There was once a time when I called myself a fan of “romance” anime. As I know now, romance is not as useful a category in anime as it is in some other mediums, since anything from Love Hina to Inuyasha could fall under its umbrella. However, even as a dedicated fan of one of Japan’s greatest inventions – the 2D girl – my taste in anime often returns to the central premise of romance. My interests often fit closely with bluemist‘s old tagline – where shoujo and bishoujo meet.

The interesting thing about viewing a very gender-targeted genre through the eyes of the opposite gender is that some tropes and clichés have a completely different effect. Here are some of my observations of the shoujo genre that have allowed me to experience the stories from a personal level as well as from a third-person level.

I should start by saying that my shoujo sample pool is not very large. It’s also true that, like shounen, shoujo can include a variety of different styles, some of which have nothing to do with romance. This post will focus on shoujo romance, specifically Fruits Basket and Arina Tanemura’s manga, since those are the ones that had the strongest effect on me.

So, it’s a fact that shoujo is female-targeted. This is evident in a lot of ways, although I like to separate them into two major categories: internal and external. The internal factors are related to the protagonist – generally, the protagonist is a character whose trials and tribulations are relatable to the viewer in some way. They don’t have to be a harem lead “blank slate” type of character, but their thoughts and feelings should make some connection to reality. Likewise, many of the external factors in the story – the characters and story arcs that surround the protagonist – are based on fantasy in some way. Note that they don’t have to be fantasy fulfilling; this simply means that they involve scenarios that your average teenage girl would not end up in. Like with Key games, some of these scenarios can be more painful than real life, which is literally the opposite of fantasy fulfillment.

Ever notice how everything is more dramatic in shoujo?

I’ll start by discussing the external factors since they’re slightly simpler to explain. The first question is obvious: if a manga is about a girl who gets thrown into a dramatic love polygon with several attractive bishounen vying for her heart, why would a straight male want to read it? In terms of factors outside of the protagonist’s internal narration, the main reason is that it’s surprisingly easy to distance yourself from the protagonist’s eyes without distancing yourself from the story.

Take, for instance, Haine and the Shizumasa twins in Shinshi Doumei Cross. Haine’s story is appealing from a first-person perspective, which I’ll talk about in a bit, but what about when she pines for the Shizumasa of her memories? What about the Christmas Eve date, the dramatic panels of moody bishounen whose dark secrets remain locked away within their hearts? There are times when you can’t help but notice if you’re outside of the target audience, but it’s surprisingly easy to switch perspectives, and it rarely takes a conscious effort.

For example, Takanari might not be a relatable character, but I can see things through his eyes. The same goes for Haine’s pained dilemma over her wavering heart. The dialogue between them feels real, and the romance comes to life from a third-person perspective. Even if I can’t share the bittersweet daydream of having to choose between two handsome bishounen from an affluent family, I can sympathize with their love triangle. It’s not just sympathy, either; love’s bittersweet pain is visible in all of the characters, and it feels real. The only difference is that there’s no self-insert. Actually, the female-targeted clichés don’t bother me at all because I have no obligation, or desire, to look for anything in the story other than the story itself. The generic bishounen, the indecisive yet kindhearted heroine; I can take them at face value because I don’t need to pretend that the story is realistic. If anything, the archetypes are less jarring than they would be in a typical visual novel because I’m less sensitive to them.

It’s also interesting that some character archetypes work in reverse. I’ve come to enjoy oranyan (male tsundere) characters like Takuto from Full Moon o Sagashite and Kyo from Fruits Basket more than I expected. Presumably, both of these characters are appealing to the female audience for the same reason that tsundere characters are appealing to the male audience, but what makes this stereotypical embarrassment work both ways? Oranyan characters are actually relatable in a strange way. Sometimes Takuto would blush at a panel that I would have blushed at; sometimes Kyo’s stubborn resistance to Tohru’s feelings make him seem more real rather than artificial and targeted. Again, since the characters have no obligation to act as hasubando material or otherwise idealistic boys, the clichés help more than they hurt. Even to me, stubborn embarrassment and male pride induce kyaa‘s, not facepalms.

It also helps that, in some cases, the female protagonists are quite attractive on their own. This mostly applies to Tanemura’s work, and that’s mostly because I love her art, but it can be applied to anything. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve noted to myself that Haine and Mitsuki are incredibly cute. Better yet, the allure of shoujo protagonists is different from the male-targeted bishoujo style – it feels more innocent and less artificial because it’s, for the most part, unintentional. Instead of self-inserting into the story, girls like Haine simply make me want to see a suitable bishounen take her away in the most dramatic, heart-pounding fashion possible.

And they claim this stuff is made for girls?

This theory came to mind a few months ago while reading Shinshi Doumei Cross, but the central point of it is something that I realized years ago during Fruits Basket – the internal narration of the protagonist is what makes the stories as real as they feel.

Despite the difference in gender, the dilemmas of most shoujo protagonists are often relatable. Love is gender-neutral, after all – the basic emotion is always the same. In fact, the concept of a 15 year old girl pining for her distant love is not all too different from the “pure love” ideal reflected in many bishoujo games. Yuuichi doesn’t reveal much of his personal feelings in Kanon, but the ideal is there. Story-centric bishoujo games rarely talk about dating or sex, even when the game revolves around the girls rather than an overarching plot – the entire relationship revolves around a pure, almost childlike ideal of romance. For those who played Key’s visual novels, the ero-scenes are incidental, and there’s noticeably little description of, shall we say, the “important” parts. If the scenes feel pivotal, it’s because they act as a consummation, which is technically what they should be to begin with.

What I mean to say is that the fantasy-fulfilling ideal of love and romance is present in both shoujo and bishoujo, so it’s only natural that they both strike the same chord in the hearts of fans. Amusingly, shoujo often does a better job of involving the viewer in the story because female protagonists targeted at a female audience naturally lend themselves to cheesy lines and melodramatic narration. This style of writing and storytelling fails miserably on those who aren’t spellbound, but for those who are, it’s the icing on the cake. Shoujo has a way of reaching the heart and spilling its contents all over the pages. That’s why I love it as a genre, and that’s why a 14 year old girl can be a more effective protagonist than the most relatable harem lead, even for a male viewer.

Idealistic teenage romance in fiction, what would I do without you?

As I said in the beginning, the main question for male shoujo fans is this: putting the plot aside, how can you relate to a female-targeted love story from a personal perspective? I admit that the synchronization with the protagonist is not always flawless, but there are some interesting switches in perspective that occur unintentionally. Male characters never act as the objects of affection that they’re meant to be, but they can be anything from a respectable peer to an idealized version of the self. Female characters are neither self-inserts nor waifu-material; they’re like the shounen protagonist, the young, idealistic kid who we sympathize with and root for because we see ourselves in them.

Of course, you could say that a good story would be appealing regardless of gender, but I’m talking about something slightly deeper than that. Romance fiction is all about reaching the heart – it’s something that has to affect you emotionally, not intellectually. In my currently limited ventures through the heartwarming world of shoujo manga, I’ve learned that I can find idealism and fantasy-fulfillment in a world of handsome bishounen with stubborn hearts – and above all, I’ve come to realize that shoujo and bishoujo aren’t as different as they look.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

Giant Robo is like a time machine, except you never know which direction it’ll take you in. Alternating between unusual predictions for the future and now humorously clichéd plot devices from the past, Imagawa Yasuhiro‘s classic shows its age without detracting from its initial quality. For an old-school super robot show, Giant Robo actually packs quite a punch with its story, providing something to hold the viewer’s attention beyond the awe of Robo and its sheer power.

Among the many things that a person could say about the show, one particular element stood out in my mind: the treatment of Robo within the story. It leads to some interesting food for thought about the early days of the mecha genre; the days long before Gundam and Macross.

Though I have yet to see the other shows myself, I always hear that mecha anime in the late 70s and early 80s – particularly within the super robot subgenre – were based around toy sales. As they say (via PatzPrime), some of the most well-known mecha and shounen anime of all time were aimed at kids, and if the mecha industry relied on toy sales to make a profit, it’s only natural that many of the shows would have to focus on simple but exciting storylines and identifiable mechanical designs.

According to ANN, the source material for Giant Robo predates even the days of Voltes V and Mazinger Z. I believe the live-action series was also adapted from a manga written in the same period. I’m not sure how closely the anime follows the source, but regardless, Giant Robo‘s heart is in a different world than the one we know today. The robots of Giant Robo are not tools of war or secret weapons. In fact, I’d hesitate to even call them machines. The BF Group’s mechs have almost no explanation behind them, aside from the fact that they look nice.

As for Robo himself? I’d sooner call him a superhero than a machine.

This train of thought struck me during this infamous scene, in which Robo appeared to be shedding tears. I had always found his mechanical design to be odd – seemingly real eyes, a facial expression, and something that looks vaguely like hair – but the more I thought about it, the more evidence I found. The most obvious sign is the fact that Robo cannot be piloted. He’s simply commanded through Daisaku’s watch, like a nobleman calling for his butler. Story-wise, too, Robo is treated more as a character than a machine. His wins and losses seem directly related to his relationship with his master, as if he were a teammate rather than a secret weapon like the Gundam. For all intents and purposes, you could say that Giant Robo is named after its protagonist.

Realistically, I don’t think that Robo is the protagonist of the story, but his portrayal as a superhero rather than a mech got me thinking about the mecha genre as a whole. Looking at it this way, Giant Robo feels like a prototype super robot show, to the point that it has more in common with the underlying themes of trust and courage in modern shounen than the dark “kill-’em-all Tomino” style of storytelling that I associate with mecha. Admittedly, I don’t have much of a timeline in my head to help with this theory, but Giant Robo is too much of a melodramatic, story-driven, action-packed show for me to compare it to either the real robot or super robot subgenres. In my mind, it exists somewhere in the distant history of super robot shows, when robots were just another version of superheroes to be idolized and adored; and when the grim portrayal of the robot as a war machine had yet to come about.

Having finally seen a bit of the iconic real robot franchises from the early 80s, Giant Robo made me realize that there is more to the history of mecha than meets the eye. It’s still too early for me to come to any conclusions aside from the ones stated above, but I welcome any information on this old-yet-new chapter in anime history.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

When you saw this post in your feed reader or Anime Nano or what have you, you probably assumed it was just another meta post on the upcoming season of anime. Perhaps I would ramble on about why it’s bad to drop shows after one episode; maybe I would say that it’s important to watch a multitude of shows, including ones that normally wouldn’t appeal to you.

Actually, the “seasons” mentioned in the post title refers to something completely different. I’m talking about nature.

Wait, don’t close the tab yet – I’m not here to preach. I enjoy my skyscrapers and carefully planned city parks as much as the next person, and probably more. However, I’ve always felt a strange connection with the use of nature in anime as a visual, stylistic tool. Nature can grant the most sublime motifs and emotionally evocative art if it’s used appropriately, and yet it’s something that can so easily go unnoticed.

For simplicity’s sake, I’ve decided to separate the general category of “nature” into the four seasons. The seasons hold much more power over a show’s art than you might think. For instance, what comes to mind when I mention Da Capo? Visual novels are a bit of a cheap shot since, for one reason or another, they usually have a distinct season that defines their mood, but there’s no doubt that nature can play a big role in a show’s image. Remember the beginning of Suzumiya Haruhi, characterized by Kyon’s upward trek on the hill toward his new school? His monologue about Santa Claus always brings to mind the excitement of a new school term under the cherry trees, and I think that irony might have been intentional.

Anyway, I don’t think there are any concrete rules about seasons and their implications on the work itself (thematically or aesthetically), but there are certainly some trends. I’ll outline the ones I’ve found below.

Spring

The first of the four seasons carries a very obvious meaning in Japan: new beginnings. The cherry blossoms fall, the snow melts, and the school year begins. As a result of the fact that many anime revolve around the school year, spring always carries an air of blissful excitement. Bias aside, I think the beginning of Honey and Clover is a good example of spring, although it only lasts for a few episodes. The shot of the flower falling next to Hagu’s hair as the camera pans across her body – the moment that Takemoto falls for her – is perfectly symbolic of all that spring stands for in anime. It’s a new beginning, and it’s too early for reality to come crashing down.

As far as “bliss” goes, spring works well in visual novels because it fits the ideal portrayal of the characters’ lives. Like I mentioned before, Da Capo‘s eternal cherry trees are a literal representation of the story’s world of “eternal bliss”. The name refers to the same thing as well.

Incidentally, Fruits Basket uses spring to represent the end of winter, or the end of suffering. What do you get when snow melts, right? You get Spring. It can be either the light at the end of the tunnel or a joyous new beginning.

Summer

[yuuki tatsuya]

Amusingly, the first thing to come to mind at the mention of summer is the traditional beach episode in harem anime. Indeed, summer is a spectacular excuse for fanservice, but it can allude to much more than that in terms of aesthetics. The bright skies of summer are perfect for building energy and giving the characters all sorts of fun and exciting things to do. A perfect example of this is the summer home: every series has to have rich character with a vacation home on the beach, because every series has to have a trip to said home and the writers need an excuse to do it. K-On and Toradora are two recent popular examples. The former is perfectly pointless and altogether cheerful, while the latter carries some of the romantic undertones that work so well in the summer.

Interestingly, a summer day and a summer night can carry completely different meanings in fiction. The days are usually energetic and fun, but the nights are perfect for those dramatic starlit confessions. The two of you who played Wind -a breath of heart- should agree. Higurashi no Naku Koro ni also uses an interesting approach to summer because it takes the playful innocence of the season and contrasts it with the eerie, foreboding chirping of the cicadas that occurs at twilight. It’s masterfully done. The sight of Hinamizawa bathed in a blood-red sunset as the cicadas chirp in unison is one of my most vivid memories of the series.

Of course, there are some exceptions to every rule, and the first one that comes to mind is Air. I cannot for the life of me figure out what aspect of Air suits the summer season, but the visuals are tied to the story’s imagery of wings and flying so it doesn’t bother me.

Autumn

[kakisuke]

Autumn is wistful. I have always felt this way about reality, and the sight of red-yellow leaves and sharp, early sunsets always brings to mind that feeling in anime. Unfortunately, autumn doesn’t seem to be a popular season in anime, but a few examples come to mind. Key’s ONE ~to the radiant season~ feels much like Kanon, but something about it feels more subtle and wistful rather than mysterious and tragic. It’s hard to describe the difference using words, but the imagery of fall leaves vs winter snow illustrates the difference in tone and atmosphere more effectively than you might think.

Tsukihime also takes place in the fall, which I find to be quite interesting. The season doesn’t have much of an impact on the game’s visual style, but the song Lamplight is, at least to me, filled with the bittersweet nostalgia that defines autumn. There’s something in the mourning of the violin that makes that one track stand out. Whenever someone mentions Tsukihime, I usually hear that song and imagine Shiki walking home to his mansion, thinking about how he hasn’t seen Akiha in years. It’s hard to define in a sentence, but I’ve always sensed an air of wistfulness and hesitance around Shiki’s actions, and the soundtrack adds to that tremendously.

Winter

In terms of anime, winter is probably best known by the meme “sad girls in snow”. Needless to say, Kanon‘s use of distant, childhood memories and its recurring imagery of snow-covered hills and a shopping center stained crimson by an early sunset are the very essence of winter in my eyes. Winter is not necessarily depressing, but it couldn’t be more different from the bliss of spring or the energy of summer. It carries some of autumn’s wistfulness, but something about it feels more magical, more mysterious.

Even when you exclude the surreal, dreamlike nature of some visual novels, winter is the perfect season for anything to do with romance. The snowy conclusion of Aoi Hana is still vivid in my memory, and the Christmas Eve date in The Gentleman’s Alliance Cross was particularly enjoyable. One of the most evocative uses of winter’s aesthetics I’ve ever seen is 5 Centimeters Per Second, both in the opening chapter and in the epilogue.

Christmas also plays an important role in the winter season, used for the visual appeal of the coloured lights and the psychological appeal of the festive season. Love Hina‘s Christmas Special is said to be the best part of the anime, and perhaps the only good part. Interestingly, the beginning of ef – a tale of memories reverses the Christmas trope and instead uses it as a new beginning for Hiro and Miyako, much like the spring.

- – -

Finally, I’d like to point out that there are some patterns in certain creators’ works when it comes to the choice of season. The most obvious example is Key: Clannad is warm and more or less blissful; Air is a bit of an exception, but it ties the imagery of a bright summer sky with its own imagery of flying and “waiting in the air”; One is wistful in its portrayal of the protagonist’s empty world that he’s destined to return to; Kanon is imbued with the mystical, surreal charm of winter, and the sadness and dramatic romance fit nicely with the falling snow.

(Incidentally, the last episode of Seitokai no Ichizon explicitly explains how the four girls are based off of the four seasons)

You could probably do a similar examination with the Touhou characters since many of them have their own visual quirks (Yuyuko’s butterflies, Koishi’s hearts, the Aki sisters’ self-explanatory names). While most of these don’t deal with the four seasons, they have the same impact in the sense that they’re a visual style that can impact the viewer’s emotional reaction without impacting the story in the slightest.

In retrospect, that’s more or less what the seasons are all about in anime: they define a show’s setting and atmosphere unconsciously, and they provide a concrete image for the viewer to associate with a particular feeling or memory. Without the careful use of the spring season’s traits in the art direction of the early episodes of Honey and Clover, I would not have that memory of the beginning of Takemoto’s love; if the key animators and director for the Kanon OP were lazy, I would not associate Last Regrets with a surreal winter morning, hinting at a tragedy beneath a seemingly blissful existence.

Thanks to the creators, though, I do have those memories, and I can honestly say that they have increased my enjoyment as a viewer. It’s natural to not want to stop and smell the roses – or in this case, pause and screencap the backgrounds – but it’s incredible to see how a subjective feeling of a theme or story can be visualized into a tangible sight by a good artist.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

It’s hard to pinpoint what it is about Touhou that draws people to it. Somewhere within the unique character designs, quirky personalities, stylish music and skillful game design lies the secret that made ZUN the otaku culture star that he is. However, the incredible popularity of his franchise has resulted in an interesting phenomenon among his fans: primary and secondary fandom.

I’m not sure how official this terminology is, but in general, Touhou fans can be divided into two categories: the people who enjoy it for the fan works and the memes, and the people who enjoy it for the source material. It’s essential to delve into both categories if you want to experience everything the franchise has to offer, but considering how mainstream it’s become, it’s safe to say that many of today’s Touhou fans shy away from the original games out of fear. I can’t blame them, either: bullet dodging is scary stuff. It’s tough for gamers, and it’s even tougher for non-gamers.

Regardless, you’ll be the one missing out if you don’t bite the bullet and try to grasp the intricacies of ZUN’s game design. After all, little girls shooting fairies can only take you so far – the beautiful chaos of the game’s extreme side are as important as any amount of techno remixes and yuri doujins. If you think you’re up for the task, read on for a few tips on how to experience Touhou fandom through its intimidating yet exhilarating source.

[shushio]

(Just wait ’til you see what her hearts can really do…)

1 – Take your time

It sounds like obvious advice, but you’d be surprised at how hard it is to follow. No matter how you look at it, you won’t learn to dodge bullets overnight, and hopefully no one is holding a gun to your head and forcing you to play Lunatic. Take it slowly, and be sure to 1cc a difficulty level before moving on to the next one. If you’re an inexperienced gamer and Normal is destroying you, just play Easy, and play it until you can beat it. Do not force yourself to start the series in June and beat MoF on Lunatic by September. You have to set goals, but don’t expect it to be as easy as marathoning an anime series.

2 – Watch replays

Does the concept of copying another gamer’s strategy bother you? If so, have fun trying to beat Extra when you can’t even 1cc Normal.

Everyone has different ideals when it comes to the use of outside aid in games, be it through replays and strategies or blindly following the orders of an FAQ. However, there’s no question that observing more skilled players will help your game, and it certainly won’t guarantee that you play as well as them. It’s pretty tough to cheat in a game that revolves around skill. It’s like copying an established combo in a fighting game: even if you “steal” a pre-existing tactic, it won’t magically let you win tournaments, and it’s a good starting point if you’re not good enough to invent your own combos.

The interesting thing about Touhou is that it places a lot of emphasis on dodging instead of shooting, which, to some degree, goes against the shmup tradition. This means that some spellcards will look impossible at first until someone points you to the solution, and the best way to find that solution is by watching a replay. If you’re worried about it being unfair, don’t – unless you think you’re capable of putting in twice the amount of time needed and learning the entire game yourself.

3 – Don’t limit yourself to one game

This might sound odd, but you’d be surprised at how helpful it can be to switch between games. You’ll probably understand what I mean when you keep dying to the same boss in stage 5 and you feel like punching your keyboard every time you hear the stage 1 BGM.

Remember, you’re trying to build your skill, not your memory. You will lose a small percentage of the stage enemies and bullet patterns that you memorized if you switch to another game, but it’s worth it in that it’s the only way to avoid frustration. It’s not a flawless tactic, but it works. If you beat IN on Normal and can’t beat Hard, don’t worry – there are 11 other games for you to beat on Normal, and those are just from the main series! Phantasmagoria of Flower View is great for training your instincts because there’s no memorization, and Shoot the Bullet is great for preparing you for boss battles because you can’t bombspam through it. Play around, have fun, and try to keep yourself from getting stuck. One day you’ll come back to that Hard mode and accidentally ace it.

4 – Study the genre

This is a bit of a vague point, but it makes sense when you think about it. Depending on your experience with gaming, you might be a hardcore console or PC gamer with little experience in bullet hell, or you might be a complete beginner. If you’re already a hardcore arcade gamer you won’t be reading this, so I’ll assume that you’re unfamiliar with the bullet hell genre.

Effectively, most of these old-school arcade shmups are meant to be impossible. They’re supposed to destroy your wallet as you continue five times against the last boss, and they’re supposed to encourage repeat visits to the local arcade to top your friend’s best score. Since there’s no multiplayer component and the entire game is linear from a game design standpoint, there’s only one way to do better than the guy sitting beside you: perfection.

Bullet hell games demand sheer perfection. They’re like a time trial in a racing game, only you have to deal with an hour of gameplay spread across 6 stages instead of a mere 3 laps. You cannot fool the bad AI like in a fighting game, you cannot lure out the enemies one by one like in an action game. There is no secret weapon, no unlockable sword that kills with a single hit. You need to be perfect if you hope to win. If you play Touhou with the same mindset that you use to approach Call of Duty, you’ll fail. For one, you’re fighting a pre-programmed computer, not a team of humans – and you can’t afford risk death if it means gaining an extra kill.

I can go on about this forever, but to be honest, it’s something that you have to learn for yourself. Just be sure to analyze your own mistakes. When you die, ask yourself why it happened. Was it a careless mistake? Were you too slow at bombing? Did you forget the spellcard’s pattern or the stage enemies’ spawning locations? You’ll learn a lot about the game and the genre if you pay close attention and don’t let your prior gaming experiences fool you.

5 – Practice… but know when to take a break

Let’s face it, learning new things isn’t easy. The government has to force you to go to school for many years just to pound some basic information into your head, and even then, half of that information disappears by the time you reach adulthood. Whether it’s a new field of study or a new musical instrument or a new sport, learning is difficult.

Gaming is no different. You won’t get better without practice, but it’s also important to know your own limits. Sometimes it’s wise to just take a break and put it aside. Perhaps you’ll boot up the game in a year and give that old Extra stage a run, only to realize that you reach the 3/4 point without even trying. The learning process cannot be rushed: it’s simply your responsibility to do everything in your power to foster it.

- – -

In conclusion, I should mention that I was not entirely new to gaming when I started playing Touhou almost two years ago. Maybe that made the learning process easier for me, or maybe not. However, what I do know is that there was once a time when I thought I would never be able to 1cc Normal, until that fateful duel against Yuyuko that proved me wrong. I have had many ups and downs since then, but despite the countless soul-crushingly frustrating failures, I have experienced more than a few successes that I can be genuinely proud of.

On that note, I encourage you to head to your local google search bar and download whatever Touhou games you can find. Imperishable Night is the easiest, but the more the merrier. For the next hour, don’t think – just shoot. When you’re done with that, come back here and skim this post again, grab a replay at the archive, and start learning to dodge.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

It’s been almost a year since K-ON first aired, but I feel as if I never got to say what I wanted. Sure, I have an opinion on the show, but it’s lost in cyberspace, drifting around in comments here and tweets there. I want to put things down on paper, figuratively speaking. I want to put things down in a place that I’ll remember.

The funny thing about K-ON is that I can’t rationally explain my enjoyment of it. Objectively, I think it’s a spectacular moe show, and I realize that I probably just like it because of Mio; but at the same time, that isn’t enough to make it stand out from the crowd. I don’t think it’s a particularly good anime, but it has some sort of mysterious hold over me, something that forces out a smile every time. As a matter of fact, it’s one of the only shows that I’m genuinely looking forward to.

I think I’ve had this post drifting around in my head for a while, but I never had the will to push it out. The OVA certainly helped: it’s not worth writing about, but it’s filled with the same kind of lighthearted, moe-filled character interaction that defines the show. That said, I don’t think the point really hit home until I saw the chart for the upcoming season. The news started to feel real. Just like last year, I’ll be spending my spring grinning like an idiot in front of my TV. Just like last year, I’ll be putting off classic anime and intriguing novels in the name of Akiyama Mio’s finger calluses. The magic is back. The magic that earned 5000 danbooru images in a year is back.

Let’s cut to the chase: K-ON is a moe show. It always was and always will be. Sure, you can watch it for the comedy or the music, but that’s like watching Evangelion for the cool robots – it’s acceptable, but it’s not the main point. I don’t think that it’s particularly significant or symbolic in the genre, but something about its treatment of moe strikes a chord with me. In a sense, it’s the antithesis of the harem/galge genre: instead of making a guy date cute girls, why not just focus on the cute girls? The show severs the relationship between emotional escapism and moe. It puts the gal in galge, and it takes out the ge. The moe of K-ON is artificial, refined, purified. It’s calculated to the point that it creates a pleasantly convincing illusion, and it soothes the soul without relying on awkward self-inserts.

Or at least that’s my rational explanation of it. It’s probably above average as a moe show, but who am I to talk when react like a shy, blushy shoujo protagonist whenever Mio gets embarrassed? All I know is that there’s enough anime that I haven’t seen to keep me from looking forward to something that isn’t here yet, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

And on that note, let me kick reason to the curb and say this: here’s to another season of after school tea time, of Mugi’s lesbian daydreams and Yui’s airheaded mistakes. Here’s to thirteen more episodes of girly rock and meta fanservice.

Here’s to the greatest moe anime I’ve ever seen.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

I could call myself a fan of OEL visual novels. True, I have never played one that genuinely impressed me outside of the comedy/satire genre, and I’m naturally biased toward the medium considering my own endeavour in it, but it’s safe to say that there are a few pleasant creations out there. Ren’Py has been around since 2004, and a lot of amateur writers and artists have tried their hand at the tedious but ultimately rewarding task of creating a visual novel.

Considering that the community has an ever-growing archive of Ren’Py-created games, it would seem as though everything is in order. As a consumer, however, this might not be the case. As much as I hate to say this, some developers might be trying to step into the professional world a bit too soon.

Piracy aside, it’s reasonable to assume that people will pay for products that they deem worthy. If a product is not worthy of its asking price, it won’t be bought. Basic economics.

Following this logic, some recent releases imply that OEL VNs are indeed professional products. I don’t mean to single anyone out, but The Flower  Shop seemed like a fairly pleasant game when I first heard about it. The most fun part of Harvest Moon was getting married, so hey, why not just play a dating sim with farming elements in it? It sounds like fun, and it would be a great way to waste the time that I should be spending on fiction and blog posts.

Luckily for me, I won’t have to worry about that distraction, because the game costs $20. Now, I do realize that $20 isn’t very much; there’s no doubt that I’ve wasted that same amount on stupider things in the past. Still, let’s take a look at some older Japanese games to compare: Kanon‘s retail price is around $30, but it’s a decade old; Saya no Uta is much shorter and a bit newer, and it’s going for the same price; Umineko is a popular technically non-commercial VN with a retail price of $25; and Narcissu can be currently imported for a mere $21.

In other words, I could spend $20 on Fading Hearts, or, if I possessed the language skills, spend that same amount of money on the new Narcissu. Some OELs might be above average, but quite frankly, which do you think is the better deal?

[goto p]

To be fair, comparisons alone don’t make for much of an argument. It’s a fact that the creation of OEL VNs consumes a lot of time, and as Aorii pointed out to me on Twitter, the money might be a necessary incentive. I’ve always thought that Fading Hearts looked like a pretty good game, with detailed backgrounds and appealing character designs. The quality would have probably dropped if the group considered themselves to be a doujin circle rather than a company – but just as price comparisons make for an unfair judgment, the argument of time and incentive is flimsy and subjective. Yes, money helps create a better product – but so what? Tsukihime had photographic backgrounds, and look what happened to that.

At any rate, I don’t think that OELs should be monetized. This isn’t because it goes against the spirit of doujinshi or anything that idealistic: it’s simply because creating a commercial game pits you against the commercial market. I might eventually try one of the games mentioned in this post, but if I do, I won’t complement it and say “it was better than Katawa Shoujo” (which, at least for the moment, is free). Frankly, I doubt if any OEL VN currently in development has as much potential as KS, but that doesn’t matter because I’ll have to compare every nakige to Kanon and every school life galge to Shuffle and Da Capo.

In the off-chance that a commercial OEL VN is good enough to be worth the price, then go right ahead – every developer has the right to sell their game. However, it can be an extremely risky move for a group of amateurs to go the extra mile in production and create a great product only to narrow their audience by calling themselves pros.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

There’s a certain topic within moe fandom that is rarely broached. Considering the amount of fuss people make over events like Sal9000‘s wedding, you’d think it would have come up, but most conversations skirt around what I have always considered to be the heart of the matter. In essence, it boils down to the following questions:

• The protection of innocence or the corruption of it?
• Sad girls in snow or hadaka apron on the boxart?
• Skinship or something more unsavory?

These points beat around the bush as well, but I think you get the idea. I believe that the often-overlooked “secret” behind moe and 2D complex lies within the exact opposite of what ero-ge is traditionally supposed to be about.

This is a bit of a follow-up to my last post, in which I talked about the art of adding depth to flat moe characters whose sole purpose is to pander to the viewer. My conclusion is that it requires the same level of writing that any other type of character requires; if the character is good enough, the viewers will suspend their disbelief automatically. However, this entire topic can only make sense under one assumption: moe can be appealing from an emotional perspective as well as, or instead of, a physical perspective. When Shin’s comment reminded me of a common point of contention within Moe Theory, as I like to call it, I decided to write a post that I’ve wanted to write for a year.

This also gives me a chance to post a screencap I’ve been wanting to post for a year.

Since this topic is rooted in the visual novel medium, a history lesson might be of value, and this handy article available on Shii’s database might be a good starting point.

As most people know, eroge began as just that: erotic games. The porn was always the goal, and the characters were an afterthought. In other words, the concept of moe appears to be newer than the concept of the visual novel, and it was not until later that VNs became the standard medium to create galge in.

To keep things simple, let’s use To Heart as an example. Though I don’t know from first hand experience, I’m fairly certain that it was one of the earliest examples of eroge that focused on moe over sex. In other words, the cast of characters was meant to be more romantically appealing to the player than sexually appealing. Whether people played the game with this in mind is another story, but looking at how the medium has grown since then, it’s common sense that 30+ hours of dialogue is too much to skip through for a couple hours of sex.

Effectively, the priorities of the medium have shifted. Every VN fan would have realized this by now, but I’m not sure how often the distinction is drawn between the two eras – and I think it’s a very important distinction.

Despite the fact that most visual novels involve sex and most of the heroines are sexualized and fetishized to some degree, I cannot see this as the point of emphasis in any but the most extreme games. You could argue that eroge heroines are not realistic, but this isn’t because the player views them as sex objects – it’s because the player views them as easy targets for a romantic relationship. At its worst, moe is about casting women as doormats for the comfort of insecure men; at its best, it’s about removing the impurities of relationships and focusing only on the emotion at its core. Your description will vary depending on your opinion of moe, but both perspectives agree on one thing: the goal of moe is to provide emotional therapy to the viewer, not physical therapy.

After all, when last have you heard someone criticize a moe show of having too much fanservice? Fanservice is like the antithesis of moe. In fact, non-fans have started describing shows like K-ON as having “moe fanservice” – and that’s accurate for all intents and purposes, but it implies that there’s a difference between traditional fanservice and “moe” fanservice. Shows like Nanoha and Nanatsuiro Drops are innocent at first glance, but because we know that they’re intended for a male audience, we still classify them as “fanservice,” only using a new subcategory. Even the moe-illiterate realize that you cannot use the same term to describe Queen’s Blade and K-ON.

This is relevant, somehow.

Anyway, what I believe I have proven in the last 700 words is that hentai, sex-focused eroge, and fanservice anime have virtually nothing to do with galge and moe, aside from their common origins and target audience. They both pander to the audience in the sense that they portray a convenient fantasy as reality, but they do so for a completely different reason. On one hand you have physical desires, and on the other you have emotional desires. They can be two sides of the same coin, but implying that your average fluffy moe-moe-rabu-rabu galge is about sex is just as nonsensical as drawing a parallel between Tsukihime and Bible Black.

In the end, whether you enjoy moe and visual novels for the physical or emotional aspect is entirely up to you. However, I feel the need to distinguish between the two elements because even though they often go hand-in-hand, they are still two very different things. When you look at moe from an emotional perspective, stories like Kanon make infinitely more sense.

This also ties into what I was originally talking about when I said that Kanon is great because it plays on its cast’s strengths and panders skillfully. My own enjoyment of the game is rooted in the surreal experience of standing in the school’s quad during lunch, having an unusual conversation with an unusual girl. Another person’s enjoyment might rely on their own experience of joining Mai in the school halls at night, fighting demons and solving a mystery.

Moe will always be subjective, but I think there is one truth that we should always keep in mind: escapism in visual novels can be emotional or physical, or both. Most good eroge strike a cosmic balance between the two, but they both have a distinctly different appeal, and they shouldn’t be treated as the same thing. In other words, Sugisaki Ken’s ambition of earning the harem end might be the dream of eroge fans around the world, but it shouldn’t be misconstrued as a symbol of moe fandom.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

As you might know, I’ve been reading through Kanon, the famed visual novel that sparked many a moe enthusiast’s fandom. All things considered, it’s not a bad game – it shows its age, and I think Itaru Hinoue’s skill has increased significantly over the past decade, but it’s definitely not bad. I could say a bit more about it, but since I’m only now finishing the trunk, I’d rather keep the rest of my opinion for the final post.

More importantly, amidst the chaos of Umineko and the distinct lack of Key over the last few seasons, Kanon is a breath of fresh air. It’s my first “normal” visual novel in a while, a reminder of why I enjoyed the medium in the first place. The endearingly generic characters, the forcefully surreal dream sequences, the cheesy synths of Last Regrets – everything that you could say to insult it, I could spin to defend it. That’s always been the law of visual novels. On top of that, its familiar galge tropes got me thinking about something I haven’t thought about in a while: the art of making 2D characters feel 3D.

If you define 2D complex as an obsessive, exclusive interest in the two-dimensional world, then that isn’t quite what this post is about. However, if you use the term more leniently (or pick another word that you feel comfortable with), it can be a quick and easy way to describe the attraction that virtually every moe fan feels toward their favourite characters.

Following my own definitions again, for simplicity’s sake, I’m looking at moe as a simple combination of physical and mental traits that character designers and writers use to let their creations earn the seemingly real affection of viewers. Despite this straightforward definition of moe, it isn’t necessarily easy to write a good moe character; if it were that easy, there would be nothing special about shows like K-on and Kannagi.

Now for the tricky part: aside from the “basic” attraction that every anime fan is aware of, there is occasionally an attraction that delves just a bit further. These are the few girls who earn “waifu” status among select fans, the characters who earn the exclusive right to a person’s avatars and profile pictures. Of course, this attraction is purely subjective, and it can vary from person to person, but it’s usually a result of more than just appealing character design and a clever combination of tropes. The question is, how can one write a moe character to make her stand out among the sea of blobs?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question is as vague as anything to do with subjective opinions. There is no black-and-white secret to manufacturing moe characters. That said, there’s a reason this post came to mind while playing Kanon, and it’s not just because of Shiori.

Okay, fine, I suppose it’s mostly due to Shiori, but don’t mistake my point for bias. True, I’m biased toward a specific character, but the theory can be applied to anything.

In a nutshell, I think Kanon’s greatest strength is its dialogue. Yuuichi is clever, and he’s a fun set of eyes to look through, but the game really shines in its presentation of its moeblobs.

And no, that sentence wasn’t meant to be sarcastic.

In reality, what is a moeblob? A miserable pile of tropes? In a sense, yes – fans will always be most attracted to the set of tropes that is most, shall we say, relevant to their interests. However, there is a difference between any dojikko and your dojikko, any sickly girl in snow and this Shiori. Dialogue is the key aspect in Kanon: it’s true to the characters’ personalities. Plausible or not, the characters are consistent, and they portray their charms accurately and effectively. Just as I find Makoto annoying, a Makoto fan would love every block of text she receives. Fundamentally, this is the key to visual novel writing: portraying each of the characters at their best, so that the reader can “naturally” fall for whichever set of tropes appeals to them.

Following that logic, we return to the original point: moe is subjective, but successful moe characters need more than just tropes to become popular and adored. In Kanon’s case, the aesthetic sense and overall ambience is a huge plus, symbolic of everything that I love about Key – and when you add the dialogue to that, everything falls into place.

My personal reaction while playing the game is literally tied with my opinion of the characters: Makoto is more annoying than cute, Mai is dull, Nayuki is adorable in a blood-related little sister sort of way, Ayu is endearingly eccentric… and Shiori is sincere. Yes, this is my bias, but it’s a result of the game’s writing. In a mediocre visual novel, Makoto wouldn’t be annoying, Mai would be plain rather than dull, Nayuki would be your average childhood friend, Ayu would be more stupid than eccentric, and Shiori would be engaging in poetic monologues from a hospital bed. The fact that I like some characters and dislike others is simply because I don’t like the tropes that some of the cast portrays. Some fans would hate Shiori for the very reason that I love her; Mai’s stoic gaze could make her fans’ hearts stop, but it only puts me to sleep.

In that sense, only the writer can bring a 2D character to life, and it requires the same skills that any character archetype does. Moe requires the participation of the viewer: 2D complex is nonexistent if the player is interacting with Naoki Hisaya’s Book of Tropes ~sad girls in snow edition~. Moe does not require realism, nor does it require a Frankenstein-esque amalgamation of things that were never meant to be put together (the guys from Welcome to the NHK already proved that one). The truly heartwarming, surreal sensation that sells galge and funds anime adaptations can only be found in characters that are created and backed by a skilled writer. Finding the balance between cut-and-paste clichés and forced realism is the secret to taking a 2D character and projecting them into the viewer’s heart – no cover-ups, no direct pandering, no frilly skirts and childhood promises. Give us a sincere representation of our personal attractions, and we’ll suspend our disbelief as necessary.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

And I say “oddball” with the most respect that the word can connote. Though I’ve spent less than an hour viewing his works, I’m already unquestionably entranced with his well-thought-out direction, delicious eye-candy, and ambiguous yet unpretentious storytelling.

However, the best part of it is that you don’t have to be an academic to figure out what he’s trying to say.

Surreal storytelling is not new to anime. Shows like Mamoru Oshii’s Angel’s Egg date back to the 80s, and that was arguably one of the most arthouse, abstract anime ever made. Bloggers like gaguri and the Anime World Order podcast have talked about the show (and many similar shows) at length, delving into the possible interpretations of the symbols.

However, there’s always something intimidating about surreal anime. It’s almost like the opposite of a stigma: most fans acknowledge these shows to be good, but many are afraid to watch them because of the inevitably incomprehensible plot that will follow. The recent Trapeze is a good example, and Omisyth isn’t the only one to note its lack of popularity (though according to the post, it looks like a case of judging a book by its cover). Anyway, it can be fun to use your brain and try to dissect the true meaning of these often obscure gems, but it’s also a daunting task.

This is where Yoshiura’s works feel completely different. Despite being outright odd in both presentation and content, nothing about the two shows I watched so far – Pale Cocoon and Mizu no Kotoba – felt incomprehensible to the average viewer. In fact, the stories explained themselves, albeit in a vague, indescribable way. I don’t think I could summarize either show and hope to do it correctly, but the feeling I got at the end of both was the opposite of the emptiness that some excessively abstract shows give me. Instead of feeling like I should track down a good blog post to explain what I missed, I felt like I understood the director’s message, even if I might only be fooling myself.

Without a doubt, this is what caused Yoshiura to win my attention after less than an hour of screentime. As a Twitter friend put it, it’s poetic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the essence of poetry is in saying a lot with a little. Sometimes this can cause unnecessary ambiguity, as I’m sure many a lit major can attest to, but when done right, poetry can invoke thoughts and feelings without needing to paint a full picture and tell a full story. Nine minutes of Mizu no Kotoba got me thinking more than six hours of half of the anime I’ve seen, and there’s no question that it got me feeling something that I couldn’t describe in words. It reminds me of the first time I watched Makoto Shinkai’s Voices of a Distant Star.

Ultimately, I think only a show like one of the above could adequately describe my newfound attraction to Yoshiura’s works. In a word, though, his stories can be described as beautiful. Subjective as the word may be, it’s the only thing I can think of that captures the aesthetic – technical and visual, as well as simply intangible – and the poetic storytelling that invokes feeling in less time than it takes to shower. Whether you describe it with the technical details of fluid animation and unique camera angles or with the rose-tinted metaphors of a romantic, there’s no question that Yasuhiro Yoshiura’s surrealism is of a different category, and that even the most academia-resistant fans should spend a few hours of their lives to partake in some of the most original anime of recent years.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.

Ryukishi07 is somewhat of a god in today’s anime fandom. Though he’s been writing professionally for less than a decade, his When They Cry series has become one of the most recognized franchises across the subculture, appearing everywhere from spoilerific 4chan threads to bad YouTube AMVs. Though it feels like it’s been a lifetime since then, it was only a few years ago that I first felt the horror and masochistic adoration for the anime adaptation of Higurashi; and since then, the name “Ryukishi07″ has been synonymous in my mind with “crazy but awesome.”

Anyway, after finally giving in to the pressure from the internet, I found time to start playing Umineko no Naku Koro ni (which, interestingly, makes seagulls seem almost as dramatic a background motif as cicadas). So far I’ve only finished the first episode, so what follows will be a bit of rambling on my part (and it spoils the two Higurashi seasons as well as the first episode of Umineko, so beware). Since most of you know more about the story than I do at this point, I won’t bother speculating – instead, I’ll try to explore the beginnings of an idea on Ryukishi07′s original structure and recurring themes that make all the difference in an otherwise unoriginal genre.

I’m no expert on murder mystery, but I know enough to say that a lot of once original ideas are now nothing but TV Tropes fodder, common knowledge to readers and writers alike. Umineko’s plot synopsis might sound exciting at first, but as I’m sure most people realize, Agatha Christie did it first. And for all I know, maybe she wasn’t the first; maybe some of the standard tropes implemented in her book were coined a few decades back. At any rate, it’s difficult to write anything in the mystery genre that hasn’t been thought of almost a century ago, and the basic premise of Umineko would be a yawn to an aficionado of the genre.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that Umineko earns bonus points for breaking the fourth wall and acknowledging its status as a latecomer in an overdone genre. Battler’s internal analyses of the situation is intriguing, reminiscent of the kind of thinking that the player makes alongside Phoenix Wright in his video game series. The entire concept of “turning the chess board over” is spectacular in stories like this because it stops the cast from falling into the standard logical fallacies and overlooking facts that an astute observer would never miss. Ryukishi keeps Battler one step ahead of the reader, but guarantees that the mystery won’t be solved in one cycle.

Anyway, this is all tangential, but it’s hard to talk about Umineko without talking about murder mystery. It’s too similar to non-anime fiction to ignore the parallels. However, after finishing a mere fraction of the series, I’m confident that the tropes and clichés do no harm – and at best, they help.

Battler spots the clichés before you do

By this point, you’re probably wondering why I mentioned the “When They Cry Tradition” in the post title (or perhaps you started wondering a few paragraphs back). At this early point in the story, I’m far from qualified to go in-depth and figure out precisely what Ryukishi07′s games are about. However, I do have some ideas, and I think they might lead to something after a few more cycles in Rokkenjima.

Let’s talk about Higurashi. My memory of the anime is a little foggy, but there are three things I remember clearly: there was a lot of dying, there was a massive supernatural red herring, and the solution to the mystery was just as much tied to human emotion as it was tied to logic. In fact, looking back on it, I think emotion played a bigger role… but we’ll get to that in a moment.

Dying, as we all know, is extremely important in Higurashi. It seems to be important in Umineko as well. The narrative structure of When They Cry is, as far as I know, completely original. I already said that I’m no expert on the genre, but I have never seen another instance of the repeated “resets” that Ryukishi puts his characters through. The resets were justified in the story of Higurashi, but that’s irrelevant as far as I can see – the resets were there for a reason, justified or not. They’re there because they force the reader to piece together the clues in an unorthodox manner. By witnessing the different ways in which a situation can unfold, the reader has more opportunities to find new variables and test their theories than the characters do, leading to a more thrilling experience than the standard murder mystery fare.

So, the structure is important to the franchise because it’s an original technique that amplifies the suspense and deepens the mystery. But that’s common sense to anyone who watched Higurashi. So how about the other two points?

The magic – and black magic – of Higurashi was undoubtedly one of the scariest parts of the story. However, while there were a few supernatural twists and turns, the majority of the plot revolved around something plausible – the masterminds work their “magic” from right under your nose while you wrack your brain in search of the truth behind the dreaded Oyashiro-sama, red herring of the decade. The supernatural elements are there to throw you off, to make you question the reality placed in front of you. After all, in Umineko, Beatrice is a fraction; she’s a number between 18 and 19. The fear and suspense that the story creates relies on the possibility of an inhuman monster being the criminal.

So, what about the solution to this impossible crime? The story messes with your head by blurring the line between physical and metaphysical, but while the answer might be impossible for you to find, the characters can only find it by changing themselves. I’m hesitant to talk about the themes of Higurashi since it’s been so long since I saw it, but I remember paranoia and distrust being mentioned at the end of the first season. The final “question arc” didn’t end in tragedy because Keiichi never lost faith in his friends. I’m not sure how this relates to the rest of the story, but it was definitely an internal change of heart that eventually allowed the characters to break free of the eternal summer. Realistically, it was impossible – they were fighting against trained bodyguards, for god’s sake – but it made sense thematically. When they managed to trust in each other and unite, they were able to break free of the psychological maze than had trapped them for so long.

[rairateru]

Finally, this is where Umineko comes in. It’s clear when the first episode makes its turning point: right after Natsuhi forces Maria and the servants to leave. I hardly need to finish this paragraph for you to know where I’m going with this. Natsuhi’s distrust was what caused half of their party to die; without relying on one another, they would never be able to escape the Golden Witch’s cruel game.

To expand on my theory on Umineko – and this part is speculation, so bear with me – I’m sure the family inheritance is one of the key points of the story. There wouldn’t have been so much exposition for it otherwise. The people gathered on Rokkenjima are, in fact, rational and good-hearted human beings – none of them appear to be “evil” in the truest sense of the word. However, when money enters the picture, things turn sour. The same goes for Rosa’s bad relationship with Maria; there’s no way that won’t be brought up in the upcoming episodes, what with Maria’s important role in the story.

The bottom line is that the Ushiromiya family is fractured for a variety of reasons, and until they learn to overcome their differences and become the family that they should be, they won’t escape Beatrice’s curse. Much like Higurashi, Umineko uses a unique narrative structure and questionable supernatural elements to distort the reader’s logic and give us red herrings to chase, but the final answer lies in the hearts of the characters. Only by defeating their inner demons can they vanquish the “witch” that threatens their outer selves.

~ ETERNAL
つづく

©2010 Memories of Eternity. All Rights Reserved.