Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Katherine Dacey

Short Takes: Levius/est, No Guns Life, and Ryuko

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This month’s Short Takes column looks at three series: Levius/est, a sequel to Haruhisa Nakata’s steampunk spectacular Levius; No Guns Life, a sci-fi thriller whose principled hero sounds like Sam Spade and looks like a Remington; and Ryuko, a two-volume series about a yakuza assassin who’s hell-bent on avenging her mother’s kidnapping.

Levius/est, Vol. 1
Story and Art by Haruhisa Nakata
Translation by John Werry; Adaptation by Jason A. Hurley
VIZ Media, 206 pp.
Rated T+ (Older Teens)

Reading Levius/est is a bit like joining a cocktail conversation midstream: you get the gist of what people are saying, but not the subtleties. Part of the problem lies with Levius/est’s publication history; as the slightly odd title suggests, Levius/est is a sequel. Since it jumped from one publication to another, however, artist Haruhisa Nakata felt compelled to recap the main character’s backstory for the benefit of new readers. This prologue is a model of good visual storytelling, showing us Levius’ transformation from ordinary teen to cybernetically enhanced warrior. What follows, however, is a muddled, confusing section that introduces new characters and plot points so abruptly I wondered if I’d accidentally skipped a page; I’m still a little hazy on who, exactly, Levius’ Uncle Zach is, and he’s a major character who appears in more scenes than Levius himself.

The other problem is that Nakata’s imagination sometimes outstrips his ability to show, rather than tell. The narrative frequently lurches in and out of exposition mode, with characters delivering wordy summaries of How Stuff Works in the Era of Rebirth (Nakata’s name for his steampunk version of nineteenth-century Europe). Though these explanations are necessary to fully comprehend the plot, the accompanying illustrations sometimes feel superfluous. That’s a shame, since Nakata is a superb draftsman whose work is characterized by clean, precise lines and lithe character designs that emphasize his youthful warriors’ agility. Even more striking is just how much white space there is on every page; Nakata’s command of line, shape, and perspective reduce his dependence on screentone to create life-like volume and movement.

As much as I admire Nakata’s artwork, I found Levius/est a chore to read, offering little reward for soldiering through its more labored passages. Readers who love tournament or steampunk manga, however, may find it more to their liking. Your mileage will vary.

Viz Media provided a review copy. Click here to read a preview.

No Guns Life, Vol. 2
Story and Art by Tasuku Karasuma
Translation by Joe Yamazaki; Adaptation by Stan!
VIZ Media, 224 pp.
Rated T+ (Older Teens)

After a decent, if predictable, first volume, Tasuku Karasuma finds his groove in volume two of No Guns Life, maintaining a brisk pace while allowing his characters’ personalities to emerge more fully. Though the action occasionally pauses for the characters to expound on important plot developments, these dialogues are less of a drag on the story than they were in volume one; here, they add badly needed layers of nuance and complexity to a familiar noir plot line. Better still, Karasuma introduces several new characters who push the narrative in a more interesting direction, hinting at the power and secrecy of the Berühen Corporation, as well as the general public’s mixed feelings about living alongside cyborgs. If Karasuma engages in a little too much fanservice, or relies too heavily on speedlines and sound effects to enliven his fight scenes, No Guns Life is still entertaining enough to make all but the most discriminating reader root for Juzo to succeed. Recommended.

VIZ Media provided a review copy. Click here to read my review of volume one.

Ryuko, Vol. 2
Story and Art by Eldo Yoshimizu
Translation by Motoko Tamamuro and Jonathan Clements
Titan Comics, 226 pp.
No rating (Best suited for older teen and adult readers)

Paging the exposition police! The second volume of Ryuko has all the swagger of the first, but leans more heavily into Talking Points Conversation to help expedite its resolution. In some respects, these exchanges are a welcome development, as they clearly—one might say baldly—delineate the various factions’ interest in the Golden Seal, an object whose significance was glossed over in volume one. These passages also help the reader untangle the complex web of relationships among the characters, making it easier to grasp why Ryuko forges an alliance with an avowed enemy and why US military forces are trying to manipulate the outcome of her feud with the Sheqing-Ban. These conversations would feel less forced if the pacing were more even, but the two-volume format is too compressed for such an ambitious, labyrinthine plot to unfold at a reader-friendly pace.

Volume two’s chief attraction is the same as volume one’s: the artwork. Eldo Yoshimizu has a flair for staging car chases, fist fights, gun battles, and dramatic escapes, immersing the reader in the action with his creative use of perspective and fastidious attention to detail; Ryuko’s leopard-print catsuit is practically a character in its own right. In less capable hands, this maximalist approach might be overwhelming, but Yoshimizu’s layouts have a strong narrative pull that leads the eye across the page at the speed of the action, creating an almost cinematic experience. The final confrontation between Ryuko and evil American operatives is a show-stopper involving a motorcycle stunt so outrageous that even Jackie Chan would be impressed with its audacity. None of the story makes much sense, but Yoshimizu’s energetic, bold, and—yes—sexy artwork is cool enough to carry the day. Recommended.

Click here to read my review of volume one. 

Pick of the Week: Mornings and Requiems

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MICHELLE: The final volume of Blue Morning comes out this week and, as I’ve enjoyed this more-complicated-than-usual BL series, both in terms of plot and characterization, I’m officially awarding it my pick of the week.

SEAN: Between Our Wonderful Days, A Tropical Fish Yearns for Snow, and the final volume of Kiss & White Lily for My Dearest Girl, I think my pick is for yuri this week.

ANNA: I’ve got to take the chance to celebrate Requiem of the Rose King.

ASH: There are so many releases I’m interested in this week! Requiem of the Rose King, Skull-Faced Bookseller Honda-san, and Delicious in Dungeon are a few of the ones at the top of my list, but since this the last time I can choose Blue Morning, I will join Michelle in making it my official pick.

MELINDA: I’m going to join Anna this week in once more celebrating Requiem of the Rose King! I’ll admit I’m a couple of volumes behind, but it’s always a pleasure to catch up with this series.

KATE: I only have eyes for one manga this week: Witch Hat Atelier.

A Few Thoughts About Stranger Things

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Over the course of three seasons, Stranger Things has devolved from an engaging period piece to a Potemkin village whose neon surfaces, vintage movie posters, garish fashions, and spiral perms have displaced the heart, humor, and horror that made the first two seasons so compelling. The proof lies in the media’s response to the current season, as the New York Times and Vulture have breathlessly cataloged every cereal box and song cue that link Stranger Things to The Goonies and The Neverending Story. In choosing to fetishize the material and pop culture of 1980s, however, the Duffer brothers have neglected the capable team of actors who’ve been selling audiences on the idea that Hawkins is the epicenter of an inter-dimensional catastrophe, lavishing their creative energies instead on recreating that most 80s of artifacts: the mall.

Don’t get me wrong: the idea of a shopping mall concealing a portal to the Upside Down has subversive potential, but the Duffers are too invested in making sure that everything looks right to care whether their story has anything new or meaningful to say about Reagan-era consumer culture. We’re treated to numerous tracking shots of the mall itself, with the camera lovingly documenting the stores, food court, and movie theater as teenagers shop to the sounds of Madonna’s “Material Girl.” Perhaps most tellingly, the characters never really look like they’re at the mall; these scenes look like an 80s sitcom’s idea of what hanging out at the mall was like, right down to the cartoonish portrayal of teenage mating rituals and clique behavior.

Adding insult to injury is the poor writing. Most of the problems lie with the scriptwriters’ decision to lean into the angrier, more compulsive side of Hopper’s personality, with little thought of how his behavior might appear to audiences. Hopper bullies Mike, for example, rather than examining his own feelings about Mike and Eleven dating. These scenes are played for laughs—dads always want to “kill” their daughters’ boyfriends, right?—but the intensity of Hopper’s anger makes these scenes uncomfortable to watch. If anything, his anger is a potent reminder of season two’s biggest flaw: the unexamined way in which Hopper’s desperate, violent attempts to keep Eleven safe crossed a line between loving concern and possessiveness. (Yes, Hopper and Eleven’s relationship was even more egregious than the much-maligned Punk Rockers episode.)

The once poignant dynamic between Joyce and Hopper has also curdled into something sourly antagonistic. Though their first heart-to-heart conversation in Melvald’s is moving, conveying both Hopper’s insecurities and Joyce’s ambivalence towards Hopper as a romantic prospect, the relationship goes downhill from there. Hopper behaves like a boor when Joyce stands him up for a dinner date, even though Hopper had repeatedly stressed that he wasn’t asking her out. That scene might have played better if we were encouraged to see Hopper as entitled or insensitive, but instead Joyce becomes the villain in this scenario, a scatterbrain who’s so obsessed with proving that something awful is happening in Hawkins that she’d rather chat about magnets with a high school science teacher than split a bottle of Chianti with Hopper. The script then puts Hopper and Joyce in a strenuously unfunny holding pattern as they bicker in a manner that’s supposed to show how much they’re secretly attracted to one another. Ryder, whose fierce intensity was an asset in seasons one and two, is particularly unsuited to this kind of banter, overselling every comeback with too much mugging. Worse still, the dialogue is so flat that it barely registers as amusing, let alone flirtatious.

Perhaps the biggest failing of season three, however, are the monsters. Though there’s a genuine ick factor to the Mind Flayer’s new form, it looks too much like raspberry Jello-O to be the stuff of nightmares; only a gruesome scene in which hordes of rats spontaneously explode registers as horrific. Other potentially scary moments–Nancy confronting the Mind Flayer in a hospital ward, Billy being dragged into the Flayer’s den–are too self-consciously derivative of Alien to make much of impression on viewers familiar with the Duffers’ favorite pop-cultural touchstones. As a result, season three lacks a single scene that’s as unnerving as Barb’s disappearance, or as harrowing as Eleven’s visits to the astral plane, two of the defining moments of season one.

There are a few bright spots, thanks to the Duffers’ generous treatment of the supporting characters. Steve and Robin’s friendship, forged through insults and amateur sleuthing, adds some screwball zest to the proceedings, demonstrating Joe Keery and Maya Hawkins’ potential as romantic comedy leads; their scenes crackle with the kind of wit and energy that’s sorely missing from Hopper and Joyce’s ill-fated courtship. Noah Schapp continues to impress as Will, bringing soulful presence to a character who’s often pushed to the margins of his own story. As his friends pair off in season three, Schapp makes us feel Will’s contempt for Mike, Dustin, and Lucas, who’ve traded Dungeons & Dragons for trips to the mall and awkward dates; Schapp’s facial and body language capture his frustration and shame at being relegated to the status of uncool friend.

Alas, little else in season three of Stranger Things feels as honest or scary as Will’s dilemma. Most of season three registers as 80s fanservice with its on-the-nose needle drops and acid-washed fashion, with little sense of what it was actually like to be alive in the Reagan years. Unless the writing team figures out how to bring back the suspense and humor that made seasons one and two so irresistible, Stranger Things will continue to feel more like Goonies cosplay than a horror story that just happens to take place in the 1980s. Not recommended.

Seasons one through three of Stranger Things can be streamed on Netflix.

Cats of the Louvre

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Weird. Uncanny. Melancholy. Beautiful. Those were just a few of the adjectives I jotted down while reading Taiyo Matsumoto’s Cats of the Louvre, the latest volume in the museum’s ongoing graphic novel series. Like Nicholas De Crécy’s Glacial Period and Jiro Taniguchi’s Guardians of the Louvre, Cats of the Louvre is less an illustrated guide to the museum than a story that happens to take place within its walls—in this case, the attic, where a colony of cats have taken up residence. Through a series of eighteen vignettes, Matsumoto gradually reveals that the cats’ primary caretaker—an elderly night watchman—has dedicated his life to searching the museum for his missing sister, who disappeared into one of the paintings when she was a child.

The key to finding Arrieta turns out to be Snowbébé, a kitten who frequently escapes from the attic to roam the galleries, hiding inside canvases to avoid detection. Snowbébé’s gift is both an essential plot point and an opportunity for Matsumoto to luxuriate in the smaller details of his favorite paintings, as is evident in a lovely, strange sequence that unfolds inside Henri Lerambert’s The Funeral Procession of Love (1580). From a modern viewer’s standpoint, Lerambert’s painting seems a little kitschy, with its parade of cherubs, poets, and philosophers strolling under the watchful eye of the goddess Diana:

Once Snowbébé steps into the painting, however, the landscape comes to life in unexpected ways: the flowers grin, the animals speak, and the laws of gravity disappear. In one brief but delightful sequence, for example, Snowbébé and Arrieta cavort across the ceilings and walls of a temple, while in another they board Diana’s chariot for a ride through the Milky Way. Yet for all the joyful (and weird) imagery, there’s a wistful quality to these two chapters, as Snowbébé slowly realizes that he cannot remain inside the Parade forever; his presence has disturbed the painting’s equilibrium, bringing storm clouds and disrupting the flow of time itself, forcing him to choose between staying with his new friend, or returning to the “cold and smelly and noisy” world of the Louvre.

What prevents Snowbébé’s odyssey from seeming twee or precious is Matsumoto’s studied primitivism; his characters’ mask-like faces, oddly proportioned bodies, and grotesque smiles are genuinely unnerving, creating a surreal atmosphere in which the boundaries between reality and imagination are blurred. Nowhere is this tendency more obvious than in the way he draws Snowbébé and his friends: the cats look like animals to their caretakers, but assume a humanoid form when interacting with each other. In Matsumoto’s hands, they look more like people in cat costumes than pussycats, with their essential feline features—ears, whiskers, tails, elongated limbs—rendered in an exaggerated fashion that gives them a faintly alien appearance.

Matsumoto’s depiction of the Louvre is more straightforward, recreating iconic works with fidelity to the originals, whether he’s drawing a lesser-known genre painting or a genuinely famous sculpture. His rendition of the physical environment—the claustrophobic, dusty garret where the cats live, the grand staircases and hallways that lead to the galleries—is similarly precise, helping the reader envision the sheer size and opulence of the museum. As a result, the Louvre transcends its basic function as a setting, taking on the qualities of a living, breathing organism whose vaulted ceilings and majestic columns invite comparisons with dinosaurs or whales:

And while all the comics in the Louvre Collection have done an admirable job of depicting the museum, Cats of the Louvre approaches its subject matter without didacticism or pedantry; though Matsumoto’s human characters express strong feelings about art, those conversations spring organically from the story. Equally important, Cats of the Louvre has its own personality; unlike Hirohiko Araki’s Rohan at the Louvre, which recycled ideas and characters from JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Matsumoto’s story stands on its own, capturing his unique response to the museum and its collection. But the best reason to read Cats of the Louvre is its hero Snowbébé, whose quest to find a place for himself in the world invites us to see the Louvre through fresh eyes, as a place of danger and sadness, but also of wonder, magic, and possibility. Recommended.

A review copy was provided by VIZ Media. To read a short preview, click here.

CATS OF THE LOUVRE • STORY AND ART BY TAIYO MATSUMOTO • TRANSLATED BY MICHAEL ARIAS • RATING: TEEN • 432 pp.

Pick of the Week: It’s That Manga Again

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MICHELLE: There are some pretty interesting things coming out next week, namely the debut of another digital-only josei series from Kodansha Comics, but my heart belongs to volume six of The Night Beyond the Tricornered Window, which actually came out last week. I love this series so very much and am always excited when a new installment pops up. Because of its creepy atmosphere, the timing is just right, too!

SEAN: There’s quite a few things I like this week, but I’m going to go with good old Silver Spoon, because I love it and it is wonderful.

MELINDA: I was surprised to note that, in such a full week, the only thing on my Absolute Must Buy list is Silver Spoon. But also, YAY SILVER SPOOOOON! Seriously, I could not love this series more.

KATE: At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am Team Silver Spoon 100%. It’s one of most consistently funny, honest, and gut-wrenching manga being published in English right now, and it deserves waaaaay more love and support from the mangasphere.

ASH: Silver Spoon really is a tremendous series! And so, for all of the reasons that everyone else has already outlined, it gets my pick. On top of that, I always get a little nostalgic reading the manga… it reminds me a lot of the people and places in my hometown growing up.

ANNA: I am feeling so guilty for not reading Silver Spoon yet, although I think I have a couple volumes stashed around my house. I’m not going to break the streak for pick of the week. I’m going to read the first volume this week for sure!

Pick of the Week: Manga Sweeter Than Wine

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SEAN: A lean week, and my choices are a bit lean as well. As such, I’m fine with picking The Drops of God, which I may have picked before back in the day but now it’s digital and we have the first 11 books (or a planned 44!). Read with a nice glass of wine.

MICHELLE: Same here. It did have its ridiculous moments, but it was also pretty fun (and educational) and I was sad to see its release truncated (after a random time-jump volume). Hooray for its return!

KATE: After all these years, I’m excited to see who wins the contest to identify the “Drops of God” and the “Twelve Apostles.” (None are named John or Peter, FWIW.)

ASH: Ha! The Drops of God is definitely something to be excited about, even if it’s only a digital release. Print-wise, my pick of the week is the most recent volume of the fancy new edition of Berserk, which probably doesn’t surprise many.

ANNA: I’m always glad when good series get rescued, Drops of God for the win!

MELINDA: I’m going to add to this broken record here, by also declaring my excitement over the continuation of Drops of God!

Pick of the Week: Drifting Demons

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ASH: Portions of The Drifting Classroom have been out of print for some time, so I am thrilled that a new hardcover edition is being released. For those who appreciate horror manga, this series is a must. It’s an extremely intense work with dark psychological elements. Other great manga are being released this week, too, but this one is my pick.

SEAN: I acknowledge the brilliance of The Drifting Classroom while also wanting to stay the hell away from it. As a result, I’ll pick the new Dead Dead Demon’s Dededede Destruction, which continues to be fun to read even as I fear that it will end with the entire world dead.

MICHELLE: Dreamin’ Sun has reached its conclusion, and thus I feel a bit of a pang for not choosing it, but a new volume of Shojo FIGHT! comes out this week, and that’s simply more enjoyable to me.

KATE: No surprise here–my pick is Kazuo Umezu’s batshit classic The Drifting Classroom. The new VIZ edition is an essential addition to any horror manga fan’s library. On the fence? Here’s what I had to say about volume one.

ANNA: There’s a lot of great manga coming out this week, but I have to say my loyalty lies with Dead Dead Demon’s Dededede Destruction.

The Drifting Classroom Signature Edition, Vol. 1

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In a 2009 interview with Tokyo Scum Brigade, Kazuo Umezu acknowledged that his debt to Osamu Tezuka went beyond storyboarding and character designs. Tezuka “didn’t pull any punches for children or dumb down his works,” Umezu explained. “He dealt with complicated themes and let the readers work it out on their own.” The 1972 classic The Drifting Classroom reveals just how profoundly Umezu absorbed this lesson. Though it ran in Weekly Shonen Sunday, a magazine aimed at grade schoolers, Umezu’s work was bleak, subversive, and weirdly thrilling, depicting a nightmarish world where kids resorted to violence and deception to survive.

The Drifting Classroom begins with a freak accident in which a rift in the space-time continuum sends the Yamato Elementary School and its occupants into the distant future. Initially, the students and teachers believe that they are the sole survivors of a devastating nuclear attack, and the area immediately surrounding the school supports their hypothesis: it’s a barren wasteland with no water, plants, or signs of human habitation save a pile or two or non-degradable trash. As the school’s occupants realize the severity of the crisis, panic sets in. Teachers and students engage in a brutal competition for dwindling supplies while attempting to solve the mystery of what happened to them. And when I say “brutal,” I mean it: the body count in volume one is astonishing, with murders, mass suicides, fist fights, knife fights, and rampaging monsters culling the herd at a breathtaking rate.

It’s sorely tempting to compare The Drifting Classroom to The Lord of the Flies, as both stories depict school children creating their own societies in the absence of adult authority. But Kazuo Umezu’s series is more sinister than Golding’s novel, as Classroom‘s youthful survivors have been forced to band together to defend themselves against their former teachers, many of whom have become unhinged at the realization that they may never return to the present. Umezu creates an atmosphere of almost unbearable dread that conveys both the hopelessness of the children’s situation and their terror at being abandoned by the grown-ups, a point underscored by one student’s observation that adults “depend on logic and reason to deal with things.” He continues:

When something happens and they can’t use reason or logic to explain it, they can’t handle it. I don’t think they were able to accept that we’ve traveled to the future. You know how adults are always saying that kids are making things up? It’s because they only know things to be one way. Kids can imagine all kinds of possibilities. That’s why we’ve managed to survive here.

That speech is delivered by The Drifting Classroom‘s plucky protagonist Sho, a sixth grader who becomes the children’s de facto leader. When we first meet Sho, he’s behaving petulantly, pouting over his mother’s decision to throw away his marbles. The intensity of his anger is drawn in broad strokes, but it firmly establishes him as an honest-to-goodness ten year old, caught between his desire to play and his parents’ desire to mold him into a responsible teenager. Once transported to the future, Sho’s strategies for scavenging supplies or subduing a rampaging teacher are astute but not adult; there are flourishes of imagination and kid logic guiding his actions that remind us just how young and vulnerable he is. As a result, Sho’s pain at being separated from his parents, and of losing his comrades, is genuinely agonizing.

Umezu’s artwork further emphasizes the precarity of Sho’s situation. Sho and his classmates have doll-like faces and awkwardly proportioned bodies that harken back to Umezu’s work for shojo magazines such as Sho-Comi and Shoujo Friend, yet their somewhat unnatural appearance serves a vital dramatic function, underscoring how small they are when contrasted with their adult guardians. The adults, on the other hand, initially appear normal, but descend into monstrous or feckless caricatures as their plight becomes more desperate. Only Sho’s mother—who is stuck in the present day—escapes such unflattering treatment, a testament to her devotion, courage, and imagination; while her husband and friends have accepted the official story about the school’s fate, Sho’s mother is open to the possibility that Sho may be reaching across time to communicate with her.

Like his character designs, Umezu’s landscapes are willfully ugly, evoking feelings of disgust, fear, and anxiety that are almost palpable, whether he’s drawing an abandoned building or a garden filled with grotesquely misshapen plants. The area just outside the school gates, for example, resembles the slopes of an active volcano, with sulfurous clouds wafting over a rocky expanse that seems both frozen and molten—an apt metaphor the characters’ state of mind as they first glimpse their new surroundings:

Though The Drifting Classroom‘s imagery still resonates in 2019, its gender politics do not, as an egregious subplot involving a sadistic girl gang demonstrates. When the gang attempts to seize control of the school, a classmate urges Sho to oppose them on the grounds that girls are fundamentally unsuited for leadership roles. (“Women are made to give birth and rear children so they can’t think long term,” Gamo helpfully opines.) Umezu’s goal here, I think, is to suggest that girls are as capable of violence and cruelty as boys, but the dialogue suggests the gang’s behavior is a symptom of innate irrationality instead of a genuine and logical response to a desperate situation. Making matters worse is that the few sympathetic female characters are consigned to stereotypically feminine roles that give them little to do besides scream, run, and comfort the younger children; even Sakiko, the smartest girl in the class, never gets a chance to solve a problem or offer a useful opinion.

Yet for all its obvious shortcomings, The Drifting Classroom is a thoughtful meditation on adult hypocrisy, exposing all the ways that adults manipulate and terrorize children for their own convenience. “Adults are humans, children are animals,” a cafeteria worker tells Sho and his friends. “That’s why adults have the power of life and death over kids.” That Sho and his followers cling to their humanity despite the adults’ selfish behavior reminds us that children are innocent but not naive; Sho and his friends are clear-eyed about their teachers’ failings, yet choose to persevere. Recommended.

This is a greatly expanded–and reconsidered–review of The Drifting Classroom that appeared at PopCultureShock in 2006. VIZ Media provided a review copy. Read a free preview here.

THE DRIFTING CLASSROOM, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY KAZUO UMEZZ • TRANSLATED BY SHELDON DRZKA • ADAPTED BY MOLLY TANZER • RATED T+, FOR OLDER TEENS (VIOLENCE, HORROR, GORE) • 744 pp.

Pick of the Week: Nothing but Blue Skies

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SEAN: This week I feel the Manga Bookshelf eye is turning towards That Blue-Sky Feeling, and I have to agree, I really want to see how it turns out.

MICHELLE: You’re definitely right where I’m concerned. There are a couple other things I’ll check out from this week but none with the emotional impact of That Blue Sky Feeling .

KATE: I’m going to make a pitch for volume two of Queen Bee, a cute–if predictable–shojo series about a girl with a serious case of Resting Bitchface and a temper to go with it. I don’t think I’ve ever read a manga quite so… relatable.

ASH: I am absolutely here for That Blue Sky Feeling, but I’d like to give a shout out to Roadqueen, too. It’s not manga, but it looks delightful.

ANNA: I’m now curious about Queen Bee which sounds delightful. But to be honest I’m attempting to catch up on my unread manga pile instead of reading anything coming out this week. Maybe I’ll actually be able to take a volume or two off that stack!

MELINDA: I’m definitely intrigued by Kate’s description of Queen Bee (and I’m apparently a volume behind!) but it’s hard for me to pick anything else but the lovely and poignant That Blue Sky Feeling. It’s exactly my thing.

Short Takes: Museum and Phantom Tales of the Night

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I have a confession: I am a complete chicken when it comes to horror movies. I watched Alien through my fingers and made it to the end of Fright Night by staring at the ingredient list on a candy wrapper; even the hot vampires of The Lost Boys weren’t soulful or shirtless enough to fully hold my gaze. But horror manga is another story, as I count Mermaid Saga, Gyo, Tomie, The Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service, and PTSD Radio among my favorites series. I can’t explain why horror manga doesn’t affect me the same way that movies do–no soundtrack, perhaps?–but I’m glad that I’ve found the intestinal fortitude to read Junji Ito and Kazuo Umezu’s work. Alas, I had less patience with the two most recent horror series I read: Museum, a digital-only offering from Kodansha, and Phantom Tales of the Night, a cautionary tale about a mysterious innkeeper.

Museum, Vol. 1
Story and Art by Ryosuke Tomoe
Kodansha Comics
Rated M, for Mature (graphic violence)

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a mask-wearing vigilante kidnaps and tortures his victims in grotesque fashion–feeding them to dogs, severing their ears, tying them to toilets–then leaves cryptic notes that characterize each act as a “punishment,” daring the authorities to catch him. The mystery of who the vigilante is and what motivates him is the main driving force behind Museum, but you might not want to soldier through the carnage for answers to those questions since Ryosuke Tomoe can’t decide if his vigilante is a hero or a monster. Tomoe depicts the violence with such fetishistic detail that the reader is invited to admire the killer’s technique rather than meditate on the true horror of what the character has done. The ugly, utilitarian artwork and  relentlessly dour tone are the nails in the proverbial coffin, underscoring just how unpleasantly banal Museum really is. Not recommended.

Phantom Tales of the Night, Vol. 1
Story and Art by Matsuri
Yen Press
Rated OT, for Older Teens (violence and sexual themes)

Phantom Tales of the Night is the kind of bad manga that’s difficult to review: it isn’t offensive or ineptly drawn, but it’s a chore to read thanks to its poor plotting, muddled characterizations, and maddeningly opaque dialogue. Ostensibly, the series focuses on the Murakamo Inn, where the demonic host cajoles his guests into revealing their secrets. The rules governing how the Murakamo Inn operates, however, are in a constant state of flux, making it hard to pin down what, exactly, Phantom Tales is about. In some chapters, characters share their secrets with the inn’s owner in exchange for having a wish fulfilled, while in others, characters learn a terrible secret about themselves. The later chapters hint at a potentially longer, more complex arc that will play out over several volumes, but the set-up is so abrupt and confusing that it robs the final pages of their full impact–a pity, since Matsuri has a flair for drawing genuinely creepy monsters. Perhaps the most damning thing about Phantom Tales of the Night is that the characters talk incessantly about “secrets” but lack a basic understanding of what a secret really is or why it holds such power—a key failing in a series that is predicated on the idea that secrets are a kind of supernatural currency. Not recommended.

Pick of the Week: Ease on Down the Road

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MICHELLE: There’s a new volume of My Hero Academia plus a lot of VIZ shoujo coming out this week that I will absolutely be reading, including a particular favorite in Natsume’s Book of Friends, but my pick this week is The Wize Wize Beasts of the Wizarding Wizdoms. I literally know nothing about it other than it’s by Nagabe, creator of The Girl from the Other Side, but that’s quite enough.

KATE: What Michelle said! I’d read just about anything by Nagabe, as he’s such a terrific artist and storyteller. If people buy The Wize Wize Beasts of the Wizarding Wizdoms, maybe Seven Seas will get around to licensing Nagabe’s older work, too; this collection of short stories looks amazing.

SEAN: I am very interested in the new josei manga from Shojo Beat, but I have to go with Sexiled this week. The standard light novel fantasy is absolutely filled with tropes best described as problematic (read: misogynist), and I long to read a book pinning them to a wall and then stabbing them over and over.

ASH: As intrigued and delighted as I am by what I know about Sexiled, I’m with Michelle and Kate this week – The Wize Wize Beasts of the Wizarding Wizdoms is without question my pick.

ANNA: I’m also intrigued by The Wize Wize Beasts of the Wizarding Wizdoms and An Incurable Case of Love but I’m not going to pass up a chance to celebrate another volume of Kaze Hikaru which is by far one of my favorite historical shoujo series.

MELINDA: I’m jumping on what apparently is the majority pick this week: The Wize Wize Beasts of the Wizarding Wizdoms. Everything about it—from the artist to the magical creatures to the magazine it runs in—screams that it’s for me. So what other choice do I have?

Shojo & Tell: Moto Hagio Edition

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To celebrate the release of Moto Hagio’s The Poe Clan, Shojo & Tell host Ashley MacDonald invited me to join her for an in-depth conversation about three of my all-time favorite manga: A, A’, They Were Eleven, and A Drunken Dream and Other Stories. We mulled over plot developments, discussed problematic passages, and agreed that “Iguana Girl” may be the biggest tear-jerker in the Hagio canon. (Seriously–I can’t read it without getting the sniffles.) Ashley just posted the episode, which you can check out here:

For more insight into the manga that we discussed, I recommend the following essays and reviews from The Manga Critic vault:

I want to thank Ashley for the opportunity to chat about Hagio, and for doing such a terrific job of editing our conversation! If you’re not regularly following Shojo & Tell, I encourage you to check out the archive, as Ashley is a thoughtful host with a knack for choosing great manga and great guests. Recent contributors include Aisha Soleil and Rose Bridges discussing Bisco Hatori’s Ouran High School Host Club, Asher Sofman discussing CLAMP’s Tokyo Bablyon, and Manga Bookshelf’s own Anna Neatrour discussing Meca Tanaka’s The Young Master’s Revenge. Go, listen!

 

The Way of the Househusband, Vol. 1

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If you’ve seen Lillehammer or My Blue Heaven, you’ll immediately recognize the foundation on which The Way of the Househusband is built: a mafia don or hit man renounces his old life and joins the ranks of ordinary civilians working nine-to-five jobs, mowing lawns, and attending school plays. Predictably, the transition from whacking rivals to whacking weeds is a bumpy one, as the former criminal discovers that the skills he acquired in his old line of work haven’t fully equipped him for a more prosaic existence; seemingly benign interactions at the principal’s office or the post office are fraught with peril, as they’re guided by unfamiliar social codes. Then, too, there’s the specter of his old life—the possibility that a former associate might recognize him or seek him out for one last job.

The Way of the Househusband covers all of this well-spaded ground, earning its laughs by putting fresh twists on familiar scenarios. Its protagonist, the stone-faced Tatsu, is a former yakuza boss-cum-househusband who spends his days making elaborate bento boxes for his wife and scouring the grocery store for bargains. As is standard for this particular fish-out-of-water genre, Tatsu’s sangfroid is sorely tested by the minor annoyances of civilian life: a visit from the neighborhood association president, a trip to the mall.

When a knife salesman knocks on Tatsu’s door, for example, author Kousuke Oono teases the idea that his characters’ interactions might end in violence or a harrowing demonstration of Tatsu’s knife-wielding skills. Instead, Tatsu has an opportunity to show off his culinary prowess, winning over the understandably nervous salesman with his “patented hamburger steak plate.” The salesman’s rhapsodic expression and interior monologue put the gag over the top, as the salesman identifies the dish’s secret ingredient—“minced fish paste”—and muses that its flavor “takes me back to my hometown.”

Strong artwork is essential to selling a slapstick premise like Househusband’s, and for the most part, Oono succeeds. Oono’s characters have distinctive appearances that makes it easy to “read” their comic function–the suspicious neighbor, the former crime associate–but Oono never relies on this technique alone, often giving bit players an unexpected moment of steeliness or resourcefulness that nudges the joke in an unexpected direction. The salesman, for example, looks like a soft, middle-aged man, but turns out to be stronger, pushier, and more determined than his initial reaction to Tatsu might suggest, quickly recovering his composure after Tatsu answers the door wearing a bloody apron. (“I was just, uh, doin’ a little butcherin’,” Tatsu explains sheepishly.)

Appearance-wise, Oono does a great job of making Tatsu look utterly incongruous with his surroundings. With his pencil-thin mustache, scarred face, and aviator sunglasses–not to mention his black suit and tattoos–Tatsu cuts a striking figure in the supermarket and on the street. Oono invigorates this obvious sight gag by swathing Tatsu in housewife “drag,” outfitting him in a kerchief and apron emblazoned with a shiba inu to further emphasize just what a fish out of water Tatsu is. That same attention to detail extends to the way that Tatsu moves; Oono draws him like a human cobra whose sinewy, explosive movements strike terror into his enemies’–and his neighbors’–hearts.

Sheldon Drzka and Jennifer LeBlanc’s skillful adaptation of the script is the icing on the cake, giving every character a distinctive voice, and every exchange the pleasant zing of a good Saturday Night Live or Key & Peele sketch–no mean feat, given the cultural specificity of the jokes.

As good as the script and art are, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that Way of the Househusband might run out of gas after three or four volumes unless Oono pivots the storyline in a new direction–say, by introducing a baby into the picture, or revealing that Tatsu’s hard-charging wife has a secret past of her own. But for now, I’m happy to continue reading any series that pits a former yakuza boss against a Roomba and a frisky cat, or depicts a manly man going to extreme lengths to ensure that his wife has a tasty lunch. In the immortal words of Paris Hilton, that’s hawt. Recommended.

VIZ Media provided a review copy. Read a free preview here.

THE WAY OF THE HOUSEHUSBAND, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY KOUSUKE OONO • TRANSLATION BY SHELDON DRZKA, ADAPTATION BY JENNIFER LEBLANC • VIZ MEDIA, LLC • 166 pp. • RATED T+, FOR OLDER TEENS (SUGGESTED VIOLENCE, YAKUZA JOKES)

Pick of the Week: Ramen Noodles and Golden Sheep

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SEAN: While it’s tempting to go for the Ramen Noodles, or the Golden Sheep, both of which I suspect will be talked about by my fellow Manga Bookshelf peeps, it’s no surprise that I’m going with the 3rd volume of the Zaregoto series, SUSPENSION: Kubitsuri High School. When you get the third in a series after the first and second came out about ten years ago, it’s an event. Also, Ii-chan’s irritating, deliberately inscrutability is fun.

KATE: I’m torn between Ms. Koizumi Loves Ramen Noodles, which sounds like a carbohydrate lover’s dream, and Our Dreams at Dusk, which continues to be one of the best new series of 2019, offering a frank, thoughtful look at gender and sexual identity, so my pick is… both. Get ’em both. You won’t be disappointed.

MICHELLE: I’m definitely here for the ramen noodles and the golden sheep, but I’m most excited by a new volume of The Ancient Magus’ Bride!

ANNA: I’m very curious about Golden Sheep, The God’s Lie was so good, I’m excited to read more Ozaki.

ASH: It’s another great week of great releases! I can get behind everyone’s picks for the reasons already mentioned, but I’d like to take this opportunity to add The Miracles of the Namiya General Store to the mix as well. It’s a novel rather than a manga series, so this is really the only chance that I’ll get to pick it.

MELINDA: I’m not one hundred percent sold on anything this week, so I find myself waffling between The Golden Sheep and Ms. Koizumi Loves Ramen Noodles, but the melancholy does tend to have an extra pull for me, so I guess I’ll join Anna in choosing The Golden Sheep!

Become You, Vol. 1

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Ichigo Takano’s orange may be one the of best shojo manga published in the last ten years, offering readers a vivid, sympathetic portrait of five friends who get an unexpected chance to save a suicidal classmate’s life. Though orange explored dark emotional terrain, it was never mawkish; instead, orange ended on a hopeful note that showed younger readers that life goes on after tragedies big and small.

Become You, Takano’s latest series, mines a similar thematic vein, this time focusing on two emotionally damaged boys who form an improbable bond through music. And by “improbable,” I mean Taiyou and Hikari are temperamental opposites who initially seem ill-suited for friendship, let alone artistic collaboration. Taiyou is one of those only-in-manga characters whose dogged optimism shades into fanaticism—the kind of character who calls everyone his friend, and wears down skeptics with his relentless overtures. Hikari, by contrast, is a classic Character With a Secret, a former prodigy who abruptly abandoned the piano despite (or perhaps because of) his phenomenal success, keeping his classmates at bay with blunt comments. Naturally—by the immutable laws of Shojo Manga Plot Mechanics—Taiyou tries to recruit Hikari for a band, despite the fact that Taiyou is a tyro guitar player.

At first glance, Become You seems to be following a well-worn path in which an enthusiastic novice persuades a reluctant genius to mentor him, in the process drawing out his teacher and helping his teacher recover something that he lost—say, his joy in playing the tuba, or his relationship with an estranged family member. But Takano adds an interesting wrinkle to this familiar plotline: midway through volume one, we learn that Taiyou originally wanted to be an artist, but lost his desire to paint after being bullied by a teacher. In the aftermath of this encounter, what Taiyou really wants is to be good at something—anything, really—and will work diligently towards achieving that goal, even if he shows little or no aptitude for his chosen pursuit. Equally important, Taiyou is just as emotionally vulnerable as his would-be mentor, even though Taiyou papers over his anguish with bright smiles and cheerful comments.

As with orange, a magical plot device brings Become You‘s principal characters together–in this case, a mysterious cloaked figure who presents Taiyou with an electric guitar and words of Yoda-like encouragement. It’s not entirely clear if Taiyou is fantasizing or having a premonition, since his guardian angel looks an awful lot like Hikari. And while the ambiguity of these scenes has little impact on the reading experience, they occupy more space than the time-traveling letters did in orange—a mistake, I think, because Taiyou’s daydreams don’t add any special urgency or poignancy to the story. By contrast, orange‘s letters served a twofold purpose, setting the plot in motion and highlighting all the small ways that innocent comments or decisions could hurt someone as fragile as the suicidal Kakeru.

The other drawback to Become You is that Takano doesn’t seem to know much about music. Taiyou, for example, cheerfully states his intention to attend a “music college,” but lacks the rudimentary skills to play in sync with a metronome or sight-read sheet music. (He also seems blissfully unaware that conservatories require an entrance audition.) The concert sequences are similarly revealing: though Takano draws attractive, animated characters, and can put them through their emotional paces, she struggles to make Taiyou and Hikari’s musical performances come to life on the page, either by showing the physical effort necessary to making a sound—embouchure, hand position, posture—or by drawing convincing crowd shots that convey the impact of the music on listeners.

I’m not ready to give up on Become You just yet, however, as Takano has something worthwhile to say about pursuing activities for emotional fulfillment, rather than for personal achievement. She also explores the idea of artistic mentorship with honesty, acknowledging that the teacher-student relationship can have a profound effect on how a young artists finds his voice; any violation of that compact—an unkind comment, a dogged insistence on doing things the “right” way—can leave deep scars and stunt one’s artistic growth. Here’s hoping volume two strikes a better balance between the magical realism and the realities of being a musician. Tentatively recommended.

BECOME YOU, VOL. 1 • STORY & ART BY ICHIGO TANAKA • TRANSLATED BY AMBER TAMOSAITIS • SEVEN SEAS • RATED TEEN • 200 pp.