On April 4th, 1978, Japan was introduced to a series called Future Boy Conan, a 26-episode series which marked the directorial debut of a man who was then a seasoned animator – Hayao Miyazaki.  The anime is a loose adaptation of a novel by Alexander Tide, but like many of Miyazaki’s future adaptations, the original was mostly a source of names, settings, and a general plot – elements which were then stretched and molded to fit the ideas he wanted to express.  Miyazaki has covered a wide range of settings, atmospheres, and emotions in his work over the decades, and Conan sits in a place closer to Laputa or Porco Rosso.  At its heart, it is a classic adventure story in the vein of Herge’s Tintin serial, where a boy and his friends must overcome the odds to defeat evil and rescue the innocent.  Since it’s directed by Miyazaki, it avoids many immature qualities that are found in many of the more modern shows of the “shounen” demographic, though it contains a degree of slapstick that Miyazaki probably would have avoided later in his career. Ultimately, though, Future Boy Conan simply feeds that immemorial love of bravery, friendship, and adventure with an occasionally exaggerated but largely restrained approach that will appeal to kids and adults alike.

Conan takes place in a post-apocalyptic world where the wars of mankind have annihilated all but a small portion of humanity.  One of these pockets of humans survived on a small island (aptly named Remnant Island), but as the story begins, we see that the only two remaining survivors are an aging man and his young grandson, Conan.  Conan is a young boy who, of course, has no knowledge of the outside world or its dark history – that knowledge has been his grandfather’s burden to bear until this point.  However, when a young girl washes ashore, being pursued relentlessly by a seaplane (which Conan naturally assumes is a bird at first glance), Conan’s peaceful existence is shattered.  We soon learn that this seaplane comes from a small industrial outpost nearby, a city whose leader is pursuing the girl because her grandfather is one of the few remaining people alive who have the knowledge to bring back the energy that will power their warplanes.

It is perhaps somewhat unfair to consider Future Boy Conan in the context of the future works of Hayao Miyazaki, but it is unavoidable as so much of the series evokes themes, character ideas, and concepts which would be fine-tuned and delivered in Miyazaki’s later films.  The post-apocalyptic world and power-hungry villains resemble that of Nausicaa, the swashbuckler approach to sea adventure brings Porco Rosso to mind, and most of all, the endearing bond between Conan and Lana seems like a prototype for Castle in the Sky – the latter of which has the strongest similarity in tone to Conan.  However, the obvious difference with Conan is its medium, and most importantly that Miyazaki has a 13 hour running time in which to communicate his story.  Thus, the series is able to spend a great deal of time focusing on human interaction and friendship with slow-paced scenes that wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for a wealth of time to cover them.  However, perhaps also due to constraints in the television medium and its audience at the time, there is also a bit of the aforementioned slapstick and occasionally cartoonish stunts by Conan that probably would have felt out of place in Miyazaki’s later feature-length films.  Most examples involve Conan surviving some dangerous situation through physics-bending physical maneuvers.

For all its minor faults, though, Conan still manages to carry the mark of a timeless fable.  Its characters seem to resemble familiar archetypes at first, but are given the sufficient amount of development to grow into three-dimensional, well-formed figures who are easy to like and root for while retaining a sort of permanent clarity of character (my mind drifts once again to Tintin as a comparison).  The story itself is very strongly defined in terms of morality, but has sufficient depth in its settings to sustain interest throughout its running time, and its single unquestioningly villainous character is not overused to the point of becoming a caricature.  Despite the occasional slapstick, the lighter moments have a great deal of endearingly boyish fun, while the more dramatic, serious scenes, which aren’t afraid to depict death or sacrifice realistically, never feel as if they’ve been compromised for the sake of the former.  When the plot starts to move quickly in the latter half, after the sufficient attachment to the characters has been built up and the level of danger increases significantly, you’ll almost certainly find yourself on the edge of your seat in suspense.  Myself, I went through the first ten episode at a leisurely pace, but couldn’t help but marathon the final sixteen in the span of three days.

I suppose the only real part of this anime that may disappoint long-time fans of Miyazaki is the lack of budget.  The broad strokes of vivid color and beauty that are so frequent and mesmerizing in Miyazaki’s later feature films are for the most part absent in this television anime from the late seventies.  While the animation of the characters, the depiction of the post-apocalyptic world, and the contrast between nature and industry are strong enough to put it on a tier above the typical television anime, the association of this project to Miyazaki and thus to the art of his later works are, of course, inevitable.  Nonetheless, it isn’t something that will stick in your mind after a few episodes.  The same could be said about the musical accompaniment.  As typical for Miyazaki, traditional anime ballads are eschewed in favour of simple melodic OP and ED themes (the ED starts on an almost tragic, minor-key note before transitioning back to the cheeriness of the OP) and background music is often left off in favour of atmospheric silence.  When music does appear, it varies between highly effective melodic, quasi-orchestral sequences and some less memorable synth music (in this case, it resembles the BGM of Nausicaa).

For those of you who are already Miyazaki fans, Future Boy Conan is a must see if you wish to explore a personal work of his that, though lacking the refined quality of his later work, is free to ignore the time constraints of his films while incorporating much of the same themes.  For those of you have not become Miyazaki fans yet, I would suggest going to those first to get a better appreciation of Miyazaki at his best, as Conan is occasionally restrained by both budget and, perhaps, inexperience.  However, it is generally superior to most television anime in this genre and well deserving of appreciation as an anime classic, so if you’re seeking a good-natured fable about the sort of ideas of friendship and heroism that defined a lot of adventure stories that you may have grown up with, Conan is certainly a fine place to start.
1/2

Yojou-han is an 11-episode series by Madhouse, directed by Masaaki Yuasa and adapted from a novel written by Tomihiko Morimi.  The story follows a nameless college student (fans usually refer to him simply as Watashi) as he pursues a “rose-coloured campus life” – a quest which inevitably fails on his first attempt.  After wishing that he could turn back time and reverse his decisions, Watashi finds himself in a Groundhog-day-esque scenario, repeating his college life from the first day each episode, and each time hopelessly pursuing that vision of an ideal college life that has eluded him.  This story is wrapped in an eccentric style of execution, with excellent, witty writing and a very atypical visual style.

Anime like Yojou-han are certainly a breath of fresh air.  There comes a certain point where you feel as if you’ve seen all the highly-regarded anime and what’s being pushed out regularly is not very impressive.  Seeing newer series like Yojou-han, then, is a very refreshing tidbit of proof that there are directors and companies who aren’t afraid of pursuing something unique, despite the risks.  Now, sometimes those attempts fail or come off as hopelessly pretentious, but sometimes they hit exactly all the right notes, and Yojou-han falls into the second category.  It has a story to tell, a message to deliver, and it packs those into a nearly flawless, captivating, and enjoyable 11-episode run.  It didn’t stretch itself long enough for the premise to become repetitive, nor restrict itself to so short a running time that it couldn’t adequately build up to the eventual cathartic resolution.

Its success is mostly thanks to the intelligent, snappy, and evocative writing style.  I say writing style because the narration which dominates each episode clearly originates in novel form, and Yojou-han has the flavour of a visualization of a novel rather than an adaptation.  An oft-mentioned complaint about the show was the rapid speaking pace of the narrator, and whether this will pose a problem depends, of course, on the reading speed of the viewer.  Many people on various forums mentioned that they had to pause the anime at various points merely to read all of the on-screen subtitle text.  While I never found myself missing any line of text, I certainly found my eyes darting to the subtitle portion of the screen more often than a typical series.  Yet pausing a series like this to read text sort of misses the point – the stream of consciousness narration and brisk pacing is part of the appeal of Yojou-han‘s execution.  To pause and read as if reading on paper doesn’t really make much sense.

While the story focuses on repeating the main character’s college days, it is not an episodic series, as there are a lot of interconnecting, developing plot elements as well as an arc of episodes towards the end that are even more directly related to one another.  The show’s overarching message is a simple one, but I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, as it merely means that the show will probably have something to say to you regardless of what your current position in life is.  The brilliant thing, though, is that it tells this message with a brisk, clever style that doesn’t feel like sappy preaching – despite the fact that the premise and theme could easily have devolved to just that.  Thankfully, Yojou-han never abandons its original tone.  Though people usually think of comedies as being a “lesser genre” (mostly due to the kind of comedy that is present in most anime), I would describe Yojou-han as an intelligent comedy – a valuable and rare subgroup.  The ability to make someone laugh and think at the same time is no easy feat.

I suppose the one piece of advice I’ll leave you with is that I don’t suggest marathoning this series (as viewers tend to do with anime that are already finished).  This is really a very dense anime packed with not only a lot of verbiage from the narrator, but a lot of clever ideas in each episode, and I wonder whether its effectiveness may be diluted without a buffer time in which to mull over each episode.

The original Oofuri was a big hit with me, despite the fact that I generally have an aversion to sports stories.  While Touch, an Adachi series, involved baseball, Oofuri was the first series I watched that was unashamedly centered entirely on baseball, and by the end, I found myself wishing that I had bothered to join some sort of sports club in my high school days.  That’s how effective Oofuri’s portrayal of the different aspects of baseball – teamwork, friendship, victories, disappointments – were.  The other important part of Oofuri’s success was its slow-paced, realistic approach to depicting the actual games.  Rarely was a single pitch skipped over, never were there any convenient home runs or ace-pitchers.  Oofuri was one of the first shows I’ve seen that actually gives us a firm idea of what it’s like to actually be a player, rather than simply watch them.

It’s worth rehashing all of this because the effectiveness of this sequel corresponds mostly to how well it follows the formula of the first season.  However, as this sequel only lasted around a dozen episodes, while the first had 26 to work with, keeping that slow and detailed pace was unrealistic.  Indeed, the very first game of this season is mostly rushed through in a decidedly un-Oofuri-like fashion, and was perhaps the low point of the series thus far.  The second one slows down the pace and subsequently is far more enjoyable, though there is still something of a claustrophobic feeling to the presentation.  Generally, though, this second match is as suspenseful and captivating as the Tousei match from the first, which is a big compliment.

In terms of content, the sequel quite competently advances several character threads (a great deal regarding the battery between Mihashi and Abe as pitcher and catcher), and though the manga material is ongoing, they did manage to end at a natural break-off point.  It would be a shame if there were no more sequels, but I also realize it isn’t very common for third seasons of any show to appear – After all, I’m still waiting for Natsume Yuujinchou’s second sequel.  While I was willing to hold out after the first season, I will probably be diving into the Oofuri manga soon enough.

That’s about the extent of what I have say about Natsu no Taikai Hen.  It’s a textbook case of “more of the same“, except a tad diluted this time around.  I can’t imagine a fan of Oofuri not enjoying the sequel, and I strongly suggest anyone with even a slight inkling of interest in the sorts of themes that I described earlier give this series a try.  I mention this very often, but I am far from a sports fan, yet Oofuri, which is almost completely about sports, managed to break my list of favourite anime.  That should tell you enough about its strengths.

Yojou-han Shinwa Taekei

(Based on the first episode) Colour me impressed.  While there still needs to be some more work in terms of getting me to empathize with the cast on a more human level, my reaction to the series is otherwise overwhelmingly positive.  It’s slightly eccentric, smartly written, and very, very enjoyable.  The last “eccentric” anime I tried was Kūchū Buranko, which I dropped after the first episode.  Yojou-han feels different, though, primarily because I truly wanted to know what happened to the main character, and this kept me watching.  It did an excellent job of “selling” his personality and character to the viewers, and the style doesn’t feel as if it’s trying to be eccentric for the sake of being different.  Of course, this is all subjective and I’m sure there are people who will say the exact opposite about those two series.  The other thing I should mention is what everyone has been mentioning – there’s a lot of fast-talking.  It didn’t bother me for the most part, but I suppose I just have a liking for that quirky style of delivery.  This one is high on my importance list, and I’m eagerly waiting for the next episode.

Giant Killing

(Based on the first episode) I’m not a fan of soccer and have never seen a soccer-oriented anime at all.  If that sounds familiar, it’s because I said the same thing about baseball anime – before being sucked into Touch and Ookiku Furikabutte and being able to see the value in stories about sports, and their possible undercurrents of teamwork, friendship, and similar such themes.  So I approached Giant Killing with an open mind and was rewarded – the show sucked me in from the beginning.  It involves two things that I am a sucker for – 1) stories of underdogs rising to success, and 2) mysterious-but-immensely-talented “teacher” characters.  The main character, Tatsumi, isn’t wholly likeable yet – and I’m told that this is due to a change from the manga-anime transition, but I can’t say that I didn’t find myself engrossed in his story.  The players here are older than those of OoFuri or Touch, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though I will admit that I like OoFuri’s concept of a young, newbie team overcoming expectations.  But that’s neither here nor there – I don’t know where Giant Killing is heading but I certainly like what I’ve seen so far.  The art and music are quite good as well.  High hopes for this on.

Ookiku Furikabutte Season 2

(Based on the first few episodes) Considering I spent a fair bit of the previous paragraph praising OoFuri, I suppose this one is a tad redundant.  As expected, Ookiku Furikabutte‘s second season doesn’t differ too greatly from the first – and that’s fine by me.  You still have the same charming interactions and same great characters.  I did notice, though, that the pace of the baseball games seem to have sped up just a tad.  I suppose it wasn’t realistic to expect every single game to be portrayed in as much detail as the two from the original season, and that the level of detail is proportional to the game’s importance.  The first game from S1 was, well, the first game, and the second was a big match against a big name school.  The first match of S2, then, is a relatively quieter affair.  Still, I look forward to the next “important” match, even though I know it will be painful to have to wait for the conclusion of a game, week by week, for nearly ten episodes.  In short – I still love Ookiku Furikabutte.

Binbou Shimai Monogatari , which translates to something like “The Story of Poor Sisters“, is a 10-episode anime based on a seinen manga of the same name.  The general premise of the story is that two girls, the older being in middle school, live alone in a rather modest apartment (think Ikkoku-kan from Maison Ikkoku).  They live in relative poverty without parental support, as their mother has passed away and their father has left them for his gambling addictions.  The older sister takes up a part time job while the younger one devotes herself to housework, and by depending on each other, they are able to live independently.

I’m sure there are some preconceptions floating around in your minds as there were when I first glanced over the plot description for this series.  It’s probably best to let go of them immediately – this is not a serious, dramatic, or particularly emotional series.  The premise may remind one of something like Dare mo Shiranai and other depressing stories, but the execution really couldn’t be more different.  In fact, Binbou is more or less a slice-of-life comedy series with only mild forays into drama.  The sisters’ poverty never poses any real threat, the possible emotional trauma of their situation is tucked aside, and the strangers around them are all more than happy to do any favour they require.  If you’re looking for a profound exploration on childhood tragedy, look elsewhere (I recommend Grave of the Fireflies). On the other hand, if you focus exclusively on the light-hearted aspects of the show, there aren’t too many faults here.  The sisters are generally quite likable, though the overt sweetness of their sibling bond lacks the more down-to-earth charm of, say, the sisters from My Neighbor Totoro.  And while new ground in comedy isn’t being broken here, there are more than enough genuinely entertaining scenarios strewn about.

The anime doesn’t really have any further message to tell the audience other than the fact that the two sisters are very, very close.  If the sound of a “sweetness overload” repels you, you will probably want to avoid the series.  Every episode has at least one or two moments where the sisters embrace in front of a flowery background  - moments where the audience are presumably expected to “aww” at the loving relationship being shown to them.  Sometimes this is emphasized for comedy – like when the camera pulls back to reveal a third character staring awkwardly at the display of cartoonish affection.  While it tends to get a little tedious, it isn’t the biggest problem with the anime.

As you’d expect, Binbou falters whenever it attempts to inject anything more dramatic into its story, due to the fact that the level of buildup or believability required simply isn’t there.  These scenes end up feeling a tad contrived.  The very first episode has an example of this, where a drawn-out conflict between the sisters occurs due to misinterpretations and conclusion-jumping.  Yet when they are otherwise portrayed as the closest and most loving siblings on planet Earth, why wouldn’t they give each other the benefit of the doubt here?  The best example of contrived drama, though, is an episode late in the series where the sisters each become deeply concerned about the other due to……problems reaching the other on their cellphone.  I couldn’t help but note the humour in the fact that a series about orphaned children living alone had to resort to cellphone accessibility as a source of tension.  Now, the final episode does contain an attempt at delving into the girls’ past and possible trauma (though only regarding their mother), but the content is too bare and is delivered too late to leave any significant impact.

It’s also possible to start delving into the plot and finding all sorts of further oddities – like the sisters’ source of income.  They seem to live rather comfortably in an average size apartment entirely on the salary from the older sisters’ morning paper route.  One episode has a side character from a rich family who nevertheless competes with the sisters’ for discounted items at the local supermarket.  The side cast isn’t particularly well-developed either, apart from the landlord – one of the only characters whose background is given a fair bit of exposition (imagine if the same had been done for the girls’).  He is one of those familiar characters with a gruff exterior masking more noble, caring intentions.  Barring the landlord, though, the other characters don’t really have much in the way of substance and sometimes feel like recurring cameos.  They are all generally kind and never pose any conflict or trigger any real character development in the series.

In the end, it’s hard to say something like “it could have been better”, because I’m fairly sure that many people looking for a light-hearted show will be perfectly content with a comedic series about two sisters in a candy-coated vision of poverty.  On the other hand, in those moments where it briefly attempted to deliver something with actual drama or tension, you can’t help but notice how much of the premise went to waste and how much potential for character development was ignored.  So if you want a short series that will be fairly easy to digest and without any real depth, Binbou is entertaining on a superficial level, but perhaps it suffers a little too much from the potential of its own premise.

Somehow, it hadn’t crossed my radar that Nodame Cantabile had returned to the airwaves with a new season, probably because I’ve been paying less and less attention to ongoing anime.  Of course, I’ve picked it up again, though I’ve only had the time for one episode so far.  At first glance, it appears to carry on the beloved Nodame formula fairly well,  the enjoyable blend of romantic comedy with a musical backdrop.  However, I was one of those people that thought the second season was not quite as strong as the first.  This might be due to the length of the two, with Paris-hen only having a mere 11 episodes and not being as self-contained as the original season (actually, the storyline of Paris-hen more or less continues directly into this third season).  However, perusals of various forums indicate that many people felt that the “formula” had changed too much and resulted in a less entertaining or captivating version of Nodame Cantabile.

Part of it probably has to do with how much the musical aspect of the show ties into your enjoyment of Nodame.  I know many people who are big fans of the show but aren’t particularly enamored with classical music, and found the more extended musical sequences of the original anime and especially the live-action version to be “boring”.  Paris-hen was probably a welcome change for them in that regard.  But as for me personally, while the romantic comedy aspect of the series was enjoyable, of course, what really made Nodame stand out amongst others was its combination with the highlighting of the serious pursuit of music in a conservatory setting.  That was definitely what piqued my curiosity in the anime at first.  That’s not to say that the musical aspect was missing from Paris-hen, but the climactic nature of the performance scenes was certainly missing the same level of impact, and I felt like those were rather important.  When the orchestra from season 1 went through it’s first performance, or during the competition scenes, you could practically feel the satisfaction of the accomplishment, or the tension of the moment.

The other underwhelming part of Paris-hen was the side characters, which just didn’t feel as memorable as those of the original.  That’s not to say that the original cast members were all strong – I’ll admit they sometimes felt more like running jokes than characters.  But all the same, although they could have used some more development, their roles in the story felt a little more concrete, Streseman in particular.  I don’t really find much noteworthy about the Paris-hen characters.  The first one that comes to mind Tanya, the Russian pianist who dislikes practicing and wants to find a boyfriend.  I’m not sure at what point we were supposed to start to like her character, but it never happened for me.  And when she was paired up with Kuroki at the end, it felt a little forced – I’m not sure I saw much chemistry between them.

After watching the first episode of Finale, I suppose these side characters are here to stay, so I’ll have to make an effort to be interested in them.  Otherwise, its the familiar and likable Nodame humour and style, though I had no interest in the scenes involving Rui.  Watching the excellent live-action version probably forever ruined my ability to enjoy the animated orchestra scenes, which have the same robotic quality to them.  I’ve read many complaints that it was rushed, and this is probably a result of manga familiarity more than the actual episode, so I didn’t really notice it.  Anyways, I’ve put myself back into the Nodame world, so here’s hoping for a great finish to one of the best shows in the genre.

I’ve always heard the name Satoshi Kon pop up in serious anime discussions, but my familiarity with his works has been fairly restricted.  There is, of course, Tokyo Godfathers, which was an enjoyable film that earned quite a positive review from me, but I’ve been told that it is the least indicative of his general style.  After watching Millenium Actress, I think I might have a better idea of what that “style” may be, and it is indeed a very interesting one.

Millenium Actress is about Fujiwara Chiyoko, an aging and reclusive former-actress who has finally agreed to be an interviewed by a documentary director (and major fan), Tachibana.  He surprises her with an item of hers that he has kept for her ever since she first went into seclusion –  a memento which contains a significance that only she knows of.  The film delves into her mind and swims through her memories as they come tumbling down – from her experiences as a child to her life as a famous actress.  The key event is one from her youth, when she had accidentally met, and then sheltered, a dissident artist who then was forced to escape.  Her desire to find him once again is what drives the narrative forward, and is etched into nearly every scene from her memory.

I think that for most, Kon’s approach to storytelling will be the most immediately obvious quirk.  Tachibana and his cameraman are literally stepping right into her memories, observing them as if they were there, and often directly interacting with them.   Sometimes this is done for humour, such as when Tachibana inserts himself into the role of being Chiyoko’s protector during one of the memories of past films – but even that, which seems superficially to be comic relief, has a purpose, reaffirming a true event which happened in Chiyoko’s life.  Tachibana’s cameraman mostly contributes a sense of cynicism which grounds the film before it could possibly become melodramatic.  The memories also mix with one another in their presentation very frequently.  Memories of Chiyoko’s true life frequently merge together with those from her films, which then merge with the present day, and these transitions are mostly left for the viewer to interpret and understand.  Judging by many of the opinion pieces I’ve read, however, some people may find this approach disorienting.  Personally, I feel that as long as you’re attentive, it should be perfectly comprehensible.

There is a lot of warmth and humour in the film, just like Tokyo Godfathers, but the climactic moments and ending contain a tremendous emotional impact.  The depiction of Chiyoko’s life, her emotions, her regrets – all of it is done in such a superb, mature, and poignant manner.  If I had to describe the film in one word, I would choose “poetic”.  It allows its narrative to drift and wander as needed to encroach slowly on a single unifying theme, one that is different from the potentially simple love story we had at the beginning, one that is so perfectly captured in a final line at the very end of the film.  I feel like discovering how the theme subtly change is part of the joy of the film, so I will keep the spoilers to other posts.  I just can’t emphasize enough, though, the level of satisfaction I felt as the film neared its conclusion, to have had that window into Chiyoko’s life for that brief period of time.

Another enjoyable aspect of the film is the way it traverses through Japanese history, both military and film.  Through Chiyoko’s film memories, we are brought back into feudal Japan, and through her life memories, we live through the Japanese occupation of Manchuria through the post war era.  And because of the ways that her memories mix together and complement one another, every memory reflects or comments on the ongoing exploration of her life and deep-seated longing to find the artist from her youth.  In some ways, the passage of time reminds me of Omohide Poroporo.  In that film, seeing the main character as a child in a visibly different environment added so much to her modern personality and gave her immense depth – here, that feeling has been multiplied as we watch Chiyoko grow from an infant into an adult in one of the most tumultuous periods of Japanese history.

As with the works of Studio Ghibli, the artwork in Millenium Actress is typically exceptional, and that is a significant achievement when you consider how many different types of architecture and clothing had to be covered due to the varying time periods.  While the music wasn’t always top notch, there was one specific piece of music, the theme for Chiyoko, that succeeded very well in conveying that satisfying and slightly bittersweet feeling that characterized the film as a whole.  It’s effect towards the end of the film is particularly noteworthy – you’ll know what I mean when you see/hear it.   My only complaint on this front is that I felt that the song which begins as the credits roll was a tad ill-suited.  While I’m voicing complaints, I might as well mention that I also felt, once or twice during a film memory, that the scene in question was perhaps going on a little too long.  These are, of course, very minor complaints in the big picture.

I really loved Millenium Actress.  I think it is both one of the best anime as well as one of the best films I’ve seen, and its a textbook case of how to deliver a film with real emotional impact without resorting to cheap melodrama or forced conflicts.  Despite being very different from a typical Ghibli film (which usually top my lists), it has that same level of sincerity and heart that make them so universally appealing, combined with a delicate, touching exploration of its central character.  It gets nothing less than the highest recommendation from me, and is a fine example of what anime with artistic purpose and vision behind them can accomplish.

You can find my spoilerific reflections on the plot and ending of the film here.

Figure 17 aired back in 2001 under a fairly uncommon format – it consists of 13 episodes, but each episode is about double the length of a typical anime episode.  So in terms of actual length, it is more or less the equivalent of a common 26-episode series.  The story revolves around Tsubasa, a girl from Tokyo who has moved to rural Hokkaido and finds herself having trouble fitting in (not helped by her reserved demeanor).  One day, she stumbles upon a crashed alien ship and discovers a man fighting for his life against a giant, violent creature.  The creature corners Tsubasa inside the ship, where she accidentally breaks a vial, the contents of which merge with Tsubasa to form a “Figure”, which is essentially a sort of transformation that the characters undergo for battle.  After their battle concludes, the Figure separates, but as the vial had broken, the other half manifests itself as a duplication of Tsubasa.  Essentially, she gains a twin sister.

There are two halves to Figure 17.  The first is a portrayal of a girl and her “twin” living in a small town, making friends, going to school, living alone with only a father – that sort of thing.  The other is a sci-fi story about two girls with a power to merge into “Figures” and their battle, along with the surviving members of the crashed ship, against enemy monsters called “Maguar”.  These two parts of the story, however, exist in separate planes for much of the anime.  I am not exaggerating – several episodes follow a similar format where the first half will focus on the everyday lives of Tsubasa and Hikaru (her twin), while the second half will then make a complete switch and feel more like a sci-fi action show.  If you were to drop someone into either half, it wouldn’t be too hard to convince them that the other did not exist.  That is simply how unrelated these two sides of the story often feel – not always, but often enough.  Of course, as one would expect, the sci-fi plot does drive the show forward, and the two angles do merge into one by the end.  Just be aware that there is a very two-faced quality to the series.

If you have similar tastes as I do, I think there is a strong possibility that you will not be very interested when the show switches into “action” mode, particularly since the plot just doesn’t feel original enough.  However, there are plenty of positive aspects to the show to make up for that.  The characters are likable, the slice-of-life portions are enjoyable for fans of that genre, and watching the development of the main character, Tsubasa, will give a certain degree of satisfaction as well.  While the main characters are young girls, they are portrayed in a realistic manner, and not just as ‘moe’-pets for otaku viewers.  In the end, Tsubasa, along with Hikaru, are the anchors for this show for anyone who isn’t drawn into the second sci-fi plotline, which includes myself.  I’m sure their very familiar elementary school classroom with elicit some nostalgia from older viewers as well.  For all the monster-killing that goes on, it’s the slow-paced scenes of childhood that stole the show.

Technically speaking, the artwork is generally quite pleasant.  The segments which focus on the girls’ daily lives often feature some lush, green environments and warm colors.  The action sequences typically are the opposite, with dark hues and a generally unwelcome palette, and weren’t of much interest to me.  The Maguar are predictable in their appearance, you’ve probably defeated several creatures that resemble them in video games in your youth.  The voice acting is generally of good quality, but the music does tend to get a little grating.  Most of this is due to the action music during the battle sequences.  As I mentioned above, they tend to resemble action pieces from shounen action shows, and are perhaps the most childish element of this anime.  There is a main theme to the series which is quite “hummable”, but it is used so often that I image some listeners will get tired of hearing it so repetitively.

Figure 17 isn’t remarkable, and doesn’t exactly have universal appeal – there are a lot of moments throughout the anime that I felt like skipping past in order to get to what I considered the next “enjoyable” section.  While the plot isn’t particularly mindblowing and the action sequences feel juvenile – the endearing characters and portrayal of their lives and growing bond is enough for Figure to get a reasonable recommendation from me.  The anime isn’t particularly well-known, and while it might be an overstatement to call it a “hidden gem”, it still remains superior to a lot of the junk that is aired these days, so a trial run of an episode or two wouldn’t be a bad idea.
1/2