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Manga Critic

Confession

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Confession is a tight, twisty thriller that reads like an episode of The Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Author Fukumoto Nobuyuki establishes the premise in a few quick strokes: two hikers—one gravely injured—huddle on a mountainside pummeled by a fierce winter storm. As they debate the best course of action, Ishikura—who is bleeding profusely—confesses to murdering a mutual acquaintance, telling Asai, “I killed Sayuri… with my own two hands.” Asai, however, refuses to abandon Ishikura, dragging his wounded friend to the safety of an abandoned cabin. As the two wait for a rescue team to arrive, it finally dawns on Asai that Ishikura might regret what he said.

For a two-hander like this to work, it’s not enough to know what Asai is thinking; we need to feel his growing sense of desperation. Kaiji Kawaguchi’s art is up to the task, creating a spare, claustrophobic environment that’s almost as hostile as the barren slopes that surround the cabin. The cabin itself is rendered in just enough detail for the reader to grasp the layout and size, as well as the lack of good hiding places. Equally important, Kawaguchi’s character designs emphasize the wide social gap between the conventionally handsome Asai and the squat, dour Ishikura, encouraging the reader to question how these two people ever travelled in the same circles.

The artwork is so effective, in fact, that some of Asai’s internal monologue feels superfluous, especially when he states the obvious: “If my suspicions are right, are you and I going to fight to the death?” (Signs point to yes!) Aside from a few clumsy monologues, however, the story never sags under the weight of too much exposition; Nobuyuki carefully doles out information about Asai and Ishikura’s past to reveal how fraught their relationship was before they went climbing, hinting at a long-simmering conflict between them. The final scene is a shocker in the best sense, challenging the reader’s perception of both characters without cheating or taking any narrative shortcuts to get there. Hitchcock, I think, would approve. Recommended.

CONFESSION • STORY BY NOBUYUKI FUKUMOTO • ART BY KAIJI KAWAGUCHI • TRANSLATION BY EMILY BALISTERI • PRODUCTION BY TOMOE TSUTSUMI, PEI ANN YEAP, AND HIROKO MIZUNO • KODANSHA USA • RATED 16+ (VIOLENCE) • 314 pp.

Trillion Game, Vol. 1

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By all rights, Trillion Game should be a blast. Creators Riichiro Inagaki and Ryoichi Ikegami have more than a dozen hit series to their names—including Eyeshield 21, Dr. Stone, Sanctuary, and Crying Freeman—and a flair for writing shamelessly entertaining stories that burst at the seams with crazed villains, over-the-top plot twists, and jaw-dropping action scenes. Trillion Game, however, is just plain bad, saddled with a premise so dumb I’m almost embarrassed to type it: a young man sets out to be the first Japanese entrepreneur to make a trillion dollars without an actual plan for achieving that goal.

A dumb premise isn’t automatically a deal-killer; executed with panache, a silly idea can still work if the reader feels invested in the main character’s success. Trillion Game, however, has both a dumb premise and an awful lead who is less a person than a teenage male fantasy, a ruthless entrepreneur who weaponizes his charm and good looks to get what he wants. Haru lies, bluffs, and cheats, manifesting new talents—say, bantering in Mandarin or scaling skyscrapers—whenever the plot demands, prompting other characters to gush about his charisma and business acumen. His only redeeming quality is his unwavering loyalty to friend and business partner Gaku, a helmet-haired nerd with computer skills. Even that relationship is fraught, however, as Haru repeatedly puts Gaku into situations that test the limits of his abilities.

The other issue plaguing Trillion Game is its sincerity: we’re supposed to admire Haru’s audacious, go-for-broke style, even when his behavior seems more sociopathic than strategic. No matter what he does, Haru always gets the best of his opponents, especially when they appear to be more logical, experienced, or perceptive than he is. That dynamic is most evident in his interactions with the beautiful, inscrutable Kirika Kokuryū, a.k.a. “Kirihime,” a twenty-six-year-old wunderkind who helps her father run the all-powerful Dragon Bank. Any time she gets the upper hand in her dealings with Haru and Gaku, the authors undercut Kirihime’s authority by dreaming up new ways to humiliate her while suggesting she’s turned on by Haru’s cutthroat tactics.

The only bright spot is Ikegami’s artwork. As he did in series like Samurai Crusader and The Wounded Man, Ikegami populates the story with attractive leads while rendering the supporting players as caricatures, making it easy to keep track of the sprawling cast. The layouts, too, are easy to scan: they’re dynamic and detailed, capturing the density and opulence of Tokyo’s financial district with the same degree of realism as the spartan office that Haru and Gaku rent.

No amount of stylish artwork, though, can disguise the fact that Trillion Game feels like an macho artifact of the 1980s, a Wall Street for the Young Jump reader. I have no doubt that there are folks who will love this series, but I found it impossible to get swept up in Haru’s embrace of greed and deceit, especially when he approvingly cites broligarchs like Mark Zuckerberg and Jeff Bezos as an inspiration. Not recommended.

TRILLION GAME, VOL. 1 • STORY BY RIICHIRO INAGAKI • ART BY RYOICHI IKEGAMI • TRANSLATED BY STEPHEN PAUL • TOUCH-UP & LETTERING BY JOANNA ESTEP • VIZ MEDIA • RATED M FOR MATURE (NUDITY, SEXUAL REFERENCES) • 208 pp.

Drunks

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In the shadow of the mainstream North American manga industry, there are a handful of indies who are keeping manga weird. They’re publishing the kind of offbeat stories that you won’t read in Shonen Jump or stream on Crunchyroll, stories that are elliptical, profound, strange, funny, or unsettling in ways that My Hero Academia or Blue Lock aren’t. 

On a recent visit to Star Fruit Books, for example, I discovered Okaya Izumi’s Drunks, a pair of stories that put a novel spin on the meet-cute. In the first, a shy salary man staggers home from a night of drinking only to fall prey to a chatty vampire who casually asks, “Do you have blackout drapes at your house?” You can guess where this is going, but the light tone and odd notes of humor push “Drunks” in an unexpected direction as these two wildly different people find solace in each other’s company. The second story—“Tick Tock”—also crosses genre boundaries, using elements of science fiction to set the plot in motion. Tomoko, the heroine, spends a century in a cryogenic chamber before a young man accidentally frees her. Though the pair stumble into a physical relationship quickly, Okaya focuses as much on Tomoko’s complex reaction to rejoining the world as on her sexual reawakening, helping us understand why Tomoko is secretly relieved to discover that the future is not much different than the past.

Art-wise, Okaya’s style recalls Nishi Keiko (Love Story) and Yamada Murasaki (Talk to My Back, Second Hand Love), as Izumi’s characters are rendered in thin, almost scribbly, lines that make them look a little fragile. In her stories’ most emotionally charged scenes, there is almost no background detail; the reader’s eye is drawn to the characters’ faces and body language, allowing us to more fully appreciate their sense of joy, astonishment, and confusion over finding companionship in unexpected places. The quiet authenticity of these moments help both stories transcend their cliché elements to make a deeper point about the characters’ need for connection. Recommended.

DRUNKS • BY OKAYA IZUMI • TRANSLATED BY DAN LUFFEY • LETTERING/RETOUCHING BY KELLY NGO • STAR FRUIT BOOKS • 60 pp.

From the Vault: Cute Dolls and Fun Dolls

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It’s been a while, reader! I had ambitious plans for The Manga Critic this year, but work got in the way of writing—so much so, in fact, that I pondered shutting down the site for good. Every time I’ve quit blogging, though, I feel the gentle tug of unreviewed books and the nagging sense that the next great manga is just around the corner, and vow once again to bring back The Manga Critic.

My New Year’s resolution, therefore, is simple: post at least 1-2 articles per month in 2025. In addition to new content, I’ll also be revisiting pieces I wrote during the first manga boom, when Cartoon Network was king, Naruto was everyone’s favorite series, and Borders was filled with teenagers browsing the latest volumes of Fruits Basket and Bleach. This month, I’m taking the WABAC machine to 2007 for a look at Cute Dolls and Fun Dolls, both of which introduced crafty readers to Aranzi Aronzo, purveyors of weird but cute characters with names like Kidnapper, Panda Bee, and Warumono.

Cute Dolls and Fun Dolls
By Aranzi Aronzo; Translated by Rui Munakata
Vertical, Inc. (Kodansha USA)

Whether you’ve dedicated an entire room in your house to “crafting” or break out in hives at the mere mention of gimp, it’s hard to deny the weirdly winsome appeal of Aranzi Aronzo’s DIY books. The latest—Cute Dolls and Fun Dolls—offer over 120 pages of patterns and step-by-step instructions for making three-dimensional versions of your favorite Aranzi friends. Cute Dolls focuses on Aranzi’s most popular characters, from the super-kawaii Brown Bunny, Grey Cat, and Munkey to the less cuddly Fish and Kidnapper, while Fun Dolls features patterns for new characters: Panda Bug (a cross between a bumble bee and a panda bear), Coffee Cup (just what it sounds like—an anthropomorphic mug), and Unmotivated Kid (my personal favorite).

Both books earn high marks for presentation. The instructions are complemented by clear illustrations demonstrating how to assemble the dolls, while the paperback binding and 8″x 10″size make it easy for would-be seamstresses to photocopy patterns. Since I nearly flunked Home Economics, it’s almost impossible for me to assess the skill level necessary for completing these projects. (True story: I stitched my shirt to the sewing machine, requiring a shears-of-life rescue from the instructor.) So I sent my review copies to someone who is handy with a glue gun and a felting needle: my younger sister Claire, an Aranzi fan and Etsy seller who can work magic in almost any medium. Her verdict? Though the instructions are easy to follow, novices and young kids may find these projects too complicated to be fun; anyone with sewing skills, however, will be cranking out Striped Dogs and Spritekins with ease.

No matter what your skill level, anyone can enjoy the books’ subversive humor. In the introduction to Cute Dolls, for example, White Bunny vocalizes every crafting novice’s worst fear when she exclaims, “You’ll suffer terribly if you don’t read this first? Scary!” And then, of course, there are the dolls themselves. I can’t imagine an American expert encouraging youngsters to sew blank-faced layabouts or trench-coat wearing kidnappers; such unwholesome characters would inspire censorious outrage from humorless adults. But it’s this mischievous, poking-fun-at-the-grownups tone that makes Aranzi Aronzo books such a welcome addition to the hobby aisle at your local Borders, and a perfect gift for the crafty friend who’s grown weary of making the holiday centerpieces and Halloween costumes in Martha Stewart Living and Better Homes and Gardens.

This review originally appeared at PopCultureShock on November 11, 2007 at http://www.popcultureshock.com/weekly-recon-111807/42924/.

The Best and Worst Manga of 2023

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This weekend’s Nor’easter provided me a swell opportunity to finish my long-gestating Best and Worst Manga list for 2023. One of the things that tripped me up was the sheer volume of new work published last year; when I first started reviewing manga in 2006, it was hard to imagine a market that offered a title for every conceivable reader, from the Chainsaw Man enthusiast to the the romantic, the oenophile, the foodie, the soccer fan, the gore hound, the isekai buff, and even the middle-aged manga critic. Though I made a concerted effort to be as thorough as possible, I freely admit that my picks barely capture the sheer quantity and diversity of last year’s new releases. Instead, I focused on the titles that stayed with me weeks and months after I first read them, from the exuberant One Hundred Tales to the unnerving The Summer Hikaru Died. For additional perspective on 2023’s best and worst manga, I encourage you to check out the well curated lists at Anime News Network, Anime UK News, Asian Movie Pulse, The Beat, The Comics Journal, From Cover to Cover, Okazu, and The School Library Journal.

Best New Manga: Okinawa
Story and Art by Susumu Higa • Translated by Jocelyne Allen • Lettering by Patrick Crotty and Kayla E. • Fantagraphics
There are books that critics like, and books that readers like. I’d put Okinawa squarely in the first category, as it has all the hallmarks of a Serious Manga™: slightly naïve artwork, historically important events seen through the eyes of ordinary people, and detailed footnotes explaining the story’s cultural and linguistic nuances. If I sound a little cynical, I was; I put off reading Okinawa for months after its release because so many reviewers rehearsed the same talking points about how “harrowing,” “heartbreaking,” “complex,” and “haunting” it was. After reading Okinawa, however, I have to admit the critics were right: Okinawa is a deeply moving exploration of the island’s fraught relationship with Japan and the United States. It’s also a tribute to Susumu Higa’s parents, whose memories of World War II pervade many of Okinawa’s most affecting stories; a celebration of Okinawan resilience and spirituality; and the best manga I read in 2023.

Best New Drama: River’s Edge“Story and Art by Kyoko Okazaki • Translated by Alexa Frank • Vertical Comics
River’s Edge offers a gritty portrait of adolescence before chat rooms, cell phones, and social media, focusing on the slackers and misfits at a Tokyo high school. Haruna Wakakusa, the protagonist, is caught between her fierce sense of justice and her ambivalent feelings towards her on-again, off-again boyfriend Kannonzaki, a horny, hot-headed loser who bullies weaker classmates. Over the course of the story, Haruna forges an unlikely friendship with one of Kannonzaki’s targets, an aloof young man whose popularity with the girls belies his true sexual orientation. Okazaki’s spare, stylish linework is ideally suited to the material, as the character’s exaggerated facial features and ungainly proportions remind the reader of how confusing, weird, and uncomfortable it is to be on the physical cusp of adulthood. Okazaki also nails the casual cruelty and cluelessness of adolescence: her characters’ impulsiveness, selfishness, and inexperience often compel them to betray each other in small (and big) ways that feel true to life even when the plot teeters on the brink of melodrama.

Best Classic Title: One Hundred Tales
Story and Art by Osamu Tezuka • Translated by Iyasu Adair Nagata • Lettering by Aidan Clarke • ABLAZE
Over the course of his long career, Osamu Tezuka published three series based on the legend of Doctor Faustus, among them One Hundred Tales (1971), which ran in Weekly Shonen Jump. Tezuka takes a few liberties with the original story: his hero is not a brilliant scholar in search of knowledge but a lowly samurai who’s been sentenced to death for his employer’s misdeeds. In a fit of desperation, he sells his soul to a witch and is reborn as Fuwa Usuto, a dashing young man who wants two things: love and power. What follows is a rowdy picaresque, as Fuwo ventures into the lair of an alluring demon, saves his daughter from an arranged marriage, and insinuates himself into the house of a foolish daimyo in his quest to become more worldly and powerful. These episodes provide Tezuka ample opportunity to insert pop-cultural sight gags—Christopher Lee and Astro Boy both make fleeting appearances—but they also showcase Tezuka’s flair for character design and panel structure; the artwork is fluid and playful, equally suited to moments of exquisite silliness and heartbreaking sadness as Fuwo stumbles towards transcendence.

Best New Horror Series: The Summer Hikaru Died
Story and Art by Mokumokuren • Translated by Ajani Oloye • Lettering by Abigail Blackman • Yen Press
The Summer Hikaru Died begins with a familiar scene: two high school buddies are clowning around outside a convenience store, trading good-natured barbs. But something’s off, and midway through a seemingly ordinary conversation Yoshiki realizes that he’s talking to an impostor who’s the spitting image of his friend Hikaru. Though the mystery of what happened to the real Hikaru is resolved quickly, many questions remain: is it possible for Yoshiki to befriend “Hikaru” even though he has no real memories of their relationship? And what, exactly, is “Hikaru”? Mokumokuren resists the temptation to provide simple answers, relying instead on suggestion to create a tense, atmospheric story that skillfully blends elements of body horror, BL, and fantasy in a fresh, unsettling way.

Best New Cat Manga: Nights With a Cat
Story and Art by Kyuryu Z • Translated by Stephen Paul • Lettering by Lys Blakesly • Yen Press
Though there are dozens of great pet manga now available in English, Nights with a Cat has something genuinely new to offer: simple, observational storytelling that doesn’t shamelessly tug on the heartstrings or anthropomorphize our furry companions. The series explores the relationship between Fuuta and Kyuruga, his roommate’s cat. As someone who’s never lived with a cat before, Fuuta is fascinated by Kyuruga, marveling at Kyuruga’s anatomy—his pupils, his sandpaper tongue, his retractable claws—as well as Kyuruga’s ability to silently materialize in surprising places. Kyuryu Z doesn’t play these moments for laughs, choosing instead to emphasize how strange and amazing cats really are with illustrations that capture the fluidity of Kyuruga’s movements and the changeability of his moods. Recommended for new and long-time cat owners alike. (Reviewed at Manga Bookshelf on 5/21/23)

Best Ongoing Series: Go With the Clouds, North by Northwest
Story and Art by Irie Aki • Translated by David Musto • Vertical Comics
After a two-year wait, a new installment of Go With the Clouds, North by Northwest arrived in stores this fall, demonstrating once again why this odd, delightful, and occasionally thrilling story deserves a bigger audience. Strictly speaking, Go With the Clouds is a murder mystery, but Aki Irie refuses to observe the basic tenets of the genre, frequently interrupting her story for interesting diversions: a fitful romance between supporting characters, a brief lesson on Icelandic geography, a casual conversation between Kei, the main protagonist, and his trusty jeep. What prevents the story from being twee or mannered is its matter-of-fact tone. In the first chapter of volume six, for example, Kei uses ESP to track a kidnapping victim through the streets of Reykjavik by chatting up parked cars around the city, a goofy gambit that works thanks to Irie’s superb pacing and commitment to character development; Kei’s methodical approach suggests that his ESP is something he uses on an everyday basis, not something that manifests per the plot’s demands. Swoon-worthy art and twisty plotting add to the series’ considerable appeal. (Volumes one and two reviewed at The Manga Critic on 8/30/19).

Most Disappointing New Series: #DRCL: Midnight Children
Story and Art by Shin’ichi Sakamoto • Based on Bram’s Stoker’s Dracula • Translation Caleb Cook • Touch-Up & Lettering by Brandon Hull • VIZ Media
Let’s face it: Bram Stoker’s Dracula sucks, marred by turgid prose and a convoluted form. In the hands of other creators, however, Stoker’s ideas have thrilled, titillated, and shocked six generations of horror buffs. The introduction to #DRCL: Midnight Children suggests that Shin’ichi Sakamoto might be one of those creators, as he offers the reader a claustrophobic, suspenseful riff on Dracula‘s most famous chapter, “The Voyage of the Demeter.” The rest of volume one, by contrast, is a fever dream of short, incoherent scenes that bump up against each other like commuters on a rush-hour train. Anyone familiar with Stoker’s original novel will recognize the characters’ names but wonder why Sakamoto re-imagined Renfield as a nun who’s chained up in a dormitory room or Mina Murray as a short, scrappy redhead who’s an expert wrestler. (Also: a dead ringer for Anne of Green Gables.) It’s a pity that the story is so fragmented and overripe, as Sakamoto has a fertile imagination; the first volume is filled with hauntingly beautiful renditions of Dracula himself that instill a sense of awe and fear that’s missing from the rest of the story.

The Manga Critic’s Year in Review: 2023

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At the beginning of 2023, I vowed to post one review or essay per month, a goal I met for the first half of the year. Then work got busy, and my husband and I did some home improvement projects we’d been putting off, both of which made it harder to find the bandwidth for reviewing. The reviews I did publish, however, seemed to have found an audience, so I’m setting the same goal for myself in 2024 with the aim of writing more in-depth essays about older titles like Furari and BL Metamorphosis, as well as more reviews of classic, indie, and overlooked series. My other major goal for 2024 is to revive The Manga Review, though the upheaval on Twitter has made me wonder whether I’d reach more people with a newsletter than a weekly column. If you’ve been a regular reader, I encourage you to offer your two cents in the comments field! (Note that comment moderation has been set to stun due to an uptick in random links, so it may take a few hours for it be approved.)

As I was compiling this post, I spent some time reviewing my WordPress data and learned that…

  • I’ve posted 332 articles and reviews at The Manga Critic since 2009.
  • My most-viewed post is a 2017 review of Naoki Urasawa and Hokusai Katsushiki’s Master Keaton. To date, more than 23,000 people have read it.
  • My second most-viewed post is a 2019 review of Ichigo Tanako’s Become You. To date, more than 22,000 people have read it.
  • My most-viewed post of the 2020s is a review of Junji Ito’s No Longer Human, which I wrote in 2020. To date, more than 10,000 people have read it.

Focusing more specifically on 2023, I wrote one article, published seven full-length and eleven capsule reviews, and rediscovered a cache of essays I wrote for PopCultureShock between 2006 and 2009, one of which I shared with readers. I also created a new page at The Manga Critic listing some of the best manga podcasts in English, with help from dozens of Twitter followers. (Feel free to suggest more in the comments below!)

Here’s to a more productive 2024!

Essays and Features

Full-Length Reviews

Capsule Reviews

* This review was originally published at Pop Culture Shock in 2007.

Innocent, Vol. 1

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Innocent is hard to pin down. On the one hand, it’s a meticulously researched period drama starring real-life figures such as Charles-Henri Sanson, Casanova, Robert-François Damiens, and Jeanne Bécu, the sort of thing you might see on Masterpiece Theater or HBO. On the other, it’s a lurid portrayal of a young man’s corruption, filled with over-the-top scenes of torture and debauchery that, intentionally or not, recall Justine, or The Misfortunes of Virtue. The tonal mismatch between its historical aspirations and its treatment of the principal character never gel into a coherent story, however, resulting in a handsome but repellant mess that isn’t serious enough to move the reader or ridiculous enough to be enjoyed as camp.

The series opens in 1793, then jumps back in time to reveal how Sanson evolved from a sensitive young man into the Royal Executioner of France. In making Sanson his protagonist, author Shin’ichi Sakamoto has a major hurdle to overcome: Sanson executed almost 3,000 people and championed the guillotine as a more efficient, humane tool for dispatching convicts. To ensure the reader’s sympathy lies firmly with Charles-Henri, therefore, Sakamoto commingles fact and fiction, depicting Sanson as a beautiful, raven-haired teen with flowing locks and trembling lips, the epitome of a guileless young man. Everything makes Charles-Henri’s enormous eyes glisten with tears: the cruel comments of boarding school classmates, the sound of a flute, the sight of a beautiful young aristocrat. He’s also prone to outbursts of teenage indignation and fits of nausea, unable to stomach his father’s lessons on how to decapitate a person with a single blow.

For all the feverish dialogue and graphic violence, there’s almost no meaningful character development, as Sakamoto seems more intent on demonstrating Charles-Henri’s capacity for suffering than in depicting a flesh-and-blood person’s efforts to resist his destiny. In one of the most egregious examples of this tendency, Père Sanson tortures his son with techniques cribbed from the Book of Martyrs: he shackles Charles-Henri to a chair, deprives him of food and water, pierces his skin, and pulverizes his legs with a sledgehammer in an effort to bend Charles-Henri to his will. The true horror of the scene, however, is undercut by the way in which Sakamoto luxuriates in Charles-Henri’s wounded body with same fervid zeal as Titian painted the Crucifixion; Charles-Henri is stripped to waist and strapped to a pole, his hands tied above his head as he cries out in bewilderment. And if those Baroque flourishes aren’t enough to ruin the scene’s emotional authenticity, the cartoonishly evil Père Sanson is; he’s less a fully-realized character than a foil for Charles-Henri’s innocence, prone to making over-the-top pronouncements that would be right at home in a Nicholas Cage flick.

If the narrative disappoints, the artwork does not. Sakamoto draws sumptuous costumes and grand estates, lavishing considerable attention on small but historically meaningful details—a china pattern, the buckle of a shoe—in a meticulous effort to evoke the material culture of eighteenth century France. His real gift, though, is making obscure historical figures come to life on the page. Anne-Marthe Sanson, the matriarch of the Sanson clan, is a prime example: she looks like a bird of prey with a piercing stare and sharp nose, an impression reinforced by the way her fichu drapes across her chest like a ruff. In several key scenes, Sakamoto illuminates her from below, casting her face into shadowy relief to reveal the full extent of her hawkish vigilance:

Sakamoto also has a flair for using abstraction, fantasy, and non-sequiturs to reveal his characters’ innermost thoughts. Not all of these gambits work; in one visually jarring moment, for example, Sakamoto depicts Charles-Henri in modern streetwear, an image that serves no obvious dramatic purpose. Other scenes, however, are devastatingly effective in conveying the full extent of Charles-Henri’s paranoia and loneliness. After botching the execution of an acquaintance, Sanson looks out at the crowd and sees a motley assortment of faces staring at him:Sakamoto then repeats this motif, adding more and more faces:It’s a simple but powerful sequence: we feel the collective weight of the crowd’s revulsion and the individual opprobrium of everyone who witnessed Sanson’s orgiastic display of violence. At the same time, however, we feel Sanson’s growing sense of terror and confinement, imprisoned in a role he loathes and unable to escape the scrutiny of commoners and noblemen alike.

These kind of emotionally resonant scenes are few and far between, however, as Sakamoto is more interested in showing Charles-Henri’s martyrdom than making him into a real person; you’d be forgiven for thinking that Sanson was a real-life saint and not someone who’s remembered today for his enthusiastic embrace of the guillotine. Not recommended.

INNOCENT, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY SHIN’ICHI SAKAMOTO • TRANSLATED BY MICHAEL GOMBOS • LETTERING AND RETOUCH BY SUSIE LEE AND STUDIO CUTIE • DARK HORSE • 632 pp. • RATED 18+ (Violence, nudity, language)

My Dear Detective: Mitsuko’s Case Files, Vol. 1

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Have you seen The Law According to Lidia Poët? It’s a period drama that’s loosely inspired by the career of Italy’s first woman lawyer. Though the series explores the real-life Poët’s long, lonely battle for professional recognition, it also makes plenty of room for romance and adventure, portraying her as a free spirit who solves mysteries with the aid of a handsome male journalist. The show’s breezy tone is more Remington Steele than Masterpiece Theater, but it never shies away from acknowledging that nineteenth-century Italy was truly a man’s, man’s world.

If Lidia Poët sounds like something you’d watch, you might like My Dear Detective, which also features a plucky heroine in a male-dominated field. The setting is Taisho-era Japan, where twenty-something Mitsuko Hoshino works for the Ginza Detective Agency as an investigator. Though Mitsuko is a natural, she faces skepticism and condescension in her day-to-day work that sometimes shades into outright hostility; early in volume one, for example, local hooligans vandalize the agency with slogans accusing her of “stealing men’s jobs.” Her boss is unfazed, however, and remains quietly but kindly supportive of her desire to be, in her words, “a working woman.”

Through one of those only-in-manga contrivances, Mitsuko crosses paths with Satou Yoshida, a handsome young man who turns out to be the scion of a prominent family. (The Yoshidas own one of the poshest department stores in Tokyo.) He soon joins the agency as Mitsuko’s assistant, chauffeur, and bodyguard, dropping the Yoshida name whenever it expedites their investigation, and swooping in to save Mitsuko whenever she’s in danger. Mitsuko—ever the consummate professional—won’t admit to herself that she likes Satou, and puts up a blustery front any time he flirts with her.

Though the script is lively and the pacing brisk, the artwork is a little plain. The costumes, hairstyles, and props are just detailed enough to give a sense of the period, but the backgrounds are a little too sterile and generic to really evoke Tokyo in the 1920s. More appealing are the character designs: Natsumi Ito does an effective job of conveying each cast member’s age, social standing, and personality through small but meaningful details. Mitsuko, for example, sports a sleek, modern bob and knee-length skirts, while the older women she interacts with favor Nihongami and kimono, evoking the transitional spirit of the Taisho era.

Taken as a whole, however, My Dear Detective is the manga equivalent of The Law According to Lidia Poët. One the one hand, it’s a fizzy, fun series that offers solid mysteries with interesting twists solved by impossibly good-looking people. On the other hand, My Dear Detective gently reminds the reader how many practical barriers professional women faced a century ago, acknowledging the degree to which misogyny made it all but impossible for smart, ambitious women to chart a course for themselves outside of traditional gender roles. These two sensibilities don’t always mesh harmoniously, but most of the time My Dear Detective toes the line between escapism and didacticism in a highly entertaining fashion. Lidia Poët would undoubtedly approve. Recommended.

MY DEAR DETECTIVE: MITSUKO’S CASE FILES, VOL. 1 • BY NATSUMI ITO • TRANSLATED BY SAMUEL R. MESSNER • LETTERING BY BARRI SHRAGER • COVER DESIGN BY GLEN ISIP • AZUKI • 183 pp. • NO RATING

Lovely Muco!, Vol. 1

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For thirteen years, I lived with Grendel, a smart, stubborn Australian shepherd who treated me and my husband like a pair of unruly sheep. She woke us up at 5:45 am every day, herded us to the park, and marched us around until we were exhausted. She nipped our ankles when we left for work—we weren’t supposed to leave the farm, I guess—and had strong preferences about everything, from which routes we walked to which brand of kibble we bought. When she wasn’t trying to bend us to her will, she applied her formidable intelligence to foraging snacks; she had a black bear’s talent for opening containers of peanut butter, Tums—you name it. I loved her dearly, but I admit that there were times when I fantasized about living with a dog who wasn’t so determined to run our house.

With my current commute, I can’t own the happy-go-lucky dog of my dreams, but I can do the next best thing: read about one. That’s where Lovely Muco! comes in. It’s a gag manga inspired by the real-life relationship between Komatsu, a professional glass blower, and Muco, his exuberant Shiba Inu. In every chapter, Muco makes a discovery—that her nose is shiny, or that Komatsu isn’t a dog—and becomes so consumed with excitement that she ends up in trouble. Muco’s reactions to everyday situations bring out her inner Gracie Allen; she’s less dim than dizzy, viewing the world with the peculiar logic of a canine enthusiast. A trip to the vet, for example, leads her to wax rhapsodic about the cone of shame, which she views as a stylish accessory, rather than an encumbrance. Even when her injury starts to itch, Muco remains convinced that she looks cool, going so far as to imagine how Komatsu would look with his own cone.

As much as I love Muco’s antics, my favorite storyline focuses on Komatsu, who hires his pal Ushiko to design him a website. Ushiko uses the tools that you’d expect—a digital camera, a laptop—but Komatsu’s reactions to these technologies seem more appropriate for someone who’d just spent the last 20 years living off the grid than someone making a living in modern-day Japan. His child-like wonder mirrors the way Muco approaches just about everything in her life, from tennis balls to car rides—a neat inversion of their usual roles.

Takayuki Mizushina’s artwork plays a big role in making their owner-dog dynamic funny. Mizushina’s approach is more gestural than literal, distilling each character, human or animal, to a set of bold lines and basic shapes. Muco, for example, bears only a passing resemblance to a Shiba Inu, as Mizushina  draws her head like a stop sign with triangular ears. That hexagonal shape, however, provides Mizushina an ideal frame for Muco’s facial expressions:

And while plenty of other manga artists use this same device to express extreme emotion, Mizushina really captures the essence of how an excited dog reacts to new things in its environment; you can almost hear Muco barking whenever she has an epiphany.

What I like best about Lovely Muco, though, is that Muco’s thought process isn’t like Grommit or Snoopy’s. She’s not building wild contraptions or fantasizing about being a World War I flying ace; she’s just trying to make sense of the people and things around her. Her fascination with ordinary objects is a nice reminder that part of living with a dog—or any sentient creature—is recognizing how strange and interesting our world must seem to them, and taking pleasure in their curiosity and enthusiasm. Recommended.

PS: If you just can’t get enough shiba inu hijinks, you can follow the real-life Muco’s exploits on Twitter. (Hat tip to @debaoki for the link.)

LOVELY MUCO! THE HAPPY DAILY LIFE OF MUCO AND MR. KOMATSU, VOL. 1 • ART AND STORY BY TAKAYUKI MIZUSHINA • TRANSLATED BY CASEY LEE •  KODANSHA COMICS  220 pp. • RATED 10+ (SUITABLE FOR READERS OF ALL AGES)

Insomniacs After School, Vol. 1

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First published in 1911, Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden has beguiled millions of readers with its portrait of Mary and Colin, two sickly children who heal themselves by finding a forgotten space and bringing it back to life. Burnett’s story is very much a product of the Edwardian era, steeped in colonialism and patriarchy, but the core plot—in which the children discover their own agency, and create their own sanctuary—seems as relevant in 2023 as it did over a century ago.

Insomniacs After School steals a page or two from The Secret Garden, shifting the action from a British manor to a Tokyo high school where Nakami, a grumpy, uptight boy, and Magari, a goofy, spontaneous girl, are struggling with insomnia. The two meet cute when Nakami stumbles over Magari sleeping on the floor of the school’s long-abandoned observatory. After commiserating about their difficulty falling asleep, Nakami and Magari hatch a plan to transform the observatory into a clubhouse where they can hang out or sneak in a much-needed midday nap. They scavenge furniture, hang curtains, and welcome a neighborhood cat into their space, in the process uncovering the telescope left behind by the now-defunct astronomy club and, of course, becoming friends.

As delightful as these early scenes are, the best sequence in volume one documents their first outing as members of the “Enjoy-the-Night Club.” Nakami and Magari sneak out of their homes and into the city, meandering through empty neighborhoods, dodging a night patrolman, posing for photographs, and gazing out over the harbor as the first glimmers of dawn form on the horizon. Though there are a few lines of dialogue sprinkled throughout the chapter, most of Nakami and Magari’s adventure unfolds in companionable silence, allowing us to appreciate the stillness of early morning, and their thrill at being the only ones to witness the sunrise:

One of the strengths of Insomniacs After School is Ojiro’s low-key approach to character development. Ojiro isn’t in a hurry to reveal too much about his characters, fleshing out their backstories in an organic fashion through snippets of conversation and brief glimpses into their home lives. Nakami’s dad, for example, seems troubled, though it’s not clear from context what might be wrong, while Magari reveals she suffered from a serious childhood illness that made her frail. Neither teen wants their parents to know the full extent of their exhaustion, however, so they don’t seek help from the adults; as Magari declares, “When I was sick as a kid, I really hated how everyone worried about me. That’s why I keep my insomnia a secret.”

Another strength is the clean, expressive artwork. Ojiro’s facial close-ups and fresh use of perspective give us a sense of the characters’ eagerness for connection as well as their vulnerability and inexperience. In this sequence, for example, we see what happens when Nakami’s simple, matter-of-fact statement lands differently than expected:

The shift in perspective neatly underscores Nakami’s confusion: one minute he felt at ease with Magari, and the next he’s puzzled by her reaction, a note of trepidation registering on his face. Ojiro resists the temptation to verbalize what his characters are thinking, instead letting the reader feel his characters’ discomfort as Nakami’s comment hangs in the air.

Ojiro’s knack for capturing these small but emotionally charged moments lends Insomniacs After School a realism that will appeal teen readers; it’s a quiet, carefully observed portrait of two kids who are navigating the space between friendship and romance, with all the confusion and excitement that entails. Other readers—especially those of us with vivid memories of The Secret Garden—will find Insomniacs a warm reminder that bringing light and life to a neglected place can heal the heart, no matter how old you are. Highly recommended.

INSOMNIACS AFTER SCHOOL, VOL. 1 • BY MAKOTO OJIRO • TRANSLATED BY ANDRIA CHENG • TOUCH-UP & LETTERING BY INORI FUKUDA TRANT • VIZ MEDIA • RATED T (FOR TEENS)

Marmalade Boy: Collector’s Edition, Vol. 1

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One of shojo manga’s most time-honored plot lines goes something like this: a young girl’s life is turned upside down when her mother or father remarries someone with a teenager of their own, usually a cute boy who’s smart, athletic, and insufferable. Over the course of six or ten volumes, however, the heroine gradually moves from indignation to infatuation, finally admitting to herself what everyone else could plainly see: she likes her stepbrother. There are a usually a few complications on the way to a blissful relationship—say, a crazy ex-girlfriend who won’t go away—but the step-siblings eventually realize that they’re meant to be together.

Wataru Yoshizumi’s Marmalade Boy adds a new wrinkle to the formula, however, by engineering a crazy scenario for bringing her romantic antagonists under the same roof. In the opening pages of volume one, fifteen-year-old Miki Koishikawa’s parents come back from a trip with shocking news: they’re getting divorced. Making matters worse is that the Koishikawas have decided to swap partners with the Matsuras, a couple they met while traveling, and combine their families into a single household that includes both Miki and the Matsuras’ son Yuu. Yuu, of course, is a quintessential shojo prince: he’s gifted at tennis, an ace at math, and popular at school and—naturally—Miki hates him. She finds him smug in his refusal to criticize their parents’ impulsive behavior, and is furious that no one seems to understand her reservations about their new living situation. 

Their blended family life is established with great efficiency, setting the stage for plenty of misunderstandings and fights between Miki and Yuu. Yoshizumi also wastes no time in introducing other romantic prospects for both leads; a good part of volume one, in fact, follows the complicated friendship between Miki and Ginta, a cute tennis player who Miki used to like. Yuu, meanwhile, has his own romantic travails when his ex-girlfriend Arimi tracks him down at his new school, determined to rekindle their relationship by any means necessary. And if all those potential entanglements weren’t enough to fill thirty or forty chapters, Miki’s best friend Meiko starts hooking up with her hot homeroom teacher in the school library.

If I’m reading the story in Responsible Adult Mode™, it’s hard to ignore all the WTF? shenanigans. In one of the weirdest scenes in volume one, for example, the Matsuras and Koishikawas stage a fight to see whether Miki truly disapproves of their living arrangement, confessing their deceit only after a tearful Miki begs them to follow their hearts. The sight of all four parents gaslighting their daughter is comically awful; I’d be the first to admit that I’m on Team Miki, as she seems to be the only person who grasps the impulsiveness of the adults’ spouse-swapping arrangement. Then there are the usual shojo red flags: student-teacher relationships, stolen kisses, and characters whose behavior sails over the line between friendly interest and stalking.

If I allow myself to reconnect with my inner twelve-year-old, however, I have to admit that Marmalade Boy is funny, silly, and engrossing, offering a teenage gloss on Dynasty or Melrose Place. It’s the kind of manga in which two romantic rivals settle their differences with a high-stakes tennis match—in front of the whole school, of course—and characters state their intentions in a bald fashion: “I won’t lose you to him,” Arimi cheerfully warns Miki over a sundae. (A sundae!) Yoshizumi’s ability to balance the absurd with the everyday lends an air of plausibility to these scenarios; there’s always a kernel of emotional truth to the interactions between the characters, even when they’re dreaming up soap-worthy schemes.

Though the plotting is intricate, the artwork is clean and unfussy; backgrounds, hairdos, and clothing are rendered in a style that keeps the focus on the characters’ faces and body language. Miki has big, dramatic reactions to everything, but Yoshizumi avoids too much deformation or mugging to convey Miki’s distress. More surprising is how gracefully the artwork has aged, aside from an errant headband here and there; it wouldn’t look out of place at Barnes & Noble in 2023. (Well, that’s not entirely true; Yuu has a major case of 90s Shojo Prince Hair™, notable for its height and for the artful way it flops to one side of his face.)

All of this is to say that I enjoyed Marmalade Boy waaaaaaaaaay more than I expected, given my advanced age and my strong preference for stories about, y’know, adults. I cheerfully recommend it to anyone looking to recapture the feeling of reading their first shojo manga, or the palpable excitement of being a manga fan in the early 2000s, when Tokyopop published these kind of stories by the truckfull. Recommended.

MARMALADE BOY: COLLECTOR’S EDITION, VOL. 1 • BY WATARU YOSHIZUMI • TRANSLATED BY AMBER TAMOSAITIS • ADAPTED BY KRISTA GRANDY • LETTERING BY JENNIFER SKARUPA • SEVEN SEAS • RATED TEEN+ 

Blood on the Tracks, Vols. 1-5

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One part Mommie Dearest, one part Kids, Blood on the Tracks is an unsettling depiction of the toxic parent-child relationship between Seiko, an overbearing mother, and Seiichi, her thirteen-year-old son.

The first volume is an artful tease, frankly portraying Seiko’s controlling behavior while encouraging the reader to see it through her obedient son’s eyes: as an expression of parental love. Oshimi hints that Seiko’s attachment to Seiichi goes beyond a simple desire to protect him, but it isn’t until a fateful hiking trip that Seiko’s true ability to manipulate and terrorize Seichii is revealed. In the aftermath of the trip, Seiichi begins to question his earliest childhood memories, and forms a connection with his classmate Yuko, another teen caught in a toxic parent-child relationship. The teens’ effort to break free of abuse, however, is thwarted by their age and by Seiichi’s deep-seated guilt about running away from home; the final page of volume five shows Seiichi abandoning Yuko under a highway overpass to search for his mother, rain and tears streaming down his face.

I’d be the first to admit that Blood on the Tracks is a potent reminder of just how good an artist Oshimi is. No matter what genre he’s working in, he does a superb job of creating fully embodied characters whose facial expressions, gaits, and vocal tics reflect their lived experiences; we can see how socially and emotionally stunted Seiichi is from the way he slouches and stands on the fringes of his friend group at school, and from his difficulty making eye contact with other people. Even more striking is how fluidly Oshimi segues from crisp naturalism to abstraction, using the latter as a way of representing how feelings manifest not as fully formed thoughts but as vivid, unsettling images that intrude on everyday life. Oshimi’s expressive linework and creative use of perspective give these sequences a visceral authenticity that would be almost impossible to achieve with language. 

In this scene, for example, Oshimi shows us the turning point in Seiko’s relationship with his mother. The first image in the sequence offers a fleeting glimpse of Seiko as Seiichi used to see her: as a beautiful young woman who devoted her life to protecting her son from harm. The second and third images in the sequence, however, reveal how Seiichi now sees her: as a terrifying stranger, a point reinforced by his wide-eyed stare and the faint smirk on Seiko’s lips. Oshimi sharply contrasts the beauty of the setting with the horror of what just transpired, creating a visual analog for Seiichi’s shock at learning who his mother really is.

The stumbling block—for me, at least—is that Oshimi’s stories always veer into the uncomfortable terrain of transgressive behavior and power dynamics. His characters exhibit such destructive, sadistic tendencies that his work often leaves me feeling queasy, not least because so many of his protagonists are teenagers. Maybe that’s the point: we can’t understand what it’s like to live with a pathologically selfish person unless Oshimi uses jump scares and creepy close-ups to make us feel the same sense of apprehension that Seiichi does. Yet there’s something distressing about making entertainment out of this material, however convincing his portrayal of Seiko’s pathology may be; I couldn’t shake the feeling that watching Seiko squeeze the life out of her son was a kind of emotional torture porn. I threw in the towel with volume five, but your mileage may vary.

BLOOD ON THE TRACKS, VOLS. 1-5 • BY SHUZO OSHIMI • TRANSLATED BY DANIEL KOMEN • VERTICAL

The Best and Worst Manga of 2022

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When I sat down to compose my Best of 2022 list, I was certain I’d compiled a similar one as recently as 2017, only to discover that I hadn’t done so in almost seven years. In looking over some of my earlier efforts, I hardly recognize myself: who was this person with the energy to review 40 or 50 books in a year? Or who thought that Yowamushi Pedal was the best new series of 2015? It felt a little daunting to revisit those lists, honestly, as I’ve often let my blog lie fallow for months at a stretch as I adjusted to a more demanding teaching schedule or a longer commute; I’ve been vowing to “bring back” The Manga Critic for years. Reading other bloggers’ year-end lists, however, inspired me to get back in the saddle and take stock of the manga I loved—and didn’t—in 2022.

Best New Manga: Shuna’s Journey
By Hayao Miyazaki • Translated by Alex Dudok de Wit • First Second
In this deceptively simple work, Hayao Miyazaki creates a richly detailed world filled with beautiful, strange imagery that invites the reader to contemplate where and when the story takes place without definitively answering those questions. Miyazaki’s hero is just as mysterious as the landscapes he crosses; Shuna’s odyssey is not a journey of self-discovery but a practical quest that, despite its myriad hardships, leaves him fundamentally unchanged. Is a he a folkloric hero or a witness to environmental catastrophe? Miyazaki leaves that question unanswered as well, creating a work that’s more ambiguous and less didactic than Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind or Princess Mononoke, but similar in its emphasis on the complex relationship between humans and the natural world.

Best Archival Project: Talk to My Back
By Yamada Murasaki • Translated by Ryan Holmberg • Drawn & Quarterly
“For six years now, I’ve never walked at a pace that was mine,” notes Chiharu, the protagonist of Yamada Murasaki’s sharply observed Talk to My Back. First published in the 1980s, Murasaki’s thirty-six vignettes chronicle the small pleasures and intense disappointments of a middle-class Japanese housewife. Through spare linework and judicious use of blank space, Murasaki conveys Chiharu’s quest to define herself outside the role of mother and wife, documenting Chiharu’s anger, frustration, and alienation in a restrained fashion that suggests how stifled and powerless Chiharu often feels. In a thorough, thoughtful companion essay, translator Ryan Holmberg explores Murasaki’s trailblazing role as an alt-manga creator; Murasaki was one of the first women artists to be featured in the pages of COM and Garo magazines, opening the door for creators such as Akino Kondo and Junko Mizuno. Here’s hoping that Drawn & Quarterly decides to publish more of Murasaki’s work in English.

Best New Sci-Fi Manga: Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou
By Hitoshi Ashinano • Translated by Daniel Komen • Adapted by Dawn Davis • Seven Seas
I’m not sure if I would have been as receptive to Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou five or ten years ago, as its low-key depiction of life in the aftermath of an environmental catastrophe might have struck me as hopelessly twee. With the worst of the pandemic behind us, however, I found the series’ emphasis on small, everyday moments more resonant; Hitoshi Ashinano convincingly evokes the rhythm of everyday life in a world of scarcity, minus the Hobbesian emphasis on violent competition. Alpha, the main character, is an android who divides her time between running a small cafe and roaming the coastline on her scooter, photographing the empty roads and submerged towns as well as the small, vibrant communities where people still find time to hold rowdy association meetings and stage elaborate firework displays. Her efforts to document humanity’s final chapter offer a wistful—and hopeful—meditation on what it means to persevere in the face of uncertainty and change.

Best New Romance: Kowloon Generic Romance
By Jun Mayuzuki • Translated by Amanda Haley • Yen Press
The aesthetic of Kowloon Generic Romance is pure 80s manga—think City Hunter or RG Veda—but the story and characters suggest the work of filmmaker Wong Kar-Wai, as Kowloon focuses on an intense but unconsummated flirtation between Reiko, a real estate agent, and Kudou, her brash, horny colleague. Like Kar-Wai, manga-ka Jun Mayuzuki is as enamored of settings as she is of characters, leading the reader on a languid tour of Kowloon’s shopping districts, cafes, back alleys, and apartment blocks, conveying how densely settled this city-within-a-city truly is. Though there are some minor elements of science fiction in play, the main attraction is the artwork and pacing; Mayuzuki devotes an entire chapter to depicting, in rapturous detail, Reiko’s evening ritual of enjoying a cigarette on her flat’s meager balcony, allowing the reader to experience the moment as Reiko does: a brief, wordless respite from the hustle and bustle of Kowloon.

Best New Comedy: Phantom of the Idol
By Hijiki Isoflavone • Translated by Max Greenway • Kodansha
In this delightfully bonkers series, a grumpy male pop star swaps bodies with the ghost of a former teen idol whose discipline and talent help transform Yuya into a charismatic, telegenic performer. The twist? Yuya’s been possessed by Asahi Mogami, a perky girl whose budding career was cut short by a car accident. The physical slapstick takes the humor in some unexpected directions as Asahi navigates the complexities of inhabiting the lazy Yuya’s body, while the dialogue offers plenty of sly pokes at the music industry, as well as some not-so-subtle reminders that pop stardom can be as grueling as it is exhilarating.

Best Manga I Thought I’d Hate: The Men Who Created Gundam
By Hideki Ohwada, Hajime Yatate, and Yoshiyuki Tomino • Translated by Jason Moses • Denpa
Of all the ways you could tell the story of Japan’s most famous robot franchise, it seems only right that Gundam creators Hideki Ohwada and Yoshiyuki Tomino opted for an over-the-top manga that dramatically recreates key moments in the series’ early history. The prevailing tone is reminiscent of a VH-1 Behind the Music special, complete with sudden reversals and last-minute triumphs; every line of dialogue is delivered with the kind of urgency usually reserved for a nuclear crisis, even when the conversation is focused on the more mundane aspects of creating a hit television show. Interspersed among the chapters are brief but useful essays connecting the storylines to real events, offering readers a more nuanced explanation of how Gundam helped the create the template for modern pop-cultural fandoms around the globe.

Worst Manga I Thought I’d Love: Crazy Food Truck
By Rokurou Ogaki • Translated by Amanda Haley • VIZ Media
On paper, Crazy Food Truck sounded like a blast, a cross between Mad Max: Fury Road and The Great Food Truck Race. In practice, however, Crazy Food Truck was surprisingly dull, serving up fight sequences as unimaginative as the food its hero serves his few paying customers. The central joke might be funnier if Gordon’s menu was so good that people would risk life and limb for his gourmet sandwiches, but when a BLT with mustard is his signature dish, it seems more like a failure of imagination than a real attempt at humor, especially when creator Rokurou Ogaki frequently reminds us that Gordon has mounted a cannon on top of his truck to ward off bad guys. Gordon’s sidekick Anisa is a one-note character, inserted into the narrative primarily for fan service that’s so indifferently executed it’s hard to muster any outrage over her penchant for nudity. I have no doubt this series rocked some reader’s world, but I found it flavorless. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 6/7/22)

Worst Manga I Read in 2022: Rooster Fighter
By Sou Sakuratani • Translated by Jonah Mayahara-Miller • VIZ Media
Rooster Fighter is a disappointment: the premise is too slight to sustain a long series, the script is strenuously unfunny, and the storylines are numbingly predictable. In every chapter, the nameless hero wanders into a new town, antagonizes and befriends the locals in equal measure, then kills a grotesque demon that’s been terrorizing the community. About the only good joke in whole series is how the rooster kills demons; anyone who’s lived on or near a farm will enjoy a rueful laugh or two at the hero’s superpower. Otherwise, this series is a total Cock-a-Doodle-Don’t. (Reviewed at Manga Bookshelf on 8/16/22)

Emma Dreams of Stars: Inside the Gourmet Guide

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Before Yelp! and Open Table made it easy to find a good restaurant, you had two options: consult your local newspaper’s Arts & Leisure section, or buy a guidebook that ranked and sorted joints by price, cuisine, decor, and service. Zagat’s, for example, offered pithy, sometimes withering, assessments of restaurants that were capped by a starred rating, while The Fearless Critic used a ten-point scale that resembled the scoring system for a gymnastics meet. The most trusted—in the US, at least—was the Forbes Travel Guide, which employed an army of undercover critics to evaluate hotels and restaurants, and rank them on a scale from “average” to “one of the best in the country”. Though different in tone and format, all three owed a debt to a much older publication: The Michelin Guide, which was introduced in 1900.

The Guide was the brainchild of Édouard and André Michelin, founders of the Michelin Tire Company. At the time their booklet debuted, France was just beginning to embrace the automobile; the brothers hoped that distributing free copies might encourage people to buy their first car, as the Guide contained a wealth of information for the would-be motorist, including maps, auto repair tips, and lists of hotels, garages, restaurants, and attractions. In the 1920s, the Guide introduced its first rating system, eventually settling on a scale of one to three stars. The Guide also began hiring anonymous male inspectors to visit restaurants and hotels around Europe, reasoning that the nature of the job—travelling solo for weeks at a time—made it impossible for a woman to perform.

Enter Emmanuelle Masionneuve, who joined the Guide almost 100 years after Michelin introduced its star system. Masionneuve had an unusual path to becoming an inspector, training first as a lawyer and journalist before pivoting into the culinary industry. After working for three France’s most esteemed chefs—Michael Bras, Alain Ducasse, Alain Passard—she decided to put her food expertise to the ultimate test by auditioning for the Michelin Guide. Emma Dreams of Stars: Inside the Gourmet Guide, co-written with Julia Pavlowitch and illustrated by Kan Takahama, tells Masionneuve’s story.

In the early chapters, Emma functions both as a character and a reader surrogate. We follow Emma through every stage of her training, from her initial interview to her first solo trip, along the way gleaning interesting tidbits about how inspectors maintain their anonymity, interact with chefs and hoteliers, and avoid heartburn. (Eating rich meals all day isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.) Emma Dreams of Stars also explores Maisonneuve’s efforts to navigate the stuffy male culture of the Michelin Guide, where she’s reminded on a daily basis that she’s the only woman inspector. Though most of her male peers are collegial, she feels the weight of being a trailblazer, worrying that even the smallest mistake will jeopardize her future with the Guide.

Of course, Emma Dreams of Stars is also a story about French cuisine, and that front, the authors deliver exceptionally well. Throughout the book, there are lengthy discussions about the merits of various cheeses and wines, as well as numerous soliloquies extolling the virtue of simply prepared dishes, locally sourced ingredients, and regional specialties. Artist Kan Takahama does an expert job of rendering the food, using a soft palette that captures the texture and presentation of each meal in life-like detail. The same is true of her backgrounds; every setting demonstrates similar attention to light, pattern, and color, making it easy for the reader to feel the atmosphere of every restaurant and hotel that Emma visits, from a chic Parisian cafe to a dim but cozy rural pub.

Whenever the shop talk threatens to stop the story in its tracks, Takahama breaks up the stream of chatter by breaking the flow of her tight, orderly grids. Characters burst out of the frame, allowing us to more fully appreciate their enthusiasm and resolve. As these panels demonstrate, Takahama has a great talent for faces, working in a naturalistic style that’s reminiscent of Naoki Urasawa; Takahama imbues each one of her characters with an individuality that speaks volumes about their age and experiences, as well their taste in food and wine.

Though Takahama’s artwork is stellar throughout the book, there are a few passages where the authors didn’t fully trust the images to tell Emma’s story, most notably when depicting her strained relationship with Thomas, her long-term boyfriend. The two never meet in person, but exchange increasingly tense voice mails and text messages that reveal just how much Thomas resents Emma’s growing independence. Takahama’s artwork does a great job of showing us how conflicted Emma feels, but the authors saddle these moments with heavy-handed voice overs that spell out what the reader can readily grasp from Emma’s facial expressions and body language: she’s determined to have a meaningful career on her own terms, even if that means leaving Thomas behind.

If these moments feel a little forced, Emma’s interactions with other female foodies do not. In one particularly delightful chapter, for example, the Guide dispatches Emma to the Côte Vermeille, where a chance encounter with Natalie, a local vinegar maker, leads Emma to a lively farm-to-table bistro on the outskirts of town. As Natalie and Emma chat about the terroir–the secret ingredient in Natalie’s concoctions–we can see how their expertise and enthusiasm helps them form an immediate bond; by the time they arrive at the restaurant, they’re chatting like old friends.

The same spirit of mutual respect animates Emma’s interactions with another culinary expert: Kanami, a travel guide who leads Emma through a whirlwind tour of Tokyo. Kanami explains the origins of particular dishes, challenges the Michelin rating for a famous restaurant, and takes Emma to the Tsukiji Market to see how local fishmongers transform enormous tuna into delicate morsels. Emma is humbled by the depth and breadth of Kanami’s knowledge, and vows to return to Japan so that she can “keep learning and growing.” By the time I finished Emma Dreams of Stars, that’s how I felt, too. I was reminded of how little most of us know about the food we eat, and pledged to develop a deeper, more thoughtful relationship with the meals I prepare, and the dishes I enjoy. Recommended.

EMMA DREAMS OF STARS: INSIDE THE GOURMET GUIDE • BY EMMANUELLE MAISONNEUVE AND JULIA PAVLOWITCH • ART BY KAN TAKAHAMA • TRANSLATED BY EAMON FOGARTY • KODANSHA COMICS • NO RATING • 192 pp. 

 

Crazy Food Truck, Vol. 1

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Crazy Food Truck isn’t the worst manga I’ve read this year, but it’s one of the most disappointing, marred by lazy writing, paper-thin characterizations, and excessive fan service.

The most basic problem is that Crazy Food Truck reads more like a rough outline than a fully realized story. The premise is–if you’ll pardon the expression–half-baked: a gruff ex-soldier ekes out a living by operating a food truck in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. In scene after scene, Gordon laments the lack of paying customers, a joke that doesn’t square with the fact that he’s mounted a cannon on his truck to ward off the rogue military officers and exploitative creeps who inhabit this desert. Gordon’s cooking exploits aren’t particularly interesting or educational, either; the scenes of him drying squid meat or waxing poetic about mustard are executed in such a perfunctory way that they could have been lifted from almost any food manga.

Another issue is that Gordon is less a person than an archetype, a man with a secret military past who reluctantly helps people in need, always getting the upper hand in situations where he’s outmanned and outgunned. Early in chapter one, for example, he stumbles across a teenager in a sleeping bag. Arisa initially seems helpless and kind of dim, but turns out to be just as lethal as Gordon, with considerable martial arts skills and weapons expertise. Her bubble-headed observations and refusal to wear clothing grate on Gordon’s nerves, yet Gordon tolerates her child-like behavior, allowing her to tag along with him even after she eats all his food. (Surely that would be a bridge too far for a cook, no?) We never learn why Arisa is on the run from authorities, or why she acts like a six-year-old; she’s just a pin-up who pigs out with gusto. Fair enough, I guess, since this series ran in Monthly Comic @Bunch, but the infantilization of her character makes her exchanges with Gordon more icky than amusing, and gives us little insight into either character’s motivations.

Perhaps the most serious problem with Crazy Food Truck is Rokurou Ogaki’s lack of vision. A story this outlandish needs bold, individual artwork that matches the intensity and silliness of its central conceit, but Ogaki opts for a blandly synthetic approach that borrows liberally from better series. Each character seems to have been created by a different person: some are grotesquely cartoonish—the better to emphasize their villainy—while others look like they’ve escaped from Food Wars or Golden Kamuy. The backgrounds, too, lack panache, even when Ogaki teases the idea that the world was once a more lush place teeming with animals and people. In the absence of a distinctive, unifying style, the characters and objects look like they’ve been clipped out of different magazines and pasted into the panels.

It’s a shame that Crazy Food Truck is so indifferently executed, as I thought its Mad Max-meets-Food-Network premise sounded like fun. Alas, it’s the manga equivalent of a failed Iron Chef experiment, a mish-mash of ingredients don’t quite add up to a tasty dish. Not recommended.

CRAZY FOOD TRUCK, VOL. 1 • BY ROKUROU OGAKI • TRANSLATED BY AMANDA HALEY • ADAPTED BY JENNIFER LEBLANC • LETTERING BY E.K. WEAVER, JEANNIE LEE, SARA LINSLEY, AND JAMES GAUBATZ • VIZ MEDIA • RATED MATURE (NUDITY AND VIOLENCE) • 198 pp.