Konshuu Anthology 2024

konshuu

CAL ANIMAGE ALPHA presents ANTHOLOGY

Look Back History at Konshuu's

Konshuu is a biweekly publication created by the student officers of Cal Animage Alpha (CAA) to serve as a platform for ardent fans of anime, manga, and other otaku-related content to come together and express their passion through creative works. Although the full history of Konshuu has not been properly documented, enough is known to provide insight as to how the publication has evolved through each successive generation of writers, artists, graphic designers, and editors.

CAA was first established in 1989 as a student-run organization at the University of California, Berkeley. In the following years, other universities followed suit in forming their own Cal Animage chapters. There are currently over 10 clubs across the country who are a part of the Cal Animage Network. In 1995, the members of CAA published their very first issue of Konshuu in the form of a weekly four-page newsletter, which is the form it would remain in for the following two decades. Starting in 2015, the original format was discarded in favor of publishing Konshuu as an eight-page magazine. This drastic reinvention of Konshuu is what developed the magazine’s format into its current iteration, featuring student officer contributions. These come in the forms of illustrated front and back covers, unique editorials, and various forms of supplementary content, including polls, staff picks, recommendations, and more. In addition to its biweekly periodicals, Konshuu often takes on more ambitious works, such as a uniquely hybrid issue-pamphlet release accompanying CAA’s yearly anime convention, Anime Destiny, to an anthology featuring highlights from past volumes while premiering brand new works (like the one you're reading now!).

When the COVID-19 pandemic unexpectedly hit in spring of 2020, Konshuu had to shift its production cycle away from weekly releases, instead opting for, at times, a monthly schedule, and at others, a biweekly basis. At the expense of more frequent releases, Konshuu issues are now often able to extend to twelve, sixteen, or even twen-

ty-page publications, due to the extended timeframe to create content. During the pandemic, the magazine also began publishing digitally through issuu.com/konshuu-caa, in addition to kickstarting CAA's YouTube channel (youtube. com/@CalAnimageAlpha) prior to those duties being spun off into their own dedicated department in late 2021.

At present, Konshuu arguably sits at one of its strongest incarnations throughout its ever-changing history. With a staff consisting of roughly fifteen officers, Konshuu is constantly improving its presentation with dynamic layout overhauls being a primary concern. It features increasingly stellar artwork – something the publication has historically placed a great deal of pride upon. Aesthetics aside, the magazine's editorials have undergone a stark increase in the amount of topics covered, ranging from the familiar, to the forgotten, to even subjects which remain virtually unknown elsewhere. At this important juncture of Konshuu's history, one large concern is of its return to pre-quarantine form. The most urgent matter associated with this comes with the revival of printed issues available for analog reading. To address this concern, the team at Konshuu has been discussing the viability of selling physical copies of our various issues, although solidified plans have not yet been finalized. Whilst keeping the legacy of Konshuu as a primary concern, we also hope to improve the magazine with each release. We can hardly wait to see where Konshuu will go next, and we hope to see you reading along with us!

CONTENTS

Misane Mikoto

BISHONEN AESTHETICS

Bishonen are the most beautiful beings in existential potentiality. There are many reasons I believe this statement is true, but I will take it as axiomatic as I will mostly be discussing aesthetics. Aesthetics is philosophical inquiry into the nature and meaning of beauty, and especially how it relates to truth, the transcendental, and other metaphysical concepts.

Bishonen represent the civilizationally, intellectually, and transcendentally oriented aspects of the masculine. They are often associated with culture: poetry, music, art, etc. Many highly intelligent characters such as Lelouch are portrayed as bishonen. Additionally, divine beings are often portrayed as bishonen: Tolkien elves, fairies, kami, etc. They are contrasted by hypermasculine “chads” who embody the more physical aspects of masculinity, those closer to humanity’s animalistic nature.

However, bishonen can and often do have masculine personality traits. Most shonen anime protagonists are bishonen but embody the shounen philosophy of getting stronger and never giving up. Tanjiro from Kimetsu no Yaiba is debatably a bishonen, at least he is pretty cute >_<, and indisputably an archetypal shonen protagonist. In any case, his soul is portrayed as completely pure and warm. He is both spiritually and physically pure and beautiful. Many bishonen are similar, portrayed as youthfully innocent and pure of heart. I find this beautiful and inspiring.

Not all bishonen are like that. Some are (debatably) evil, such as Makishima Shogo or Griffith. I don’t have much to say about

them except that they are an inversion of the pure hearted bishonen archetype. There are other types of bishonen as well. Historically in East Asian literature young warriors, strategists, and generals have been portrayed as bishonen. In Japan the most popular male in high school is most likely a bishonen who is good looking, good at academics, and maybe even sports, as opposed to the stereotypical western ideal of the football captain chad who is bad at academics.

In a society dominated by tiresome western ideas of masculinity, bishonen are a welcome break. Seeing cute boys who are able to be strong, fight and have wills of steel is amazing and blows the entire western worldview out of the water. In the west any appreciation of male beauty beyond “chad have big muscle and beard” is seen as gay (Yes.), but in East Asian countries, beauty standards revolve around actual beauty, as in aesthetics: skincare, cleanliness, fashion, etc. This is the norm for straight men there (and that’s a good thing).

This brings us to Kpop and idols in general. I don’t like Kpop, but Jpop idols can be good sometimes. I like the cute aesthetic of Jpop more than Kpop aesthetics because it seems like Kpop is still trying to appeal to western standards (Kpop was designed to sell overseas, unlike Jpop). Jpop boys like Michieda Shunsuke or Mafumafu usually have a cute and innocent presentation as opposed to the more sexually provocative nature of Kpop. While anime and real life bishonen are different, they share a fundamentally similar nature.

As society becomes more and more disconnected from the physical (as a result of technology and the promethean nature of humanity), I think the bishonen archetype will guide the men of tomorrow into a more beautiful future.

Guest

META (OF THE GOLDEN WITCH)

Writer

TONY T.

Originally published in Vol. 57 Issue 6 - Underwater

Without love, it cannot be seen.

While I try to avoid it, I generally have a tendency to be cynical towards most things.  Within the realm of otaku media, for instance, I think that there’s a far too prevalent inclination for works that work within the meta of storytelling, which attempt to be narratives in addition to trying to say something about the nature of fiction.  It goes beyond the overt.  I would argue that the trend of isekai alongside the trend of magical high schools which preceded it fit into this framework rather snugly.  With most of these shows following the same basic mold, the one or two slight deviations from that structure are often marketed as what makes that specific entry somehow uniquely subversive or impactful.  To me, these distinctions in writing and marketing are generally not very impactful regarding the actual content, and more so serve as superficial tools to distract the audience from realizing they have seen more or less the same thing they’ve seen fifty thousand times before.  A show like Shield Hero stood out to audiences for having a dark tone, but aside from that slight tonal shift, not much of the series was actually impactfully different from other isekai contemporaries.  To clarify, I’m not decrying the abundance of repetition.  It’s true that most of what I’m talking about suffers due to being repetitive of existing media.  However, you could pretty much say that about most narratives that have ever existed.  The classic example illustrating this would be the hero’s journey, which has been repeated numerous times to great success.  What I’m somewhat lamenting is, ironically, the overabundance of blatantly obvious cynicism in these works.

This isn’t to say that I dislike these types of series.  I’d like to think I’m not so cynical as to outright denounce the majority of anime.  Meta is not something I hate completely, although I do think the discourse around it is often marred by uninteresting discussions that add little.  Rather, I think metatextual elements, parts of a series that touch upon the viewer’s understanding of that series’ place within a greater cultural landscape, are generally only something that can work if stumbled upon more naturally.  The classic example: Neon Genesis Evangelion.  Evangelion is lauded for its approach to storytelling, both in its realistic characters and in how it

makes audiences consider its narrative in a far larger way beyond the scope of a two-cour television show and follow up movie.  Considering its influence, it’s notable that the original Evangelion series, along with The End of Evangelion run for only around 12-13 hours or so in total.  Where Evangelion is impactful is in how its shift to these more introspective metatextual elements is rather gradual - the show slowly moves to those aspects around the middle mark and only really gets more involved with them towards the final two episodes and the second half of End of Evangelion.  The reason why Evangelion’s usage of these ideas is relevant comes down to a certain level of subtlety.  I highly doubt Anno Hideaki approached the series with the grand existential statement that the series ultimately has become remembered for.  Said statement naturally grew with the series’ production and slowly became utilized as the series progressed.

Contrasting Evangelion to the Japanese light novel scene really highlights why I find the former to be impactful.  The majority of Japanese light novels are targeted towards the same young adult demographic which made novels like Twilight popular in the West.  As such, those that utilize meta aspects do so as an express concern of their construction given the implied need for bluntness to appeal to that audience.  Whether or not it’s intended, there’s a sense I get that many light novel authors, as well as authors of adjacent media like visual novels, set out to be meta on purpose with the means of reaching that point as more of an afterthought.  For example, while I actually quite enjoy No Game No Life, there are points where the story structure seems to have taken for granted that the audience is already well aware of the tropes surrounding isekai and otaku culture as a whole.  To clarify, I’m speaking on the fundamental structure of the story - while referential elements are also a topic I have both positive and negative opinions on, this article is already poorly structured enough and I’ve already written multiple Gintama articles before.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with the No Game No Life school of directly approaching meta as it pertains to the strength of the narrative, though I do think that it limits the scope of the audience a work can reach as only people familiar with isekai and otaku media will understand.  Additionally, while a tongue in cheek tone can be useful, I find that sort of approach to meta to be detracting from its impact.  In some ways, a complete dive into metatextual thought can some-

what distract from the point of the work itself, drawing attention away from the main story in favor of a somewhat unnecessary tangent.  When Urusei Yatsura: Beautiful Dreamer makes the viewers ponder the meaning of its existence as a piece of media, it feels meaningful because it is but one portion of that film’s overall message (which I’ve written about multiple times before).  It’s gradual, with the feeling that the self-referential comments within the film were arrived at after great consideration from the staff.  There’s a natural feeling to the meta as it doesn’t feel like it was the express intention from the start, but rather something that was arrived at by nature of Oshii Mamoru thinking deeply on Urusei Yatsura over the course of the film’s production (again read my articles on it).  I like meta as the side dish, rather than the main course.

On that note, I think the José Cuevas article on Shokugeki no Soma is probably one of the Konshuu articles I have the most mixed thoughts on.  You can clearly see my attempts at sneaking in implications that the article is a hyperbolized version of what could be someone’s actual opinion.  This was perhaps a good way to introduce José Cuevas, as an exaggerated character serving as both a parody of what I considered to be the overly reductive mainstream discourse on animation, whilst including parts of my bad writing tendencies, featuring numerous references and tangents that go nowhere.  There’s a sense of defensiveness towards the actual opinion expressed.  You can probably tell in that article that the thoughts towards Shokugeki no Soma were indeed things that the person behind José Cuevas actually believed, hidden behind a veil of supposed irony and mockery.  As a whole, there’s many things in that article that could have been improved, yet there’s also things that I think were fun and added to the joke of that persona.  Not to say that the writing in any of these articles is anything even close to passable in a serious sense especially given how they largely consist of rambling pontification with about a million different theses flying around, but that article was fun to write.  Putting yourself into the shoes of a different person with somewhat divergent sensibilities is something that is extremely valuable in providing perspective.

This brings me to Umineko no Naku Koro ni, which I’ve written about before, though not in much depth.  In many ways, its approach to meta elements was the exact thing I was looking for, even as someone that generally dislikes the medium of visual novels.  While the entire story is, in a sense, one big statement on the value of narrative and how fiction can be in many ways powerful, Umineko’s way of approaching meta serves not to devalue the existing story but to enhance it.  Initially, the Ushiromiya family and their associates seem like caricatures in the first viewing of the Rokkenjima incident.  The adults are almost entirely out for their own self gain, lusting after the great fortune of the family patriarch, whereas the cousins are moralistic.  That layer of the story, focusing on Ushiromiya Battler and the events of October

4-5, 1986, becomes much more complex and detailed when Battler and Beatrice analyze the various pieces in play.  They develop better understandings of the different individuals with their varying intentions by viewing the event from different angles.  There’s the sub narrative of Ushiromiya Eva and her pride in the family name.  The abusive dynamic between Ushiromiya Rosa and her daughter Maria is simultaneously disturbing yet fascinating with overlain emotions of love and hatred.  Almost every character has a layer to them beyond what may be initially observed.

The further layer of Ushiromiya Ange looking at the events of 1986 in hindsight from 1998 adds more to this.  Even Ushiromiya Kinzo gets somewhat humanized as an individual who was never allowed to live in the way he wished, someone who has done terrible things and completely faults himself for them.  The various witch figures exist to facilitate this dynamic, with even Ange, a witch in her own right, having her emotions and motivations analyzed in a similar fashion from the perspective of the witches.  The last layer, that of Kotobuki Yukari considering her past as Ange ties all of this together, as the dynamics between Ange and the Hachijos in the later portions of Umineko expand beyond simply presenting a story to presenting every story imaginable.  The meta of Umineko is a sort of tool that the author utilizes to expand his story into something that is so much more.  And even then, after Umineko has presented every level of its meta possible, it returns to resolve the fundamental mystery at its core, the identity, or rather identities of the elusive Golden Witch.  Whether it’s Beatrice, Lion, Shannon, Kanon, or someone else, Umineko’s meta provides an insight into how the disparate ways a person may view themselves can be profoundly important.

There’s a sense of detachment that I get when media gets too metatextual, almost as if the creator is attempting to signal that they are beyond what they are making.  In contrast, Umineko manages to portray almost everything with some level of pathos with interesting motivations and relationships.  Meta is integral to the story, yet the main point of Umineko is not its meta, but rather the sympathy and empathy that meta allows the audience to experience.  Umineko thrives so much because there’s always a greater point to why the story’s introspection - meta isn’t just used to make some half baked self-celebratory statement about why this story is greater than all others it is grouped with.  Rather, Umineko proves that it is great by using its meta to enhance the story and to highlight the importance of storytelling in general.  Meta is far too often abused in modern media with no greater message behind it.  Just look at this article’s tangents.  In spite of this, Umineko would not have nearly the same impact had it not used meta to enhance the viewer’s understanding of the various universes that the author creates, all in service of a greater moral message containing great pathos.  Without meta, Umineko’s brilliance cannot be seen.

SPACE SETTING – A BALANCING ACT

MAX ROTHMAN

Writer

Originally published in Vol. 57 Issue 8 - Space Clarke’s Third Law is, in my opinion, often the wrong way around.

There are countless series, anime and otherwise, that concern themselves with the final frontier. From A Trip to the Moon to The Expanse, the cosmos presents a wide canvas on which to paint a narrative. Despite the void being as such, space itself requires worldbuilding. It is not merely a barren highway between narrative setpieces, but a stage itself. The depiction of how individuals interact on and with this stage is important, and a hard choice presents itself. Unlike most other places, the void is hostile to all life. Answering the question of where and how people live is a delicate one, where the answer dictates whether a piece of media leans to science fiction or science fantasy. I assert that through the challenge of balancing the two, a creator can achieve a setting that feels thought out and believably realistic, but still leave room for fantasy that can sit supported by the audience’s suspension of disbelief.

Worldbuilding sets the characterization of environments and the background populating it. If the narrative and events wildly contrast the setting’s flavor, the whole story can start to disjoin itself. To this end, space must be dealt with. Often, the answer to space in sci-fi is handled simply. It is in that merely a space between places of interest, an equivalent of an ocean crossing between continents. With various modes of transport, characters traverse it, and the details of this are effectively wrapped and done. Any concerns are usually addressed with fantastical means – hyperdrives cut travel to nothing, ships just have perpetual air and gravity, etc.

However, the more grounded a piece of media is supposed to feel, the more attention must be paid to this. Even if fantastical elements cut it, real questions suggest themselves to the audience. The care put into this – in writing and presentation – can show an informed writer from an uninformed one. Properly illustrated vehicles, liv-

ing conditions depicted with mindfulness to the setting, and so on, all contribute to push a world that much closer to ours.

But what of series that sit in the middle between futurism and fantasy? In these, the balancing act becomes the most challenging to sell best. Enough care and attention must be paid to make aspects feel plausible and real, but left open enough to not over-answer granularly and ruin the higher aspects of a world. With all the bias I can muster as a writer, I can use Mobile Suit Gundam as an example of doing it right in this regard. The broad setting and the background are well designed to balance real astrophysics and fictional designs. O’Neill cylinders are existing concepts closer to reality than fiction, with aspects such as food procurement, gravity, and society being addressed to push the narrative home. By having believable life in space, and realistic (enough) means of getting to and from space, the narrative has to keep these in mind while managing to change enough rules to get around the square-cubed law. To my biased self as someone who greatly enjoys good science fiction, this is the most savory setting. It (or any other equal example) shows care to truly think how we could live in the future, however far flung, but can stay inspired enough to show fantastical things.

IN DEFENSE OF RYUKISHI’S SPRITES

Writer Felix L.

Originally published in Vol. 57 Issue 2 - Drip Read these. They’re good

Visual novels are a strange mediatic chimera that blends artistic elements from different formats into a whole that, when handled effectively stylistically, brings the sum of its parts to a whole new level when it comes to crafting a certain ambiance that is capable of enhancing its narrative qualities. Its storytelling is purely textual, as the story is told solely through that aspect of its construction, while the aesthetic, from visuals to music, exists purely as a tool to uplift what is being told in writing. Therefore, the value of these elements is dependent mainly on the extent to which it supplements the tone and narration that the text is going for. That is true of backgrounds, but most importantly the sprites of the characters. While visual novels retain mediatic aspects from the novel format which makes up half of its name, the style that it uses as far as storytelling is concerned is usually dependent on dialogue. Information is given through the lens of the characters, and it is their interactions that set a scene’s tone and lead to story progression. And that is where sprites truly matter. Sprites that effectively reflect a character’s identity, personality, and behavior at all times, and for all types of events, can be considered successful.

This is a point I wish to tackle in the scope of the works of Ryukishi07, perhaps the most notorious visual novel writer, though he may mostly be considered infamous as far as his drawing style is concerned. His main stories, namely Umineko and Higurashi within the When They Cry franchise, have gotten several different visual remasters when they were ported to different platforms, and with many ways to modify your game now, the style that the audience wishes to use to experience these stories is entirely up to them. In this context, people generally strive away

from the original sprites for those works, viewing their existence as something that can only hinder their reading experience. When it comes to those who do appreciate them, one might be tempted to define this love as an acquired taste, that stems either from nostalgia or simply from experiencing those stories with those designs and therefore associating the characters and their writing with this unique art style, with later ones clashing with their view of those characters. But there are merits to these sprites that outshine many of their alternatives as an artistic tool for storytelling.

Their wide array of expressions is what comes to mind first and foremost. The exaggerated features of the sprites come to life in many different types of scenes, and in Higurashi for instance, are capable of showcasing emotions far more effectively than their updated versions, whose expressions don’t stray away enough from their basic design to fit the tone of the work at different points. This is true particularly for the steam Umineko sprites, or for most of Higurashi’s remasters. This makes them a great storytelling tool for that specific VN in a way that in my opinion outshines alternatives. And the lack of technical proficiency in their structure and anatomy hardly matters within the scope of this role, as visual novels work as a literary medium, meaning that the audience’s perception of the characters is executed through many different means, with the visual aspect not needing the same level of technical quality or realistic anatomy for the characters to work.

And with the direction that Ciconia is showing, with Ryukishi using his designs while working with other artists for the coloring, the aesthetic appeal of his style is starting to show, and there is a point at which the gap between original and new sprites starts to disappear in terms of sheer artistic quality.

It should be said however that this is a matter that I find most important in Higurashi, but in Umineko’s case, the PS3 sprites have attained a level of expressiveness fitting of the characters and the tonal shifts of the story that makes them a great alternative to Ryukishi’s sprites, even on the fronts where I value Ryukishi more.

At the end of the day however, tolerance for the technical aspects of art is still something that matters in one’s experience, and personal preference should be prioritized for someone to enjoy these works (that are certainly worth reading) as much as possible. But I do believe that Ryukishi’s sprites hold a lot of value that is overlooked a lot in the medium of Visual Novels as a whole, and it leads us to question the role of aesthetic elements in VNs in an interesting way.

RAHM JETHANI

Originally published in Vol. 58 Issue 1 - Rivals

Writer

“We may not be able to change our fate, but our lives aren’t preordained!”

SPOILERS FOR DIGIMON ADVENTURE: LAST EVOLUTION KIZUNA!

The Digimon anime series’ strongest aspect is, and always has been, its strong focus on character growth and thematic evolution. This is especially the case in the many “Adventure” series, which mainly follow a constant set of characters, as opposed to the wide variety of one-off groups featured in other Digimon series. The first Digimon Adventure series was released back in 1999, and it was praised for its creative exploration of what it meant to grow up. Not only this, but ideas of true friendship, destiny, sacrifice, and other heavy subject matters were talked about in a more mature way than many localized shows of the time. This respect for the audience, the admittedly marketable and “cool” Digimon, and the simple yet charming storyline helped propel the following Digimon anime series to new heights.

However, most likely due to the other series being so self-contained, the Digimon Adventure series kept receiving new outings, such as the multiple movies and Digimon Adventure Tri series. Despite their hit-or-miss nature though, each new installment aimed to further the relationship dynamics between the characters in a meaningful way. While the sentiment of this was largely appreciated, its execution was received very poorly due to structural problems, as seen especially with the Tri series. The reception towards Tri prompted the writers to ask themselves a challenging question. Should they be content to end the Adventure series with this failed product, or would they try to redeem themselves with a risky last project that risked further alienating the entire fanbase? After much time, the team did pick the latter option, and a few years later, released Digimon Adventure: Last Evolution Kizuna.

In order to understand what the Kizuna movie sought to do, we first need to take a look back at two essential “bad” moments that defined the identity of the Digimon Adventure series leading up to the movie. Firstly, there’s the famous ending of Digimon Adventure 02, which shows all of the main characters as adults. The main character Taichi ends up being a diplomat with his partner Digimon, Agumon. The rival character Yamato is seen as an astronaut on the moon with his partner Gabumon. Similar futures are shown for all the original cast which, in isolation, works as a hopeful sendoff. The problem with this is its recontextualization

THE END OF

in the secondary “bad” moment in the Digimon Adventure series: Digimon Adventure Tri Tri struggles with many aspects, but in particular it fails to give any hints towards the characters’ futures. The series shows different sides to the cast that, while undoubtedly good in terms of evolving their characters, conflict with the future version of them. We wonder how Yamato goes from being in a rock band to studying astrophysics instead of Koushiro, we wonder how Taichi’s new sense of uncertainty leads him to becoming a diplomat, we wonder how Mimi becomes a celebrity chef when she’s better suited to Sora’s job of fashion design. At the end of Tri, these questions are no closer to being answered than in the beginning, as if the writers forgot that Digimon Adventure has always been about the characters’ lives rather than them fighting a specific dangerous Digimon. This ends up making an unsatisfying conclusion to a series that was supposed to be a thematic close to the Digimon Adventure series.

Digimon Adventure: Last Evolution Kizuna is the perfect end to the series. It takes what made the original series so special, and pairs it with a refined message that caters to its core audience who have now also grown up. Furthermore, one of its boldest decisions is one that I think should have been done a long time ago: the writers disregard the ending of Adventure 02. I personally don’t care about “canon” as long as the story being told is a good one, so whether or not Kizuna is now the true “canon” doesn’t matter. What does matter about this movie’s choice to stray from an already-decided future is that it not only allows for better storytelling potential, but it also lines up with Kizuna’s plot so much that this decision actually increased the enjoyment and thematic fulfillment. It embraced the new characterization the Tri films brought, and rather than only half-committing, it leaned into the personality traits that the characters had begun to exhibit. This not only created more believable character moments throughout the movie, but also continued the sense of forward momentum the series was famous for. In addition, role reversals between characters like Taichi and Yamato were displayed intentionally to

OF DIGIMON

highlight the uncertainty of this point in their lives.

I want to quickly touch on the relationship dynamic between Taichi and Yamato, because its growth up until this movie is indicative of their current mental states. At the start of the series, Taichi is the bold leader of the friend group. His occasional airheadedness was complemented by his desire to protect those close to him, which we learn is a result of a traumatic moment in his childhood. Meanwhile, Yamato is initially presented as a cold, closed-off loner who would frequently argue with Taichi over decisions. It is revealed later that Yamato was like this due to his own childhood, after his parents divorced and forced him away from his younger brother. In a way, these characters are similar, and their interactions together both highlight this, as well as provide them opportunities to grow from it. Their various interactions spawned their fierce rivalry, which later turned to a friendly one as they understood each other more.

Something that Tri reached for was to shift the dynamic between them, where Taichi would become more passive and unsure of himself, and Yamato would take on the leader role when no one else would. This change was done in a somewhat jarring fashion, but Kizuna’s solution to this problematic change was as simple as it was appropriate to the movie’s tone: have all the characters grow apart. In the movie, everyone is off pursuing their own paths, and Taichi’s uncertainty is something he struggles with precisely because he isn’t able to act as a strong leader anymore. Yamato, while also feeling trepidation towards the future, is more sure of his path, and would sometimes provide emotional support for Taichi. Their dynamic shifted away from childish rivalry and into an adult friendship, and this evolution is perfect for Kizuna’s message.

All this time, I’ve talked around this film’s message, but I’ve yet to discuss its impact. Digimon Adventure: Last Evolution Kizuna is a

film about loss, destiny, and growing up… which is very similar to everything else in the series. What sets Kizuna apart though, is its finality. Tragedy happens in this movie that can and will never be undone, and we as an audience have to live with that. The good news though is that given time, these tragedies will bloom into a beautiful hope. In this movie, the main characters’ partner Digimon (although primarily Taichi’s and Yamato’s) only have a small amount of time left to live due to the characters growing older. The more the Digimon fight, the more their remaining time left is consumed. Compounding this is a villain who threatens the lives of all the DigiDestined in the world, hence creating a high-stakes situation.

As expected for Digimon, the good guys win and the bad guy is defeated, et cetera, et cetera. The form this structure takes though, is interesting. For one, most of the original cast is absent from the movie’s action, due to having their own lives to live. Sora, Mimi, and Joe in particular have moved on in their lives, and don’t feel the need to be actively involved in this last battle. Koushiro, too, takes more of a backseat here, as his computer knowledge doesn’t act as the deus ex machina it used to. Secondly, rather than achieving new power through friendship, bravery, or any other overused trope, the “new power” of this movie is solely caused by Taichi and Yamato’s acceptance of the imminent loss of their partners, as they make one final push in the film’s climactic battle. This acceptance isn’t rewarded by arbitrary good endings either, as the final heart-wrenching moments of the film see Taichi & Agumon’s and Yamato & Gabumon’s last moments together, each Digimon asking what their human partners will do tomorrow. In that moment, after some thought, Taichi and Yamato figure out what they want to do. Taichi’s uncertainty doesn’t paralyze him anymore, and Yamato’s adrift mindset disappears. But after they each turn to tell their partner, they realize that they’ve already disappeared.

This moment reveals to us a facet of Digimon that the writers, while approaching it rapidly, have been afraid to talk about for 20 years. Being a DigiDestined and having a Digimon meant that these kids were never able to fully grow up. They were all used to facing their problems the same way, and could have never grown as people without losing their Digimon. This was necessary for the main characters, and this is reflected by their realizations of what they wanted to do coinciding exactly with their respective partner’s disappearance. This ending is the perfect conclusion to a show like Digimon, which strives to explore the consequences of its fantastical imaginings. While there are many more Digimon stories yet to be told, Digimon Adventure: Last Evolution Kizuna proudly stands as the definitive thematic culmination of everything the series stood for.

MAX R.

MAGMELL SHINKAI SUIZOKUKAN

Originally published in Vol. 57 Issue 6 - Underwater

Actual jewel in the vast sea of manga.

Kiyomi Sugishita’s MagMell Shinkai Suizokukan is frankly something that I suspected I’d love long before even starting it, not only due to how I’d been specifically seeking out good underwater anime/manga, but also because it’s something that I had wanted to exist. As a currently ongoing series, there’s still plenty of room for future character arcs, though as of now, it thoroughly satisfies all that I would come to expect and hope for, becoming an instant favorite even from the prologue chapter while serving to further cultivate my vague interest in marine biology. MagMell Shinkai Suizokukan is centered around the titular underwater aquarium of MagMell; the facility itself being submerged within the ocean allows incorporation of surrounding sea life into exhibits, witnessed as such through the initial chapter’s giant squid, alongside the unique specimens preserved on the interior in more typical aquarium fashion. Design aside, there remains a focus on abyssal sea life, creatures rarely observed and found deep amidst the ocean’s depths where light never reaches. Chapters generally go about introducing different species as a focal point, tying them to psychological struggles stemming from staff and guests alike, furthering character progression and incentivizing reflection while simultaneously adopting an educational angle.

The name, Mag Mell, speaks to a mythical realm in Irish mythology, alluding to an underwater utopia while also meaning, ‘land of death.’ This feels applicable as the aquarium’s bottommost room extends to the seafloor, where it stands as a memorial for the countless lives lost over time. Director Minato notes to Koutarou, the main protagonist, how becoming a keeper is akin to ‘resolving yourself to face the death of the things you love’. MagMell insists death’s regularity as natural, and interestingly, one manner in which such is conveyed is through the aquarium’s restaurant, specializing in seafood. This may seem like a bizarre decision, cruel even. After all, why serve seafood in a place intended to research, preserve, and educate people about sea life? The twenty ninth and thirtieth chapters confront this dilemma as Ran, an apprentice chef, destroys the innocence of Minato’s young daughter, Nagisa, who gazes upon him preparing a

flapjack octopus, an animal she’s particularly fond of. As a child infatuated by oceanic life, it’s painful for Nagisa to comprehend how creatures she loves could end up on someone’s plate, but the series doesn’t shy away from this reality of death, the innate essence of living organisms persisting via cyclically feeding upon the lives of others, and how pretending that such a reality doesn’t exist is degrading and deceptive. MagMell courteously expresses respect for life as Ran exhibits gratitude for each fish used in his open cooking demonstrations, cleaning and carving up their flesh before spectators’ eyes while relaying insightful facts pertaining to them. Nagisa matures to understand that she, herself, is part of and has her own place in the web of life, accepting that humanity feeds on the lives of others just as other animals would, and becomes able to consume Ran’s cooking once more. However, it’s hardly just the aforementioned Ran who’s subjected to dealing with these types of issues, as each aquarist grapples with their own distinct predicaments.

The veterinarian, Haruno, is yet another example of MagMell’s staff who’s shrouded in death, largely due to his position, which entails performing necropsies on deceased organisms. Haruno is eccentric, albeit interesting, being one who enjoys horror films because, ‘it’s comforting to see someone despair over a fear they can’t escape,’ an aspect that parallels his own struggle of constantly confronting all the lives he couldn’t save throughout his operations. However, he believes that the information obtained through researching the deceased will prove

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SUIZOKUKAN - OCEANIC MAJESTY

invaluable towards potentially assisting lives in the future, and admirably remains dedicated to his cause, viewing his role as rewarding rather than futile. The series carefully avoids indicating any inherently ‘correct’ solution to his struggles, with Haruno internally acknowledging the realistic prospect of going his entire lifetime without determining what ‘the way forward to save lives’ constitutes. He believes that death is inevitable, and ‘never truly in the shadow of the brightness of life’, rather, it’s a ‘system devised for the birth of new life.’ With this in mind, as a veterinarian, his job is to prevent unnatural deaths rather than all death in itself. On this note, the characters of MagMell are fantastic and well-realized, each with interesting philosophies and varying methods in which their passion manifests itself. Koutarou and his peers work diligently, cooperating behind the scenes to provide a compelling visitor’s experience for aquarium-goers while also conducting maintenance and tending to the diverse necessities of the broad array of creatures that inhabit MagMell, a monumental task to say the least.

Of course, the series is hardly doom and gloom the whole way through either, as there are still myriad instances of pure magic, where visitors become utterly entranced by the exhibits of display; the jellyfish planetarium and flashlight fish come to mind. For this reason, I deem it appropriate to draw the comparison between it and Giant Squid Studios’s diving simulator, Abzû, which evokes similar emotions due to both its atmosphere and aesthetic sensibilities, as well as the similar emphasis placed on said ‘magic’ that arises from exploring beneath the sea, to which the game goes so far as to deliberately not include any semblance of health or stamina mechanics as to not detract from the experience of freely swimming about. Throughout the manga, the deep ocean is most frequently compared with vast reaches of outer space, in both being enigmatic, mostly untouched realms by mankind with still so much yet to be discovered, and that’s perhaps part of why I personally remain fascinated by both. MagMell is a celebration of oceanic life, seeking to educate its readers alongside its own characters in-universe. Though I may be no professional myself, last I’ve heard, Kiyomi Sugishita has been working closely with marine specialists to ensure informational accuracy whenever possible. One’s mileage may range depending on the degree of which one cares for the subject matter, but regardless, the series does an exceptional job in remaining informative and providing intrigue while exemplifying the deep ocean’s majesty. I’m pleased with how the series has turned out thus far and am eager to await more greatness on the horizon.

THE THOUSAND YEAR VOYAGE -

BLAKE MORRISON

Originally published in Vol. 57 Issue 7 - Drama

It’s been a thousand and one years now, and the voyage still continues.

SPOILERS FOR VINLAND SAGA SEASON 2/CHAPTER 101!

The second main arc of Vinland Saga is in a tricky yet opportune position. Known colloquially as the Farmland arc, this stretch of 45 chapters, adapted in full by the second season of the anime, marks the crucial turning point for Thorfinn Karlsefni, the payoff for all of his stunted non-development in the first season. Frankly, Shonen protagonist-esque ball of rage season 1 Thorfinn is often a pain to watch, and that’s the point. The star of the show in Vinland Saga’s prologue is Askeladd, although he is mostly a static character, and once he finally sacrifices himself for a cause greater than himself, Thorfinn steps up to fill that void. He does this by thinking, really thinking. Thinking and re-thinking, grieving, regretting, pondering. Very few protagonists undergo such drastic change as Thorfinn does over his greater arc. Season 1 Thorfinn, vicious and vindictive, is not so much an interesting character by merit of his thoughts and ideology, which amounts to little more than to the maladaptive belief that might makes right. Rather, the bloody first leg of Thorfinn’s journey is interesting because of the dire situations that he is thrown into by cruel chance and circumstance and the pathos of seeing him descend into the hell on earth of blood feuds, war, and senseless violence that his father tried to shield him from. Of course, one can only descend so far, and Thorfinn’s realization at the end of season 1 of the essential hollowness and futility of his quest for vengeance, right as it is

snatched away from him, a climax executed in sublime anti-climax, should cue any viewer into how Thorfinn will not and cannot remain the same. The story changes course, towards the direction it was always headed.

As Thorfinn himself observes, the main cause of slavery is war. It is remarkable to me how, despite the admittedly marked tonal shift between seasons 1 and 2, mangaka Makoto Yukimura consistently depicts the often brutal living conditions of medieval Europe throughout the story. Some viewers may be distracted by the heaps of flashy action scenes in the first season, but the slaves and corpses created by the violence of Thorfinn, Askeladd and the rest of the warriors receive much attention as well. The story of the Slavic slave in episode 1, the Norwegian slave girl in episode 8, and the fate of the English village in episode 14 all come to mind. However, these victims of war do not receive as much attention as the battles themselves in season 1 (although Thorfinn, Askeladd, and the rest of those who wage war are arguably victims of it as well). The main cast is too caught up in their own petty squabbles and egos to pay too much attention to the casualties of their campaigns, after all. But the consequences of war are still frequently depicted in the first season, even if Thorfinn gives no deep thought to it at the time. Thorfinn’s enslavement in the second season, therefore, figures as a direct consequence of the violence he perpetuates in the first, and the hollowing out of his desire for revenge, the surface level manifestation of his pain at becoming the victim of a deeply unjust culture in which might makes right, opens himself up to personal growth for the first time in a long time. In essence, he finally asks

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REDEMPTION IN VINLAND SAGA

himself: if I was hurt, why do I have to lash out in return? All that does is create more pain. It solves none of my, of our, underlying problems. What are these problems? What can I do to resolve them?

But if this was the direction that Vinland Saga was always headed towards, towards the journey of a warrior turned pacifist to build at least one town in recompense for the lives and livelihoods he has destroyed, why did it take so long to get there? Somewhat understandably, many anime-only viewers of the season 2 have expressed their disappointment with the slower, more introspective turn the story has taken, but to anyone who thinks that season 2 is a complete 180 from the first one, I want to ask if they were really paying attention, or rather, I want to ask what they were paying attention to. The first answer that comes to my mind is the action and the other more conventionally exciting aspects of the prologue. A compelling quest for revenge, a series of exciting fights, a charismatic and intriguing anti-hero in Askeladd. These are all admittedly key aspects of the first season that are absent in the second, but they are not absent without good reason. The core of Vinland Saga was never these specific parts but rather Yukimura's holistic depiction of medieval Europe and Thorfinn’s journey. Caught for a time in the spiral of death and destruction, Thorfinn escapes by chance and then stumbles towards new growth and ideals as he develops real relationships with the people around him. Thorfinn’s oft-quoted and memed declaration “I have no enemies” may sound naive to some, but naive can be a dysphemism for admirable, or more neutrally, for idealistic. The point of an ideal is that it does not align with the status quo, with our lived experiences at large. It is something you

have to struggle for, something you may never be able to truly achieve but you believe is worth reaching for nonetheless.

Only a few stories have changed the way I think, which is to say changed it in ways that I think about a lot. Vinland Saga is one of those stories. Simply put, it has made me want to be a kinder, gentler person. I was in my late teens when I caught up with the manga over two years ago, and I learned much from it. I watched the first seven episodes of the anime as they were airing four years ago before my interest petered out with the weekly broadcasts, but if I decided to continue the story then, I would have also learned much from it. An even younger me would have learned a lot. That said, it is not important to me that I could have learned more or less if I experienced this story at a younger age. Rather, if I had experienced the larger arc of this story earlier, if I had seen Thorfinn make a concerted effort to grow up to become what he sees as a true warrior a year or even a day earlier than I did, I would have been a different person for it. That said, any story anyone ever experiences changes the way they think, if you grant that the change does not need to be dramatic. And if you grant that, then all art and every experience is “life-changing.” Let us say that all experiences are transformative, then. Why do I care so much about my experience with this one story? Although the story is not without its own flaws, I think reading and watching Vinland Saga has changed me for the better. That alone makes me want to recommend it to as many people as I can in the hope that it can do the same for them.

Sophy Hojo PuriPara

Art By Mio Kurosaka

MY RAMBLING THOUGHTS ON TORIYAMA AKIRA

Toriyama Akira’s Dragon Ball is a work which has had a major impact on me. In fact, under some lens it might be the most impactful piece of Japanese media on my life–the numerous Dragon Ball articles I wrote throughout my time as a staff writer on Konshuu should be enough evidence of this. Ironically, I’ve always felt that Dragon Ball GT, the non-canon spinoff sequel to the Dragon Ball Z anime (which adapts the last twenty-six volumes of Toriyama’s manga) was the series’ true finale. There’s something about its conclusive tone which gels with me. I go more in depth on this within this article I wrote in 2021. Feel free to read it, but in summary, GT completes the character arc of Son Goku.

Over the course of the original Dragon Ball, the reader/viewer observes Son Goku grow from a child exploring the world to a man coming to terms with his background to a (somewhat) wise elder guiding the next generation. It’s a hero’s journey/coming of age narrative, only extended further into the proverbial hero’s life. In turn, GT concludes with a view into a world far enough in the future where Goku is but a distant memory. With Goku and Mr. Satan immortalized in statue as heroes who saved the world, GT further extends the parable by illustrating how one can have impact beyond their years, specifically highlighting the two characters who (in my opinion, I defended Mr. Satan in a 2022 article) have the most compelling journeys to obtaining some notion of ‘greatness’. This is further emphasized in the GT special episode wherein a descendant of Goku is forced on a journey which results in him developing a respect for Goku, a man long since passed. There’s a slightly metatextual nature

to this as well. In universe, the future characters in universe celebrate these heroes for saving their world, but for the viewer of GT in 1997, Son Goku likely represented something larger than merely a fictional character originating from a comic book written by a man who made his initial fortune off of poop jokes.

In that last sentence, I described the impact of Goku using language that confines the ‘audience’ to likely a very specific subset of the global population, but in truth, Son Goku is likely one of the most influential fictional characters of all time. You don’t need to look very far to find athletes, musicians, or even key world figures who cite Dragon Ball or Goku as being inspirational in the cultivation of their talent.

I don’t claim to have known Toriyama, and heck, I may be accidentally disrespecting him by writing about him within the context of a work which, famously, he only had limited involvement in. Still, GT does not exist without Dragon Ball, and I find that I resonate heavily with its existential perspective. GT is the perfect culmination of the series which it belongs to as it demonstrates the soul, or at least some essence, of Goku living on spiritually and figuratively beyond his mortal coil. When Goku waves goodbye at the end of episode 64, I read it to be a temporary goodbye, an acknowledgement that while we may not be able to truly interact with him, his impact is felt. It’s a beautiful demonstration of how we should all live life, attempting to better this world for all people living within it and for those that will one day inhabit it.

In writing this article, I’ve struggled with trying not to reduce Toriyama Akira to merely “the man who created Dragon Ball”. Heck, there’s a full Konshuu article I wrote on Toriyama’s Dr. Slump two years ago arguing for its merits beyond its association with its younger sibling. To remember him merely for his most popular work would be confining him to but a part of his existence. I merely write about Dragon Ball because it’s the easiest medium through which I can express my appreciation for the man and attempt to celebrate his legacy. Even if I have plenty of criticisms regarding some of his later output, Toriyama’s impact on the world is unique. I’ve stretched this vague (and likely insipid) metaphor out long enough, so I’ll just say it. Toriyama Akira is GT’s Goku. He was an individual whose actions influenced millions and quite possibly billions of individuals in this world, for the better. When he passed, we lost a man whose presence actively improved societies in every part of Earth, and thus his presence will be missed. Till we meet again.

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TONY T. 4th Year, Economics and Data Science

HOW THE ARTIFICIAL EXORCISTS ARC CHANGED D.GRAY-MAN FOREVER

DEVON NGUYEN

3rd Year, Anthropology

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I believe in Yuu Kanda and Alma Karma Supremacy

SPOILERS FOR D.GRAY-MAN!

In every manga series, there’s that one story arc that changes everything, both in terms of plot relevance and reception from the fans. For Jujutsu Kaisen, it was the Shibuya arc. For One Piece, it was the Marineford arc. And for D.Gray-Man, it was the Artificial Exorcists arc. From 2009-2010, readers of the dark fantasy shounen manga were treated to an arc that pushed the story in a much different direction than what they were used to back then. It changed the game for the entire series, and yet, it still has yet to receive the proper appreciation from the fans.

What makes the Artificial Exorcists a real stand out is the fact that it doesn’t center around the series protagonist, Allen Walker, instead focusing on his comrade, Yuu Kanda, and his mysterious past. In great and gruesome detail, Kanda’s backstory is unraveled before readers, allowing them to understand the reason for the coldness and anger that he displayed prior to this arc. He was horrifically experimented on by the Black Order and was treated like a lesser being, a mere tool that was crafted to serve as a deadly weapon in the Holy War that they were fighting. Kanda’s friend, Alma, also endured these violent experiments, albeit, with a glowing smile and infectious joy during the aftermath. The bond that Kanda and Alma had was steadfast, and even when they were fighting each other to death after Alma’s resurrection, their love for each other was never a question.

And it’s their love that really makes everything so special. Up until then, Kanda hadn’t undergone any significant character development—he was a little stagnant, having no real relationship or connection to someone else the way the rest of the cast did with each other. Alma’s introduction fixed that. Suddenly, Kanda was someone who was other than the stone-cold swordsman readers had known him to be. He now had the depth that he was so desperately missing. Alma had humanized him.

Additionally, this arc showed a whole other side to the Black Order. Up until then, the Order was portrayed as a morally virtuous organization on behalf of humanity against the Noah Clan. They were like a second family to Allen and his friends too, provid-

ing a space where they could feel like they belonged. It’s within this arc that we see a much darker and questionable side of the organization. For years, they conducted brutal experiments on the children that have come underneath their care. It was really unnerving to see how much they didn’t care about the torture that they were enacting in the name of their cause.

The rug was pulled under everyone’s feet, characters and readers alike, leaving only an unending feeling of dread whenever the Order makes an appearance or is mentioned. From this arc onward, the righteous aura of the Order began to dim away, replaced by a morally enigmatic ambience that has remained in the series past this arc.

There are a myriad of other things that I can gush about in regards to the Artificial Exorcists arc, but that would entail major series spoilers that I can’t bring myself to spoil here. Kanda’s well deserved character development and the depth that the Order is given in this arc was what D.Gray-Man desperately needed and I couldn’t be more satisfied with the way it all played out. It makes everything that happened before and after all the more exceptional, making sense of the early storyline while also setting the foundations of the current events. Truly, it’s a masterpiece of an arc that’s only seventeen chapters long.

THE AESTHETICS OF THE ISOLATED CASTLE

SPOILERS FOR LAPUTA: CASTLE IN THE SKY, NIER:AUTOMATA, AND ICO!

Ever since my first viewing of Laputa: Castle in the Sky many long years ago, I have been fixated with its titular location. The lives of the castle’s long-gone people were such a mystery to me, and paired with its warm, comforting colors and the abundance of its nature (both fostered and unfostered), it became a place I wanted to live in as a child. However, its environment of ever-present loneliness was always one aspect that would continually unsettle me, despite how peaceful the environment of Laputa was. And even though all of those qualities stand as reasons to adore this movie, as I’ve continued my journey through various media, I came to the conclusion that Laputa’s loneliness and allure could be better explained through a simultaneously more concrete yet more abstract basis: Laputa’s aesthetic in relation to time and humanity.

To understand what I mean by this statement, let’s take a look at a different isolated castle: NieR:Automata’s Forest Castle. I bring this setting up for two reasons: firstly to show how common and popular these types of environments are apart from anime, and secondly because the Forest Castle is much more obvious in the way it portrays its aesthetic in relation to time and humanity. Much like Laputa, this castle is cut off from the rest of the world, only being accessible through unconventional exploration. And, once in the boundaries of the Forest Castle, viewers might draw comparisons between it and Laputa, due to its overgrown nature and crumbling architecture.

The castle is inhabited by machines who defend their king with their lives. And, after slaughtering all the machines, the main android characters reach the throne, which is revealed to be a crib. And, just as they realize the Forest King is only a machine child, it is killed by another android. As the last semblance of that lonely kingdom’s life is snuffed out, the old castle conveys an aesthetic state other than age, that being a haunted and forbidden one.

The androids were never allowed by the machines to roam the castle, and yet they did. The reason for the castle’s occupation was rendered completely obsolete. And, whenever the androids decide to come back during the story, they are crossing an undrawn line, where their entrance is considered a perversion of the location’s original intent. Likewise in Laputa: Castle in the Sky, its castle was off-limits to the surface dwellers, and yet it was entered anyway. And, the castle’s reason for existence (that being the preservation of its nature and animals) was perverted by the humans trying to use it for its weapons and treasures. This inversion of the setting’s purpose is also a part of the aesthetic I had been obsessed with: the state of existing in these locations being considered a taboo.

But the Forest Castle’s age does not fully determine its appeal.

While I’ve talked about Ico before, I haven’t really talked about its remote castle setting, which fits into this specific niche while also emphasizing the final aspect of the best types of fictional castles: their eventual destruction. Ico’s Castle in the Mist is destroyed at the end of the story, with it crumbling into the ocean in a way very reminiscent of Laputa’s destruction in the sky. This characteristic is quite poetic, almost as if the violation of entering the castle was being remedied by some force making sure it could never happen again. Plus, the transformation of these locations turning into some unattainable idea mirrors the unknown history of the castles and their societies. This full-circle method of constructing isolated castle settings has made their implementation (if done well) one of my favorite aspects in the media they are presented in, and this is one of the central philosophies influencing my love of Laputa: Castle in the Sky

Writer RAHM JETHANI 2nd Year, English & Japanese

SMILE PRECURE: THE MEANING OF NAMES, MEMORIES, AND LOVE

WAI KWAN WU

3rd Year, Molecular Cell Biology

Editor-In-Chief

Also known as the anime episode that rewired my brain chemistry

SPOILERS FOR SMILE PRECURE!

The magical girl genre is no stranger to episodic storytelling, from the genre’s slice-of-life roots to the iconic Ojamajo Doremi that effectively perfected the formula. Even within the Precure franchise, you have entries like Heartcatch Precure that is the quintessential hallmark of episodic storytelling in the genre. However, the one Precure that I am rather fond of is Smile Precure, which is a fun spin as a long comedy with wacky scenarios that take great advantage of its episodic nature. Even amidst all the silly episodes, the series really does excel with its more heartfelt episodes that tackle their subject matter with surprising eloquence—the shining example being episode 19, “Thank you Papa! Yayoi’s Treasure.” Which also just happens to be one of my favorite anime episodes of all time.

One of the reasons why episode 19 is so effective is because it does a wonderful job of capturing what Smile is all about. At its core, the show is a celebration of the joy that one can find in all the little things in life, no matter how small. It can be eating yummy food with friends, or reading your favorite book; it doesn’t matter what that is as long as you find value—happiness—in it. In a world that is increasingly being overrun by cynicism, where one may feel compelled to approach everything from multiple layers of irony, Smile wraps its arms around you and tells you it’s okay to find genuine meaning in anything that makes you happy. This works very well with the episodic angle that the show adopts, with the girls discovering something new and meaningful of the week and taking down the cynical attitudes of the villains that oppose them. Even as an episodic show, everything feels remarkably well tied together because of this central theme.

Episode 19 starts off from this very angle—for a homework assignment, the girls have to ask their parents why they were given the names that they have. As far as things in life go, your name might just be one of the most “just there” things

that there is. For most people, it’s kind of one of those things that you get used to as one of the constants in your life—just what you are referred to. One of the girls is embarrassed to even have to ask about such a trivial thing at all. But for others, names can mean so much more, as a sign of identity, as a symbol of love, or really anything else that you can find meaning with. Just take a look at the queer community, for example. With episode 19, it sees names as a symbol of love: when parents decide on a name for their baby, it could be considered the very first considerate act that they do for their child. As a personal anecdote, I became an uncle for the first time recently (...somewhat), and since then my niece has become a relatively large part of my life. But even before all of that, one of the earliest niece-related memories was me and her parents and the rest of her family spending hours trying to come up with a name that we liked. Even before this child was born, she was already taking considerable shape in our minds in the process of just trying to find one name. To others, the end result was just a name to call her by, but to us, it has become a significant memory.

When the girls learn the meaning behind their names, it’s only natural that they learn about the thoughts and care that their parents put into their names, but it’s also striking that the episode plays around with the idea of the memories that are associated with those names. One of the moms recall the memory of seeing a beautiful red sunset as she was giving birth, inspiring her to name her daughter “Akane,” meaning “crimson.” Shared experiences are often cited as the number one way to bond with another person, but in the absence of that, memories and stories are often the second

best thing—it’s why people often like hearing stories from their parents, or really, anyone else, about their past, what they were growing up, and whatever else. In having their little storytimes in talking about names, the girls find themselves growing that much closer with their parents, which is always a nice thing to have.

So, memories. The wrinkle that the show throws in here— and the main conflict of the episode—is that one of the girls, Yayoi, lacks just that: her father, the one who named her, passed away when she was very young. Any memories that she has of her father are in vague fragments, which is kind of an issue when her father is the only one that knows why Yayoi is named the way she is. The episode does a great job with highlighting the insecurities that Yayoi develops as a result of this. While the other girls’ relationships are affirmed by the stories and memories that they share with their parents, Yayoi is left wondering what her relationship with her father was like, or if he even loved her at all. The reason why this works so well is because the episode does such a careful job of depicting names in a meaningful way that Yayoi’s worries come off as genuine troubles. This is particularly exemplified by how while the other girls are able to present their meaningful anecdotes from their parents, Yayoi is left with only sharing the dictionary definition of her name with the class. Yayoi’s character tends to be more shy and timid, so the significance of her not really measuring up to the rest of her friends and having to live with a definition that she doesn’t feel comfortable with is extra apparent. And in the shadow of these comparisons, Yayoi’s insecurities make a lot of sense.

Another thing that stands out with Yayoi’s dictionary search is that it really highlights her struggle with preserving the memory of her father: where gaps exist, she has to take it upon herself to fill those gaps. This can be particularly uninspiring in confidence, and it’s clear to see how Yayoi’s doubts can arise from whether she believes in those attempts or not. What hits extra hard about all this is that Yayoi only has one memento to remember her father by—an origami that she folded for her father for Father’s Day. This is where

the episode plays on the show’s formula very well: veterans of the franchise would be familiar with the classic plot of villains conjuring a “monster of the week” from some item relevant to the episode. Naturally, Yayoi’s gift is turned into a monster, which wreaks havoc—Yayoi’s memory of love is effectively turned instead into a vehicle for destruction. Considering Yayoi’s already existing doubts, this becomes extra impactful; with her memories already being spotty, her one last memento to remember by is now sullied as well. While this “monster of the week” formula is not new to the franchise, the way the episode harnesses it to thematically play into Yayoi’s conflict, and even highlighting the meta nature of destruction that is involved, makes it stand out.

Of course, the final touch to the episode is how it chooses to resolve Yayoi’s conflict. Something that really strikes a chord with me is how well an episode can resonate—it’s difficult to put into words, but the most powerful of media has a transcendental quality that can surpass the literal text and resonate in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s kind of a feeling, I suppose, and this episode does that brilliantly. As Yayoi loses confidence during the fight, she is brought back to the scene of a memory from her past—a forgotten memory where her father confessed the meaning of her name to her. After the build up of her doubts and insecurities throughout the episode, the climax is a very cathartic release as all of memories of her father start coming back to her, reaffirming the fact that yes, her father did indeed love her very much. With the newfound confidence of remembering the origins of her name—”Yayoi” meaning the gentle season of spring—she vows to do what her father did: to spread love and kindness. More than just names, the episode makes an impactful statement of love and memory; that through the name she was given, Yayoi can preserve the memories of her father by carrying on his legacy—with love and kindness.

The power of love and friendship is often memed upon as a narrative crutch of the magical girl genre, but at the end of the day, this episode shows us how that’s just an integral part of the human condition. Even in the smallest, most unexpected of places, even if it’s just a name, there’s love to be found if you care to look hard enough. And well, that’s just what Smile Precure is all about.

THE SILENCE OF LOVE

RAHM JETHANI 2nd Year, English & Japanese

A deep breath.

SPOILERS FOR MACROSS: DO YOU REMEMBER LOVE? & SUPER DIMENSION FORTRESS MACROSS!

In the modern era, when we look back upon the epic and expansive stories of old, we tend to remember their spectacle. We remember the drama, the character moments, the pivotal stakes for which the heroes fight. But what we do not always remember is the aspect of silence; the quiet exhales between each narratively tense inhale. The pauses that break up the action often illuminate the true artistic merits of the stories which we remember. Furthermore, these silent moments play an important role in terms of pacing and impression, having a heightened ability to imprint the story’s aesthetic, philosophies, and themes onto the audience. The importance and elegance of these quiet moments are well known, but few action-filled stories choose to emphasize this aspect beyond necessary. The story whose presentation recently reminded me of the beauty of silence was the movie The Super Dimension Fortress Macross: Do You Remember Love?

Do You Remember Love? is essentially a supercut of the thirty-six episode Super Dimension Macross anime series, condensing around 13 hours of story into a 2 hour movie. As a result, there were points where some story changes and omissions felt awkward and underdeveloped. However, despite the limited amount of screentime Do You Remember Love? had, a large portion of its scenes were devoted to silently soaking up environmental setpieces. Minutes of unbroken silence were given to establishing and emphasizing Macross’s worldbuilding, and the striking effects of this creative decision drastically improved my experience watching this movie.

Both before and after the sequence on Earth, there is a large focus on action driving the story forward. Seen especially with the characters of Hikaru and Lynn, character growth in this narrative is presented through the idea of fighting for what you believe in, which more easily allows for this movie to naturally shift through tried and true emotional tones. There’s lighthearted comedy, romantic connection and tension between several characters, and of course, exciting interspace mecha fight scenes. Pair this with the strong - albeit slightly cheesy - message of human culture being precious, and you get a solid, entertaining movie with great presentation. However, in my eyes, the sequence on Earth pushes Do You Remember Love? beyond just a good movie into something I could truly consider to be a beautiful work of art.

After a bombastic escape from the Zentradi spaceship, with heightened tensions as Roy dies and Lynn remains captured, Hikaru and his superior Misa crash land onto an abandoned and desolate planet. As they would almost immediately realize, this lifeless husk used to be the Earth. Compounding this revelation with their earlier failures, both Hikaru and Misa feel an immeasurable despair. This feeling manifests through intensely detailed shots of the landscape, with slow camera pans, zooming in and out of places perverted by rot and rust. The quiet solitude in these moments is emphasized by the fact that the two living people on this planet are ironically unable to find a way to connect with each other. Attempts at communication are tried, but would give way to anger and grief. And so, both the characters and the direction focus on exploring the dead Earth. After all, an empty and peaceful silence was surely better than a painful and bitter one.

Eventually, Hikaru and Misa work through their troubles with one another, becoming more sure of themselves, as well as becoming romantically involved. They find solace in mutual understanding, and in a short time, are able to escape from Earth. And despite the film jumping back into its charming sensibilities of ideals, adventure, and spectacle, my thoughts after watching Do You Remember Love? would always return to the segment on Earth. Perhaps it would be incorrect to say this part showed restraint, but the uncompromising artistic direction towards silence in this film has earned greater respect from me even more than some anime I find more enjoyable.

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