Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Romance/Romantic Comedy

Insomniacs After School, Vol. 1

by

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

by

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+ 

The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes, Vol. 1

by

Google the term sanpaku, and you’ll quickly discover why the word resists easy translation. In its most basic sense, sanpaku means “three whites,” a condition in which the iris sits a little higher or lower in the eye than normal, exposing more of the schlera. The significance of having sanpaku eyes, however, seems hotly contested, with some websites proclaiming it a curse and others declaring it evidence of great emotional turmoil. The heroine of Denpa Books’ newest series is neither doomed nor crazy, just deeply frustrated that her chronic Resting Bitch Face makes it difficult to show Katou, her crush, how cool and awesome she thinks he is.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes is the artwork. The illustrations are rendered in a warm, pink palette that captures Amane’s agitation more effectively than deformations and sweat drops alone could do. The character designs are somewhat generic—Katou is a standard-issue shojo prince, right down to his mega-watt grin—but Amane and her siblings are drawn with genuine individuality, revealing their shared family curse: all three look meaner than they are. Amane, in particular, stands apart from her galaxy-eyed peers with her cat-like pupils and scowling expression that make her look more like a bosozoku gang member than a sweet, timid high school student.

Though artist Shunsuke Sorato convincingly shows us how flustered Amane becomes in Katou’s presence, there’s almost no dramatic or comedic tension in this series; by chapter three, it’s obvious that the sweetly hunky Katou likes Amane, too, and is eager to reciprocate her affection. Therein lies the biggest problem with The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes: the story is so one-sided and predictable that it barely registers as a rom-com, since there’s almost nothing at stake in Amane and Katou’s exchanges. For middle-school readers navigating a first crush, Sorato’s storytelling approach will feel reassuring, but for older teens The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes may be too anodyne to be truly engaging.

A review copy was provided by Denpa Books. Volume one will be released digitally on August 25th at the Denpa Books website and September 1st on additional digital platforms. The print edition will be released on September 15th.

THE GIRL WITH THE SANPAKU EYES • ART & STORY BY SHUNSUKE SORATO • TRANSLATED BY DAVID GOLDBERG • LETTERING BY GLEN ISIP • DENPA BOOKS • 128 pp. • NO RATING (SUITABLE FOR READERS AGED 10+)

Takane & Hana, Vol. 1

by

The opening pages of Takane & Hana offer a uniquely Japanese twist on the meet cute: the couple in question are set up by a marriage broker who thinks she’s introducing a twenty-three year old beauty to a twenty-six-year-old bachelor. The bride-to-be, however, is a sixteen-year-old high school student who’s posing as her older sister — don’t ask — while the potential groom is an impossibly handsome jerk who’s angry that his family is pressuring him to settle down. Guess what happens next? If you said, “Opposites attract!”, you wouldn’t be wrong, though the course of true love hits a few potholes along the way.

I’m of two minds about Takane & Hana. My fifteen-year-old self adores Hana for being so smart and sassy, the kind of girl who says devastatingly true things and still manages to stay in other people’s good graces. My forty-five-year-old self, however, feels uncomfortable with the ten-year age gap between its lead characters. While Yuki Shiwasu cheerfully acknowledges the troubling power dynamic between Takane and Hana, she wants to eat her cake and have it, too: Hana’s incisive comments are supposed to level the playing field with the older, more experienced Takane, making it OK for the two to flirt, date, and kiss. At the end of the day, however, the economic and educational gulf between Hana and Takane still seems vast, making Takane seem like a predatory creep for preferring the company of a mature sixteen-year-old over a woman his age.

I know, I know: I’m humorless. A killjoy. A big ol’ capital-F feminist. But in a moment when we’re having serious conversations about power and consent, I’m having difficulty getting caught up in Takane and Hana’s romantic shenanigans, however much Hana sounds like a teenaged Rosalind Russell, or how wonderfully elastic Takane and Hana’s faces may be. Takane & Hana is unquestionably someone’s guilty pleasure — just not mine.

Takane & Hana, Vol. 1
Story and Art by Yuki Shiwasu
Adaptation by Ysabet Reinhardt MacFarlane
VIZ Media, 200 pp.
Rated T, for Teens

Ne Ne Ne, Chapters 1-4

by

Ne Ne Ne sounds like E.L. James fanfic: the lead character is a virginal lass who’s forced into an arranged marriage with a sexy, mask-wearing man twenty years her senior. The actual story, however, is much less kinky than my capsule summary would suggest. Like millions of other nineteenth-century couples, sixteen-year-old Koyuki and thirty-seven-year-old Shin begin their married life as strangers, their union one of familial expediency rather than romance. Each entertains different ideas about what constitutes a proper marriage: for Koyuki, being married means homemaking and child-rearing, while for Shin, being married means mindful companionship. Most of their conflict stems from Koyuki’s immaturity, as she bursts into tears every time she burns a meal, tumbles off a ladder, or ruins one of Shin’s yukatas.

Though Koyuki’s bungled chores and teary monologues scream “moe,” Ne Ne Ne retains a core of emotional honesty that’s missing from other rom-coms about clumsy young girls and their older male admirers. The secret lies with the manga’s nuanced portrayal of Koyuki and Shin. Artist Daisuke Hagiwara does a fine job of showing us the degree to which the characters’ ages influence their expectations about married life, using small gestures — a shrug of the shoulder, a chaste kiss, a longing glance — to reveal how carefully the two are approaching their new roles. Author Shizuno Totono also raises the question of sex, hinting at the characters’ mutual attraction while acknowledging the moral and ethical dilemmas posed by Shin and Koyuki’s age gap.

Ne Ne Ne isn’t all angst and meaningful glances; Totono and Daisuke dish out plenty of jokes and sight gags, too, going to great lengths to demonstrate that Shin never takes his mask off. (Not even when he’s doing the laundry! Or snoring on a futon!) Shin’s mask serves a legitimate purpose beyond generating jokes and occasional moments of erotic tension, however: it’s a symbol of his profession — priest — and his connection to the supernatural world. In one of the story’s loveliest scenes, Shin gives Koyuki an impromptu lesson on how to spot yokai. Koyuki’s face conveys her profound sense of wonder at seeing her first dragon, and her delight at forging a small but meaningful connection with Shin — something she’s struggled to do in their more routine interactions as husband and wife.

Totono and Daisuke are less successful at wringing humor out of the couple’s interactions with supporting players. These characters are two-dimensional at best, defined by a single trait or habit that determines how they react to Koyuki and Shin’s marriage. Their brash neighbor Shouta, for example, cracks wise about the age gap between Shin and Koyuki — at one point, he implores Koyuki to marry him “when that old guy dies” — but his comments are anachronistic; it’s hard to imagine a young man in Meiji-era Japan finding an arranged marriage unusual, or speaking to his elders with such blatant disregard for etiquette. Koyuki’s father is similarly two-dimensional, a walk-on role whose main function is to defend his daughter’s chastity with comic fury. (He forbids Shin to consummate the marriage until Koyuki turns 20.) As with Shouta, these scenes don’t contribute much to our understanding of the period setting or the family dynamics that brought Shin and Koyuki together; they do, however, remind us that Shin is waaaaaaaay older than Koyuki.

If Totono and Hagiwara sometimes seem too intent on proving to the reader that Ne Ne Ne is more than just a pervy tale about an old guy in a mask and his child bride, the manga nevertheless manages to be funny, sweet, and honest about the challenges of marital life — something I didn’t expect from a story with such a ludicrous premise. Recommended.

Yen Press is simultaneously publishing the English-language edition of Ne Ne Ne as it’s released in Japan. As of March 20, 2017, four chapters are available. They can be purchased individually or as a package through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Book Walker, ComiXology, Google Play, iBooks and Kobo.

NE NE NE, CHAPTERS 1-4 • STORY BY SHIZUKO TOTONO, ART BY DAISUKE HAGIWARA • YEN PRESS • NO RATING (APPROPRIATE FOR TEENS 13+)

Anonymous Noise, Vol. 1

by

Anonymous Noise is to manga what “Talk Dirty to Me” is to contemporary hit radio: both have a killer hook — that plot! that sax! — and inane lyrics.

The story begins with a vorspiel of sorts. Nino, a tot with a golden voice, bonds with her next-door neighbor Momo, who shares her enthusiasm for singing, if not her sense of pitch. The two are inseparable until Momo’s family abruptly moves away. While pining for her lost friend, Nino crosses paths with Yuzu, a short, feisty songwriter whose tunes help Nino discover her true potential as a vocalist. He, too, unexpectedly skips town, leaving Nino despondent once again — so despondent, in fact, that she begins wearing a surgical mask to prevent herself from screaming. (No, I’m not making that up.)

Flash forward to the present: Nino is now in middle school, roaming the halls in a mask and obsessing about Momo. A chance encounter reunites her with Yuzu, who’s penning tunes for the school’s struggling Popular Music Club. What Nino doesn’t realize is that Yuzu’s bandmates are, in fact, members of In No Hurry to Shout, a pop act as famous for their identity-concealing costumes as their chart-topping songs. (Apparently no one else has put two and two together, either, as the snotty school council president regularly threatens the club with termination.) Nino agrees to sit in for the club’s vocalist, unwittingly auditioning for In No Hurry to Shout in the process.

Despite its soap-opera plotting, Anonymous Noise never gels into a compelling story. One contributing factor is the characters, who are barely fleshed out. Nino, for example, is defined almost exclusively by her capacity for self-pity; she mopes incessantly, mooning over Momo as if he’d just moved away. (Six years have elapsed since Momo’s family skipped town.) Her romantic prospects are also one-note characters: Yuzu is a blustery jerk who yells, cajoles, and insults Nino, while Momo is sweetly chivalrous, the perfect boyfriend-in-training.

Another contributing factor is the lackluster artwork. Though other characters gush about Nino’s voice, Ryoko Fukuyama never *shows* us that Nino has the goods. We see close-ups of Nino’s gaping mouth and a smattering of musical notes whenever she warbles a tune, but we could just as easily infer that she was shouting, yodeling, or yawning from the lifeless, unimaginative way in which she’s drawn. A quick glance at Nodame Cantabile, Your Lie in April, Ludwig B., solanin, or Nana, demonstrates that it *is* possible to show how much physical effort it takes to produce a good sound, and what effect that sound is having on the audience. While such gestures don’t replicate the full experience of hearing a great band in person, they suggest what it might be like — something that Anonymous Noise fails to do on any level.

The bottom line: Anonymous Noise is too bland to be memorable, and too earnest to be fun. Not recommended.

ANONYMOUS NOISE, VOL. 1 • BY RYOKO FUKUYAMA • VIZ MEDIA • RATED T, FOR TEEN

A First Look at Tokyo Tarareba Girls

by

Are you breathlessly awaiting the next installment of Princess Jellyfish? Still fuming over Tokyopop’s cancellation of Suppli? Eagerly searching for a manga romance whose heroine is old enough to drink? Then I have the cure for what ails you: Akiko Higashimura’s Tokyo Tarareba Girls, which makes its digital debut tomorrow (2/14) courtesy of Kodansha Comics. This fizzy, fast-paced comedy is every bit as good as Higashimura’s Princess Jellyfish, deftly mixing wacky misunderstandings and witty banter with moments of genuine rue and self-reflection.

The first chapter begins with the narrator declaring, “I spent all my time wondering ‘What if,’ and then one day I woke up and was 33.” As Rinko fills us in on her career, female readers will feel an immediate sense of identification with her — she’s smart, capable, and constantly imagining her future instead of being fully invested in the present, something many of us are guilty of doing in our twenties and early thirties. Though Rinko has forged her own career path, she frets over being single. Rinko isn’t alone in her frustration, since Kaori and Kayuki — her gal pals and drinking buddies — are in the same boat.

The plot is set in motion by a cryptic message from Rinko’s co-worker Hayasaka. In a brief flashback to 2004, we see Rinko and Hayasaka on an uncomfortable date: she focuses on his shyness, his clothing, and his fumbling efforts to be suave, while he ignores her squirming and tries to give her an unwanted gift. Ten years later, both still work for the same company, although there’s a lingering note of tension — or is that romantic frisson? — between them. When Hayasaka sends Rinko a text asking, “I would like to discuss something with you. Could I trouble you for some time later this week?” Rinko immediately declares a “four-alarm” emergency and reaches out to her girls for counsel: after all this time, is Mr. Hayasaka planning to propose? And if so, should she say yes?

If you’re thinking been there, seen that, I get it. Tokyo Tarareba Girls sounds like a hundred other comedies about single women navigating a paired-off world, from Bridget Jones’ Diary to How to Be Single. What prevents Tarareba Girls from reading like a Sex in the City clone is Higashimura’s storytelling chops.

Consider Higashimura’s strategy for making us privy to Rinko’s thoughts. Though Rinko often functions as the series’ narrator, Higashimura looks for more imaginative ways to dramatize Rinko’s emotional life than simple disclosure. In one scene, for example, Rinko’s food — yes, you read that right — cheerfully engages her in a conversation about her romantic dilemma:

Coming from one of her gal pals, this exchange would sound too on-the-nose, a bald statement of the manga’s main thesis. But coming from an izakaya dish? That’s genius! It allows us a window into Rinko’s state of mind (and her state of intoxication) without falling back on such shop-worn devices as the “Dear Diary” entry or the “Little did I know then…” voice-over.

Elsewhere in chapter one, Higashimura uses a similar technique of transposing Rinko’s inner thoughts onto the outer world, using the visual language of action movies — explosions, falling debris — to evoke the intensity of Rinko’s embarrassment over misunderstanding a friendly overture:

This sequence, too, is genius: anyone who’s ever read too much into an email, a voice mail, a text, or a friendly conversation knows exactly how Rinko feels in that moment and can laugh — or cringe — in self-recognition. At the same time, however, the reader can also see that Rinko’s romantic delusions are blinding her to the real lesson of turning 33: that she should learn what — or who — she really wants instead of settling for Mr. Not Quite Right.

The first chapter ends with the introduction of a prickly, truth-telling character whose appearance adds a welcome jolt of energy to the story; his barroom sermon about self-defeating female behavior is a show-stopper, both for its blunt honesty and for the impact it has on Rinko and her pals. Whether he becomes Rinko’s enemy or love interest, his memorable exit leaves the reader wanting to know what happens next — further proof of Higashimura’s storytelling mojo.

TOKYO TARAREBA GIRLS, VOL. 1 • BY AKIKO HIGASHIMURA • KODANSHA COMICS • RATED OT, FOR OLDER TEENS (16+) 

The Earl & The Fairy, Vol. 1

by 1 Comment

Meet Lydia Carlton: she’s a so-called “fairy doctor,” a healer who acts as an intermediary between the spirit and human worlds. The rapid advance of technology in Victorian England has made Lydia’s job obsolete; most people no longer seek magical remedies for their ailments, and view Lydia as a relic of a less enlightened time, someone who steadfastly clings to the belief that she can see and talk to these mischievous folk. Lydia knows better: not only are fairies real, but they continue to wreak havoc with humans, even in an age of railroads, telegraphs, and steam-powered ships.

Lydia’s predicament would make a swell basis for a manga, but her abilities are more a plot contrivance than a central element of the drama — at least in volume one of The Earl & The Fairy. The initial chapters focus on Lydia’s fraught relationship with Edgar Ashenbert, a dashing young man who claims to be descended from the Blue Knight, a legendary warrior. Edgar enlists kidnaps Lydia because he needs someone to help him find the Blue Knight’s sword, the location of which is inscribed on a coin that can only be read by a fairy doctor.

If you’ve read more than five or six shojo manga — or, for that matter, five or six Harlequin romances — you can guess what sort of chap Edgar is: he’s handsome, possessive, and smug, with a tender side that the heroine’s beauty and decency helps reveal. Lydia is a similarly predictable character: she’s feisty and conflicted, simultaneously drawn to and repelled by her captor. Lydia also happens to be one of the duller knives in the Shojo Beat drawer, placing her trust in anyone who approaches her; she’s kidnapped not once but twice in the very first chapter of the story.

For a grumpy old lady like me, stale, silly lead characters would usually be a deal-breaker. The lively supporting cast and lovely artwork, however, drew me into the story, even when Edgar and Lydia’s conversations inspired eyeball rolling and hair pulling. (In later chapters, Edgar narrates his tortured personal history in comic detail — it’s courtship by information dump.)

The best character in The Earl & The Fairy — so far, at least — is Nico, a magical being who assumes the form of a fussy talking cat. On one level, Nico is a standard animal sidekick, providing much-needed comic relief: in one running joke, for example, he bristles with indignation every time he’s served a bowl of milk. (He prefers wine.) On another level, however, Nico is a reader stand-in, giving voice to our frustration with Lydia’s naivete; in essence, it’s like watching a horror movie in which one of the characters says, “Don’t open that door, dude, the killer’s in there.” You don’t say.

Ermine and Raven, a sister-brother duo in Edgar’s employ, also add depth to the cast. Their backstory is pure manga: both were enslaved by a wicked “prince” working out of the sewers of an unnamed American city. After Edgar rescued them, Ermine and Raven became his most devoted servants, waiting on him hand and foot, defending him against enemies, and wooing Lydia on his behalf. To be sure, henchmen/servants are a standard manga type, but Ermine and Raven have enough idiosyncrasies to make them interesting; Ermine, in particular, is an unusual figure, a melancholy cross-dresser who seems caught between the male and female worlds.

The Earl & The Fairy‘s other saving grace is the artwork. The character designs are crisply executed; though none of the characters are especially distinguished looking, artist Ayuko draws elegant, well-proportioned figures that are pleasing to the eye. The settings are rendered with even greater care, capturing the technology and landscapes of mid-nineteenth century England in convincing detail. (Well, minus the ships: when viewed from a distance, they appear to be eighteenth-century sailing vessels, while their interiors suggest a Cunard ocean liner.) Ayuko pays similar attention to lighting; in several nocturnal scenes, she does a fine job of suggesting the meager, irregular quality of candlelight, using delicate crosshatching to mark the boundary between light and shadow.

If the parts of Earl are greater than the whole, it’s still an entertaining series. I don’t know if moody landscapes and talking cats are enough to justify my investment in all four volumes, but I’m certainly willing to read another before declaring this nice-looking romance a dud.

THE EARL & THE FAIRY, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY AYUKO, ORIGINAL CONCEPT BY MIZUE TANI • VIZ MEDIA • 186 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

The Earl & The Fairy, Vol. 1

by

Meet Lydia Carlton: she’s a so-called “fairy doctor,” a healer who acts as an intermediary between the spirit and human worlds. The rapid advance of technology in Victorian England has made Lydia’s job obsolete; most people no longer seek magical remedies for their ailments, and view Lydia as a relic of a less enlightened time, someone who steadfastly clings to the belief that she can see and talk to these mischievous folk. Lydia knows better: not only are fairies real, but they continue to wreak havoc with humans, even in an age of railroads, telegraphs, and steam-powered ships.

Lydia’s predicament would make a swell basis for a manga, but her abilities are more a plot contrivance than a central element of the drama — at least in volume one of The Earl & The Fairy. The initial chapters focus on Lydia’s fraught relationship with Edgar Ashenbert, a dashing young man who claims to be descended from the Blue Knight, a legendary warrior. Edgar enlists kidnaps Lydia because he needs someone to help him find the Blue Knight’s sword, the location of which is inscribed on a coin that can only be read by a fairy doctor.

If you’ve read more than five or six shojo manga — or, for that matter, five or six Harlequin romances — you can guess what sort of chap Edgar is: he’s handsome, possessive, and smug, with a tender side that the heroine’s beauty and decency helps reveal. Lydia is a similarly predictable character: she’s feisty and conflicted, simultaneously drawn to and repelled by her captor. Lydia also happens to be one of the duller knives in the Shojo Beat drawer, placing her trust in anyone who approaches her; she’s kidnapped not once but twice in the very first chapter of the story.

For a grumpy old lady like me, stale, silly lead characters would usually be a deal-breaker. The lively supporting cast and lovely artwork, however, drew me into the story, even when Edgar and Lydia’s conversations inspired eyeball rolling and hair pulling. (In later chapters, Edgar narrates his tortured personal history in comic detail — it’s courtship by information dump.)

The best character in The Earl & The Fairy — so far, at least — is Nico, a magical being who assumes the form of a fussy talking cat. On one level, Nico is a standard animal sidekick, providing much-needed comic relief: in one running joke, for example, he bristles with indignation every time he’s served a bowl of milk. (He prefers wine.) On another level, however, Nico is a reader stand-in, giving voice to our frustration with Lydia’s naivete; in essence, it’s like watching a horror movie in which one of the characters says, “Don’t open that door, dude, the killer’s in there.” You don’t say.

Ermine and Raven, a sister-brother duo in Edgar’s employ, also add depth to the cast. Their backstory is pure manga: both were enslaved by a wicked “prince” working out of the sewers of an unnamed American city. After Edgar rescued them, Ermine and Raven became his most devoted servants, waiting on him hand and foot, defending him against enemies, and wooing Lydia on his behalf. To be sure, henchmen/servants are a standard manga type, but Ermine and Raven have enough idiosyncrasies to make them interesting; Ermine, in particular, is an unusual figure, a melancholy cross-dresser who seems caught between the male and female worlds.

The Earl & The Fairy‘s other saving grace is the artwork. The character designs are crisply executed; though none of the characters are especially distinguished looking, artist Ayuko draws elegant, well-proportioned figures that are pleasing to the eye. The settings are rendered with even greater care, capturing the technology and landscapes of mid-nineteenth century England in convincing detail. (Well, minus the ships: when viewed from a distance, they appear to be eighteenth-century sailing vessels, while their interiors suggest a Cunard ocean liner.) Ayuko pays similar attention to lighting; in several nocturnal scenes, she does a fine job of suggesting the meager, irregular quality of candlelight, using delicate crosshatching to mark the boundary between light and shadow.

If the parts of Earl are greater than the whole, it’s still an entertaining series. I don’t know if moody landscapes and talking cats are enough to justify my investment in all four volumes, but I’m certainly willing to read another before declaring this nice-looking romance a dud.

THE EARL & THE FAIRY, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY AYUKO, ORIGINAL CONCEPT BY MIZUE TANI • VIZ MEDIA • 186 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

7 Short Series Worth Adding to Your Manga Bookshelf

by

I like getting lost in a long, twisty story as much as the next person, but I often lose interest in a manga around the five- or ten-volume mark. As a service to other people afflicted with Manga ADHD, therefore, I’ve compiled a list of seven shorter series that enjoy pride of place on my shelves.

There were a few ground rules that guided my list-making. First, the series needed to be complete in five volumes or fewer. Second, every volume of the series needed to be readily available through a major retailer like Amazon. Third, the list needed to be diverse, covering a range of genres and demographics. Had I expanded the list to include out-of-print favorites — Antique Bakery, Apocalypse Meow, Club 9, Domu: A Child’s Dream, The Name of the Flower, Planetes — it would have been an unwieldy beast, and one sure to disappoint: why recommend a book that’s selling for $100 on eBay?

So without further ado… here are seven short series worth adding to your manga bookshelf.

A Distant Neighborhood
By Jiro Taniguchi • Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 2 volumes
A Distant Neighborhood is a wry, wistful take on a tried-and-true premise: a salaryman is transported back in time to his high school days, and must decide whether to act on his knowledge of the past or let events unfold as they did before. We’ve seen this story many times at the multiplex — Back to the Future, Peggy Sue Got Married — but Taniguchi doesn’t play the set-up for laughs; rather, he uses Hiroshi’s predicament to underscore the challenges of family life and the awkwardness of adolescence. (Hiroshi is the same chronological age as his parents, giving him special insight into the vicissitudes of marriage, as well as the confidence to cope with teenage tribulations.) Easily one of the most emotional, most intimate stories Taniguchi’s ever told. (A Distant Neighborhood was one of my picks for Best Manga of 2009; click here for the full list.)

Ichigenme: The First Class
By Fumi Yoshinaga • DMP • 2 volumes
One of the things that distinguishes Fumi Yoshinaga’s work from that of other yaoi artists is her love of dialogue. In works like Antique Bakery and Solfege, she reminds us that conversation can be an aphrodisiac, especially when two people are analyzing a favorite book or confessing a mutually-shared passion for art, cooking, or manga. True to form, the sexiest scenes in Ichigenme: The First Class Is Civil Law are conversations between law professors and their students. We feel the erotic charge of more experienced scholars engaging their proteges in intense debates over legal procedure and philosophy, even when the topics themselves are rather dry. Not that Yoshinaga skimps on the smut: there’s plenty of bedroom action as the carefree Tohdou helps his uptight, closeted classmate Tamiya explore his sexuality, but the series’ best moments are fully clothed. An entertaining manga that gets better with each reading. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 3/14/08.)

Ode to Kirihito
By Osamu Tezuka • Vertical, Inc. • 2 volumes
While investigating an outbreak of a mysterious disease, an earnest young doctor contracts it himself, becoming a hideous dog-man who craves raw meat. Kirihito’s search for the cause — and the cure — is the backbone of this globe-trotting adventure, but Kirihito’s quest to reclaim his humanity is its heart and soul; his travels bring him into contact with hustlers, racists, and superstitious villagers, each of whom greets him with a mixture of suspicion and fear. As its dog-man premise suggests, Ode to Kirihito is Tezuka at his bat-shit craziest: in one storyline, for example, Kirihito befriends a nymphomaniac circus performer who transforms herself into human tempura. But for all its over-the-top characters and plot developments (see “nympho human tempura,” above), Ode to Kirihito is one of Tezuka’s most moving stories, a thoughtful meditation on the the fluid boundaries between man and animal, sanity and insanity, good and evil. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 4/7/10.)

The Secret Notes of Lady Kanoko
By Ririko Tsujita • Tokyopop • 3 volumes
Kanoko, the sardonic heroine of The Secret Notes of Lady Kanoko, is a student of human behavior, gleefully filling her notebooks with detailed observations about her classmates. Though Kanoko would like nothing more than to remain on the sidelines, she frequently becomes embroiled in her peers’ problems; they value her independent perspective, as Kanoko isn’t the least bit interested in dating, running for student council, or currying favor with the alpha clique. Kanoko’s sharp tongue and cool demeanor might make her the mean-girl villain in another shojo manga, but Ririko Tsujita embraces her heroine’s prickly, opinionated nature and makes it fundamental to Kanoko’s appeal. It’s the perfect antidote to shojo stories about timid good girls and boy-crazy klutzes.

7 Billion Needles
By Nobuaki Tadano • Vertical, Inc. • 4 volumes
Nobuaki Tadano gives Hal Clement’s Needle a manga makeover, moving the action from a remote island in the South Seas to Japan, and replacing Clement’s wholesome, Hardy Boy protagonist with a sullen teenage girl who’s none too pleased to discover that an alien bounty hunter has taken control of her body. The decision to make Hikaru a troubled loner with a difficult past is a stroke of genius; her social isolation proves almost as formidable an obstacle for her to overcome as the monster that she and Horizon (as the bounty hunter is known) are pursuing. Her personal struggles also add a level of raw, emotional authenticity to the story — something that was largely absent from the fascinating, though clinically detached, original. Oh, and the monster? It’s a doozy. (Volumes one and two were reviewed at The Manga Critic on 11/21/10.)

To Terra
By Keiko Takemiya • Vertical, Inc. • 3 volumes
If Richard Wagner wrote space operas, he might have composed something like Keiko Takemiya’s To Terra, an inter-generational drama about a race of telepathic mutants who’ve been exiled from their home world. Under the leadership of the charismatic Jomy Marcus Shin, the Mu embark on a grueling voyage back to Terra to be reunited with their human creators. Their principle foe: an evil supercomputer named Mother. Takemiya’s richly detailed artwork makes To Terra an almost cinematic experience, suggestive of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Star Wars. But don’t be fooled by those blinking computers and blazing starships: To Terra is an unabashedly Romantic saga about two ubermensch locked in a struggle of cosmic proportions. No doubt Richard would approve. (To Terra was one of my picks for Best Manga of 2007; read the full list at PopCultureShock. For more information on To Terra‘s history, click here.)

Toto! The Wonderful Adventure
By Yuko Osada • Del Rey • 5 volumes
Shonen series often run to 10, 20, or 40 volumes, but Toto! The Wonderful Adventure proves that good stories come in shorter packages, too. Yuko Osada brazenly steals ideas from dozens of other sources — Castle in the Sky, One Piece, Last Exile, The Wizard of Oz — to produce a boisterous, fast-paced story about a tyro explorer who crosses paths with sky pirates, military warlords, and a high-kicking senjutsu expert named Dorothy. Though the jokes are hit-or-miss, Toto! boasts crisp artwork, strong female characters, and an infectious sense of bonhomie among the series’ protagonists; Kakashi and his traveling companions are impossible to dislike. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 9/16/10.)

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Cat-Eyed Boy (Kazuo Umezu • VIZ • 2 volumes): Readers looking for an introduction to Kazuo Umezu’s work could do a lot worse than this two-volume collection of stories about a strange little boy who’s half-human, half-demon. Umezu gives free reign to his imagination, conjuring some of the most bizarre monsters in the J-horror canon. The results aren’t always as shocking as they might be, but Cat-Eyed Boy is by turns funny, scary, and sad. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 10/3/10.)

Lady Snowblood (Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kimimura • Dark Horse • 4 volumes): Now that everyone’s forgotten Kill Bill, the epic mess “inspired” by Kazuo Koike’s Lady Snowblood, it’s possible to read this series for what it is: a deliciously trashy story about a beautiful assassin who manipulates, cajoles, seduces, and stabs her way through Meiji-era Japan. Expect copious nudity, buckets of blood, and fight scenes so outrageous they have to be seen to be believed.

One Pound Gospel (Rumiko Takahashi • VIZ • 4 volumes): In this charming sports comedy, a struggling boxer is torn between his love for food and his love for a pretty young nun who wants him to lay down his fork, lose some weight, and win a few matches. The series is a little episodic (Takahashi published new chapters sporadically), but the dialogue and slapstick humor have a characteristically Takahashian zing.

For additional suggestions, see:

  • 5 Underrated Shojo Manga, which includes Setona Mizushiro’s X-Day;
  • My 10 Favorite CMX Titles, which includes such short series as Astral Project, Chikyu Misaki, Kiichi and the Magic Books, The Name of the Flower, and Presents. Note that many of these series are out of print and may be hard to find through retailers like Amazon;
  • My 10 Favorite Spooky Manga, which includes such short series as Dororo, Gyo, Mail, and School Zone.

The Name of the Flower, Vols. 1-4

by

Given the sheer number of nineteenth-century Brit-lit tropes that appear in The Name of the Flower — neglected gardens, orphans struck dumb by tragedy, brooding male guardians — one might reasonably conclude that Ken Saito was paying homage to Charlotte Brontë and Frances Hodgson Burnett with her story about a fragile young woman who falls in love with an older novelist. And while that manga would undoubtedly be awesome — think of the costumes! — The Name of the Flower is, in fact, far more nuanced and restrained than its surface details might suggest.

The story starts from an old-as-the-hills premise: the orphan who grows up to marry — or, in this case, pine for — her guardian. In The Name of the Flower, the orphan role is fulfilled by Chouko, who, at the age of sixteen, lost her parents in a car accident. Overwhelmed by grief, Chouko stopped speaking or showing emotion until a distant relative took her into his home, admonished her for being silent, and suggested that she revive the house’s lifeless garden. Flash forward two years, and Chouko has emerged from her shell, still quiet but full of calm purpose and warm feelings for Kei, her guardian. Kei, however, is a troubled soul, a successful novelist who achieved notoriety for a string of nihilistic books written while he was in his early twenties. His eccentric garb (he wears a yukata just about everywhere) and brusque demeanor suggest a man in full flight from the outside world — or at least some painful memories.

The real drama begins when Chouko graduates from high school. Though Kei harbors feelings for Chouko, he worries about the gap in age and experience that separates them — he’s thirty, she’s eighteen — reluctantly acknowledging that it would be selfish to deny her a chance at independence. Despite Kei’s gruff prodding, however, Chouko can’t quite strike out on her own; her profound fear of abandonment keeps her tethered to Kei, even though she attends college and cultivates a small but supportive circle of friends. In short, the two are locked in a complicated, co-dependent relationship that’s about as healthy as Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester’s, though less sensational. (Kei doesn’t have a mad wife stashed in a remote corner of the house or a failed relationship with a French dancer in his past.) Only the intervention of other people — Akiyama, Kei’s sole friend, and Yousuke, Chouko’s classmate and not-so-secret admirer — prevents Kei and Chouko from sinking into a destructive cycle of clinging to and withdrawing from one another.

Throughout the series, Ken Saito walks a fine line between romanticizing Kei and Chouko’s relationship and recognizing its less savory aspects, generally erring on the side of sympathetic frankness. The series’ ending may be predictable, but the feelings it evokes in the reader are not, as we’re left to wonder whether Kei and Chouko can finally let go of their tragic pasts to embrace the present. At the same time, however, the story’s lighter moments — especially some wonderful comic business with Chouko’s friends, a group of hyper-verbal bibliophiles — suggest that Chouko, at least, is capable of feeling great joy and connecting with other people, a suggestion borne out by her relationship with the salty neighborhood septuagenarians, who stop by to trade gardening tips and upbraid Kei for his reclusive, sullen behavior.

Saito’s artwork is simple but lovely. Though her figures and faces aren’t especially distinctive, each of the principle characters’ appearance has been given careful consideration. Aspiring author Yousuke, for example, plays his part to the hilt, sporting a jacket with elbow patches and a tousled mop, while Chouko’s numerous experiments with hairstyles reveal a young woman just beginning to discover her own beauty. (I vacillated between ascribing Kei’s fondness for traditional garb to the author’s theory of the character and her desire to draw handsome men in period costume.) As one would imagine from a manga with the word “flower” in the title, floral imagery plays an important role in illustrating the characters’ inner lives, both in a conventional sense (e.g. faces superimposed atop images of roses) and in a more subtle fashion as well, with the plants’ own natural cycle of growth, death, and rebirth serving as a visual metaphor for the ebb and flow of Kei and Chouko’s relationship. Saito reserves her most detailed panels for Chouko’s garden, however, showing us not only what she planted, but also the physical space itself, from the trellises and vines to the rock formations — a gentle reminder that planting and tending flowers played a key role in Chouko’s emotional rehabilitation, just as it did for Mary Lennox in Burnett’s The Secret Garden.

At four volumes, The Name of the Flower is just the right length for the story that Saito wants to tell, allowing her enough space to explore Kei and Chouko’s relationship without resorting to false drama to delay its resolution. The prevailing mood is wistful and, at times, dark, but never melodramatic; Saito’s restraint is key to preventing The Name of the Flower from devolving into tawdry theatrics. It’s a surprisingly thoughtful character study that proves that shojo can be just as grown-up and sophisticated as its big sister josei. Highly recommended.

THE NAME OF THE FLOWER, VOLS. 1-4 • BY KEN SAITO • CMX • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

My 10 Favorite CMX Titles

by

CMX may not have had the biggest titles or the biggest sales, but its catalog had a pleasing eclecticism:  who else would license series as utterly different as Moon Child, Madara, and Go West? I didn’t always love what they published, but I appreciated their efforts to bring important artists and off-beat series to American audiences’ attention. I also appreciated the care and consistency with which they edited books; it’s a sad irony that many fans will remember them for the Tenjo Tenghe fiasco and not for the fine job they did with Emma and Shirley. Below are the ten CMX titles I plan to keep in my permanent collection. (Click here for a kid-friendly list of CMX manga.)

astral110. Astral Project
By Marginal and Suyuji Takeda • 4 volumes (complete)
Astral Project might have been an indigestible stew of pseudo-science and Deep Thoughts About Jazz, as it focuses on a young man discovers a connection between his sister’s disappearance and an Albert Ayler recording that helps facilitate out-of-body experiences. Marginal spins a ripping yarn, however, grounding the story’s more fantastic elements in the gritty realism of Tokyo’s red light district. He immerses us in the story to such a degree, in fact, that we learn things as Masahiko does; we’re never one step ahead of our protagonist, a common problem in thrillers. Syuji Takeya’s artwork won’t appeal to everyone, as it sometimes has a rough, sketchy quality that doesn’t mesh well with the dark, Photoshopped backgrounds, but Takeya creates a memorable assortment of faces and bodies that suggest the seediness of Masahiko’s world more readily than dialog could. Quite possibly Ornette Coleman’s favorite manga. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 10/27/08. )

chikyu19. Chikyu Misaki
By Yuji Iwahara • 3 volumes (complete)
This fast-paced adventure plays like best live-action film Disney never made, mixing comedy, family drama, and fantasy elements to tell the story of fourteen-year-old Misaki, who discovers that the local lake is inhabited by a pint-sized Loch Ness Monster. The twist? Little Neo transforms into a cute little boy on land — a nifty trick when a band of kidnappers-cum-poachers get wind of his existence. Chikyu Misaki has a kind of fierce kid logic to it: who but a ten-year-old would dream up a story in which a dinosaur, a downed airplane, a lost suitcase filled with gold, and a potential stepmother all get a turn in the spotlight? Yuji Iwahara’s artwork is also a big plus: his character designs do a fine job of delineating each cast member’s personality and role in the drama, while his action scenes are crisp and fluid. Only a few odd, squicky moments of sexual humor prevent this from being a slam-dunk recommendation for the under-twelve crowd.

nameflower28. The Name of the Flower
By Ken Seito • 4 volumes (complete)
Did Ken Saito have Charlotte Brontë on the brain when she dreamed up the plot for The Name of the Flower? I ask because Flower‘s storyline seems like pure Masterpiece Theater fodder: Chouko, a young orphan left mute and despondent by her parents’ death, is sent to live with a male guardian who  endured a similarly tragic past. Over time, the two form a deep attachment that neither dares admit, an attachment tested by Chouko’s decision to enroll in college and Kei’s general reclusiveness. If the set-up is ripe for melodrama, Saito manages to craft a story that’s rooted in everyday experience; her characters’ journey to self-awareness and romance is complicated by real-life obstacles, not mad wives in the attic. Lovely art cements the bittersweet mood of this borderline josei title. One of my nominees for Best New Manga of 2009.

Shirley_Cover7. Shirley
By Kaoru Mori • 1 volume (complete)
At first glance, Shirley looks like a practice run for Emma, a collection of pleasant, straightforward maid stories featuring prototype versions of Emma‘s main characters. A closer examination, however, reveals that Shirley is, in fact, a series of detailed character sketches exploring the relationships between three maids and their respective employers. While some of these sketches aren’t entirely successful — Kaoru Mori cheerfully describes one as “an extremely cheap story about a boy and an animal” and attributes the inspiration for another to The A-Team — the five chapters focusing on thirteen-year-old Shirley Madison and her independent, headstrong employer are as good as any passage in Emma. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 3/9/10.)

kiichi26. Kiichi and the Magic Books
By Taka Amano • 5 volumes (complete)
This poignant coming-of-age story focuses on Kiichi, a young oni whose lonely existence is transformed by a chance encounter with a traveling librarian. Inspired by the information in one of Mototaro’s books, Kiichi decides to leave his village in search of others like himself. Kiichi’s journey brings him into contact with a variety of people, many of whom seek to harm him or profit from his unique abilities, or who simply fear his appearance. Though Taka Amano never shies away from the darker implications of her story, showing us just how unscrupulous, ignorant, and venal people of all ages can be, Kiichi and the Magic Books is never mawkish or didactic; the fantasy elements add considerable interest and charm, while Kiichi proves emotionally resilient in the face of prejudice and mistrust. Readers more accustomed to the look and feel of Naruto may not initially respond to Amano’s starkly beautiful pen-and-ink drawings. Encourage them to try Kiichi anyway, as this series offers the same degree of complexity, imagination, and emotional authenticity as an Ursula LeGuin or Phillip Pullman novel. CMX’s best title for readers under the age of twelve. (Originally reviewed at Good Comics for Kids on 1/23/09.)

presents15. Presents
By Kanako Inuki • 3 volumes (complete)
Any series that prompted John Jakala to coin a phrase as useful and catchy as “comeuppance theater” deserves a place on a top ten list of some kind; the fact that Kanako Inuki’s horror-comedy is fiendishly entertaining earns it a spot on this particular countdown. Presents reads a lot like Tales of the Crypt, with each story adhering to the same formula: creepy child-woman Karumi offers an enticing present to an unsuspecting person, a present that quickly reveals itself to be an instrument of punishment for the recipient’s bad behavior or poor character. (Hence Jakala’s term “comeuppance theater.”) Though she loves drawing bugs and hideously deformed faces, Inuki is less interested in scaring us than making us laugh and squirm with recognition at our own folly; Inuki’s creepiest stories are also her funniest, satirizing commercial culture and female vanity with aplomb. A must for fans of Kazuo Umezu and Hideshi Hino.

gon44. Gon
By Masashi Tanaka • 7 volumes (complete)
Billed as “the pint-sized terror from the Jurassic era,” Gon is a small orange dinosaur who runs amok in present-day forests, oceans, and arctic tundras, terrorizing predators, defending small animals, and doing whatever else suits his mood. Masashi Tanaka’s artwork is old school in the best sense, employing cross-hatching and delicate lines in lieu of screentone to create volume and depth. His panels are astonishingly detailed yet never fussy or poorly composed — if anything, Tanaka’s technique yields sharper images than the contemporary practice of mixing computer-generated fill with hand-drawn lines. Though Tanaka endows his creatures with unusually expressive faces, he resists the urge to fully anthropomorphize them; their behavior seems species-appropriate even if their expressions occasional verge on human. (Read: the elephants don’t wear spats or drive automobiles, the dogs don’t pretend to be World War I flying aces.) His restraint inoculates Gon against a terminal case of the cutes, resulting in a sometimes funny, sometimes violent, sometimes heartbreaking look at the natural world. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 2/20/08.)

eroica153. From Eroica with Love
By Yasuko Aoike • 15 volumes (incomplete)
What begins as an unsatisfying story about a trio of telepathic teens quickly takes a turn for the awesome with the introduction of Dorian Red, an openly gay British earl who dresses like a rock star and crisscrosses the globe to steal priceless works of art. Eroica eventually settles into an entertaining cat-and-mouse game between Dorian and uptight NATO intelligence officer Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, a stoic homophobe who detests the winking, flirtatious Dorian. Though they travel separately, their paths frequently converge in hilarious and explosive ways: hijackings, kidnappings, car chases. The frosting on the cake is Yasuko Aoike’s vintage seventies character designs: Dorian is the spitting image of Robert Plant, right down to the ridiculously tight pants and flowing scarves, while Klaus wears a ‘do as severe and straight as he is. The result is a delirious, over-the-top action-adventure that brings rock-n-roll swagger to a James Bond premise.

swan32. Swan
By Kyoko Ariyoshi • 15 volumes (incomplete)
Swan captures a particular moment in ballet history when the best Russian troupes commanded large, enthusiastic audiences on both sides of the Iron Curtain; when every developed nation had a ballet company of its own (even if the form was imported from elsewhere); and when dancers like Nuryev and Fonteyn were bonafide international celebrities. Into this glamorous world comes sixteen-year-old Masumi, a Japanese girl from the sticks who has passion and raw talent, but lacks refinement. She wins a spot at a national academy for dance, and begins clawing her way up the ranks, learning the repertoire (cue the Tchaikovsky!), making friends and enemies, and eventually finding her way to New York for immersion in new styles and techniques. As compelling as the drama may be, the real star of Swan is the art: the dance choreography is beautifully rendered, capturing both the heroine’s graceful intensity and the music’s lyricism. A few aspects of Swan haven’t aged well — the heroine falls victim to bouts of hysterical deafness, for example — but the strong visuals, historically accurate details, and sports manga vibe keep this marvelous series buoyant throughout.

emma41. Emma
By Kaoru Mori • 10 volume (complete)
If Emma‘s rich-boy-loves-poor-maid storyline suggests a lost volume of The Forsyte Saga, the expert way in which William and Emma’s courtship is told more than compensates for a few moments of narrative cliche. Kaoru Mori immerses us in the very different worlds of her lead characters, from the elaborate dinner parties and country outings of William’s circle to the scut work and boozy revelry of Emma’s fellow servants. Mori occasionally fumbles small details (pssst… Tosca didn’t debut until 1900!), but most of the time she convincingly recreates the period through her exquisite pen-and-ink drawings of intricate costumes, ornate furnishings, and fussy architecture. That keen sense of observation extends to her cast as well: Emma bursts at the seams with memorable supporting players, from Kelly Stowner, William’s crusty but kind-hearted former governess, to Hakim Atawari, an Eton-educated raj and friend of the Jones family. The main story concludes with volume seven; volumes eight, nine, and ten feature stories about some of the secondary characters, as well as a resolution for Emma and William’s long and tortured romance. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 9/19/07.)

* * * * *

Here’s a friendly challenge to everyone who’s still mourning the loss of a favorite CMX title: if I didn’t include your favorite on this list, add your suggestion(s) to the comments thread. I’ll compile everyone’s recommendations into a poll and let you choose one for me to review next month.

My 10 Favorite CMX Titles

by 20 Comments

CMX may not have had the biggest titles or the biggest sales, but its catalog had a pleasing eclecticism:  who else would license series as utterly different as Moon Child, Madara, and Go West? I didn’t always love what they published, but I appreciated their efforts to bring important artists and off-beat series to American audiences’ attention. I also appreciated the care and consistency with which they edited books; it’s a sad irony that many fans will remember them for the Tenjo Tenghe fiasco and not for the fine job they did with Emma and Shirley. Below are the ten CMX titles I plan to keep in my permanent collection. (Click here for a kid-friendly list of CMX manga.)

astral110. ASTRAL PROJECT

MARGINAL AND SUYUJI TAKEDA • 4 VOLUMES (complete)

Astral Project might have been an indigestible stew of pseudo-science and Deep Thoughts About Jazz, thanks to its far-out premise: a young man discovers a connection between his sister’s disappearance and an Albert Ayler recording that helps facilitate out-of-body experiences. Marginal spins a ripping yarn, however, grounding the story’s more fantastic elements in the gritty realism of Tokyo’s red light district. He immerses us in the story to such a degree, in fact, that we learn things as Masahiko does; we’re never one step ahead of our protagonist, a common problem in thrillers. Syuji Takeya’s artwork won’t appeal to everyone, as it sometimes has a rough, sketchy quality that doesn’t mesh well with the dark, Photoshopped backgrounds, but Takeya creates a memorable assortment of faces and bodies that suggest the seediness of Masahiko’s world more readily than dialog could. Quite possibly Ornette Coleman’s favorite manga. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 10/27/08. )

chikyu19. CHIKYU MISAKI

YUJI IWAHARA • 3 VOLUMES (complete)

This fast-paced adventure plays like best live-action film Disney never made, mixing comedy, family drama, and fantasy elements to tell the story of fourteen-year-old Misaki, who discovers that the local lake is inhabited by a pint-sized Loch Ness Monster. The twist? Little Neo transforms into a cute little boy on land — a nifty trick when a band of kidnappers-cum-poachers get wind of his existence. Chikyu Misaki has a kind of fierce kid logic to it: who but a ten-year-old would dream up a story in which a dinosaur, a downed airplane, a lost suitcase filled with gold, and a potential stepmother all get a turn in the spotlight? Yuji Iwahara’s artwork is also a big plus: his character designs do a fine job of delineating each cast member’s personality and role in the drama, while his action scenes are crisp and fluid. Only a few odd, squicky moments of sexual humor prevent this from being a slam-dunk recommendation for the under-twelve crowd.

nameflower28. THE NAME OF THE FLOWER

KEN SAITO • 4 VOLUMES (complete)

Did Ken Saito have Charlotte Brontë on the brain when she dreamed up the plot for The Name of the Flower? I ask because Flower‘s storyline seems like pure Masterpiece Theater fodder: Chouko, a young orphan left mute and despondent by her parents’ death, is sent to live with a male guardian who  endured a similarly tragic past. Over time, the two form a deep attachment that neither dares admit, an attachment tested by Chouko’s decision to enroll in college and Kei’s general reclusiveness. If the set-up is ripe for melodrama, Saito manages to craft a story that’s rooted in everyday experience; her characters’ journey to self-awareness and romance is complicated by real-life obstacles, not mad wives in the attic. Lovely art cements the bittersweet mood of this borderline josei title. One of my nominees for Best New Manga of 2009.

Shirley_Cover7. SHIRLEY

KAORU MORI • 1 VOLUME (complete)

At first glance, Shirley looks like a practice run for Emma, a collection of pleasant, straightforward maid stories featuring prototype versions of Emma‘s main characters. A closer examination, however, reveals that Shirley is, in fact, a series of detailed character sketches exploring the relationships between three maids and their respective employers. While some of these sketches aren’t entirely successful — Kaoru Mori cheerfully describes one as “an extremely cheap story about a boy and an animal” and attributes the inspiration for another to The A-Team (no, really) — the five chapters focusing on thirteen-year-old Shirley Madison and her independent, headstrong employer are as good as any passage in Emma. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 3/9/10.)

kiichi26. KIICHI AND THE MAGIC BOOKS

TAKA AMANO • 5 VOLUMES (complete)

This poignant coming-of-age story focuses on Kiichi, a young oni whose lonely existence is transformed by a chance encounter with a traveling librarian. Inspired by the information in one of Mototaro’s books, Kiichi decides to leave his village in search of others like himself. Kiichi’s journey brings him into contact with a variety of people, many of whom seek to harm or profit from his unique abilities, or who simply fear his appearance. Though Taka Amano never shies away from the darker implications of her story, showing us just how unscrupulous, ignorant, and venal people of all ages can be, Kiichi and the Magic Books is never mawkish or didactic; the fantasy elements add considerable interest and charm, while Kiichi proves emotionally resilient in the face of prejudice and mistrust. Readers more accustomed to the look and feel of Naruto may not initially respond to Amano’s starkly beautiful pen-and-ink drawings. Encourage them to try Kiichi anyway, as this series offers the same degree of complexity, imagination, and emotional authenticity as an Ursula LeGuin or Phillip Pullman novel. CMX’s best title for readers under the age of twelve. (Originally reviewed at Good Comics for Kids on 1/23/09.)

presents15. PRESENTS

KANAKO INUKI • 3 VOLUMES (complete)

Any series that prompted John Jakala to coin a phrase as useful and catchy as “comeuppance theater” deserves a place on a top ten list of some kind; the fact that Kanako Inuki’s horror-comedy is fiendishly entertaining earns it a spot on this particular countdown. Presents reads a lot like Tales of the Crypt, with each story adhering to the same formula: creepy child-woman Karumi offers an enticing present to an unsuspecting person, a present that quickly reveals itself to be an instrument of punishment for the recipient’s bad behavior or poor character. (Hence Jakala’s term “comeuppance theater.”) Though she loves drawing bugs and hideously deformed faces, Inuki is less interested in scaring us than making us laugh and squirm with recognition at our own folly; Inuki’s creepiest stories are also her funniest, satirizing commercial culture and female vanity with aplomb. A must for fans of Kazuo Umezu and Hideshi Hino.

gon44. GON

MASASHI TANAKA • 7 VOLUMES (complete)

Billed as “the pint-sized terror from the Jurassic era,” Gon is a small orange dinosaur who runs amok in present-day forests, oceans, and arctic tundras, terrorizing predators, defending small animals, and doing whatever else suits his mood. Masashi Tanaka’s artwork is old school in the best sense, employing cross-hatching and delicate lines in lieu of screentone to create volume and depth. His panels are astonishingly detailed yet never fussy or poorly composed — if anything, Tanaka’s technique yields sharper images than the contemporary practice of mixing computer-generated fill with hand-drawn lines. Though Tanaka endows his creatures with unusually expressive faces, he resists the urge to fully anthropomorphize them; their behavior seems species-appropriate even if their expressions occasional verge on human. (Read: the elephants don’t wear spats or drive automobiles, the dogs don’t pretend to be World War I flying aces.) His restraint inoculates Gon against a terminal case of the cutes, resulting in a sometimes funny, sometimes violent, sometimes heartbreaking look at the natural world. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 2/20/08.)

eroica153. FROM EROICA WITH LOVE

YASUKO AOIKE • 15 VOLUMES (incomplete)

What begins as an unsatisfying story about a trio of telepathic teens quickly takes a turn for the awesome with the introduction of Dorian Red, an openly gay British earl who dresses like a rock star and crisscrosses the globe to steal priceless works of art. Eroica eventually settles into an entertaining cat-and-mouse game between Dorian and uptight NATO intelligence officer Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, a stoic homophobe who detests the winking, flirtatious Dorian. Though they travel separately, their paths frequently converge in hilarious and explosive ways: hijackings, kidnappings, car chases. The frosting on the cake is Yasuko Aoike’s vintage seventies character designs: Dorian is the spitting image of Robert Plant, right down to the ridiculously tight pants and flowing scarves, while Klaus wears a ‘do as severe and straight as he is. The result is a delirious, over-the-top action-adventure that brings rock-n-roll swagger to a James Bond premise.

swan32. SWAN

KYOKO ARIYOSHI • 15 VOLUMES (incomplete)

Swan captures a particular moment in ballet history when the best Russian troupes commanded large, enthusiastic audiences on both sides of the Iron Curtain; when every developed nation had a ballet company of its own (even if the form was imported from elsewhere); and when dancers like Nuryev and Fonteyn were bonafide international celebrities. Into this glamorous world comes sixteen-year-old Masumi, a Japanese girl from the sticks who has passion and raw talent, but lacks refinement. She wins a spot at a national academy for dance, and begins clawing her way up the ranks, learning the repertoire (cue the Tchaikovsky!), making friends and enemies, and eventually finding her way to New York for immersion in new styles and techniques. As compelling as the drama may be, the real star of Swan is the art: the dance choreography is beautifully rendered, capturing both the heroine’s graceful intensity and the music’s lyricism. A few aspects of Swan haven’t aged well — the heroine falls victim to bouts of hysterical deafness, for example — but the strong visuals, historically accurate details, and sports manga vibe keep this marvelous series buoyant throughout.

emma41. EMMA

KAORU MORI • 10 VOLUMES (complete)

If Emma‘s rich-boy-loves-poor-maid storyline suggests a lost volume of The Forsyte Saga, the expert way in which William and Emma’s courtship is told more than compensates for a few moments of narrative cliche. Kaoru Mori immerses us in the very different worlds of her lead characters, from the elaborate dinner parties and country outings of William’s circle to the scut work and boozy revelry of Emma’s fellow servants. Mori occasionally fumbles small details (pssst… Tosca didn’t debut until 1900!), but most of the time she convincingly recreates the period through her exquisite pen-and-ink drawings of intricate costumes, ornate furnishings, and fussy architecture. That keen sense of observation extends to her cast as well: Emma bursts at the seams with memorable supporting players, from Kelly Stowner, William’s crusty but kind-hearted former governess, to Hakim Atawari, an Eton-educated raj and friend of the Jones family. The main story concludes with volume seven; volumes eight, nine, and ten feature stories about some of the secondary characters, as well as a resolution for Emma and William’s long and tortured romance. (Originally reviewed at PopCultureShock on 9/19/07.)

* * * * *

Here’s a friendly challenge to everyone who’s still mourning the loss of a favorite CMX title: if I didn’t include your favorite on this list, add your suggestion(s) to the comments thread. I’ll compile everyone’s recommendations into a poll and let you choose one for me to review next month.

13th Boy, Vols. 1-4

by

Like Water for Kimchi — that’s how I would describe 13th Boy, a weird, wonderful Korean comedy with a strong element of magical realism.

The plot is standard sunjong fodder: Hee-So, a teen with a flair for the dramatic, believes that the handsome Won-Jun is destined to be her twelfth and last boyfriend, the man with whom she’ll spend the rest of her life. Though Won-Jun accepts her initial confession of love — she drags him on television to ask him on a date — he dumps her just one month later, sending Hee-So into a tailspin: how could her destiny walk away from her? She then resolves to take fate into her own hands, launching an aggressive campaign to win him back: she stalks Won-Jun, looking for any opportunity to be alone with him; she joins the Girl Scouts so that she can go on a camping trip with him (he’s a Boy Scout); she even befriends her romantic rival Sae-Bom, defending Sae-Bom from bullies and risking her life to rescue Sae-Bom’s beloved stuffed rabbit from a burning building. In short: Hee-So is a girl on a mission, dignity be damned.

Our first clue that 13th Boy isn’t just another dreary comedy about a girl going to extremes to nab a cute boy is the introduction of Beatrice, Hee-So’s sidekick. Beatrice is a talking cactus (no, really, a talking cactus) who transforms into a handsome, if somewhat androgynous, teen whenever there’s a full moon. I don’t know too many storytellers who could make something as cracky as a lovelorn saguaro work, but SangEun Lee presents Beatrice matter-of-factly, as if every self-respecting girl had a walking, talking man-plant living in her bedroom. If anything, Beatrice functions as a nifty surrogate for the reader, voicing concern about Hee-So’s fanatical commitment to Won-Jun and urging Hee-So to focus her attention elsewhere.

Our second clue is the revelation that one of Hee-So’s classmates has magical powers: Whie-Young can change the weather, make himself invisible, walk through walls, and bring inanimate objects to life. Though Whie-Young’s mother and grandmother have warned him not to use his abilities, he persists, hoping to prove the depth of his feelings for Hee-So. (Yes, 13th Boy is one of those comedies in which every character is head-over-heels for the wrong person.) Those rescues and romantic acts come at a steep price, as each spell shortens Whie-Young’s life; if he doesn’t stop playing Hee-So’s guardian angel, he’ll die a very young man.

If the fantasy elements enliven a tepid premise, the story’s more down-to-earth aspects — especially Hee-So’s relationship with her female friends — give 13th Boy some real emotional heft. Hee-So’s best buddy, Nam-Joo, is a welcome addition to the cast, a tough tomboy who’s fiercely loyal to Hee-So yet takes a dim view of her pal’s romantic obsession. Their squabbles and pep talks have a ring of truth to them, even if Lee contrives some ridiculous scenarios for the girls to resolve their differences. (I don’t know about you, but I never settled a score with anyone by challenging them to a dodge ball game or judo match.) Sae-Bom, too, turns out to be a more interesting, complicated character than she first appears; as the story unfolds, we realize that she has the emotional IQ of a grade schooler but the physical appearance and intellect of a teenager, making her an object of scorn among the class alpha girls. If Hee-So’s motivation for defending Sae-Bom was initially less-than-pure (a fact she readily concedes), she develops a genuine sense of empathy for Won-Jun’s friend — one of our first clues that Hee-So’s boy-crazed exterior belies a more compassionate, less narcissistic nature.

Lee’s crisp layouts and cute character designs are an excellent complement to her storytelling. She uses bold, strong lines to define her characters, shying away from heavy use of screentone; the white of the page plays just as important a role in defining space and volume as the ink, making her designs pop. (Beatrice is a notable exception, as his cactus skin is toned dark grey.) Though Hee-So and Won-Jun have enormous, doll-like eyes, Lee’s grasp of anatomy is solid; her characters have the rangy, slightly awkward bodies of fifteen-year-olds, rather than the hyper-stylized physiques of the Bring It On! gang. Only the backgrounds disappoint, a mish-mash of traced architectural elements and Photoshopped images that seem a little too generic for such a whacked-out story. (Or maybe that’s the genius of the bland background art? I can’t decide.)

I’ll be honest: I went into 13th Boy knowing about Beatrice, which predisposed me to overlook some of the first volume’s groan-worthy moments. And as much as I love Beatrice — and really, what’s not to like about a chatty cactus? — what really won me over was the deft way in which SangEun Lee balanced the series’ magical elements with its more realistic ones, creating a unique story in which magical acts reveal character and everyday acts affect change.

Review copy of volume 4 provided by the publisher.

13TH BOY, VOLS. 1-4 • BY SANG-EUN LEE • YEN PRESS • RATING: TEEN

My Girlfriend’s a Geek, Vol. 1

by

The prince who turns out to be a toad is a staple figure in romantic comedies: what Jane Austen novel didn’t feature a handsome, wealthy suitor who, in the final pages of the story, turned out to be ethically challenged, penniless, or engaged to someone else? My Girlfriend’s a Geek offers a more up-to-the-minute version of Mr. Willoughby, this time in the form of a nice young woman who looks like a dream and holds down a responsible job, but has some rather unsavory habits of mind.

The hapless protagonist of My Girlfriend’s a Geek is Taiga Motou, a perpetually broke, somewhat flaky college student who aspires to be a novelist. Taiga is on a quest to find the perfect job, one that “pays big” and is “close to college and easy to do and not too sweaty”; bonus points if the staff includes “a beautiful, hard-working big sis-type chick.” When he stumbles across a clothing company with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window and an attractive manager in the office, he jumps at the chance. Once employed, Taiga does his best to flirt with the beautiful Yuiko, though his opportunities are few and far between: a chance encounter in the lunch room, an after-hours search for missing inventory. Yuiko’s signals are hard to decode — she blows hot and cold, and ditches him to fiddle with her VCR — but she eventually agrees to go on a proper date with him.

Taiga doesn’t have much opportunity to savor his conquest, however, as Yuiko makes a startling confession at the end of dinner: she’s a geek. But not a run-of-the-mill geek; she’s a self-proclaimed fujoshi with a butler fetish and a tendency the slash the hell out of every shonen manga she reads. Taiga tries to play along with her interests for a while, but quickly finds her exasperating, with only Yuiko’s cougarness to keep him invested in their relationship. (The author never states their age difference, though we’re clearly meant to see her as a few years Taiga’s senior.)

Yes, we’ve been to this well before with series like Fujoshi Rumi in which a “normal” person tries to make sense of an otaku’s ecstatic and excessive behavior, and indeed, some of Geek‘s jokes have a been-there, done-that quality to them: is it really news that fujoshi like butler cafes? Other gags, however, hit the mark. In one scene, for example, Yuiko manipulates Taiga into writing fanfic by appealing to his authorial ambition — “I was really hoping I could read a novel written by you,” she tells Taiga — while in another, an innocent conversation between Taiga and his studly pal Kouji leaves Yuiko trembling in anticipation, as she hears their exchange as a prelude to a steamy make-out session.

Though the source material for My Girlfriend’s a Geek is told from a male point of view — Pentabu, the original novel’s author, writes about his girlfriend with a mixture of awe, fear, and confusion — the manga has a decidedly more feminine tone. The artwork has a strong shojo flavor, with pretty male characters, close-ups of blushing faces, and flowery and starry backdrops galore. Artist Rize Shinba pulls off the neat trick of showing us events from both the regular-guy and fujoshi perspectives: when Taiga puts on his glasses, for example, Shinba represents him first as a college student in corrective lenses, then as a handsome seme superimposed on a bed of sparkles and roses. The humor, like the artwork, is a little gentler and cleaner than the original novel’s (to judge from the excerpt that appears at the end of volume one, at least), though it’s clear Yuiko harbors some disturbing fantasies; if you wondered what sort of person would squee over Ciel Phantomhive, Yuiko’s behavior provides an important clue.

From what I’ve been able to glean from web sources, it looks like My Girlfriend’s A Geek is a two-volume series, which seems just right for its fujoshi-say-the-darndest-things premise: long enough for us to develop an interest in the leads and chuckle at Taiga’s folly, but short enough to avoid repeating the same jokes with minor variations. I can’t say it’s the funniest or most original thing I’ve encountered, but it’s a quick, entertaining read, perfect for the beach or a plane trip.

Review copy provided by Yen Press. Volume one will be released on May 18, 2010.

MY GIRLFRIEND’S A GEEK, VOL. 1 • ART BY RIZE SHINBA, STORY BY PENTABU • YEN PRESS • 192 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)