Combing through lists of anime films in the hope of stumbling upon overlooked gems is a process which becomes tedious rather quickly, but it is the occasional discoveries of films like Junkers Come Here that continue to push me back on track when the effort becomes tiresome.  While televised anime often build cult followings to keep some semblance of awareness alive, it seems more common for films to fade into history unless associated with a company or famous director, which hasn’t been the case for films like Junkers and Mai Mai Miracle.  It doesn’t help that this film is somewhat poorly represented by its promotional artwork, which tends to feature playful shots of the namesake, Junkers, a friendly-looking dog.  What this doesn’t convey is the gentle drama of the film underneath.  Junkers is a film which tells a satisfying albeit familiar story in a quiet manner which is likely to please fans of Studio Ghibli’s human dramas, though the occasional usage of familiar anime tropes keeps it from reaching quite the same level.

The story centres entirely around the life of Hiromi, an eleven-year-old girl who lives in the Tokyo suburbs with her parents, a maid, and her tutor, who teaches in exchange for room and board.  However, Hiromi’s parents are often away for work, and thus Hiromi hardly sees them nor can she recall the last time all three of them spent any time together.  She instead finds solace in her pet dog as well as Keisuke, the aforementioned tutor who ends up, for better or for worse, becoming the dominant male figure for her in the absence of her father.  The conflict of the film arrives as Hiromi discovers her parents considering separation, and while she has been able to hide her emotions from her parents despite their absences, this seems to be the breaking point of her feelings of loneliness.

Junkers can talk to Hiromi, but much like in My Neighbor Totoro, this depiction is more or less a key into the mind of the main character and the way she copes with her surroundings and predicament.  Just as the boundary between reality and imagination was never spelled out in Totoro, it is questionable if Junkers ever truly speaks (in fact, explicitly questioned by the film itself), and ultimately this is a component of the fact that we view the film entirely from Hiromi’s eyes.  The latter fact is greatly satisfying, as the character of Hiromi represents a wonderfully multi-faceted and believable portrayal of a conflicted age and a conflicted situation.  The desire to be treated as an adult, the wall standing between you and the adult world, and the strange contradictions which somehow make all too much sense to the young mind certainly elicited a feeling of familiarity in me.

Junkers is not a perfect film, as moments throughout the film feel overlong and there are a few scenes which borrow from generic tropes found in television anime (such as one where Hiromi follows Keisuke around while wearing a cartoonish disguise).  Although the animation and character design is pleasantly realistic and low-key, the film is bogged down slightly by a soundtrack that has not aged too well due to its heavy reliance on synthesized instruments (though some may find it pleasantly nostalgic).  The appeal of the film is otherwise fairly simple to explain (as this rather concise review shows) – buried within the sometimes rough edges is a rather touching story about coping with loneliness and the longing for parent’s love.  Though it may not match the greatest of anime films, it makes an admirable effort.

Hotarubi no Mori e is based on one of the earlier works of Midorikawa Yuki, a mangaka primarily known for her more recent Natsume Yuujinchou – a series that I often hold as an example of commercial success falling upon a work that wholly deserves it.  Natsume Yuujinchou is part of a relatively rare breed in the world of televised anime – a series that can be enjoyed by any viewer of any age and communicates admirable messages about kindness, friendship, and various other facets of life in a simple but frequently beautiful way (while maintaining a factor of accessibility required for the audience for televised anime) .  The Natsume formula is well-established at this point, and it is not particularly far-fetched to consider Hotarubi to be the precursor to Natsume, and Natsume to be a refinement and repackaging of Midorikawa’s earlier ideas (the original manga for Hotarubi was published in 2003).

The core idea of Hotarubi is a simple exploration of a possible relationship between a mortal human and a timeless spirit, and the overall effect of the film will be familiar to those who have followed the Natsume series, which I will use as a benchmark regularly from here on.  The main character is a young girl, Hotaru, who recounts her first meeting with Gin, a spirit within the forest who guided her to safety when she was lost.  As time goes on, she begins to realize the differences between her and Gin, such as the fact that she ages and grows old while Gin does not.  Such ideas have been covered from several angles in the Natsume episodes, so if one was approaching this film with the hope of seeing a more crystallized or powerful delivery of the Natsume formula than what is provided by Natsume itself, they may be disappointed.  The first reason is simply that the story is quite clearly an initial effort – we can recognize the beauty of the ideas Midorikawa presents, but they are presented in a rather direct and expected manner with slightly forced pacing, as opposed to the elegance and creativity of several of the Natsume collection of stories.  The second is that the film does not particularly use its format to a greater advantage, as the story is a fairly concise one (roughly 40 minutes) preventing the substantial character development or story progression that a full length film can offer.

However, though the story itself may not exceed the best of it’s spiritual successor Natsume, for the film itself to be on par with an average episode of that series is itself a compliment towards the film, objectively speaking.  Newcomers who are unfamiliar with Brains Base’s adaptations of Natsume will likely be equally captivated by the charming style they have adopted for Midorikawa’s stories, a style which I sometimes refer to as “fleeting sentimentality”.  Sentiment is a double edged sword, particularly when it is exploited in such a manner than it becomes melodramatic.  Brains Base have never disappointed in this regard, as they have developed a wonderfully sincere method of presenting the sentimentality of Midorikawa’s stories in a manner which never lingers past its welcome and fades quickly into the viewer’s memory, where the thought of it is often more potent and poignant than the continuing visual depiction would have been.  For the most part, this is similarly done in Hotarubi.  Expect this subject to be explored further in later articles on this site.

If the comparisons to Natsume until this point haven’t become tiresome, it  is also worth mentioning that the composer for that series, Makoto Yoshimoro, also contributes his music to this film – which will be rewarding for followers of his Natsume scores, as the series has been reusing earlier compositions for some time, while this film (of course) has entirely new material.  For the most part, his work is immediately recognizable with an organic sound which makes frequent use of piano, light strings, and woodwinds, although the score does not really exceed his previous work nor does it form a cohesive whole.  The bonus here is that he has the opportunity to compose a vocal song for the songs credits, a relatively simple but emotional ballad for piano and vocals.  Though it may not be among the greatest of anime themes, it is a gentle, enjoyable ode to the quietly bittersweet tone of the film.

Although most of the traits which make Hotarubi an enjoyable film are found in Natsume Yuujinchou with either equal or superior presentation, there is still value to be had in this film for both fans and newcomers to Midorikawa’s works.  Newcomers may find it preferable to use this relatively short film to guage their interest in what is ostensibly the Natsume formula of storytelling – simple, poignant stories with bittersweet overtones and restrained sentimentality – though again, Hotarubi only provides a simplified version.  Fans of Natsume, however, have likely already made their plans to view the film based solely on its similarities to their beloved show, and it is for those viewers that I advise some restraint in expectations.  Remember that the story of Hotarubi was written nearly a decade ago, and though it lacks the polish or elegance of later stories within Natsume, it carries a similar sort of charm despite its shortcomings.

 1/2

Over twenty years ago, amidst the backdrop of a rural Japanese town, My Neighbor Totoro explored both the boundless imagination and the underlying fragility of childhood, setting the standard for the genre.  Mai Mai Shinko to Sennen no Mahou  (released as Mai Mai Miracle in English) takes many cues from that earlier work, but diverges from the established path to present something fresh and worthwhile while simultaneously feeling like a spiritual partner.  The influence of the former thus takes away no credit from Mai Mai Shinko - which earns itself a place for consideration alongside the greatest works in its category for its delightful and often poignant exploration of the wavering emotions of childhood.  Though released in 2009 to a commendable run in Japanese theatres, the film remains somewhat obscure in the English-speaking community, presumably due to the humble plot description and unassuming art.  I can safely say, however, that like-minded readers of my reviews will almost certainly find a hidden gem in this charming little film.

The film is set in a quaint countryside village during the post-war years of Japan, a time and place where a box of coloured pencils could evoke awe in the school yard, while televisions were still a rumour.  In this homely setting, a young girl named Shinko, a creative and friendly child, pursues the friendship of a new transfer student from Tokyo with curiosity.  This transfer student, Kiiko, is initially reclusive and somewhat frightened at her new classmates, but Shinko makes her best effort to transfer her bottomless pit of imagination into her new friend and welcome her to the fold.  Shinko’s particular obsession is with imagining her town as it was a thousand years earlier – when it had been the capital of Japan, according to her grandfather, and when there almost certainly must have been a girl of the same age.  Shinko and her group of friends bond over this shared interest and support each other despite the moments of tragedy which come.

A variety of narrative threads are weaved throughout the film, but its core strength is the endearing treatment of its characters and not any suspense within the plot.  Shinko in particular is a strongly realized character, a realistically exuberant child with a mind that is constantly in the skies, and all of the characters are handled with a similarly sensitive touch.  The film shifts perspective occasionally between its characters as it explores a variety of miniature stories, one of which even takes Kiiko’s imagination back to the feudal era, where she imagines what life would be like as Japanese royalty, while the others are more firmly rooted in the daily lives of the characters (and in the climax, their personal tragedies).  Despite the constant shifting of this plot, the film manages to avoid a feeling of aimlessness due to its elegant pacing and strong writing – a scene never outstays its welcome, and a character never feels like padding.  Much like My Neighbor Totoro, there is a very satisfying sense of minimalism in this film, and our focus on a few small stories of a small cast amidst the vast fields of the Japanese countryside is a very enjoyable contrast.

What the film also does extremely well is present how the sometimes harsh realities of life are filtered through childhood innocence in a remarkably nostalgic and believable manner.  Concepts of familial conflicts, respect, and even death, appear in the movie at various times and are captured perfectly in the curious manner that a child would interpret and respond to such things.  The climax in particular is a very satisfying depiction of how a child would deal with a personal tragedy they do not yet fully understand, and I was very impressed by it.  With that being said, not all of the narrative threads are equally polished – the aforementioned recurring flashback to a similar girl who lived a thousand years back clearly intends to build to a finale, a merger of the stories of past of present, and while the film does attempt this towards the climax, the final resolution is just a few steps short of the poetic merger that such an idea could have achieved.

The director of the film, Sunao Katabuchi, was an assistant director on Kiki’s Delivery Service, so it isn’t a surprise that many elements of Hayao Miyazaki’s style of direction have found their way into this film as well, particularly in the quieter moments of the film.  For Mai Mai Shinko, Katabuchi chooses a very elegant and minimalistic style of direction.  The art style is beautifully simple with any flourishes reserved for character expressions rather than flights of fancy.  The music, though sometimes lacking in variety, complements the film well, dominated by charming orchestral strings, crisply recorded, with occasional piano and vocal interludes.  The final song which closes the credits, though it has a somewhat familiar sound and makes use of contemporary “breathy” singing, is pleasant, and more importantly, works very well to close off the story.  Indeed, while there may be minor flaws at plenty of moments in this film, what is important is that Katabuchi knows how to put together a film in a cohesive, natural, and flowing manner, something which does not always come easy to inexperienced directors whose films often wander or feel unsatisfying.

Once again, I am left with the conflicting feeling of satisfaction for having a discovered a little-known gem along with disappointment that it it not more well-known in the first place.  As I mentioned at the start of this article, I have often championed My Neighbor Totoro for being the greatest exploration of childhood – of both the joys and fears of being a child.  Mai Mai Shinko, though it may make a few missteps along the way, is a fine film which hits many of the same notes with equal care and sensitivity.  Katabuchi has earned himself a follower.

1/2

I have always felt a little uneasy when discussing Makoto Shinkai ever since my first viewing of 5cm Per Second, a film which I had watched due to the constant praise heaped upon it by several like-minded acquaintances.  My impression of Shinkai after that film was that he was more of a visual artist than a storyteller – yes, he could beautifully render a certain mood and present a snapshot of an emotion or feeling within a scene , and yet once the moment had passed, the emptiness of the characters and the blank world around them seemed to grow more and more notable, seemingly enhanced by the sterile shine of Shinkai’s art style.  I don’t disagree that what he does requires talent, but I am unable to take the comparisons to great storytellers like Satoshi Kon or Hayao Miyazaki to heart.

My review of “Hoshi wo Ou Kodomo” will be kept rather short, as I find it hard to muster much enthusiasm about it – positive or negative.  Shinkai attempts to step outside his comfort zone by presenting what is ostensibly an adventure story about a young girl and her teacher.  Both have lost loved ones, and the film presents a fantasy world named “Agartha”, bound to the mythology of the afterlife, where the possibility of reviving them seems to exist.    Despite the female lead, Asuna, having a deceased father (reflected upon but forgotten by the film’s end), the “loved one” I mentioned is instead a boy named Shun, who is introduced in the first act of the film and disappears shortly after, providing a rather sudden catalyst for Asuna’s journey.  He is, unfortunately, the sort of generic male character who appears before the heroine, long hair sweeping in the wind, to rescue her from a life-threatening creature.  Although her interaction with this character is short and uneventful, she nonetheless develops a deep affection for him that allows her to follow her teacher blindly into the dangerous fantasy world of Agartha.  This sets the tone for the sort of rather meager characterization which will dominate the rest of this film.

The world of Agartha, where much of the film takes place, seems to exist solely for our main characters to wander through it, and the film goes from set piece to set piece without ever forming a cohesive or interesting vision of this world.  A few times, Shinkai pans his camera outward in what is presumably meant to be an impressive reveal, and yet the landscapes never seem to echo the grandeur that the sweeping music seems to believe it should.  Facts about this world and its mythology are exposed through mechanical dialogue rather than through the narrative itself, and thus there is rarely a sense of mystery or intrigue to the proceedings.  The theme of the story is ambitious, certainly ( the loss of loved ones and the unquenchable desire to see them once more ) but Hoshi has neither the characters nor the proper world to explore it in an equally ambitious manner.  The film goes through the motions – introspective dreams, moments of fear, and a tearful climax, but these moments lack emotion and feel unconvincing.

There are occasional moments in the film which I appreciated, such as a few genuine moments of humour, but it is hard for me to show any real enthusiasm for “Hoshi“.  There isn’t much in the film that made any meaningful or lasting impact on me, and I unfortunately believe that Shinkai, in trying to make a film reliant on characterization and storytelling rather than mood and tone, highlighted the weakness that were masked in his more stylized “5cm per second” (I cannot comment on his others, not having seen them).  In some ways, this is a good thing, as it means Shinkai is trying to broaden his horizons, but “Hoshi wo Ou Kodomo” is only an intermediate stage – the slightly awkward steps of a film-maker in new territory. 1/2

According to the Furusato Japan’s website, the WAO Corporation, which has funded the production film, describes itself as providing general education services across Japan.  This film, then, represents one of their areas of interest – making films with strong messages for audiences, particularly youth, across the country.  Furusato Japan is a film which tries to communicate the importance of maintaining traditions and culture, in this case, traditional children’s songs, by using a story of a school in post-war Japan.  The town around them is still attempting to recover from the effects of Japan’s defeat, while at the same time looking forward as Japan once again rebuilds and re-emerges onto the world stage.  It is in this setting that we are introduced to a group of children, a transfer student, and a teacher, who for a variety of reasons develop a passion for these traditional songs and work together to prepare a piece for a competition at the end of the year.

Although this isn’t really a film that relies on character development in itself, the film does take its main character, Akira, to some interesting corners, ranging from peer pressure to a tragedy at the loss of a classmate.  Sometimes the film is respectably low-key, while at others it approaches a tone of melodrama.  Overall, however, there is a humbleness to the film – it does not present itself as being a story of grand scope.  It seems conscious of itself as a vehicle in which the primary purpose is to communicate, sometimes through the words of the characters themselves, the admirable beauty behind these traditional songs and the responsibility of future generations to hold onto cultural ties with their ancestors.

The motive is respectable, though Furusato Japan does occasionally start to feel more like an appreciation piece rather than a film at all, a feeling that is reinforced by the somewhat low quality of its artwork and sound.  It makes a lot of awkward steps, including casting professionals as the singing voices for what are supposed to be inexperienced children.  This is a trade off, as the gain in pleasantness of voice is balanced out by the loss of authenticity (which usually provokes greater emotional response).   Yet when you accept that it prefers to be an appreciation piece, such decisions begin to make sense – the directors wanted to present these songs in their best light, at the sacrifice of the believability within the plot.  These traditional songs certainly are a pleasure to listen to, and combined with a tame but generally agreeable story which is driven by an undercurrent of tension, is enough to earn a tepid recommendation, as long as your expectations are kept steady.

After roughly a ten year gap, Hiroyuki Okiura, the man responsible for the critically well-recieved but generally little-known Jin-Roh, returns with Momo e no Tegami.  Though the film won’t be released even in Japan until 2012, a very early premier was, surprisingly, held at the Toronto International Film Festival (which I gleefully attended).  While Jin-Roh was a dark and adult character drama, Momo is a completely different kind of story, one that is friendly to all ages and treads territory closer to Pixar than what is typical of Okiura’s former collaborator, Mamoru Oshii.  The story centres around a young girl, Momo, who has recently left Tokyo to settle in the seaside town of Shio Island.  Due to the recent passing of her father, Momo and her mother have decided to move closer to their grandparents for support until they can get back on their feet.  Momo carries with her a sheet of paper that is nearly blank except for the phrase “Momo e” (Dear Momo)  - an unfinished letter begun by her father after their final conversation – a quarrel.  If Momo’s initial reluctance to adapt to her new home wasn’t enough, there seems to be an strange string of supernatural occurrences in her dilapidated new home – events which seem connected to her father’s letter.

The film runs at about two hours, and it would be fairly accurate – without revealing too much – to split it into two sections.  The first revolves around Momo adapting to her new surroundings while becoming increasingly frightened at the supernatural occurrences around her.  In the latter half, the supernatural element is no longer a mystery nor a threat, and this is combined with scenes of introspection from Momo about her father and mother.  At an initial glance, there are several elements to Momo that seem to hark back to certain films of Studio Ghibli (I will warn you upfront that there will be a lot of references to Ghibli films in this article), and I wouldn’t doubt that at least some of premise was influenced by those films.  The aspect of young girl moving to a rural town and encountering relatively benign supernatural beings may remind you of Totoro (as is the element of a missing parent), while Momo herself – particularly the contrast between her very reserved behaviour towards strangers versus a more carefree attitude to her parent(s) – is reminiscent of Chihiro from Spirited Away.

 The basic premise behind the film’s supernatural component, which I will refrain from discussing in detail, is quite endearing as well, in a very simple but heart-warming sort of way, though the actual plot trajectory follows a more or less predictable path, as does the sentimental aspect of the story – that of Momo and her father.  In the end, however, it’s the execution that matters.

With that being said, I must say that the film didn’t quite meet my (admittedly very high) expectations for two primary reasons.  The first is that much of the film occasionally seems to show more influence from the modern Hollywood approach to animated films than that of Takahata or Miyazaki.  The portrayal of the supernatural beings, for example, is more in line with the archetypal comedic sidekicks from a recent Disney film than with the mysticism of Spirited Away or the benign curiosity of Totoro.  And whereas Roger Ebert once praised Totoro for never touching the idea of a parent not believing in their children’s “adventure” as an easy source of tension and conflict, that very scenario actually plays a rather significant part in Momo (though, to be fair, in a more reserved way than what Ebert was presumably criticizing).

The other primary issue, the pacing, is one that may be changed before the film makes it’s domestic release next spring, so I will not linger on it too much.  A few examples of slightly off-kilter pacing include a chase scene that continues even when the tension has long dissolved, or the ending of the film itself, which fades to black two or three times – where each fade could have been a reasonable conclusion (and certainly, the audience tends to mentally prepare for it), to the point that the actual conclusion has less of an impact (and perhaps this particular fault owes to the natural instinct for a director to tie up every loose plot thread).

I imagine that at this point, this review has begun to give off a negative vibe, which was not entirely my intention.  Momo is, overall, an earnest, sincere film that was made with care, and there is no doubt that this film will be successful with children.  However, considering the seven years it has spent in production, as well as the legacy of Jin Roh hanging over it, it fell short of the brilliance I had expected from it, and ended up being a somewhat enjoyable, but typical, film that seems to combine influences from the Miyazaki school of film-making along with a more grating style adopted from some of the more subpar Hollywood animation factories.  The latter fact is what keeps it from having the substance to be truly enjoyed and relished by audiences of all ages.

Kokuriko-Zaka Kara (From Up on Poppy Hill) marks the second full-length film by Miyazaki’s son, Goro, after his first attempt, Earthsea (Gedo Senki), received only middling response from most Ghibli fans and critics alike.  Admittedly, the Ghibli fan response, including my own, was influenced in part by his father’s disapproval at Goro’s sudden rise to director status, something which was exploited fairly heavily by the media – who are always eager for a dramatic headline.  Although it is impossible to tell to what extent that unease has been resolved, the elder Miyazaki has lent his hand to the scriptwriting of Kokuriko with a co-author credit, implying at least some level of patching up between them.  Unlike previous Ghibli films, Kokuriko made its international premier at the Toronto International Film Festival, and I jumped at the chance to finally see a new Ghibli release in a timely manner.

Although I had presumed, after reading the summary, that the film would reflect the atmosphere of Mimi o Sumaseba, Kokuriko ends up being more like a merging of Umi ga Kikoeru with the flashbacks of Omohide Poroporo (in the latter case, for the depiction of growing up in a bygone era).  The setting is small-town Yokohama during the early 60s, a period of rapid economic growth for Japan, with the coming Olympics serving as a platform to showcase Japan’s re-emergence onto the world stage.  Unfortunately, the modernization process is threatening the existence of a worn-down clubhouse at a local school attended by our main character – Umi.  As the administration closes in, the schoolchildren fight back – arranging rallies, distributing posters, and doing all they can to prevent its demolition – with much of this being headed by an energetic boy named Shun, who becomes a kindred spirit for Umi.

Umi is a girl with most of the essential characteristics that Ghibli heroines tend to have – she is kind, intelligent, hard-working, and easy to like.  Her father, a sailor and victim of war, is deceased, while her mother is often away, leading her to take care of most of the residents in her home on Poppy Hill – which appears to be a sort of boarding house for women.  Every morning, Umi raises the signal flags in front of her home, a habit she picked up as a token to guide her seafaring father back to safety – and continues to do in his memory.  However, as the story begins, someone else – Shun – seems to notice this habit of hers, and references it in a poem in the school paper, inevitably setting off the standard adolescent murmurs around the schoolyard.

Because of the period setting, much of the film is awash with distinct touches of a simpler time (something that I tend to appreciate very easily) and this is probably one of the stronger points of the film.  The scenes of daily life, such as the old-fashioned style of cooking or travelling through a road not yet clogged with automobiles, is one way the film achieves this, another is the soundtrack, which makes occasional  use of old classics to lend an antiquated feel to the proceedings.  The only oddity is a bespectacled friend of Shun’s, whose ice-cool persona seemed oddly contemporary amidst his surroundings.

The story of the clubhouse and the story of the characters – Umi and Shun- occur mostly along different paths (quite unlike, say, Mimi o Sumaseba), while a third strand about Umi’s relationship with her deceased father becomes directly connected with Shun as well.  Of those, the first has been executed particularly well.  The design of the clubhouse itself, a tall, creaky, imaginative structure where a chemistry club member on one floor can rudely interrupt a wandering philosopher on another, is quite a treat.  Despite their occasional differences of opinion, the various members all band together and do what they can to protect their building – newsletters, speeches, stunts, and finally, appeals to those in charge.  Although it’s impossible to know exactly which scenes were written by the elder Miyazaki, it’s hard not to think that the scene of debate between students, where a defiant Shun chastises those who “worship the future and forget the past”, is not Miyazaki’s way of harking back to his protesting days as a youth (as he wrote in Starting Point).

The character threads, however, are more of a mixed bag.  Essentially, Umi and Shun discover a connecting link in their pasts, and on the positive side, this leads to some quite moving scenes involving Umi’s deceased father and his sailor companions.  However, the film unfortunately brings in a somewhat contrived conflict to the (otherwise gentle, as in most Ghibli films) love story that seems unnecessary, as it essentially resolves itself and serves no real purpose other than a few awkward scenes that hover around being melodramatic – though the film is somewhat self-aware of that.  Of course, it’s impossible to delve deeper without revealing details of the plot, so I will simply say that the good that came out of this plot point – Shun and Umi bonding through their shared past – could have easily been implemented without the additional “conflict” – and I would have enjoyed the film much more.

The music of Kokuriko is generally pleasant, yet left me wishing for the orchestra-based melodies of Hisaishi and Yuji Nomi’s scores for past Ghibli films – even more so after the somewhat contemporary sound of Karigurashi no Arietty, the previous release.  A lush string orchestra would have added quite a bit of elegance to the seaside setting of Kokuriko.  Instead, the film begins with a slightly jazzy sound, which gradually morphs into sentimental piano pieces for the remainder of the film.  They are relatively enjoyable, but also fairly forgettable.  The theme song seems to be rather heavily influenced by Hisaishi’s Kimi o Nosete composition (Edit: signorRossi has pointed out that the song is actually a cover of an older Japanese song – meaning that it was actually Hisaishi who may have been influenced by it, and not the other way around) – with nearly identical chord progressions and heavy similarities in the melodic structure.  It is enjoyable (despite the breathy “modern” singing style of the vocalist), but not quite as original as one would hope for.

What we get, in the end, is a story with an excellent and quite nostalgic portrayal of growing up in a particularly interesting place and time – I imagine the film would have tremendous sentimental value for Japanese audiences who grew up in the 60s during that period of expansion.  Although the film stumbles awkwardly with its character threads, I would feel comfortable with putting it alongside a film like Umi ga Kikoeru in the Ghibli canon – enjoyable, though not deeply affecting.  What I can say, however, is that the film has gone a long way in making me a little more comfortable with Goro’s relatively sudden status as a frontline Ghibli director.  While it’s possible that we won’t see the new generation produce classics in the vein of Totoro or Mononoke-hime, judging by this film as well as Karigurashi no Arrietty, the Ghibli style of filmmaking, at least, will not be lost when Miyazaki and Takahata retire.

 1/2

Dennou Coil is a near-future science fiction series which revolves around a group of children entrenched in the fad of their generation – special glasses which overlay a virtual reality onto the real world.  This technology, of course, serves a purpose in the infrastructure of the adult world, but for the children – at first, at least – it is a source of high-tech entertainment.  The havoc they cause is cleaned up by the authorities, who monitor the junk floating into the system through the use of automatons which detect and destroy it.  The series follows Okonogi Yuuko, a newcomer to Daikoku City, who is familiar with the glasses but not nearly to the extent of the other children of Daikoku.  Hence, she becomes our proxy as we try to understand and get a hold on this world.  She is quickly recruited by an energetic classmate, Fumie,  into the school’s hacker club, and discovers that several others in the school are investigating a certain phenomenon which seems to be connected somehow to her own past as well.

If the latter part of that plot description sounds very vague, it’s because the core plot element of Dennou Coil is very entrenched in the fantasy of its world and thus wouldn’t be easy to communicate outside of that context.  It is a mystery series in the sense that the underlying plot revolves around a vague event of the past which is slowly unravelled throughout the course of the series with several twists and turns, misleading assumptions, and cliffhangers.  The first half of Dennou Coil is primarily an exercise in world building, and the series dearly needs it – the show is drenched in jargon – for many, to the point of the being excessive.  The use of invented terminology is a staple of all sci-fi series, of course, but it is the execution that sets apart the best, and Dennou Coil could have used some more work in that area.  In particular, when the second half of the show arrives and plunges the characters into conspiracy and crisis, the jargon feels conspicuous – not necessarily because of its abundance, but more so due to the somewhat monotonous style of exposition that the series uses.  Where the series shines, however, is the way that it eventually ties together all of its rule-heavy fantasy elements and conspiracy elements back to a core, identifiable human emotion of loss and regret.  The way that the gradually expanding complexity of the plot eventually folds into this simple message and moral is, in my opinion, the most memorable aspect of the series.

The series does come up with an interesting mix of characters along with Yuuko herself – who is the archetype of the “everyman” character for the audience to relate with (though dealing with her own strange secrets).  However, there is something of an imbalance in the way the characters are used and developed.  The first half of the series makes heavy use of lighter characters such as Fumie and Daichi in the almost slice-of-life episodes, providing them with characterization through their various rivalries and subtle infatuations and endearing them to the audience. The second half switches gears considerably when it begins to focus on the core mystery – abandoning, or significantly reducing the impact of, the characters who are not directly involved in it.  This causes the series to lack the resounding satisfaction you get from a series which develops a single core cast extremely well and then plunges them into a climax, as characters like Daichi and Fumie drop off at a certain point – or rather, become less relevant – despite playing a heavy role in the initial impression of the show.

The series has quite an excellent musical score (as well as a lovely ED, Sora no Kakera) and enjoyably realistic character designs.  The latter point may be argued by some – the show is often berated for its relatively plain character designs by viewers who are used to colorful characters, but I appreciated it – it helped in painting the characters as convincing children in a modern Japanese city.  What is true, though, is that the environments tend to be rather drab – the show doesn’t quite portray the urban world with the level of beauty that, say, Whisper of the Heart was able to, and the cyber world, naturally, is portrayed in a sterile manner.

As far as anime go, Dennou Coil is certainly a unique attempt which  stands out among the releases of its year, making it a good candidate for those who are tired of the same formulas.  At the same time, I think it is the type of series where your mileage will vary significantly depending on what sort of elements you are willing to forgive in order to experience its finer points.  Those who have no stomach for jargon-laden exposition will find it hard to progress through the show, while those who require an emotional connection to the cast may find that certain characters are not developed enough before being thrust into the spotlight (in particular, Amasawa, arguably the second most important character, is a character I hadn’t truly grown to like even as she become the major player of the climax).  The core mystery of the series, though, is well-conceived with a satisfying resolution, and if the aforementioned details don’t bother you, Dennou Coil can be a rewarding investment.

The quirk of reviewing longer series is that their appeal so often depends on the slowly developed attachment they allow you to form with their characters and setting – something which is often hard to communicate in words, and is a direct result of the gentle pace that these series can afford.  Kemono no Souja Erin takes full advantage of its length of fifty episodes – it takes us though many years in the life of its protagonist, Erin, allowing us to watch her develop slowly in a variety of situations until finally the world around her is turned upside down, and we see the result of all this development.  It is not a series for those looking for constant action, plot twists, or gritty realism, as although there are occasional moments of almost brutal honesty and grim violence (both implied and shown), at its core, Erin is a warm and wonderfully told coming-of-age story.  The series intentionally keeps itself friendly to younger viewers through the use of overt narrations and flashbacks, making it a true “family” series, yet also retains a certain subtlety in its ambiguity towards its ideological dilemma and in certain relationships.  The story may take on the quality of a fable at times, but it should not be treated as a simple fairy tale.

Kemono no Souja Erin begins with a brief prologue in Erin’s childhood – a batch of episodes with a light tone and a predominantly younger cast which I suspect is the primary reason why many viewers abandon the show before it shows its true potential.  These early episodes center mainly around Erin’s daily life with her mother, who is a breeder of Touda (one of the two central beasts in her world which have been tamed by humans for political and warlike purposes).  There is an almost ecological tone in the way we delve into the care of these beasts, and though the setting and Erin herself are charming from the beginning, viewers may be hesitant to invest a full fifty episodes worth of time at this point.  I myself had this feeling when first sampling the show, and it was at the recommendation of others that I continued with it.  As I feel I should pass on this favour, I will inform you that the first major dramatic event occurs around the seventh episode, and I recommend giving the show a trial until at least this period.  It is there that the story really begins, the main plot threads gradually begin to emerge, and we recognize that the first arc of the story is only an introduction for greater things to come.

As with Seirei no Moribito, the other fantasy story written by Nahoko Uehashi and subsequently adapted into an anime, Kemono no Souja Erin has two threads which drive the story forward – the first, a character-centric story involving Erin and the bond she tentatively forms with these beasts (which have had only master-slave relationships with humans until that point) while the second is a larger political story revolving around the fragile alliance of two factions, loosely analogous to the royalty and the army, which control the country.  However, as the beasts referred to in the title are captured and raised by these factions for political purposes, the second thread is very deeply connected to the first, and the two threads merge into one by the end of the story very cleanly.  In this way, I feel Kemono is superior to Moribito, as I found myself invested in both the character subplots as well as the overarching politics – whereas in Moribito, only the character moments interested me (though very deeply at that).

Also like Moribito, the show is clearly focused on its characters (both human and beast) first and its politics second.  Erin is a wonderful, distinctive character – beginning the story with a great deal of optimism (as many child characters would be), but growing into a multi-faceted, intelligent, and admirable person who retains her fundamental optimism while being able to recognize contradictions in her morality and confront them.  Apart from the political conflicts in the series, the fundamental question the series is built around is whether humans and beasts can coexist without one taking advantage of the other, and in many ways Erin’s journey is her quest to try and resolve this question.  The series does not present a cliched or predictable conclusion to this ideological conflict, either – as I have said, there is a sense of ambiguity and pragmatism that the show should be commended for.

The other characters in the story are more of a mixed bag, with some, such as Ial – a bodyguard for the Queen who forms a subdued bond with Erin from afar – adding a great deal of poignancy to the proceedings, while others, such as the two comic relief characters, contribute only a sense of humour for younger viewers (they did not appear in the original novels).  The most significant character apart from Erin herself is undoubtedly the beasts with whom she forms an attachment, as the growth of their relationship is the core of the series and that relationship retains its complexity and realism (in other words, the beasts are never humanized in order to facilitate a bond with Erin – they retain their individuality to the end).  The Ohju – majestic winged creatures with the heads of wolves – are also brilliantly drawn with a fantastic sense of presence on-screen, owing, perhaps, to the fact that their size and nature usually allow only one to be drawn on screen at once (unlike the massive army of Toudas, which are often drawn using computer techniques in order to depict large groups of them).

As I said in the opening paragraph of this review, this is not an anime centered around dramatic plot developments (until, perhaps, the final arc), and a taste for slow-moving but rewarding and warm-hearted stories is required to truly enjoy it, as it will often go for many episodes at a time without any significant movement with the plot.  I have mentioned in my earlier posts about Kemono that the show embodies my oft-repeated quote that “a children’s story made with sincerity will appeal to everyone”.  I don’t know if I would still claim that Kemono is entirely a children’s story now, as the aforementioned ambiguity with which it targets the man-and-beast conflict avoids the idealism one would otherwise expect, but it does have a sincere charm that fans of Studio Ghibli films may recognize.  Despite this, the show is one of the most pertinent examples of underrated anime I have seen, with very little activity in the English language community, even while shows which are essentially seasonal rehashes of common anime formulas seem to generate double the interest.  Yes, Kemono is not without flaws, yet I feel a sense of responsibility to focus on its positives in order to counter the relative obscurity it has found itself in.  My only request, however, is that if you are going to give the series a chance, allow it time to show what it truly has to offer – I took that advice, and was deeply rewarded for it.