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Around the time of the First Great War, when many others had come to similar conclusions, Hemingway spoke out against the notion of patriotic sacrifice, saying that “in modern war, you will die like a dog for no good reason.” But as far as Zeta Gundam is concerned, Hemingway’s comment is missing one piece of critical context – having to live through a war is not much of an improvement.

As a direct sequel, Zeta Gundam makes no hesitation in reaffirming itself within familiar territory, establishing a new war from the perspective of an isolated ship, whose mobile suit pilot, Kamille, is inexperienced in combat, ... a point only matched by his inexperience with regulating his emotions. Although motivated in part by the death of his parents, Kamille’s newtype abilities allow him to innately sense anguish from seemingly anyone within his vicinity. This makes him not directly comparable to a Hamlet-like figure haunted by the ghost of his father, but more of a burdened and cursed being, haunted by the fabric of Death itself. In particular, this aspect of Kamille’s character relates to Harold Bloom’s comments on Hamlet and his resentment that comes from being placed within a ‘cosmological drama’. Kamille may grow more comfortable and free with his movement inside the Gundam, but the zero-G environment can deprive him of that control at any moment, and further, while Kamille may have a certain level of autonomy when it comes to controlling the Gundam itself, he is entirely helpless when it comes to anything external, with his attempts at persuasion or communication with others only leading to further frustration and upset, due to his inability to properly help or change anything. Through this framework, Zeta Gundam develops a tragic backdrop that encapsulates the core of each of its individual episodes, as Kamille may be endowed with the means to acquire apotheosis, the godlike power to decimate any enemy with his own will, but he is an isolated being, held back by his own conscience and desire for a better world – love, another of Kamille’s driving desires, is also left unfulfilled, which as with so much else that happens to him, ends up in failure due to his inability to change the circumstances of the world he lives in.

Kamille may be the most important character in terms of drama and psychology, but Char, who carries with him a level of sorrow and heaviness, is the driving force in many of the episodes that take an inside look at the political and sociological elements of the Gundam story. These episodes manage to be some of the strongest of the series, most prominently by showing ordinary life within the colonies, which could not accurately be labelled as retrofuturism or its contemporary atomic age ideas of futurism, but nonetheless feature a distinctively individual portrait of a lifestyle that has taken in certain cultural notions and technologies of a changing world, while rigidly sticking to others. More critically, the wider context these episodes establish gives them some of the greatest depth, as while Kamille may be frustrated by his inability to move the world in a more peaceful direction, these episodes that step away from the confines of spaceships and the space battles that carry no distinct landmarks apart from asteroids, elaborate on the many individuals within the military bureaucracy, some who are princely ideologues that want to change the world (much like a certain Prince Hamlet), and others who are ‘just following orders’.

Its wider ideas of tragedy notwithstanding, Zeta Gundam is a carefully orchestrated and directed affair, and the reason it is able to effectively implement its thematic ideas is through a proper understanding of the episodic format, knowing when to focus on individual characters and their thoughts, or to allow their actions speak for themselves. Its episodes are able to feel conclusive in their own right, whilst at the same time generating intrigue with the extra context they add to the story and universe, emphasising this story with a mounting and expanding action. Kamille is a figure who is significant as the centrepiece of this story because he doesn’t develop in the way typical of the genre, Amuro included, he does not become battle hardened so much as he simply becomes familiarised with the sight of battle and its expectations. Desperation, his emotional response, remains the same, and while the outside world may be a cacophony of colour, explosives and lasers and whatever a Minovsky particle is, his internal perception is always familiar – the shots of Kamille’s introspection are marked visually by the dull blue tint of his visor, and auditorily by his persistent screams.

Zeta Gundam is a finely produced work, one that is not overbearing with its characterisation or tone, but is able to, with remarkable pace, produce a gripping tragedy, in which ambition and belief are held at the mercy of a rapidly changing world that cares little for the individual. To return to Hamlet, he lamented that despite having “cause, will and strength”, he was still held back by his own inaction. Kamille, comparatively, had all of these characteristics, but external factors prevented him from acting in a way that had any real meaning. I would not be able to declare which of the two circumstances is worse.

Superficially, Joshiraku presents itself as the lesser cousin of Sayonara Zetsubou-Sensei, making sure to incorporate many of author Koji Kumeta’s previously established elements into its repertoire: traditional iconography, heavy emphasis on kanji puns and cultural references, and Ionescian dialogue. But while it does includes many aspects already present in Zetsubou-sensei, it also omits plenty of the points that made it especially effective, most critically by replacing its large cast of trait-based characters in favour of the more standard treatment of 5 main characters, all of whom meet the expected archetypes within the standard anime comedy format.

The most notable aspect of Joshiraku is perhaps its formatting, ... which is much closer to that of a 4koma manga, rather than an anime episode with a standard A-plot and B-plot – for that matter, it lacks any real conception of a plot at all. Exhibiting a narrative in any capacity is firmly rejected, as they take a much looser interpretation, which is perhaps exemplified by its first chapter title, "Usual Conversation", which appropriately enough leads to a meta-discussion about what constitutes 'usual', and ends with nothing being resolved. Despite the title of the series, it has very little to do with rakugo, as while its main cast are all performers of the artform, this aspect of their lives is rarely discussed or even acknowledged, and the only time any actual rakugo is seen is at the start of each episode, wherein only the closing moments are shown, and naturally there is little to infer from a story that the viewer is only able to capture one sentence from. This technique may appear comparable to Seinfeld, but it remains distinct, as Seinfeld's use of a narrated monologue to open its episodes carried significance by remaining at least tangibly related to the episode as a whole, and sometimes retained an extra purpose as it was at times used again as a segment to end the episode, to conclusively wrap it all together. Joshiraku de-emphasises its own existence, which is also exhibited in that its rakugo receives very limited applause, which alongside the fact that its characters are all deeply removed from any conception of the Yamato-nadeshiko, may seem to suggest that Joshiraku advances some form of argument about the erosion of Japanese tradition, in culture, in language, and in attitude. Alistair Swale once stated that "There is arguably a point where aesthetic ideals from classical literature, for example mono no aware or wabi and sabi, engender a certain awkwardness; it is something of a struggle to employ such concepts usefully in relation to cinema without drifting into a certain pastiche of cultural references." This is where the core of Joshiraku lies, through the disconnect in attempting to transfer meaning and ideas from one medium to another. Rakugo does not provide much of a recognisable framework in the story it establishes for a modern Tokyoite audience, and while Joshiraku may seem to display elements in its imagery that appear distinctly Japanese, including in sections where the characters make visits to classic landmarks like the Sensoji Temple or Tsukiji fish market for no given reason (in the latter case, going to the fish market, proceeding to talk about fish, and then going to buy ramen instead), it neither contains a cohesive integration of this classical iconography, nor does it accept it wholesale in a nostalgic manner.

With this in mind, Joshiraku does manage to operate effectively as a firm consolidation of all the conventions and ideas that have come to be expected from a modern comedy anime. Particularly, it avoids the rakugo notion of developing a singular, long story with a simplistic punchline. Instead, its dialogue is equal parts manzai, Irvine Welsh, and Eugene Ionesco, allowing it to retain the same sort of tenacity and idiosyncratic particularities exhibited in Zetsubou-sensei. Of the above influences, Ionesco holds a specific connection, due to the fact that The Bald Soprano was originally planned to end via the audience being shot by a firing squad. The confusion from the Ionescian dialogue becomes familiar, and thereby in a sense it grows comforting, before it creates a violent upheaval which destroys this established idea, and resets it again. This is a point that Joshiraku makes use of, by establishing situations that are entirely Ionescian, creating a semblance of understanding with the points of discussion, and likewise, a similarly violent upheaval, which also evokes a similar tradition seen within manzai, as this sudden change is used for comedic effect, rather than to punctuate a philosophic or linguistic idea as Ionesco chose to. In this area, it is undeniably effective, the sound design and animation keep these moments impactful, providing a sense of weight and power with these movements. Even so, one detriment that Joshiraku holds is that even with the strengths of its dialogue acknowledged, its main characters do not appear to have the same level of thought put into their creation, being a largely standard array of genre archetypes, without offering much new insight into the prevalence of these archetypes: the glasses-wearing otaku, the quiet one, and the comparatively normal one who barely even has any lines. There aren’t any other recurring characters, meaning this main cast is all the viewer has to engage with, and so to have produced more original, or at least evocative characters would have done a lot to elevate the series.

Although it may present some interesting points, Joshiraku is undeniably an entry into the comedy anime genre – as idiosyncratic as its dialogue may be, it is not a series that is immune to simplistic labelling or categorisation. R.G. Collingwood once suggested that requiring artists to create work that is able to be sold and enjoyed to a mass audience contradicts the fundamental nature of what art is, and with this in mind, perhaps if Joshiraku were developed for the purpose of providing some further exploration of the historic and aesthetic ideas it presents, it may have been a much more interesting work. But nonetheless, it is able to be easily categorised, and as with any comedy, part of this categorisation lies on the inevitable and fundamental question, "is it funny?" It manages to be funny enough, Zetsubou-sensei, Ionesco, manzai, and Seinfeld have all had much greater comedic moments than Joshiraku, but it is consistently funny across its runtime, which by any metric makes it a successful work.

Mobile Suit Gundam is a work that understands and applies the principles of Aristotelian tragedy, although in contrast to many later works that borrowed its iconography, it is not a tragedy. It may have tragic elements, but it does not overbear in emphasising the victimhood status of its main character, which may be Gundam’s greatest strength. It contains a mixture of many elements – action, comedy, tragedy, and political intrigue, which it is able to deftly flow between, while always maintaining the emotional core that makes each of its components effective and engaging on an individual level.

The DNA of Space Battleship Yamato runs through Gundam, ... which manages to evidence itself in several ways, an influence that becomes most readily apparent through the frequent use of nautical terminology, but it is also retained through the editing and approach to the episodic format, particularly with regards to its action sequences. Herein lies a critical difference, as while Yamato also made use of land, naval and aerial combat to provide much-needed variety to familiar set pieces, Gundam offers a more potent ability to provide new forms and variations in context, and more significantly, variation in scale. It is able to put forth a convincing level of scale, portraying a large and chaotic battle in which the main characters only occupy a small part of the overall picture, although its earlier episodes do manage to be more self-contained, but still effective. While many of these episodes are set in space, they do not portray it as a vast emptiness, instead utilising a Frankenheimerian sense of wholeness via the editing to provide it with a consistent sense of background and placement, which allows it to keep the movement at least somewhat grounded, and this also allows it to avoid the trap of making its mechs move so effortlessly that they feel floaty or weightless. In this regard, it is also remarkable for managing to offer as large a variety of unique mecha designs as it does, with both sides upgrading and developing their units as the series progresses, which also manages to further accentuate their individual features – the sluggishness of the Zaku is a minor point that allows for the action scenes to take on a slower paced style of combat towards the beginning, and in the final arc, when the Zaku is fighting alongside newer mechs with both better firepower and mobility, that slowness ends up being exemplified, being an example of one of many idiosyncrasies that begins as a point of minutiae that ends up rising to the surface.

Within its writing, one of Gundam's principal strengths it its ability to introduce a large number of concurrent aspects of its universe at once, without falling into exposition or otherwise coming across as overbearing with its delivery of new information. In particular, its tonal framework approaches the concept of war with a remarkable level of originality, by making it an accepted part of life in which its insidious psychological effects are always present in the background, and when the right circumstances fall into place, it can lead to a mental breakdown in any of its possible characters at a moment’s notice, giving Gundam's depiction of war more commonality with the soul-consuming barbarity of Apocalypse Now than the simplistic soapboxing of The Deer Hunter.
Though this aspect of its writing is true for its tone and thematic elements, the final arc of the series does not manage to follow through in this area. Foreshadowing is one specific technique that this concurrent approach uses, and Gundam is uncharacteristically patient with its foreshadowing – the encounter between Amuro and his father, and then Sayla and Char, happen in the first and second episodes respectively, and these narrative threads are not expanded upon until the closing 6 or so episodes. It is for this reason that the introduction of the concept of Newtypes, also in the final 6 episodes, comes across as disappointing in its execution, as they do not adhere to the same writing principles that the rest of the series does. The word Newtype is not mentioned, nor is their existence so much as alluded to until this point in the series, which coincides with the introduction of a new character, who exists to be a plot device rather than an individual. As a furtherance of this issue, these episodes are marked by a considerable increase in exposition, with people having to directly explain what Newtypes are and how they work, contrasting it heavily with the rest of the series which was able to effectively and naturally introduce plot elements without having to put the brakes on the story’s pacing, which is precisely what the introduction of Newtypes does.

In its entirety, Gundam is able to orchestrate and balance character, worldbuilding and action into a comprehensive package, creating a series that is able to layer and compound intrigue and tension to keep it consistently interesting. Although its concluding arc is not up to the standard set by the rest of the series, its ability to continually move forwards and provide new forms of context and imagery with its set pieces, together with its solidly interconnected characterisation, makes it a series worthy of its canonicity.

Flag is a bold venture, committing entirely to its realistic pseudo-documentary style, which means omitting an emotionally charged main character, elaborate robot-vs-robot battles, or any of the other genre conventions that would typically serve as points to sell the series on. In that regard, it is a series that can’t be easily sold or summarised via a poster or tagline, but it can at least be summarised accurately with a familiar phrase: it is boring. For that matter, it is very committed to being boring, and it is respectable in its endeavour to reject almost every narrative convention that it is expected to perform, but ... while its willingness to be different may be respectable, that doesn’t mean much when its outcome suffers for it. It may do some interesting things when viewed in a wider context, but as a product on its own, the series itself often fails to generate interest.

The most significant part of Flag is its visual approach, which is immediately striking, as it applies a Brechtian form of spectatorship via its camera, in which every moment of its runtime is seen through a disconnected interface, predominantly via the lens of a physical camera, a point also reflected in its cinematography which is unflatteringly naturalistic, with the camera typically placed in such a position that people’s faces are obscured from the frame as they have a conversation, or the camera’s operator will decide to move around and look at the scenery, which as may be expected for something that takes place in a desert country, is rarely bursting with features. This technique has echoes of Gasaraki, a prior work also directed by Ryosuke Takahashi that Flag shares many similarities to, but in many ways it is used to greater effect in Gasaraki. In Flag, the camera filter is something that becomes familiar, and by having it appear all of the time, it ends up diminishing its effect, and when this conscious form of spectatorship becomes assumed and understood, it ends up wrapping all the way around to being a detached and uninvolved form of cinematography, leaving it with the same resultant outcome as standard continuity editing. In Gasaraki, distortion and camera filters are used frequently, with scenes depicting news broadcasts, monochrome helicopter camera feeds, and views from the mechs themselves, which were subject to varying degrees of static. However, one key difference is that this often appeared in contrast to the scenes from the perspective of its main character, providing forms of exposition, a different form of imagery and also generating worldbuilding by showing how the events of the story affected different groups of people. Flag’s use of this method does end up losing some of the Brechtian impact through its overuse, but it is an issue seriously compounded by the fact that it does not come anywhere close to approaching the same range in its use that Gasaraki does. Gasaraki shows many real cameras held by different people and machines, being used for different purposes, leading to a fundamentally and immediately visible difference based upon the origins of each specific form of camerawork. Instead, Flag is composed of two perspectives, a photojournalist, and another photojournalist who also provides narration, and this fundamental lack of difference also contributes to to the sluggish pace and feel of the series, as it does not feel like its episodes occupy a typical A and B plot, but rather a single A plot that is dragged out to double its appropriate length.

One point that this idiosyncratic approach does have to its benefit is its immersive quality, particularly through the POV sequences which provide diegetic graphs and infographics, allowing it to convey information in an efficient manner that is nonetheless still visually inventive and engaging, which is especially helpful when the information in question is drier than the desert it's set in, whether it be discussions on the limits of gun depression, or looking at a blurry photograph and trying to match it to a particular SAM model, which as far as most viewers will be concerned, all look basically the same and do basically the same thing. Gasaraki was similarly dry, taking the issue of food security and Japanese economic autarky to drive its plot, concepts that have been noted as being relevant factors in a potential US-China war in the Pacific, but rather than speculate on a potential war, Flag decides to adopt the motifs, factors and subsequent consequences from a pre-existing contemporary war, the GWOT, with its story focusing on an invasion of an undeveloped country that serves as an amalgamation of Afghanistan and Vietnam. But despite the subject matter, it is a remarkably apolitical work – in one episode, a character alludes to the Rwandan Genocide, which is a line that seems to come out of nowhere, as while superficially and aesthetically allegorical, Flag is entirely disconnected from the outside world, which limits its ability to develop and immerse itself in its own story, much less one with significant subtext as one may expect from the setting. Takahashi’s works do often exhibit a Frankenheimerian interest in politics and power, but what contrasts Flag with both Gasaraki and VOTOMS is this political element is not centralised through a single figure. As such, the wider political implications of its story, which should be emphasised when it is a story specifically about politics and political conflict, are nowhere to be seen. Why, for instance, do the UN conferences always insist on the violence in the country not being an issue to further their plans for the ceasefire? Is it an act of individual bravado, ignorance of the issue, the result of manipulation from higher-ups to force the ceasefire to be completed by a certain date? This is all conjecture, as there are no answers to be found, for either the viewer or the characters. The UN don’t know what they are doing, nor what the enemy is doing, and this could be argued to contribute to a sense of realism. Even if it does get some great ratings, war doesn’t usually end in a cinematically dramatic fashion, and as per Jean Baudrillard, is so heavily misrepresented and manipulated through its media coverage that any sense of reality is lost by the time it reaches the public eye. For that matter, if one considers the historical precedent of the constructed image of Saddam Hussein as a megalomaniacal dictator, along with President Bush’s frequent invocation of fighting a Christian form of evil, Flag actually makes less of an attempt to present an oversimplified and fictional depiction of international conflict than real life does.

Flag is capable of supplying tension at times, but it is a work that is idiosyncratic more than it is interesting, and in many ways it is interesting directly because of those idiosyncrasies. Alongside Gasaraki, it stands as a work that goes as far as possible to try and emphasise realistic elements within the inherently fantastical mecha genre, seeming to deliberately test the limits of just how much realism could be put into a work like this, but even Gasaraki contained a grand narrative. Flag has plenty of unique design elements, and it is a work that is more than adequate for studying within the wider context of either Takahashi, the 2000s, or mecha as a whole. But as a work to be watched and enjoyed, it is largely hollow, its deeply understated characters and plot development will alienate general audiences, and its lack of action will likewise leave hardcore mecha otaku with a lack of content to keep them engaged, especially seeing as its mech has more in common with the motorbike from Tron than any other Sunrise mecha before or since. It defies conventions and common sensibilities of writing, as it chooses to take Brechtian principles, not to advance any idea, but to simply confront the viewer with its own simultaneously empty and original existence.

The first season of Yuru Camp was remarkable for two predominant reasons – its authoritative and confident audio-visual direction, and the clear intersection of its activity/subculture as a point that directly relates back to its main characters, a technique that enhanced both aspects of the production. However, in many areas, its second season does not feel like an extension or even a sequel, but a step backwards, foregoing any points of interest to retread the same iconography but without approaching any significant ideas in doing so.

Nebulous concepts notwithstanding, it is at least consistently competently made, and never outright generic. The direction displays an understanding of ... the slice of life genre, what makes it work, and how to condense its motifs efficiently into the confines of a 25-minute episode. But when it comes to the issue of addressing its own concepts, that is where it can end up feeling less refined. Specifically, one point that the first season of Yuru Camp was able to make use of was interconnectivity, whereby the act of camping was its central (and viewed in a wider context, seemingly arbitrary) conceit, but one that was always purposeful, and managed to provide emphasis in relation to its two main characters. Although not parabolic or even necessarily conventional in its underlying intentions, it was able to accentuate its characters via the camping, which manifested itself as an extension of its two protagonists, exhibited through their behaviour and dialogue. As for the second season, this aspect seems to have been foregone, which is also seen in its reduced focus on its two main characters, utilising the wider cast more frequently, providing less opportunity for them to have a sense of poignancy or importance. The idiosyncrasies that were once present have been diminished, and its dialogue feels a lot less particular to the ideas that it initially presented, and more in line with the conventional character types and character conversations that could have perhaps come from any other writer, or any other series.

This lesser focus is apparent in other areas, one visual difference being that far less of the series is set during night or early morning, and of those scenes that are, the impact on the lighting is less pronounced than in comparative scenes from the first season. This also lessens the level of immersion, as the characters do not occupy as prominent of a position within a particular frame, being one object in a wider area, rather than the focal point that the lighting is specifically framed around. As a furtherance of this, using the opening scene of each episode as a reference, the average shot length of the first season comes in at 5.38 seconds, whereas for the second season, this ended up being reduced all the way down to 4.59, from which it can be inferred that the visuals manage to diminish the immersion and significance of the characters through the use of lighting, and through the editing, the environment and atmosphere are simultaneously diminished in turn.

It is more often the case that sequels fail to accentuate the points of an original work and provide an overall better experience, and to this end, the second season of Yuru Camp performs as expected, wherein the problem lies. It is not a bad series by any means, but it performs as expected – it has a large cast of archetypal characters, moments of manzai-style comedy, points of drama, and every other element that typically comes out of a slice of life series. But with a prior season that went beyond expectation to provide moments of true clarity, and a more consistently detailed sense of place, emphasised by a soundtrack that is this time around used more sparingly, it is a series that feels restrained, which while never ineffective, is also never as effective as it has previously demonstrated it has the capacity to be.

VOTOMS director Ryosuke Takahashi’s career is uncharacteristic in that, of the many series he has authored or directed, VOTOMS is the only one to ever receive sequels of any sort, and it was not until the release of Pailsen Files in the 2000s that it managed to receive a full 12-episode anime rather than sporadic OVA releases. Equally uncharacteristically for a sequel, Pailsen Files is a largely unique entity, one that displays an interest in taking the series and setting in a new direction, rather than furthering the same ideas that its original entry had already conceptualised.

One area in which this new approach is made ... evident is through the use of distinct locations, allowing it to portray a more convincing image of an entire galaxy. By moving regularly between different planets, each with their own distinct ecological temperament, and adding a greater emphasis on detail therein, this sense of place is accomplished two-fold. A legitimate effort was made to produce an entire system of logistics and interconnected systems belonging to a galaxy typified by its incessant war, a state which is also conveyed through its visual design. Courtrooms, barracks, hospitals and other areas all provide a degree of authenticity to the setting, something which is accentuated by the use of command centres in which the tactical implications of the local geography are made apparent, providing the story with multiple layers of purpose and payoff for its focus on its environment.

With this in mind, it is worth remembering that a new approach is not necessarily an improved one, something which is made apparent before the first episode even starts. Foregoing what had worked so well previously, Pailsen Files’ mechs are animated entirely in CGI, which was a new endeavour for its animators, as evidenced by its inconsistent quality. The worst animation is confined entirely to the OP, which for close to a third of its duration, utilises a particular transition that would have looked more appropriate in a homemade stop-motion Lego video than in something by a professional studio. Additionally, there are singular action scenes in which the framerate will drop considerably, which is the sort of issue that is able to completely ruin any sense of immersion close to instantaneously, even if this immersion is lost just for a moment. It is at least something that stops appearing roughly around the halfway point of the series, but the fact that it appears at all may very well be an indication that the technology wasn’t quite there yet, and they should have waited a year or two before creating an entire series that relied on its application. But at its worst, it is at least watchable, which is more than can be said for the 1983 Golgo 13.

While there are discrepancies with the animation, even if relatively limited, the writing has no such issue. For that matter, if there is one thing to say about the writing, it is remarkably consistent. Its most striking quality is its multi-layered recontextualisation, firstly by adding a stronger emphasis on the plot, and by establishing different units within the military whose goals are rarely uniform amongst each other, thereby creating a degree of believability for the events of the story, as well as a means of demonstrating its importance, by showing the wide-reaching effects of the protagonist’s actions. With that said, factionalism and political intrigue only constitute a small element, but an important element nonetheless, and one that allows the writing to operate on multiple levels.

Although it may not be explicitly evocative of a unique form of stylisation and auteurship, Pailsen Files is in fact representative of its creator’s directorial experience. Its CGI is far from picturesque, but underneath the surface is a Frankenheimerian utilisation and interconnection of story, character and action in a manner that is persistently engaging, dramatically suspenseful, and while it is far from the best work within the wider VOTOMS catalogue, it is an undeniably fine work that, as a soft reboot, performed its duty with distinction and honour, two concepts that are ironically enough entirely absent from any of its characters.

Onimai is a non-entity, vapid and hollow in every aspect of its production. In order to work, it relies on two points, its application of cliches and intertextuality, which are not addressed in significant enough detail nor with any semblance of original commentary that would justify their inclusion, and its use of colour and cinematography which only accentuate its emptiness, which itself reveals the problem therein, with only form to fall back on (and not even all aspects of form), they fail to create anything that they could expand upon or provide any aspect of interest.

As for the use of colour, that is the only ... positive quality that Onimai has to its credit. Its colour palette is remarkably easy on the eyes, fixating almost exclusively on soft shades of pink, yellow and blue, which goes a long way in contributing to its relaxed atmosphere, something that is reflected further with its cinematography. At many points in the series, they will use long takes in which the camera setup does not change, remaining in a static wide shot for an extended period of time, and this laid-back approach to its framing and placement of its characters is emblematic of its entire design philosophy, of being akin to Norwegian slow television, something to mindlessly watch while taking in the pretty colours, and by extension not taking in any real mental exertion. In terms of film form, Brian De Palma is perhaps one of the best known figures in utilising it to its full extent, which is succinctly summarised in his oft-repeated quotation that "form is content", which is true but limiting, hence why the second part of the quote that is often left out is that "other stuff is content as well". Form is content, and De Palma's works make use of it, through techniques such as 360 degree shots, long takes, POV shots, and split-screen shots, either in the literal sense or by creating a division through the lighting and mise en scene. This heavy reliance on form contrasts him with Martin Scorsese, who De Palma has noted leans much further towards the use of 'content as content', i.e. more intricate dialogue and characterisation in place of visual storytelling. As outlined by De Palma, the use of form as content is an effective means of conveying character, and is reflective of the story and its intentions. But Onimai has no intentions on any artistic level, it does not use form to exemplify the state of its characters, it only has one intention, and that is to be something to look at, it is certainly not a series that encourages the viewer to pay attention in any capacity. Slice of life anime is sometimes dismissed as being the audio-visual equivalent to fast food, and if that's the case, then Onimai perfectly encapsulates the experience of being like the fat people from Wall-E who are so lazy that they have to eat all their food out of a tube.

If De Palma's works use form to further their concept of character, then why can't Onimai? Uncomplicatedly, it has no character. Unlike most slice of life anime which focus on a group of 4-5 people, Onimai is predominantly concerned with only 2, and neither of them have anything to them, nor do the two other side characters who appear later. The protagonist is Mahiro, whose sister turns him into a 13 year old girl under the pretence of stopping him from being a hikikomori, which is their stated intention towards the beginning, but it is not a claim that even lasts one full episode, as after this point it just becomes a vague insinuation to justify things happening, there is nothing even closely resembling an actual objective from his sister. The problem is that Mahiro has no character, he does not have any level of autonomy or real personality to make him a rounded-out character that so much as gives the impression that he's meant to be a real person with their own thoughts and feelings. He is (supposedly) a hikikomori, and then he is told to go outside, which is something he does so effortlessly that it's as though they didn't actually know what the word hikikomori meant. Correspondingly, despite suggestions to the contrary, he can talk to people, go outside on his own, or do just about anything he's told to without anything ever causing him an issue. Mahiro has no identifiable traits, he just does what he is told, and that is all there to say about him, and when he has no identifiable traits or anything that could constitute a self-identity, it gives the audience far less reason to try and identify with him in turn. The second principal issue is that nothing ever goes wrong for him, which only makes the events of the series even more uninteresting, because there is really nothing of interest in watching a series about someone who exercises no autonomy, and also displays no real decision-making abilities or adaptability to things going wrong, because they never do. There are points when it is alluded to, but without committing, there is no point to it – in one episode, Mahiro is confronted by a truant officer, who asks what school he goes to, which is very clearly a comedy setup, in which something has clearly gone wrong as he doesn’t have a good explanation for the current situation, but rather commit to it even slightly, they then just cut and start a new scene where he’s at home, where it can only be inferred that nothing actually happened, and this is only one example of a recurring issue, they are not able to commit to anything in even the slightest capacity, which eliminates any possible interest, and it is supposed to be a comedy series, but having unexpected consequences is perhaps the very core of comedy, one which Onimai chooses to forego, with the very expected consequence that it has no semblance of comedy to its writing. For another point of comparison, Seinfeld is known as a "show about nothing", and its plots are reflective of that, buying a salad or going to the dry cleaner's are events as nondescript and mundane as the ones that occur in Onimai, but a major difference is that things go wrong, what starts off as a simple errand leads to several other unintended consequences that continue to compound before culminating in an ending that moves all the episode’s plot points together in a satisfying conclusion. None of which will be found in Onimai, there are never any consequences, not even in the immediate short-term, and what should be an elevator pitch for an episode ends up being stretched out to its entire runtime.

Apart from Seinfeld, there is another exemplary work that is able to address the same issues that Onimai does, with such a greater deal of effectiveness that it just makes Onimai look like it's taking the piss. The Future Is In Eggs by Eugene Ionesco (who also cited the Marx brothers as one of his direct influences) was, according to its author, a play that "began with a grown man becoming a schoolboy again", which is halfway to a grown man becoming a schoolgirl, but no matter, especially seeing as Onimai is only ever concerned with the gender aspect, and offers no real commentary regarding Mahiro's change in age. As with Ionesco's wider bibliography, The Future Is In Eggs is deeply satirical, surreal, and above all, ironic and comedic, but it is purposeful – the play sees its protagonist, the 'man of the house' being confined to a domestic and child-rearing role, who is commanded to "produce" them continually, and it is revealed towards the end that his eggs produce not only children, but fruit and vegetables and consumer products. The Future Is In Eggs is a work that clearly has something to say in regards to the intersection of gender and family roles, control and power, and the nature of consumerism, in which biological and technological products alike are encouraged to be created at as rapid a pace as possible, with one analysis of the play by Rosette Lamont referring to the manner in which "children are produced in order to become cannon fodder, cannons to be destroyed as they destroy in order for production to start all over again." An unusual premise certainly, but from the initiative that its subversion of traditional gender roles puts forth, it is one that is able to be both poignant and humorous. Meanwhile, Onimai has nothing to say, its only application of gender is purely fetishistic. Perhaps they knew how truly dull their series was, which is why they cannot last more than half an episode without resorting to putting in a close-up of someone’s breasts, or someone climbing on top of Mahiro in an attempt to try and keep the viewer stimulated, not interested, just stimulated enough that they keep watching, and where Ionesco presents a criticism of consumerism, Onimai just puts in a blatant advertisement for Guilty Gear.

Onimai is not something that is meant to be enjoyed. It does not have any semblance of character, of writing, of humour. It is cliched by design, so that viewers as empty-minded as its own writing are able to follow the plot while barely even paying attention, because it does not want them to pay attention to anything except the sparkly colours and big breasts. It is not intended to be enjoyed, it is intended to be watched, and nothing further. But when its writing and direction are this flawed in this many areas, then even within the confines of self-indulgent escapism, it manages to set itself apart as being uniquely generic and uneventful. Utter tripe, the movie with Bill Murray where he joins the Army was awful too, but even with the circumstances he had more autonomy and self-determination to his character in that one.

A Place Further Than the Universe comes across as an exercise in equal distribution, which is exhibited in character, in setting, and in tone. In doing so, it is able to certainly cover a lot of ground, but despite its wide dispersion of content, it is rarely poignant in its application, and in many ways, it feels simultaneously like both a departure from the conventions of the slice of life genre, as well as a series that overuses certain conventions to its detriment.

The elevator pitch of "high school girls go to Antarctica" is one that doesn’t need much further elaboration, at least until one reaches ... the question of actually finding enough to do in the continent to facilitate making a whole series around the concept. It is perhaps for this reason that it is divided into exact thirds, with each part involving the preparation, the travel, and finally actually being in Antarctica, although the issue of there not being anything to do can be the attributed cause for how heavily it relies on penguin iconography, with them being shown or named seemingly at least once per episode.
This divided approach does manage to work decently enough, but no greater than that, and one area in which this is made evident is when it is compared to Yuru Camp, which was released the same year. In regards to art direction, the two are far from alike, with Yuru Camp taking Mount Fuji as its landmark and central iconographic feature, and using it as a framework to build its settings around. A Place Further Than the Universe takes a lot longer to settle into its core framework of Antarctica, and it is consequently far less imposing in its imagery. Its soundtrack also comes across as remarkably generic, sounding as though it came from a pre-recorded library that could be used for any series, rather than something that was custom-made and designed with the specific intention of accentuating the specific scenes in which it appears. Its use of insert songs on multiple occasions also ends up being symptomatic of the same problem, almost as though it came from some conception that modern anime are just 'supposed to' contain insert songs, but it ends up being a case of overuse, and one that seems to demonstrate a poor understanding of the purpose of using insert songs to begin with; after it becomes a familiar addition to the episode’s format, rather than adding to the overall emotional impact, it ends up being subtractive and belaboured.

Its writing manages to be a lot more effective than its audio-visual design, utilising a cast of four main characters, who, as with the differing settings, are each given a similar amount of focus and screentime. While archetypal, these characters are not bound or completely defined by their respective archetypes either. They are adequately rounded out, leaving them with enough substance to maintain an interesting presence that manages to provide the series with an important connective thread. Although it does use running gags and catchphrases, it does not overindulge in them, just as it doesn’t seem to overindulge in anything (except J-pop montages), containing a balanced amount of drama, comedy and the character growth that comes from any Bildungsroman. As such, it is able to keep a balanced tone, not compromising the effectiveness of either its comedic or dramatic aspects, and perhaps due to the lack of a school setting for most of its duration, its drama never comes across as forced or overblown, although a lot of it is inarguably predictable – once a point of conflict is established, it rarely diverges from the exact path that dramatic convention dictates that it goes down, and when the attention is entirely on the characters rather than the setting and its demands, a greater deal of originality in this aspect would have gone a long way.

A Place Further Than the Universe may be an exemplification of the Jack-of-all-trades, as while it certainly addresses a large number of different concepts, it is never outstanding in any of them. Only one particularly strong aspect is typically enough to bring a work to the level of excellence, but herein there appears to be a level of hesitation to focus on any particular area to give it the ability to be anything more than a standard potboiler slice of life for that year. Even when accounting for its unimpressive audio-visual design, it is still competently made, the only problem being that, without a properly emphasised sense of place with its principal location, this prevents it from constructing its own iconography to embed itself and give it a sense of identity.

Akira, despite its age, remains a highly recognised and canonical work, which is a status that very few are able to achieve. However, as is often the case with canon, it is more fondly remembered for its status and historical impact than for its actual content. A remarkably large portion of its screentime is devoted to scenes in which people fall over as the ground underneath them crumbles, which in many ways is representative of the viewing experience it creates, as just like a bridge, if a film lacks a solid foundation to build itself on, it is only a matter of time before it ... collapses on itself.

Brian De Palma, a director whose films have been noted both for their violent nature and their excellent visual detail (as Akira has), was a figure who nonetheless understood that just making it look impressive cannot sustain a film on its own, asserting that “You’ve got to bring the characters into it, and you’ve got to bring the emotional story into it to hold the audience, you just can’t have these visual arabesques to carry you through a movie.” The biggest problem with putting such an emphasis on visuals, especially for animation, is that inevitably those cutting edge special effects will end up looking unremarkable, or perhaps even unconvincing – the stop motion in the 1933 King Kong was at one point considered top of the line, however to describe it as unconvincing to a contemporary audience would be an understatement as gargantuan as its titular monster. The reason King Kong remains a classic is not because of its scenes where he punches through buildings, but because of its emotional connective thread, with Kong trying to come to terms with understanding the coexistence of his violent and beastly nature, along with his sympathetic side; the desire to kill, but also the desire to nurture and protect. In doing so, they make Kong a multi-faceted character, someone going through a serious level of internal conflict, which makes him entirely unlike anyone in Akira, where all the characters are absolute caricatures of cliched archetypes. The scientist who wants to take an unstable test subject, but insists he can control it, and then it turns out he can’t control it and it destroys everything. The small-time street criminal who thinks he has something to prove. The woman who gets sexually assaulted so the main character can save her. These are not characters, these are unoriginal and unengaging cliches that can work as a basis, a central idea to build a character from, but Akira neglects to do so, and instead leaves them in this unfinished state, leaving its protagonists with a severe lack of any real identifiable traits, or anything to round them out as people.

Directorially, it is hardly any better, in particular due to its unimaginative and plainly uninteresting cinematography and editing, which ends up being evocative of a lack of confidence in the ability to put forth ideas through film form in any area beyond high-fidelity animation sequences. It is ultimately an action film, and consequently keeping the audience engaged via the continually increasing action is a core part of the genre it belongs to, but Akira is in many ways slow and meandering, its closing act especially feels far too drawn out for a film of its length. One particular technique that is repeated far too often across its runtime is a slow fade-out to black, which is a form of ending a scene that doesn’t mesh well with the content that leads up to that moment, and genre conventions aside, an overuse of any one technique to this extent would grow tiresome, which is why its reliance on POV shots during many sequences only contributes to it feeling limited in its output.

In its closing act especially, the pacing is poor, although its issues are certainly present throughout. It is established within the first half of the film that that Tetsuo has the ability to destroy floors with his mind, and so, when he goes on a rampage in the closing act, it is the very definition of overdone, as he goes out into the street, and crushes a floor, where they cut to a wide shot of the people standing there falling over, and he does it again, and they use another wide shot, and then they repeat this same exact formula so many times that you briefly forget that you were watching an actual film and not just a tech demo for rubble effects, because that’s certainly what it feels like. To return briefly to tactful filmmaking, De Palma was responsible for Casualties of War, a Vietnam War film which has peculiarly enough stayed far out of that specific genre’s own canon. Regardless, within the one setting in which he could be as self-indulgent with the explosions as he wanted, De Palma did not devote an entire 10 minute sequence to having shit blow up, notably there is only one helicopter across the whole film that ever releases rockets to total the ground beneath it, because when you see one scene of the ground falling apart after getting shot at with explosives, you’ve seen them all. But in Akira, even within the confines of a singular scene, the editing is remarkably slow and dreary, it is so static in its composition and shot length that it feels more like watching an episode of Antiques Roadshow than a grand cinematic finale. There’s never anything done to really put forth a real sense of scale and mounting action, i.e. meaningful changes. This becomes apparent towards the end, as demonstrated by the scene in which Kaneda pulls out some complete Deus ex machina pulse rifle out of nowhere, whose shots are completely ineffective on Tetsuo, except for a few seconds later when shots from the same exact rifle completely cripple him for plot convenience, and about a minute after that happens, Tetsuo brings out his own Deus ex machina and becomes able to fly, for much the same reason, because the plot dictates he has to be able to. After such a long period of seeing Tetsuo blow shit up, which was explained away at the last minute as him lashing out because he felt insecure (bravado, violence and insecurity are concepts that all happened to be present in Casualties of War, and handled infinitely better), and at this point, I just wanted it to be over, and it seems like the writers felt the same way, which would explain the Deus ex machinas, and the reason for them coming out with any excuse they could to throw the kitchen sink out at the last moment before it ended.

As an action film, Akira commits the worst sin possible, it is boring. The motorcycle chase in its opening 10 minutes is undoubtedly viscerally thrilling, but the longer the film goes on, the further it pulls away from motorcycle chases to instead commit to an extremely mundane sci-fi story that takes too long to pick up any level of momentum, and only manages to crash and burn once it does.

By 1988, there had been a total of three separate OVAs for the VOTOMS series, which while serviceable, did little to distinguish themselves or make themselves truly feel distinct from the original anime and its accomplishments. Armour Hunter Mellowlink marks a change in that trajectory, as it doesn’t take the easy route and retread familiar territory, instead opting to take a new approach to the series, which while just as focused on action as its previous entries, manages to markedly improve the action through a much greater production value, providing it with a more potent emphasis on detail and immersion than its predecessors.

In a similar ... vein to Robocop, Mellowlink manages to seamlessly merge motifs, iconographies, and ideas from a multitude of genres, creating a genre hyperspecifity that it utilises to great effect, and allows it to carve out a unique position to occupy itself in. From the onset, it has plenty in common with a classic western with its wandering outlaw protagonist (cape included), barren desert landscapes, and its concept of an honourable duel between two professionals. However, the characterisation within the series and the manner in which it unveils plot details is much more in line with a noir, which is a particular form of stylisation that anime generally does not make use of. Through this noir-like approach to character, it manages to make its mostly basic plot far more engaging, by connecting the rising tension with an increased feeling of desperation within its protagonist. Elsewhere, it manages to apply similar noir principles of establishing fear and uncertainty, through both its lighting and use of music, which is demonstrative of a level of directorial talent that can’t always be guaranteed. The music itself is also remarkably different to that of the preceding series, it is far from being an extension of the musical motifs that have appeared previously, which also speaks to Mellowlink’s change in tone.

The change in direction and tone is made evident in multiple areas – alongside the new music, which carries with it a more sombre and sinister atmosphere during its quieter moments, this more Brian De Palma-esque sense of paranoia is also conveyed through the framing and editing. On its own, a single shot of an empty room means very little, but when put up against the wider context of the series and the viewer’s expectations, being exposed to silence can end up feeling unsettling rather than calming, especially when this change is marked by an extended continuous take, a technique lifted directly from De Palma. Further, the usage of cinematography is also far more ambitious than most its contemporaries, which can be illustrated by one particular example. During one episode, there is a scene in which the titular Private Mellowlink is hiding behind cover, and he shoots some explosive barrels, killing the soldiers who were pursuing him, after which point several ATs move in to finish the job. Even to a casual viewer of action anime, it is very easy to picture this scene in the form of a static medium shot of the protagonist, followed by a static long shot of the explosion, two specific shot compositions that are often used alongside each other within this specific scenario, which constitutes a cinematographic cliché that can make a work feel as generic and predictable as clichés in writing can. Instead, Mellowlink revokes this cliché via its much greater focus on detail, as in the span of a few seconds, there is a remarkable amount that it manages to portray. Once the context has been established, the barrels are shot, leading to a tracking shot as they tumble backwards (rather than being engulfed in flames instantly), which explode once they hit the wall, leading to an intricate collapse of the building, as the roof falls to the floor, which the ATs forcefully push aside as they move through. Although a short scene, no more than 15 seconds in total, within the context of the wider action sequence, and certainly when the entire show is looked at comprehensively, this example is a microcosm for the kind of detail that is present throughout the entirety of Mellowlink, with a significant amount of effort being directed towards both having well-choreographed action sequences, as well as always making sure that the camerawork never falls into generic patterns.

One particular area in which Mellowlink is able to stand out is through its depiction of blood and gore, which is something most mecha anime seem hesitant to portray – for all the war and murder that goes on within the genre, Mellowlink stands out as an entry that acknowledges the rather simple fact that people bleed when they are shot. In particular, this has the effect of being able to exemplify its unflinching tone, and this level of immersive detail is also utilised elsewhere, as while buildings might not bleed, they do suffer damage and decay, which is another aspect that is typically conveniently forgotten. When committed to paper, it sounds like a small and fairly insignificant detail, but when it appears with this level of consistency, it is something that really manages to accentuate the immersion and strength of the production. Mellowlink takes another cost-cutting cliché (the impervious chest-high wall) and proves it can do better, with walls suffering chipping damage, with small parts of the foundation fall apart as they do, and having physical bullet holes actually entering surfaces, providing both visual spectacle and a reminder of the actual danger that the protagonist is in, which in turn creates a greater deal of tension for the audience.

Although Mellowlink may have rejected a few specific cliches, it is far from avant-garde in its design. For that matter, even when accounting for its noir sensibilities, it is an undeniably conventional action series, with lots of car chases and firefights, establishing shots that generate atmosphere and draw the viewer in to the sci-fi setting and its inner workings, and a main character who, when not an audience surrogate and vehicle for exposition, portrays the fairly limited range of emotions that comes with the genre. Most critically, although the series is subject to exposition, it is never dry nor overbearing, which is representative of its directorial strength – it knows when to restrain itself and keep things short, but it is never unfocused, as it always has the background context of its protagonist’s personal journey to provide purpose for his endeavours. In all regards, it is a finely directed series, which is perhaps best demonstrated by its action sequences. Being its clear focal point, they are expertly paced, embedded in the fact that they can be as short or long as best befit the rest of the episode, but no matter the scale, they are always orchestrated with absolute finesse, just like every other aspect of the series. The animation is of a stellar quality, carrying with it details that generate greater immersion and visual power with every single point of minutiae, with an atmosphere that is captured and emphasised by the soundtrack, and the whole series is an absolute powerhouse. Mellowlink has a solidly pronounced level of craftsmanship that remains unparalleled. Catching lightning in a bottle is something most can only hope to do once in their careers, but Mellowlink managed to do it for twelve consecutive episodes without faltering.