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Cathy Yan

About Cathy Yan

Cathy Yan is a law school student in Illinois. In fourth grade, she made the unfortunate decision to allow her best friend to introduce her to Sailor Moon, and she hasn't looked back since. She loves cooking anime, josei dramas, Shounen Jump rivals, and BL manga by Yamada Yugi. One day she'll start a therapy group for people who watched Neon Genesis Evangelion while under the age of 20 and are now, like her, permanently traumatized. You can find her on Twitter or Tumblr.

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Natsume’s Book of Friends

September 16, 2011 by Cathy Yan 4 Comments

Natsume’s Book of Friends | by Yuki Midorikawa | Manga: Hakusensha / Viz | Anime: Brain’s Base / Crunchyroll

Natsume’s Book of Friends is the kind of series that could only be made in Japan. The same plot set-up (young man learns about demons and ghosts, fights some of them and saves others, befriends a supernatural guardian and learns more about his family and himself) when worked over by the United States, well, became Supernatural. Natsume, on the other hand, is a feel-good, low-key series that would gladly eschew demon-slaying for a chance to show an autumn festival in full sway. Less “monster of the week” and more slice-of-life, Natsume’s Book of Friends’ first season tries to bite off more story than it can chew and ultimately left me wavering between dissatisfaction and well-meaning sentimentality.

The eponymous Natsume is a high school boy named Takashi, who has spent his life being ostracized by his family and peers for seeing ayakashi — monsters that are an intersection of mythical beast, ghost, and evil spirit. Takashi’s grandmother Reiko Natsume left him her belongings, among which is the Book of Friends: an old-fashioned notebook filled with names of ayakashi that Reiko had made her followers. The ayakashi whose names were bound in the book were forced to obey Reiko’s commands and, as we discover later in the series, were often Reiko’s only companions.

But Natsume (Takashi)’s connection with the Book of Friends is different. He’s not interested in getting more names; rather, he wants to return the names to the ayakashi. It’s a grueling process that physically and spirtually taxes him. Guided by Nyanko, a dog demon named Madara stuck in the body of fat cat, Natsume finds himself navigating the tricky waters of interpersonal relationships, both with the humans in his life, the ayakashi who won’t leave him alone, and the ayakashi who, surprisingly, need him to guide them through the world of human feelings.

When Natsume’s Book of Friends does its job well, the stories are truly touching. Tsubame, the sparrow ayakashi of episode six, was for me the early standout in this thirteen episode series. Her story arc marks the first time that Natsume gets overly involved in the plight of an ayakashi to his detriment. In his desire to get Tsubame a chance to see the human she loves, Natsume gets trampled on, pushed around, and almost eaten. It’s the kind of dedication that in other anime would result in a love confession. Here, Natsume’s feelings for Tsubame are deliciously kept in the dark, and paired with Tsubame’s unrequited love for a passing human, the whole episode reads bittersweet and touching. Likewise, Hotaru from episode eight has the same melancholy, literary feel to her character arc, much like a short story from Yasunari Kawabata, but animated. At its best, Natsume’s Book of Friends knows when to play the emotional cards close to heart; the most interesting character relationships tended to be the ones that were neither labeled nor even mentioned by anyone in the series.

But other ayakashi who cross Natsume’s path sometimes seemed downright contrived. The kitsune — fox spirit — whose mother is now a pile of rocks (?) had promise as a loner who aims to befriend Natsume, but instead that story fizzled out into a relatively lukewarm conclusion that had me wondering why I was supposed to remember the kitsune kid when he chose to show up in a later episode. Episode three with the dew god was clearly an early foray into the rustic faith of the countryside, but the really interesting religious question (how can you be a god if you have no powers and no followers?) was passed up without any commentary or exploration, while a passable but ultimately silly love story was chosen to cap off the episode. Let’s not even get into the confused emotional climax of episode five, whose musing about friendship between the ayakashi and ill-fated attempt to show us more about Reiko’s personality had me literally falling asleep, despite my best efforts to stay interested. None of the characters in the first season, besides Natsume, get much depth. Sasada, the homeroom president, and Tanuma, one of the few other people who can see ayakashi, had potential to be great foils for Natsume. Instead, Tanuma languishes as a barely realized ally whom Natsume only manages to reach out to in the last episode, and Sasada goes from possibly-no-wait-maybe-not love interest to laughing stock.

In general I found the manga to be more melancholy and on point with the emotional cues. Natsume himself is more gloomy and isolated in the manga, while in the anime, he seems shockingly well-adjusted, making a major sticking point of the story — Natsume’s attempt to build interpersonal relationships — harder to swallow in the anime. Often the anime seemed to be trying too hard for zany or cute or melodramatic or something. I don’t know if it’s because of the switch in medium, but the manga chapters seemed to have an extra air of easy-going softness that was missing from the anime. In many ways, the manga version of Natsume’s life was incredibly fragile. You felt the stories were just like Tanuma’s view of the ayakashi, like if you scrutinized the stories too much they would disappear a little into the background of Natsume’s life. Not so with the anime, where things felt more grounded, more real. Natsume didn’t seem to be the lonely, slightly withdrawn young man he was under Midorikawa’s pen; instead, you felt strongly in the anime that everyone else had had to be wrong to doubt a boy like Natsume. The world of manga Natsume seemed more Japanese, and the ayakashi were everywhere, not just the guest characters they so often were in the anime.

Yet the anime does have its advantages. The ending theme, “Summer Evening Sky”, is a perfect enka-inspired piece that always warms your heart whenever it starts to fade in during the last few minutes of an episode. Kazuhiko Inoue as Madara a.k.a. Nyanko-sensei is a force to behold, easily switching out of Nyanko’s whiny drawl and into Madara’s gruff, no-nonsense bark. And for all my griping that the secondary characters never get development, it’s still refreshing to see a show starring a male character that is neither testosterone-driven nor filled to the brim with ditzy and well-endowed love interests.

Fans of Mushishi and Yumekui Kenbun might consider giving Natsume’s Book of Friends a try (and likewise, those of you who enjoyed Natsume should check out those other two series!). At thirteen episodes, the first season is easy enough to swallow, and the episodic nature of the story arcs makes it easy to start and stop. As for me, I’d put Natsume’s Book of Friends in the box of anime series that neither wow nor disappoint. And, of course, I can only hope the subsequent seasons of the anime learn from Mushishi rather than Supernatural.

Watch it streaming at Crunchyroll

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: natsume's book of friends

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Summer Special

June 29, 2011 by Cathy Yan 5 Comments

This month Don’t Fear the Adaptation brings you a summer one-two combo of series that span the anime/manga/light novel trifecta: The Story of Saiunkoku and Shiki!


The Story of Sainkoku | Novel: Sai Yukino / Kadokawa | Manga: Kairi Yura / Kadokawa / Viz | Anime: Madhouse / Geneon (previous) / Funimation

The Story of Saiunkoku is a classic shoujo series if there ever was one. Its heroine, Shurei Hong, is a strong, hardworking girl determined to overcome the position she was squashed into, both with regard to her socioeconomic problems and her gender. She’s intelligent, insightful, caring, civic-minded, and just sassy enough to get her way. Its main male character, the Emperor Ryuki Shi, comes from a tortuous family history and is in need of exactly the qualities Shurei has to offer. Though he truly appreciates, even loves, Shurei, there’s an obstacle or three that keeps him from expressing those feelings. Not to mention, he has other things to worry about — like how to keep the country running. Add in a childhood friend with a mysterious background who rounds out the love triangle, some kibbitzing side characters, the glorious half-fantasy rendition of ancient China that is the country of Saiunkoku, and you have a formula for a successful shoujo story that’s been perfected since Rose of Versailles.

I don’t use that comparison lightly. As much as Rose of Versailles romanticized revolutionary France, The Story of Saiunkoku romanticizes ancient China in a way that is deeply familiar to anybody who grew up watching Chinese TV dramas. This isn’t a bad thing. The Story of Saiunkoku‘s aesthetic fits the story perfectly — flowing layered robes in brilliant colors, intricate hairstyles for the women and long luxurious hair for the men, patterned window lattices, pagodas a plenty, and enough flower petals to drown in. It’s vibrant and feminine without exaggeration. Madhouse’s animation, like Kairi Yura’s artwork, is solid but uninspiring, almost to the point of being dull. But Saiunkoku‘s strength is the political intrigue and the character dynamics which, together with a hint of the fantastical and the core of a romantic drama, make for an entertaining story.

David, Kate, Melinda, and Michelle have all written about The Story of Saiunkoku‘s charm. The anime does justice to their compliments. The Story of Saiunkoku does what it’s supposed to, and does it well: a cast of likeable characters develop interesting relationships with each other which are then pitted against a meandering but straightforward plot. Shurei is a classic spunky anime heroine, all the way down to her relationship with her father (like so many anime and manga heroines, her mother is absent and she’s had to take care of the family). But The Story of Saiunkoku is a great example of why tropes aren’t necessarily a bad thing. Shurei is loveable because she embodies all the right traits. She’s a strong young woman, someone with her own troubles but is always sensitive to the troubles of others, someone who isn’t above getting angry when her pride is hurt but also genuinely supports the people she loves. She never glamorizes herself as a martyr, even when she’s bullied to the point of exhaustion. She’s the kind of Mary Sue that you want to aspire to, instead of snarking, and she’s definitely one of the strongest anime heroines I’ve seen in years.

What I found most intriguing about Ryuki was his multi-faceted personality. In front of his older brother, he’s vulnerable and adoring; in front of Shurei, he’s a lovesick fool. But when it comes to beating down kidnappers or running an imperial inquiry into corruption, he’s every bit the model emperor, with only his country’s wellbeing in mind. It’s not that he’s manipulative. Rather, you can tell he’s only survived so long by being calculating. As the series progresses, his inability to win over Shurei with tricks and ploys (and hard-boiled eggs) exposes him for the 19 year old he is inside, enthusiastic and well-meaning and more than a little clumsy. Is it just that we like to see a man with so much power reduced to putty in the hands of a mere girl? I know that’s certainly part of my amusement. Here Shurei is never just a damsel in distress depending on Ryuki. She even gives up a life of luxury as Ryuki’s consort in order to pursue her dreams. Shoujo heroines often pay lip service to a life framed around something other than romance, but Shurei actually lives that life. She never wanted Ryuki to fall in love with her; she’d always wanted to serve her country in any way she could. It’s just that love happened along the way.

The other characters are hit or miss, but mostly hits. Split three ways between his fondness for Ryuki, his dedication to Shouka and Shurei as an adopted son, and the torch he carries for Shurei’s affections, Seiran is just as calculating as Ryuki and, without Ryuki’s natural bubbliness, is far scarier. Koyu Li, the assistant secretary of Civil Affairs, is tragic, hotheaded, and heart-meltingly endearing in turns, and in another series could have managed to be the main character. Here, he and his good friend Shuei Ran, whose ladykiller air hides a competent general, are the mocking peanut gallery, almost always on screen as a pair, whether it be as a pair of the Emperor’s confidants or a pair of troublemakers. The Story of Saiunkoku does at times come off as a reverse harem. Don’t get me wrong, I like reverse harems just as much as the next person, but none of the female characters in the first season even come close to matching up to Shurei. While I adored meeting characters like Reishin, the sneaky but overly doting Minister of Civil Affairs who doubles as both Koyu’s adoptive father and Shurei’s uncle, and Kijin Kou, the eccentric masked Minister of Finance, Sakujun — the second oldest of Enjun Sa’s grandsons– is basically a less nuanced version of Ryuki, even in appearance, and Kuro is the least interesting of the three Hong brothers for sure. With a cast this large, there were bound to be a couple of duds, but I just wish there had been more female characters like Kouchou, the courtesan who, with equal equanimity, teaches Shurei how to wear makeup and runs Kiyou’s entire red light district.

Like all the best shoujo stories, The Story of Saiunkoku throws in plenty of humor, and the anime manages to slip in a few extra jokes. One of my favorite episodes is when Shurei falls ill and all the characters come out of the woodwork to wish her well, including an extra silly Reishin who sulks over the implication that one day his beloved niece will get married. I’m especially impressed with the anime’s restraint — there’s not a single super-deformed face for all thirty-nine episodes.

I’ve only read the first two volumes of the manga, but from what I can tell, the anime and manga do have differences, even from episode one. Some characters are introduced early in the anime, and scenes have been both added and rearranged. For instance, while in the manga, Shurei is relatively unaware that she is in danger of being poisoned, in the anime Ryuki is forced to explain the danger to her after she’s almost poisoned at a banquet. As a result, Shurei in the anime learns both about Ryuki’s troubled past and Ryuki pretending to be stupid much sooner than the manga Shurei. It’s hard to compare the entire first season of the anime to just two volumes of the manga, but if I have to make some comparison, I’d say there just seems to be more stuff happening, and at a quicker pace, in the anime. Despite this, the anime does start dragging, in particular during the period after the imperial exams. While there are never any straight-out filler episodes, the series often picks the slowest, most tortuous methods to advance the plot, like episode 21, which is almost entirely superfluous except for an eleventh hour hint at a plot twist.

The Story of Saiunkoku is like Fushigi Yugi meets Dream of Red Chambers, as envisioned by CLAMP. This, actually, is a good thing. If you’re just the slightest fan of shoujo manga, and if you come across a box set of the first season for a reasonable price, I cannot stress how quickly you should snap up that deal. As it is, you can still get the early DVD sets relatively easy, but the later DVD volumes are nigh impossible to get your hands on. Thank goodness Viz is putting out the manga, or else we’d all be missing out. Now if only we could convince them to license the light novels as well!

(Note: I’ve used the Funimation names for this review. Shuurei’s family name is actually Kou, not Hong, but I’m guessing Funimation was worried we’d get her family mixed up with the other Kou family.)


Shiki | Novel: Fuyumi Ono / Shinchosha | Manga: Ryu Fujisaki / Shueisha | Anime: Daume / Funimation

Watch online at Funimation

I feel bad that I’ve been recommending stuff that you can’t buy or watch, or can only buy at ridiculous prices. So I thought I’d throw in a bonus review and recommend something you can watch easily. Shiki has vampires, “werewolves”, and a fascinating ensemble cast that will hook you faster than you can say “Twilight.” Plus, you can watch it for free on Funimation’s site now, and next year it’ll be released as DVD box set. What more could you want? (Well, other than for someone to license the corresponding manga and light novel as well, of course.)

Summer is the season for horror stories, and Shiki delivers in spades. The story is set in the small rural village of Sotoba, a place isolated from the rest of the world by mountains and forests. Sotoba is famous for burying their dead, and as a result the local folklore has plenty of stories featuring the undead, though no one takes that myth seriously. That is, until one summer, the villagers begin to die off an unprecedented rate, only to be seen walking the streets at night. Is it an epidemic? Is it a curse brought in by the mysterious Kirishikis, the eccentric family that builds a castle in the mountains and moved in during the dead of night? Or could there be some truth in the undead legend after all?

The closest Shiki has to main characters are Natsuno Yuuki, the surly teenaged son whose family moves from Tokyo to Sotoba in the beginning of the story, and Toshio Ozaki, the young head doctor of the Ozaki Clinic whose family has always served as Sotoba’s doctors. Ozaki, first frustrated by his inability to identify what the illness killing his villagers is, tries his best to convince the other adults that there are vampires — known as “shiki”, or corpse demons, in the series — walking amongst their midst. As a representative of the adult residents of Sotoba, his is a powerful story of how the rational can brainwash people just as much as the irrational. None of the adult villagers seem able to accept that something unusual is happening in Sotoba, much less that the cause is supernatural. As much as Ozaki tries to save the village, the village unconsciously repels his attempts, and it’s only a drastic eleventh hour sleight of hand by Ozaki that gets Sotoba to listen.

Natsuno’s problems are likewise complicated. He has no love for Sotoba, and in fact only has one friend in the entire village, a cheerful guy named Toru Mutou, but he isn’t willing to stand by and let the shiki kill off the village either. Still, how do you kill the undead, especially when the only allies you have are two middle schoolers who are just as clueless as you are? To make matters more complicated, one of the first victims, a teenaged girl named Megumi Shimizu, has an obsessive crush on Natsuno, and after she’s turned into a shiki, she’s hellbent on stalking him down and turning him into a shiki as well.

It’s not the kids that are interesting in Shiki, though the complications of the Natsuno/Tooru/Megumi relationship certainly make for one of the most dramatic twists mid-series. It’s really the ambiguities of the adult characters and the incredibly well-executed pacing of the narrative that elevates Shiki from a mere vampire horror story to a very complex and very human drama. Shiki is all about asking what it means to be or want to be alive, and what sacrifices are justified in the pursuit. Take Ozaki, whose obsession with hunting down the shiki is matched only by the shiki’s obsession with hunting down him. He wants to save the village from getting taking over; they want to keep him from killing their own kind. Is one really better than the other? The leader of the shiki, Sunako, was bitten when she was just a little girl, and all she wants is to give the shiki a place where they don’t have to hide, where they can have festivals and live as families and walk down the street just like people. It’s a noble enough dream, but to accomplish it, she needs to wipe out Sotoba’s living residents.

If Sunako is a charismatic villain who tugs at your heartstrings, Ozaki is a terribly unsympathetic protagonist who makes you question whether you should even be cheering for him. He’s callous towards the concerns of others, so one-minded that he thinks nothing of sacrificing his own wife to accomplish his aims. Towards the end of series, you begin to wonder whether he actually cares about the village at all, or if this is just a matter of pride for him. Then there’s Muroi, who as the head priest of Sotoba, should be on the frontlines driving away the shiki. But instead Muroi is entranced by the shiki as a way of escaping his stifling life, and you find yourself upset with Ozaki for not being more understanding, even though Muroi is, in effect, enabling the death of Sotoba. And all of this doesn’t even begin to touch on the feelings of the victims’ families, who are simultaneously repulsed and drawn to their shiki loved ones. Would it be better for someone you love to die and stay dead? Or is it better for them to die and come back as a murderous, blood-thirsty, but very animate shiki?

Shiki packs all this and more in crisscrossing plot lines that weave together to form a narrative about life and death that could be mined forever. You’ll find yourself changing loyalties, reconsidering sides, examining long-held preconceptions about how life should be and what rules should guide human interaction, simply depending on which character the episode focuses on. While the story can get a little heavy-handed, especially during Muroi’s dialogues with Sunako, the grand finale of the last few episodes handle the moral dilemmas of the remaining Sotoba residents so unflinchingly that you’ll wish for some sugar-coating. But if there’s one thing you could say about Shiki, it’s that it forces most of its major characters to look their choices in the face and stand up to them — sometimes with disastrous results.

The art in Shiki can be preposterous at times. Don’t get me started on the crazy hairdos, the physics-defying tears, and the inexplicable fashions; Megumi in the first episode doesn’t even come close to the worst of it. There’s a particular moment where one of the Kirishiki servants goes to visit Natsuno which just emphasizes how ill-suited Shiki was for comedy, no matter how hard the series would try to inject occasional jokes. But you forget that failing when you’re dealing with one of the spookiest soundtracks made for any horror anime. The sound effects– whispering choirs, eerie giggles, and almost fetid sucking sounds– will make you cringe and shrink back into yourself. The music ranges from forgettable melodies plucked out on guitar strings to an unassuming main theme that nevertheless ends up being associated with so many depressing events that you start dreading its appearance. The end product gives off the impression of being a demented music box — harmless during the day, but deeply unsettling in the dark.

Shiki is a feast for the fan of vampires or the supernatural. There’s something vaguely Stephen King-ish about its plot and premise, but the execution is something much closer to an HBO miniseries: you know it has a plan, you know it’s going somewhere, and the ending is satisfying and satisfyingly unexpected. The characters span the whole spectrum of unselfish, neutral, and reprehensible. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve watched a series that handled that spectrum as well as Shiki. Watch it now while it’s free, then grab a copy for those hot, terrible summer evenings where you need a little chill that only the undead can inspire.

—

Either Natsume Yujincho or Chi’s Sweet Home will be next. If you feel strongly one way or another, as always, drop me a line!

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: anime, shiki, the story of saiunkoku

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Ristorante Paradiso

June 4, 2011 by Cathy Yan 9 Comments

Ristorante Paradiso | by Natsume Ono | Manga: Ohta Shuppan / Viz | Anime: David Production / Crunchyroll

Whenever you write a review of Ristorante Paradiso, you always have to get one thing out of the way first: which one is your favorite gentleman? When I read the manga, Luciano was mine, because I fall pretty hard for the gruff types who despite their claims of disinterest can’t help but meddle. And while the anime cemented my love of Luciano, I have to say anime Teo is exactly the handsome aniki I’d fall in love with at Casetta dell’Orso. It helps that he’s a dessert chef, mouthy, and also rides a motorcycle. (Lorenzo is disqualified from my rankings — he’s too perfect and there’s no way to avoid being in love with him and horribly, horribly jealous of Olga.)

Ristorante Paradiso is primarily about Nicoletta, a twenty-one year old determined to exact revenge on her mother Olga, who left Nicoletta behind in order to marry Lorenzo, a restaurant owner in Rome. But when she arrives in Rome, Nicoletta falls in love with Claudio, a waiter at Lorenzo’s restaurant, and ends up staying there as a kitchen apprentice. Like most of Natsume Ono’s stories, it’s a mature slice-of-life production with a slow plot and an ensemble cast filled with enigmatic men and self-assured women. The manga is short at one volume but has a three-volume prequel-sequel entitled Gente: The People of Ristorante Paradiso. The anime mixes and matches the overall Nicoletta-and-Claudio plot of Ristorante Paradiso but detours heavily into the backstories of Gente. The end product is very, very much House of Five Leaves meets Antique Bakery. Why else do you think I pleaded with Melinda to let me do a Natsume Ono double punch? ;)

Ristorante Paradiso the anime is a feel-good jousei version of a dating game crossed with a butler café. It falls somewhere in between the beloved reverse harem romcoms like Ouran Host Club and the “counseling session of the week” trope of Bartender (which, incidentally, was also adapted into an anime). Like Antique Bakery, Ristorante Paradiso has its moments of drama — some might even argue, melodrama — but it’s one of those series that ultimately boils down to its playful sampling of human life. It’s bursting with little stories about romance, family, growing up, and, well, more romance. There’s a particularly memorable side story about a woman whose husband keeps cheating on her. The dell’Orso staff, especially Gigi and Vito, get involved, and the episode caps off with a very serious, but touching, lesson about marriage and coincidence that even O’Henry would have been proud of. Episode eight and nine owe more to Giuseppe Tornatore than Iron Chef, and episode four, which chronicles the founding of dell’Orso, could be a movie all by itself.

All the characters, especially the gentlemen, get a boost from being animated and paired with a voice actor. Gigi and Lorenzo as twenty-somethings are heartwrenchingly adorable when animated, and Claudio as a young and awkward server trying to find off the amorous intentions of a rich patron will make you swoon. Of special note for me are the relatively unknown Mitsutaka Tachikawa as Luciano and Jin Yamanoi as Claudio. Listening to Yamanoi really makes you believe you’re in the presence of a saint, while Tachikawa’s Luciano is beyond endearing, especially when he growls.

The additional materials from Gente, on top of keeping the anime from having to stretch out one volume’s worth of material into eleven slow episodes, also gives more depth to Nicoletta and her relationship with Claudio. Nicoletta’s observation that love comes in different shapes makes more sense when you get to meet all the significant others of the dell’Orso staff. That they spend more time together and go through a lot more troubles together makes their ending in the anime far sweeter and more conclusive. An unexpected benefit of getting to know Luciano better in the anime was that Claudio, in the process, came into better focus. Their friendship and comparable statuses (Luciano as a widow and Claudio, a divorcee) meant Claudio comes off in the anime as more than just a nice guy. You struggle with him over his idealistic nature, sympathize with his inability to move past his ex-wife Gabrielle, and really, truly wish for his happiness. You feel like you understand just what it is that Nicoletta sees in him.

David Production is a smaller, newer studio compared to Madhouse, the studio responsible for Ono’s other anime adaptation House of Five Leaves. The style in Ristorante Paradiso is less obviously Ono’s this time around, but David Production still did an excellent job translating Ono’s art style. The glimpses of food in the series are mouthwatering, and the shots of the staff’s favorite enoteca, with shelves and shelves of wine bottles, make me want to follow Nicoletta’s journey and spend an extended vacation in Rome. There’s some awkward use of CG as well as a laughable moment in episode six, where if you pause the video in Olga’s office, you can see that the certificate behind her is issued to “Bob Fields”, Cambridge, and qualifies the recipient to teach English to adults. Other than that, the animation is top notch. Episode seven introduces Luciano’s daughter Margherita who is almost indistinguishable from Nicoletta, but that, I think, is more the fault of Ono herself and not the studio’s.

For fans of the manga who were frustrated with the slowness of Ristorante Paradiso‘s first few chapters, but liked Gente‘s character development, the anime is the best of both worlds. (It’s just a terrible shame that Crunchyroll took down their videos.) For those of you who have yet to read the manga, while some have complained that the anime’s flashbacks were too confusing, I would recommend watching the anime over reading the manga. The meshing of Gente with Ristorante Paradiso makes for a fuller, more fleshed out cast and also tempers the ending of Nicoletta’s storyline, which I found unsatisfactorily abrupt when reading the manga. It’s far from realistic, the initial conflict between Olga and Nicoletta is still solved too easily, and very few of the staff’s backstories cover truly original ground. But if you like food, are a people-watcher, or simply enjoy a little romanzo in your life, Ristorante Paradiso welcomes you to Casetta dell’Orso.

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: anime, gente, Natsume Ono, ristorante paradiso

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Antique Bakery

May 8, 2011 by Cathy Yan 9 Comments

Antique Bakery | by Fumi Yoshinaga | Manga: Shinshokan/DMP | Anime: Nippon Animation/Nozomi Entertainment

Antique Bakery has already been covered in wonderful reviews by the Manga Bookshelf regulars. It begins with Keiichirou Tachibana, the son of a rich family, quitting his salaryman job in order to open a cake shop. He buys out an antique shop that’s going out of business and hires a former classmate of his, Yusuke Ono, the black sheep of the pâtissier community. Along the way, they pick up ex-pro boxing champion Eiji Kanda, who is determined to become Ono’s apprentice, and also end up employing Tachibana’s childhood friend, Chikage Kobayakawa, as an incompetent waiter. Like last month’s House of Five Leaves, Antique Bakery is a story about forging families and learning to both shoulder and forget your past. Though Ono is technically Eiji’s teacher, they turn out to be more of a parental-child unit than anything else, and any fan of the series will tell you that there’s a funny yet tragic joke about Chikage’s daughter marrying Tachibana in the future, essentially making Chikage Tachibana’s “father”. Add in a tumultuous high school past between Tachibana and Ono, an are-they-or-aren’t-they relationship between Chikage and Ono, and more delicious cakes than you could possibly eat in a life time, and you have Antique Bakery.

Every good fan plays favorites. I’m not afraid to tell you that Fumi Yoshinaga is one of mine. Antique Bakery was one of the first series that I collected from beginning to end, back when DMP was still doing those wonderful large books with the slip covers. The Antique Bakery books came with scratch and sniff covers. I thought they were the bee’s knees. I still do. So it’s only natural that I went into Antique Bakery the anime wanting to like it.

Did the anime deliver? Well, I can’t say there’s really anything actually wrong with it. It follows the source material reasonably closely, it does its best to translate Yoshigana’s characteristic artwork into an animation style, and it’s consistent from beginning to end. Maybe the best thing is the voice acting. Keiji Fujiwara is exactly what Tachibana sounded like in my head when he uses his “badly put upon papa” voice. Eiji Hanawa’s Chikage is flawless from beginning to end, alternatively meek and manly. Mamoru Miyano was an inspired choice for Eiji’s exuberant, cheeky attitude, and Shinichirou Miki as Ono manages to effortlessly straddle all aspects of Ono’s contradictory personality. It’s a real treat to hear scenes where all four voice actors work together, especially in scenes where Ono manages to show off just how much he is the real boss of Antique, not Tachibana.

The real problem comes when you take apart how the anime has restructured the story. I don’t mind that the anime throws together all the employees relatively early (Chikage, for example, shows up in episode one even though he wasn’t introduced until volume two of the manga). But the first episode opens with Tachibana having a nightmare about his kidnapper, which takes away the shock value of learning that competent, put-together Tachibana actually had a traumatic childhood. From the very beginning, the threads of his kidnapping story are scattered everywhere. When Tachibana first discovers Ono’s “gay of demonic charm” in the manga, it was very much tied to his guilt for pushing Ono away and ruining Ono’s life. But in the anime, it somehow came all the way back to Tachibana’s unarticulated homophobia post-kidnapping.

Anime Tachibana is completely reduced down to his childhood trauma. Gone is his fondness for inventing overly dramatic and completely specious explanations for the behavior of the customers in the shop. Gone is the very telling scene where his family visits the shop and you realize the entire Tachibana family has a face reserved for dealing with the public. When we hear about his past girlfriends, it’s limited to the one in high school, so you never realize that Tachibana’s willingness to please is one of his virtues as well as one of his weaknesses.

The other characters suffer from similar abridgment. Eiji’s background as a hypersexual gang member teenager, reformed by a kindhearted boxing coach, has been completely wiped in the anime, so he’s ends up being only an overly enthusiastic sports-type with a heart of gold. While we are introduced to Haruka and Tamiko, the news anchors that come to interview the shop for a cake fair, we aren’t given their history, which like all things Yoshinaga is that wonderful blend of humor and commentary on gender in modern day Japan. Chikage never had much of a story in the first place, but most of the scenes showing his idiosyncratic, yet charming, way of interacting with the Antique customers have also been cut. And one of my favorite lines, where Ono displays his insight into the hearts of men by diffusing an argument between Eiji and Tachibana, never makes it into the anime. Most of Ono’s gay lifestyle, actually, never makes it into the anime.

The characters seem to be shallower reflections of their manga selves. In fact, the story as a whole seems to be a shallower version of the manga. For me, the beauty of Antique Bakery was that it was a slice of life series — iyashi-kei, if you will — which pretended for a while to be a drama about Tachibana’s past. In the end, though, it was all about how these four men, whether or not they mean to, are stuck together forever as a family. Even when Chikage moves out of Tachibana’s apartment, even when it’s only Tachibana and Ono in the store, they’re still a family, bound together by fate and their investment in each other’s lives.

But the anime should probably be renamed “Keiichirou Tachibana and the Never Ending Kidnapping Trauma”. Everything is subsumed into this one overarching theme. This defect is nowhere more obvious than in the ending. In the manga, the kidnapping plot is wrapped up, Eiji and Chikage leave the store, followed by Tachibana and Ono pretending to be a gay couple for some schoolgirl customers, and we end on Tachibana’s realization that, despite evidence to the contrary, he’s still not over his trauma. But the anime, bizarrely enough, starts with Tachibana’s realization that he isn’t okay after all, transition into Chikage’s, then Eiji’s, departure, and finally lets Tachibana face off his kidnapper. The flashback to Tachibana a child, running away from his kidnapper, worked in the manga as a faux-climax to the story, but contradicts anime Tachibana’s assertion that he isn’t cured. The sense of the store continuing on, despite all changes, has disappeared. We end where we began, alone with Tachibana.

Finally, the animation leaves a lot to be desired. Fumi Yoshinaga’s art was never ornate or highly detailed, but when translated into an anime, it looks sadly flat. As if to compensate, the anime overuses CG art for the backgrounds, leaving you with the unsettling sense that you’re watching cutscenes from a late nineties video game. While abrupt transitions into super-deformed faces worked for the characters in the static medium of manga, their appearance in the anime verges on excessive and more than once took me completely out of the story. Like everything else in this anime, the animation isn’t terrible, but it definitely doesn’t do the series any favors, and it certainly didn’t take the story places where only the anime medium can go. I finished the anime with the uncomfortable feeling that it would have been better off with a studio like BONES, Studio Pierrot, or even Sunrise, which understood enough baking to make Yakitate!! Japan memorable. If a series like Genshiken found a way to parody cheesy BL storylines with French subtitles, you’d think a canonical cheesy BL storyline set in Paris would be played for laughs in Antique Bakery. Alas.

For completist fans, the DVD set is worth getting exclusively for the bonus booklet, which contains two enlightening interviews with Fumi Yoshinaga and the voice actors. The DVDs themselves are pretty bare, but the last DVD does include an adorable special where the voice actors are interviewed while wearing the outfits of the characters they play. On the other hand, if this is your first experience with the Antique gang, I have to say that you’re better off reading the manga than watching the anime. It’s not even that the anime is actually bad; it’s plenty enjoyable on a lazy Sunday afternoon, especially if you have a piece of cake on hand. But Fumi Yoshinaga’s work is so good that the anime was doomed to failure from the beginning. That’s the danger of playing favorites.

A million thanks to RightStuf for providing a copy of the DVD set for review.

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: anime, antique bakery

Roundtable: Hikaru no Go

May 5, 2011 by Melinda Beasi, Michelle Smith, Cathy Yan, Hana Lee and Aja Romano 27 Comments

 


 

MELINDA: Back in June of 2007, not long after having loudly proclaimed in my blog at the time that I would never get into comics, my friend Aja finally convinced me to take a look at a shounen manga series called Hikaru no Go. It was a revelation for me. The series was thoroughly engrossing, poignant, and sincerely optimistic in a way I hadn’t experienced before in any medium. Furthermore, the storytelling was masterful and elegant to an extent I’d previously only associated with prose and a few favorite television series. How was it possible that I could find so much satisfaction in a comic about boys playing a board game?

After that, I tried every manga I could find, discarding some immediately, but becoming hooked on many, many more. By October, I’d started a separate blog for the subject, which eventually became the center of my online life. It would be fair to say that Manga Bookshelf most likely would not exist had I not been so enthusiastically encouraged into reading Hikaru no Go.

This week on May third, after a publication schedule spanning seven years, the series’ final volume has been officially released in English. To celebrate the occasion, I’ve asked some of my favorite writers to join me here for a roundtable discussion, namely Manga/Manhwa Bookshelf contributors Michelle Smith, Cathy Yan, and Hana Lee, as well as my good friend Aja Romano, who got me into all this in the first place.

Ladies, would you share a bit about how you first became fans of Hikaru no Go?

HANA: I first heard about Hikaru no Go when it was still being released in 2002. One of my best friends from high school—the one who introduced me to anime and manga, in fact—had asked me to get her the 18th volume for her birthday. (Unlike me, she had studied Japanese and could read manga in their original editions without waiting for translations.) I went to the local Japanese bookstore to find it and was surprised to realize that it was by the same artist who drew Ayatsuri Sakon. I was watching the Ayatsuri Sakon anime at the time and loved the series, so it interested me to learn that Hikaru no Go was about a ghost possessing a boy and teaching him how to play go.

As I started reading the manga through the fan scanlations (all that were available at the time), I realized that the series was not the sort of supernatural-tinged episodic mystery that I had expected it to be. Since I also enjoyed the Shounen Jump brand of tournament-style shounen manga, I wasn’t at all disappointed. But what came as a real surprise was how Hikaru no Go completely transcended the genre: not only a story about competition, it was also a story about growing up, about discovery and loss, and most of all, about passion. What really spoke to me in the series was all the characters’ intense passion for go, whether they were amateurs playing in their school go club or professionals who had been playing for a lifetime. And getting to experience that through Hikaru’s eyes as he slowly learns to feel the same passion himself was what hooked me into the series.

MICHELLE: I can’t actually remember how I first learned about Hikaru no Go. At some point after the anime wrapped in Japan, I acquired some fansubs of the entire series and devoured them in short order. Titles like Rurouni Kenshin had already converted me to a fervent love of tournament manga, and though Hikaru was certainly very different from others in that genre, it was similar enough to addict me quite thoroughly. Beyond the satisfaction of watching our protagonist learn and grow, the series is also genuinely moving, and some episodes left me with tear streaming down my cheeks.

Then the manga came out. Amazon informs me that volume one came out on June 16, 2004. Because I am anal-retentive, I’ve been keeping track of what I read for about a decade. Guess when I read that volume? June 16, 2004. I got it home and gobbled it up. This is meaningful when one considers the backlog of other things I bring home and then just admire.

I think it’s safe to say that I’ve ardently loved Hikaru no Go for going on a decade now. It’s bittersweet that the manga is finally coming to an end, but I’ve definitely enjoyed reading the material that was not part of the anime and, as I mentioned in our Pick of the Week column, now I’ll have the luxury of indulging in a series-long marathon reread whenever the craving strikes.

AJA: You can thank fandom for piquing my interest in Hikaru no Go; I’d been hearing here and there for about 2 years that if I loved certain slash pairings, I’d like the dynamic between Akira and Hikaru in this anime series. So it was on my radar for some time before a friend finally sat me down and showed me the first half of the anime. I fell completely in love with it. I only had a basic familiarity with most of the iconic shounen manga series out at that time, but I knew enough to recognize that Hikago was unlike anything else that I’d really seen or read to date.

Something that makes Hikaru no Go unique for me, in terms of series and fandoms, is that I actually didn’t finish it for about a year. I balked at the inevitability of Sai’s disappearance, because I am a total wuss when it comes to angst, and I knew it was going to completely break my heart. Instead, I dove into the fandom and read all of the available fanfic I could get my hands on, and I actually didn’t return to finish watching the series or reading the manga until a year later.

Reading the manga, especially the final arc that wasn’t in the anime, for the first time was a complete revelation to me. It was so intense, and it still amazes me that a manga about a board game can carry such fabulous pacing over such a long period of time. And the angst was even more intense than I could have expected—but in that final moment when Akira says, “this isn’t the end—it never ends,” to Hikaru made it all worth it.

CATHY: I too found Hikaru no Go before it was picked up for official release. I was in my sophomore year of high school, I think, and had just started to read shounen manga. I absolutely devoured it. I spent one week reading it nonstop; I remember now pulling an all-nighter during Sai’s disappearance arc, absolutely bawling my eyes out. It’s one of the few mangas I’ve read where the subject material is still so unfathomable to me (if you asked me, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to play a game of go) but the characters and story of it are enough for me to love it eternally. Even Hotta and Obata’s subsequent works, while good, can never measure up to the sheer emotional power of Hikaru no Go.

Fundamentally, for me, the story is one about the passage of Hikaru from childhood into adulthood. I imagine that’s also a fault of the age at which I read the series, because I felt like at that time, I too was trying to grapple with those issues. Go is so distant to me, as a concept and a real game, but in the series, it perfectly encapsulates so many life experiences for our characters. You can’t help but feel how earnest all of the characters are, even too-cool-for-school Ogata!

MELINDA: I should mention, too, that it was fanfiction Aja used to lure me in, so ten points for fandom!

We’ve already started talking a bit here about how the series transcends its genre, and what I find so stunning about that is how it manages to do what it does within the shounen sports manga paradigm. All the key elements are there—increasingly difficult competition, a powerful rival, strong messages about sportsmanship—but the result is somehow very different than anything else I’ve personally encountered in the genre. What makes this story so special?

MICHELLE: One of my favorite themes in any kind of story is the tale of someone who finds where they belong. It might be finding people who accept them (like Fruits Basket), but it might also be finding their passion. Hikaru no Go is special because it’s not just about a boy who wants to become stronger, it’s about a boy who realizes that he loves something very much and wants to become stronger.

Slam Dunk is kind of similar in that regard, making it another sports manga favorite for me, but that series lacks some of the homey touches of Hikaru. How often do you see the hero’s mother in the periphery, worrying about him and making him bento boxes? It reminds you that he really is just a kid—and often lamentably inconsiderate to his poor mom—which casts him in an endearing light even while he’s accomplishing all these impressive things.

AJA: I think part of it is that despite the mystical element, it’s a series strongly grounded in reality, so you have kids faced with real life decisions and pressures, and having to deal with normal (and not-so-normal) human events like sickness and death along with all the shounen sports tropes like overcoming failure. And even then, there’s nothing over-the-top about the depiction of failure. You have all these characters in the background who struggle with self-doubt like Waya and Nase, Ochi and Isumi—but it’s very understated and they don’t always get a big triumphal tournament moment in which they overcome their inner struggles. It’s a much more subtle story than that, and I think that allows us to really feel the failures and triumphs of these characters (who are all complex and flawed and dynamic) so much more intensely than we do in a typical sports narrative where there’s never any question which characters will win in the end.

I also think part of creating that type of narrative is what Michelle mentions—all of the background characters and especially the adults and their relationships to the children and the story itself. It’s rare in this type of series to have much of the storyline shown from the POV of the adults, much less entire tournament moments devoted to them, but in Hikaru no Go, the adults are much more than fully-developed static mentors. They’re still growing and learning, and even the ones who aren’t involved in playing Go, like Hikaru’s mom, Touya’s mom, and Ichikawa, still have important connections to the story.

It’s a very humanist story as a whole because it allows so many of these characters to develop and then it explores their connection to each other through the game and throughout time and it gradually develops a conceit in which the game of Go becomes a metaphor for the march of the human race. It’s just so beautifully done, and when you first realize that metaphor is unfolding it’s a really breathtaking moment that really transcends genre tropes and becomes great literature.

Which brings me to Sai, who is a character, with a role, unlike any other in shounen manga. Sai is the supernatural Hobbes to Hikaru’s Calvin, but he’s also so much more because he’s a real person with such a charismatic personality, and he carries not only personal history but cultural history on his shoulders. He’s just remarkable! But I have rambled enough now so I will just say that I think the fact that, as Hotta mentioned, real Go players started leaving a seat for Sai in their tournaments, speaks to the beauty of Sai as a character and the richness of Hikaru no Go as a series.

HANA: I agree with everything said above. I’ll add that Hikaru differs from the typical “underdog” shounen protagonist in one important way: aside from what seems like a latent affinity for the game and being taught by Sai, Hikaru is not portrayed as hiding some inborn talent or special ability that only needs to be unlocked by competition. We see that he has to really learn how to play go, and often in the beginning stages of his journey, he isn’t the best and he doesn’t win. Compare to protagonists like Yoh from Shaman King or even Naruto, who are perhaps dismissed by their peers but are shown to actually stand apart from the rest in some way. Hikaru, by contrast, is really just an ordinary boy. I like that the series emphasizes that his surprising growth and progress in go is because he ends up practicing and watching more games than anyone else. I also like that he does lose more often than you would expect from a shounen series, and we see him progressing as a player even when he loses.

CATHY: I think the thing about Hikaru no Go is that on some level, it more than any of the other shounen sports-like series is about the process of growing up and letting go. I always found Sai before his disappearance to be the most touching adult figure out of all them. You know, there are characters like Sai in other stories; one that’s been on my mind lately is Atem, the pharaoh from Yu-gi-oh! who haunts the main character and guides him along just as Sai does to Hikaru. But the thing is that Yu-gi-oh! is ultimately a quest story. The characters end up trying to return Atem to the afterlife, so they can be laid to rest. But Hikaru no Go isn’t that supernatural quest to “put the ghost to rest.” Sai is really another kind of parent to Hikaru. In many ways I think I read the story right when I was realizing that the adults around me were starting to see me as a fully formed person, in my own right, and that I would need to make my own choices. And that’s, strangely, what the character of Sai is for me. He “cedes” his path to Hikaru and lives on in Hikaru just in the way we romanticize our parents living on in us. The moment that always struck me the most was how after Sai disappears, Hikaru wonders if he should have let Sai play more. Because that’s such a fundamentally pure and child-like way of handling grief, to think that you had just listened to them more or been nicer to them, they would come back from the dead. It’s the moment I always mark as Hikaru transitioning from boy to adult.

MELINDA: Michelle, I’m so glad you brought up Hikaru’s mom, because she’s one of my favorite characters in the series! And you know, despite the huge number of supporting characters in this series, not one of them is superfluous or wasted. I think one of my favorite moments in the series is in volume 21 when Hikaru, after hearing about the difficult time Yashiro’s parents have given him over going pro, finally realizes on some level just how lucky he is to have the support of his mom. It’s not a big moment. It’s small, and it isn’t lasting. It’s not like Hikaru has this major epiphany that changes the way he thinks about his mom forever. It’s just one tiny moment in a million tiny moments that are part of Hikaru’s slowly growing maturity. Details like this are a big part of what makes this manga so special to me. I think this may be part of what Hana is feeling, too, when she describes Hikaru as an “ordinary boy.” Unlike Akira, who often seems like an adult in a child’s body, Hikaru is always exactly his age, no more, no less.

Also, Aja, I’m happy you’ve pointed out that Hikaru frequently does not win. And really, winning is hardly the point, is it?

HANA: My favorite moment in the series that illustrates that is the game that Hikaru plays with Hong Suyeong. Suyeong is on a losing streak as a kenkyuusei and tries to pretend that he no longer cares about go and doesn’t want to try anymore. But it takes a go game where he loses against Hikaru, where both of them played the best that they could, which finally breaks through Suyeong’s shell and gets him to admit that he does care about go. That scene when through his tears, he asks Hikaru’s name and says that he wants to play him again so he can beat him is really a perfect example of how the series shows that it’s not winning or losing that matters, but the personal growth and human connections that the characters experience through the game. (And reiterating what everyone else has said, it’s how Hotta develops backstories for even minor characters like Suyeong that really rounds out the emotional resonance of this series.)

MICHELLE: That scene in volume 21 really struck me, too, because he’d been kind of snotty to her earlier about some snacks she’d made for him to take to Akira’s house just a few days before. I wonder why he can seem like such a nice kid most of the time, but then he’s utterly dismissive when she attempts to learn more about what he’s doing with his life. Granted, he does change his mind, but his first instinct was to be a little git.

So, yes, totally an ordinary boy.

MELINDA: Hana, I’ll add Hong Suyeong to my list of favorite characters, too! Also, I appreciate the fact that Hotta takes the time to really flesh out some of the Chinese and Korean players, rather than letting the unavoidable nationalism of the tournaments overwhelm the story.

AJA: Hana, I love your mention of the game against Hong Suyeong. Hikaru no Go is really such an adult story in so many ways because it doesn’t pitch you this idealist fantasy of a boy with special powers—like you and Michelle said he has to work, and struggle, and fail. I love that even Akira, who is a child prodigy by all rights, has to work and challenge himself, and develop the personal strength not to be cowed by superior strength.

And yes, Hikaru is just your average impudent boy through and through, and it’s a lovely thing watching him grow more serious and focused over time and seeing the genki trope sort of fade into something more subdued, self-aware, and adult. <3

CATHY: I have to plug my favorite secondary character, which is Isumi! I loved his time in China, and Yang Hai, and Le Ping, and the process of Isumi’s maturation. I think it speaks a lot to the maturity of Hotta’s storylines, that she devotes this plot to one of the characters caught in between the adults and the kids. You’d think there would be a lot of characters like Isumi in shounen manga, but I think he truly is an individual. He’s strong, but not boastful; an older brother figure, but not overbearing or wacky or a classic show off. He’s just so perfectly normal, and you could see that Hotta and Obata used him to throw context into the world of the insei, just like they occasionally use Akari’s character. Like, the entire story just sort of takes a step back with Isumi, and you watch him evaluate the importance of the game and what he really wants to accomplish with his life and you feel eighteen with him. And that, I think, is an underrated element of the series! Often Hotta and Obata pull back and we sort of laugh at how seriously everyone takes the game, but none of the characters are so far gone that you can’t relate.

MELINDA: Since we’ve already sort of launched into discussion of individual characters, let’s continue with that thread for a bit.

In addition to everything that’s been said here about Hikaru’s regular-boyishness and how much that influences the whole tone of the series, he’s also the heart of the story for me, and not just because he’s the main character. Hikaru’s journey makes my heart swell with warmth and affection. I rejoice when he rejoices. I ache when he does. The first time I read volume fifteen, when he really begins to understand loss and regret for the first time in his life, I thought I might die from the hurt of it. I think it’s rare when a story’s hero is its most relatable character, but for me, Hikaru is exactly that. Is it just me?

HANA: I agree! For me, I think what makes my affection for Hikaru all the stronger is that Hikaru is not the character I would normally identify with. (Our personalities are too different!) But I am fascinated by Hikaru because of it, and I think Hotta does an amazing job of making Hikaru’s journey resonate universally. The most heartwrenching scene for me in volume 15 was when Hikaru is playing against Shuhei in Hiroshima. After he wins, he looks back over his shoulder to ask Sai, “Wasn’t I good?” I started crying at his moment of realization when he remembers that Sai is no longer there.

Obata does a wonderful job of showing that scene wordlessly through just a simple change in expression. I think that Obata’s art—and how Obata’s art develops over the course of the series as well—plays as much a role as Hotta’s writing in allowing the reader to feel with Hikaru. All the characters show wonderful expressions, but it’s Hikaru’s faces that stick with me the most: he shows his glee and exasperation, his joy and sorrow with his entire being.

CATHY: I echo Hana’s comments about the art style maturing with the characters! It’s one of the best things about revisiting Hikaru no Go. You can actually see them mature in a way that uncannily echoes the storyline. Sai gets more and more ethereal as Obata settles into drawing him, and Akira in his final form (oh geez, I apologize for talking about him like a pokemon!) is every bit as regal as the son of Touya Meijin should be.

MICHELLE: There are several panels during the Hokuto Cup where it’s literally stunning how grown-up these guys look, especially Akira. I think it’s time for a new haircut, though!

AJA: I love everything you guys have just said about Hikaru, and I completely agree. I love what Hana said about the moment he looks back over his shoulder. That’s the quintessential moment of the series, I think. And this is a series with so many heartbreaking and iconic moments.

But I have to wave my banner for TEAM AKIRA, here. Touya just breaks my heart from day one, with his spirit and his determination to be the best, and his freakouts when he isn’t. He endures hazing, public humiliation, ridicule, alienation, jealousy, and scorn from his peers, bafflement from his parents, and constant confusion about who and what Hikaru is—all in order just to have a partner and a friend to challenge him to grow. Unlike Hikaru, who is outgoing and boistrous and pretty much culturally aware, Akira comes across as a little isolated, a loner who despite his general friendliness is shunned by other kids. I always think about how lonely and uneventful Akira’s life was before Hikaru showed up and gave him something to strive for. And he strives so beautifully!

And best of all, I think because of having grown up isolated and somewhat alone, he’s the ideal person to have around when Hikaru is struggling through the loss of Sai in the latter half of the series. I think the sheer intensity and rawness of Hikaru’s heartbreak (and ours) can sometimes overshadow what a huge leap of faith Akira makes when he decides to trust Hikaru with the secret of Sai’s Go. We don’t actually see that trust rewarded during the series; but we do see Akira warring with his desire to know the truth about Sai, and the decision he’s made to trust Hikaru. That moment in the final arc is such a beautiful testament to how much his character grows over the series, and how he gains patience, calm, and acceptance. He and Hikaru are perfect complements.

MELINDA: When I think about it, my favorite Akira moments in the series are sort of equal parts arrogance and equal parts humility and desperate honesty, and it’s pretty unusual to find those things so evenly distributed in the same person. As a result, Akira’s confidence manages to be endearing, while another character would probably just seem like an ass.

MICHELLE: Aja, reading what you have to say about Akira and his isolation that eventually gives way to more spirited striving reminds me so much of Yuki Sohma from Fruits Basket that I’m actually getting geekbumps just thinking about it. The refined-seeming boy who is set apart due to that very refinement who really only seeks someone who will not be afraid to connect and engage with him on a vital level, you know? Again, this ties in with my love for the “finding where one belongs” story arc, and thinking about how much Akira really needs someone like Hikaru in his life makes me feel kind of sniffly.

HANA: I’m always a little embarrassed to admit that Akira is actually the character that I identify with the most, but he’s my favorite for that reason. What I associate most with Akira is his sense of direction: he’s always loved go and he’s always known that he’s wanted to become a go player. I think that it’s really refreshing that the series makes it clear that Akira isn’t just following in his father’s footsteps but has a vocation for go in his own right. I like to think that an Akira who wasn’t the son of Touya Kouyou may have ended up being passionate about go anyway, although perhaps it might have been a longer road.

But what is also clear is that Hikaru shakes Akira out of his complacence. For the first time in his life, Hikaru forces Akira to question himself. And I love that the series resists the temptation to make it a simple narrative of a prodigy encountering an obstacle for a first time but instead ends up reaffirming Akira’s commitment to the life of go. The relationship is also reciprocal: just as much as Hikaru challenges Akira, Akira also becomes the channel through which Hikaru first connects to the go world.

MELINDA: So, okay, Sai. Aja spoke rather beautifully about Sai earlier on, and he really is extraordinary. She mentioned that part of what’s special about him is that he’s a real person, and wholeheartedly agree. He isn’t just some ancient, wise, supernatural being, sent to be Hikaru’s mentor; he’s fully human, even as a ghost, for better or worse. As much as I love him, I also spent a significant chunk of the series feeling absolutely horrified by him and the lengths he was willing to go to in order to play the games he wanted, even if it meant jeopardizing Hikaru’s future. But even in those moments, I can recognize that this is what makes him an exceptional character. He is Hotta’s greatest creation. And even in his worst moments, he’s an inspiration.

MICHELLE: I really, really, really love Sai. Really. As I write, I still haven’t received my copy of volume 23 from Amazon, and I still continue to hold out a tiny shred of hope that we’ll see him again, even if he’s not really there. (How cruel of Hotta and Obata to deny us even a glimpse of Sai while Hikaru’s thinking about him, which he at least continue to do.)

In my review of volume twelve, I likened Sai and Hikaru’s relationship to, well, a relationship. They’re together, they love and support each other, but they’re also jealous of each other and fail to sometimes understand what the other wants and needs. At the same time, they still want to stay together, so they’re trying to work out a compromise that will make both of them happy.

It’s absolutely gutwrenching to me to think of how Hikaru would ignore Sai’s requests to play and how incapacitated by regret he eventually was because of this. But at the same time, it’s true, that this is Hikaru‘s life and he has the right to pursue his goals.

But I still really love Sai.

MELINDA: I think, MIchelle, I might have never become truly livid with Sai had he not insisted on playing Hikaru’s first game as a pro, when he was set up against Touya Meijin. It was one of the most important moments in Hikaru’s career, and Sai’s insistence on playing not only jeopardized everything Hikaru had worked so hard for, but it also stole the experience from Hikaru. This first game is something Hikaru would never get to do again, and Sai, who had already lived his own life and Shuusaku’s insisted on having it for himself. And though I eventually did forgive him, at the time when I first read the series, I considered this act unforgivably greedy.

Of course, all this just made Hikaru’s desperate feelings of regret later on even more poignant. In volume fifteen, when he tries to bargain with God to get Sai back by promising to let him play all the games… not only did I fully forgive Sai at this point, but I was also deeply moved by Hikaru’s selflessness, which (kind of ironically) I think he might not have ever developed without Sai’s influence in his life. It’s all very complicated and messy and human, and I love this series for it.

MICHELLE: That was definitely a crappy thing to do, but I think Hotta does a good job of showing how Sai just wanted it so much he couldn’t stop to think about how Hikaru would feel and, as you say, that’s a very human failing.

Speaking of Sai and Touya Meijin, is anyone else sort of inexplicably touched that the latter is still biding his time, waiting for Sai to reappear?

CATHY: I really like the way you phrase that as “a very human failing!” I don’t think there’s been another story about being haunted by a ghost where the ghost seems just as alive as any of the other characters, in a very human way. He’s not detached from life at all. He’s just as excited and immersed in Hikaru’s world as Hikaru is, whether it be the technology in the internet cafe or the people Hikaru meets. I’ve always sort of entertained the idea that Sai might never have been able to achieve the Hand of God with Honinbou Shuusaku because he never had to lead and work and bargain and love Shuusaku the way he does Hikaru. Because something about the Hand of God is also about the passage of life. As Sai says at the end of the Touya Meijin battle, “God gave me 1000 years of time to show you this game.”

I have always adored Touya Meijin and his fascination with Sai. During the setup to the internet game, he and Sai really understood each other in a way Hikaru and Sai can’t. Touya Meijin actually tries to bargain with Hikaru for more games with Sai! Probably of all the characters in the book, he’s most like what Sai would have been if Sai were living. Touya Meijin is one of the few people other than Hikaru who from the start sees Sai for who Sai is, and not who Hikaru is. I always felt kind of bad for Akira that in some way he was left out of the Hikaru-Touya Meijin-Sai relationship and only manages to approximate the story that happens between them. Akira spends so much of this time understanding his father from the outside, through his mother, or through interactions with other people who have interacted with his father. It reminds me, actually, a lot of the book The Chosen, by Chaim Potok, which is about a young boy who ends up befriending a brilliant, neurotic boy who was raised to be a messiah among men and his stern, overbearing father.

As a side note, does anyone remember reading Chapter 114, right at the end of the Sai vs Touya Meijin internet match, and Ogata tries to intrude on the game, and the nurse asks him, “Are all go players like this?” Then we flash to all the insei, Akira, and Ogata all hovered around a computer watching the game. All go players are like this!

MELINDA: We talked about Hikaru’s mom a bit earlier, but I’d also like to take a look at some of the other great female characters in the series. I’m especially fond of Akari, and also Kaneko, one of the girls in the Haze Go Club whom I’ve loved for being one of the few examples I’ve seen in manga of (to quote a review of mine), “non-skinny, non-conventionally attractive young female character who is portrayed as smart, athletic, and generally to be admired.” I know you have favorites, too, so do tell!

HANA: Akari and Kaneko are two of my favorites as well! But I have to put in a word for Nase, whom I really grew to like after reading her sidestory, where she skips the insei class to go skating with friends. She’s introduced to a boy who seems interested in her, and they go on a date, only to make a detour to a go salon. Nase is in her element: she’s unfazed by the old men and the cigarette smoke and sits down to play a game. Her date on the other hand is more than a little intimidated, and as Nase grows absorbed in the game, he leaves quietly. I really like the moment when she wins the game and looks around to see if her date had seen her at her “coolest”. When she sees he’s gone, she shrugs and goes back to playing another game.

I love this sidestory because on the one hand, we do see Nase wanting to be ordinary and fit in with her peers, but we also see that she loves go too much to give it up for the appearance of normalcy. It always makes me smile that she’s so confident in thinking that she’s going to look awesome playing go in front of her date; it doesn’t occur to her that he might find it strange. The series does a beautiful job of showing the conflicts and doubts that the insei face: they’re all young and devoting most of their free time to this game that they love, but not all of them are going to pass the exam and enter the pro world. They have to choose, over and over again, whether to stay committed or to give up. At another point in the manga, during the pro exam, Nase wins a game and says that she can’t give up on her dream because she knows she can play games like that. I really like that while Nase does have her moments of self-doubt, the series ultimately affirms her self-confidence.

MICHELLE: I was going to mention Nase, but honestly, I think Hana has expressed her appeal so beautifully that all I can do is nod in agreement! It seems cruel to wish for more of this series, since it was obviously incredibly labor-intensive to create, but I can’t help pining for stories that might have been. Like, a sequel focusing on a girl’s journey to become pro, for example.

AJA: Hana, I love your point about how well Nase fits in among the boys’ club, because it brings up a point I wanted to make earlier regarding the dynamic between Touya Meijin and Sai. Throughout the series, we’re shown again and again the importance of having a rival, someone to pull you further along the road towards the Hand of God. I know that arguably Sai does some unforgivable things, but I think especially the moment you mentioned earlier, Melinda, when Sai insists on playing Touya Meijin, is the perfect example of how desperately that need exists in the main cast of players. We see it between Touya Senior and Sai, between Akira and Hikaru, in Ochi (Ochi!!!!), Waya and Isumi, Ogata and Kuwabara, even Tsutsui and Kaga.

But the interesting thing to me is that we never see anything like that kind of obsessive need for an other half in any of the female players that we see throughout the series. Granted, we only see one female insei, but all three of the female Go players we observe seem completely independent. Not only do they have a life outside Go (how awesome is it that Kaneko plays volleyball?), but we never see them getting fixated on being pulled along by someone else, a rival that they can call their own.

In some ways I feel like that’s almost a gender subversion on the part of the series, because there’s a heavily romanticized emphasis on finding your perfect partner that seems to be delineated to the male cast members in the storyline, while the female characters are almost all kept apart from that aspect of the game by their own interests. It’s a refreshing autonomy.

On the other hand, I wonder if it’s problematic that the female characters aren’t allowed to have more stake in the game. We don’t even know, for example, if Touya’s mother has any experience playing Go herself, or if Ichikawa ever does more than run the cash register and chauffeur Touya around.

But I do think that it’s refreshing that the female players who do play seem to do so entirely for their own sakes. Akari may have started out wanting to play the game so she would have something in common with Hikaru, but she keeps playing for herself, and becomes the leader of the Go club! Kaneko may have had to be coaxed to join, but she still bonds with the Haze team and stays with the club. And Nase, as Hana already said, affirms her self-confidence completely independent of any outside opinion. All of the girls of Go seem confident and independent!

CATHY: Akari is a great supporting character. I love that Hotta and Obata use her as a foil to Hikaru’s progress in go. I’m sure everyone remembers that scene where Hikaru asks her what to do if her piece was surrounded by the opponent’s, and she says, “Run away like this!” Later, right before Sai’s disappearance, Hikaru plays a game with her too, and Sai notes that it wasn’t so long ago that Hikaru was the one being taught, but now he can teach Akari. I love that she cares enough about the game to play with Hikaru, but she knows her life is going another way, the more conventional way. But Hotta and Obata never make that path less important than Hikaru’s — just different.

One of my absolute favorite moments of Hikaru no Go is Akari in chapter 154. That was the chapter where, for the first time in a long time, we check in with Kaze Junior High! Akari is going through a period of self-doubt as well, because she isn’t doing as well in cram school as she would like, and she gets this feeling that everyone around her — Kaneko and Hikaru especially — are leaving her world behind. On the way home, she stops by Hikaru’s house and sees that the light is on in his room, and, cheered up, she runs home shouting, “Fight! Fight!” That chapter still brings tears to my eyes now. I was in high school then, feeling sort of out of my element, convinced that I would go to a crappy college and do crappily forever, and seeing Akari go through the same troubles, that her worries and self-doubt were just as real as Hikaru’s troubles (this was right before the North Cup and Hikaru’s re-match with Kadowaki), moved me inexpressibly. In that scene, I think there’s this great sense of meta, that she’s us reading Hikaru’s story too and taking strength from the hikari of Hikaru. Which is fitting, since both their names mean light!

I’ve been reading a lot of discussion in chess forums, interestingly enough, about the difference between male and female chess players, that I think is directly relevant to Aja’s point. In 2009, some researches looked at titles held by men and women in chess and concluded that crunching the numbers, women hold just as many chess titles are they’re supposed to, given how few women chess players there are. In other words, there are more male players than female players, so there are more male players at the far end of the bell curve, thus giving us the false impression that men are inherently better than women. And it can’t help but remind me that in the world of Hikaru no Go, almost all the role models to go players are males: the teachers, the professionals, the reporters. In fact, during the Meijin games, the only female you see is the one who runs the live board, right? I think it speaks to this false logic we get in real life, that we start with an inherently gender-skewed system which discourages/disincentivizes girls from joining, and then we conclude from it that girls just don’t have the interest, or even worse, the skill, to participate in the game. Isn’t there even an exchange where someone tells Akari that girls can’t learn go?

So, yes, I think there is a problematic representation of women in the series, but it actually reflects the problematic nature of games like go and chess in reality! Hotta and Obata clearly have done their research into the world of go, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they found most of it is male dominated. I don’t think it’s a subversion at all, really. But then again, I don’t think it is because I think when it comes to female characters, Obata, at least, has a very troublesome history. Bakuman, I’m looking at you.

HANA: I remember when I was doing some research on female go professionals in Japan, I found that there are separate women’s tournaments for many of the major titles as well as a separate women’s pro exam. (I should note that women are not limited to competing in women-only tournaments or taking the women-only pro exam.) I think there are two ways to look at it. On the positive side, having these separate arenas for women does address the issue of the extreme gender imbalance and helps increase the visibility of female professionals in the go world. On the negative side, it does seem to reinforce the idea that women can’t directly compete with men.

I think Hikaru is the one who tells Akari that girls can’t learn how to play go, and I do think it was a positive sign that Sai immediately contradicts him and says that many women of his acquaintance in the Heian era were masters of the game.

AJA: There’s also the fact that the manga was overseen by a female Go pro, Yoshihara Yukari, and that not only was she the instructor of the Go-Go-Igo! segment that aired along with each episode of the anime, but she also featured a girl student along with a boy student.

So I think they definitely did go out of their way to show that girls could be involved with and part of the game of Go.

MELINDA: Since we’ve started inching towards it a bit already, let’s take a moment to discuss the end of the series. I’ve seen some disappointment from other manga bloggers over this, and though I had a mixed reaction the very first time I read the ending, I’ve come to like it very much.

My impression of the ending the first time I read the series was that it felt abrupt and maybe a bit weary. It seemed so clear that Hikaru’s journey was not over, and though I realized that the manga couldn’t last forever, I didn’t understand why the creators decided to stop telling me Hikaru’s story at that particular point. To me, it seemed like his story had just barely gotten started, and I felt almost a little angry that I wasn’t going to get to see him finish growing up. I’d never get to see how he learns to deal with being an adult, winning a title, or even just winning a pro game against Akira, which it seemed he must inevitably do sometime as both their careers continue on. I’d never get to see him move out of his mom’s house. I realize that much of this is unrealistic to expect of a shounen manga series, but he’d grown so much right before my very eyes, I felt like I’d been witness to his entire life up to that point and I didn’t understand why I was suddenly being cut out of it.

My second read-through of the series left me feeling completely different about the ending, which was quite a surprise to me, but because I had that initial reaction, I can understand where other manga bloggers (who are just reaching the ending now) are coming from. They’re feeling like it ends with a whimper instead of a bang, and I get that. It’s unexpected. I’ve come to appreciate that very thing about the ending now, but I’ve been there, so I understand.

I know Aja, at least, has some things to say about this (UNDERSTATEMENT), and I’d love to hear what you all think about the way the series ends.

MICHELLE: I read the ending for the first time yesterday. Though I could use a little more mulling time, I have to say that I like it. I like the parts where Yang Hai (the leader of the Chinese team) and Touya Meijin sit around, discussing the hypothetical possibility that the Sai who briefly appeared on the internet was, in fact, the spirit of Shuusaku. They got it right, but they’ll never know they got it right. Still, Sai’s presence inspired both of them, and seemingly reinvigorated the Meijin’s joy in the game.

I like that Hikaru doesn’t win his game against Ko Yeongha, because it prompts Akira to say those wonderful words to him: “It doesn’t end here, y’know. In fact, it’s barely started.” Geekbump city! Would I have liked more? Sure! Would I have liked Sai to come back? Sure! But sometimes what fans want and what a story needs are mutually exclusive concepts, and I’m not dissatisfied at all by what we get.

The one thing that puzzles me is the quote from Sai at the end. “Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?” This is hearkening back to his first words to Hikaru in the first chapter (though not exactly the same, I note), and so though this is probably a reinforcement of the idea that the distant past will continue to affect the far future—as further shown by the second bonus story, in with those insei are inspired by Hikaru and Akira—part of me wonders, “Wait, what? Is he back? Is no one noticing?!”

HANA: It came as a complete surprise to me to learn that people disagreed about the ending. Thinking on it further, I see where the complaints may be coming from: on a structural level, it did seem to end a little abruptly, just after several new characters had been introduced. Often, the shounen manga convention is that an ultimate goal is introduced at the beginning of the series, and despite the many plot arcs, the series as a whole is expected to achieve that goal. (E.g. winning the nationals in Prince of Tennis or becoming the titular Shaman King in Shaman King.) However, Hikaru no Go completely subverts this genre convention: the initial “goal” at the beginning of the series, Sai wanting to achieve the Hand of God, is never reached. In fact, the series presents the Hand of God as an unrealizable ideal that humanity approaches like an asymptote. One of the most powerful moments in the series is Sai’s realization that the purpose of his afterlife is not to reach the Hand of God, but to pass on the dream to Hikaru, his student, thus becoming part of a larger human story of striving for perfection. When Sai relinquishes his desire to personally find the Hand of God, he is finally able to be at peace. There’s almost a Buddhist quality to how the story transforms the classic shounen quest to “become stronger” into a story about letting go and transcending one’s individual limitations by connecting to others. The ultimate move or power-up has value not because it is an end in itself but because of the journey it inspires.

I think that the beauty of the ending lies in how it ties together these thematic threads and ends on a powerful message about continuing the journey. As we see so often throughout this series, Hotta does not take the easy route of ending Hikaru’s story with a triumphant victory. He loses to Ko Yeongha in a game that he bitterly wanted to win. But in that loss, he reaffirms his purpose in playing go: to remember the past and to look forward to the future, to be part of the unbroken, collective endeavor to reach the Hand of God. I also interpret that last line, echoing Sai’s first words, “Can you hear my voice?” in the context of this message. I think of it as an invitation to the reader to not merely consume the story but become part of it.

MICHELLE: Ooh, I like your interpretation of Sai’s final line very much. I shall promptly adopt that way of thinking of it. It’s sort of like, “How about you? Do you hear the call?”

CATHY: Hana already said everything and so beautifully that I could have said about the ending. For me, I felt the story had already ended when I read chapters 147 and 148. Those are the chapters covering the lunch break of the Hikaru vs Touya preliminary game to the Meijin tournament, where Touya remarks that there’s another person inside of Hikaru, and that person is Sai. Then, in 148, he tells Hikaru that it doesn’t matter because Hikaru is the go he plays! And the rest of 148 is this wonderful dream Hikaru has of Sai. I think that chapter has a similar feel to the real ending of the series, in that we return to Sai’s voice, how Sai’s love for go became Hikaru’s love for go, and thus an extension out to the world of go that Hikaru becomes a part of. There’s even a similar feeling of how the story is just now beginning, because the Weekly Go office talks about how exciting Akira, Hikaru, Ochi and the rest are, as the new generation of go players! So in many ways I felt like for me everything after that was merely icing on the cake. I was pleasantly surprised that the Meijin games didn’t end the story, and as Aja mentioned, that’s exactly where the anime ends it!

I do understand how the manga could have seemed abrupt, but I think you could feel during the North Cup that the story was wrapping to a close, what with bringing back characters like Yang Hai, Suyeong, and even Tsutsui, Yeongha’s potshot at Shuusaku, and finally Hikaru and Akira switching First and Second board. One thing I found great was that Hotta and Obata ended the story with the young players of Japan, Korea, and China marching forward. It’s Korea versus Japan, and it’s the Chinese team commenting on the side. This is no longer the world of Sai and the Fujiwaras and Heian Japan; it isn’t even just the Hikaru and Akira being the rising stars of Japanese go. It’s this wider feeling, an embracing of the rest of the world, a vastness that’s alluded to throughout the story. And that more than ever echoes the final speech given by Yeongha, translated by Yang Hai, concluded by Akira, and mused over by Hikaru. If there was ever a story about how hope springs eternal from the fountain of seishun, I think it’s the final chapter of Hikaru no Go.

AJA: Everyone else has perfectly articulated the richness and the scope of the ending, and I hardly know what to add.

It’s not just that the story subverts the typical shounen trope: Hotta made Hikaru’s loss at the North Star cup even more unspeakably heartbreaking than it would have been on its own, by tying his matchup with Ko Yeongha explicitly to the loss of Sai: the match takes place on May 5th, the anniversary of Sai’s disappearance; and Ko Yeongha insults the memory of Shuusaku. So for Hikaru, this moment isn’t just about failure, or the attainment of a higher level of skill: it’s about honoring Sai’s memory.

To me, all of the ending’s wonderful elements of international connection, cross-generational connection, and metaphysical connection come together in the image of Hikaru weeping, not only for his loss, but for his lost friend. Akira’s reminder, “this isn’t all there is,” is a fully layered statement, because he’s not only acknowledging that there is more to Hikaru’s Go than this loss, but also stressing that the outcome of the game isn’t what keeps Sai alive: it’s the act of playing. And just as Sai needed courage and maturity to accept that his path isn’t about attaining the perfect hand, Hikaru, in that moment of acknowledging Akira’s words and following him out of the room, is showing us how much courage and maturity he has gained over the series—something he couldn’t have gained without also witnessing and being tied to the struggles and losses of everyone around him who is playing the game with him.

In the wake of that moment, Sai’s words in the final panels always wrap around me like a blanket of comfort and hope. I hear them, just as Hana said, as a request to the reader to acknowledge, along with Hikaru, our ever-present connection to the universe and the world and people around us, the past, present, and future. Sai’s acceptance of his intrinsic connection to the rest of humanity allowed him to find peace; and it is our acceptance of our own shared roles as players in the Game that will allow the spirit of Hikaru no Go to live on in each of us.

MELINDA: That was beautiful, all of you.

So, I know I had a slew of things I wanted to talk about, and I haven’t gotten nearly to all of it, but before we wind down, let me ask all of you, is there anything you’ve been dying to talk about?

CATHY: I just wanted to add that for those of us who enjoy cardgame based anime or manga, while Hikaru no Go is obviously the best I’ve ever read or watched, there are a few other series I would recommend. Fukumoto Noboyuki does a series of excellent manga about games: Akagi and Ten, both of which are about mahjong, and Kaiji, which is about a number of different games, some of which are more, shall we say, gladitorial than others. Akagi was made into a very enjoyable 26 episode anime with a cliffhanger ending, and it’s actually the series that made me start learning mahjong! Fukumoto’s work is much, much darker than Hikaru no Go, though and, sadly, they’re only available right now for those of us who can read Japanese. But if you ever get a chance to check them out, I highly recommend doing so, or at least making a clamoring for someone, anyone, to license them in the US.

MICHELLE: Actually, something Cathy said back at the beginning reminded me of a question I wanted to pose… has anyone been inspired by the series to take up Go? I have! I used to play every lunch with one of my coworkers, and have since purchased a nifty (and largely unused) magnetic board. The problem is… I’m really bad! If only reading the series could impart strategic knowledge to a person!

MELINDA: I have! Sort of. I bought a small board and stones, but since I didn’t have anyone to play it with, I tried to learn from a computer game, which was a *big mistake*. The game didn’t teach me; it just slaughtered me over and over until I lost the will to go on. I still haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask a real person to teach me, which I think is the way to go, so my cheap, little board remains unused. It’s very sad.

MICHELLE: Oh, I had the same experience with a computer game! You know, Hotta mentions a supplementary book that has the characters’ game records in it. How awesome would it be to get that and have fun recreating the games ourselves?

Okay, yes, I am a big nerd, but this sounds like much fun. Pizza would have to be involved, as well.

AJA: I’ve gotten as far as playing tutorial games online, but I’m so fuzzy on the concepts that I haven’t gotten very far! It’s still fun, though.

HANA: I had the dubious pleasure of my father attempting to teach me go several times, starting from when I was around eight or so. Unfortunately, these lessons always ended in my father playing an even game without any handicaps with me, and I’d lose by at least 40 moku. (I did get very good at playing omok—gomoku in Japanese—though!) So I did go into Hikaru no Go knowing the very basics of the game, but I had always thought of it as an intimidating game that I could never master. Reading the series encouraged me to try learning how to play again. (If Hikaru could learn, surely I could as well!) My father was thrilled at my renewed interest, and he even agreed to give me a four-stone handicap. (I still lost by 40 moku.) I haven’t played very much though; I practice occasionally against a computer game. I also have a magnetic go board that is gathering dust on my shelf.

CATHY: My inability to play go is frankly laughable. The thing is, early into the series, I decided I was never going to understand go and decided I wasn’t going to try too hard to solve the go problems or understand the game! I didn’t know anyone around me who played it either, and I just have such terrible spatial logic that I was never able to grasp the flow of the game. I did, however, memorize a lot of the terms related to go, so I once surprised a real player by talking about playing tengen as a first hand — let it never be said that reading manga will impair your social skills!

MELINDA: So, pizza and Go, anyone?

 


 

Never-ending thanks to these fun and brilliant ladies for joining me here to discuss Hikaru no Go. Look for more Hikago-related fun over the next two days, and please join us in comments!

Filed Under: FEATURES Tagged With: hikaru no go, roundtables

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: House of Five Leaves

March 29, 2011 by Cathy Yan 27 Comments

House of Five Leaves | by Natsume Ono | Manga: Shogakukan/Viz Media | Studio: Manglobe/Funimation

Watch streaming from Funimation

House of Five Leaves cast

Regular readers of Manga Bookshelf will need no introduction to House of Five Leaves. Melinda listed it as one of her best new seinen series of 2010, Kate has reviewed all three volumes, and David himself wrote a smart little ode to it recently when he reviewed volume two. For those of you still new to the series, House of Five Leaves is Natsume Ono’s seven volume samurai story. The main character, Akitsu Masanosuke, referred to in the series as Masa, is a masterless samurai determined to change himself while looking for work in Edo. One afternoon, Masa is hired by a suspicious man named Yaichi as a bodyguard. But all is not as it seems: Yaichi is actually the leader of a band of kidnappers who call themselves “Five Leaves”, and he doesn’t just want Masa to be his bodyguard — he wants Masa to join them as a comrade in crime. Masa, by nature a righteous and naïve man, resists Yaichi’s attempts to draw him in. However, he soon finds himself entangled in the fate of Five Leaves and, more importantly, in the mystery of Yaichi.

There are so many wonderful things about the anime adaptation of House of Five Leaves that it’s hard to know where to start. Thankfully, Natsume Ono’s distinct art style makes my job easier. Manglobe and the series director Tomomi Mochizuki transferred Ono’s art effortlessly into animation. The character designs are instantly recognizable, especially in Masa’s wide, childish eyes and Otake’s playful lipsticked smile. The sweatdrops, stray hairs, and blush lines of Ono’s characters are rendered in loving detail in every episode. There are even moments — the candy pieces of episode four, the pillars of the bridge in episode twelve — where the lines look like calligraphy, as if they were penned by Ono herself.

Often anime simplifies manga artwork. House of Five Leaves, the anime, does the opposite. While the manga tends to be very “white” on the page, full of negative space, the anime is full of textures: the unpolished wood of Goinkyo’s home, the tatami mat of the Katsuraya house, the smooth rice paper doors of Ume’s restaurant. Even more impressive is the interplay of light and shadow in the anime. Characters constantly move in and out of candlelight, open doors to let in sunlight, or sit with their backs to a window, hiding their faces in the dark. Ono is no slob herself when it comes to lighting in the manga, but the anime takes full advantage of its color palette — earthy browns and subdued gray-greens — to make Edo come alive.

The soundtrack features a combination of rumbling drums, wistful koto melodies, and reedy flute-like tunes that helps ground us in a historical Edo that, amazingly, never comes off as antiquated or forced. Likewise, the voice actor choices are almost flawless. Daisuke Namikawa as Masa is exactly the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve and never says anything less than what he means. Veteran voice actor Takahiro Sakurai’s performance as Yaichi is by turns teasing, seductive, spiteful, and, at his best, all three at once. A shout out must be given to Masaya Takatsuka, who never misses a beat conveying Ume’s my-bark-is-worse-than-my-bite personality, especially in episode three when Ume makes a crack at Matsu. But the anime adaptation goes that extra mile: if you listen carefully, you can hear Edo in the background, in the soft drone of water boiling in a kettle, or the river streaming past, or the birds of Goinkyo’s backyard, or the shuffling of Yaichi’s wooden shoes. Ono’s manga might not think to comment on the “shaaa chhk” sound of a rice door sliding open or the faint crackle of straw as Ume unloads their latest hostage out of a basket, but it would be a pity to go through this anime without appreciating these little details.

At first glance, House of Five Leaves is about the journey Five Leaves takes from a ragtag group of misfits to a family who looks out for their own, even when there’s no money involved. For lack of a more nuanced, less cheesy word, the story is heart-warming. The more you uncover the crisscrossing ties of responsibility that connect the Five Leaves members, whether it be the reluctant life debts Matsu shoulders or the reason Ume remains in Five Leaves, the more you enjoy seeing them together at Ume’s restaurant, making fun of each other as they drink sake. Sadly, the anime does cut out one of my favorite scenes from the manga so far (Ume and Matsu bickering in volume one), and I imagine the later episodes similarly streamline forthcoming volumes. But the heart of the story comes through unscathed, which is a testament both to the strength of Ono’s writing and Manglobe’s talent at adaptation.

Underlying this story, though, is another tried and true theme: appearances are deceiving. Yaichi shows up in the first episode as a sage and benefactor to Masa, so naturally Masa, along with the viewer, looks upon Yaichi as a voice of authority. When we meet Yagi, the police chief who seems to know more about Yaichi than he lets on, we’re immediately suspicious of him because Yaichi tells us to be. But the more that’s uncovered about Yaichi, the more we realize Yaichi is the unreliable one. Just as Ume, Matsu, and Otake are more virtuous than the criminals we first meet them as, Yaichi is not at all the kind-hearted character we first encounter. In fact, he’s the most dangerous one of them all.

The anime has restructured the pacing of Ono’s series, favoring episodes that end on jarring cliffhangers and jumps in the timeline, often through flashbacks. Some might prefer the more measured pacing Ono shows in the manga; others might find the anime benefits from a more coherent focus, especially when it comes to Yaichi’s storyline. I for one felt like I could guess the events of episode twelve from the flashback sequence in episode one — a flashback sequence, I should add, that does not exist in the manga. But anime being the inherently action-based medium it is, I can’t fault Manglobe for wanting to ratchet up the tension just a little on what is, overall, a slow-moving story.

In the end House of Five Leaves is one of those series that I enjoy for reasons I can’t put into words. It’s not plot driven, and the characters never really change, even if they become more well-rounded. Certainly Masa never learns to get over his fear of being watched and remains the clumsy, shy samurai we first meet. But there is a marvelous je ne sais quoi to House of Five Leaves, an atmosphere of rambling down a countryside path on a late autumn afternoon, knowing that you’ll get to your destination eventually but not really knowing when. The anime luxuriates in that feeling. You could spend your time trying to piece together all the threads of the story, but you’d be missing the point. It’s meant to be savored, like a dango shared with a friend while hungry.

P.S. Next month’s anime adaptation will be Antique Bakery, just in case you haven’t had enough of stories about people making their own families. As always, if you have any anime you’d like taste-tested, drop me a line.

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: anime, house of five leaves

Don’t Fear the Adaptation: Maison Ikkoku

February 23, 2011 by Cathy Yan 19 Comments

Hello, this is Cathy! I’m so excited to be a part of Manga Bookshelf! To kick off the anime reviews, I thought I’d start with something long, old, and beloved.


Maison Ikkoku | by Rumiko Takahashi | Manga: Shogakukan/Viz Media | Anime: Studio Deen/Viz Media

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Anyone who’s ever read manga has probably read a Rumiko Takahashi story, whether it be Rumic Theater, Ranma 1/2, or Inuyasha. She is easily one of the most recognizable and popular mangaka, one of the few that all American readers can name with ease. But in 1980, Takahashi was 23 and her first major work, Urusei Yatsura, was only just beginning to pick up. Armed with her own experiences of living in a small apartment with her two assistants, she sat down to write what became my favorite of her long epics: Maison Ikkoku.

Maison Ikkoku is about the residents of Ikkoku-kan, a boarding house in Tokyo. The protagonist, Yusaku Godai, is a 20 year old ronin student deep into his second year of trying to pass college entrance exams, when the story opens on the arrival of Kyoko Otonashi, the young widow who’s Ikkoku’s new manager. Yusaku instantly falls in love with Kyoko, but like all Takahashi romances, there are plenty of obstacles. The other residents of Ikkoku do their utmost to create embarrassing situations for the uncertain couple. The local tennis coach Shun Mitaka, a rich and suave playboy, declares his own intentions towards Kyoko within hours of meeting her and spends the rest of the series wooing her. Yusaku’s cheery ex-coworker Kozue Nanao eventually becomes his cheery girlfriend, though, much to everyone’s chagrin, she never cottons onto Yusaku’s feelings for Kyoko. Then of course, there’s Kyoko herself, who worries that loving a new man would be betraying the memory of her dead husband. Throw in three interfering families, an engagement made and broken by a fear of dogs, and a high school girl determined to marry Yusaku, and it’s easy to see how the story spanned seven years, fifteen volumes of manga, and 96 episodes of anime before coming to a satisfactory end.

Maison Ikkoku is ultimately a slice-of-life romantic comedy, but unlike Takahashi’s other series, it’s set firmly in the real world. The recurring characters, while exaggerated, are perfectly ordinary people with perfectly ordinary problems. Families get into screaming arguments, marriage is complicated by monetary concerns and societal approval, young men and women worry about their future careers. The path leading up to Ikkoku, the persimmon trees, the kotatsu, the fear of the economic downturn, Kyoko’s habit of sweeping the sidewalk free of leaves– all these are still elements of everyday Japanese life.

Yet the more humorous plot devices of Maison Ikkoku could have only existed in the Internet-less, cellphone-less world of the eighties. If gimmicks like mistaking the French restaurant “Ma Maison” for the local pub “Mamezou,” or Yusaku’s female friends pranking Kyoko so badly she ends up installing a public phone for the rest of the boarding home seem ridiculous at first glance, they’re enjoyable for nostalgia’s sake. In 2011, hijinks like that just don’t happen anymore– people just text each other!

The main love triangle

The relationship between Yusaku and Kyoko is the highlight of the entire series. The anime does a wonderful job of showing how it changes from obsession (on Yusaku’s part) and annoyance (on Kyoko’s part) to a mutual affection. Surrounded by secondary characters who are more or less caricatures, the main romantic players come across as surprisingly real. Yusaku might appear at first to be simply a lecherous loser just barely out of his teenage years, but with time, he emerges as a man who, if nothing else, will always do the right thing, even if it’s to his disadvantage. And Kyoko is never just a pretty face. While Mitaka and Yusaku are both guilty of idealizing her, they also embrace her faults: her tendency towards jealousy, her bad temper, her indecisiveness. In an adorable moment in episode 43, they even spend a night drunkenly swapping notes and consoling each other. Kyoko is secretive to a fault with her feelings, so it’s no surprise that most of the series consists of both men learning to reconcile their idea of Kyoko with the person she actually is. An admirably realistic portrayal of love, for sure, but gosh if the story isn’t repetitive! If you don’t find yourself tempted to throw your TV out the window by episode 58, you’re doing it wrong.

Despite the addition of numerous sidestories, Maison Ikkoku the anime feels more streamlined than its manga counterpart, simply because the anime has the benefit of hindsight. While the manga hesitates over how to resolve Kyoko’s and Yusaku’s relationship, the anime already knows how the story ends and stresses their romantic tension early on, most notably in episode 14 and and 22. Readers of the manga might actually wonder if Kyoko ends up with Yusaku; the anime, on the other hand, is emphatically a story about Kyoko and Yusaku, just with detours.

However, the anime never strays far from the manga’s wacky sitcom nature. Don’t expect Ichinose to be much more than a busy body with a fondness for alcohol, or for Yotsuya to stop being an infuriatingly mysterious leech. Just the opposite, as the Ichinose-Yotsuya-Akemi trio get far more screen time in the anime. On the other hand, Nikaido, an accidental resident introduced late in the manga, is absent from the anime, and his lines are given away to the other Ikkoku residents. Anime-only fans thus never experience the epic prank war that erupts between Nikaido and Yotsuya, but Nikaido’s absence is glossed over so well in the anime that it made me question Takahashi’s choice to introduce him at all in the manga.

With five opening and six ending songs, including a Japanese pop hit by Anzen Chitai and two songs by Gilbert O’Sullivan that never made it to the American release, the soundtrack is a perfect representative of the music from that time period. Likewise, the animation is classically eighties but holds up well despite its age. Among other things, the characters frequently change outfits — a rare feat even nowadays for an anime series! Despite its simplicity, the animation does an excellent job conveying the characters’ every emotion, no matter how nuanced, and manages to stay true to Rumiko Takahashi’s original art. Paired with an all around impressive performance from the entire Japanese voice acting cast, the characters of Maison Ikkoku have never been more alive as they are in the anime.

For those who have never read the original manga, Maison Ikkoku the anime is an excellent substitute or introduction. For those who are already fans of the manga, watching the anime is just like revisiting an old friend. Personally, three episodes — 27, 84, and 92 — make the anime adaptation for me. Episode 27’s masterful use of silence, a blinking light, and silhouettes elevate the anime treatment of Souchirou-san’s disappearance into something far more cinematic. I could write whole essays on how wonderfully episode 84 encapsulates repeating issues of trust, family, and determination, not to mention the little animation details — the classical music soundtrack, the Joan Miro in the hotel lobby — that build a world richer than the one in the manga. And Episode 92, split into three acts, each dedicated to one woman, is a great argument for why Takahashi writes some of the best women in anime.

Viz Media distributed both the manga and anime, and both are available through most major online retailers. As the series is pretty old now, it’s unlikely to be found in bookstores, but chances are good that if your local library is like mine and only stocks outdated anime or manga, the old Viz volumes (complete with cheesy titles like “The Hounds of War” or “Good Housekeeping”) will still be there.

Filed Under: Don't Fear the Adaptation Tagged With: anime, maison ikkoku

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