The humor emerges naturally from their personalities and the audience's memory of their past experience. Organic setups pay off all by themselves, just like that. Very few stories ever end up in such a desirable state!

The visual comedy is further punctuated by beautiful art. Ryoko Kui isn't just a great writer and fantasy buff—she's also an amazing artist and character designer. You can always infer a character's emotions by looking at their face, allowing for both much tighter comedic timing and more diligent adherence to the 'show, don't tell' principle. The designs themselves are fantastic; they're never cutesy in the typical moe way, they are highly physically-accurate, and they grow on you so much you wouldn't want to change them for anything. Even orcs look appealing in their own way. If you can gain access to volume releases and supplementary materials, there are pages upon pages of top-tier designs, such as imagining the same characters as different sex or fantasy race. And yeah, there's not even a hint of deliberate fan service. The author evidently respects her craft far too much to pander and compromise the narrative's tone and message just for titillation; instead she opts to engage the audience by the means any good story should. And engage it does.

Throughout it all, Dungeon Meshi never abandons its food focus: all the monster dishes are unique, original, look hella tasty, and always feel appropriate for the circumstances. Again, the range is incredible: it's used as a comedic relief after a tense situation, to make a point by one character to another, to assert a victory over a tough enemy, to soothe a troubled heart... What seemed like a mere fun gimmick at first has proven to be a potent narrative tool that subtly enriched the story without forcing it into a repeating formula.

If all of that sounds like I'm just endlessly heaping praise upon this manga, well, it's because that's exactly what I'm doing. It's *that* good. It starts out unassuming and then just keeps punching far above its weight while making it look effortless and not messing up in the process. It sucks you in before you even realize how good it really is in everything it does. It's a rare miracle of a fun and endearing adventure story about a tightly-knit, lovable group of characters on a quest to save their friend and explore the intricacies of self-sustenance in a dungeon, with incredible art and a satisfying ending. And I wholeheartedly recommend it to everyone.

(Trigger, pls, make the adaptation deserving of the source material!)

Level 1 Demon Lord and One-Room Hero has no business being as heartfelt and engaging as it is.

It's been a pleasant surprise for me because I, like many others, was prepared to brush it off as a yet another raunchy comedy starring an annoying shitgremlin paired with a bargain bin "I quit the hero party" protag. While the "raunchy comedy" part of that description is certainly fair (*cough* Zenia's ass *cough*), the rest isn't, and discarding the series on those grounds would be missing the forest for the trees.

The main thing that sets Level 1 Demon Lord apart from the typical example of its genre ... is how much informed effort went into writing its characters into the setting. The author takes the popular fantasy premise of a group of heroes vanquishing the demon lord and deconstructs the aftermath of such a group having to live with the consequences in the new world they've helped create. They had trained and honed their skill to fight the demonic threat, but nothing prepared them for what was to come.

This is an inherently interesting subject to explore. It's easy to delude oneself into thinking that if somebody becomes renowned for their superior skill or efforts in doing something particular, they should be expected to perform just as well in other aspects of life. But the bar on that burden of expectations becomes unreasonable even when you're doing something much less heroic than literally saving the world. Especially so when any single one of your actions is scrutinized, and at the same time all sorts of unsavory people are trying to take advantage of you and your fame. Previous season's Oshi no Ko dedicates a lot of attention to this theme.

Unsurprisingly, our hero Max has failed to live up to that and become a valued member of the new society that owes its livelihood to his heroic deeds. Taking a number of bad hits to his reputation right from the start, he chose to keep a low profile to protect himself and his friends from scorn and abuse, knowing that he shouldn't be caught involved in something that would be spun as unbecoming of a hero. But by his mere existence, Max attracts bad encounters. This lifestyle turned him into an impoverished alcoholic deadbeat, and the show doesn't attempt to sugarcoat that. A horrible, crushing situation to find oneself in—not just for himself but also for his friends and admirers. But as disillusioned and bitter as it gets, but, even at his lowest point, he still upholds his humanity and the virtuous principles that made him a hero—because that's who he is.

And this is where the (adorable) Demon Lord steps in. Having resurrected after ten years... prematurely, in an androgynous childlike body, but still full of admiration for his fated rival, the Lord immediately goes to check out how Max has fares after their epic showdown. And seeing his sorry state, doesn't become the selfish deadweight as would be expected of a typical shitgremlin character, but rather takes Max's side and actively helps get his life back on track to be worthy of the person he was at their first encounter. It's a heartfelt relationship based on sincerity and respect, which makes their onscreen dynamic a joy to behold.

There's a depth and charm to these characters that you can't help but notice already by the end of episode 2. At that point you already know you want them to succeed. And the best part is that the series isn't even a slice-of-life account of Max's rehab: it has an actual plot that involves the rest of the hero crew who adapted to the new reality in their own separate ways. Every episode brings forth some new development; other characters have agency, various events are happening, and things are moving forward. There is very good music (some heavy metal for once!) and voice acting to complement the plot and characters, too, and surprisingly expressive animation to top it off.

Now, to address the elephant in the room, which is Zenia—the Demon Lord's trusted secretary—and her monumental body features. She's pretty much the fan service character (it's even more egregious in the manga, having one of the scenes literally subtitled as the "obligatory money shot"), and the camera never fails to show off her curvy assets in the most distractingly blatant ways possible. Personally, I feel right now it detracts from the show more so than it adds, but maybe they're going somewhere else with it. In any case, this is mostly limited to her character and doesn't really occupy a lot of screen time as the show goes on.

To sum it up, if you want a genuinely sweet and interesting buddy comedy that deals with some very heavy themes but still has more than enough levity to avoid becoming Welcome to the NHK, do yourself a favor and give Level 1 Demon Lord a chance.

Many of us got ourselves into anime because we felt, at the time, that unlike the other visual media, anime was making the impossible happen. The most absurd premises, the silliest plot turns, the wildest character designs—nothing was off the table. It was a world of new possibilities that no other medium even attempted to cover. Where else would you find a comprehensive treatise on parent-child alienation, toxic relationships, and personal growth disguised as a grotesquely violent mecha vs. kaiju battle peppered with Judeo-Christian mythology? Only in anime, my friends.

We've grown complacent and didn't notice the creeping change. As any medium or art form establishes ... itself in the open market, successful formulas inevitably start coalescing and drawing writers' attention with progressively greater force. As they prove themselves in competition, the incentive to try something new and different becomes burdened with greater economic risk, and so the medium has become plagued with safe decisions. An umpteenth romance between Nobody McSelfInsert and a variation on the dream waifu stereotype, a hundredth try-hard teenager shonen drawn out forever, a thousandth power fantasy isekai that relies chiefly on the audience's genre-savviness to establish its world and characters. For better or for worse (in my opinion for worse), these things sell, so why try something different?

Akiba Maid War isn't that. It goes back to the roots, and takes all the risks there are to deliver madness and absurdity with reckless abandon. It's an unapologetically bold effort to bring a breath of fresh air into anime, paying no mind to how silly it might look in the process. It's a loud proclamation that anime can still do things differently and work with premises most ridiculous. It's an inspirational reminder for what made this hobby worth it in the first place. It is, without doubt, a piece of art.

You might've seen people—including myself—comparing this show to a Quentin Tarantino flick. There are, of course, similarities that are on the nose, starting with the iconic Reservoir Dogs walk reference in the opening (the second one this season, in fact!), all sorts of broad genre references, and the flippant campiness. Like Tarantino, the authors are evidently fond of yakuza movies, especially the early Takeshi Kitano and Takashi Miike output. But more importantly, just like Tarantino makes his own movies out of love for movies themselves, Akiba Maid War is a love letter to anime and the culture that enables its popularity. It both pokes fun at and celebrates the otaku culture and all things moe.

There are parallels to draw here. A maid in a maid cafe will bring your order and do her "moe moe kyun" ritual, or whatever it sounds like in the particular establishment you visit. Would you cringe at it, or would it actually make your food taste better like advertised? In my opinion, that predominantly depends on the maid's own sincerity. You understand this is silly, but believe me when I say she also does, and she expects you understand it, too. But if she REALLY pours her heart and soul into the silly mannerisms and catchphrases, you just won't be able to help feeling it coming through to you. When somebody gives it their all, it commands admiration and respect no matter how silly the act itself is. You can feel this candor in Akiba Maid War. It is by all means one of the silliest shows of the year, but it does its thing with self-confidence and gusto, and delivers one of the most consistently fun experiences on recent memory without missing a beat. And for that, I can't help but love it with all my heart. This is truly anime at its finest.

Ji-Hoon Jeong, also known as JH and famous for being one of the most thought-provoking Korean webtoon authors around, has graced us with his most ambitious—and easily the most accomplished work to date, finally expanding his range from imaginative but borderline surrealistic dystopian parables to a more grounded, lived-in narrative setting. It feels almost cozy in comparison but aims for the same heights when it comes to writing quality.

The Boxer tells the story of Yu, a silent, emotionless boxer whose intense mental trauma coming from a childhood of abuse has given him a savant-like ability to perceive time as if in a slow motion. Yu ... is trying to find the light that once spurred him to engage with the sport. Failing to find it, he is slowly consumed by the darkness as his coach is trying to shape him into an even more effective tool of destruction, devoid of weaknesses inherent to regular athletes. Who do you reckon will prevail in this bout?

I've encountered some dark sports-themed comics in my life, and this one sure pulls no punches in terms of the sheer depth and variety of upsetting aspects. People die here and get hurt in more ways than one, and easily triggered readers will find some of the scenes very disturbing. Besides, this is not really a story about boxing per se any more than, say, Taiyo Matsumoto's Ping Pong is a story about table tennis; the sport setting is merely a canvas to explore social concepts and character psychology. It is certainly not a realistic take on boxing—nor is it intended to be one. Much like in his previous works The Horizon and Mosquito Wars, JH has a lot to say on the topics of abuse, trauma, war, ambition, love, human condition, power balance, parenting, growing up, and the meaning of life—and many of his takes are as biting as ever, if not outright depressive at times. Furthermore, much of this is told visually, leading to all sorts of powerful imagery. It is a great read but not an easy one. Thankfully, those who didn't get to fully enjoy his other stories because of the rather heavy-handed didacticism will, perhaps, find this one a lot more palatable thanks to the more grounded setting, developed plot structure, and a surprisingly lovable cast of characters which help put the author's social commentary and exercises in ethics into a far more relatable context. And just like in his previous works, the takeaway is, ultimately, uplifting—though you may only be able to reach it after having suffered a heartbreak or two along the way.

Yu, the protagonist of the story, is by no means its hero. He is an empty husk, a vessel for his coach's ambition. A lost child who hasn't simply given up on the world—he doesn't even *know* the world to begin with, his mind all too haunted by his traumatic past. All the positive emotions and experiences we regular people have and take for granted in our daily lives are as good as alien concepts to him. In contrast, all the other boxers he encounters have unique, vibrant personalities that make Yu look even more like the unperson he is. But everything changes inside the ring. There, all these bright personalities with rich and interesting lives get to taste the same fear, despair, and helplessness as they realize their opponent might actually not be another human like them. Pity and compassion, pride and arrogance quickly give way to a single emotion: all-consuming terror. As he mechanically dismantles his opponents with surgical, lightning-fast strikes, and as he strips away their desires and dreams by crushing their will to fight back, Yu—and by extension, the audience—cannot help pondering why people box in the first place. Unburdened by worldly affairs, he approaches boxing from a place of deep existential enquiry. Is hitting other people fun? Can problems actually be solved with violence? What drives people to persevere in the face of defeat... furthermore, in the face of imminent death? They will eventually die anyway, so what's THEIR reason to stand up to it? What is Yu, himself, trying to accomplish in the ring? This seemingly one-sided attempt at a genuine communication, a desperate plight for meaning, produces no satisfying response. But the author doesn't need to throw around vacuous statements and vain attempts at profundity when he can simply put the audience square in the characters' head-space and give personal context to their actions—which is exactly what he does, to a wonderful effect.

Yu's journey is one of redemption: not of his sins but of his own tucked-away humanity. It is a search for vulnerability required to reach and heal a deep-seated trauma. It is a quest of discovering unconditional love that is the key to the joy of life. It's a beautiful, touching character arc, but certainly not the only one you'll grow to love when reading The Boxer. The other boxers' bouts with Yu drive their own personal development, and even smaller characters get a surprising amount of depth in relatively little screen time in a testament to JH's efficiency in narrative delivery. After the main arc ends, the story loops around to the beginning to take a look at some of the other key characters introduced early on and recontextualize some of the themes and questions it raised, integrating a side-plot every bit as worthy as the main one into the complete package. The quirky, off-beat humor from Mosquito Wars also makes a return, and this time JH actually managed to avoid unwanted tonal whiplash. It serves as a welcome reprieve from the otherwise oppressively heavy atmosphere; a reprieve The Horizon sorely needed among all its doom and gloom, in my opinion.

I think it's fair to say that The Boxer shows a delightful evolution of Ji-Hoon Jeong's writing, and it will rightfully take its place as one of the best "non-sports" sports drama around. It's a wild emotional ride with not one but TWO immensely satisfying, cathartic endings—that's two more than what you get on average! Absolutely do yourself a favor and read it; it is available in English on Naver Webtoons' website and app, and some of the pivotal chapters even have a very nice built-in soundtrack. I, for one, already cannot wait for the author's next work.

It's funny how this works. The Fable's subject matter is something that'd be par for the course in Japanese pop culture of the 60s, the 70s, or even the 80s. But today, in 2022, it feels so out of place it once again becomes a breath of fresh air. There's nothing quite like it in the current media landscape, making any meaningful comparison extremely challenging—and, frankly, unneeded: its storytelling accomplishments stand firmly on their own legs.

The Fable's premise and narrative style occupy an unlikely middle ground between a classic sitcom and a dead-serious film noir. It tells a story of a pair of elite hitmen ... ordered by their boss to retire and try living a normal life as fake brother and sister, strictly forbidden to kill again. Given the obvious difficulties with reintegrating harshly conditioned human weapons back into society, a local yakuza group with ties to their organization is tasked with providing assistance so that the two can kick-start something resembling regular day-to-day life. The operative word there is "resembling", because *of course* it's not going to work out so easily—both because deeply ingrained habits and mindsets don't simply go away in a different environment, and also because circumstances calling for those habits constantly catch up to our heroes. It's an ongoing fake-it-till-you-make-it endeavor.

The manga treats this conflict with an astounding amount of thought and respect for its characters' unusual tribulations. As the result, The Fable's comedic writing is viciously funny but almost entirely deadpan in its delivery. There is virtually no witty dialogue or silly gags, no tired pop-culture references or any fan service at all; almost all the laughs are the result of characters so far removed from the norm being exposed to said norm and its vessels—regular people like us. The compelling and occasionally hysterical nature of these social interactions demonstrate truly smart writing in a premise almost completely devoid of complex plot movement, which is a rare but welcome occurrence. Fittingly, it is accompanied by hyper-realistic art that portrays characters to the finest detail of their body language, giving further credibility to visual storytelling. There is a lot of nuance—something I particularly appreciate—but no edginess or pathos commonly plaguing similarly set stories. It's remarkably down-to-earth in all the right ways.

Needless to say, the characters themselves are the bread and butter of this story, and it's very impressive just how likable they are for how unseemly their background is. Especially considering more than half of the recurring cast are either yakuza or assassins—and make no mistake, they aren't some "heart of gold" type exceptions that conveniently dodge the associated stigma. They are true to form and function, and the reason they're so relatable and fun to follow despite that is a testament to the author's ability to give them depth and humanity. They aren't "good" people by most measures, but they're complex, conflicted, and interesting. In a series where morality is largely expressed in the darker shades of grey, this is relayed in a surprisingly comfortable manner, and as I was reading I never felt like I was urged to sympathize with scum or hate the righteous. The characters navigate on their own moral compasses, but it doesn't lead to contradictions or confused allegiance. Again, good writing right there.

The Fable, much like its protagonists, appears to be a vestige of a bygone era of romanticizing organized crime and hard-boiled protagonists, an artifact out of time. But under its hood lies a funny and heartwarming tale about people on the dark side of our society dealing with their own weird troubles and trying to keep up with the times; it has a lovable cast, it nails a satisfying ending. If there's one point of (perhaps, unfair) criticism I could make, it would be for the manga's overall lack of storytelling ambition: this is not the kind of story that you'll carry in your heart and mind for years, nor it is likely to affect how you think about the world or your own self. It's fully content being only where it wants to be and achieving only what it wants to achieve—but it does so with the skill and integrity of a professional hitman.